by Alec Waugh
“This is my first visit to England,” Francis told her.
“That’ll make it very interesting for you.”
“I expect I shall find it very different.”
“I expect you will.”
“In what way do you think I shall find it different?”
“I’ve never been to America. It’s rather hard for me to say.”
“I can tell you one thing that’s different. In America you wouldn’t get wine like this at lunch.”
“Why not: don’t Americans like wine at lunch?”
“We would if we could get it.”
“Why can’t you get it.”
“We’ve Prohibition.”
“But I thought the bootleggers had got it so well organized that everybody had all they wanted.”
“We’ve spirits, but wine’s hard to get.”
“I thought all the rich people had all the wine they wanted in their cellars. That’s why they let Prohibition through.”
“They may have, but my family’s not rich.”
“Isn’t it? I thought all the Americans who came over here were rich.”
It was like a Ruth Draper skit. It was a relief when the conversation became general.
He sat back trying to relax. In a way, it was all very much as it had been in the South of France: a long table set with silver and thin wine glasses and cut-glass tumblers; with a large center bowl of flowers; with delicately flavored food served silently and unobtrusively; with Sir Henry’s slow, well-modulated, carefully phrased sentences serving as a foil for Judy’s outbursts of enthusiasm and disapproval; with the talk moving lightly from one topic, from one personality to another. In one way, it was just the same; in another it was completely different. In the South of France, the general talk at the Marriotts’ table had been one of the chief attractions of the whole Mougins way of life. He had learned at first-hand about people and events that he had felt curious towards all his life, but here the conversation was about people and events of which he was completely ignorant. The “Bills” and “Jeans” and “Erics” who occupied their conversation, owned surnames of which he had never heard. The topics of conversation, too, were different. In Mougins they had discussed world events, but here they were discussing local matters. Who should be M.F.H.? Who should run the cricket? He could take no part in such a conversation.
The fact that he could take no part in it increased the discomfort he had been feeling ever since he had got into Judy’s car. What was he doing here? What was in Judy’s mind? Hadn’t she had his letter? What was she thinking? What could she be planning? She was behaving as though she had never had his letter. Perhaps she never had. In that case what did he do next? The thought of all the explanations that were involved appalled him. He ought never to have come here. He should have gone straight through to London.
His inability to join in the talk increased his rapidly mounting feeling of irritation. There was a grandfather clock beside the fireplace. As he watched the hands go round, he marked minute by minute the length of time since he had spoken. I must say something soon, he told himself. What was there though that he could say? If he were to ask questions, he would delay the talk like a backward schoolboy who holds up the lesson to have things explained to him. Why couldn’t Judy say something that would bring him into the conversation? They had been discussing now for quarter of an hour the secretaryship of the local Conservative association. Surely they could find something else to talk about.
His irritation grew more acute each minute. As he sat silent turning his attention from one speaker to the next, moving his head from side to side, like a spectator at a tennis match, he became suddenly aware of Marion watching him. She also had remained quite silent. There was a half-smile on her lips. He checked the moving of his head and looked at her. The half-smile became a full-smile. It was as though she were recognizing and accepting a confederacy of ill-adjustment, as though they were both, in their separate ways, out of things.
Though lunch had begun early, they lingered late over the table. It was close upon half-past two before the Armitages prepared to leave.
“I’ve got to drive over to Hartley Wintney. Groves has a tractor for sale I’d like to see,” said Armitage.
“He’s got a pony that I’d like to look at too,” Sir Henry said. “Judy and I might come over with you. I think the others could amuse themselves one afternoon.”
Eckersley walked over to the window. “It’s clearing. We might have some golf.”
“Why don’t you?” Judy said. “Francis is quite good.”
“Would you like to?” Eckersley asked.
“I’d love to, if you could lend me clubs.”
“That’s easy, what’s your handicap?”
“I usually shoot somewhere in the eighties.”
“That would make you about ten. I’m fifteen. Nora’s eighteen. What’s Marion?”
“A bad fourteen.”
“Then Marion and I’ll play you and Nora.”
“Fine. I’ll get changed at once.”
“I’ll show you your room,” said Marion.
His room was on the first floor. It was longish, rather dark, with a four-poster bed. The valet was there unpacking.
The valet was a neat, trim young man. He might be supercilious, Francis thought. I’d better get my blow in first.
The valet was examining the knickerbockers that Francis wore for golf. They were as long, but not as voluminous as plus fours are. They were more like plus twos.
“I reckon some of those clothes must seem pretty strange to you,” Francis said.
Parker smiled. “Possibly a little unusual, sir.”
“That’s how some of your wardrobes strike us on our side.”
The valet did not reply.
“You will be wearing these, sir, I presume, for golf?”
Francis nodded. He was not certain whether or not a criticism had been implied, whether Parker were suggesting that some doubt might exist as to the form of sport for which such curious leg coverings had been designed.
“And which tie, sir, will you wear?”
“That blue one with the two thin white stripes.”
