by Alec Waugh
4
Raymond arrived in Villefranche half way through June. The Welcome Hotel, as anyone who has read Francis Steegmuller’s book on Gocteau will appreciate, was at that time a kind of Club. My brother Evelyn was there, so were Keith Winter and Patrick Balfour, now Lord Kinross.
Raymond arrived off the night train early in the morning. He had had a bad night, sitting up in the centre of a second-class compartment. ‘I never spend money on myself,’ he said. T take buses and tubes when I’m alone.’
But in spite of the night’s discomfort, he looked as spruce and as cleanly shaven as any wagon lit tourist. He was wearing espadrilles and one of the blue sleeveless sailor’s maillots that were then the vogue. He came onto the terrace shortly after nine: I had had my first half-past-six swim on the beach below the railway line, had finished my rolls and coffee and was at work upon my manuscript. Evelyn and Keith Winter, late risers, were finishing their coffee and reading aloud to each other, picked passages from the local L’éclaireur de Nice. The world was shut away.
Raymond stretched his arms above his head. ‘The peace of this, the peace,’ he said.
‘That’s what we find,’ Winter said.
‘Peace,’ he said, ‘How I need it, after New York, after Chicago, then London for three weeks, ten days in Paris, Rome next week. Everything going round in my head. I’ve got to think things out.’
‘What things?’ Winter asked.
‘The whole situation, the economics of it: that’s the axis on which it all revolves.’
Evelyn’s eyes widened, in an incredulous stare, as though he were saying ‘Can such things be? Can such men exist?’ It was a habit of his that many found disconcerting. It was singularly eloquent.
‘There’ll be a crisis soon, there must be,’ Raymond was continuing. ‘I’ve looked at things in Chicago, in New York. Everywhere the same approach to chaos, and no one anywhere doing a thing to stop it.’ It was the kind of talk that I had been hearing in New York between him and Claud, but it was new to Winter and to Evelyn. ‘Unless something is done soon it’ll be too late,’ he said. It was the same talk again, but it was said now in a new temper. He was restless, impatient: he was desperate to get something started.
‘What are you proposing that we should do?’ asked Winter.
‘Follow the one man who can lead us.’
‘And who may that be?’
‘Mosley, of course.’
Evelyn’s eyes widened to a point of ultimate incredulity. ‘Tom Mosley,’ he said, on a note that as far as he was concerned, closed the conversation. He sat silent while Winter cross-examined Raymond. Winter was at that time a very close friend of Peter Howard, the one-time Rugby international, who for a brief while was one of Mosley’s lieutenants; later he was to enrol under Moral Rearmament. Winter never had the slightest sympathy with Mosley’s party, but he was curious to know what Peter Howard saw in it. Evelyn and I sat in silence while the duologue continued. ‘Before the summer is out, Mosley will have left-Labour as he left the Conservatives. There’s no time for compromise. A clear, straight line of action, that’s what the country needs.’
This happened over forty years ago. It is now easy with hindsight to find such talk ridiculous. But Mosley had glamour in his youth: glamour, courage and ability, and very many of his ideas were sound. In that early summer of 1931 he did appear to many as the man of destiny. Raymond’s eyes shone as he talked about him.
‘I need to know how they feel in Rome,’ he said. ‘I’ve letters to two of the chief blackshirts. They’ll give me the clue as to what’s happening. Particularly to what’s happening in Berlin.’
He stood up. ‘I’ve got to stretch my legs,’ he said. ‘I’m still stiff after that night journey.’
But there was no stiffness in the pace with which he strode towards the narrow path that leads past the fortress, along the rocks towards the harbour. He was the embodiment of youth and hope and vigour. ‘I was afraid,’ said Evelyn, ‘that when Raymond took to something serious, he would take to something foolish.’
‘You think he’s serious about this?’
‘It looks so, doesn’t it.’ And to prove Evelyn’s point, Raymond proceeded for the next two days to exhaust us with his prophecies. Two more days of this, we thought. . . but luckily on the next day Fate intervened.
I was sitting on the terrace with my morning’s work completed. It was half past eleven. Time for my second swim; I was folding up my cahier when a young woman whom I had not seen before came out from the hotel. She looked at me for a moment, hesitated, then came across.
