by C. P. Snow
He still wasn’t looking at her, his profile stayed mutinous.
‘Couldn’t you have done something about it? There must be ways of shedding the stuff. This is pretty fair incompetence, it must have been.’
‘There are ways, darling, if you start soon enough. He’d have to have made gifts seven years ago. That was before I really knew him. And anyway people always think there’s plenty of time.’
Julian showed a flicker of interest.
‘Shall you think there’s plenty of time? Shall I? Will it all go down the drain?’
At that, Mrs Underwood, keyed to all his intonations, was encouraged. She began explaining some points in the law of inheritance taxation. She did it more masterfully than Mr Skelding would have done, but she spoke in an intimate tone, or as though intimacy were returning. Then, a step more daring, she said: ‘And after all you are not doing so badly out of the deal, are you now? When you add it all up?’
Suddenly he gave his hooting laugh, so loud that the taxi driver, going round Trafalgar Square, looked back over his shoulder.
‘Ho! Ho! Like a man who has just been told,’ Julian was spluttering, exploding with hilarity, ‘that he has been presented with a small fortune in New York and Paris. But is miserable because his account has been blocked in Addis Ababa.’
He turned to his mother with an impudent, shameless, penitential smile. She smiled back, total complicity between them. It had been like this, his moods had changed as fast, since he was a child. Perhaps it was so, with the women he seemed to captivate. She didn’t know, he was capable of what sounded like ultimate confession and at the same time of keeping his secrets.
Anyway, with herself, she couldn’t help but recognise, he had always been the dominant one. Since he was a very young man. It was she who was competent, to whom business came easy, who could handle money and make it work: while he, though he was something of a miser, ingenious at not paying for a meal or a round of drinks, had never earned much of a living, and lived – again, how he lived she didn’t know – on what she allowed him. It was also she who contrived for him, who made plans for what she imagined he wanted, all the time scheming for his love. Often she had been afraid that she would lose him. He hadn’t given her much reason to be afraid. He sometimes was elevated on to what seemed like a cloud of his own, but mostly he was kind to her and, as now, sitting beside her in amity up Piccadilly made her spirits light.
‘What shall you do with it when you get it?’ she asked.
He put a finger to the side of his nose: ‘We shall feel our way.’
‘I think you might stand yourself a drink.’
‘Perhaps.’
She had been teasing him. Again her tone was wife-like, but that of a wife now happy. He was abstemious, much more so than she was.
‘Do you know?’ All of a sudden he broke out in elation.
‘What?’
‘I shall buy a ham. A whole ham.’
The curious thing, if she knew him at all, was that he might do just that.
‘You could run to it.’
‘I’ve always wanted a ham.’
Knightsbridge in front of them. Friendly silence. Tentatively she said: ‘You’ll be able to marry Liz. If you want to.’
‘I’d thought of that.’
This was a routine conversation. Conscientiously she had told him that she had longed to see him married long before.
She said: ‘I’d like to see my grandchildren before I die.’
That also had been said before. He gave a soothing murmur.
Past Harrods. Friendly silence again. As they turned into the Kensington streets she asked if she was to expect him for dinner that night. No, he thought not, with a roseate secret smile.
They drew up in Victoria Road, outside her smart house, shining with fresh cream paint, chrysanthemums in the window boxes. After he kissed her goodbye, out of old habit she paid the taxi to take him on to the other side of the High Street.
2
A fortnight after the meeting in Mr Skelding’s office, that is in the last week of October 1970, the House of Lords was debating the Queen’s speech. That is what the Order Paper said; it was the second day of the debate, dedicated to economic and industrial affairs: but at five o’clock in the afternoon there was no excessive excitement. Benches gleamed empty and crimson under the lights, their occupants having gone to tea. On the Opposition side, a Labour economist was making a very long speech upon the history of trade union legislation.
On the Government front bench below the gangway, from which other ex-Ministers except himself had some time before departed, Lord Hillmorton stirred. He had been sitting with legs outstretched, and had to retract himself before he rose to his considerable height. Stopping on his way out, he spoke, audibly, socially, to Lord Ryle, on the last row of the cross benches:
‘Bishops’ Bar?’
