The Fatal Gift

by Alec Waugh

  ‘That omelette will ruin a first-class wine.’

  ‘Then let’s have a third-rate one.’

  ‘A carafe of rosé?’

  ‘Fine by me. If Bennett was such a gourmet, why did he have named after him a dish that didn’t go with wine?’

  ‘I’m not sure how interested he was in wine. He had a very weak digestion. He had to be careful what he drank.’

  ‘Did he come here often?’

  ‘It’s a writer’s place and it’s a stage folk’s place. Bennett was both. Did you read Imperial Palace? It’s all about the Savoy.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Are there many of those people here today?’

  I looked about me. In those days the Savoy Grill—for that matter it still is—was part of your public relations side if you were in the entertainment game. You went there to see and to be seen. You were careful what you wore. You needed to look prosperous. You were also a little careful as to whom you were seen with. Gossip columnists found it a good source of copy. Hannen Swaffer, London’s Walter Winchell, in particular. He was not there that day, but Donegal was, and there were several notables to pad out his column. As I looked round me, I was nodded at from several tables.

  ‘You seem to know a lot of people here,’ she said.

  ‘I should do. It’s my world.’

  ‘And it could be Raymond’s.’

  ‘Could it? I’m not so sure. Raymond’s not in this racket.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I tried to explain. ‘Raymond hasn’t got a job. He hasn’t got a career.’

  ‘What a wonderful time we could have here if he had. Don’t you think that a woman has a right to expect a husband who does something?’

  I smiled at that. ‘When she has, she usually complains that he puts that something before her.’

  ‘Does he?’ She looked thoughtful. Then she shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t grumble. I should count my blessings. Do you remember my saying to you in Villefranche that I wouldn’t be committing suicide if Raymond started to make difficulties? I wasn’t a forlorn love-sick damsel. I had my own reserves. I could make a life for myself if I had to. I had my pension and what I had been left. I was all right: I’m still all right. That was only four years ago. I’m still pretty well the way I was.’ Her voice was firm. She was not making a threat. But she was establishing her independence. Was Raymond aware of this hard streak in her? If he was aware, would he let it worry him? One of his most marked characteristics was his refusal to let other people worry him. I felt to my surprise a sudden feeling of compunction for my godson. Eileen and Raymond might take the break-up of a marriage in their stride. But what about Timothy Alexander ? If anything went wrong, I must be prepared to pull my weight.

  9

  Early in June, Raymond cabled me from New York: ‘Most important you attend Dominican publicity party evening July 23 international sports club.’ I rang up Eileen. ‘What on earth is all this about?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are; or at least almost. He’s got some colour films that he wants to show to what he describes as interested people.’

  ‘And who may they be?’

  ‘I’ve no idea: he’s sending me a list. About sixty of them, so he says. I’m to send out the invitations. They have to be engraved.’

  I received mine two weeks later. It informed me that the Honorable Mrs Raymond Peronne would be at home at the International Sportsmen’s Club in the Stafford Suite on Tuesday July 2nd at 6 p.m. for 6.30 to see a collection of colour films about Dominica. At 8 p.m. there would be a buffet supper.

  Raymond himself arrived back in England ten days before. He rang me up at once. ‘You’re coming to my binge?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Any chance of our meeting before then ?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘What about lunch at White’s on Monday?’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’

  ‘Just before one?’

  ‘I won’t be late.’

  He had a half bottle of vintage champagne waiting for me in the bar.

  ‘What a relief to get back to decent wine,’ he said. He was looking very well. He was suntanned but he had not put on weight. He was now thirty-two, with his good looks at their peak. He had the same elegance, the same distinctive profile.

  ‘Now tell me,’ I asked, ‘what is all this in aid of?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  He explained what he proposed to do. ‘Half an hour of drinking for those who arrive on time. Then we’ll go into a small lecture room. You can take your drinks in with you. But there’ll be no recharging of glasses—no waiters to interrupt the show. I’ll give a brief opening, less than ten minutes, a kind of biography of Dominica, then I’ll turn on the film. Not a talking one, that would have been too much trouble; no need either. Let the place speak for itself: though I’ll interject some remarks here and there. It should last about half an hour: then back to the bar, and after half an hour of that, there’ll be a buffet: substantial but not elaborate. It’ll be a meal. But I don’t want any hanging around afterwards. Waiters will start clearing away at nine. They’ll open a window at quarter past. That’ll empty the room all right. Then we’ll go back to Derrick Whistler’s set in Albany, for a last drink and to talk it over. You know him, don’t you?’

  ‘Met him but don’t know him.’

  ‘Then that’s all settled. Let’s go up and eat.’

  It might all be settled, but it was still far from clear to me why any of it had needed settling, and what exactly it was that had been settled. ‘I still don’t see what it’s all in aid of,’ I repeated as soon as we had ordered lunch. He appeared surprised.

  ‘I thought it would have been obvious.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘No ? But it’s the simplest thing. Dominica needs publicity.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Every place needs publicity; everything needs publicity. Surely you as an author can see that.’

  ‘Yes, when there’s anything to sell. Is there in Dominica?’

