by C. P. Snow
Whatever they said to each other, was wrong. Possibly Francis, less wily than his father, was – when out of the duty mode, as his colleagues were coming to call it, having picked up a soldier’s term – ready to be more open. It was too late. Like other fathers, Ryle had been surreptitiously gratified to guess, infer, and finally confirm, that his sons had had their first women, were virile and content. That had been a father’s gratification in much stiffer times than these. Ryle had read what some Victorian fathers said to their intimates: they might have had orthodox beliefs, but they had felt as he did. But it was a different thing to have this son curious about, and ready to approve of, his own virility.
The only answer was not to answer. Ryle, easy with so many men and women, so often a social lubricant, fell into ox-like silence. Francis looked at him, first with a quizzical stare, then with something like disappointment, or even hurt. With an effort Ryle emerged from his thoughts and in an impersonal monotone asked another question about the economic situation.
28
If he had been invited to Swaffield’s July party, Ryle would have had another occasion to wonder whether people were thoughtless, or just dancing as the English officers did the night before Waterloo, because there was nothing else to do. However, James Ryle wasn’t invited: and, to come down to more crude facts, there was no dancing. Swaffield had planned that party with devoted care, and there was another entertainment, which, when his guests received their invitations, aroused in some expectation and, in a good many more, surprise. Certain sceptical spirits enquired: ‘What’s all this in aid of?’
Swaffield wouldn’t have minded that question. The party was in aid of Swaffield, or more exactly in aid of Swaffield the peacemaker. When the settlement had been quashed by Julian’s master play, Swaffield was left in a position both ridiculous and irksome, having performed his Quixotic act, incurred all the penalties, and then been cut off from any conceivable satisfaction. That would have infuriated more harmonious men than Swaffield, in the event, so unlikely as to be impossible, of more harmonious men performing the Quixotic act.
Yet Swaffield, despite that fit of pride or other eruptions known only to himself, was capable of being as humble as a young man on the make. He diminished pride as though it wasn’t relevant, and set to work to rescue what he could. If it meant another hundred thousand to Meinertzhagen’s party funds, that was easy. If it meant being apologetic or sycophantic to dear friends like Meinertzhagen, that was not so easy but could be done. Expressions of sincere friendship, sincere regrets for past mistakes and deviations, all the apparatus of a party member – when did dazzling insincerity stop and belief take over? – had been part of his progress up the ladder, and he could manage them again. He was too wilful a character to be supremely good at them, the people who were supremely good at them were those who did them by nature, not by trying. Still, he had energy and resources to draw on.
Of course Meinertzhagen and the party bosses knew what he was doing. They would have been fools not to have known, and they weren’t fools. They were used to displays of penitence, and to aspiring persons wanting to make their credit good. That did no harm to others’ morale, no harm at all. As for what was in store for Swaffield, that was their secret.
One odd thing was that, just as Swaffield underestimated them, so they did him. He thought that they were third-rate caucus hacks, with the imagination of turtles in an aquarium. In fact they had senses which he hadn’t. While they thought that he was a coarse-minded crook who had somehow made his pile, without much ability except a nose for money: whereas he was much cleverer, as Sedgwick might have said approvingly, than any of them.
So Swaffield, as one of his signs of redemption, organised his July party. Here his enemies and detractors had a point. Like other rich men, he seemed to believe with extreme naïvety in entertaining as a source of goodwill. No one was less naïve (as the Symingtons and Jenny could have told those detractors), but he acted as though giving a Cabinet Minister a good dinner was likely to make him a friend for life. Would it have been better, sceptics could have pondered, to avoid the ghost of Trimalchio and give that Cabinet Minister a cheese sandwich at the local pub?
There were, though, considerable departures from Trimalchio about the July party. It had to be stately, Swaffield decided before he got down to planning: and when Swaffield intended to be stately, he wasn’t going to do it by halves. Thus the first decision, that this wasn’t to be a dinner.
