“One gin-and-French, one gin-and-It!” said Harry, flashing Anna a smile as he handed us our glasses. “Now, Bella, what are you going to have?”
I was still digesting this unlikely Victorian sobriquet when Belinda gave him such an erotic look from her hot brown eyes that I nearly had an erection. Perhaps Harry did have one, but he had his back to me so it was impossible to be sure.
“Oh, just give me some of the usual jungle juice, darling,” said my new cousin Belinda, confirming my suspicion that she was the last word in rampant sex appeal. (Why had I never noticed this before Harry had picked her out? I supposed I had been too busy dismissing her as an imbecile.)
“Well!” I said to Anna as we escaped on the dot of half-past seven. “No prizes for guessing what they do in their spare time! What do you think was going on underneath that tablecloth she was wearing?”
“Nothing,” said Anna. “You’re going to win that bet with Ricky.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Pregnant girls drink milk and look as if they want to redesign the nursery. They don’t drink jungle juice and look as if all they can think of is copulation.”
She was right. I won my bet. Seven months later Belinda was without doubt pregnant but it was plain too that she was nowhere near giving birth and the baby was eventually born a respectable ten months after the wedding.
Meanwhile there was still no sign of little Christopher on the horizon. His absence had become a constant monthly disappointment to us, and although Anna begged me not to worry I felt my demons were pursuing me again, the demon of inadequacy, the demon of problems I feared I had no power to solve, and so as time passed I flung myself more wholeheartedly than ever into the glorification of Oxmoon—until in its growing beauty I saw my power redeemed.
IV
Oxmoon!
My myth, my dream, my magic house—and I’m the magician waving my magic wand, I’m the rich man writing endless checks, and every time I sign my name another dream comes true.
I’m close to Robert Godwin, eighteenth-century Robert Godwin, the dreamer who met Robert Adam and saw a vision in Welsh stone and slate. His architect’s plans are still in the library and so are his own drawings and his letters, the estimates and the bills. I’ve seen his dream as clearly as I’ve read his writing; it’s as if he were walking again through the house that he created, and now I’m walking to meet him in the palace of our dreams. He’s been dead for a hundred and forty years but we’ve beaten time, we’ve beaten death and in my mind he lives again.
Can you hear me, Robert Godwin, can you see me as I see you? Then rest in peace, your dream’s reborn, your vision was not in vain.
That rat-infested Victorian mansion, that casual Edwardian country house, that shabby postwar ghost of a past splendor—they’re all fading, all dissolving as I wave my magic wand. And in their end is your beginning, and in your beginning is my inspiration and in my inspiration lies the resurrection of that brilliant house beyond compare.
V
My first ambition was to go back to the eighteenth century and re-create the house as it had been originally but soon I realized that my own tastes were too powerful and too urgent to allow me to recapture with perfect fidelity the Oxmoon of Robert Godwin the Renovator. However what I did do, with Toby’s help, was to create a strong eighteenth-century atmosphere to act as a magnificent showcase for all the beautiful things that I loved. Meissen, Worcester, Chelsea, Derby, Ch’ien Lung, K’ang Hsi—ravishing pieces surfaced in the salesroom, I waved my magic wand and then they all came to Oxmoon, radiant ravishing Oxmoon, to take their part in the mighty Resurrection of 1939.
The pictures came too, not only the Gainsborough which Robert Godwin might have known but the romantic landscapes of Sawrey Gilpin and the vistas of Welsh mountains by John Varley and the portraits of beautiful women by Lawrence and Millais. I toyed with the idea of buying more modern paintings but for the most part I left them alone; modern painting interests me but it seldom speaks to me and the only novelty I purchased in this style was a blue mess called Woman with a Cornflower by that Spaniard Picasso. The only trouble was that it looked out of place in the eighteenth-century ambience, so in the end I hung it in the lavatory where, it looked wonderfully cheerful and made even the dreariest routine of life an aesthetic experience.
