by Simon Raven
‘I shall be Alexandre’s Godmother, if that’s any help. Oh please, Poppa. Please do this for Baby and Baby’s friend Jo-Jo, or Baby and Jo will blub.’
‘The Michaelmas Term,’ said Tom, ‘started on October the first. Full Term starts on the fifteenth. If this child is born soon enough to be christened before the fifteenth, then I’ll arrange it. Although the Dean and the Chaplain and all the rest of them will hate it, I can fix them. Len has got all their numbers, you see, and a very little pressure will do the trick. But I’m not having any christenings during Full Term – it’s not what my College is here for.’
‘Sarum was christened in Full Term.’
‘Sarum,’ said Tom, at once serene and ironic, ‘is the Heir Apparent to a Marquessate.’
‘Suppose Jo still hasn’t let him drop by the fifteenth?’
‘Then she’ll have to leave the christening until after the end of Full Term. Any day after December the sixth – Founder’s Day.’
‘Then that’s all right. She won’t mind waiting – unless Alexandre is one of those ghastly babies that may die on you at any second, and then I don’t think she’ll care. It’s nothing to do with religion, you see, to judge from some of her other plans for Alexandre, but sheer love for me. She likes us,’ says Baby, who was now looking intently at the far corner of the lawn by the West Gate of the Chapel, ‘she…likes…us…to have everything possible…in common. I know those boys,’ she said.
‘Never mind them,’ said Tom.
‘I do mind them, very much. The one with the round face is Jeremy Morrison, son of that odious MP whom Canteloupe likes for some reason. And the other one…the little one…the one with the limp…it can’t be but it is…it is…PIERO,’ she called, ‘PIERO.’
‘Miss Baby,’ came a distant voice. ‘Oh, Miss Baby.’
And much to the annoyance of Jeremy Morrison at the North-East corner of the lawn and of Tom Llewyllyn at the South-West, Piero and Baby made towards each other straight along the diagonal, Baby running with long strides and kicking her heels up behind her, Piero hobbling as fast as his poor foot would permit.
Jeremy Morrison, obedient to instructions, had visited Piero at Ptolemaeos’ house in the Fens on the day after his conversation with Len. Although Jeremy was a little uneasy about meeting Piero again, he was also very excited; and at the same time he was glad of a good excuse for frequenting Ptolemaeos’ house, as the insights gained might help him to contrive methods of encouraging Ptoly to contribute, in the not too distant future, to the Jeremy Morrison Benevolent Fund for Jeremy Morrison. For one thing, he thought, it was quite possible that if he made himself useful with Piero (whatever ‘useful’ might turn out to mean in the present context) this in itself might nudge Ptoly into at least a preliminary stage of gratitude.
When Jeremy had reached Ptolemaeos’ house, the door had been opened to him by one of the abominable old women whom he remembered from his visit in the summer (Mrs Spatch or Mrs Grind, he thought she might be called, but could not remember). Whatever her name, the crone emitted a very mean sniff when Jeremy asked, on being told that Ptolemaeos was out, for the ‘young gentleman who was staying’. Since Mrs Gramp or Mrs Crutch (he must remember her bloody name and use it) must be used to the comings and goings of peculiar people in this household, Jeremy was at a loss to understand why Piero was held in such evident disfavour…until Mrs Frodge (could that be it?) started cackling about the Scarlet Woman and the Great Beast. Clearly, it was Piero’s habit which had got him into hot water with the lady, who had smelt the devilish vapours of Rome. She condescended, nevertheless, to bring Jeremy to Piero in the summer house at the end of the garden.
‘Those jeans you’re wearing – they’re a woman’s – no fly,’ was all Jeremy could think of to say when Mrs Grunt (surely not) had left them.
‘They belong to Mr Tunne’s niece,’ Piero had said. ‘It was essential I should change into something, if only to lessen the distaste of Mr Tunne’s good ladies, Mrs Gurt and Mrs Statch,’ (Ah, thought Jeremy, and don’t forget them this time). ‘Since his own clothes were much too big, I was accommodated with a pullover and some trousers of the niece called Jo-Jo, who used to live here with her uncle. It appears that she is now married.’
‘Where is Ptolemaeos?’ asked Jeremy.
