He was surprised to find himself alone. And it was not long before surprise gave way to a stronger emotion. For some minutes he wandered to and fro, gazing at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls; but to a man who has just come from a long and dusty train journey ancestral portraits are a poor substitute for the old familiar juice. He pressed the bell, and presently Beach the butler appeared.
‘Oh, hullo, Beach. I say, Beach, what about the cocktails?’ The butler seemed surprised.
‘I was planning to serve them when the guests arrived. Mr Ronald.’
‘Guests? There aren’t people coming to dinner, are there?’
‘Yes, sir. We shall sit down twenty-four.’
‘Good Lord! A binge?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I must go and put on a white tie.’
‘There is plenty of time, Mr Ronald. Dinner will not be served till nine o’clock. Perhaps you would prefer me to bring you an aperitif in advance of the formal cocktails?’
‘I certainly would. I’m dying by inches.’
‘I will attend to the matter immediately.’
The butler of Blandings Castle was not a man who when he said ‘immediately’ meant ‘somewhere in the distant future’. Like a heavyweight jinn, stirred to activity by the rubbing of a lamp, he vanished and reappeared; and it was only a few minutes later that Ronnie was blossoming like a flower in the gentle rain of summer and finding himself disposed for leisurely chat.
‘Twenty-four?’ he said. ‘Golly, we’re going gay. Who’s coming?’
The butler’s eyes took on a glaze similar to that seen in those of policemen giving evidence.
‘His lordship the Bishop of Poole, Sir Herbert and Lady Musker, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe…’
‘What!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Who invited him?’
‘Her ladyship, I should imagine, sir.’
‘And he’s coming? Well, I suppose he knows his own business,’ said Ronnie dubiously. ‘Better keep a close eye on Uncle Clarence, Beach. If you see him toying with a knife, remove it.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Who else?’
‘Colonel and Mrs Mauleverer and daughter, the Honourable Major and Lady Augusta Lindsay-Todd and niece…’
‘All right. You needn’t go on. I get the general idea. Eighteen local nibs, plus the gang of six in residence.’
‘Eight, Mr Ronald.’
‘Eight?’
‘His lordship, her ladyship, Mr Galahad, yourself, Miss Brown, Mr …’ The butler’s voice shook a little.’… Pilbeam ..
‘Exactly. Six, you old ass.’
‘There is also Mr Bodkin, sir.’
‘Bodkin?’
‘Sir Gregory Parsloe’s nephew, Mr Ronald. Mr Montague Bodkin. You may recall him as a somewhat frequent visitor to the Castle during his school days.’
‘Of course I remember old Monty. But you’ve got muddled. You’ve counted him in among the resident patients, when he’s really one of the outside crowd.’
‘No, sir. Mr Bodkin is assuming Mr Carmody’s duties as his lordship’s secretary.’
‘Not really?’
‘Yes, sir. I understand the appointment was ratified two days ago.’
‘But that’s odd. What does Monty want, sweating as a secretary? He’s got about fifteen thousand a year of his own.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Well, he had. Somehow or other we’ve not happened to run into each other much these last two years. Do you think he’s lost it?’
‘Very possibly, sir. A great many people have become fiscally crippled of late.’
‘Rummy,’ said Ronnie.
Then speculation on this mystery was borne away on a flood of sober pride. With a pardonable feeling of smugness, Ronnie Fish realized that his soul had achieved such heights of nobility that the prospect of a Monty Bodkin buzzing about the Castle premises in daily contact with Sue was causing him no pang of apprehension or jealousy.
Not so very long ago, such a thought would have been a dagger in his bosom. It was just the Monty type of chap-tall, lissom, good-looking, and not pink—that he had always feared. And now he could contemplate his coming without a tremor. Pretty good, felt Ronnie.
‘Well, come along with your eight,’ he said.
‘That’s only seven, so far.’ The butler coughed.
‘I was assuming, Mr Ronald, that you were aware that her ladyship, your mother, arrived this evening on the two forty-five train.’
