Tony seemed to know so many people, too. Marcia found herself being introduced on all sides. To pale, untidy young men. And tall intense young women. And not very satisfactory introductions, either. Because immediately they met, they started talking. But not to Marcia. After one or two attempts, they were forced to give that up. Then they talked round her. Across her. Behind her. And all that Marcia could do was to stand there. Listening. Smiling. Looking beautiful.
“It’s worse than a point-to-point if you don’t like racing,” she found herself thinking.
And, at the thought, it all came back to her. The big cold house. The week-end parties. The bad weather. Her first husband. The endless talk about horses ...
The bell in the foyer started ringing. Tony took her arm.
“Not bored?” he asked.
By the time they got outside, the rain had started. Real steady stuff. The kind that always falls round Covent Garden. Marcia recognized straight away that it was hopeless. Nobody ever went out in rain like that.
Tony inspected things for a moment.
“Better bring the car right round,” he said. “You wait there.”
It was years—God knows how many years—since anyone had treated her like this. Not since the early thirties. But here she hurriedly checked herself. She mustn’t go on having thoughts like that. It was terribly morbid remembering dates. And it really did break her heart seeing Tony dashing off into the downpour for her sake. That pleased her. It showed that, unlike so many other girls, she really had been getting steadily nicer all the time.
And even sitting there in the car with that ghastly mackintosh contraption pulled over her, she still forgave him. Didn’t even mind the cold. Or the drips. Or anything. Because she had suddenly realized that this was the sort of girl she really was. Informal. Unselfish. Full of the simple joy of living. And so young, oh, so truly young, at heart.
Supper, too, was bliss. Absolute bliss. It was The Chalice that Tony chose. It might have been awkward, of course, if Mr. Bulping had dropped in on the off chance of finding her. But there was no sign of Mr. Bulping. He was up somewhere in the Midlands, arranging contracts and things. And, in any case, this wouldn’t have been the kind of evening that Mr. Bulping understood. To-night everything was different. Ethereal. Out of this world. Pure.
The only thing against it was the sadness. No matter what she did, it kept breaking over her. Not just waves either. Long devastating rollers. Even out on the dance floor, actually in his arms, she was ready to weep. And all because Tony looked younger than ever this evening.
“Oh, God, make him love me,” she kept imploring. “Make him feel that he can’t do without me. Let me take care of him. Let me be the one who sees that he doesn’t come to harm. I don’t mind how he behaves. Let him trample over me. Only don’t let him ever go away.”
It was nearly two o’clock when they got back to Marcia’s block of flats. By then, the streets were quite empty. And there were no lights showing in any of the windows. Everyone else in London was asleep.
Marcia was shivering again.
“T ... t ... thanks s ... so much for a w ... w ... wonderful evening,” she began, her teeth chattering.
But Tony did not seem in the least ready to go.
“Don’t I even get a drink?” he asked.
As they stood there by the horrible little car, it seemed to Marcia that they were quite alone. Not just alone in London. It might have been a desert island, or the moon, it was so silent. And ever since she had been a girl, the thought of desert islands and the moon had always affected her strangely.
“It’s t ... t ... terribly late,” she started to say and then stopped herself. “D ... d ... don’t ring. I’ve g ... g ... got a key,” she added.
Chapter Thirty-two
1
It seemed to Mr. Privett as though life had unaccountably flattened out somehow.
There had been those existing few days down in the vestibule while Mr. Bloot was on honeymoon. But Mr. Bloot had been married for nearly three months now. Married. And missing. For all that Mr. Privett saw of him, it might have been Ultima Thule and not merely Finsbury Park where Mr. Bloot was now living. He never came near Fewkes Road at week-ends. Never suggested a meeting at the Highgate Ponds. Even seemed reticent and withdrawn at elevenses. In short, he had become a stranger.
And having no Mr. Bloot and no model yacht to sail, Mr. Privett was left with no definite purpose in life. Nor, the way things were going, did there seem much prospect of ever having one again. Mr. Hamster’s letters had eased off of late. There had only been two in the last month. The Court Case on which everything depended still seemed as far away as ever.
