by Alec Waugh
Only some twenty passengers were disembarking. No special train was being run for them. He got through the customs quickly.
“When does the first train leave for London?” he asked the porter.
“There’s one at 11:15. You could catch that, sir, if you hurried.”
“Let’s hurry, then.”
As they passed through the station yard, however, a uniformed chauffeur came across to them. “Would you be Mr. Oliver, sir? Oh, good, sir. I was afraid that I might have missed you. I had a breakdown on the way. Her Ladyship’s sent the car to meet you.”
“What Ladyship? What car?”
“Lady Marriott, sir. You’re coming to Charlton, aren’t you?”
Francis stared at him. It was the last thing he had expected. “Didn’t Her Ladyship send me any message?”
“No, sir. Just gave me a description so that I could spot you. That’s the car there, porter, the dark blue Daimler.”
The porter started to wheel his barrow across the yard. But Francis stopped him. “No. Steady. Wait a moment.”
The porter checked.
“Do you want something different done with your luggage, sir? Do you want some of it sent through to London?”
Francis hesitated. He had been taken off his guard. He had fancied himself to be prepared for every eventuality. But he had not banked on this. To be met by a chauffeur, in a car; for Judy not to have come herself, to have sent no message, either to the ship or by the chauffeur. Hadn’t she got his letter? Was something wrong?
“Is Her Ladyship all right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, perfectly, sir. And about these trunks?”
But still he hesitated. I oughtn’t to go, he thought. I ought to make some excuse. Go through to London. Write to her from the Savoy. Insist that she joins me there. Yes, but suppose that she had never got his letter. Mightn’t he by not going through to Charlton now, put her in a false position, wake a suspicion in Sir Henry’s mind, ruining possibly her whole life for her? If on the other hand she had had his letter and yet had sent the car, there must be some special reason for it that he could not guess at. Had he any right, now that she had sent the car, not to go by it? Was he not, to that extent, under an obligation to her?
“O.K.,” he said, “put all the luggage on. How far is it to Charlton?”
“An hour’s drive, sir. But we’re picking Sir Henry up at Basingstoke. He had to spend last night in London.”
It was a chill, bleak day. There was not a break in the clouds and rain was spattering against the windshield. They drove down a road lined with small two-storied, semi-detached villas. Each pair of houses was identical. Even the gardens behind their low privet hedges were set out in the same way, a lawn with flower beds on either side, and in most of the lawns, a circular central bed of rosebushes.
“How far is it to Basingstoke?” he asked.
“Three-quarters of an hour, sir.”
He sat back in the car. He felt lost, unsure of himself, ill at ease. He had been taken off his guard. He had had to take a snap decision. Had he taken a wrong decision? He did not know. There was no means of knowing. He had not the information on which he could have based a correct decision. He had sworn not to go to Charlton. And here he was on his way to Charlton. He had sworn never to be Sir Henry’s guest: and here he was going to meet Sir Henry, to see him before he had a talk with Judy, before he had had a word from Judy.
They reached the station a quarter of an hour early.
“I’ll go inside,” he said. “I’d like to see what an English station’s like.”
The platform was exposed and draughty. There was a bookstall and he bought The Times. It was the first time that he had seen an English newspaper. Its front page, to his surprise, was covered with small advertisements. He opened it to find the news but there were no main headlines. As he turned the sheets, the wind blew among them so that he could not fold them back. He looked for shelter. There was a room marked “Waiting Room,” and another marked “Refreshments.” I could do with a drink, he thought.
He had read a number of poems by Chesterton in praise of beer.
“A glass of ale,” he said.
A thin, tall barmaid, with a spotted chin, looked at him superciliously. “Will you have mild or bitter, sir?”
“Whichever’s best.”
“They are both good. It’s according to taste. I’ll give you bitter.”
It was a warm and sour drink and he could not finish it.
“I’ll have a Scotch,” he said.
“A what?”
