‘Who have you got?’
‘Priscilla is here – with Caroline.’
‘Who is Caroline?’
‘Priscilla’s daughter, our niece. You ought to know that.’
‘Ah, yes, I’d forgotten her name.’
‘Then Robert turned up unexpectedly on leave.’
‘I’ll be glad to see Robert.’
Frederica laughed.
‘Robert has brought a lady with him.’
‘No?’
‘But yes. One of my own contemporaries, as a matter of fact, though I never knew her well.’
‘What’s she called?’
‘She married an American, now deceased, and has the unusual name of Mrs Wisebite. She was née Stringham. I used to see her at dances.’
‘Charles Stringham’s sister, in fact.’
‘Yes, you knew him, didn’t you. I remember now. Well, Robert has brought her along. What do you think of that? Then the boys are home for the holidays – and there’s someone else you know.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Wait and see.’
Frederica laughed shrilly again, almost hysterically. That was most unlike her. I could not make out what was happening. Usually calm to the point of iciness, rigidly controlled except when she quarrelled with her sister, Norah, Frederica seemed now half excited, half anxious about something. It could hardly be Robert’s morals she was worrying about, although she took family matters very seriously, and the fact that Robert had a woman in tow was certainly a matter for curiosity. That Robert should be associated with Stringham’s sister was of special interest to myself. I had never met this sister, who was called Flavia, though I had seen her years before at Stringham’s wedding. Chips Lovell, our brother-in-law, Priscilla’s husband, had always alleged that Robert had a taste for ‘night-club hostesses old enough to be his mother’. Mrs Wisebite, though not a night-club hostess, was certainly appreciably older than Robert. By this time, after several changes of position, Stevens had parked the car to his own satisfaction. As he joined us, another possible explanation of Frederica’s jumpiness suddenly occurred to me.
‘Isobel hasn’t had the baby yet without anyone telling me?’
‘Oh, no, no, no.’
However, something about the way I asked the question must have indicated to Frederica herself that her manner struck me as unaccustomed. While we followed her through the hall, she spoke more quietly.
‘It’s only that I’m looking forward to your meeting an old friend, Nick,’ she said.
Evidently Robert was not the point at issue. We entered a sitting-room full of people, including a lot of children. These younger persons became reduced, in due course, to four only; Frederica’s two sons, Edward and Christopher, aged about ten and twelve respectively, together with a couple of quite little ones, who played with bricks on the floor. One of these latter was presumably Priscilla’s daughter, Caroline. Priscilla herself, blonde and leggy, quite a beauty in her way, was also lying on the floor, helping to build a tower with the bricks. Her brother, Robert Tolland, wearing battle-dress, sat on the sofa beside a tall, good-looking woman of about forty. Robert had removed his gaiters, but still wore army boots. The woman was Flavia Wisebite. Not noticeably like her brother in feature, she had some of Stringham’s air of liveliness weighed down with melancholy. In her, too, the melancholy predominated. There was something greyhound-like about her nose and mouth. These two, Robert and Mrs Wisebite, seemed to have arrived in the house only a very short time before Stevens and myself. Tall, angular, Robert wore Intelligence Corps shoulder titles, corporal’s stripes on his arm. The army had increased his hungry, even rather wolfish appearance. He jumped up at once with his usual manner of conveying that the last person to enter the room was the one he most wanted to see, an engaging social gesture that often caused people to exaggerate Robert’s personal interest in his fellow human beings, regarding whom, in fact, he was inclined to feel little concern.
‘Nick,’ he said, ‘it’s marvellous we should have struck just the moment when you’ve been able to get away for a weekend. I don’t think you’ve ever met Flavia, but she knows all about you from her brother.’
I introduced Odo Stevens to them.
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Robert.
‘Oh, blow the sir, chum,’ said Stevens. ‘You can keep that for when we’re on duty. I’m rather thick with the lance-corporal in your racket who functions with my Battalion. I’ve borrowed his motor bike before now. Where are you stationed?’