  ‘Of course there is, there’s …’ He paused. I do not believe that until that moment it had ever occurred to him that Dominica, a place he loved, would not benefit from publicity.

  ‘Are you trying to attract the tourist trade?’ I asked. ‘Do you think that Dominica has much to offer to the tourist?’

  ‘Only to the exceptional tourist.’

  ‘Do you think publicity will attract capital? Are you hoping that some speculator will buy up property and develop it? Are you planning to turn your own estate into a public company?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing like that.’ Indeed, the moment I had set the question I had realised it was a stupid one. Raymond was not that kind of person. He was the last person to wonder what he could get out of Dominica for himself.

  ‘That’s not the tack I’m on at all,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of the island itself, and of the Dominicans. They’ve got despondent about themselves. Too many things have gone wrong for them. They have begun to lose interest in themselves. They need to be bucked up, they need to have someone take an interest in them: someone who can help them to take an interest in themselves, so that they can do something for themselves, pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. This party next week may help. It’ll be reported in the press. I’ve seen to that; I’ve got a couple of fellows from the Colonial Office. They’ll talk; when Roseau hears about it, it should make a difference. And that’s why I was so anxious to have you there. You’ll be able to bring first-hand evidence. Move about as much as you can. Talk to all the people that you can. I’d first thought of asking you to compère the show. You’d have done it very well, better than I shall, I’m sure, but I decided that you’d be far more effective as an independent member of the audience. You’ll get there early, won’t you?’

  I did by six o’clock, the first to be there in fact. I watched the guests arrive. Unaware of the nature of entertainment they were to be offered,
but suspecting that no drinks would be served after the half-hour, nearly everyone was there by quarter past. There were about fifty of them, with males predominating. Donegal was there, and Tom Driberg, who was then William Hickey on the Express. I knew about a quarter of them. Iris to my surprise was there. ‘Do you want to remind her of Dominica?’ I asked Eileen.

  ‘It’s an experiment. I want to see how she reacts.’

  At half past six a gong was beaten. A loud official voice invited us to move into the studio. Raymond stood upon a low dais beside the screen.

  ‘I’m inviting you,’ he said, ‘to see some colour films that I have taken of Dominica, the West Indian island where I have made—I will not say my home, but a home. Though one of the largest it is the least known of the islands—yet in its own way it is the loveliest. I shall be surprised if its beauty does not impress you. During the showing of the film, I shall interpolate occasional comments, and when it is all over I will be happy to try to answer any questions. I hope that you will be interested in what I have to show. I went there by chance, expecting to stay six months—well, that’s four years ago.’

  He stepped down from the dais, the lights went off, and there on the screen were the towering peaks of Dominica, a merging of green into green, with here and there the dark background stabbed by the pink of the Poi tree and the brilliant yellow of the Cassia. There came from the audience a gasp of astonished admiration, then a burst of clapping, with as it subsided, Raymond’s voice laughingly interjecting, ‘Thank you. I’m glad. I warned you, didn’t I ?’

  The landscape had been admirably photographed. I had not expected such professional competence. ‘He really could have done anything,’ I thought, and the editing of the shots was skilful. There was variety of subject and of perspective; there were village as well as rural scenes: many of the sequences were shot in shadow: there were vistas of rainswept countryside. The local industries were exhibited and explained. Five minutes were devoted to the Carib settlement, and Raymond’s occasional commentaries were effective: they were light in tone, informal but informative. It was clear that he knew a great deal about his subject. It was also clear that he was under the spell of a considerable emotional commitment, yet at the same time I found it increasingly difficult to keep my attention on the screen. ‘If this was after lunch,’ I thought, ‘I’d be asleep by now.’ I remembered how in Hot Countries I had compared the landscape to a reading of Endymion, lush and featureless. None of it seemed to be leading anywhere. It was a relief when the light flashed on and Raymond was announcing that that was all, that the bar was open and that a buffet would be ready in half an hour.

  It was all admirably stage-managed. There were a number of small tables, seating four to six: there were enough chairs for everyone. Yet there were no seating arrangements: guests could sit where they wanted, or stand if they preferred—which a great many did. A long table was laid with a succession of cold dishes, meat and fish: there were two chafing dishes, containing, the one a rice goulash, the other a chicken stew; there were cakes, fruit salads, cheeses; at each end there were two barmen, the one serving champagne, the other whisky sodas. Low music had been switched on so that guests had slightly to raise their voices. In a very few moments the party had become noisy. I looked for Iris. I wished that she had been near enough for me to watch her face during the film. The dusk had not been so complete that I could not have read her expression. How had she reacted to the shots of the carnival? I made my way to her. ‘Did it make you feel homesick at all?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘It was a lovely place, but I’m having so much more fun here than I could there,’ which was as satisfactory an answer as any parent could ask to have.

  ‘I’m glad you got your school certificate,’ I said. ‘When will you be going up?’

  ‘September 1938 if all goes well—though I may have a year in Switzerland or Paris first.’

  ‘And your coming-out dance ?’

  ‘I’d rather put that off until I’m through with Oxford.’