Meanwhile Toby and I had turned our attention to furniture. Out went all the ghastly Victorian whatnots and overstuffed armchairs. Down from the attics came Robert Godwin the Renovator’s eighteenth-century walnut chairs with matching settees which had originally been upholstered in caffoy (cut wool velvet—ravishing and rare). Unfortunately the caffoy had perished, but Toby suggested new fabrics based on eighteenth-century designs and soon the drawing room was transformed. Gilt gesso girandoles and side tables added luminous finishing touches. The Gainsborough, my pride and joy, hung above the newly-imported Adam fireplace. It was a touching portrait of a young girl not unlike Anna with a sensitive mouth and misty romantic dark eyes.
Toby continued to pursue our policy which could loosely be described as Chippendale and civilization, but gradually, as time went on, our passion for Chippendale was exhausted and only Civilization, now spelled with a capital C, remained.
“Dear boy, I’ve found this heavenly Axminster carpet for the drawing room …”
I sanctioned the heavenly Axminster carpet.
“… and perhaps Italian marble for the hall …”
I sanctioned the Italian marble.
“… and dear boy, I’ve found these two divine swags of fruit carved in the manner of Grinling Gibbons—not the master himself, I’m sorry to say, but a really first-class eighteenth-century effort—I thought the pair of them would look so well in the dining room now we’ve decided on the eighteenth-century oak paneling …”
I sanctioned the two divine swags of carved fruit.
“… and I was at this auction the other day, dear boy, and I heard a whisper about this simply celestial chandelier coming up for sale next week—I know it would transform the hall into an absolutely major masterpiece …”
I sanctioned the celestial chandelier.
“… not too much change in the ballroom, I think, dear boy—it’s all so fragrant in there, as dear Noel would say … Some of the mirrors need resilvering and the floor needs attention but apart from that I recommend only decoration in white and gold—oh and dear boy, I’ve just had the most godlike inspiration: how about a white-and-gold grand piano to match?”
I sanctioned the white-and-gold grand piano. I sanctioned everything. I was in heaven.
However unfortunately heaven can be uncomfortable when invaded by an army of builders and decorators, so presently I decided to whisk Anna off to London for a few weeks. After all, why not? I had dear old Simon to attend to my minor correspondence whenever he wasn’t recataloguing the library (Simon’s health was failing, but he still loved to feel he was useful), and I had Ricky, my Devoted Factotum, to supervise my house and estate. Adam Mowbray was always available to attend to any boring legal or financial problems that cropped up, and although my bank manager Mr. Lloyd-Thomas had been surly of late, that never worried me because I knew Adam could handle him. Adam also dealt directly with the estate manager Stanley Bland (rechristened Champagne Sasha by Ricky after a particularly amusing party we gave to welcome him to Oxmoon). Sasha was twenty-four and had only recently qualified as an estate agent, but he certainly seemed to know all the answers. He was Adam’s first wife’s sister’s nephew (or something), and Adam thought very highly of him. Meanwhile, Adam himself had exchanged his white Lagonda for a sleek black Daimler, and everyone said how well he must be doing at the racetrack.
Anyway, there I was in London with Anna and of course we stayed at the Savoy but then I had a marvelous idea and took a lease of a flat that overlooked Hyde Park. Anna thought it was wonderful, and when she returned from her fittings for the new wardrobe of clothes which I was giving her, she said she felt so like Cinderella that she
had almost ordered a pair of glass slippers. That made me very happy. I sent her two dozen red roses every day and we drank champagne every night and we saw all the best plays and films in town and life was glorious, vivid, thrilling. We bought more treasures for Oxmoon too, some very rare Chelsea chocolate cups and a Ming vase which looked spiritual in the moonlight. Then I had an inspiration and remembered the Oxmoon library which was crammed with Victorian sermons and almost crying out to be restocked with dozens of leather-bound editions of our favorite books.
“We’ll order the entire works of Anthony Hope!” I exclaimed, nostalgically recalling our first meeting over The Prisoner of Zenda, and we settled down to draw up a very long list of books that we deemed essential to our survival.
