by Angus Wilson
‘I couldn’t agree more about the woollymindedness,’ said Terence. And as to liberty, he reflected, it was economic necessity that was throwing him into Sherman’s unsavoury arms.
‘Never mind,’ said Louie with a laugh, ‘we’ll soon have the liberty to be blown to pieces.’
‘You think all these talks will come to nothing?’ He could not remember exactly what talks, but there were always some going on.
‘When they’ve served Uncle Sam’s propaganda purposes. Of course,’ said Louie.
Terence felt a frisson almost of pleasure. In his neurotic search for expert opinion, he had at last found one voice that gave no hope and that put the guilt squarely on the shoulders of his own world. There would be a war. She had pronounced it. His stomach constricted, and yet, at the same time, he found relief; war was the final horror, here on the very doorstep, and yet it was quite unreal; meanwhile to dwell in panic on its presence shut out the dreary immediate reality of his decision to live with Sherman.
‘Bernard thinks,’ he said, ‘that the Government are a restraining influence.’
Isobel had to join in Louie’s laughter. ‘You like the Walrus better than the Carpenter, because he sheds tears,’ she said.
‘I don’t like any of them,’ said Terence. ‘I’m a sort of spiv, like any other artist. I just want to be left alone to design for the theatre.’
For the first time that afternoon, Bernard felt his despairing acceptance giving way before anger. Terence’s hard clarity was one of his last rocks and he could not bear to see it crumbling.
‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘that spivs, however artistic, receive very short shrift in Russia’s great freedom to work.’ Looking Terence up and down, he added, ‘A little training, you know, would soon give you the physique needed for more immediate tasks than décor for Aïda.’ Terence winced at this stab in the back. Leicester Square, thought Bernard. But thrill and remorse were swept away by the rush of the ladies’ expostulations.
‘Really, Bernard, you’ve no right,’ said Isobel. ‘No country respects …’
But Louie took the platform as by right. ‘Do you know anything, Mr Sands,’ she said, ‘of the Soviet theatre? Of the high position that artists occupy in Russia? The care to ensure them quiet and spacious accommodation to work in?’
‘Yes,’ said Bernard. ‘I only wish I could take it at its face value. But it seems to me so horribly like the bourgeois liberty you were deploring. Liberty to create under dictation, or liberty to sit back and express their feelings on large salaries given them at the expense of others’ poverty.’
It was Terence’s turn to stab. ‘Oh! my dear,’ he said, ‘give me the large salary and I’ll risk the remorse. I’m a bit sick of all this highmindedness if it’s simply leading us to a nice high-minded atom bomb.’
Louie was saved the difficulty of sorting out so difficult an ally by the approach of Eric and Alan.
‘Bernie!’ cried Eric, ‘Mimi’s found a wonderful old woman serving at the tea tent with a cropped head and they’re having a tremendous thing about children’s undutifulness. Meanwhile hardly any tea is forthcoming.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Alan laughing, ‘that Mother is very deficient in sense of responsibility to the community.’ Now that the burden of his mother’s demands had been shed for a while, he was ready even to smile at his own customary priggishness. It was the highest mark of happiness he could show.
Terence walked over and shook Eric’s hand. ‘Let’s go and look at the water-lily pond and see if it’s as suburban as the rest of this dreary stately home,’ he said. Noticing Bernard’s alarm at this unexpected move, he attempted to make amends. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you’re perfectly right and I’ll see it all clearly as soon as I get into the shade. Politics and the sun together always put me into a mad tizzy. I would,’ he added, looking at Isobel and Louie, ‘have made Mrs Pankhurst’s silliest militant suffragette.’ And, smiling at them all, he led Eric in the direction of the Dutch garden.
‘You’ve just arrived in time,’ said Bernard to Alan. ‘The Welfare State’s on trial for its life.’
‘It couldn’t have a more brilliant counsel for its defence,’ said Alan. He felt more and more that it was he who belonged to this world, not a child like Eric.
‘Nor I’m afraid a more disingenuous one,’ said Isobel. She noted Louie’s growing disgust with distress and apprehension. ‘My brother throws out a few vague charges against the Soviet Union and then pleads that we were attacking the Welfare State. I can’t make you out, Bernard,’ she went on, ‘after the understanding you showed in your speech.’
