Inch of Fortune

by Simon Raven

  'Did you have the doctor?'

  'It was practically nothing,' said Esme.

  'Well, Dr McTavish rang up,' said Mrs Valley, 'and Terence was in bed at eleven o'clock — so was Mr Sa Foy — so Dr McTavish said...'

  Esme began to sweat.

  'Terence was overtired,' he said.

  'I don't wonder,' said Mrs Valley, 'considering the time they used to get home at night. Once I rang up, as late as half past eleven, and Mary said...'

  So that was it. What else had Mrs Valley found out? Plenty.

  'How was Bellamy?' asked Sandra frigidly.

  'He ought to be all right now,' said Mrs Valley, 'Mrs Chaser says she's just had the expense account, from Mr Sa Foy, and he's given Bellamy two pounds.'

  'Who told you to give Bellamy two pounds?' screamed Sandra. 'Well, he was a bit upset when he went off, and hadn't got any money, and I thought...'

  'I don't doubt you did. Now listen to me, Mr Sa Foy. When we get to St Ambrose Gate, you'll get into whatever you came to London in — a train, I hope — and go straight back to Badlock and stay there every minute of the day till you hear from me. It's quite obvious that the two of you are not to be trusted and I shall have to think what to do. I shall want to talk to you, Fibula, so stay around when we get there.'

  Esme's blood froze. Biarritz, Mr Chynnon, Uncle Bill Gomery and his novels — all chased round his head on a frantic backcloth of hysteria against which loomed the figure of himself with two suitcases standing penniless on Badlock station. Everybody had gone very quiet indeed, and they drew up in St Ambrose Gate with a screech that must have taken a month's wear out of the tyres.

  Then everything came to life again. Sandra disappeared into a screaming vortex of figures, her luggage was carried in triumph to her bedroom, everyone said how tired she must be — 'darling, but is that really for me?' — McTavish tried to get near her and was knocked down, the telephone rang unheeded, the bedroom filled up like a test-tube, a suitcase suffered the fate of Orpheus at the hands of the Bacchant women, Terence was sick in the lavatory (Trito's lunch and the excitement), and the Valley's went on one side to look at their presents.

  Dr Trito took Esme into a corner.

  'There's not the slightest need for worry,' he said. 'Get back to Badlock at once and I'll deal with Sandra. We caught her in a bad moment, but I'll fix her up with a tablet or something and talk to her when that Valley woman's out of the way. Just at the moment, though, the Biarritz outlook isn't so bright. Push off and leave her to me.'

  Terence was still a bit green, but stood up to the departure manfully. Neither of them spoke till they were well past Letch-worth.

  Esme never really heard a full account of what happened in London after their departure. Some weeks later, however, Trito did say a little on the subject in passing, and what it added up to was horrific. Esme gathered that after the spoils had been divided and the less important hangers-on had gone, Mrs Valley and Mrs Chaser, along with a few aunts who were in the know, had got round Sandra in a circle and really let her have it on the subject of Esme Sa Foy. He had been accused of every kind of irregularity, the charges ranging from criminal neglect of Terence's health, safety, and condition at one end of the scale, to having dirty fingernails at the other. His carelessness over the car made a big point, undue fondness for his bed (with a hint at undue fondness for the bottle) made another. At this stage, it seemed, Trito had cleared them all out, produced a soothing pill and given a very encouraging account of his weekend. Esme, he had pointed out, was not just another young man, he was highly intelligent, highly cultivated, and highly sensitive, all of which was very good for Terence, who was apt to be a bit coarse. He himself was satisfied — and after all he was the only person who had been to Badlock — that Esme's administration, while slightly on the indulgent side (and even here one must remember that he had to win Terence's confidence), was in every respect suitable. Sandra must not get worked up by a whole lot of tattling women.