When the books had been ordered we thought it was time to see what was going on at Oxmoon, so we drove back to Wales in my new Daimler (inspired by Adam Mowbray’s last acquisition). The house was still in chaos but I didn’t mind because that was just dreary old reality and I could see the Beauty, the Truth, the Art and the Peace evolving steadily behind it.
Dreary old reality, however, was by this time increasingly trying to impinge on my golden vision.
“All kinds of people are panting to see you, Kes,” said Ricky.
“Oh, you deal with them—I want to write.” My detective story Lady Sybil’s Alibi had just been rejected by yet another undiscerning publisher, and I knew the only way to obliterate my searing sense of failure was to begin another novel without delay.
“But who’s going to sign the checks? Do you want to give me a power of attorney?”
“Well …” I was reluctant to hurt him by displaying a lack of trust but I knew it would be unwise to give access to my bank account to a man who always seemed to be short of money. I was just thinking in panic that I couldn’t cope when I had a brain wave, a plausible excuse which I knew he would accept. “Ricky, don’t be hurt,” I said cleverly, taking the bull by the horns, “but I really think I ought to give the power of attorney to Simon. Dear old Simon, you know how much it means to him to be useful and how he hates to feel as if he’s living on my charity.”
Ricky knew how I felt about Simon and believed me. The crisis was averted, and telling everyone I had to have absolute seclusion I embarked on yet another detective story featuring the Honorable Jonathan Courtney-Sherringham and the woman he loved, the adventuress Penelope Michaelis. This time I was determined they should go to bed without being married and to hell with the conventions of detective fiction.
Within half an hour even Robert Godwin’s eighteenth-century vision had vanished from my mind.
“I say, Kes—”
“Oh God, Ricky, what is it now?”
“Adam and I had rather a dustup with Lloyd-Thomas this morning in Swansea and Adam says you’d better put the brakes on the spending spree. The most ghastly people are starting to call here for money.”
“How awful,” I said, but I wasn’t really listening. The beautiful Penelope, who had just donned a purple tea gown, was busy spraying an erotic perfume above her Mae West décolletage.
VI
Writing!
I was nineteen years old and writing junk. Most people do at that age. So how can I explain how mesmerizing my junk was to me as it emerged from my brain to form little black lines and curves on virgin sheets of paper? A mature writer is under an obligation to be enthralled by the creation of a masterpiece; any layman can accept that. But what laymen so often fail to understand is that it’s the act of creation itself which generates this powerful excitement. Thus the writer at work on junk is as vulnerable to ecstasy as the writer at work on a masterpiece. They both know they’re experiencing the most exquisite pleasure the human soul can know.
A majority of people, of course, think the most exquisite pleasure is sex. Poor things! I feel so sorry for them sometimes. Of course sex is great fun, but when all’s said and done it’s just a sport, isn’t it? There’s nothing wrong with sport; it’s a pleasant way of filling in time if you’ve nothing better to do, and plenty of charming and intelligent people are dead keen on it, but … well, you don’t worry about filling in time if you’re a writer. When you’re a writer at work, there is no time, only eternity, because writing’s forever. Even if you tear up everything you ever do, every word you’ve ever written will still go towards making you a better writer and the better you become the more powerful the magic at your disposal, the magic that can triumph over time.
I’m a magician again. I’m waving my magic wand. I’m anyone anywhere. The ordinary rules of time and space no longer apply. The ink flows from my pen, the keys clack on my typewriter and little hieroglyphics emerge to reflect a vision which only I can see but which perhaps one day countless people can share.
Robert Godwin the Renovator dreamed in stone and glass. I dream in words. Dreams are all that really matter in life. To dream is to be immortal, to dream is to see eternity, to dream is—
“Kester?”
“Oh darling, I’m sorry I’m so far away from you at the moment but I’ll make it up to you later …”
Had Anna ever realized I could be like this? No, of course not. She was probably asking herself why she had never guessed I could be quite so peculiar.