Alan’s boyish lieutenant smile changed to his usual tight-mouthed disapproval. He had found the speech distastefully decadent and irresponsible.
‘My speech, Isobel dear,’ said Bernard, ‘related to the soul, and I apologize to you all now for treating you to so unsuitable a topic’
Isobel and Alan tried to look as though they recognized that the soul had its place, and respected the deep seriousness that must necessarily underlie Bernard’s light manner of speaking of it. Louie had no such scruples.
‘You’re fooling yourself, you know,’ she said. ‘You see as clearly as anyone that all this,’ and she waved her hand around the garden, ‘is death. You’re just frightened to take on the job of living, that’s all.’
‘I hardly think,’ said Alan, ‘that an enterprise like the new Vardon Hall backs up your diagnosis.’
‘No, no, Louie, give Bernard his due,’ cried Isobel.
Louie smiled defiantly. ‘I judge trees by their fruit,’ she said.
Bernard narrowed his eyes as he addressed her. ‘And I by their shape,’ he said.
‘Oh Lord! Art for art’s sake. Thank God! you aren’t going to speak at the Peace Meeting, with your personal messages and your personal morals.’
‘Louie dear,’ cried Isobel, ‘that’s Bernard’s own responsibility.’
‘It’s every intelligent person’s responsibility to let the people know the truth,’ cried Louie.
Bernard noticed uncomfortably that numbers of nearby visitors had stopped to listen to the excited group.
‘I should have thought,’ said Alan, ‘that the responsibility of intelligent people was to back those who know the facts.’
‘That I reject too,’ said Bernard. He could see Hubert and Sonia among the crowd who were collecting; a sense of inevitability urged him to stoke the senseless fire he had lit.
‘I’m sorry for that,’ said Alan. ‘The more one is concerned with Education, the more one sees that people need a sense of direction if Communism is not …’
‘Really,’ said Isobel, ‘it’s too easy to label anything you don’t like Communism.’
‘If you had waited for my point,’ said Alan, but Louie stamped her foot with anger.
‘I don’t know who you are,’ she said, ‘but it would be a very good thing if you didn’t keep interrupting.’
‘Mr Craddock is a friend of mine,’ said Bernard, and turning to Isobel he added, ‘I really think, Isobel, that Miss Randall would feel more comfortable if I left you. It was nice of you to come and I’m glad you liked my speech, though I’m sorry you got it wrong….’ Isobel’s trembling lip showed that she was on the point of tears, but this final indignity was spared her by the sudden irruption of James into their conversation.’
‘I don’t know whether you realize,’ he said in the kind of controlled, angry voice that carries, ‘the exhibition you’re making, Father, with this little Marble Arch debate, but, believe me, you’d be far better employed keeping all those damned workmen of yours under control.’
Hubert, standing a short distance away, turned to Sonia with mock admiration. ‘The dear boy,’ he said, ‘is always ready to act on the spur of the moment.’
Terence took out a large crimson silk handkerchief from his trouser pocket and spread it on one of the stone seats by the large lily pond.
‘You don’t want those trousers
to spoil,’ he could not for-bear to say, as he looked at Eric’s bottle-green corduroys.
‘Do you hate them?’ asked Eric.
Terence, who was anxious to keep all the good behaviour on his own side, was rather annoyed at this disarming honesty.
‘Well, they’re certainly not me at all,’ he said, ‘but I expect they’re ever so comfy.’
‘Yes,’ said Eric, ‘but I got them because I thought they were rather beautiful.’ He had determined on his honest line as they walked to the pond, and he was going to stick to it. ‘Bernie looks awfully ill,’ he said. This remark, too, annoyed Terence, since it removed the main lead from him in the conversation he had designed. Oh! well, he thought, I shall just have to give up all hope of handing it out, and let him have his nice, cosy, all-girls-together talk.
‘That’s just, my dear,’ he said, parodying the conversation he imagined Eric wanted, ‘what I wished to have a little get-together about. Did he tell you about his heart attack?’ He tried not to be angered at Eric’s genuine look of anxiety. ‘It’s not madly serious, but he has got to be careful,’ he said.
‘How did it happen?’ asked Eric.