‘You are Alec Waugh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. I’d heard you were here. No, don’t get up. May I sit down?’
She was pretty in a trim, blonde way, in her early thirties or maybe a little younger. ‘I’m Eileen Martin.’
The name meant nothing to me, though she seemed familiar. But she was wearing a wedding ring. I might have known her when she was a deb. ‘I’m down here because of Raymond Peronne,’ she explained. ‘They told me at the desk that he was here.’
‘He’s in that boat over there, he went over to Passable to bathe.’
‘Is he going out or coming back?’
‘He’s coming back. He should be here in half an hour.’
‘Good, not too long . . . that is to say . . .’
‘Does he know you’re coming? He didn’t mention it.’
‘I know, he didn’t know. I didn’t want him to. It had to be a surprise. I was afraid he might have gone.’
‘He’s leaving for Rome tomorrow.’
‘I knew that, at least I knew he was planning to. I was afraid he might have gone already: it’s a relief to find him here.’
She talked in quick, chopped-off sentences. She took out a small platinum cigarette case, tapped a cigarette, lit it with a silver lighter, and began to smoke in short, quick puffs that were in tune with her sentences. ‘Half an hour, that’s a long time. Nervous to sit here watching. Too early for a drink? No, surely not. Lost sense of time in that long journey. Thought I was in Cannes when it was Marseilles. Must have something, now. You’ll join me, won’t you ? What do you usually take here at this time?’
I told her that I didn’t drink myself before my second bathe. ‘What can I get you?’ We agreed that Dubonnet would be appropriate, in view of the advertisement in high blue lettering on the Reserve hotel, DU, DUBON, DUBONNET, which at that time faced you from the railway station. ‘Here you are,’ I said. While I was fetching the glass she had finished her cigarette and lit another. She attacked her Dubonnet as she had her cigarette, with short quick gulps, keeping the glass in her hand all the time. ‘That damned boat isn’t coming any closer: doesn’t seem to have moved an inch. Can’t stand this waiting, making conversation, finding mutual friends, talking Lords and Ladies; can’t keep it botded up any more, got to blurt it out… my husband, damn him, has found out about me and Raymond. Raised hell, kicked me out of the house, in fact, opened divorce proceedings right away, got all the evidence he wants—letters, photographs, the works, pretends to be furious, but I bet he’s not, just what he’s been waiting for, that bitch Lily, no alimony to pay me now, a Lord’s son as the corespondent. Can you beat it? Now you know why I’m here: had to tell Raymond myself, had to see his expression when I tell him, then I’ll know; you see that, don’t you?’ She finished her Dubonnet in a double swallow, then held the glass out.
‘I could use another.’
I was grateful for the interruption. It gave me time to collect myself and absorb what I had been told. By the time I returned, she was more composed. She had started on another cigarette, but she was spacing her puffs and she put down the glass after her first sip at it.
‘How long has this been going on ?’ I asked.
‘Two years or so. He goes away so much.’
‘Is it …?’ I paused. How serious was it, I wondered. Was it the real thing—for her? For Raymond it could scarcely be, in vi
ew of Myra’s intervention.
‘Raymond hasn’t mentioned you,’ I said.
‘Of course he hasn’t. He’s not that kind of man.’
‘If it’s lasted two years, it must be serious for him.’
‘Not necess . . . You know what Raymond is.’
I didn’t, but I let that pass.
‘He’s away so much. If you travel as much as he does, things aren’t broken off.’
‘Have you been married long?’
‘Five years. But it’s my second marriage. I’m a war widow. I married very young. I’ve got a daughter, born after the armistice.’
That made the daughter twelve years old.
‘Did you have any children from your second marriage?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I can’t think why. That was one of the things that went wrong with that marriage, I believe. He wanted a child, a son particularly. Someone to carry on the name and business, he’s a wine merchant. He resented my daughter. He was jealous of my first husband because of her. “You’ve got to be in love to have a child,” he’d say. Silly, wasn’t it, but that’s the way it was.’
‘Were you in love with him ?’
‘It’s hard to say. Five years ago. So much has happened since. I wanted to be married; he happened to be around when I was beginning to feel that it was time I married.’