For Mrs. Privett it was not so bad. She had at least rediscovered Nancy. And they had been seeing each other again. First rather guiltily on neutral ground in the tea-room at Victoria Station. Then in Nancy’s own little flat in West Kensington. And finally in Fewkes Road itself. Secretly, of course. They both agreed that, in no circumstances, should it be mentioned to Mrs. Rammell. Nancy even added cryptically that it could only lead to further unpleasantness.
But secrecy is one thing. Reticence is quite another. And Nancy had been keeping everything bottled up for years. Mrs. Privett listened in amazement. She learnt how shamelessly henpecked Mr. Rammell was. How the only thing that Mrs. Rammell really cared about was a title, so that it could be as Lady Rammell that her name appeared in connection with all those concerts and recitals. How extremely Mrs. Rammell disliked Sir Harry. How cordially the dislike was reciprocated. And how worried they all were about young Tony who didn’t seem to want to settle down to anything.
“You don’t know how lucky you’ve been. About Tony and Irene, I mean,” Nancy confided. “He isn’t like anyone on our side. Father was always so steady until the crash came. There’s a streak of recklessness in Tony that’s pure Rammell. Not his father, of course. That’s why they don’t get on. More like Sir Harry.”
“So you think I did the right thing in stopping it?” Mrs. Privett asked.
“You’d have regretted it for the rest of your life if you hadn’t. And Irene after you,” Nancy replied. “I can tell you ...”
It was the third time already that Mrs. Privett and Nancy had enjoyed this particular conversation. Neither had added anything new. But as a subject it still seemed as fresh and promising as ever. It was because both women wanted to go on with it that they arranged to meet again. Early next month. Over in Nancy’s flat next time.
Mrs. Privett had not attempted to conceal these meetings from her husband. She did not repeat Nancy’s general indiscretions. That would somehow have savoured too much of treachery. But the bit about Irene was obviously intended for him. And Mr. Privett knew it pretty well by heart. By now he was able to repeat Nancy’s exact words before Mrs. Privett came to them.
Not that he was by any means convinced. He still admired young Mr. Tony. Envied Mr. Rammell having a son like him. But it was really of Irene that he was thinking. He knew how any girl must feel after her first love-affair has been suddenly broken up. That was why he admired her, too. If she hadn’t been the sensible sort she might have done something really terrible. Not just run away from home and come back again. And, ever since, she had been so quiet and controlled about it all. Not letting on to a soul about how she must really be feeling.
He mentioned this aspect of the tragedy to Mrs. Privett. But Mrs. Privett would have none of it.
“She’ll get over it,” she said. “She has already. It never was anything.”
“Then why ...?” Mr. Privett began.
“Because it might have,” Mrs. Privett told him.
“I still think ...” Mr. Privett began again.
But again Mrs. Privett interrupted him.
“Well, I don’t,” she said. “I know.”
That was why it was such a victory for Mrs. Privett when Irene began stopping in town in the evenings so that she could have dinner at the Hostel. Mrs. Privett had always guessed tha
t it would work out that way. For some time now, Irene had been seeing less and less of her old friends from the Eleanor Atkinson. And it was only natural that she should be getting into a new circle, a Rammell circle, by now. It was the girl from Classical Records with whom she had become friendly—the one who had the brother in Travel.
“Why not ask her over for tea one Sunday?” Mrs. Privett finally suggested.
“I may do,” Irene answered. “Thanks, Mum.”
It was next Sunday that Irene chose. That showed how right Mrs. Privett had been in proposing it. And it showed, too, that Classical Records must be every bit as keen. Between them, Irene and Classical Records were taking the whole thing for granted.
“Do you mind if she brings Ted along with her?” Irene asked.
“Who’s Ted?” Mrs. Privett replied. “Is she engaged to him or something?”
“Ted’s her brother,” Irene told her. “You know. You met him at the dance.”
“What’s she want to bring him for?”
“Well, why not?” Irene demanded. “He’s only living in digs. You can’t expect him to spend every Sunday at the Hostel.”
“Haven’t they got a home?”
