by Simon Raven
He looked along his lawn, and then beyond it to his fields, which were already well forward.
“Not bad for early June,” he said; “and the old men say we’re in for a hot summer.” He gripped his wife’s arm just above the elbow. “I think - don’t you? - that we can afford to be kind about Somerset Lloyd-James.”
And so the days lengthened and drew on towards midsummer; days bringing Fielding Gray to slow fulfilment and Canteloupe’s first caravan camp to punctual completion; bringing Burke Lawrence and Penelope Holbrook to their engagement in Stockholm and Jude Holbrook ever closer to the information which he sought; bringing Somerset Lloyd-James and Peter Morrison nearer to the time when one of them must be chosen; bringing Mark to Isobel but little comfort to Max de Freville; and bringing Tom Llewyllyn back from his wanderings to his affianced wife.
Neither Patricia nor anyone else learnt much of where he had been. Something indeed he told of the men and machines which were making hideous the little spur of the Quantocks; but nothing at all of the middle-aged woman whom he had visited in her cottage by the Severn, a woman whom Tom called ‘mother’ but who would not be in the church to see him wed. For it had always suited Tom to come from nowhere; and of those that would gather to drink at his marriage feast, he and his bride alone would bear his name.
7
MIDSUMMER WEDDING
_____________________________________
“GROOM, DEAR,” said Jonathan Gamp, winking saucily at the usher, and trolled himself up the aisle to find a place next to Somerset Lloyd-James. From the bride’s side a block of county faces regarded him incuriously; they had been warned what to expect. In the front row, Canteloupe fidgeted thirstily while his lady and the dowager eyed him with contempt. Carton Weir, who had not been invited but had come, on Somerset’s suggestion, in the capacity of Canteloupe’s aide, passed his master a copy of the order of service in the hope of keeping him amused. Just like a bloody great Christmas card, Canteloupe thought, only no pictures, worse luck. What was this on the front?
With that I saw two Swans of goodly hue
Come softly swimming down along the Lee;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see:
The Snow which doth the top of Pindus strew
Did never whiter show. . . .
Great God, Canteloupe thought, so that old fraud Edwin Turbot’s taken to writing poetry.
“Overdoing it rather,” said Jonathan to Somerset. “Two geese if ever there were. But I must say, Tom looks rather sweet.”
Tom, hair disciplined, shoes gleaming, his hired morning coat only a size or so too large, looked unprecedentedly respectable as he waited for his bride. The audience on the groom’s side averred to one another that this must be the work of Gregory Stern, who stood beside him conducting a furious last minute test of his waistcoat buttons.
“He looks all right to me,” said Rupert Percival to Alastair Dixon: “why was Turbot so put out about it?”
“No one knows who he is. He just turned up at the ’Varsity one Michaelmas with a scholarship and went on from there.”
“I should have thought it was perfectly clear who he is. A writer with three rather distinguished books to his credit and a prominent by-line as a political journalist.”
“No one knows who he was, then.”
“Does that matter these days?”
“His . . . er . . . morals” Dixon deposed with vague deprecation.
“Is that anything new?”
“It’s all right if you know about people. But if you don’t you have to be careful.”
So purely white they were (read Helen Morrison)
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seem’d foul to them . . .
A man with a badly disfigured face and only one good eye sat down next to her. Poor thing, Helen thought, as her husband leaned across her.
“Fielding,” he said softly.
The disfigured face tormented itself into what was presumably a smile.
“Peter. Peter Morrison.”
“You’ve never met my wife? Darling, you’ve heard me talk of Fielding Gray.”
The one eye looked at her suspiciously. The head inclined in formal salute.
“Mrs. Morrison.”
“I’ve heard .... That is, Peter has .... Please call me Helen.”
“When I know you better.”
Blinking slightly, Helen read on while the two men whispered across her.
. . . Seem’d foul to them, and bade his billows spare
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair
And mar their beauties bright . . . .
Stone the crows, thought little Alfie Schroeder of the Billingsgate Press, waddling in the wake of a phalanx of Parliamentarians, Tom’s really hit the jackpot with this crowd.
‘Press?” said an usher, looking at Alfie’s shining Sunday suit.
“No,” said Alfie with spirit. “For the bridegroom.”
For Tom Llewyllyn had not forgotten his old companion.
“Pardon me,” said Alfie, as he trod first on Captain Detterling’s beautifully polished Mess Wellingtons and then on Mrs. Donald Salinger’s pointed patents.
“My bloody bunions,” Mrs. Salinger said.
“Funny friends Tom has,” said Salinger to Detterling.
“The lot on the other side look just as odd to me. Look at old mother Canteloupe.”
And indeed, while Carton Weir squirmed, Lord Canteloupe scowled, and Lady Canteloupe looked faintly unhappy, the dowager was munching with gusto an egg sandwich which she had brought along in her handbag. What her party didn’t know was that she also had several slices of garlic sausage stored up against the sermon.
“Already five minutes late,” said Percival to Dixon.
“I hope nothing goes wrong for him now,” Alfie Schroeder prayed.