“The old Harrovian tie, sir?”
“You can call it what you like. To me, it’s a dark blue tie with two thin white stripes.”
“I know, sir, but …” The valet hesitated. He looked at the ties thoughtfully. There was a number of striped ties among them.
“You see, sir, if I may be allowed to say so, sir – you have also among your ties an old Etonian tie; you have a Guard’s tie too, a Leander tie and, I think, one or two others might be held to indicate membership of clubs of which possibly, sir, you are not a member. I hope you will not think it an impertinence, but if you were to wear those ties, I am afraid it might cause some confusion, sir.”
Francis flushed. It was the kind of high-hatting he had been warned against. Hell’s bells, he thought, I’m an American. They’re American ties. What the hell do their old boys’ clubs mean to me?
A retort was on his lips, but he bit it back. “Now, don’t be a fool,” he warned himself. “This man isn’t being insolent.” Not yet, at least, though he might become it. He remembered the supercilious insolence with which the barmaid in the railway refreshment room had treated him. He was bound in a strange country to make mistakes. Parker could be a damned bad enemy, but equally he could be very useful. It would be well worth getting him on his side.
Francis grinned. “I’m very grateful to you. In my country we happen to like striped ties. We don’t go in for clubs. Our haberdashers put together any combination of colors that they think attractive. If you will go through those ties and put aside any that you consider dangerous, I should be very grateful.”
He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a one-pound note. If I’m going to capitulate, I’d better go the whole hog, he thought.
He hesitated, then went on.
“If you ever see me wearing something that i
sn’t right by English standards, I’d be exceedingly grateful if you’d tell me. This is my first visit here.”
As he came down into the hall, he met Judy crossing from the drawing room. She was wearing a fight camel’s-hair fleece coat belted at the waist. She was in a hurry, clearly. At the sight of him, she checked. It was the first time that they had been alone. In her eyes, there was an expression that was new to him. A defensive, almost a hostile look. They both hesitated. I’ve got to say something. I’ve got to get this cleared up, he thought.
“Did you get my letter?” he asked.
“Of course, I did.”
“Then, why? …”
She cut him short. “This is no time to be discussing that.” Her mouth did not exactly harden. But it grew firm. The expression in her eyes was wary, as though she were retreating behind defenses. From the drive came the voice of Sir Henry, calling, “Come along there, Judy. We’re all waiting.”
“You see,” she said.
In the doorway, she turned and waved to him. “Have a good time,” she said.
The golf course was a mile away; it was a parkland course created out of the estate of a country house whose owner had liquidated his father’s death duties by the sale of it to a public company. “It isn’t a good course,” said Eckersley. “But it has the merit of propinquity.”
They agreed to have mixed sexes driving against each other. It was on Francis’ suggestion that they had agreed on that. He wanted to be as much as possible in Marion’s company; he was resolved to enrol her too as an ally before the day was ended.
The first hole, as first holes should be, was an easy five. A three-hundred yard dog leg, it had no long carry and no real danger. But all the same it was nervously that Francis walked towards the tee. He had not played since the beginning of November and he was anxious to play well. He took three clubs out of his bag and swung them.
“Do you always play with three clubs?” asked Marion.
“It’s a good tip before your first shot, particularly if you haven’t played for a little while. It loosens you up.”
“I’ll remember that.”
His caddie handed him a driver, but he shook his head. He was not going to run any risks. He took out a brassie and teed the ball very low. Length did not matter at this hole. The use of a lofted club would give him confidence. He swung easily, hitting the ball clean. It was not a particularly long shot, but it was straight; it opened the hole up for his partner.
“That’s a good tip of yours,” said Marion. “I think I’ll try it.”
The ladies’ tee was twenty yards farther on. She took up her stance naturally, without fuss, shifting her feet to make sure that her spikes had a firm grip of the turf, then swung back smoothly.
“You’ve certainly profited by my tip,” he said.
Her drive was as straight as his and only ten yards shorter.
“Good shot, partner,” Eckersley called out.
“It’s good walking down the fairway after two shots like that,” she said.
They walked in step, to stand thirty yards over to the right, waiting for their partners’ shots.
Eckersley played first. He was a tall, clean-shaven rather nondescript young man of twenty-seven. He was in the city and had been some kind of a relative of the first Lady Marriott. He had a Bentley which he drove with his wrist upon the horn, and in golf he was chiefly interested in the distance that he hit. His locker-room description of a round would be “I took that short cut at the twelfth to the left of the oak and my word I cleared the stream.”
He looked at the ball, looked at the hole, took a number two iron and lashed out with it. “Pin high,” he said. It might have been, but it was certainly in a morass of heather. The shot had not even started straight. Marion and Francis exchanged a glance.
“You may find yourself in a worse place,” she said.
He did. Where Eckersley had hooked, his wife had sliced.
“Oh,” she said, as her ball landed in a high-banked bunker. Marion waved her hand, as she and Francis separated, she to the right, he to the left.