“I don’t know,” Irene answered. “I’ve never asked them.”
Mrs. Privett looked hard at her daughter. Indifference on that scale, she knew, could mean only one thing.
It was Mr. Privett, not Mrs. Privett, who objected. Not openly, of course. Just sulkily. He liked Irene to have her girl-friends to the house. They helped to keep the place cheerful. But a young man in the house was different. Young men smoked such a lot. And sat down heavily in chairs. And expected to be offered drinks. It wouldn’t seem like home at all if there were a young man about the place.
And particularly not if he were someone from Rammell’s. There are certain privacies that any father of a family demands. If he wants to keep his slippers in the alcove beside the fireplace there is nothing in law against it. But that doesn’t mean that he would necessarily like other people to know about it. Least of all other people in the same firm. Somehow he didn’t fancy having to walk through Travel and Theatre Tickets with the knowledge that the pair of wolf eyes on the other side of the counter shared even the smaller of his domestic secrets.
Not that the young man proved to be nearly so aggressively male as Mr. Privett had feared. He smoked only one cigarette. Proved to be good, even eager, about opening doors and passing things. And refused a drink when it was offered to him.
The only thing that marred the whole afternoon was the fact that when he did light a cigarette, Irene lit one, too.
Mr. Privett felt merely a sudden affectionate pang at the thought that Irene should have grown up so fast But Mrs. Privett was more outspoken.
“And when did you start smoking, I’d like to know?” she said.
There was a pause for a moment after she had spoken. Irene looked across at her friend—the one from Classical Records—and they both raised their eyebrows. Ted himself continued to look downwards at his feet.
“Oh, years ago, Mum,” Irene replied. “I’ve forgotten.”
“We’ll talk about it afterwards,” Mrs. Privett told her.
But Irene recognized her strength. With Classical Records and Ted both beside her, it was her moment more than Mrs. Privett’s.
“No, we won’t, Mum,” she said. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
2
Mr. Privett dreaded Monday morning. He recognized the signs. From the way Mrs. Privett was taking Irene’s rudeness, this was the sort of thing that might drag on right through the week.
But by the following morning it was completely forgotten. A letter from Mr. Hamster put the thought of everything else clean out of their minds. The date for the County Court case had at last been fixed. In consequence, Mr. Hamster wanted to see Mr. Privett as soon as possible.
Mr. Privett arranged the appointment by telephone. Not that there was any difficulty about it. Things were rather slack with Mr. Hamster at the moment. Any hour of the day would have been convenient. He would have stayed on until midnight if necessary. And Mr. Privett was only asking for six-thirty.
As soon as he got there, Mr. Hamster started. It was practically a dress rehearsal. Sitting back in his little swivel chair and with his thumbs tucked up into his waistcoat, Mr. Hamster gave his client a complete lesson in County Court procedure.
“ ... and remember, we’ve got nothing to conceal,” he said slowly and deliberately. “Just go into the box, and tell the truth. The plain simple truth. No hesitation. No pauses.” Mr. Hamster paused momentarily. “Don’t rush it, of course. Give yourself time to think what you’re saying. Don’t give the impression of being too pat.” Mr. Hamster paused again. “And speak up when you say it. No mumbling.” There was another pause. “Mind you, that doesn’t mean shout at ’em. They can hear you. And shoulders back so that you look as if you meant it.” This time the pause was longer. Mr. Hamster was a thorough man and weighed every word carefully. “Don’t try to look defiant or cocky, of course. No overdoing it. Be natural. That’s the whole secret. Be natural.” This pause was the longest of them all, and it was obvious that Mr. Hamster was leading up to something really important. “Above all,” he said, “don’t get rattled. If you’re rattled, you’re sunk. Keep calm. Calm and steady.” Mr. Hamster’s voice was now rising with excitement. “This case means a lot to you. Remember that. Very serious if it went the wrong way.” He glanced out of the window for a second. “You’re going to win. And you know it. But be prepared. That’s the great thing. Be prepared. If they turn nasty, show some spirit. No rudeness, of course. Nothing funny. Just stick to facts. And keep cool. Cool and confident. That’s the way. Be yourself. Be yourself, and you’ll be all right.”
