Doves of Venus

by Olivia Manning

  Quintin remembered with some irritation his father’s pompous, often-repeated exhortation: ‘Apply yourself to the nature of money and its reproduction.’ His irritation showed him to be still on the defensive. Years ago, when girls at parties had teased him with their party gambit: ‘Tell me all about your work. I’m so interested,’ he would reply: ‘I am a dilettante.’ (It was at one of those parties he had overheard himself being described as ‘a young man waiting for a fortune’.) Well, dilettantism had gone out of fashion about the time he had learnt that the fortune had ceased to exist. Then it was too late to start again. He had lingered on as a man of taste without the means to indulge it. He said now, accounting for himself unasked:

  ‘I am interested in antique furniture. Occasionally make a find, but the best stuff takes some looking for, these days. Not long ago I sold some Charvels and put the money into a small interior-decorating business. A one-woman business, you might call it. Just for fun.’

  At the word ‘fun’, Claypole’s eyes lit up. Fun, eh? Quintin smiled agreement.

  The waiter was refilling the glasses. Quintin lifted his to Alma: ‘A really excellent hock.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Um, ah! Oestricher Lenchen Auslese 1934.’ He spoke lingeringly, a lover of the German language. He turned to Quintin: ‘Your father kept a good cellar.’

  ‘Yes. Auctioned off with the house and other stuff. I had nowhere to put it.’ He smiled ruefully, allying himself with those who had taken the brunt of things. ‘Nowadays we keep half-a-dozen bottles in the kitchen cupboard.’

  Claypole did not laugh: he took the situation seriously. ‘We old parties,’ he said, ‘we can live off our fat – but you youngsters, you’ve never had a chance to accumulate any: mulcted from the moment you started earning.’ He looked concerned, but at the same time he shifted his backside easily in his seat, aware he had had the best of it. No ‘very heaven’ these days!

  Quintin lowered his heavy eyelids over his eyes and spoke modestly: ‘I can’t complain. The worst I had to suffer was a spell at the War House. It’s true there’s income tax . . .’ He made a little move of the hand, amused and uncomplaining.

  At the words ‘income tax’, Alma joined the conversation with a plaint on behalf of those who lived on unearned income and who, in her opinion, paid both for the subsidies of the workers and the allowances of the businessmen. ‘Thousands for entertainment and travel and cars and so on. I said to my accountant, Jack Bramley: “I entertain as much as anyone. Why can’t I claim expenses?” and he said: “The trouble is, you don’t entertain the right people.” Of course he was laughing at me, but . . .’

  The men smiled gallantly, letting Alma have her say.

  They were between courses. The Romanée ’37 was about to appear. Let us hope, Quintin thought, it is not as time-withered as that antique hock.

  Petta lent back in her chair, her eyes glazed, her nerves on edge with a surfeit of boredom. The men had been dull enough: Alma’s chatter seemed to her unendurably tedious. She had been a fool to let Quintin accept this invitation on her behalf. The fact was that she had, during her months with Theo, forgotten how boring Quintin’s friends could be. Especially Alma. Alma seemed to her the epitome of female stupidity; a woman so stupid she did not even know she was stupid, probably did not even notice the glazed look her chatter brought down on her listeners. Yet she had been adored by her husband, who had left her all his money, most of it locked away safe and sound in a Swiss bank. Alma spent half of each year on the continent recouping from the rigours of English life.

  Alma had some crumbs of bread on her lips. Petta, watching them move as she talked, thought: ‘There she sits showing all she dares of her great shoulders and breasts, imagining like a contented cat that heaven sends her saucers of cream in recognition of her immaculate merit.’ Was she as complacent as she seemed? Petta could remember some time in the late ’40s, when labour troubles had displaced the war in common comment, Alma, staying at an expensive seaside hotel, had sighingly confided to the chambermaid how sad she thought it that wicked men should sow dissension between class and class. The chambermaid, an old woman, had said: ‘We’ve got nothing against your sort, m’lady. It’s them middle-classes we can’t stomach.’ Alma had told that story around as triumphant proof of how the rich were loved.

  Petta, watching the blunted and uncertain movements of Alma’s large hands, listening to the conciliatory tone of her voice when she spoke to the waiter, noting the relief with which she returned to her friends, wondered if she did in fact believe in the unquestioning good-will of those that served her. Or was this ‘niceness’ a defence against the possible revolt of the insecure and the uncomfortable?