Lord Ryle nodded: ‘In a minute.’
Lord Ryle was remaining for politeness’ sake, because in his academic days he had known the speaker. Having listened for thirty-five minutes, he decided that duty had been discharged, and followed Hillmorton out.
Anyone who had overheard the invitation might have imagined that the Bishops’ Bar would be largely inhabited by prelates – possibly carousing prelates, rather like cardinals vermilion draped, sousing wine in lurid nineteenth-century paintings. That, however, was not the case. It was extremely rare to see a bishop in the bar, which was reserved for the private use of members of the Lords but without access to guests. Some time previously this had been the place where bishops robed: hence, with English inaccuracy, the name.
Lord Hillmorton was installed at the first table near the door. The room itself was small, half a dozen round tables down the narrow length, a settee at the end, darkish and confined in a comfortable club-like fashion. At the bar itself a saucer of sausages was simmering on the hot-plate. So early in the evening, only two other men were present.
‘As usual?’ said Lord Hillmorton. ‘A large Scotch and soda for Lord Ryle, please, that will be kind of you.’ He was smiling at the waitress. He was a prepossessing ageing man, hair still dark, with silver pigeon-wings over the ears, cheeks ruddy, eyes large and luminous. In a slightly quieter tone he said to his friend: ‘This is pretty bloody dull, by any standard.’
He was referring to the debate. Friend? Were those two friends? Perhaps, in the sense that men who have met late in life can be. It wasn’t like the friendship of those who have been in touch since boyhood. There were facts about each other of which they were quite ignorant. They had become acquainted when they first entered the House at about the same period, a dozen years before, and some things about each other they had picked up. Some they had inferred or, neither of them inexperienced men, suspected. Maybe Ryle, chairman of Royal Commissions, one of the first Life Peers, historian by trade, inquisitive by vocation, had gathered the more: but Hillmorton was more observant than he looked.
There they sat, two substantial men in their sixties, Ryle’s face flatter, more seamed, less bold-cut than the other’s, but with its own authority. He had almost no bridge to his nose, rather like a picture of W M Thackeray or a retired pugilist: which latter he wasn’t. He said: ‘Got anything pleasant to tell me about the world?’
Hillmorton replied: ‘No. When are you going to cheer me up?’
Ryle said: ‘That isn’t going to be very likely, is it?’
It sounded like banter, but it wasn’t so entirely. It was more like an attitude that had brought them together. In different fashions they had each seen a good deal. They had been interested in what went on around them, and still had a flow of interest, nearly as deep as when they were young: but interest was what they were left with most. Existing beside it, or lurking beneath it, covered up, there was something else similar in both of them – not quite sadness, not quite resignation, not quite pessimism, but as though their interest was edged with regret.
‘As a matter of fact, James,’ Hillmorton was saying, �
�there is a bit of personal news. Not that it matters much, of course. But that’s why I dragged you out–’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s really very trivial, don’t you know?’
‘Come on.’
A few instants previously the door had opened behind them and just at that moment a voice, gritty but tentative, sounded above their heads: ‘May I join you?’
‘Of course,’ said Hillmorton.
‘You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?’
They both denied it, not in the least, not at all, denying the obvious with an air of maximum relaxation, composure and sincerity.
‘What are you drinking, Peter?’ said Hillmorton, and once more called to the waitress: ‘A large gin and tonic for Lord Lorimer, so good of you–’
Lorimer was a good deal younger, fifteen years, than they were. Although he was a constant attender they hadn’t often talked to him, but sometimes, when there was a circle round a table, he lingered on the edge. As often with casual acquaintances there, Ryle knew some of the reference book data about him, and Hillmorton a few bits of gossip from hearsay. The first holder of the title had been an eighteenth-century admiral, who had won one of the West Indian victories. Since then the family, or at least the direct line of descent, must have become poorer – not a specially common performance, so far as early nineteenth-century studies had taught Ryle, who had written books about the Industrial Revolution. This man, dark-faced, dark-moustached, drawn, his movements as he lit a cigarette quick but jagged, hadn’t had anything recordable in the way of a career: except in the war, when, as a soldier, though not a regular, he had held field rank and been decorated.