“Scotch … John Haig, Black and White, Johnny Walker.”
“Oh, you mean whiskey.”
She fidgeted with a gadget attached to a bottle that was clamped upside down behind the bar and a measure of yellow liquid trickled into the bottom of a tumbler.
“With a splash?” she asked.
“With a what?”
“Would you like some soda with your whiskey?”
There was in her voice a note of the most complete contempt.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll take it straight.”
He shot it back in a single gulp. It was smooth and rich and very different from what bootleggers in New York called Scotch. He could have done with another but at that moment the train came in.
From a first-class carriage stepped a tall sparse figure in a dark tight-fitting coat, wearing a bowler hat and carrying a dispatch case. It was so formal and dignified a figure that for a moment, he did not recognize it as Sir Henry’s. There was a strained expression on his face that had never been there during the carefree holiday in Mougins. He brightened at the sight of Francis. “Welcome to England, my dear fellow. Have you had a good trip? Have you brought over many pictures? Ten? That’s splendid. I hope you’re going to make a real long stay with us. Judy’s so looking forward to your visit. I’m afraid she gets very lonely sometimes. I have to go up to London every day. She’s been talking about nothing except your visit for the last three months.”
He could not have been more affable, but it was, Francis felt, a set performance, like the turning on of a gramophone record. Under the affability was a tired, preoccupied man with a good deal upon his mind.
“I’m afraid you have arrived here for a bad spell of weather,” he went on. “We had a marvelous early March. Ten days of solid sunshine. We are paying for it now. The farmers are in tears. Everything has come out too soon, they say. But then they are always in tears. Nothing is right for them. I only hope that you will be able to stay long enough to see our country as it should be seen. What a day, I ask you.”
The rain was falling now more heavily, splashing onto the windows, blurring the view, so that Francis could only catch momentary glimpses of the countryside through an occasional gate or gap. It all looked very wet and green. Nobody seemed to be doing much. The villages through which they drove were devoid of life. There would be an inn, standing back from the road, a large sign swinging on a post in front of it. A couple of small cars would be parked outside. There would be a row of cottages, onto one of which would have been built the bow of a shop-window. There would be the stone obelisk of a war memorial. There would be the glimpse through trees of a square-towered church. Occasionally on a hill across a valley, the red brick and rectangular lines of a Georgian frontage would stand out with picture postcard effect against a background of oaks and elms. Here and there sheep were grazing, and cows standing motionless in the rain. For the most part the fields were empty.
They turned out of the main road. For a few minutes they drove through narrow high-hedged lanes then suddenly the car swung into the open, onto a large gorse-covered common backed with pine trees.
“This is it.”
High wrought-iron gates, massive and ornate, opened onto a broad gravel drive, lined with chestnut trees. There was a small lodge beside the gates.
“Those gates are pretty fine,” said Francis.
“I’m glad you like them. They are Florentine,
seventeenth century. I found them a few years ago in Pisa.”
In the grass, between the trees, here and there a clump of late daffodils was still in flower. A lawn sloped gently towards a pond on which a swan was floating. There was a glimpse between trees of a high red-brown garden wall. A paddock upon which sheep were grazing, stretched into a vague blurred distance.
The drive curved, and at the end of it was a wide white house with an elaborate portico. Francis braced his knees. He was tense, cautious, on his guard, as they got out. Sir Henry held out his hand, for the second time. “Welcome,” he said, “to Charlton.”
Judy had called the house less their own than the Mougins villa. Francis could see immediately what she had meant. The hall was stone-flagged and broad, rising to a high ceiling on the first-floor level: a gallery ran along it, off which doors, presumably of bedrooms, opened. From both sides of the gallery, a staircase curved into the hall. Under the gallery a passage ran from left to right. The bannisters of the gallery were decorated with African shields and assegais. On either side of a large open fireplace that had not been lit, stood suits of armor. Above a small door on the right was a large oil painting of a battlefield. There were a few pieces of solid furniture. A long brass-bound chest onto which had been tossed some coats, a heavy mahogany table with a silver bowl for calling cards, a leather-bound guest book, and a letter box; there were four high-backed wooden chairs.
