The Tumbled House

by Winston Graham

  What he could not have passed on was his own personal zest which he brought sincerely enough to this odd courtship. His cynical and adult brain continued to rate the odds while it got full value out of the enjoyment of the chase. Even though she was a girl he wouldn’t normally have raised an eye to, there was more piquancy in this than in his affair last year with Fran. (He remembered once making a flattering if not quite original remark to Fran and she had replied: “ Sweetie, break up the act, this isn’t the 200th Performance, try to think you learned your lines last night.”)

  One day he overheard Marion say she hadn’t been lucky with tickets for Wimbledon this year and that she was dying to go. So he arranged it all without her knowing that he had even heard her. Lunch first at the Caprice, a chauffeur-driven hired car—no fuss over parking—seats in the Press Box, dinner afterwards at Claridge’s. Everywhere he went head waiters knew him, men touched their caps, others said, “ Good afternoon, Mr Shorn.” “ Good evening, Mr Shorn.” It all built up, it was subtle flattery for the girl without a word being spoken.

  Under his attentions Marion had come out. Looking at her, Roger decided that when he could get his hands on her he would be able to make her striking enough not to disgrace the recollection of the other women he had had. If someone who really knew his job tackled her hair—not from one of the fashionable chi-chi salons but a man with classical principles in mind—a virtue could be made of its shortcomings, the curls could be got rid of and its heaviness given the strength and beauty of sculpture. You couldn’t do a lot with her face, but he was inclined to think that the frame would make all the difference.

  It was difficult to think of marriage again after all these years. Marriage meant the complete invasion of privacy, whereas in the conditional liaisons of the past thirteen years he had been able to keep part of his life separate and to himself. It seemed to him now that the first moves towards his present position in the world had dated from the end of the excesses of his third marriage. He and Rachel had driven each other into wild tempers he could hardly now believe in. Looking back, he felt that that had been the lowest ebb of his life; from the moment he let her go he had begun to climb away from his own fallibility of disposition towards this new eminence of composure and culture and autonomy.

  But Marion was a different kettle of fish; and if Sir Percy played fair with him, he was prepared to play fair with her. Although she couldn’t be expected to see it as such yet, she was part of a triangular bargain and he would keep his side.

  After dinner they went back to his flat for coffee and a cigarette before he took her home. She had been slow to do this at first, but she had gradually got into the way of it and now it was taken as a matter of course.

  Tonight when she sipped her coffee she sighed and said: “Ooh, it’s been lovely. Thanks a million, Roger. You are kind to me. Why is it? Didn’t you ever have a favourite niece?”

  Roger winced inwardly and stirred his cup and smiled. “My dear Marion, I’m far too selfish a person to interest myself in nieces, favourite or otherwise. You should know that.”

  “I do hear stories about you sometimes.”

  “Such as?”

  She laughed. “I never believe half I hear.”

  “They’re probably true. I’m not a very admirable man.”

  “There,” she said more slowly, “opinions might differ.”

  “We’re all to some extent chameleons, changing according to our foliage or company. I can only tell you that, at whatever low level I started, I’ve been a much improved human being since I met you.”

  “Ah.” She laughed again. “ I don’t believe that for a second. I’m no reformer.”

  “Intentionally, no. We none of us know what we are inadvertently. Do you remember that thing that Michaelangelo wrote? ‘The might of one fair face sublimes my love, For it hath weaned my heart from low desires.’ How does it go on after that?”

  He looked at her. She had flushed to the roots of her hair. She said in a low voice: “ Roger, don’t, please. How can I … how can that be?.…”

  He got up and put his coffee cup on the table, walked to the mantelpiece. Was this the moment? Why not? It was the moment at any rate to probe the enemy’s defences. “ Dear Marion, ignorant mortals that we are, it isn’t any good asking how or why of an accomplished fact. Only what we are to do about it, once it is recognised.”

  She said faintly: “ It is recognised?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  When she didn’t answer he came back and sat on the settee beside her. “Isn’t it?”

  She still did not speak. He took her hand interestedly, turned it palm up, felt a sudden tremor in it. There was no need now for reconnaissance units.

  “Darling, you must have realised. I hope you’ve realised. I don’t believe for a moment that my rather shaky restraint can have taken in anyone as intelligent as you are.”

  “Restraint.…” she said.

  “Often I’ve felt like apologising for it, but I was so afraid of losing you if I spoke too soon.”

  “It’s strange,” she said, “ that someone should be afraid of losing me.”

  “I was,” he said.

  She looked at him. “Past tense now?”

  “It’s still for you to say.”

  She looked down at his hand on hers, then covered it with her other. “ I haven’t words, Roger. Not like you. I can only say if you want me … then you will not lose me.…”

  For the first time ever he kissed her. It was a clean, chaste kiss, but before they separated he moved his lips against hers to assure her there was nothing lukewarm in his feelings. He straightened up thinking; all over her body nerve ends are sending their impulses.

  She said: “I think I’d better go.”

  “You had.”

  Behind him he heard her get up, reach for her coat. He turned and said: “No, not yet. Let’s—let’s talk sensibly for a minute.” He gently took the coat from her, took her in his arms. His fingers moved gently down her back. A longer kiss this time. Oh, yes, she’d be all right. Thank God there seemed no risk of her being frigid.

  “This isn’t sensible,” she said, terribly out of breath.

  He released her and smiled delightedly. At all such times he had a sense of power; now more than usual because of all that her love and dependence on him meant.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  He said: “I’m so—so relieved, Marion. So relieved.”