It also had to be an irenicon, or at the least a symbol of all that Swaffield wished to do, though he had been thwarted, to meet his friend Meinertzhagen’s request at that little friendly meeting once before. It was the other side – this information had been judiciously conveyed – who had prevented any kind of private agreement. While, as for Swaffield, all he wished in the world was to see them all happy together, mute down any noise which might reach the masses outside, and satisfy other men of good will.
Hence the selection of his guests. He decided to invite the principals and participants on both sides – Mrs Underwood, Julian with Liz attached, their solicitors and counsel, and with symmetrical impartiality Jenny Rastall with Lorimer attached, and her solicitors and counsel. Nothing could be more placatory than that. It would demonstrate to Meinertzhagen, Haydon-Smith, other ministers and the central office dignitaries, all duly invited, the earnestness of Swaffield’s intention. There were others whom he considered as suitable background or dilution, such as the Schiffs and half a dozen lesser magnates. Swaffield wrote down the name of Lord Clare, crossed it out, and then after thought reinserted it. Swaffield didn’t forget old suspicions and accounts to settle, but he had trained himself to leave them in suspense.
All these people received their invitations, and as soon as they read them a number found reason for grumbling. The card was chaste. Mr Reginald Swaffield invited the Lord and Lady Schiff to a soirée (no one’s heard of a soirée for twenty years, said someone. That fellow over-doing it as usual) on Thursday 20 July 1972, at 9.30 p.m. at 27, Hill Street, W1. In the bottom left hand corner, music by – and –. The initiated saw the names of an illustrious string quartet and two similarly illustrious performers on harpsichord and piano (why the hell is he going in for music, said someone else. What a waste of an evening.) There was also the neat instruction – Evening Dress (‘Good God, white tie,’ said Lord Clare. ‘No one puts on a white tie in a private house nowadays.’)
Grumbles properly discharged, almost everyone accepted. The curious thing was almost everyone usually did accept, not only Swaffield’s invitations but any others. Why did they, Hillmorton in his former lofty detachment might have enquired. Parties weren’t so rare, few admitted to enjoying them. But they went.
The only notable persons who didn’t go to Swaffield’s that Thursday were those two odd men out, the leading counsel. Even they might have gone, but it happened to be a night, changed from their habitual Friday, for their dinner at the club. March preferred that to any music on earth: Lander, who would have enjoyed the music, didn’t feel like disappointing him. They weren’t aware that their clients and connections were all gathering in Swaffield’s house.
Thursday 20 July took on an aura, or something like a hush, for anyone in the neighbourhood of Swaffield. Even passers-by in Hill Street or Chesterfield Hill had intimations that unusual events were being prepared for. A very large lorry drew up in front of Swaffield’s house. From it a ramp descended. Down the ramp came a sizeable conifer in a sizeable tub. After it, another. The series continued. Men in aprons took the conifers inside, Swaffield in shirt sleeves assisting, giving orders, working harder than his mates.
People watching counted thirty of the trees, there might be more to come. They were mystified. Actually, there was method behind this feat of tree conveyance. The party, Swaffield had decided, was to be held on the patio, leading out of the grandiose drawing-room. The patio was open to the sky, spacious enough to hold tables for the guests but distinctly bare. Apart from roses round the wall
, it bore a disconcerting resemblance to the setting for a firing squad. Swaffield was altering that by the installation of his trees: perhaps too many trees, he had a flicker of doubt, but then he liked the look of them.
He had one graver doubt. The musicians would be protected enough inside the drawing-room, but all the guests were to sit in the open air. Swaffield, who had made dispositions for unlikely contingencies, had been showing uncritical faith in London’s summer nights. Now he was cursing himself. He couldn’t get the whole party into the drawing-room. For reasons which might have been obscure to others, he had ruled out a marquee as vulgar. Angry with himself and even more with everyone round him, all he could do was watch the weather. The morning was cold, cloudy but dry. A modest improvement on past days. He watched it with suspicion. No, that wasn’t all he could do. He ordered half hourly forecasts from the Meteorological Office and sat in his study with the sombre concentration of the combined chiefs of staff on D-day minus one.
