Inch of Fortune

by Simon Raven

  Despite all this, Esme had felt little excitement when Chynnon had first named his figure. There was no doubt in Esme's mind that the old wretch would pay, but he might just as well have made an offer for the Holy Grail. The Acre business was incredibly remote both in space and time, everyone seemed to be dead, even the hotel, according to Esme's meagre sheet of information, had been burnt down. The Holy Grail did at least have a place in literature.

  But the Gomery note was a positive searchlight in this black abyss of ignorance. If Gomery was still alive, there was a way — steep, no doubt, but a way. Gomery was a friend of Sandra's ... Gomery knew. Here was his text. From now on Esme had an absorbing interest in his job, his surroundings, his employer, in everything. He was playing for a handsome stake; and was prepared to wager a good deal — including his peace of mind.

  He was confirmed in his resolution by something that happened the next day. He must try his hand, he had decided, at eliciting information without arousing suspicion. For this purpose Terence had the dual advantage of being uncommonly sharp and yet of comparative unimportance in the tissue that was being woven. It would be a stimulating and completely safe test.

  Terence had been dragged to church (in accordance with a frantic 'phone call from his mother, who had been 'thinking about Religion' on her way to stay with the Marquess) and had come home very voluble on the subject of the licence apparently given in these matters to boys of his age in America.

  This went on till well into tea. Then Esme, who saw that anything remotely in the nature of a suspicion would be firmly held down by the prior claims of greed, made his first attack.

  'Do you know' many Americans?' he asked.

  'Some at school,' said Terence, 'great guys.'

  'I suppose so. Surely your mother must have a lot of American friends — she's lived there a lot?'

  'Yeah, she's got several.' He put an entire cake into his mouth.

  'Do you meet many of them?'

  'Yeah. There's Uncle Bill for a start.'

  'Who's Uncle Bill?'

  'Uncle Bill Gomery. Old friend of mother's. Used to come here a lot — he's Bellamy's godfather, not an uncle really, just called that.'

  He scooped at the chocolate biscuits.

  'But is he American?' said Esme.

  Terence began choking. He went red in the face and tears came to his eyes. Esme forbore to comment on the just reward of greed.

  'Sure,' said Terence rather thickly when the fit had passed. 'Comes to Europe most summers though. Bellamy and I used to reckon he carried a torch for mother, but it didn't lead anywhere.'

  'It' may not have, but the conversation did. For the first thing Esme had done when he found out that Gomery had known Acre was to check him on Mr Chynnon's list of American friends of the newly-weds. The list was lengthy, despite the excisions of death, but Gomery's name was absent. Esme had then assumed that Gomery must be English — after all Firbank was not an American taste and Earl Marshal Acre had travelled a good deal. But this evening's conversation, which had only been intended in origin as a means to a general picture of the set-up, had now revealed unquestionably that Mr Chynnon, the very knowledgeable Mr Chynnon and all his private detectives had slipped — and very badly at that. They had missed a personal friend of Acre's, who had more recently given signs of 'carrying the torch' for Sandra.

  This was both significant and encouraging. Above all, encouraging, because it meant that Esme could pursue his researches in full confidence of being the only person in the running. The course was admittedly no less arduous than before, but it was something to be involved in an endurance test and not in a race, and it was everything to know that there was a tangible if distant goal. The more Esme thought of it, the more incredible his fortune seemed. A fluke of the first order in his favour and an oversight of the most colossal magnitude on the part of Mr Chynnon. Jemmies for twenty-two and sixpence, indeed! Perilous antics in the escritoire! Gratuities for being smart! Mr Chynnon should have his report — a nice, orderly, polite, intelligent report, from which he would learn only what was good for him. Esme was on the trail — alone. What was more he meant to remain so. Let Mr Chynnon see to the paying out, and confine himself to that.

  VII

  The next day being Monday they drove off to London as instructed.