‘Mytchett,’ said Robert, ‘but I hope to move soon.’
‘My God, so do I,’ said Stevens. ‘They train your I. Corps personnel at Mytchett, don’t they?’
He seemed perfectly at ease in this rather odd gathering. Before I had time to say much to Mrs Wisebite, a middle-aged man rose from an armchair. He had a tanned face, deep blue eyes, a very neat grey moustache. The sweater worn over a pair of khaki trousers seemed very natural clothes for him, giving somehow the impression of horsy elegance. It was Dicky Umfraville. Frederica was right. His presence was certainly a surprise.
‘You didn’t expect to find me here, old boy, did you?’ said Umfraville. ‘You thought I could only draw breath in night-clubs, a purely nocturnal animal.’
I had to agree that night-clubs seemed the characteristic background for our past encounters. There had been two of these at least. Umfraville had turned up at Foppa’s that night, ages before, when I had taken Jean Duport there to play Russian billiards; then, a year or two later, Ted Jeavons had brought me to the club Umfraville himself had been running, where Max Pilgrim had sung his songs, Heather Hopkins played the piano:
‘Di, Di, in her collar and tie . . .’
I had not set eyes on Umfraville since that occasion, but he seemed determined that we were the oldest of friends. I tried to recall what I knew of him: service in the earlier war with the Foot Guards, I could not remember which; some considerable reputation as gentleman-rider; four wives. Like many men who have enjoyed a career of more than usual dissipation, he had come to look notably distinguished in middle years, figure slim, eyes bright, face brown with Kenya sun. This bronzed skin, well brushed greying hair emphasised the blue of his eyes, which glistened like Peter Templer’s, as Sergeant Pendry’s had done before his disasters. I could not recall whether or not Umfraville’s moustache was an addition. If so, it scarcely altered him at all. His face, in repose, possessed that look of innate sadness which often marks the features of those habituated to the boundless unreliability of horses. I asked him how he was employed in the army.
‘On the staff of London District, old boy.’
He spoke with an exaggerated dignity, squaring his chest and coming to attention. Frederica, who was handing round drinks, now joined us. Once more she began to laugh helplessly.
‘Dicky’s got a very grand job,’ she said, ‘haven’t you?’
She slipped her arm through Umfraville’s. This was unheard-of licence for Frederica, something to be regarded as indicating decay of all the moral and social standards she had defended so long.
‘It’s certainly one of the bigger stations,’ Umfraville agreed modestly.
‘Of course it is, darling.’
‘And should lead to promotion,’ he said.
‘Without doubt.’
‘Collecting the tickets perhaps.’
‘Dicky is an RTO,’ said Frederica.
She was quite unable to control her laughter, which seemed not so much attributable to the thought of Umfraville being a Railway Transport Officer, as to the sheer delight she took in him for himself.
‘He’s got a cosy little office at one of those North London stations,’ she said. ‘I can never remember which, but I’ve visited him there. I say, Dicky, we’d better tell Nick, hadn’t we?’
‘About us?’
‘Yes.’
‘The fact is,’ said Umfraville speaking slowly and with gravity, ‘the fact is Frederica and I are engaged.’
; Isobel came through the door at that moment, so the impact of this unexpected piece of news was to some extent lessened by other considerations immediately presenting themselves. Then and there, no more was said than a few routine congratulations, with further gigglings from Frederica. Isobel looked pale, though pretty well. I had not seen her for months, it seemed years. We went off to a corner together.
‘How have you been?’
‘All right. There was a false alarm about ten days ago, but it didn’t get far enough to inform you.’
‘And you’re feeling all right?’
‘Most of the time – but rather longing for the little brute to appear.’
We talked for a while.
‘Who is the character on the floor playing bricks with the children and Priscilla?’
‘He’s called Odo Stevens. He’s on the course and brought me over in his car. Come and meet him.’
We went across the room. Stevens got to his feet and shook hands.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I must go. Otherwise Aunt Doris will be upset something’s happened to me.’