‘What!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good Lord!’
Beach regarded him solicitously, but did not develop the theme. He had a nice sense of the proprieties. Between himself and this young man there had existed for eighteen years a warm friendship. Ronnie as a child had played bears in his pantry. Ronnie as a boy had gone fishing with him on the lake. Ronnie as a freshman at Cambridge had borrowed five-pound notes from him to sec him through to his next allowance. Ronnie, grown to man’s estate, had given him many a sound tip on the races, from which his savings bank account had profited largely. He knew the last detail of Ronnie’s romance, sympathized with his aims and objects, was aware that an interview of extreme delicacy faced him; and, had they been sitting in his pantry now, would not have hesitated to offer sympathy and advice.
But because this was the drawing-room, his lips were sealed. A mere professional gesture was all he could allow himself.
‘Another cocktail, Mr Ronald?’
‘Thanks.’
Ronnie, sipping thoughtfully, found his equanimity returning. For a moment, he could not deny it, there had been a slight sinking of the heart; but now he was telling himself that his mother had always been a cheery soul, one of the best, and that there was no earthly reason to suppose that she was likely to make any serious trouble now. True, there might be a little stiffness at first, but that would soon wear off.
‘Where is she, Beach?’
‘In the Garden Room, Mr Ronald.’
‘I ought to go there, I suppose. And yet… No,’ said Ronnie, on second thoughts.’ Might be a little rash, what? There she would be with her hair-brush handy, and the temptation to put me across her knee and… No. I think you’d better send a maid or someone to inform her that I await her here.’
‘I will do so immediately, Mr Ronald.’
With a quiver of the left eyebrow intended to indicate that, had such a thing been possible to a man in his position, he would gladly have remained and lent moral support, the butler left the room. And presently the door reopened, and Lady Julia Fish came sailing in.
Ronnie straightened his tie, pulled down his waistcoat, and advanced to meet her.
The emotions of a young man on encountering his maternal parent, when in the interval since they last saw one another he has announced his betrothal to a member of the chorus, are necessarily mixed. Filial love cannot but be tempered with apprehension. On the whole, however, Ronnie was feeling reasonably debonair. He and his mother had laughed together at a good many things in their time, and he was optimistic enough to hope that with a little adroitness on his part the coming scene could be kept on the lighter plane. As he had said to Sue, Lady Julia Fish was not Lady Constance Keeble.
Nevertheless, as he kissed her, he was aware of something of the feeling which he had had in his boxing days when shaking hands with an unpleasant-looking opponent.
‘Hullo, mother.’
‘Well, Ronnie.’
‘Here you are, what?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice journey?’
‘Quite.’
‘Not rough, crossing over?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good,’ said Ronnie. ‘Good.’ He began to feel easier.
‘Well,’ he proceeded chattily, ‘we got old George off all right.’
‘George?’
‘Cousin George. I’ve just been best-manning at his wedding.’
‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten. It was today
, was it not?’
‘That’s right. I only got back half an hour ago.’
‘Did everything go off well?’
‘Splendidly. Not a hitch.’
‘Family pleased, I suppose?’
‘Oh, delighted.’
‘They would be, wouldn’t they? Seeing that George was marrying a girl of excellent position with ten thousand a year of her own.’
‘H’r’rmph,’ said Ronnie.
‘Yes,’ said Lady Julia, ‘you’d better say “H’r’rmph!”’ There was a pause. Ronnie, who had just straightened his tie again, pulled it crooked and began straightening it once more. Lady Julia watched these manifestations of unrest with a grim blue stare. Ronnie, looking up and meeting it, diverted his gaze towards a portrait of the second Earl which hung on the wall beside him.
‘Amazing beards those blokes used to wear,’ he said nonchalantly.
‘I wonder you can look your ancestors in the face.’
‘I can’t, as a matter of fact. They’re an ugly crowd. The only decent one is Daredevil Dick Threepwood who married the actress.’