  He had then gone on to say how essential it was that the boys be kept apart — mentioning the fight but not the champagne cork. Sandra must have Terence well clear of Badlock by the date of Bellamy's return, and he would like to suggest the following plan.... Just as he was enlarging on its merits, the secretary had stumped in with a final and curt refusal to pay up from the insurance company, to be followed a moment later by McTavish, who had a black eye and seemed determined to make us much trouble as possible. McTavish had talked for half an hour about English activities, sailing, and relatives he apparently had in Aldeburgh who ran inexpensive private hotels. This was particularly irritating of McTavish as he was just off for a month's holiday and another few hours would have seen him out of the way.

  At this juncture Sandra had behaved comparatively reasonably and decided on a compromise. Esme and Terence should be sent to Aldeburgh as soon as it could be arranged, partly as a punishment — she wasn't quite sure for what — partly to sail and play tennis, but mainly to keep them out of the way when Bellamy arrived. At Aldeburgh they must stay until she had inspected and despatched Bellamy and his tutor wherever (Scotland) she decided to send them. Meanwhile she would consider the whole question of Biarritz once more. She was doubtful about the motor tour after what had happened with the van. As for the expense of it all, it made her sick to think of it.

  Whether Trito's account was substantially true, Esme never discovered. But in any event Sandra certainly appeared more or less calm at Badlock on the Friday after her arrival at Northolt, and announced that they could expect to proceed to Aldeburgh—by train — on the following Tuesday and for an indefinite period. There they would sail, play tennis, and stay in a private hotel McTavish had recommended. Other plans, she concluded, were under consideration.

  So for the time being there was nothing for it but to look the trains out. Without exception they involved three changes and a picnic lunch.

  XI

  It was rather a depressed couple which on Tuesday morning, complete with bathing-trunks, tennis-racquets and golf-clubs (a last minute thought of Sandra's) climbed into a first-class compartment at Badlock station. Sandra had given strict instructions they should travel third, but Esme proposed to make up the difference by economizing over the number of times they went sailing. Terence was in agreement with him about this. Indeed their attitudes to Aldeburgh harmonized very comfortably.

  Intrinsically, Esme felt, being sent to Aldeburgh was one of the most disagreeable things that could happen. But when you considered the particular situation it wasn't quite so bad. They were moving firmly out of the Valleys' sphere of knowledge, and even McTavish's relative could hardly come up to the Valleys' standard of malice. More important than this, one had to remember that Uncle Bill Gomery was not expected in Biarritz till the first week in August. There was not much point in getting there till then — in fact it would be a disadvantage: there would be little chance of getting to Bordeaux and the francs allowed would have a big gap in them by the time he did arrive. Above all, he now felt that he had a firm and competent ally in Trito, who would hover between London and Badlock directing everything for the best.

  But it didn't do to be too sanguine. Uncle Bill might not be due in Biarritz till August, but that was now little more than a week away. One would need all the time one could get to work on Uncle Bill, so that it would be irritating to arrive just when he was starting to pack. There was the further possibility that if one just settled down to stagnate in Aldeburgh, one might be left there almost for ever. Bellamy would come and go, August would wear on and on ... It didn't really bear thinking about; but there was no doubt that if one side of Sandra's nature expressed itself by uprooting people without reason or warning, there was another side which sometimes just forgot about them entirely and left them wherever they were to rot. Once more, it was perfectly certain that the Valleys and Mrs Chaser wouldn't let any grass grow. They'd be busily working on Sandra whenever they saw a chance, doubtless extolling the suitability and healthy air of Aldeb
urgh and denying those qualities to Biarritz. Trito was there single-handed and presumably had a good deal else to attend to. One must give one's ally proper support.

  It seemed to Esme that there was one obvious move that would see they were not forgotten, that would leave no one any time to listen to the Valleys — in short would force Sandra's hand so much that she might pack them off to France immediately. This was for them to be compelled to return to Badlock at almost the same time as Bellamy. How they were to get themselves compelled to return was another matter. But once assuming they did, with Trito plugging away at the absolute necessity of the boys being kept apart, the ensuing confusion would probably result in everyone being sent flying off in different directions like sparks from a Catherine wheel.