  There they found scenes of unspeakable confusion which went by the name of 'Mrs Fairweather's preparations'. Inasmuch as her visit to Canada had been announced for a week one might have thought that these would be of a simple nature. As it was they involved everything from mislaid tickets to a mislaid lady's maid (who was apparently coming too), and also included both the Valleys, who flitted about with looks of importance and were allowed to issue instructions about minor articles of luggage. Somebody from Wimpole Street was upstairs prescribing tablets against every conceivable emergency: while as for the wretched Mrs Chaser, had she had a hundred heads they would all have been needed for different telephones. She would be engaged in taking a particularly urgent in-call, when there would suddenly be a paroxysm of screams from the bedroom which were meant to convey to her a name, number and message to be immediately transmitted out. As the telephone rang again the moment it was put down, the out-messages were getting a bit behind hand. Since most of these concerned the location of the tickets, this was perhaps a pity.

  Hanging about on the edge of the Snake Pit, sulky and ignored, was Dr McTavish. The moment he saw Terence he congratulated him fatuously on his growth since their last meeting, and led him away for cross-examination. Esme hid in the lavatory.

  Quarter of an hour later a great scream of 'Mr Sa Foy' was heard from Sandra, and they went together to join McTavish in conference.

  'I'm afraid,' said Dr McTavish, 'that I have rather grave news for you, Mrs Fairweather, but if you've no objection, I should like Mr Sa Foy to hear it.'

  Sandra, who was thinking about the lady's maid, said she couldn't care less about Mr Sa Foy hearing it.

  'Well then,' said the doctor in a huff — he had been waiting all morning to assert his importance, and it was now obvious that he could pronounce Terence permanently insane for all anybody cared — 'well then,' he said, 'his illness, while it has taken a new turn, is more deeply rooted than ever in a love of violence. In fact this new turn in itself indicates that he is seeking, with the dawn of an adult intelligence, to put his love of violence into a compact and rational form full of colour and appeal.' He paused dramatically. 'The new turn his illness has taken, the new vessel, as it were, from which he may draw substance for endless and corrosive fantasies, is nothing more nor less than an all-embracing Americanism. Clothes, films, habits, accent — all are to be chosen on the grounds of the overwhelming superiority, as he conceives it, of everything American.'

  He need not have worried. Here he had Mrs Fairweather well and truly on the hop. She was not unduly disturbed by talk of 'corrosive fantasies' or 'vessels for violence', but one thing she had always determined — Terence and Bellamy were to be brought up as good, sound English boys, a credit to their mother and the Royal Family. The fact that she herself had spent years in America, the fact that she had had an American husband, the fact that she had dumped the boys in America during the entire war — all this was nothing. Since the final blasting of her matrimonial career and her voracious recapture of Terence and Bellamy, since, in short, she had begun to pay them something like consistent attention, one tiling had been for certain — they were hers, and she was English, and therefore they were and would remain utterly and uncompromisingly English. A simple syllogism: it worked for Bellamy, therefore it could and must work for Terence. Dr McTavish had managed to make himself felt at last.

  'How long will it last?' she enquired grimly. McTavish stroked his hair — a nugatory gesture.

  'I'm afraid it's impossible to say,' he said. 'It all depends on influence, environment, above all on treatment. I think I can say that the condition will probably not be permanent. Beyond that...'

  'Then what d
o you suggest?' she asked.

  McTavish put the ends of his fingers together.

  'I have been giving the matter some thought,' he began, 'and I think what is required is a more rigid adherence to the principles I suggested last time I was speaking to yourself and Mr Sa Foy. It is essential, in my view, that he be saturated in what we may call Englishness — that is to say English places, English people, English culture, above all English pastimes,' said the pompous and transparent buffoon : 'this means that we must now doubly emphasize the importance of athletic activity and well-ordered hours. Routine and occupation, that is the thing; where possible, of course, occupation with a definite appeal. If you remember, I suggested sailing. This, of course, is an international pastime, but it has an essentially English flavour — especially if it is undertaken in the right surroundings. It is a sport that should appeal to any boy, it requires concentration and effort. In the circumstances it should be ideal. Now what arrangements, Mrs Fairweather, have you decided on for the summer?'

  'I'd thought about Biarritz,' said Sandra.