‘You would bring up Daredevil Dick, wouldn’t you?’
‘That’s right, mother. Let’s see the old smile.’
‘I’m not smiling. What you observed was a twitch of pain. Really, Ronnie, you ought to be certified.’
‘Now, mother …’
‘Ronnie,’ said Lady Julia, ‘if you dare to lift up your finger and say “Tweet-tweet, shush-shush, come-come,” I’ll hit you. It’s no good grinning in that sickening way. It simply confirms my opinion that you are a raving lunatic, an utter imbecile, and that you ought to have been placed under restraint years ago.’
‘Oh, dash it.’
‘It’s no good saying “Oh, dash it”.’
‘Well, I do say “Oh, dash it.” Be reasonable. Naturally I don’t expect you to start dancing round and strewing roses out of a hat, but you might preserve the decencies of debate. Highly offensive, that last crack.’
Lady Julia sighed.
‘Why do all you young fools want to marry chorus-girls?’
‘Read any good books lately, mother?’ asked Ronnie, pacifically.
Lady Julia refused to be diverted.
‘It’s too amazing. It’s a disease. It really is. Just like measles or whooping-cough. All young men apparently have to go through it.
It seems only the other day that my poor father was shipping your Uncle Galahad off to Africa to ensure a cure.’
‘I’ll tell you something interesting about that, mother. The girl Uncle Gally was in love with…’
‘I was a child at the time, but I can recall it so distinctly. Father thumping tables, mother weeping, and all that rather charming, old-world atmosphere of family curses. And now it’s you! Well, well, one can only thank goodness that it never seems to last long. The fever takes its course, and the patient recovers. Ronnie, my poor half-wit, you can’t really be serious about this?’
‘Serious!’
‘But, Ronnie, really! A chorus-girl.’
‘There’s a lot to be said for chorus-girls.’
‘Not in my presence. I couldn’t bear it. It’s so callow of you, my dear boy. If this had happened when you were at Eton, I wouldn’t have said a word. But when you’re grown up and are supposed to have some sense. Look at the men who marry chorus-girls. A race apart. Young Datchet… That awful old Bellinger …’
‘Ah, but you’re overlooking something, my dear old parent. There are chorus-girls and chorus-girls.’
‘This is your kind heart speaking.’
‘And when you get one like Sue…’
‘No, Ronnie. It’s nice of you to try to cheer me up, but it can’t be done. I regard the entire personnel of the ensembles of our musical comedy theatres as—if you will forgive me being Victorian for a moment—painted hussies.’
‘They’ve got to paint.’
‘Well, they needn’t huss. And they needn’t ensnare my son.’
‘I’m not sure I like that word “ensnare” much.’
‘You probably won’t much like any of the words you’re going to get from me tonight. Honestly, Ronnie. I know it hurts your head to think, but try to just for a moment. It isn’t simply a question of class. It’s the whole thing… the different viewpoint… the different standards … everything. I take it that your idea when you marry is to settle down and lead a normal sort of life, and how are you going to have that with a chorus-girl? How are you going to trust a woman of that sort of upbringing, who has lived on excitement ever since she was old enough to kick her beastly legs up in front of an audience and sees nothing wrong in going off and having affairs with every man that takes her fancy? That sort of girl would be sneaking off round the corner the moment your back was turned.’
‘Not Sue.’
‘Yes, Sue.’
Ronnie smiled indulgently. ‘Wait till you meet her!’
‘I have met her, thanks.’
‘What?’
‘She was in the train, and introduced herself.’
‘But what was she doing in the train?’
‘Returning here from London.’
‘I didn’t know she had gone up to London.’
‘So I imagine,’ said Lady Julia.
Not many minutes had passed since Ronnie Fish had been urging his mother to smile. With these words she had done so, but the fulfilment of his wish brought him no pleasure. The pink of his face deepened. There had come a lightness about his mouth. He had changed his mind about the desirability of keeping the scene light.
