by Alec Waugh
She laughed, she was still intrigued. He had an original point of view. Was he an aesthete in disguise?
“Do you think you might be an artist of some kind? Do you want to write?”
“I’d like to write something one day, but I’ve noticed that the best books are written by men who aren’t professional authors.”
She laughed again. “You seem to think that all the best results are achieved by amateurs.”
“Well, aren’t they? Take medicine. Don’t you think it would be more fun to be a psychoanalyst than a G.P.?”
“If you’re so keen on being an amateur, you ought to go in for politics. That’s a free for all.”
“But that’s what I shall do. I’ve an hereditary seat in the House of Lords waiting for me.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. So you do really have a profession after all.”
She had talked banteringly, to match his manner. But suddenly he changed that manner.
“It’s curious being a peer today,” he said. “It’s an advantage, I don’t pretend it isn’t. But it’s hard to know how to make the best use of it. My grandfather had a cut-and-dried future. An estate to run with many responsibilities attached, an assured place as a legislator. The House of Lords had real power then; a peerage was a profession. It wasn’t quite the same thing when my father was a boy. There’d been the tussle between the Lords and Commons; the Peers or People election, and the Commons won, but even so my father as a boy could look on Tavernslake as a career. If there hadn’t been the war and he hadn’t been such a success in it, I don’t suppose he’d have stayed in the Army. He’d have concentrated on his cricket. But it’s different now.
“In the first place I shan’t be able to keep up Tavernslake. It won’t stand another attack of death duties. No one knows what the House of Lords will amount to in thirty years. You can’t bank on its amounting to a thing. At the same time it’s something you can’t ignore. It excludes you from quite a lot. Party politics for example. What could be more maddening than making yourself a career in the House of Commons and then having it cut short by your father’s death. Then again there are quite a few jobs in which at the start, anyhow, it’s a handicap. It’s hard to begin at the bottom of the tree when you’ve a handle to your name. I realized that in the army. Before I had my commission there was a corporal who always read out my name in full, Private the Hon. Templeton E. J. Number six-one-three-nine. There’d be a sneer in his voice and someone would always snigger. People think you’re different if you’ve a title and in a way you are. It’s quite a problem.”
It was the first time that she had heard him speaking seriously. A different tone came into his voice, a different expression into his face. She liked him this way. He was something more than a well-born playboy out for a good time. She realized now that she too had thought of him, because he had a handle to his name, as being not quite human.
“I’d never thought of it like that,” she said. “The problem of being a peer, I mean.”
“One wouldn’t, unless one happened to be one. I had it drummed into me by a fierce Scots nanny. When I was seven years old, she woke me up to hear the Duke of Windsor’s abdication broadcast. I didn’t know what it was all about. I was more interested in the test match in Australia. But I’ll never forget the lecture she gave me afterward.
“‘Prince Edward,’ she said, ‘has betrayed his country. He has put his own pleasure before his duty to his people. A King is different from other people. He must always put his duty to his country first. You must remember that when you are grown up. You will not be a King, but you will be a Baron. You will be different from other people. You have your duty to perform.’
“I’ve laughed at the old girl since; but that is the kind of thing that sticks in one’s memory. She kept harping on that point, telling me that I was different, that I had a special duty to perform.”
Jocelyn nodded. Yes, she could see that it would make him different. It was something she must remember about him.
She changed the subject.
“Tell me about Egypt,” she said. “Was it very dreary?”
“In some ways, very. In eighteen months I didn’t have one meal alone in feminine society.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I’ll say it was.”
Sitting here on this beach, in this fresh green world beside this friendly girl with a soft breeze dulling the sun’s heat and the trade wind churning the dark waters beyond the reef, it was hard to believe that only two weeks ago he had been in Suez: with a stale smell upon the air, and the pale pink oleanders drooping under their weight of dust.
He watched Mavis as she came out of the water. Wasn’t this the dream that he had cherished in those arid days? She took off her bathing cap and shook out her hair. Her back was against the sun; the small firm breasts and full rounded hips were in silhouette.
“She’s very attractive isn’t she?” he said.
“I think so.”
“She’s not only so good to look at, she’s amusing too; she’s such good company.”
“You should be telling that to her, not to me. She’d like to hear it.”
It was said with a twinkle and again they laughed together. She would be a friendly and amusing confidante, Euan thought.
Mentally Jocelyn shrugged. So that was the way it was. Mavis again. Did she feel a twinge of jealousy? She didn’t think she did. Not jealousy, but a sense of disappointment in herself. Men liked her, felt at ease with her, confided in her; but it was for girls like Mavis that they fell. She ought to feel glad and grateful. Mavis was always getting into trouble, always being let down by someone. This Canadian tourist was only the last of several. People felt sorry for Mavis. Poor Mavis, they kept on saying. She didn’t feel sorry for Mavis in the least. She’d like for a change to have someone let her down; have someone sufficiently involved with her to treat her badly.