He spoke to Hillmorton rather than to Ryle: ‘What did you make of–?’ He mentioned an Opposition leader who had spoken earlier in the afternoon.
‘Good trade union doctrine, I should have thought.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Lord Lorimer.
‘It’s a fact of life.’
‘I don’t see,’ said Lorimer, looking strained and also puzzled, ‘how the country can go on like that.’
‘There’s not much choice, is there?’ said Ryle in a consoling manner, ‘Which makes things easier.’
‘My dear Peter,’ said Hillmorton, ‘we really have to accept it, any Government that runs its head slap up against the unions is going to get us all into a mess.’
Lorimer looked more puzzled. He was, so the others recognised, a loyal Tory backbencher, always ready to listen to the whip, now seeking a little comfort, a bit of fighting talk, from an elder statesman of his party. But Hillmorton, whatever he might say to Ryle in their own brand of intimacy, kept up a face of serene detachment with most others. And it wasn’t only a face. To himself, he would have admitted that he was concerned about the future, not quite as simply as Lorimer: but also he didn’t find it disagreeable to observe his successors in Government just as immobilised as he had been himself.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ said Lorimer. ‘We can’t let it all go to pieces.’
‘I suppose you mean, don’t you?’ Hillmorton surveyed him with an equable gaze, ‘that this kind of society is becoming ungovernable.’
After a pause, Lorimer said: ‘Near enough.’
‘My dear boy, government’s always been a bit of a confidence trick, you know. And when people begin to see through the confidence trick, then you tend to be rather in trouble.’
Lorimer looked so lost that Ryle intervened and ordered him another drink. This man reminded him of his brother-in-law, the brother of his wife recently dead. Simple, dutiful, utterly un-ironic, disliking most of what he saw going on around him. That brother-in-law had been a professional soldier all his life, brought up to a code of reticence, like Lorimer discomfited when others spoke without constraint. One night not long ago, in Ryle’s flat after some drinks, he had confessed, as though it were the darkest and most shameful secret in existence, that he wouldn’t like to go to war alongside the young men he met nowadays. They wouldn’t pull you back if you were wounded, he had said, and then stopped and didn’t say any more.
This evening Ryle tried to start some conversation with Lorimer, but couldn’t make it flow. Soon Lorimer remarked that he ought to get back into the Chamber. When the door had closed behind him, Ryle glanced at Hillmorton, expecting what might have been the beginning of a confidence to be taken up, now they were again alone. Instead Hillmorton said, with an air of amiable reflectiveness: ‘That chap puts in a fair amount of time here, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have an idea that perhaps he needs his £6 10s, what do you think?’
‘Quite likely.’
‘Still, I must say he sits round long enough to earn it. Very honourable of him, I should say.’
The point was, members of the House were paid £6 10s by way of expenses for a day’s attendance. There were a number of penurious peers and some derelict ones. Of the latter, a few appeared in the Chamber for half an hour, maybe just for the length of question time, got ticked off on the attendance sheet, and duly claimed their pay. Which was noticed, and not approved of, by conscientious men.
Ryle was more direct, often more spontaneous, than his friend. He broke in: ‘What were you going to tell me?’
‘Was I? Ah yes, I remember.’
‘It’s not so very long ago.’ Ryle grinned at him and the other gave a curiously boyish smile, like one forced to admit that an onion skin of concealment had to be peeled away.
‘You know my daughter Elizabeth, I think, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘She’s wondering whether to marry someone. No, that’s putting it mildly. She’ll have him if she can.’
That sounded off-hand, but it was said affectionately. Perhaps there was an undertone which hinted that the speaker was fond not only of his daughter, but of women.
‘Good luck to her,’ said Ryle. He had met Elizabeth once at the Hillmorton house in Suffolk, several times in the guest room in the House. She was a lively sharp-witted woman in her thirties, attractive, he would have thought, and he had wondered about her. Hillmorton had four daughters, of whom the youngest two were already married. Neither Elizabeth, who was the second, nor the eldest sister were.
