by Martin Boyd
When I came back to the paddock they all stood round me, so that I felt important, and asked: ‘Well, where is he?’
‘Cousin Sarah told him it’s wrong to have sports on Sunday,’ I said, undoubtedly mentioning her name with malicious intention.
‘Blast that hell-cat!’ said Austin, who did not show much respect for our juvenile ears.
There had been so much fuss and talk about Tamburlaine and this race, that it was unthinkable that it should take place without him. Owen Dell had a borrowed pony that was too small for him, and now Austin said: ‘Here. You ride Tamburlaine.’ When he said this the children looked at each other and raised their eyebrows, and made various gestures indicating that the fat was in the fire, as they knew Dominic’s sacred feelings about Tamburlaine. It is possible that Austin himself knew, but at this time, only a few months before his death, he was impatient and explosive, and even more irritably eccentric in his behaviour than usual. His action may have had some connection with the glance he had given Dominic when he returned to the dining-room, with his resentment at the unequal opportunities given to his legitimate and illegitimate grandchildren. In this way, to relieve his feelings, he could make a slight, temporary and trivial readjustment of the balance.
Those who were not riding strolled down the lane to the beach, from where the most exciting part of the race could be seen. Austin stayed behind to start them off, but not with a pistol as it was Sunday. I walked with my parents and Laura said to Steven:
‘I don’t think it is wise to let Owen ride Tamburlaine. Dominic will be very upset.’
‘We have to draw the line somewhere,’ said Steven crossly. ‘We can’t give in to all his moods. Everything we do seems to be governed by its possible effect on Dominic. First of all he pesters us to let him bring the horse down here. Then he refuses to ride it. The whole thing’s preposterous.’
‘I suppose it’s Sarah’s fault, really,’ said Laura.
‘He’s old enough to make his own contribution to the general sanity,’ said Steven, adding after a moment’s reflection, ‘what there is of it.’
When we arrived at the beach we stood on the rough grass by the ti-tree hedge, as above the high-water mark, formed by a line of dried seaweed, the sand was soft and would get in the women’s shoes. Alice was nodding her head a little, as she did now when she was worried. She was afraid that some of the children might be hurt as the ponies jostled each other in the lane, and she knew the probable effect of Owen’s riding Tamburlaine, also perhaps its deeper implications. She had long ago, with almost superhuman charity, forgiven Austin for the Dells, but it is impossible that during the years that followed, little incidents did not occur which caused a twinge in the deep wound she received when she first learned of his infidelity. This may have been the last of them, that Austin ordered a Dell boy to ride the pony which she had given with special affection to her own grandson.
The ponies had to come down the lane, cross the beach, swim out round a buoy anchored for the purpose, which seemed to me a long way out, but which could only have been a few yards from the shore, and back across the beach to the winning post, which was by the gate into the lane. They could not gallop until they were on the sands, and as trotting bareback in a bathing suit was rather painful, the children shouted at each other for a clear passage. Once free of the gate they galloped down to the edge of the water where some of them fell off, as their ponies jibbed at entering the sea. They remounted but when they got into deeper water the ponies could not be made to swim, and only Owen on Tamburlaine and Helena succeeded in rounding the buoy, and the race ended with the two of them galloping up the beach, and Owen first at the winning post.
Dominic in his dusty turret heard the noise of the children shouting as they rode down the lane. His pious feelings evaporated and he suddenly realized the absurdity of sulking up there and missing the fun to which he had been looking forward for a week or more. He tore down to the paddock which was deserted, as Austin had followed the ponies down the lane to station himself at the winning post. When Dominic arrived there he saw Helena and Owen racing towards him, the latter on his sacred Tamburlaine. As Owen pulled up, Dominic leapt at him in a fury, dragged him off the horse, and punched him savagely. There was a cry of horror from the aunts, and Austin roughly separated the two boys. Dominic stood there, a demonic vision, his eyes blazing. Owen, defenceless in his dripping bathing suit, was whimpering indignantly, and dabbing at his face with a large red-spotted handkerchief which Austin had handed him, while to Dominic he said: ‘You filthy little devil.’