Swaffield often imagined his enemies sneering at him, and he did so now. ‘Showers, probably heavy, between three and four p.m.’ – Swaffield could see them grinning at an absurd Little Man deflated. But Swaffield could behave with absurdity, and not be deflated. Later forecasts: ‘Dry spell arriving from north-east in early evening, becoming cooler.’ Inflation succeeded to deflation. Cooler – action had to be taken. Swaffield had a robust disregard for others’ discomfort, and his own, if it interfered with beautifully planned festivities. Still, they mustn’t get too cold. That would distract influential minds from the object of the exercise. Action at once. Swaffield gave orders for a supply of rugs, suitable for the promenade deck of an ocean liner. Electric heaters to be scattered round among the trees. Hot drinks in reserve.
The weather forecast proved correct. The enemies weren’t to have their satisfaction. No raining off. After all his triumphs, Swaffield felt this was another one, felt simple and joyous because he had prevailed again. At nine twenty he was standing in his drawing-room, accoutred in his tails, the last of the sunlight streaming in. He wasn’t looking particularly stately. That dress wasn’t designed for short powerful legs. But his greetings were stately beyond compare. Jenny, who arrived early, had never heard him in form like this.
‘Good evening, my dear Jenny, how good of you to come.’
Not a jibe, not a dig, not a hug.
‘Good evening, Lord Lorimer. How kind of you to come. How nice to see you.’
As Swaffield’s own butler, assisted by auxiliary butlers recruited for the evening, took his guests out to their tables on the patio, there was one slight, almost imperceptible, departure from stateliness. When Meinertzhagen, who was one of the latecomers, had been duly greeted, Swaffield held him back.
‘There’s something I want to show you,’ Swaffield said. They walked to the end of the drawing-room, and looked out on the serried tables, lights, not fairy lights, shining, not obtrusively, from each alternate tree, the limpid not-yet-night sky above.
Swaffield pointed to one group.
‘Do you know who they are?’
Meinertzhagen considered.
‘I don’t think I do.’
‘That’s Lord Hillmorton’s daughter. He’s supposed to be her fiancé. With his mother. They are the people who lost over that Massie will.’
‘Really.’
‘Now do you see those two in the corner?’
Meinertzhagen, with sapience, said that he recognised Lord Lorimer.
‘The woman with him is the one who won.’
‘Really.’
‘I’ve managed to get them all together in one house.’
Swaffield said this with the modest satisfaction of a junior diplomat who, no credit to himself, had been able to persuade Arab and Jewish delegates to sit at a conference table. Meinertzhagen made a cordial noise. He couldn’t profess astonishment, since Swaffield had informed him in advance that this was one of the purposes of the evening.
‘Now the whole business is still going on. It’s a dreadful pity,’ said Swaffield. ‘Everyone wishes they would settle it without any more commotion. We’ve done our best. But it wasn’t good enough.’
Meinertzhagen nodded gratefully. One man of good will to another. He didn’t think any worse of Swaffield for this revisionist version of history. He was used to politicians who behaved as if they had no memory. Life would be more difficult if all the facts were engraved on stone.
Soon the quartet was getting to work. Music of Vivaldi came to the ears of those outside. To a spectator out of earshot it would have seemed a placid, mildly pleasurable, London party. To some present, the musical, the elect (Schiff, Julian Underwood, both Symingtons, Meinertzhagen, Jenny, perhaps half the guests) it became more than that. To others, the goats as opposed to the sheep (Liz, Rosalind Schiff, the Clares, the other half) singularly less. The sheep enjoyed. The goats endured. With an uncomfortable feeling, as the noise tinkled away, that they had to go on enduring for some considerable time to come. As a rough, though not infallible, discriminant, the music lovers were happy with champagne. The others were supporting themselves on spirits. Before the music started, Liz had had the forethought to provide herself with a third gin waiting reassuringly on their table.
All things came to an end, including Vivaldi. Great applause, not only claps but shouts. The quartet emerged from the edge of the drawing-room and benevolently bowed. More cheers.
‘They really have played marvellously,’ said Julian with genuine childlike glee.