Mavis settled herself beside them on the beach
“Have you a punch in that thermos?” she inquired.
She had a sudden feeling that she could use a drink. She had been conscious of Euan’s glances in the car; she had noticed his sudden start, the way his eyes had opened as she came to join them. She had seen that look before: she knew the symptoms; that’s how it had been with Rickie. It was exciting, but she wasn’t in the market for that kind of thing, at least not yet.
“When I was in Suez,” Euan was saying, “I’d lie out on the beach and close my eyes and make a prayer to Allah, ‘Please,’ I’d say, ‘when I open my eyes, may I see a pretty girl walking across the sand toward me.’”
Yes, here it came again. Why was it always this way, with her; why couldn’t it be the other way round; with a man whom she’d known for three months saying, it’s an extraordinary thing, but I’ve begun to realize that I’m in love with you. You grow on one. There’d be so much more likelihood of that lasting.
From a rock by himself Denis Archer was throwing stones into the water. Doris was swimming with Grainger Morris.
“I really don’t know why we bother to bring that A.D.C. out with us,” Jocelyn said.
“To ensure our keeping on the G.H. party list,” Mavis said.
“I hope you don’t feel you need that still,” said Euan. “Grainger,” he called out. “Come and join us.”
He wanted Grainger to talk to Jocelyn so that he could talk to Mavis. But it was next to Mavis that Grainger stretched himself.
“I often used to wonder when I was in England how you’d look when I got back,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows.
“I shouldn’t have thought you knew that I existed.”
“That means that you weren’t aware that I existed.”
“I knew there was such a person.”
“But you don’t associate me with anything, any time or place, any particular occasion?”
“I can’t say I do.”
“And I could remember you so clearly. Do you remember that children’s par
ty at G.H. when you won the obstacle race?”
“Of course. I was eleven then.”
“You looked so triumphant when you went up to take your prize, you were wearing green openwork mittens. I remember how you held out both hands to take it. It was a book I think.”
“I’ve got it still. Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare”
“You were taking such a fresh, happy pleasure in it all. I was so glad for your sake. I’ve often thought about that day. I hoped life was turning out for you the way you wanted it.”
She looked away: she felt herself surprisingly near to tears; how it all came back; the white frock with the green trimming and the book that she had stood up that night beside her bed so that it should be the first thing she saw when she woke up. It was nice to have someone remembering her as she had been that day.
Doris also had noticed Euan start when Mavis ran across the sand: had also been aware of the glances that he had flung over his shoulder in the car, but she had felt no jealousy, no sense of self-inadequacy: on the contrary she felt pride, excitement, exaltation. He had fallen for Mavis. Mavis was wonderful. There was no one like her. It was the same every time: no man could resist her.
2
There were no guests that night to dinner at G.H.
“We must work out our plan of campaign,” the Governor said. “These next months must be gay. Denis, what would you suggest, as arbiter elegantiarum?”
“There’s the Nurses’ Dance next week, sir. Why not a dinner party first?”
The Governor agreed. Whom should they invite.
“There’re the girls we were with this afternoon.”
“Then let’s ask them. Do we need to have their parents?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“What about Grainger Morris. The girls like him.”
It was Euan who suggested that. His father’s hesitation before agreement was so swift that neither of the young men noticed it. Normally, Templeton would not have invited a man of color to meet white girls at a small dinner party, but since this was an accepted friendship, and they were going on to dance in public, it was a good opportunity of showing the community that Government House admitted no racial distinctions. But if he was going to ask Morris, he must ask at least one girl of color, too. These people were touchy: he could not have them saying, H. E. asks the men but he won’t have the women to his party. Not sufficiently ladylike, I suppose. While if he were to ask the women without the men, he’d have them saying, He has our women up; treating them like courtesans to amuse the gentry, the old fashioned droit de seigneur. But our men aren’t gentlemen.
“Can you think of any girl who’s respectable and not, shall we say, too African, who’d help make the party go?”
“I’ll think, sir.”
A wild idea had occurred to Archer; so wild that he did not know whether he dared put it to the proof. He had a moment of panic, then he knew that he’d despise himself if he didn’t risk it.
“Do you know Margot Seaton, sir?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“She was up here yesterday. She’s pretty and quick-witted.”
“What does she do?”
“Work at the Bon Marche.”
“What about her people?”
“She’s a cousin of David Boyeur.”
“We don’t want him here.”
At the same time, the Governor reflected, to invite a relative of his might prove a salutary lesson to the young demagogue; it would diminish his self-importance.
“Ask her, certainly, if you are convinced that she won’t disgrace us.”
“I can promise you that, sir.”
And that, he told himself, was that.
Next morning Archer sent out the invitations. He invited Jocelyn, Doris, and Mavis by telephone, but for Grainger Morris and Margot Seaton he made out official invitations on Government House cards. He sent round Grainger’s by the chauffeur. Margot’s he proposed to deliver personally.