‘Do you mind if I just get this straight?’ he said coldly. ‘A moment ago you were talking about girls who ran off and had affairs … and now you tell me you have met Sue.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then you … had Sue in mind?’
‘Exactly.’
Ronnie laughed, unpleasantly.
‘On the strength, apparently, of her having gone up to London for the day—to do some shopping or something, I suppose. I wouldn’t call this your ripest form, mother.’
‘On the strength, if you really wish to know, of seeing her and young Monty Bodkin lunching together at the Berkeley and finding them together on the train…’
‘Monty Bodkin!’
‘… where they had the effrontery to pretend they had never met before.’
‘She was lunching with Monty?’
‘Lunching with Monty and ogling Monty and holding hands with Monty! Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ronnie, do use a little intelligence. Can’t you see this girl is just like the rest of them? If you can’t, you really must be a borderline case. Young Bodkin came here today to be your uncle’s secretary. Two days ago he had some sort of employment with the Mammoth Publishing Company. He told me on the train that he had resigned. Why did he resign? And why is he coming here? Obviously because this girl wanted him here and put him up to it. And directly she hears it’s settled, she takes advantage of your being away to sneak up to London and talk things over with him. If there was nothing underhand going on, why should they have pretended that they were perfect strangers? No, as you said just now, I am not dancing round and strewing roses out of a hat!’
She broke off. The door had opened. Lady Constance Keeble came in.
In the doorway Lady Constance paused. She looked from one to the other with speculation in her eyes. She was a veteran of too many fine old crusted family rows not to be able to detect a strained atmosphere when she saw one. Her sister Julia was clenching and unclenching her hands. Her nephew Ronald was staring straight before him, red-eyed. A thrill ran through Lady Constance, such as causes the war-horse to start at the sound of the bugle. It was possible, of course, that this was a private fight, but her battling instinct urged her to get into it.
But there was in Lady Constance Keeble an instinct even stronger than that of battle, and that was the one which impelled her to act as critic of the sartorial deficiencies of her nearest and dearest. Years of association with her
brother Clarence, who, if you took your eye off him for a second, was apt to come down to dinner in flannel trousers and an old shooting-jacket, had made this action almost automatic with the chatelaine of Blandings.
So now, eager for the fray, it was as the critic rather than as the warrior queen that she spoke. ‘My dear Ronald! That tie!’
Ronnie Fish gazed at her lingeringly. It needed, he felt, but this. Poison was running through his veins, his world was rocking, green-eyed devils were shrieking mockery in his ears, and along came blasted aunts babbling of ties. It was as if somebody had touched Othello on the arm as he poised the pillow and criticized the cut of his doublet.
‘Don’t you know we have a dinner-party tonight? Go and put on a white tie at once.’
Even in his misery the injustice of the thing cut Ronnie to the quick. Did his aunt suppose him ignorant of the merest decencies of life? Naturally, if he had known before he started dressing that there was a big binge on, he would have assumed the correct costume of the English gentleman for formal occasions. But considering that he had been told only about two minutes ago…
‘And a tail-coat.’
It was the end. If this woman’s words had any meaning at all, it was that she considered him capable of wearing a white tie with a dinner-jacket. Until this moment he had been intending to speak. The thing had now passed beyond speech. Directing at Lady Constance a look which no young man ought to have directed at an aunt, he strode silently from the room.
Lady Constance stood listening to the echoes of a well-slammed door.
‘Ronald seems upset,’ she observed. ‘It runs in the family,’ said Lady Julia.
‘What was the trouble?’
‘I have just been telling him that he is off his head.’
‘I quite agree with you.’
‘And I should like now,’ said Lady Julia, ‘to apply the same remark to you.’
She was breathing quickly. The china-blue of her eyes had an enamelled look. It was thirty-five years since she had scratched Lady Constance’s face, but she seemed so much in the vein for some such demonstration that the latter involuntarily drew back.
‘Really, Julia!’
‘What do you mean, Constance, by inviting that girl to Blandings?’
‘I did nothing of the sort.’
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