‘Well, I don’t know how it happened, if you mean about the blood circulation and the arteries and all that.’
Eric giggled, ‘What a funny thing to think I meant. No, I meant where did it happen and what caused it?’
‘Well, to be honest, my dear, in Bernard’s flat one night last week with me. And as to the cause, he’d got into a sort of state about seeing somebody arrested for trying to pick people up. Only I still don’t quite know why he got so upset about it.’
Eric looked very surprised. ‘Wouldn’t you get upset?’ he asked.
‘Oh! my dear! I was livid with anger, but there was something more with Bernard.’
‘Oh,’ said Eric, ‘do you think that’s why he made that sad little speech?’
‘Well, it wasn’t very little, and I didn’t find it sad, only rather shaming. But yes, I do,’ answered Terence.
‘What do you think I can do to help?’
‘I don’t know how you go on,’ Terence drawled, ‘but that’s why I told you. Because if you do go on too much or anything, then you couldn’t say you hadn’t been warned.’
‘What a nasty way of speaking,’ said Eric.
‘Is it?’ Terence replied. ‘I’m afraid it’s the only one I’ve got.’
There was silence for a few minutes.
‘Will his family be any good?’ asked Eric.
‘I really don’t know,’ answered Terence. ‘At least, I do, his daughter’s very nice. I want to see her if I can this afternoon.’
‘She wasn’t very nice just now, when she was being rude to my mother.’
Terence felt sure that Elizabeth had been quite justified. ‘How awful for you, my dear,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I shall have to see her all the same.’
Eric giggled again. ‘I didn’t think her rudeness to Mimi would alter your decision.’
Terence looked at him curiously. ‘I see why Bernard likes you,’ he said suddenly. ‘You’ve got what’s called a sense of the ridiculous. It’s a kind of whimsy I’ve never been able to manage.’ He got up from the seat. ‘I’d better go and look for Elizabeth now,’ he said.
‘Shall we be friends, do you think?’ asked Eric, still the little boy.
Terence considered for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said. ‘I can’t see why we should ever need to be. But I haven’t got a mad thing against you, if that’s what you mean.’
Eric, on the other hand, felt quite sure of his dislike for Terence; but he said nothing.
*
Eric strolled slowly back to the lawns, the young son of the old Philistine Lord Vardon – was he a marquis or an earl? – who had fought at Culloden Moor – was that possible? – and who now lay in old, old age on his death bed. At last he would be free from this foxhunting tyranny; all Vardon would be his, he would throw aside convention and dress in a simple black velvet jerkin and hose, and entertain the young poets, who were also breaking through the conventions of the age – already they were coming to be known as the Romantic Movement – Keats with his ringlets, the pale, beautiful Shelley, and the handsome Byron who had smiled at him so sweetly and so strangely….
Eric was standing and wondering whether it was he who had brought the pampas grass to Vardon Hall and if so, why, when Bernard, breathing very heavily, came up to him.
‘Bernie dear,’ said Eric, taking his arm, ‘you mustn’t run about so.’
‘I haven’t really,’ said Bernard, ‘but my sister and I have had a silly political argument and I lost my temper. I’m very fond of my sister and it’s upset me.’
‘You must go and apologize,’ said Eric.
Bernard ignored the suggestion. ‘I’m afraid your brother didn’t get a very good impression of us. I’m sorry because he seemed so much nicer today.’
‘He was rather happy,’ said Eric, ‘but you needn’t worry, he’s never very happy for long anyway.’
‘I’m glad you said that,’ Bernard replied, ‘because I don’t think I am going to worry much these days whether people are unhappy or not, even you, Eric. Or at least I shan’t do much about it.’
Eric realized suddenly that the future frightened him. All of it, with or without Bernard’s help, with or without being Lorenzo’s page or the young Lord Vardon. As though to point the moral, Ron, in his best dark-grey suit, pale peach shirt and silver tie, came across the lawn towards them.
‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘I wondered if I’d see you here, seeing as you was such a good friend of Mr Sands.’
‘This is Ron,’ said Eric. ‘I never told you, Bernie, about meeting him in St Albans.’
‘No,’ said Bernard, ‘you didn’t.’
‘He told me he lived at Vardon, and I told him that I knew you.’
‘Yes,’ said Bernard, ‘I see that you did.’