On his way to the Country Club he drove past the Bon Marche. Margot was standing behind the counter. “The Cosmos seems to have lost a customer,” she said.
“I’ve not come to buy shaving soap. I am on official business.”
“Shall I fetch Mr. Martin?”
“My business is with you.”
“Oh.”
“Are you going with a party to the Nurses’ Dance?”
“Naturally.”
“Then I’m afraid your friends will have to find someone to take your place.”
“Yes?”
“This envelope contains a Royal Command that can only be declined in the case of illness.”
He handed her the envelope. It was embossed with a crown.
“What does it say?”
“Look inside and read.”
She opened it, took out the card. His Excellency the Governor requested the honor of Miss Margot Seaton’s company at dinner on Tuesday, April 15, at 8 P.M.
She read it slowly. Her face showed no change. He was impressed by her lack of surprise.
“I will see that someone calls for you. I had better have your address,” he said.
She gave it to him. It was in St. Catherine’s, a section a little out of Jamestown that he scarcely knew.
“I will let you know the final arrangements on the day.”
As she watched him drive away, her lips parted and the tip of her tongue passed slowly over them.
That evening David Boyeur called at the Bon Marche pharmacy.
“I’ve come to apologize,” he said.
“O.K.”
“It was a very good film,”
“It was. I went to it last night.”
“There’s a new film tomorrow. Would you like to come?”
“I would, very much.”
“Have you decided which party you’d like to join for the Nurses’ Dance, the Salmons’ or the Levasseurs’?”
“That’s something I want to talk to you about. I shan’t be able to go with you.”
“Why not?”
“The Governor has invited me,”
“The Governor’s what?”
“I warned you, didn’t I?”
“Of what?”
“That you might regret having dared me to go to that garden party.”
The next morning the Governor was taking a visitor to inspect the sugar factory; they were to lunch with the manager. Archer drove them out; on his way back he made a detour through St. Catherine’s. It was a typical West Indian village. A haphazard collection of shingle huts, perched on boulders, straggling below the main circular road in a small valley on either side of a shallow stream that in the rainy season became a flood. It was picturesque, shaded by mango and by breadfruit trees, with canoes drawn up along the beach, and fishing nets hanging up to dry. There was a cheerful farmyard atmosphere about it all, with chickens and pigs and children tumbling over one another among the stones; yet actually the very characteristics that made it picturesque made it unhealthy: it was damp and airless and mosquitoes bred there. It was one of the villages that worried the health authorities, and it was in this village that one at least of Margot’s grandparents had been born.
Half a mile away, on higher ground and above the road, was a series of one-storied bungalows with glass windows and wide verandas, a recent building project, sponsored by the government. It was in one of these houses that she now lived. He thought of the Georgian Manor House in Somerset in which his great-grandfather had lived at the time when Margot’s ancestors were tumbling in the picturesque squalor of the ghut, with its flies and dysentery and malaria. The house in Somerset was now a preparatory school, his father had sold it to meet death duties in the 1920’s and settled in the Hampstead Garden Suburb. He compared that pleasant, compact, semi-detached villa, under the shadow of St. Jude’s, with Margot’s neat trim bungalow on the hill. In a novel, one could draw an effective parallel, showing how the course of change had brought the two of them from such different backgrounds
to a present that was not dissimilar. One lift was going down, another lift was going up. He sat pensively at the wheel, looking first one way, then another.
If you don’t write a real novel one day, he adjured himself.
Chapter Five
1
Three days later Julian Fleury found himself with a convenient opportunity to fulfill his promise to the Governor. He needed to have a talk with Maxwell. He could call in on Preston on his way.
He was in a thoughtful mood as he drove out. His son’s surprising resolve to stand for election confirmed his suspicion that all was by no means well there. Maxwell had always been a problem. As a boy he had been jealous of the brother; not unnaturally. But he had been no less moody after Arthur’s death when he became the heir.
Julian had hoped that marriage and responsibility would supply a medicine. He knew himself the relief and inspiration of returning at the end of the day to somebody whose lot was yours, to whom you could talk openly. Sylvia was sweet, Maxwell was in love with her, and he had overborne the Normans’ objection to an early marriage on the grounds that Sylvia was too young. He had given the young couple Belfontaine as a wedding present. But things had not turned out the way that he had hoped. The estate was not showing the profits that it should. Maxwell was discontented and what else was this ridiculous plan to run for council but a gesture to convince himself that he was somebody.
He was worried about Jocelyn too. She ought to be got back to England. But her problem would not be solved by checking her in upon a homebound boat. What kind of a welcome would she receive from the aunts and cousins who had daughters of their own to marry off? Conditions were difficult, so everyone assured him: the only people with money to spend were those with capital to cut into; or those with expense accounts—the new privileged class that could charge their entertainment “against the house.” Jocelyn would have no common ground of shared experience with the girls who had been to English schools, and done a London Season. The young men might find her “naïve.”