‘He has gone into Ely to buy me other, more suitable, clothes. I am to be passed off as a distant cousin while it is decided what to do with me. “Details later,” as Mr Tunne puts it. I think,’ said Piero, looking along a dyke which proceeded from the end of Ptolemaeos’ garden, between two endless expanses of yellow sludge, and so on into nowhere, ‘that this place is nearly as sad and unhealthy as the Laguna Morta.’
‘They’ll have to keep you hidden for a while, Piero. You did enter the United Kingdom illegally, you see. You’ll find Ptolemaeos great fun to be with, and I’ll be over a lot, and I’ll drive you to Lancaster to meet my friend, Nicos Pandouros.’
These treats were breathlessly catalogued, as if to give the impression that there were so many of them that there was a danger of the whole day’s being consumed in their rehearsal: but in truth, thought Jeremy, the list was pretty thin.
‘Do you like reading?’ he asked. ‘Ptoly has an enormous library.’
‘All these things will be very well,’ said Piero.
His face belied his words.
‘I think you’re rather low, my friend,’ Jeremy had said. Funny, he thought: when I saw this boy on Torcello I could have taken him into my arms and wept over him – that silly tonsure, those grimy bare legs, that pathetic surgical boot – but now all I feel is indifference. And yet I know that this too will pass; and something tells me that if I drop Piero now I shall not only be failing him in faith and love but also failing – and deeply depriving – myself.
But the minutes ticked on and there seemed little to say.
‘I have something to show you,’ Jeremy had said in desperation.
Then he had taken Piero back up the garden, into the house and into the library. In an alcove, under the presiding bust of Socrates, was a massive sarcophagus of marble, curiously carven on the outside with both Christian and Pagan motives, and fitted with taps, drain and plug, like a bath.
‘Ptolemaeos used this for experiments last summer,’ said Jeremy. ‘I’ll show you.’ He plugged the bath, turned on the taps, and began to take his clothes off. When the sarcophagus was three-quarters full, he removed the last of what he was wearing and climbed in.
‘There are two inflated rubber rings somewhere,’ he said to Piero, who found them where they had last been discarded, on an empty shelf under the Pathagoreans and early Eleatics. Jeremy raised his huge round calves so that Piero might slip one ring over them and up to his knees.
‘You look mightiful,’ said Piero, ‘tender but mightiful.’
The other ring he pushed down over Jeremy’s raised arms, until it rested just under his armpits.
‘Now I am floating,’ said Jeremy. ‘Now you may ask me…anything you wish to ask me…and since I am floating in limbo, in nowhere, all at ease and without weight of body or distraction of mind, I shall tell you the truth. Later on, you will lie in here, and I shall ask. But as you are a guest, you may ask the first question.’
As Ptolemaeos, back from Ely, opened the door of the library, he heard Piero say, in his gentle lilt, ‘Do you believe, Girolamo mio, do you believe in the Love of God?’
After Jeremy and Piero had questioned each other for some hours, four times refilling the sarcophagus with warm water, Jeremy, not wanting to leave his friend, suggested to Ptolemaeos that he might stay the night. But Ptolemaeos said that he did not wish to be involved in a breach of the regulations of Lancaster College (which even in these days required Jeremy to sleep there) and that in any case there was such a thing as overdoing it.
‘Go back to Lancaster,’ Ptolemaeos had said to Jeremy, ‘and come back here in two days. Meanwhile, I too have questions to ask of Piero. So come back here on the second day fro
m now, fairly early in the morning, and take Piero for the day to Lancaster, where he will see new sights and faces. But only Lancaster,’ he added, echoing Len, ‘and only let him talk to people you really trust.’