‘Don’t rush off, Mr Stevens,’ said Priscilla, still prone on the carpet, ‘hullo, Nick, I’ve only had a wave from you so far. How are you?’
Frederica joined us.
‘Another drink,’ she said.
‘No, thank you, really,’ said Stevens, ‘I must be moving on.’
He turned to say goodbye to Priscilla.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘you’ll lose your brooch, if you’re not careful.’
She looked down. The brooch hung from its pin. It was a little mandoline in silver-gilt, ornamented with musical symbols on either side, early Victorian keepsake in style, pretty, though of no special value. Priscilla used to wear it before she married Chips. I had always supposed it a present from Moreland in their days together, that the reason for the musical theme of its design. While she glanced down, the brooch fell to the ground. Stevens stooped to pick it up.
‘The clasp is broken,’ he said. ‘Look, if I can take it with me now, I’ll put it right in a couple of ticks. I can bring it back on Sunday night, when I turn up with the car.’
‘But that would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘Do you know about brooches?’
‘All about costume jewellery. In the business.’
‘Oh, do tell me about it.’
‘I must be off now,’ he said. ‘Some other time.’
He turned to me, and we checked the time he would bring the car for our return to Aldershot. Then Stevens said goodbye all round.
‘I’ll come to the door with you,’ said Priscilla. ‘I want to hear more about costume jewellery, my favourite subject.’
They went off together.
‘What a nice young man,’ said Frederica. ‘He really made one feel as if one were his own age.’
‘Take care,’ said Umfraville. ‘That’s just what I was like when I was young.’
‘But that’s in his favour,’ she said, ‘surely it is.’
‘Barely twenty,’ said Umfraville, in reminiscence. ‘Blind with enthusiasm. Fighting like a hero on Flanders fields.’
‘Oh, rot,’ said Frederica. ‘You said you were nearly twenty-four when you went to the war.’
‘Well, anyway, look at me now,’ said Umfraville. ‘A lot of good my patriotism did me, a broken-down old RTO.’
‘Cheer up, my pet.’
‘Ah,’ said Umfraville, ‘the heroes of yesterday, they’re the maquereaux of tomorrow.’
‘Well, you’re my maquereau anyway,’ said Frederica, ‘so shut up and have another drink.’
Later, when we were alone together upstairs, Isobel gave a fuller account of herself. There was a lot to talk about. The doctor thought everything all right, the baby likely to arrive in a couple of weeks’ time. There were, indeed, far more things to discuss than could be spoken of at once. They would have to come out gradually. Instead of dealing with myriad problems in a businesslike manner, settling all kind of points that had to be settled, making arrangements about the future – if it could be assumed there was to be a future – we talked of more immediate, more amusing matters.
‘What do you think about Frederica?’ Isobel asked.
‘Not a bad idea.’
‘I think so too.’
‘When did she break the news?’
‘Only yesterday, when he arrived on leave. I was a bit staggered when told. She’s mad about him. I’ve never seen Frederica like that before. The boys get on well with him too, and seem to approve of the prospect.’
Frederica and Dicky Umfraville getting married was something to open up hitherto unexplored fields of possibility. The first thought, that the engagement was grotesque, bizarre, changed shape after a time, developing until one saw their association as one of those emotional hook-ups of the very near and the very far, which make human relationships easier to accept than to rationalize or disentangle. I remembered that if Frederica’s husband, Robin Budd, had lived, his age would not have been far short of Umfraville’s. I asked Isobel if the two of them had ever met.
‘Just saw each other, I think. Rob looked a little like Dicky too.’
‘Where did Frederica pick him up?’
‘With Robert. Dicky Umfraville knew Flavia Wisebite in Kenya. Her father farms there – or did, he died the other day – but of course you know that.’
‘Do you suppose Flavia and Dicky—’
‘I shouldn’t wonder. Anyway, it was an instantaneous click so far as Frederica was concerned.’
‘Frederica is aware, I suppose, that the past is faintly murky.’