  She turned her regard on Quintin, who was leaning back, smiling, accepting all that came to him as he had accepted it ever since he was born. Who could be more charming than Quintin? Having made no effort either to make his money or secure it, having, indeed, made no effort either on his own or anyone else’s behalf during his whole life, there he was – a survival, a rare bird, a gentleman of leisure.

  ‘I believe in responsibility, of course,’ said Alma. ‘George always said you can’t have rights without responsibilities, but, really, when you find yourself supporting everybody, company directors included . . .’

  At that moment the wine waiter slid round the table and, bending over Alma, discreetly recommended a change in the vintage of the Château d’Yquem that was to come on next. Apparently they were at the end of their curiosity vintage, a ’29; he was pressing on her the ’42 or ’45.

  ‘Oh dear!’ Alma’s soft-tipped fingers fluttered on her bosom. She glanced from the waiter to her male guests, seeking their confirmation of his advice, but they had taken the opportunity to regain the conversation and were not to be distracted from it. She glanced about her helplessly. She would have got rid of the man if she could, but he was determined to make her appreciate his care of her.

  ‘Very well, the ’42,’ she said unhappily, plunging on the earlier date.

  Petta dropped her chin to hide her smile. Alma and her lot had not even the courage of their money. There wasn’t an ounce of turbulent nobility among the lot of them. They wanted to be not only privileged but loved. They wanted to be King Baby. They were to be bathed, powdered, dressed, fed, cosseted, set up in their perambulators, and then admired. And why? Just for their own sweet sakes.

  And Claypole? He had no illusions about himself, of course. He just wanted to climb into the perambulator and be King Baby too. He would defend his privileges with a difference; he had earned them.

  As for herself – she saw herself as apart, yet not apart. She had known genuine poverty. Because she was experienced, she was not afraid to venture out beyond the confines of comfort. The world outside was a known world. If anyone spat at her, she could spit back.

  In her boredom, thinking of the outer world, she began to feel restless, as though adventure awaited her elsewhere. The men were back on that blasted house again – Chudleigh! What a name!

  Claypole enquired what had become of it.

  ‘It no longer exists,’ said Quintin sombrely. ‘It was taken over for some secret work during the war. One night – when all the local fire-engines had been called to the Bath raid – the whole place went up in smoke. No one knows what happened. Anyway, Chudleigh was burnt to the ground.’

  ‘A satisfactory conclusion!’ murmured Petta.

  Ignoring this, the two men shook their heads. ‘What a tragedy!’ said old Claypole. One might suppose that Chudleigh had nurtured both of them. In fact, Quintin had gone there occasionally during school holidays, while Claypole had put in a brief appearance as the husband of a plain, despised daughter of the house. Petta reflected how fashionable it was to attach oneself to some relic of old decency, some fantasy with which to outface the shabby present.

  Quintin sighed: ‘And so nothing remains but our memories.’ He glanced round to include Claypole and Alma; not Petta. Petta had never seen Chudleigh. She was not
in on this.

  He said: ‘I am not one of those fortunate people who think in pictures, but, at times, there flashes into my mind, just for a second, the corner of a room, or the rose-bowl that stood on my grandmother’s writing-desk, or the damasked pattern of the yellow silk curtains in the drawing-room . . .’

  These memories (that Quintin, for some reason known only to himself, was protracting beyond all reason) seemed footling to Petta. She had half a mind to break in with a farcical description of her own family house, but so deeply entrenched in boredom was she, she could not make the effort to speak. After a conducted tour of house and grounds (‘Let us do your appreciation for you’!), Quintin had paused to mourn over an old Russian leather writing-case that had belonged to his grandfather and which he now kept like a scent-sachet at the bottom of his handkerchief drawer. Cuir Russe. The manly scent.

  ‘. . . a faded plum-pink: worn out now, but of that perfect workmanship he demanded in everything. Whenever I open the drawer and catch that musky smell, I am returned to my grandfather’s study. A flash of memory. Everything is there. If I could only hold it long enough, I could even read the names on the books: but each year it is a little more difficult to recall them.’ He again sighed. ‘Timor mortis conturbat me.’