And so it happened that Jeremy and Piero had been standing at the West-End of the Chapel (looking at the carvings above the gate) near the North-East corner of the rear lawn, while Tom and Baby had turned, in their walk, at the South-West corner of the lawn, and Baby had seen Piero. If this had not happened, she might long have been ignorant of his presence in England, as her father would not have told her and there was no particular reason why anyone else should, though it was at least possible that Fielding Gray might have, if only in order to make trouble. But as it was, Baby had turned when she turned, and had seen Piero and roused him by her shout, and they had hastened to each other across the lawn; and now Baby was standing close to Piero, holding both of his hands in both of hers, and talking fluently. Tom, who was troubled and annoyed by the meeting but realised that no one was to blame and that he must now put a good face on it, moved past Baby and Piero, pausing very slightly to nod civilly at the latter, and on towards Jeremy at the end of the diagonal line across the lawn. As he reached him Nicos Pandouros, who had had luncheon with Jeremy and Piero in the former’s rooms (thus arousing Greco Barraclough’s violent displeasure, as he had wanted Nicos to serve him in his own), came out from behind a buttress which he had been examining and joined the group.
‘Mr Morrison. Mr Pandouros,’ Tom said.
‘Mr Provost,’ said Nicos and Jeremy.
‘You will kindly tell our Italian friend…that in normal circumstances no one except a Fellow of the College and those with him may walk upon the grass.’
‘We have already told him sir,’ said Jeremy. ‘I think something has occurred to over-excite him.’
‘My daughter,’ said Tom evenly, ‘they were close friends years ago, when they were children. So of course it is all right this time: but he must not walk upon the grass again.’
Piero and Baby, side by side, no longer holding any part of each other but unassailably united, Baby tempering her imperious stride to accord with Piero’s limp, came galumphing dot-and-carry-one towards the three Lancastrians. Jeremy politely introduced Nicos to Baby, and Baby graciously remembered having seen Nicos on the edge of a party in her father’s Lodging some months ago. After this they were all silent for some moments, until Baby coolly said, ‘I should like to take Piero to Wiltshire, Poppa. The country there is very sweet in the autumn. Canteloupe will be back from California soon. He will be interested to see Piero once more.’
Jeremy exchanged a respectful glance with the Provost. Nicos, not minding his own business but keen to contradict a Peeress (being inimical to her order) remarked that as he understood the matter Piero must sit tight in the Fens.
‘Wiltshire will be equally suitable,’ said Baby, her mouth tightening.
‘I think,’ said Tom, ‘that Ptolemaeos Tunne has certain arrangements to make before Piero can be set at large.’
‘No reason why he shouldn’t make them while Piero stays quietly in Wiltshire,’ Baby said.
‘The fact is,’ said Jeremy, ‘that there is a lot to be done on behalf of Piero which can only be done if he stays with Mr Tunne in the Fens.’
Baby Canteloupe, who disdained to quarrel with a mere Greek boy and would not, in courtesy, do more than quietly confute her own father, now turned and struck.
‘Who asked you?’ she said. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘I think,’ said Jeremy, ‘that I am Piero’s friend. Any further information which Lady Canteloupe may require is to be had from the Registrar of this College and Burke’s Landed Gentry.’
Nicos grinned. Landed Gentry did not stand very high in his democratic scheme of how things ought to be, but Ladyships stood even lower. Anyhow, he liked Jeremy.
Piero frowned. He was not quite sure of the distribution of power among the group assembled, but he was anxious to stand well with Baby, first because she had always fascinated him, and secondly because he reckoned (not altogether wrongly) that as Tom’s daughter she would have some influence with the Provost, should she care to exert it, when it came to deciding the question of Piero’s admission to Lancaster College…where he now wished to be admitted.
Baby scowled like a spurned trollop.
‘You had better decide, Poppa,’ she said.
‘I think,’ said Tom, ‘that Piero himself must decide. It’s his life, and I think he appreciates the factors involved.’
Baby looked at Piero, Eve offering the apple, and not only the apple but a softer landscape (‘the country there is very sweet in the autumn’), a great nobleman’s establishment, expensive styles and amusing toys.
Jeremy looked at Piero, his round face damp with sweat and shining like a moon.
‘I think,’ said Piero, ‘that Jeremy had better drive me back to the Fens now.’ Jeremy winced at the mention of his forbidden motor, but Tom shook this off with a slight toss of his curly grey hair, indicating that he was not the man to take advantage of Piero’s chance and unintended delation. ‘You see,’ said Piero turning to Baby, ‘Mr Tunne has taken me in. It would be ungrateful to leave him quite so suddenly.’
Baby nodded. Face had been well saved and an implied promise made for the not very distant future. As for Big Mouth Morrison, Esquire, she could attend to him later.