“Meet you on the green,” she said.
“Let’s hope so.”
They did. Both of their recovery shots finished within ten feet of the pin. Both putts were missed. Again they exchanged a glance. His plan was working out better than he had hoped.
It continued to work well. The better that he and Marion played, the worse their partners played.
“I’ll bet you that by the end of the round you won’t have had three chances of using a wooden club for your second,” he said, as they waited on the fourth fairway for their partners’ drive. “If I were you, I should have my niblick ready,” Marion retorted.
Their partners’ play was a bond and a subject of jokes between them. After they themselves had hit good drives, they would speculate on the part of the rough into which their partners would place their seconds. “I’m expecting to see you in that trap beside the green,” he’d prophesy. “I think you’ll be brandishing your niblick in that patch of gorse,” she’d answer.
The fact that they themselves were playing well, gave them a feeling of confidence both in themselves and in one another. They were more a team than if they had been partners.
“It’s nice playing with you,” she said. “There’s something magnetic about your ball. It keeps mine straight.”
By the time they had reached the turn, they had come to feel they had known each other a long time. By the time they had reached the turn, it had also come on to rain again. They were back at Charlton before five o’clock.
“Tea’ll be in the room beyond the drawing room,” Marion told him.
Tea was a meal that ordinarily Francis did not take. A tea was in New York in the set he moved in, a euphemism for a cocktail party. He had read descriptions of teas in English novels, but he had not guessed how cosy it could be to come in on a cold rainy afternoon to cushions and armchairs and a large glowing fire before which, on a low table surrounded with a litter of Crown Derby crockery, a silver kettle would be boiling over a spirit flame beside a silver teapot. He had not guessed how substantial an English tea could be with its toast and muffins and paté sandwiches, its small cakes and its iced cake and its fruit cake. He had not known how much solid nourishment you could take three hours after leaving a lunch table and less than three hours before you started dinner. He had not known how lazily intimate talk can be over a tea table. He had not known how happily drowsy you could feel stretching out tired legs before the fire.
Eckersley rose to his feet and stretched his arms.
“I’m for the library,” he said. “I’ve a feeling I’m going to fall asleep.”
His wife go.t up too. “I’ve some letters to finish before dinner.”
Marion and Francis were left alone.
“I wonder,” she said, “if you would let me see your pictures.”
The case containing them was in the hall.
“Shall we go into the drawing room? The light’s better there,” she said.
She went over them carefully as he set them out, making no comment until she had seen the last. Then she nodded. “They are good,” she said. “I knew they would be. Daddy’s never wrong.”
She paused. She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been so excited about your coming here. I paint myself. I’ve so wanted to show my pictures to a real painter. To a young painter. You’re the first young artist that I’ve met. It’s only old painters who come down here. I don’t care what they think. Would you let me show you my pictures, now?”
She spoke with an eagerness that touched him.
“Of course,” he said.
She brought down six pictures, landscapes and still lifes. Each had a pleasant sense of design and color. He was surprised that she should be so accomplished.
“I congratulate you. They’re very good,” he said.
She flushed.
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course, I do.�
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“But how good are they?’
“How do you mean ‘how good’?”
“Are they good enough for me to paint professionally?”
“That’s rather another matter.”
“I know it is. That’s why I asked.”
“You see …” He hesitated. He looked more closely at the pictures. A hundred students at an art school might show promise, but only the work of one would amount to anything. “It’s hard to tell yet,” he said. “One can’t tell how you are going to develop.”
“I’m going to the Slade this autumn.”
“TheSlade?”
“The art school attached to London University.”
“That ought to be a help.”
“Of course it will. I know. But that isn’t what I want you to tell me. The thing is this …” She stopped. Then suddenly started off in a quick blurted rush… “I don’t know why I’m boring you with all of this but I can talk to you. You’ll understand. It would be easy for me, with Daddy’s influence, to get a start. I could get publicity. ‘Miss Marion Marriott, who is the daughter of the distinguished diplomat’ -You know the kind of thing. It would be easy for me to have an exhibition. Daddy would give a party for it. All the right people would be there. One or two of the guests would buy pictures, to please Daddy. I should be launched overnight, and, of course, as you know as well as I do, it wouldn’t mean a thing.”
He smiled a trifle grimly. “We have successes of that kind on our side too.”
“And it doesn’t get them anywhere in the long run, does it?”
“It doesn’t get them to first base.”
“I know. It cuts no ice with the real painters. They resent short cuts. And so do critics. My gossip paragraph value would depend on Daddy. His friends would think that they’d done ample when they’d bought one picture. My second show would flop completely. That’s what I don’t mean to have happen in my case. That’s why I want you to tell me if I’m any good. If there’s any chance of my being any good I’ll work as no one in the world’s history has ever worked; but if I am not any good, I want to know it now, so that I can get started on something else. I’ve got to do something of my own. I can’t just sit around down here waiting for somebody to marry me.”