  ‘Isn’t that leaving it a little late?’

  She laughed. ‘There are so many amusing things ahead of me, that I can’t realise that some have to make way for others. It’ll be fun anyhow.’

  She was already on the threshold of womanhood. Her face was radiant with expectancy. At this moment, I thought, there is possibly within twenty miles of us some young man bewailing the futility of his existence, who has the supreme enchantment of a lifetime on its way to meet him.

  I looked for Eileen. I had barely done more than say ‘hullo’ to her when I arrived. It was a couple of weeks since I had seen her. She had looked tired then, and fussed as though she had too many small things on her mind. Today she was lively, cheerful, glowing. What a difference Raymond’s return had made to her. He would be flattered if he could have known how she had looked without him. What a truism it is that we have no idea what our friends and families are like when we are not with them. Oh, for Gyges’ ring! Oh, to be invisible!

  ‘It’s a lovely party. How well you do this kind of thing,’ I said.

  ‘I’d be a fool, wouldn’t I, if I couldn’t do it? It’s only a question of giving an order, of writing out a list.’

  ‘Some people manage to make a mess of that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t enjoy giving parties. I do. I always wish I could be a guest at one of my own parties.’

  ‘It’s because you don’t let yourself be a guest that your parties are so good.’

  ‘Is it? Perhaps it is.’ She looked slowly round her. ‘Yes, they do seem to be enjoying themselves. By the way, have you had a talk with Terence Gilray?’

  Gilray was one of the two men from the Colonial Office.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then let me take you across. Raymond was particularly anxious to have you talk to him.’

  She was fulfilling her rôle punctiliously. And I had an interesting talk with Gilray. I asked him if he had ever been to the West Indies. He shook his head. He had not been there. He had not been anywhere in fact. ‘That’s what makes our job so difficult,’ he said. ‘We administer these places without realising what they are like. I’ve got files and files on Dominica. I went over them this morning. I’ve got all the statistics about limes and coffee, but I couldn’t visualise the place. We’ve got photographs, of course, and reports from Governors. That isn’t the same thing.’

  ‘In ten years’ time,’ I said, ‘there’ll be a regular airline service. In two weeks you’ll be able to make a complete tour of all the islands.’

  ‘That’ll make a difference.’

  He asked me one or two questions about Dominica. He had read Froude; ‘It impressed him more than any of the other islands.’

  ‘It has that effect on some people.’

  ‘Are you planning to go back?’ he asked me.

  ‘The moment I get a chance.’

  ‘When you do I’d be grateful if you’d look in and see me when you get back. A first-hand independent report is worth a hundred communiqués.’

  I told Raymond what he had said to me. ‘That’s fine, very fine, exactly what I wanted. Gilray will be at the top in a few years’ time. When some report comes in, he’ll remember this party and what you said. It may just turn the scale one way or another. That’s what this party is in aid of. I knew that you’d understand as soon as it was launched. Those last drinks at Whistler’s should put the seal on it.’

  Derrick Whistler’s set was on the west side of Albany, half way down the rope walk. Whistler was in his late thirties. He was what was known in Edwardian days as a man about town. He was of medium height, heavily built; he had dark, short cut hair, he was clean shaven; he was likely to grow fat in his forties. He was a Marlburian. In London he wore dark suits and coloured shirts with stiff white turn-over collars. He was not bad looking; he took obvious pains over his clothes, but he was someone whom you might easily mistake for someone else. Professionally he was ‘someone in the city�
��. Whatever he did there, he must do it profitably to himself. His sitting room was comfortable, deep armchairs and a many-cushioned Chesterfield, designed, one suspected, for a girl to curl up on. There were heavy damask curtains, there was a bookcase but no bookshelves. One corner was arranged as a bar, with three stools in front of it; nine of us had come back here, and with the help of three Moroccan hassocks everyone could be at ease. There was a club-style padded fender before the fireplace on which Whistler himself sat, as soon as he had seen that each of us had a drink. It gave him the position of a chairman. That was a fine party,’ he said. ‘I hope, Raymond, that you and Eileen enjoyed it as much as we did.’

  ‘I don’t know about Eileen, but I had a good time all right.’

  ‘It was fine for me; I love being a hostess when I have no responsibilities.’

  ‘And did it have the effect you meant it to?’

  ‘I believe it did, yes, in the long run, yes.’

  ‘And what was it that you wanted it to do?’

  It was the opening for the same kind of explanation that he had given me in White’s.

  Knowing exactly what he had to say, I lolled back in my chair, sipping at my port, letting my thoughts wander. To Eileen, too, all this was familiar. She was seated in the Chesterfield, on the other side of the fireplace, lolling back, her eyes half closed. She seemed utterly at peace, relaxed in the relief and relaxation that follows for a hostess the end of a successful party. She was smiling at her own thoughts, or so I guessed.

  ‘And when are you planning to go back there?’ Whistler asked.

  ‘In a month or so.’

  ‘And are you taking Iris with you?’

  Eileen stirred out of her daze. ‘Heavens no, Iris is going to be a good daughter here.’

  ‘So you’re not going out either?’