  At first sight there was an obvious objection to this plan, but Esme didn't think it would stick. The objection was that the confusion might be so tremendous that they would indeed be sent flying off — to the first place Sandra thought of, which might be anywhere. This he countered by the reflexion that Trito would almost certainly be called in to assist, and that in any case Biarritz now seemed to be permanently on Sandra's mind. This was odd, since her mind was so diffuse. But over the weekend she had given the impression of having forgotten it was possible to send anyone anywhere except to Biarritz or Aldeburgh. It was a sort of fixation, and caused, he supposed, by the fact that everyone round her was constantly talking in terms of one or the other. But whatever the reason might be there it was. And this being the case, there was, as he had decided, only one tiling to do: to set about achieving a specious return for Terence and himself on or before that next day week, on which date Bellamy returned for the summer holidays.

  As for Mr Chynnon, he had sent him another report the preceding Wednesday and would repeat the performance tomorrow.

  The last two had said nothing at all, neither would the third. He had received no sort of acknowledgement, and was indeed rather beginning to doubt if Mr Chynnon had ever existed. This would be put to the test in about a week's time, when the first of his cash instalments was due. Meanwhile the force of habit was strong and the pursuit of even a legendary thousand pounds was absorbing: there was no point in relaxing his efforts even if, at the moment, they consisted only of this rather dull and wearing business of intriguing, against the clock, for a passage to Biarritz.

  Before he could start devising ways and means for a return he had to see what they had been let in for by McTavish.

  It was pretty grim. Esme had had a letter from the secretary the day before, wishing them good weather with a sneer and instructing them, on arrival at Aldeburgh, to proceed to the Downs Private Hotel, Tennis Court Lane. There was only one redeeming feature about the place — namely that Sandra, who had taken no interest in the arrangements other than to give orders for them to be made, knew neither the address or the telephone number and therefore probably wouldn't ring up for at least twenty-four hours.

  They reminded each other of this but their hearts sank. The Downs had every ingredient in a prescription for the most complete misery. It was unlicensed, it was spotlessly clean, it was full of family feeling. You couldn't order the servants about because they were part of the family; in fact they ordered you about if they harboured the slightest suspicion that you were out to be 'unhelpful', that is to say if you were so rash as to expect a tenth part of the convenience and comfort for which you paid, apparently, fifteen guineas a week. The food (which to do everyone justice, had always been excellent at Badlock) was as English as Sherwood Forest and as heavy as a cannon ball. Worst of all, routine prevailed. You must be out of bed by nine, because, even if you didn't want breakfast, the maids who did your room could on no account be inconvenienced. It was considered very odd if you were inside the house at all between ten and one — you were expected to be on the beach or sailing. Lunch, which was the heaviest and most English meal of the day, was rigidly at one, and the same unwritten embargo about not hanging around inside was in force until six o'clock. Then, if you felt strong enough to endure the multitude of printed prohibitions inside the bathroom and spoken ones outside it, you could have a bath in two inches of water and a raging draught.

  After this there was a feeble pretence at gaiety. The Downs was unlicensed, but you could buy your own bottle of sherry by arrangement with Miss Loss, the proprietor, and at extortionate rates. This had your name written on it, and was then carefully hidden away, so that on no account could you get at it during the day, to be produced on a silver salver at quarter to seven sharp along with everybody else's. You then stood around in the lounge drinking it in minute glasses (it was, of course, not done to refill yourself more than once) and in the company of a miscellaneous variety of senior servants, like the housekeeper, who called you by your Christian name and waited to be given a drink. Much as you longed for your bottle, this was perhaps the worst feature of the day, since you were both frustrated and exploited more than at any other time.

  After dinner you could go out — if you dared, and if you promised to be in by ten-thirty. There was in any case nothing to go out for except a sleazy cinema which even Terence rejected.