“There’s something so naive about country churches,” remarked Jonathan Gamp.
“I had to get special dispensation from His Eminence,” Somerset Lloyd-James replied.
“Seven minutes late,” the county faces murmured without anxiety.
“Stern’s looking a bit fussed.” said Captain Detterling.
“They say his father’s still orthodox,” mused Mrs. Salinger.
“No, his grandfather,” corrected her husband.
“They always said Turbot didn’t like it,” mumbled the Parliamentarians. “Do you suppose . . . .?”
“Please, madam,” Carton Weir entreated the dowager; “they should be here at any moment.”
“It’s no good,” said Canteloupe. “Much better ignore her.”
The Dowager Marchioness dropped a bit of egg on the seat and bent happily to pick it up again.
“I’ll tell you what little I know after the service,” Fielding was whispering to Peter across Helen Morrison: “but it’s not much. As far as I’m concerned, Somerset’s only my editor these days.”
And mar their beauties bright, (read Helen Morrison on the third time through)
That shone as Heaven’s light,
Against their Bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
And now at last, with a peal of triumph from the organ, came Patricia Turbot on her father’s arm, confounding the malicious, making glad the heart of every female, stepping strong as a sentry on his beat. A kilted page, fussed over by the radiant Isobel, bore the train, and six more bridesmaids, in swanky short green dresses, pressed on behind, urging the virgin sacrifice to Hymen’s altar. Tom’s face lit up like a winter’s sun breaking through mist and he held out both his hands to greet her.
“Mistress Isobel looks very pleased with herself,” mused Somerset.
Gregory Stern bowed a tall and noble bow. Sir Edwin drew back.
“Here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation. . . .”
Helen Morrison grasped Peter’s hand.
“There’s something definitely queer about Isobel’s demeanour.”
A strapping wench, thought Alfie; I hope he can manage her.
“. . . Such persons as have not the gift of continency . . .”
“I'm sure I heard it was his father who’s Orthodox.”
“Nonsense, Vanessa. His father served in the Brigade.”
“Let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”
Peter Morrison disengaged his hand from Helen’s; she always got so sticky at weddings. I don’t suppose Fielding can help about Somerset, he thought, so I’ll have a word with the old crook myself. Odd about Fielding. He’s a wreck, yet there’s a ... a serenity there which I don’t remember - even if he was a bit sharp just now with Helen. Guiltily, reluctantly, he repossessed himself of his wife’s sweaty palm. The big ones always have a lot of juices, he thought; that great hoyden of Tom’s will be just as bad.
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?”
“I will,” Tom said in tones which rang round the church.
Edwin Turbot looks rather down, thought Somerset: perhaps he’s not finding my little affair too easy. Later on I’ll have a word with him. What to do about Peter? Just be polite - he’s not one to bear a grudge.
“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer . . . .”
I wonder about this Morrison woman, Fielding thought; capable, I dare say. I wish I hadn’t come; I wish I’d stayed in London and got on with my book. My book.
“. . . in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish . . . .”
God, make them be happy, Alfie Schroeder thought.
God, make me be happy, Isobel Turbot thought.
Something . . . queer . . . about Isobel today.
God, I could use a drink, Lord Canteloupe thought.
God, this revolting hag and her sandwiches, Carton Weir thought; and tomorrow we’ve got to inspect that bloody caravan park.
Oh God, I don’t know, Captain Detterling thought; it was never for me, all this cherishing and so on. Though there’s a nice bit in Homer which the old man used to read us at school. About a man and his wife, a great joy to their friends and a grief to their enemies. But the old man was a bachelor himself.
“... till death do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
And now what had at first been a mild snivelling, then a repressed sobbing, then a barely controlled bodily heaving, became an open and impassioned bawling, full-throated and lusty, the tribute of a tried but generous heart. It was Tessie Buttock weeping, part in happiness and part in sorrow, for her lost favourite, naughty Tom.
For as long as possible, Sir Edwin Turbot had postponed considering what attitude he should adopt to Tom once he was fairly married to Patricia. Until just before the wedding he had coped with his aversion by regarding Tom as a talented nuisance, as an irritating employee who must be tolerated for his undoubted ability. Plainly this view of the matter would serve no longer. The wretched fellow was now his son-in-law and must be admitted to full family privilege: the question was, how should this be done without imposing too much of a strain on Sir Edwin’s amour propre.
But now, as Sir Edwin surveyed the long queue which was waiting to pay compliments to the newly married couple, and as he reflected that neither here nor anywhere else in the house was a single relative of Tom’s to be found, the answer came to him. Tom, so to speak, was the scholarship boy with no background; while he, Sir Edwin, was the traditional but far-seeing headmaster, making concessions to a new age. Tom would be accepted forthwith as absolutely “one of us”, indeed as one likely to do “us” great credit in the long run, but also as one who had not had quite our advantages: a fact which we would never mention but would always keep at the back of our minds, to excuse ourselves (and Tom) in case he should make some fatal blunder - which would otherwise have disgraced us wholly but could now be promptly attributed to an upbringing deficient because unknown. Patronage, that was the word, Sir Edwin thought: he was the eternal patrician braving and taming the eternal parvenu, he was the enlightened head of house welcoming the young F. E. Smith to Oxford, or even the King of France summoning Cellini to his court. Sir Edwin glowed with pleasure at his new imago. A pity, of course, that Patty hadn’t let him enquire more closely into the young chap’s past, but it was all settled now, with a good get-out clause in case of nasty accidents, so noblesse oblige and he’d better go round encouraging people to make free with these beastly refreshments, which looked as if they’d been specially dyed for the occasion.