  At this, Alma flung herself back into the conversation, scattering Quintin’s pleasantries as a porpoise might scatter a play of flying-fish.

  ‘Time!’ she exclaimed as though the word itself were a witticism, ‘The other day I met Juliet Duff’s girl – Quintin, you remember Juliet? She’s about your age. Now this girl of hers is a woman, a grown-up person!’ She looked round for their astonishment and, meeting none, explained: ‘This girl was born in 1935. Think of it! When we were in our heyday. Doesn’t it make one fear one will never be young again?’

  Petta raised an eyebrow at the inclusive ‘we’.

  Claypole, noticing Petta’s expression, opened his lips with a waggish smile, but Quintin got in a second before him:

  ‘I won’t pretend, my dear, that we are young.’ He gave Alma’s hand a pat. ‘But women like you and Petta here—’ he smiled at Petta, not excluding her this time – ‘women like you have nothing to fear. There is a sort of beauty that ends only in the grave. You will always receive homage. But for us men, alas—’ he glanced amusedly at Claypole, whose eyes between their wrinkled lids, aware and admiring, glittered like jet – ‘our virility is our happiness. When we lose that, what is left to us? Nothing but an occasional mood of complacency when we see in the future no immediate cause for anxiety.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Not realising she was meant to smile, Alma looked concerned.

  Quintin responded seriously, with the tenderness of an old friend: ‘There are consolations. People, seeing the marks of age upon one another, begin to pity where they used to envy, and so are drawn together.’

  Alma looked at Quintin with damp wonder. Claypole nodded in sympathy.

  Petta thought: ‘This old man is no fool, yet Quintin has fooled him.’ Seeing Quintin and seeing through him, she felt a pang of possessive love for him. She looked away, not willing to recognise that their life was what it was.

  Quintin, his hand still covering Alma’s hand, thought of the girl born in 1935. He smiled into himself because the birth-date of Ellie, who adored him, was even more recent than that: ‘And not the last of my little girls! Not the last, by any means.’

  Alma gave Petta a worried glance, then twitched her fingers underneath Quintin’s hand. He took his hand away. Petta seemed to notice nothing.

  A waiter came to inform Alma that Mr Claypole’s chauffeur, in accordance with Mr Claypole’s instructions, wished to inform Mr Claypole that they should be on their way. Claypole began at once to get to his feet.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Alma touched his arm. ‘You must have coffee first.’

  ‘I never drink coffee.’

  ‘Brandy, then, or a liqueur: or some of this excellent . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ Claypole seemed suddenly on edge, as though beset by anxieties. He disengaged himself rather irritably from Alma’s hold and stood up. ‘I would rather start back now. It’s a longish drive. I make a point of being in bed before midnight.’

  ‘A very good habit,’ said Quintin, seeing Claypole was intent on going.

  ‘Doctor’s orders.’ Claypole smiled an elderly, tetchy smile that warned them not to detain him.

  ‘Dear me, then, of course . . .’ breathed Alma.

  Claypole said his goodnights, with a special salute for Quintin, and made his departure. Before he could be quite out of ear-shot, Quintin said: ‘Really delightful, seeing him again.’ When Claypole had passed out of the room, he added: ‘I suppose he takes good care of himself.’

  ‘Poor dear,’ said Alma. ‘He’s not a young man. He’s been a widower for nearly forty years. I often wonder why he never married again. I suppose he was devoted to his Rose.’

  ‘And who, do you think, will come in for all that money when he dies?’

  Alma laughed nervously, disconcerted by this direct question yet beaming at Quintin who asked it. She giggled and tried to copy his daring:

  ‘Who knows. Maybe he has some little milliner or seamstress tucked away in a bye-street.’

  Petta stared at her. When she decided Alma had spoken seriously, she tried to catch Quintin’s eye, but Quintin would not let it be caught. What was he up to now? In the past he had been ready enough to make fun of Alma. Those had been the days when Alma had tried to make a friend of Petta, and Petta, impatient of her archness and idiocy, had discouraged her. Alma had been no easy woman to discourage. Invitations had been forgotten, excuses given had been inadequate, apologies casual, yet Alma had taken no offence. She owed so much to Quintin’s family, and only he remained to be rewarded.