  McTavish winced a little and pressed his fingers together more firmly than ever.

  'In many way's an admirable idea,' he said: 'a change of scene, bathing, a different culture to be examined. But at the moment I should say Biarritz might well prove a deleterious influence. It is full of restless and unbalanced people who do not appreciate the value of routine, there is an atmosphere of prevailing levity in moral questions — and there is a prominent American section. Should Terence go there he must necessarily see condoned or even encouraged much that you would wish him to avoid. I should like to suggest that you think over the possibility of changing your plans, of sending him to an entirely English environment — such as,' he concluded without batting an eyelid, 'Aldeburgh.'

  'I shall think about it in my 'plane,' said Sandra. The call of Biarritz was obviously strong, and it was far from evident that she was prepared to allow Terence's moral health a priority. Still, the new revelation about Americanism, which she had imagined to be merely a surface craze, was obviously leaving its mark.

  'Yes,' she said, 'I shall think it all over very carefully.'

  She then went shrieking off upstairs, and left McTavish to give Esme a full hour on the importance of routine, the especial danger of drink in eases like that of Terence, and the effect of 'the literatures of the cultures' on anti-social people.

  After that they all went to Heathrow to see Mrs Fairweather off.

  The Valleys still had the officious management of all the least important baggage, but Esme (whom Dr McTavish had told Sandra was attentive, appreciative, intelligent and thoroughly reliable) was put in charge of three large and important suitcases. Mrs Valley gave him a look that would have stopped a rhinoceros. Terence bought a bundle of horror tales at the bookstore and gave them to McTavish to carry. Mrs Fairweather went to ring the secretary up about some special cleansing tissues she had ordered at a well-known chemist's.

  She came back in a state.

  'Esme,' she screamed, 'Esme, that diabolical Chaser woman has made a muddle with my cleansing tissues. Now go, the moment you leave here, to Fiddle & Dig on Bond Street and tell them I do not — not — not want Curivalve — Curivalve, got it? — but the stuff I have specially sent — which is called Cosmoclite — cosmo-clite,' she yelled through the entire building.

  Cosmoclite and suchlike were Mrs Valley's department. She crumpled up as though she had been embraced by an ape.

  'Perhaps, Sandra,' she suggested, 'I'd manage bett—'

  'Got it, Esme?' said Sandra as though Mrs Valley were too drunk to be noticed.

  'I've got it,' said Esme, with a smirk that went right through Mrs Valley's nervous system, 'anything else?'

  'I — Whatever are these, Dr McTavish?' She seized the bumper-crop of horror tales.

  'A diplomatic concession, Mrs Fairweather,' said the poor booby.

  Sandra hurled them through a door marked private. Terence went pale.

  'Clowns,' she said, 'surrounded by a circus of clowns.' She kissed Terence, pecked at Mrs Valley, looked at the three men with revulsion and vanished.

  It had been a tiring day, so Dr McTavish took Esme and Terence to the most expensive restaurant he knew about and charged it to the Fairweather account. Mercifully he was too busy eating and drinking to say very much.

  Later on the two of them set out for home in the garden van. Terence was exhausted, and so grieved by the loss of his literature that he remained absolutely silent. As he drove Esme assessed the situation.

  Now in any other circumstances he would have been beside himself with rage at McTavish's interference with the prospects of Biarritz. As it was, he was not displeased. For all it now meant was that things would remain unsettled for a considerable time — and give him a chance to locate Uncle Bill Gomery. To achieve this he had, for a start, seven clear days without interference or commitment, and a passable garden van. He also had the house to himself. Breakfast, he had decided, would be at ten, while the rest of the day could be devoted to a comfortable neglect of routine and the search for Uncle Bill. In the evening they could drive into Cambridge or Ely to see the latest American pictures. This would bribe Terence into acquiescence as to how they spent the rest of the day — American films were now under an inviolable interdict — and would insure that he went to bed too late to wake up and disturb Esme in the morning.