Now a most difficult situation had arisen. This was, after all, Dominic’s birthday, and in about half-an-hour there was to be a sumptuous tea in his honour, with a cake decorated with thirteen candles. But he was in unspeakable disgrace. Steven loathed beating children at any time, and he could only do it in the moment of anger. Also he did not like to beat Dominic on his birthday and he was irritated by the advice everyone gave him. Uncle Bertie said that Dominic should be beaten and that then the afternoon should proceed according to plan. Steven said:
‘I’m not going to beat my son to enable your children to have a good guzzle.’
For if Dominic was not beaten it would appear criminally lenient to allow him to have his party, and yet it would be absurd to have a birthday party without the host. Finally it was decided that Dominic could have the party if he apologized to Owen. This he refused to do. So for half-an-hour Beaumanoir seethed with moral indignation. Dominic like some dark oracle which would not speak and relieve the anxiety of a threatened city, or a miraculous image which would not bleed at the appointed time, sat sullenly in the library where various people went to plead and expostulate with him, and all the time the parlourmaids were laying the magnificent tea which might never be eaten. Aunt Mildy said: ‘Surely you don’t want to deprive your cousins of their lovely tea?’ But this prospect appeared to cause Dominic no distress. The Flugel children, who were sentimental, went in to him and said: ‘Come on, Dom, apologize. It’s only a few words.’
Alice sat nodding her head in the drawing-room, and took no part in the discussion, neither did Steven nor Laura. They made no attempt to persuade him, and Steven wore a grim smile, rather enjoying it all. Only two people, Helena and myself, hoped Dominic would not apologize. We went in during a lull and said: ‘Don’t apologize, Dominic. We don’t mind about the tea. He jolly well deserved it.’
Helena was enjoying the situation in something the same way as Steven. Her eyes were sparkling and she liked to think that Dominic had set them all by the ears. We knew the influence she had with him, and the cousins said to her: ‘If you tell him to apologize he will.’ Her brothers went to Aunt Maysie and said that it was Helena who was preventing him from apologizing. Aunt Maysie and Uncle Bertie then scolded Helena and forced her to go in to advise Dominic to apologize, and at this the miraculous image bled. Dominic, with extreme reluctance, muttered his apology and took Owen’s thick and freckled hand. He then burst into one of those tearing spasms of sobbing which shook him in one or two of the crises of his boyhood and which were not caused by physical suffering, but by his sense of exclusion from human society.
This disconcerted everybody, but he was washed and tidied up, and came in bung-eyed, to sit at the head of the table and blow out the candles on his cake.
It may seem odd that I should have joined with Helena in encouraging Dominic’s resistance, as I did not really like him. When he showed affection towards me I found it oppressive, and when he did not, frightening. But there were also times when I felt that I completely understood him and then I was filled with an insupportable pity, which also detracted from the serenity of my life. I much preferred Brian, who like myself was rational and easy going and I generally associated with him, but with Dominic I shared one trait which was out of keeping with the rest of my character. This was a savage pride. Dominic, as was generally recognized, owed most t
o his Spanish ancestors. They only bequeathed to me this uncomfortable burden, as if one of my limbs had been out of proportion. He had the appearance, the physique and the self-possession to support his arrogance, whereas my fragile and amiable body merely spluttered with passions I was unable to implement, until finally they have watered down into a tepid snobbery, though as a subaltern I felt called upon to provoke a duel from which ninety per cent of my nature recoiled. So now I understood the whole process of his thought and feeling, since Owen had been gratuitously offensive at luncheon. We disliked the Dells with their coarse limbs, sluggish minds and dreary expressions of puritanism. I thought it an outrage that Owen had been put on Tamburlaine, which had become the focus of Dominic’s diffuse pride, and the symbol of his honour. I could not bear that the Dells should triumph over us, and was prepared to go without any amount of cakes and cream to prevent it.
No one except Austin, Alice and two or three of their generation knew at this time of the origin of the Dells, but it is possible that we had an instinct against them, not that they could be blamed for it, caused by a feeling that they were somehow intruders into our group, though again this was probably only due to their oafishness.