  Quintin, who had always declared the Wheeldons were ridiculous, was now devoting himself to Alma. Why? Petta watched him touching Alma’s hand, gazing into her face, talking directly at her while his eyes watched, his voice held that emotional note he could emulate so perfectly. She had seen this act often enough before, but never performed for a plain woman of fifty odd. Petta began to believe his behaviour was a deliberate attempt to torment her.

  And there was that ass, Alma, taking it all seriously: looking pink, confused, excited: giving Quintin warning glances, withdrawing her fingers, but lingeringly, from the amorous touch!

  Really! It was Alma’s caution, rather than Quintin’s incaution, that maddened Petta. She saw no reason why she should endure it. They were supposed to be returning, for a ‘night-cap’, to Alma’s house. Well, not Petta. She would make her escape somehow, and Quintin would be left to carry on his act without an audience.

  She rose and announced: ‘I’m going to the loo.’

  ‘Oh, shall I . . . er . . . would you like me . . .’ Alma fumbled around for her bag.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll go alone.’

  Crossing the enormous Aubusson carpet, beneath the glitter of chandeliers, Petta moved with the elation of pure anger. In this mood she felt, as she could so seldom feel, freedom from all restraining fears, especially the fear of solitude. She was self-sufficient, as independent of the world as a disembodied spirit. She ran up the stairs like a girl. On the upper floor she was caught up among other girls, the young and delicious creatures who had drawn Claypole’s eyes earlier in the evening. They seemed to be everywhere. They crowded the cloak-room. The air was heavy with the scent of their flowers and powder and young, warm bodies. Ball dresses fluted and swayed about them like the skirts of a corps-de-ballet.

  A whisper of laughter moved among them like electricity in the air. Petta caught their excitement. By the door a girl was re-arranging gardenias in the dark hair of a friend. Passing them, Petta smiled and they smiled back, eagerly yet shyly. Petta looked round, smiling, at the smoothly curved, rose-petal youth of all these faces. Her own face seemed to her reflected in theirs, a white rose among pink roses. As the skirts parted to give her space beneath the m
ake-up lights over the dressing-tables, she moved forward confidently, unprepared. As she met herself emerging from among the petal-smooth girls, her smile went. Flushed and moist from the heat of the room, she seemed to have grown old in a moment.

  Her face shocked her. It had an appalling pathos. She looked round at the girls as though there might be explanation of this change in her. They showed no surprise. She was a middle-aged woman. They accepted her age, just as they accepted their own youth.

  She slapped her puff over her face, trying to obliterate it with powder. Lifting her chin, she gave herself a brief glance through half-closed lids, then left the glass. No more smiles for the girls. She collected her coat and went.

  Out in the street, the cold air astringent on her cheeks, she began to recover. The heat, of course, had puffed her skin. She was herself again.

  She walked down St James’s Street and wandered into the Mall. The blackness of the sky seemed to hang like a canopy just above the street-lamps. Rain, fine as a web, began to fall aslant the car lights. It blurred the pink surface of the Mall: the cars cut ribbons upon it, and soon all was glistening with damp. Her self-sufficiency faltered in the cold and lonely dark. She did not know where to go. She might not be at home among the limited, retrogressive possessors of unearned money, but was she at home anywhere else?

  There were no pedestrians in the Mall. Only the indifferent traffic moved. Beneath the trees, she was alone. The Palace, in a blear of light, looked untenanted, all blinds drawn.

  As, in this solitude, her old desolation came down on her, she was troubled by a memory that had often recurred since that night before the war when, the centre of a party of friends, she had gone to the Chelsea Arts Ball. It was the usual crowded, noisy occasion, when you might glimpse a person on the floor or in a passageway and not see them again all evening. She had been oddly haunted all night by a woman, dressed as a Pierrot, wearing a green wig. It was the wig she had noticed when she first saw the woman getting out of a car beneath the Albert Hall portico. Petta had glanced back at her and seen the green woolly wig, the large ear-rings, the satin suit, the red balloon in hand, surrounding, with a sinister incongruity, a despairing face – a face of lost beauty, peaked out of recognition by discontent. As she and her two companions, a man and a woman, followed Petta’s party up the steps, Petta heard the woman’s voice, tiny, tinny, querulous, demanding some attention of some sort from the man.