  And there was better yet. Since no one yet knew where they were later to go, there was a possible chance that he might be able to put his own word in when Sandra returned. McTavish and Aldeburgh he reckoned, with a little skill, to be able to discount (he would turn informer about the doctor's prodigality at Sandra's expense in the matter of dinner). This meant that if only he could discover where Uncle Bill was before Sandra came back, he might be able to arrange for them to go to the same place. It was a big if and a big might. But it was a possibility.

  There was, however, one unknown clement to be dealt with — Dr Fibula Trito. For Trito, it seemed, could be expected the following Saturday. In the first place this meant tidying things up and preparing a distinct impression of efficiency. At the same time Bellamy was coming from Eton for the weekend, so the atmosphere could have a considerable touch of cordiality, that 'home for the holidays' feeling, which would explain any latitude allowed and, he hoped, present himself in the light of a kindly but observant elder brother, whose acute understanding of the situation was suitably cloaked by a mask of jollity.

  The thing was, what line was Trito going to take about Aldeburgh, routine and English pastime? Or about Biarritz? It seemed that the man was away for the time being, because otherwise he would have assumed immediate control. McTavish was merely second string. What Trito said went. He was a very vital figure indeed. In fact it was through him that one must really try to gain one's ends. Get him to adopt one's proposals as his own, and there one was. But again, if McTavish was only second string, he was a second string of Trito's recommendation. So much had been made obvious at dinner, when McTavish had referred (between courses) to a long-standing friendship and a high level of mutual esteem. It was therefore highly probable that Trito would merely adopt McTavish's suggestions. Of course, it might turn out that these were what one wanted, but somehow it seemed unlikely that American Uncle Bill would skulk away at Aldeburgh for the summer. On these points he must reserve judgment, he supposed, till he knew more of Uncle Bill and had met Dr Trito.

  Then there was the question of Bellamy. Sandra had said that she did not want the two boys long together — Terence was a bad influence on his brother. A separate tutor was being engaged, and would appear at the beginning of August when Eton finally broke up. In point of fact this was not very far away: Long Leave from Eton this year was happening only a fortnight before the end of the half — due to the lateness in date of the match at Lord's. So what happened when Bellamy came home for good? His mother, having had (in theory at least) three weeks and more of Terence, would spend some time with the
brother. Where Bellamy was, Terence wasn't to be. Therefore Terence and Esme would be free of Sandra. Come what may, this could only be regarded as a blessing, and of course it guaranteed unhampered action. But a lot —perhaps everything — depended on where in fact they were sent.

  After a review of the occasions when he himself had returned from school, Esme decided that Sandra would probably want Bellamy to come first to Badlock, where his heavier belongings could be dumped and his clothes and person inspected. What it amounted to then was that on her return from Canada, just after Bellamy's Long Leave, she would have a clear ten days or more in which to decide on somewhere away from Badlock where Terence and himself might be sent so as to keep the boys apart. She would also have Trito's report. The more one looked at it the more seemed to depend on Dr Fibula Trito. One tiling he could do was to make sure that Trito's report of the weekend confirmed the necessity for Terence to be kept away from Bellamy. With any luck they would have a fight — it should be easy enough to arrange: but in any event opinion seemed to run so strongly on this matter that it would be quite sufficient merely for himself to say how difficult it was to control them when they were together. He must also think, he supposed, of intelligent remarks to make to Dr Trito — something to impress him with his competence. ... A dichotomy, that would do, a dichotomy in Terence's character. 'I have observed, Doctor, that one minute he will talk very intelligently on adult subjects, and that the next he will disappear to look at comic papers.' And then there was 'identification'. 'He identifies himself with characters of fiction or the cinema — not for ten minutes or so, but for hours, if not days, at a time. The character's world becomes his world....' And that should suffice for a start. He must remember to make a list. What he would like to know, since a lot depended on it, was just how much influence Trito carried. It rather looked as if Sandra paid her psychiatrists a lot of money and very little attention — at any rate if their suggestions conflicted with her own. Report had it that Trito had been with her a long time and was the only person who had really been able to manage her. But that might be because he agreed to almost anything she said. But again, it looked as though what McTavish — Christ, brake, there isn't room—