‘Have they?’ said Liz.
Interval. People were stirring, some feet were cold. As one struck by a revelation, Julian said, again with childlike glee, not quite so ingenuous: ‘Now’s the time to pay a call on Mrs Rastall.’
‘Oh no,’ said Liz.
‘Oh yes,’ said Julian. ‘Can’t miss the chance.’
It was the kind of devilry Liz hadn’t found a means to stop. Nor perhaps, ashamed of her submissiveness, did she want to.
Julian led her over to the opposite corner, from which Jenny and Lorimer hadn’t moved. Jenny, who didn’t appear to feel the chill, sat there with bare arms. Lorimer was draped in a rug, looking something like a British officer detached for duty with Bedouin guerrilla forces.
‘May we introduce ourselves?’ said Julian, with a shining candid smile. He gave their names, easy and polite. He added, still smiling candidly, ‘I think we have something in common, you know.’
Jenny met his innocent open eyes with her acute ones. Like others, she couldn’t find a reply to his mischief for which later on she and Lorimer were finding rougher words.
‘How are you?’ said Liz to Jenny.
‘How are you?’ said Jenny.
Liz might be trying to make some fugitive apology. Jenny was not prepared to entertain the excuse. She thought that Liz was a hard and brassy woman, looking older than her age. Liz thought that Jenny looked sharp and shrewish, condescending to allow her fine eyes. This was the only time they had caught sight of each other, outside the courts. There was a flash of, not liking, not understanding, not sympathy, but some inexplicable desire to come close, such as sometimes sparks between enemies.
‘All this is rather fun.’ Julian spoke as though presiding over a celebration. ‘I wish we could have that last piece over again.’
‘It was good,’ said Jenny stiffly.
‘Did you enjoy it, Lord Lorimer?’ Julian’s spontaneity wasn’t damped.
‘I’m not much good at classical music,’ said Lorimer.
‘What a splendid night!’ said Julian, patronising the sky. In fact, it was a serene July evening, except that the temperature wasn’t more than forty-five degrees Fahrenheit. However, it had not become colder, the wind had dropped. Stars were coming out over the luminescent London haze.
Lorimer spoke to Jenny: ‘I think we ought to go and look for another drink.’
Jenny responded: ‘I think we ought.’
‘Well,’ said Julian. ‘It has been very nice to meet you, I’m su
re we shall hear something of each other in the nearish future, shan’t we?’
Liz and Jenny nodded their goodbyes. When the others had departed, Lorimer and Jenny didn’t go in search of drinks, but Lorimer muttered that that man was too smooth by half, he didn’t like him.
‘Do you imagine I do?’ said Jenny rattily.
Interval over, the harpsichordist began to play Purcell. Once more, the invisible divide, arcadian pleasure and the rest. To Liz, it seemed an interminable spell before the next interval. To Swaffield, all was going according to plan. It would be wrong to intrude himself any further in high quarters. Thus, leaving well alone, when the interval arrived he allowed himself the luxury of seeking lesser prey.
At that moment, Azik Schiff, who was observant and had noticed the previous assault on Jenny, decided that she ought to be protected. He and his wife moved along to her table. Julian’s hoot could be heard not far away, and his mother had been left temporarily alone. It was she upon whom Swaffield had his eye.
‘I hope you are enjoying yourself,’ he said, as he stood beside her.
‘Enormously, oh, enormously, Mr Swaffield.’
‘We have met before.’
‘Of course we must have, of course we have.’
Swaffield had remembered all this time, and was remembering now, that she had once snubbed him at a party – though that might be one of the thin-skinned inventions which he cherished and hugged to himself. Whatever was the truth, and that was undiscoverable, Mrs Underwood had long forgotten meeting Swaffield in his more primitive days. She wasn’t an over-complicated being, she was prepared to be deferential to a rich man, a man of power, associate of Cabinet Ministers. When she expressed her enthusiasm for the party, that, though she was one of the non-musical, wasn’t entirely a gushing lie. To her mind, this was a grand assembly, grander than she had been invited to for years past, and she was basking in it.