‘What about Raymond, were you in love with him?’
‘Again hard to say. It was terribly easy to fall for him. His looks are devastating, aren’t they? Even as a man you can see that. And then his graciousness, he makes everything so easy and so pleasant; his voice, there’s so much warmth in it. He’s irresistible—the moment I realised that he’d taken a fancy to me, I knew … no playing hard to get, a dead duck from the start. And it’s been worth it.’
‘What now?’
‘Indeed what now? Exactly what I’m wondering.’ She paused. She looked across the water: the row-boat was a bare fifteen minutes away. You could almost recognise the faces.
‘It’s funny to think of him in that boat,’ she said, ‘with no idea I’m here, with no idea of the news I’m bringing him: with no idea that the next half hour may be the most dramatic, the most decisive in his life.’
‘How do you think he’ll take it?’
‘No idea. That’s where he’s so difficult. He’s so easy, always thinking of you, not of himself: making no demands; I don’t mean, always asking you what you want to do, that’s boring. One wants to have one’s mind made up for one. But the way he plans things, you can always tell that he was asking himself “What does she want?” At the beginning I’d tell myself, “he really loves me. He always thinks of what I’d like.” But later I’ve come to think, “That’s only because he doesn’t care”, He’s so indifferent to how it all turns out that he can save himself trouble by jollying me along. If he really cared, wouldn’t he insist on having his own tastes, his own interests catered for, on a fifty per cent basis?’
‘Would you like to marry him ?’
‘Only if he really wanted it. You see …’ She paused T recognise that I’m not a catch for him. I’m three years older. I’ve got a daughter, a twelve-year-old one at that. I may not be able to have another one. If he wanted a son and heir—but I don’t think he does. He’s not in the running for the title. Three years isn’t so much difference, after all— not these days—but I’d be all right, without being married to him. Twenty years ago it was a point of honour for a man to marry the woman who’d got divorced on his account. He’d be a cad and she’d be ruined, cut by everyone, but it’s different now, and I’d be all right, so would Iris—that’s my daughter; my first husband left me quite a bit: of course I’d like to marry Raymond, who wouldn’t? but I’d hate to force him into marriage: to have him feel that he’d been trapped … no, no that would be … oh no, I couldn’t, I’d hate myself for ever …’
She was thinking of Raymond’s interests more than of her own. A man might well think himself lucky to have a wife like that. I was reminded of that talk of mine with Judy all those months ago. I was reminded, too, of my talk only a few weeks back with Myra. Neither of them had been sure, any more than this woman was, how Raymond in his secret heart had felt about her. ‘I’ll tell him right away,’ she said. ‘I won’t lead up to it. I’ll know at once from the expression on his face how much of a shock, what kind of a shock it is. I’ll have my answer.’
The boat was now less than a hundred yards from the jetty. ‘He’ll be able to recognise us in another minute. I’ll be on my way,’ I said. Til leave you to your drama. Good luck.’ I rose but she put out her hand to check me.
‘No. Please stay. I don’t want to face him alone. I want to take him off his guard, but at the same time I want an exit, an escape route. I’ve been thinking it out, all the way down in the train. I know exactly what to say if there’s that look of a snared jackal. I’ll say, “It’s a nuisance, Raymond, but you’re not to worry. The publicity will soon be over. Good to be rid of him, good for Iris. I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged into this, but it won’t be more than a gossip paragraph. There’ll be no damages. No feeling of spite on his part. He’s grateful to you, his rescuer. I’m just off now to Monte Carlo, Iris will be joining me there in July for her holidays. You’ll be hearing from his lawyers, but no need to worry. Just looked in to warn you and to wish you luck.” That’s how it’ll be if I see that startled look.’
‘Even so, I’d better be on my way. You don’t want me here.’