I knew I ought to make love to her because there was still no little Christopher on the horizon, but I was emotionally spent. I could do no more than kiss her good night. I thought: When I wake up tomorrow I’ll have the energy. And I was right. I had the energy, but all I did was rush straight back to my typewriter.
Then one morning I was writing the word OBSESSION and I felt my father walk into my mind. Had he felt guilty when he rushed back to his mountains? Yes. How awful he must have felt, abandoning my mother mentally, emotionally and—as I now knew—sexually, but of course he would have been quite unable to stop himself. He’d had a dream, and beside that dream all else had become futile and insignificant.
Can you hear me, Robert Godwin, can you see me as I see you? My father, more than ten years dead, but I know you now better, far better, than I ever did when you were alive. I know you better than you ever dreamed was possible; you never thought when you looked at me that I’d come to know you through and through. Ah yes, I can see it all, I see how miserable you must have been in London with your glittering career—what do glittering careers matter when you’re cut off from the breath of life? And I see for the first time how lonely you must have been with my mother, my gorgeous, stormy, emotionally exhausting mother who talked so much of passion yet knew no passion but sex. I see you unable to bear your abstinence any longer, I see you looking at those mountains, I see you coming alive again while all your weeping wife can do is talk so meaninglessly of obsessions.
You shouldn’t have willed yourself to die like that. You could still have been alive, and then think how happy I could have made you, think what interesting conversations we could have had, think how glad you would have been to find that at last there was someone who understood you …
But you died.
Or did you? Yes, but I’m resurrecting you, and now once again the miracle’s happening because I’ve beaten time, I’ve beaten death and in my mind you live again. …
VII
“Sorry to disturb you again, Kes—”
“Oh Christ!”
“—but Lloyd-Thomas is downstairs. He’s looking exactly as Pontius Pilate must have looked after deciding that Christ really did have to be crucified.”
“Well, tell him to wash his hands and go away.”
I was with my people. I saw them all and heard their voices, and they were far more real to me than dim mythical figures like Mr. Lloyd-Thomas the bank manager. Inside my head, like a strip of Technicolor film, their lives evolved before my eyes.
“Kester …”
I opened my mouth to shout, “For Christ’s sake don’t interrupt me when I’m writing!” but then I saw it was Simon, loyal, faithful Simon who was still so anxious to help me even though he was so badly crippl
ed and so prematurely aged. I could not shout at someone who had been such a good friend to me—and to my father. I was so close to my father now, so close, he was at my side all the time. Can you hear me, Robert Godwin can you see me as I see you—
“Kester, I’m signing the most amazing checks. I think you should look at them before they go out.”
I flicked through the checks, but I never saw them. I was with my father as he pulled on his climbing boots. I was with my eighteenth-century ancestor as he shook hands with Robert Adam. I was in my old bedroom at Oxmoon and I was in the middle of the most riveting scene I had ever written.
“Yes, it’s all right, Simon,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.”
VIII
“Adam’s muzzled Lloyd-Thomas, Kes. All you have to do is sign this bit of paper here.”
“What is it?”
“A contract with some moneylenders. Adam says they’re really an awfully decent crowd.”
“All right.” I signed.
“And Kes—”
“No more, Ricky, not now.” I had a double bed waiting for my hero and heroine, and I was already hearing the latest lines of Noël Coward-style dialogue. (I like my passion laced with wit.) What could possibly be more irrelevant than Ricky blathering about outstanding bills?
“But Vaughan is breathing fire …”
Vaughan was the tenant of Daxworth farm.
“… some sort of muddle with Sasha …”
“Send him to Adam.”
“Adam’s at the races.”
“Then send him to the races.”
My plan for a detective story had got lost somewhere in Chapter Four. I no longer cared who had murdered the Count in the locked gun room with an African spear impregnated with curare. All I cared about was my two lovers who had turned out to be doomed. Penelope eventually committed suicide. My hero boarded a boat for Argentina. I was in such agony for him in his bereavement that I could hardly type THE END after the final line.
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