‘Well, it’s gone all right, hasn’t it, Mr Sands,’ said Ron.
‘Yes,’ said Bernard, ‘it’s nearly over now.’
Ron fiddled with his belt and moved from one leg to another, but neither Bernard nor Eric spoke.
‘You’re lucky to have a pal like Mr Sands,’ Ron said. ‘I haven’t got a pal.’
‘I remember,’ said Eric.
‘You been to St Albans again?’ asked Ron.
‘No,’ said Eric.
‘You never seen the Abbey what you’d come special to see, not after you met me, did you?’ Ron winked.
‘You work for Mrs Curry, don’t you?’ asked Bernard.
‘Don’t hold that against me,’ said Ron. ‘I’d like to work for a man ‘really.’ He was sweating with the effort of getting his point across. As no one answered, he peered at Eric’s tie. ‘You like bright colours, don’t you?’ he said. ‘He looks all right in them too, don’t he?’
It seemed inconceivable that Mrs Curry’s huge form could have been hidden behind a rather small azalea bush, but nevertheless she appeared so suddenly that Bernard got that rather unpleasant impression.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Sands,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you knew Mr Sands, Ron.’
‘This is his pal what I told you about what I met in St Albans.’
‘How do you do?’ said Mrs Curry. ‘You write poetry, don’t you, dear? Love lyrics, I expect.’
‘No,’ said Eric, ‘I work in a bookshop.’
‘Selling Mr Sands’ books, eh?’ Mrs Curry smiled. ‘Quite a labour of love. Well, Mr Sands,’ she went on, ‘so we know one poet at least who’ll make use of the new Vardon Hall. Very nice, too. I should have been so glad to have had you as a guest, dear, if I’d been able to run the hotel. Sitting about writing your love poems and Mr Sands coming up to see you, whenever he wanted.’
‘You’ve got it wrong again,’ said Bernard smiling. ‘As Eric already said, he doesn’t write poetry.’
‘I expect it’s because he looks so poetical,’ said Mrs Curry; ‘like Lo
rd Alfred Douglas.’
‘You go a long way back for your parallels,’ said Bernard. ‘One can see, I’m afraid, that you’re not on your usual ground.’
‘You dress like a poet, anyway, dear,’ said Mrs Curry to Eric. ‘You like a bit of colour, don’t you? I expect you like a bit of something else too, although you look such a quiet boy. But then they often go together, don’t they, Mr Sands?’
Eric’s giggle broke the tension. ‘What a funny thing to say,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t ever call you delicate, just because you’re wearing such a delicate shade of mauve.’
Mrs Curry gave her brutal laugh. ‘You’ve got the ready answer haven’t you?’ she said. ‘We’ll have to see more of each other, I can see.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eric, ‘but I’m afraid I must go now to find my mother. I left her at the tea tent talking to an extraordinary old woman with cropped hair. I’m sure she was tiddly. Only, of course, Mimi never notices things like that.’
‘Christ,’ said Ron, ‘that sounds like my mother. You been giving her something to drink?’ he asked Mrs Curry.
‘She seemed so tired, poor old dear,’ said Mrs Curry. ‘I gave her a bottle of whisky to keep her on her feet.’
‘Well, she won’t be on ’em long,’ said Ron. ‘Nice sort of night I’m going to have.’
‘I’ll help you put her to bed,’ said Mrs Curry. ‘I’ll come along with you now,’ she told Eric, ‘and see how she is.’
As the squat mauve figure walked off with her chin pressed close to Eric’s shoulder, they reminded Bernard of Alice and the Duchess. It’s love, he thought, that makes the world go round.
‘You haven’t got no special pal in Vardon, have you?’ said Ron.
‘I haven’t any pals in Vardon,’ Bernard replied.
‘No!’ said Ron. ‘Mrs Curry don’t like you.’
‘I’m sorry for that,’ Bernard answered.
‘If I was your pal, I could tell you lots of things about her what would make it easy for you to deal with her.’
‘I doubt if I shall have to deal with Mrs Curry,’ said Bernard.
‘Course I wouldn’t meet you in the village,’ said Ron, who was ‘sexing’ with his eyes to an almost painful degree, ‘but I might see you in Bantam.’