“My dear old boy,” he said, punching Tom in the back as he passed behind him and Patricia. Make the chap feel at home, eh - how was that for a start?
But Tom, who was facing an even more brutal attack from the front, hardly noticed.
“Oh, Tom,” Tessie was saying; “and is this your lovely bride? Oh Gawd, I feel quite faint.”
She kissed Patricia greedily but not without all restraint; Tom she might have swallowed whole, had not Fielding Gray prodded her from behind to indicate that it was time to desist.
“There’s rather a long queue,” he said.
So Tessie unclamped herself and waddled off, and Fielding took her place.
“Major Gray, darling,” said Tom before he could stop himself. Somehow the formality seemed appropriate today.
“Your servant, madam,” Fielding said, with about eighty per cent irony. He bent to kiss her hand and was gone. Next came Peter and Helen Morrison. While the two women eyed each other warily, Tom whispered to Peter,
“Have a word with old Edwin. I’ve done what I could.”
“So I heard, and thank you.”
“But,” said Tom, “he’s been very shifty these past few days. I don’t know anything for certain, but there’s beginning to be a familiar smell in the air. Half sulphur and half stale sweat, if you see what I mean.”
“A smell one associates with an office in Gower Street?”
Tom nodded and then inclined himself towards Helen, remembering their last meeting three years before.
“I’m sober today,” he said. “Kiss and be friends?”
“Kiss and be friends.”
“What - ?” began Patricia sharply as the Morrisons moved off.
“ - A squalid lapse,” said Tom airily, and deliberately left her guessing. “Ah, here comes Somerset,” he said.
Further down the queue, back in the ante-room, Jonathan Gamp complained,
“I don’t believe there’s an ash-tray in the entire house.” He held up quarter of an inch of cigarette between two finger nails. “It must be a special torture which that prim Patricia’s thought up.”
“Throw it into the fire-place,” said Captain Detterling, and turned away crossly because he hated social ineptness: in Detterling’s view, if there were no ash-trays provided in a room one refrained from smoking there.
So Jonathan threw his butt towards the fire-place and didn’t bother to see where it landed, which was a good two yards short and on a thick carpet. This was noticed by Carton Weir, who thought it would be amusing to say nothing and see what happened. Carton Weir liked to complicate situations because he was quick-witted and could appear to advantage.
They filed on into the next room.
“Darling,” said Jonathan to Tom several times, while the county faces pretended not to notice.
Meanwhile Somerset, having said something polite to Alastair Dixon and having received a cool but courteous nod from Rupert Percival, passed through the crowd to Sir Edwin, who was wondering where Isobel had got to and, still delighted with his new role as aristocratic patron, was drinking quite a lot of champagne, despite its palpable acidity.
“Ah,” he said to Somerset, “I suppose you’d better h
ave some champagne.”
Somerset sipped and winced.
“I don’t wish to appear importunate,” he said, “but how are things going?”
“Things?” said Sir Edwin, knowing what he meant.
“Bishop’s Cross.”
“Mills of God, dear boy. I’ve got Percival here to fix up a proper discussion.”
Somerset looked dissatisfied.
“More urgency - ,” he began.
The Minister waved him down like a policeman.
“It’s like stalking deer,” he said. He took a large gulp of champagne and decided to expand the simile. “You’ve got to get downwind of them. And even then, the slightest noise and they’re off. If Percival suspects . . . You’ll excuse me.” His glass was empty and he wanted more. “Other guests . . .”
“Please don’t forget what’s at stake,” said Somerset, smiling urbanely to reassure a covey of M.P.s who were scratching their way towards his host.
“My dear fellow, I'm a professional.”
Cut off from the bar, Sir Edwin marched up to the covey of M.P.s with the determination of a beater and sent them fluttering in all directions. Politeness could wait; he wanted more champagne. “Oh Patricia,” he thought, “all these years I've guarded and loved you like a mother, how could you?” But this would never do. All that, he reminded himself, had been settled once and for all: he wasn’t losing a daughter, he was gaining a scholarship boy. A protege. Humpff. Playful stuff, this champagne. He reached the bar and poured himself a tumbler of it. “Oh Patricia - ” No.
“Sir Edwin?”
Young Morrison. What did he want?
“This is my wife, Helen. You never met . . .”
“How de do?”
Strong, reliable sort. But you never could tell. He would have sworn before God and man that his own Diana ... And then, as soon as Isobel had been born . . . Rumpff.
“So sorry,” he said to the surprised Helen. “Trying sort of occasion, you know. No, we never met. And it must be nearly three years,” he said to Peter, “since I've seen you.”