“I suggest that as we live here, we should leave our coats in the cloak room, and I expect you’d like a wash,” Sir Henry said.
He led him through the small door on the right into a stone-flagged passage. There was a barrack-like atmosphere about the lavatories. It was very cold. There were a couple of gratings in the center of the floor. Sir Henry bent down, opening out the palms of his hands above them, then shook his head.
“A little warmth. Only a very little. I’m sure the Romans were better with their hot air systems than we ever are with ours. I can’t tell you how much I spent on installing central heat. But the English simply will not take to it. It’s like tea in France, there’s a national prejudice against doing the thing well. The English have an idea that it’s unhealthy to have warm bedrooms. I do hope, my dear fellow, that you won’t be too uncomfortable.”
He spoke on a note of apology, appropriate to a host conscious of the inadequacies of the entertainment that he was proffering, yet there was a purr to his voice as though he were actually extremely proud of his compatriots’ eccentricities.
“I’m afraid that you’ll take some time to learn your way about this house,” he said, as they walked back into the hall. “It was a straightforward enough house when it was first built in the good days of good Queen Anne, but I’m afraid my mother’s ancestors did some very tricky things here in the less good days of the first gentleman.”
“Your mother’s ancestors? “
Sir Henry nodded. “My father had the good sense and the good fortune to marry an heiress, who was an only daughter. I hope as a painter, you will remember that. The Marriotts are of simple origin but I should be sorry to have you think that any of my forebears perpetrated some of the monstrosities that will be inflicted on you.”
They had turned into the long dark passage that ran under the gallery. From behind one of its doors came a burst of laughter.
“It sounds as though you had quite a party.”
Sir Henry shrugged. “My younger daughter’s here. There’s a young married couple, friends of my elder daughter. There’ll probably be a neighbor or two to lunch. It’s Friday, the start of the weekend. You know what the midget is. She’s never happy without a crowd about her.”
As they came into the room, Judy was in the middle of a story. She broke it off, jumping excitedly to her feet.
“Why Henry, I never heard the car drive up.”
“How could you, you were making such a noise.”
“And I had planned to be waiting on the doorstep to say ‘Welcome to your first English home.’ “
It was into a large high bright room that he had been shown. In the far end of it a bow window opened onto an enclosed Dutch garden. Deep red velvet curtains held back by gold bands fell on either side of it and down its center. A cushioned window seat curved inside it, but the party was gathered well away round an elaborate marble fireplace in which a large log fire was blazing. They were all warmly dressed.
There were five other people beside Judy in the room. Three women and two men. The women were wearing tweeds. One of the men was wearing a sports coat, a yellow waistcoat and gray flannel trousers. The other was in plus fours. Their clothes, without exception, were old and worn. Judy’s coat was patched with leather at the elbows. Yet, somehow, they seemed smartly dressed. How very new in this atmosphere would seem, Francis thought, the tweed suit that he had ordered just before he sailed.
“Now this,” Judy was saying, “is Mr. Francis Oliver, the young American painter you’ve heard so much about. Francis, this is Lady Armitage, our neighbor and one of our dearest friends. This is Mrs. Eckersley, who’s staying with us. This is Lord Armitage and this is Mr. Eckersley.”
The men had risen as he came into the room. He did not know whether he should bow to the women or shake hands. He made a half-gesture forward, then withdrew his hand.
“And, finally,” said Judy, “this is my stepdaughter, Marion.”
Francis had not noticed her when he came in first. She had been close to him, but slightly behind him. She was tall and fair. She was wearing a green high-necked jumper. She looked very young. She could not have been more than twenty. As her name was mentioned, she held out her hand. It was a firm and friendly handshake.