‘Quite right, Piero,’ she said. ‘You always had jolly decent manners. I’d almost forgotten how thoughtful you were.’ And then, turning her back on Nicos and Jeremy, ‘Please take me back to your Lodging, Poppa. I must telephone Jo-Jo in Wiltshire and check that she’s all right.’
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said Tom, as he turned to follow her.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Provost,’ said Nicos and Jeremy.
‘Ciao, Tom,’ said Piero, remembering that he had addressed him in this fashion in the tower in the garden, for although Tom had not liked him they used to keep up an appearance of friendliness for Daniel’s sake.
And now, hearing the voice from the tower and recalling how Piero had borne himself in the presence of the Angel of Death, Tom turned again, looked back at Piero, and waved a greeting between old allies, a greeting which excluded all the world but them.
When Baby rang up Wiltshire from the Provost’s Lodging, she asked for Jo-Jo but was answered (eventually) by Jo-Jo’s husband, Jean-Marie Guiscard.
‘It’s just happened,’ he said, ‘in your special grove, by the pool.’
‘You mean…they didn’t move her?’
‘There wasn’t time. One minute she was sitting there reading with your little Sarum and his Nanny; and the next she was having it. It seems that Nanny had advised syrup of figs, and this did the trick. Luckily Nanny was quite competent to deliver the child, as she’s a fully trained nurse.’
‘Do you suppose Sarum saw it happen? All of it?’
‘I don’t know. I imagine not if he was lying in his pram.’
‘Suppose he was sitting up?’ said Baby, accusing. ‘But obviously it’s too late to worry about that. How are they both – Jo-Jo and Alexandre?’
‘Jo-Jo’s fine. So’s the baby. The only thing is,’ said Jean-Marie in a matter of fact voice, ‘it is a girl.’
‘Oh,’ said Baby; and after a long pause, ‘What does Jo say about that?’
‘“How bloody boring,” she said at first, “I hope it dies instantly.”’
‘But it didn’t?’
‘No.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘I have decided to call the child “Oenone.” You know, the nymph on the Mountain of Ida, who was betrayed by Prince Paris of Troy – also called “Alexander”, for whom Alexandre was to have been named. Something about this idea has amused Jo-Jo. “Alexandre has betrayed us both,” she says, “Oenone and me both.” So for the time being she has a fellow feeling for the child.’
‘So everything is all right after all, Jean-Marie. Will she fe
ed Oenone herself?’
‘She would,’ said Jean-Marie in the same matter of fact voice as that in which he had announced the birth of a girl, ‘and she could; but Oenone will not take her breast. Jo has plenty of milk, but Oenone refuses it.’
‘Does she refuse all food?’
‘No,’ said Jean-Marie, ‘she is very contented with your English Cow & Gate.’
At about the same time as Baby was talking to Jean-Marie on the telephone, Doctor La Soeur made an afternoon round of the patients at his Nursing Home. When he came to Max de Freville’s room, he found Max, who had been lying absolutely still for days except when ‘turned’ or otherwise attended to by the nurses, was heaving and thrashing under his blankets.
‘How long has this been going on?’ he asked the Matron.
‘Sister?’ said Matron.
‘Staff?’ said Sister.
‘Nurse?’ said Staff.
‘He was absolutely quiet when I looked in on him five minutes ago,’ said the Nurse.
‘Angie,’ said Max de Freville, ‘listen to this, Angie. That child of Canteloupe’s. I made a horrible mistake when I decided to give him some money. I went to see him – did I tell you? Are you listening, Angie?’
La Soeur nodded to Matron.
‘I’m listening, Max,’ Matron said. ‘Lie still and tell me.’
‘–I went to see him when he was christened, I was one of the Godfathers, you know, and he was a good healthy baby, bawled the roof off. Then that little wife of Canteloupe’s asked me down to Wiltshire about two months later. The child looked well enough at a distance but when I came close to him–’ Max started thrashing again. Doctor La Soeur bent over him. ‘Calm yourself, de Freville,’ he said. ‘I examined that child myself a few weeks ago. Lady Canteloupe asked me to go down and advise on whether or not the boy should be circumcised. The answer was ‘no’, because in that department and all others he’s as normal a child as ever I saw.’