Mr. Hamster rose. He thrust out his hand.
“I’ll ... I’ll try,” Mr. Privett said.
But Mr. Hamster had not quite finished with him. He had just remembered one other point.
“Ten o’clock on the 15th,” he said. “County Court. Brecknock Road. Don’t be late. If you are, they’ll hear the case without you. Remember that. But don’t get there too early. They’ll think you’re nervous. Just give yourself nice comfortable time. There’s nothing to worry about. Get your mind clear. Then forget all about it. Don’t lie awake thinking. And try to remember what I’ve said to you. It’s for your protection. It’s up to you now.”
The rest of that evening Mr. Privett was moody and preoccupied. He started drawing diagrams on the backs of envelopes, with X showing the motor coach and a poor demolished little Y that was himself right up in the corner practically under the stamp. But diagrams of moving objects are difficult to draw. They require dotted lines and arrows. And that is where the tricky part comes in. In some of the diagrams X and Y missed each other altogether. In others the dotted lines kept crossing as though he and the motor-coach had been playing dodge’ems up the whole length of the Kentish Town Road ...
And it was worse, not better, when he finally got off to sleep. Then the whole of Mr. Hamster’s advice rose up and overwhelmed him. He was in the dock already. And things were going pretty badly for him. He had created quite the wrong impression. That was because he’d forgotten his trousers. And the false nose that he was wearing had definitely counted against him. The judge had ordered him to remove it, but he had another one just like it underneath. And, even in the dream state, his own behaviour astonished him. There were some questions that he refused to answer at all. Others that he capped merrily with a quick joke or a snatch of song. He bawled. He whispered. He denied everything. He confessed and begged for clemency. He turned his back on the judge. He sat on the floor. He produced a banana and ate it. He blew soap bubbles ...
In the end, things got so bad that he started talking in his sleep and Mrs. Privett had to wake him up.
Chapter Thirty-three
1
On the morning of the running-down case, Mr. Hamster woke an entirely happy man. And no wonde
r. Under his care and guidance, this case that might easily have been dismissed in a few minutes—might even never have come into Court at all—had branched and blossomed into an affair of unimaginable complexity. There were now claims, counter-claims, watching briefs springing up everywhere.
Mr. Privett, however, was already feeling the strain. He had not slept at all well. And he had a strange guilty feeling about turning right for the Brecknock County Court instead of bearing left as usual and popping into the Underground for Bond Street. Even though he had got special leave, it still felt like playing truant.
It was five minutes to ten when he reached the Court. The walk had helped to quieten his nerves. He felt righteous and confident. Then he met Mr. Hamster.
“Remember what I told you,” Mr. Hamster began. “Think before you answer. But don’t hesitate. Be natural. Don’t let them get you rattled. You’ll be all right. But look out for catches. And keep calm. Above all, keep calm ...”
It was not until nearly three-fifty when Mr. Privett was eventually called. It was the last case the Judge heard that day. And, in the interval, Mr. Privett’s morale had gone completely. If he had been asked to play a violin solo instead of merely giving evidence he could not have been more agitated.
He took the oath loudly and defiantly, as though he had been taking oaths and breaking them all his life. And then, having taken it, he simply stood there looking sulkily down at his feet, cutting everybody. The Judge even had to speak to him about it. He asked Mr. Privett to have the goodness to look in his direction when he was addressing him. Thereafter, Mr. Privett stared. It was a baleful, unflickering stare like a basilisk’s. And it would have been downright rude if it had gone on a second longer.
It was broken, in fact, only by the solicitor for the motor-coach company. He coughed twice rather loudly and then asked if Mr. Privett would mind sparing him a little of his attention, too. Mr. Privett thereupon turned his hypnotist’s gaze full on him. But he forgot about the voice. Twice the Judge had to ask Mr. Privett to speak up because neither he nor the opposing solicitor could hear a word that he was saying. And Mr. Privett promptly began using a high-pitched strident kind of voice as though he were arguing with them.
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