‘That’s precisely what I do want. If you’re not here, and if my news is the shock that I rather anticipate it will be he’ll have recovered himself within thirty seconds, and be saying, “Now this is something we’ve got to discuss, mustn’t rush into anything. What are you drinking, Dubonnet, I need something stronger. Half a second while I get it.” And he’ll have started on a scene that’ll tear my nerves to shreds, but if you’re here, I can make my getaway. It’ll be quite easy. I’ve left my luggage in Nice. I’ll say, “Alec, will you walk me up to the Octroi and see me on a trolley.” I’ll bless you for ever if you will. Well, here they are ’
Keith Winter and Raymond were stepping out onto the quay. Their backs were turned to us. They settled with the boatman, gossiped together for a moment, then Winter sat at one of the tables before the bar while Raymond turned to the short flight of steps that led up to the terrace. It was then he noticed us. He started, obviously astonished, but there was no questioning the delight that flashed across his face. ‘Eileen, but this is wonderful,’ he said.
‘You may not think it’s so wonderful when you learn why I’m here,’ she said. ‘Mark has found out about us. He’s turned me out of his house. He’s starting divorce proceedings.’
She looked at him with a bright carefree smile. She might have been announcing the most casual event. He grinned. No other verb can describe the look of jubilation that crossed his face. ‘What thrilling news. All we’ve got to decide is where to hide our shame until the law courts permit you to make an honest man of me.’
I turned and looked at her. Her face was transfigured, became radiant. I stood up. ‘This is clearly a matter for you to decide between yourselves. I’m late for my swim. I must be hurrying.’
They made no attempt to stop me. When I came down from my room, changed into my trunks, they were still on the terrace. They waved at me. When I returned, their table was empty and the glasses cleared away.
In those days the Welcome Restaurant closed in June and residents took their choice for meals among the many small restaurants that were scattered about the lower town—the Spring Bar, then run by Germaine, who was later to open her highly successful restaurant on the waterfront, or the Kit Gat, or the Cabanon on the harbour—now Jimmie’s— which I usually patronised. I had expected to find them there, but they were not. I washed down my friture du pays and grilled chicken with a half-litre of white Bellet, then returned to my room for a final assault upon my manuscript; most days I left myself an hour’s wr
iting after lunch. Then I took my siesta.
* * *
The waterfront had long since been in shadow,when I strolled along the beach for my final swim. It was half past six before I came down for my evening pastis. By now Raymond and Eileen were back before the bar. They waved me over.
‘We want your advice,’ he said. ‘Where shall we hide our shame ? It’ll take six months at least for our case to reach the courts; then there’s a six-months wait for the decree absolute. We’ll be lucky if we’re married before Christmas 1932. Let’s aim then at staying away—who wants to come back to England in January?—until May 1933; so we’ll be gone for close upon two years. We want a place where we can enjoy ourselves, but where we can take Iris. We don’t want to go where the locals will be censorious. We want some social life, we want a reasonable climate: money’s not a problem, or at least not too much of one, but we can’t afford to move from one fashionable resort to another according to the season. Also we don’t want to move among expatriates. We want to be residents somewhere, temporary residents of course, but we want our acquaintances to be living in the place we settle. That’s a lot to ask, I know. But you’ve travelled a good deal. Where would you suggest ?’
‘That’s quite a question.’
‘No need to hurry. Think it over.’
But I did not need to. I guessed that I had the answer. ‘How do the West Indies strike you?’
‘How’s the climate?’
‘Healthy, no fever now, never cold, never too hot; quite a bit of rain, for more than half the year the rainless day is as rare as the sunless day.’
‘Barbados, Trinidad, Jamaica?’
‘Those are the three big British islands. But I’m not suggesting them. Too big and too expensive. My choice is Dominica.’
‘Dominica ?’
‘Between Martinique and Guadeloupe. The French call our Battle of the Saints, the Battle of Dominica. It ought to be French. It was, more often than not, during the eighteenth century. Its natives talk a patois that sounds like French—the same patois that you hear in Haiti and Martinique. It’s mainly Roman Catholic with Belgian and French priests. That’s one of the things, but only one of the things that make it different. Its beauty, that’s the first thing; it has a beauty of its own special kind, but its beauty is self-destructive. Its mountains give it its beauty, but they bring down the rain. Then there’s the boiling lake. Two thousand feet above sea level: it would be a tourist attraction, if there were any tourists. As it is, the lake creates clouds and that means more rain. The roads get washed away and the crops have to be “headed” to the coast. It’s been unlucky from the start.’