On this day the family, if they had not already done so, must have begun to realize that Dominic was more of a problem than an ordinary naughty boy. Alice wrote in her diary:
‘This has been a most upsetting day, all revolving round Dominic, whose birthday it is. We went to St Andrew’s in the morning. Mr Pennyfather preached a rather silly sermon and kept saying: ‘I throw this out as a seed-thought.’ All my grandchildren came to luncheon and some of the Dells. Dominic behaved outrageously, throwing his lemonade in O. Dell’s face. Sarah remonstrated with him later, and he then had a fit of the sulks and refused to take part in the sports. Austin told O. Dell that he could ride Tamburlaine, the horse I gave D., which I wish he had not done. Then Dominic appeared at the end of the race and viciously attacked O.D. He later apologized but the birthday party was under a cloud. Arthur says that Dominic is a perfect replica of his Teba ancestor, whose portrait is at Westhill, not only in appearance but in character. If true this will be dreadful, as that duque de Teba of whom the Bynghams are so proud, was a wickedly cruel man, it is said. Dominic, Brian and Guy all have beautiful complexions, and are certainly far more handsome children than the Dells.’
It appears from this that the whole thing was on a much deeper level than his elders imagined. So much about Dominic was at a deep level, whilst they preferred to skim pleasantly over the surface. They were everything that D. H. Lawrence would have detested. Brian and I showed more understanding in a conversation we had in bed that evening, while we were waiting for Laura to come up to tuck us in and say good night. We frequently had speculative and philosophical conversations at this time of the day. I should explain, before recording this, that we had no irreverent intention. It was merely that Heaven lay about us in our infancy, and seemed to us as natural a subject of conversation as the circumstances of our daily lives. Also it was Sunday, which may have influenced us. Brian began by saying:
‘Today I have eaten some porridge, eggs, roast chicken, raspberry tart and cream, birthday cake, trifle, bread-and-butter with hundreds and thousands, lemonade and a glass of milk, so I am made up of porridge, eggs . . .’ he went on to repeat the list of food he had eaten.
‘But the chicken had eaten wheat and scraps,’ I said, ‘and the cow was made up of grass, so you are really made up of wheat and grass and earth that the raspberries came from.’
We continued to argue about our physical substance for a while, and then I said: ‘But what are our souls made of?’
‘When a baby is born God pours its soul into it,’ said Brian. ‘He’s got a lot of pots of soul-mixture round Him, so He can make everyone different by giving them different mixtures. He’s got a black pot of gloomy soul, and a yellow pot of happy soul, and a red pot of angry soul, and a blue pot of truthful soul. He looks at the baby and mixes up its soul to suit its face, and the Holy Ghost says: “You can’t put in so much yellow when it’s got a mean little nose like that,” so then God puts in some green.’
‘But if you put in happy and truthful mixtures together, they’d go green,’ I objected.
‘No, they wouldn’t,’ said Brian. ‘They’d remain separate in a very nice pattern. But when God was filling up Dominic’s soul, He’d run out of yellow, so the Holy Ghost said: “Well, put in some red. It’s a nice cheerful colour anyhow.” So God put in a lot of red, and then He said: “If I’m not careful I’ll make him a murderer.” So the Holy Ghost said: “He ought to have some black with a face like that,” and God said: “It’s very difficult to know what to put in him. Perhaps I’d better just fill him up with black.” So He did and we have to put up with it, like the snakes in the summer.’
‘Well, He couldn’t put in colours that didn’t suit the face,’ I said, ‘and what about the animals?’
‘Oh, they’re just filled with the same sort of mixture—each kind I mean—but humans have to be more interesting. That’s why they fight each other, because their mixtures are different.’
‘But animals fight.’
‘Not their own kind, they don’t, because they’ve got the same soul. Horses are full of horse-soul mixture. There’s plenty of it but sometimes they run out, and then they don’t get it quite the same, which is why Tamburlaine is different from Punch—but it’s very slight. And cows are full of cow-soul mixture.’