  The great rule at the Downs was that everyone was a 'guest'. This meant that you had come by sole courtesy of Miss Clarence Loss (however much you might be paying) and that therefore there was due to herself, her servants, her house and her ideas the reverence and consideration that would be due to the Queen if you were staying at Windsor Castle. Miss Loss took her position as hostess very seriously. It was up to her, she felt, not only to discipline her guests but to organize them into appropriate amusements. As you were denied the anonymity of a hotel guest, it was a fulltime job to evade her. At half past nine in the morning she appeared in full sail with suggestions, lists, addresses, and a string of local girls who had been sent up by anxious mothers to be dealt with by 'Clarie' Loss and parked on her male guests. 'Here's June,' Miss Loss would say, 'she can't wait to get in a sailing boat with you,' or, 'Jean's a demon on the tennis-court,' and so on. The girl in question would look at you with a hangdog, supplicating, hypnotizing look all over her stupid and spotty face, and it required all your presence of mind to remember you were 'fixed up' all that morning — and all that afternoon too.

  Miss Loss was a cousin of Dr McTavish. She had therefore been treated to a preliminary account of Terence which had made her intensely curious but not a little apprehensive. Esme was quick enough to spot this: he made a mental reservation that it might be useful shortly, and, for immediate purposes, took Miss Loss on one side and told her he would have to be very careful with Terence for a day or two, that they would move largely on their own, and that it would be some time before he wanted her to be so kind as to start making 'arrangements' and 'introductions'. Nothing, however, could stop her from giving him a list of people who would be prepared to hire out sailing boats and act as instructors on them. He had the good sense to accept the list gracefully, and withdrew, with a sinister but pitying look in the direction of Terence. This, he reckoned, would keep Miss Loss quiet for a bit.

  On the whole it did. Fearful lest some unspecified eruption should occur, bringing with it scandal and decline of custom, Miss Loss left Terence and Esme very much to themselves. In view of the peculiar nature of the circumstances, they were even allowed a good deal of latitude in the matter of being 'unhelpful'. They showed, for example, a marked tendency to spend most of the day upstairs in their room. In the usual way this would have been considered a double violation of the rules laid down for guests at the Downs, in that not only were they in the house when every self-respecting person should have been out of it but they were also making extra work for the maids by preventing them getting into their bedroom and then, when they did go out, instantly making it untidy again on their return. Still, Miss Loss felt that it was perhaps the best place for them, ensuring, as it did, that any nameless disaster which might occur would at least occur in private. Esme, in fact, had succeeded in hedging them round with a privacy which wa
s, for the Downs, phenomenal.

  The days began to pass rather pleasantly. They would get reluctantly up at the specified time, but after breakfast would proceed about half-way back to bed again, lying under the counterpanes reading. This was a great joy to Esme who had had practically no time at all to read in the last three weeks. He had been thoughtful enough before starting to pack a minimum of athletic necessities and a maximum of books, and Terence had come with an enormous store of horror tales and space literature. He too was perfectly content. He had the most wonderful gift, Esme noticed with satisfaction, of doing absolutely nothing whatever with complete happiness and for hours on end. When this failed him, which was seldom, he would then read in a desultory way, draw a few unwholesome pictures, or play patience. Ever)' now and again they had a friendly game of racing-demon. It was very pleasant. Here, Esme felt, was another instalment of his rest-cure, and he would be in perfect shape to deal with whatever next awaited them.

  After lunch they used to feel a little restless, and in any case thought perhaps that an attempt at action would please Miss Loss, so they used to go 'sailing'. This meant a short and pleasant walk down to the estuary of the Aide, where they would admire the yachts.

  'They look very pretty, anchored there like that,' Esme used to say.

  'From this distance — yes,' said Terence firmly.

  After that they used to walk back, and Terence would eat an enormous tea in Aldeburgh, while Esme entered their sailing trip on the expense account.

  'A pound to hire of yacht for two hours,' he said, 'and ten shillings for the instructor. I think we shall know enough in a day or two to stop having an instructor.'

  Terence, who was indebted to the instructor for ice-creams and cigarettes, wasn't sure on this point.

  'I feel we have a lot to learn,' he said.