“I’ve heard so much about you I can’t really believe I’m meeting you at last.”
She was not exactly pretty but she had a glow of health. She had a soft cream and pink complexion. Her lips were full and red. He did not feel that she was wearing make-up. She held herself very straight.
“Will you have a sherry or something with gin in it?” Judy asked.
“Something with gin in it, please.”
“Will you mix him a pink gin, Henry?”
“I’ll mix myself one too, it was a freezing drive.”
A pink gin was something that was new on Francis. He had been told that the English had cold drawing rooms and warm drinks, but he had not expected anything quite so unpalatable as the tepid liquid flavored with angostura that Sir Henry handed him. It was mercifully strong, however. He swallowed it quickly and felt better. A footman who had just come into the room, came over and whispered something.
“Yes, thanks,” he said, “I’ll have another.”
Marion chuckled. “I’ll get you a drink. But it’s your keys that Parker wants.”
“My keys?”
“So that he can unpack your luggage.”
“But I can do that myself.”
‘I’m sure you can but as Parker will be valeting you, he’ll want to put your things where he can find them, unless, of course,” she added, “you have got some very dark secrets hidden in your suitcases.”
“You flatter me,” he said, as he handed his keys across.
At that moment the butler announced lunch.
“I hope you’re all feeling as famished as I am,” Judy said.
The dining room was at the other end of the passage. It was a long dark oak-paneled room, opening onto a courtyard. It was so dark, on this gloomy rain-swept day that the large central candelabra had been switched on.
Judy pointed to a chair beside her.
“Here you are, Francis, on my right hand.”
The moment they were seated, she turned to him in her usual vivid way. “There’s so much I want to ask you that I don’t know where to start. I ought to ask you about your trip. But I’m not really in the least interested in your trip. You’re here, that’s all that matters. How long are you staying? How many pictures have you brought?”
She could not have been more natural, more spontaneous.
He told her about the pictures he had brought. He told her how Van Ruyt had suggested that he might develop into a scenic artist. Judy was loyally indignant.
“That’s nonsense, perfect nonsense. Do you hear that, Henry, Francis’ New York dealer wants him to give up painting and design scenery. Isn’t that absurd?”
“He’d find it a very profitable occupation.”
“I dare say, but what a waste! When the play closes, the scenery’s broken up. There’s nothing to show for it. No, no, Francis, you stick to pictures.”
“I gather from this, young man, that you are not one of these modern painters who present patterns of cubes and circles and call them landscapes.”
It was Lord Armitage who made that comment. He was seated on Judy’s left. He was a man of fifty, with a drooping mustache and ill-fitting teeth, who talked as though he had adenoids. He followed every remark he made with a guttural chuckle.
“I’m delighted to hear it, delighted,” he said, when Francis assured him that his work was strictly representational. “You stick to that and you’ll do all right. Do you remember, Henry, that long-haired chap whom Lucy took down with her to the Seymours two Christmases ago, charming fellow, charming, but his pictures. Sent me a card for his exhibition. I went to it. Never felt so embarrassed in my life. Didn’t know what to say to him. Had meant to buy one of his pictures too. And there was Lucy purring over him. What’s happened to Lucy by the way?”
“I heard she’s married someone.”
“Did you? I thought that she was married to Archie Stayle.”
“Then perhaps I’d heard she’d got divorced.”
“Wouldn’t that mean remarriage?”
Both Judy and Sir Henry were occupied with Lucy’s fortunes. Francis had no idea who Lucy was, nor who was the modern painter who had enjoyed her patronage. He turned to the lady on his right, Mrs. Eckersley, one of those tall thinnecked cool English girls, with long oval faces and pointed noses and drawled voices who do not “find themselves” till they are over sixty, till their hair is white, till they can wear a great deal of ancestral jewelry and punctuate their conversation with a lorgnette. As matrons, they have dignity and poise; as young married women, they seem incomplete.