‘And pigs full of pig-soul.’
‘And giraffes full of giraffe-soul.’
‘And duck-billed platypusses full of duck-billed platypus soul.’
We went on in hilarious puerile antiphon through all the animals we could think of.
‘What would happen,’ I asked, ‘if God made a mistake and filled a human out of an animal soul-pot?’
‘He does sometimes. He did it to me. I’ve never told anyone but He filled me out of the lion soul-pot. Look out!’
Brian gave a roar and leapt on to my bed, and I shrieked in half-felt terror. At that moment Laura came in.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked rather crossly, as after the troubles of the day she was in no mood for further disturbances, but Brian was too excited and seized with the spirit of his game to notice this. With his bright blue eyes dancing in the gaslight, and his yellow hair stuck on end, he cried:
‘I’ve got a wild animal’s soul! I bit him!’
‘He’s a lion, mummy,’ I shrieked. ‘Look out! He’s had lion mixture poured into him by mistake.’
When we told her our theory, though we had sufficient awareness of grown-up taboos not to bring God into it, she smiled patiently and said to me:
‘And what is your soul-mixture?’
‘It’s really mouse,’ I said, ‘but I’m going round to gnaw all the ropes and let out the lions.’
‘And what is Dominic’s?’ she asked with a touch of hesitation.
‘It’s not an animal’s,’ we explained, ‘but it’s very black to match his face.’
‘I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to say,’ she said, and we felt her displeasure. She tucked us in, gave us perfunctory kisses, turned out the gas and went back to the drawing-room, where Alice and great-uncle Arthur were playing Schumann duets.
CHAPTER III
DURING THE following year there were two major events in the family. Austin died and Baba married Uncle George. Neither of these things affected us much at the time, or if they did it was all above my notice. I was afraid of Austin, and was quite unaware that he was extremely fond of his grandchildren, and only did things to terrify them as he thought they would enjoy it. Austin’s death gave George his first inkling of what Baba was really like. All his children were distressed when he died, but when George told her she asked immediately:
‘Shall we have more money?’<
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George explained that Austin had no money of his own, only Waterpark which now came to Steven, and that Sir William had left what he had amongst his other children, to which Austin had agreed as he had a rich wife.
‘But what about Waterpark? That’s a big estate, isn’t it?’
‘It never was very big and there’s not much of it left,’ he said. ‘I doubt if it will bring Steven in as much as two hundred a year.’
Baba gave an exclamation of incredulity and contempt. She hated what was not on the upgrade, and the idea of landed gentry, however ancient they might be, whose estate was not worth two hundred a year, was to her quite ridiculous. She paid much more respect to Alice when she realized that she was the main source of wealth, and was hardly civil to her sisters-in-law, except Maysie, who had married a rich man. She said to George:
‘Well, anyhow, we’ll have our share of Mrs Langton’s money, I suppose.’
‘My mother happens to be still alive,’ said George in a quiet voice and walked out of the room. He tried to tell himself that he had mistaken Baba’s attitude, and to excuse her by thinking that after all Austin had not been very nice to her.
Steven’s revenue from his ancestral seat enabled him to send Dominic and Brian to a boarding school a mile or two from Beaumanoir. Hitherto they had gone there as day boys staying with their grandmother in term time, but coming at weekends up to Westhill, where I still had my lessons from our governess. The headmaster of the school had founded it to turn young Australians into English gentlemen, or as near as was possible. He was himself recently from England, and his school for a while, until the other schools in Victoria became self-consciously ‘public’ was popular with the socially ambitious. Dominic and Brian were sent there as it was convenient from Beaumanoir, and Mr Porson at first was very pleased to have two boys from a real, if exiled, English county family. He expected that they would set an example and strengthen the good tone of the school. But upper-middle class correctness was not a thing to which Dominic, or indeed any of us took easily. The only example that Dominic set was to the headmaster himself, who, although he talked so much about gentlemen, was apparently not quite in the category. When Laura went to visit him, and Dominic was sent for, as he came into the room Mr Porson said: ‘Kiss your mother, Langton.’