‘One wife committed suicide, another married a jockey. Then there was the wife no one knows about – and finally Anne Stepney, who lasted scarcely more than a year, and is now, I hear, living with J. G. Quiggin.’
‘That’s as many as are recorded. But where did Robert contract Mrs Wisebite? That is even more extraordinary.’
‘One never knows with Robert. Tell me about her. She is sister of your old school pal, Charles Stringham. What else?’
‘Charles never saw much of her after they were grown up. She first married a notorious character called Flitton, who lost an arm in the war before this one. A great gambler, also a Kenya figure. Dicky must know him well. Flitton ran away with Baby Wentworth, but refused to marry her after the divorce. Flavia had a daughter by Flitton who must be eighteen or nineteen by now.’
‘Flavia told me the late Mr Wisebite, her second husband, came from Minneapolis, and died of drink in Miami.’
‘Is she sharing a room with Robert?’
‘Not here. There isn’t one to share. The beds are too narrow. But, in principle, they seem to be living together. How did you think Priscilla was looking?’
‘All right. She was being a bit standoffish, except to Stevens. Who was the other child playing bricks? The Lovells have only Caroline, haven’t they?’
‘That’s Barry.’
‘Who is Barry?’
‘A slip-up of Frederica’s maid, Audrey. Audrey had to bring him along with her, owing to war circumstances. Barry comes in very useful as an escort for Caroline. You know how difficult it always is to find a spare man, especially in the country.’
‘Does Barry’s mother do the cooking?’
‘No, Frederica. She found herself without a cook and no prospect of getting one. She’s always been rather keen on cooking, you know. Now she could get a job in any but the very best houses.’
I had an idea, from the way she spoke, that all this talk about Barry, and Frederica’s cooking, was, on Isobel’s part, a means of temporarily evading the subject of Priscilla. I could tell, from the way she had mentioned her sister, that, for some reason, Priscilla was on Isobel’s mind. She was worried about her.
‘Any news of Chips?’
‘Priscilla isn’t very communicative. Where do Marines go? Is he on a ship? She seems to hold it against him that he hasn’t been able to arrange for them to have a house or a flat somewhere. I don’
t think that’s Chips’s fault. It’s all this bloody war. That’s why Priscilla is here. She is very restless.’
‘Is she having a baby too?’
‘Not that I know of. Audrey is, though.’
‘Audrey sounds a positive Messalina.’
‘Not in appearance. She is a good-natured, dumpy little thing with spectacles.’
‘A bit too good-natured, or her lenses need adjusting. Is it Barry’s father again?’
‘On the contrary, but we understand it may lead to marriage this time.’
‘I suppose Frederica will be the next with a baby. What about Robert and Mrs Wisebite?’
‘No doubt doing their best. Robert, by the way, is on embarkation leave. He’s only spending some of it here. He arrived with Flavia just before you did.’
‘Where is he going?’
‘He doesn’t know – or won’t say for security reasons – but he thinks France.’
‘How on earth has he managed that?’
‘He decided to withdraw his name from those in for a commission, as there was otherwise no immediate hope of a posting overseas.’
‘I see.’
‘Hardly what one would expect of Robert,’ Isobel said.
His own family regarded Robert as one of those quietly self-indulgent people who live rather secret lives because they find themselves thereby less burdened by having to think of others. No one knew much, for example, about his work in an export house dealing with the Far East. The general idea was that Robert was doing pretty well there, though not because he himself propagated any such picture. He would naturally be enigmatic about a situation such as that which involved him with Mrs Wisebite. It was fitting that he should find himself in Field Security. Enterprise must have been required to place himself there too. I wondered what the steps leading to the Intelligence Corps had been. At one moment he had contemplated the navy. No less interesting was this attempt on Robert’s part to move closer to a theatre of war at the price of immediately postponing the chance of becoming an officer.
‘The war seems to have altered some people out of recognition and made others more than ever like themselves,’ said Isobel.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 3 Page 14