‘It’s rather odd,’ said Hillmorton. ‘The fellow seems to have come into some money. He’s older than she is. He doesn’t seem to have done anything at all. He’s not been married before, so I hear. I’d like someone to tell me, why he’s waited all this time?’
They could both think of explanations, none of which happened to be the truth.
‘You’ve met him?’
‘She’s brought him in once or twice. I didn’t think it was serious.’
‘It looks as though you were wrong.’
‘I did think,’ said Hillmorton, ‘that he was rather engaging. Not too shy.’ He added, as though it was an explanation: ‘He’s lost his hair.’ He went on: ‘He’s a man called Underwood. I don’t know who he is.’
This didn’t mean what it appeared to mean. Lord Hillmorton was quite certain of Julian Underwood’s identity. He was saying that none of Julian’s family, relatives or acquaintances had had any connection in the past with any of the Hillmortons’ family, relatives or acquaintances. In fact, Hillmorton being an Englishman, with the English antennae, had divined or discovered some material information about the Underwoods, such as that Julian’s father, long since dead, had been in the old ICS and then later a member of Lloyds, and that the widow had been left – by the standards of those in Mr Skelding’s office two weeks before – more than comfortably off.
‘Hal, you are not against it, are you?’
‘It wouldn’t make much difference if I were, would it?’ Hillmorton leaned back, as though giving himself to rest. ‘A young woman her age ought to know what she’s doing. Oh no, I’m not against it. I’d like her to have something for herself, she hasn’t had much.’
He said, with a frown at the same time il
l-tempered and cordial: ‘We didn’t educate them very sensibly, you know.’ (He was thinking of his daughters.) ‘It’s nonsense that we didn’t get them equipped for a career. I don’t know what sort of world we imagined they were going to live in.’
He went on: ‘They are bright enough. They’d have done quite well. Elizabeth is the brightest of them, as it happens.’
‘I can believe that,’ said Ryle, giving an astringent candour back. ‘The middle classes have been a shade more reasonable with their girls, you realise.’
‘I dare say. I dare say.’
But that wasn’t the real reason behind Hillmorton’s neglect, Ryle knew well enough. Even if it were true that the middle classes had educated their daughters (what had happened to clever girls Ryle had known in Newcastle long ago, school teachers’ daughters, bank clerks’ daughters, the girls from the class from which he came?), and the aristocracy hadn’t. That was too simple altogether. Hillmorton was an aristocrat. He was also a clever man and a far-sighted one. He would have taken trouble with his daughters – if he hadn’t been obsessed by waiting for a son. Though he had affection for his daughters, he hadn’t been able to resist bringing them up, or not bringing them up, as his grandfather might have done. A son had never come. Hillmorton’s heir was what the reference books described as a ‘kinsman’, not even a brother or a nephew.
Further research in those reference books would have revealed other things which, though more prosaic, were not so simple. Yes, Hillmorton was an aristocrat, more genuinely so than most people in the House, related to the old Whig grandees, with ancestors who had dined appropriately enough with Lady Holland. Before he succeeded to the title, he had, as Henry Fox-Milnes, sat in the Commons for what had once been something like a family preserve. As Henry Fox-Milnes he had had a place in the Macmillan Cabinets, including a spell, which as he talked to Ryle that evening might have seemed inappropriate, as Minister of Education.
But the name of his paternal ancestors had not been Fox-Milnes. It had been Pemberton, and a Mr Pemberton around 1820 had been the son of a Quaker banker. He had political ambitions, had married a Fox-Milnes girl and with celerity changed his name, as Englishmen on the make had never needed much persuasion to do. Usually in pursuit of estates or legacies, but not this time. Mr Pemberton was considerably richer than Miss Fox-Milnes: on the other hand, she was considerably grander. If a connoisseur of social delicacies had been scrutinising the high Whiggery, he might have concluded that even so she didn’t quite belong, or perhaps belonged by courtesy. But anyway did Lady Glencora quite belong? For the purposes of a rising politician Miss Fox-Milnes was grand enough.