  She smiled back, half laughing, half puzzled. “Darling, dearest, weren’t you sure of me?”

  He said: “I’ll never be sure of you until we’re married and I can keep you under lock and key.”

  “Dearest, dearest,” she said. “ Dearest Roger, I never dreamed. You know two months ago I never dreamed of this! I wouldn’t have thought you’d look the side I was on. That first time we came to see you, you seemed so charming but so utterly unapproachable in your—your culture and your taste and your reading. One knew your judgements of things were right the minute you spoke them, but one could never anticipate them. It was impossible that you should take the slightest interest in me. And then that day we met by chance in the Art Gallery. I thought you were just being polite out of friendship for my father. I was so terribly flattered and nervous.”

  He said: “ I was afraid you’d make some excuse and go. It was such a lovely coincidence. Ever since that first meeting I’d been trying to think of some way of seeing you again.”

  She looked at him eagerly. “ Was it so? Was it really like that?”

  He nodded, his face lit up with his smile. He kissed her again and she clung to him.

  “Oh, Heavens!” she said. “ I must go. This is frightful! I’m so happy I could cry!”

  “Calm, calm, calm.” He held her at arm’s length, smiling. “What about your father? How will he take this?”

  She smiled. “I don’t think he’d better know—yet.”

  He stroked her arms. “Why not?”

  “
He needs preparing. He hasn’t a notion in his head that anything like this may happen.”

  “But surely he must have an inkling. You’ve been out with me six or seven rimes in the last month.”

  “Yes, dearest, but I haven’t told him.”

  He stared at her. “You haven’t told him?”

  “No. I didn’t want to.”

  “But I thought.…”

  “Have I deceived you too? I’m sorry, dearest. I thought if he knew he’d only start asking awkward questions when I didn’t know the answers myself! Now I do, perhaps I can begin a system of education! But he’s terribly strict and because I love him I try to humour him. Don’t worry,” she said, noticing the change in Roger’s manner; “he’s really quite easy to lead but very hard to drive. It’s a question of time and patience.”

  Roger made the best of it. “ I’d hate to offend him. He’s been so very kind to me.”

  “We won’t, I think, if we take it easily, but we’ll have to go easily. I’ll get him to invite you to the house again.” Still seeking for the qualification in Roger’s expression, she said: “ Do you mind? Do you mind keeping it secret for a few more weeks?”

  “No.… No, it isn’t that at all.”

  “Dearest, if it’s going to make any difference to your feeling about me, I’ll go straight away and tell him tonight. His consent wouldn’t make any difference in the long run. I’ll marry you tomorrow if you say so.”

  Roger narrowed his eyes at her, his face still warm and affectionate. “Of course we’ll wait. Take your time. Prepare the ground. Undermine his defences. So long as we can go on seeing each other in the meantime.”

  She laughed. “Of course. You see, I so much wanted to come out with you when you asked me, and I knew if I mentioned it to him that even if he didn’t actually say no he might so hedge it about with disapproval that part of the fun would be gone.”

  “Does he frown on me in particular or on all men who——”

  “Oh, I don’t think … in fact I’m sure he likes you. But he might be surprised at the thought of your being his future son-in-law. Don’t misunderstand me, dearest. It’s only that he might think of the difference in age—and I suppose in experience.”

  “Yes, I must look very sere and yellow to you.”

  “You don’t look anything of the sort, and you know you don’t. But I’m an only child, and parents part more reluctantly and want more satisfying than when they have three or four to get rid or I’m afraid Daddy will make rather an inquest of the whole thing.” She was thoughtful. “ I’m wondering.…”

  “Yes?”

  “I think we ought to go carefully for a while—even about seeing each other—till I prepare the ground. When it didn’t matter I didn’t care. But now it becomes much more important that he shouldn’t feel we’ve been pulling a fast one on him.”

  “I didn’t know we had been.”

  “I’m sorry. But you do see how much I wanted to come. Anyway there’s one thing Daddy won’t be able to say, thank Heaven, and that’s that you’re marrying me for my money.… D’you know, I think it will be better if we don’t go again to such public places as Wimbledon. Perhaps we could meet here sometimes, or in a cinema or——”

  “Here is best.”

  They kissed again. His sense of triumph was temporarily less.

  As she was about to leave she said: “There’s one other thing—the little action. Do you know when it’s going to be heard?”

  “Not certainly. I was hoping it might come on before the end of the present sittings, but I don’t think there’s much hope of that now.”

  She looked intently at him. “Is it going to be all right?”

  “My solicitors say so. They don’t think I can possibly lose.”

  “And when will it be, if not soon?”

  “Probably early October.”

  “Oh, dear, what an age!”

  “Does it make any difference to us?”

  “No … I only think that, once that’s out of the way, it will make it much easier for me to approach Daddy about this.”

  Roger had tickets for the following Wednesday also, but he was very willing to agree that they shouldn’t be seen in public again. The last thing he wanted was to be accused of stealing Marion away by underhand means. It was possible, even probable, that a marriage to her, even in the teeth of Sir Percy’s opposition, might turn out well for him in the end. But in the big-game hunt that occupied him at the moment Sir Percy’s present and immediate goodwill was of surpreme importance. The trustee-directors of The Globe were being cagey about Laycock’s advances, but there was no question whatsoever that they would jump at his help and his money if conditions agreeable to both sides could be drawn up. The way might yet be long and the bargaining hard, but Roger knew agreement could be reached. If it was reached Sir Percy would either stipulate for him a seat on the board or, what he really coveted, would offer him the editorship. That meant a salary of the size he liked and power of the sort he wanted. It meant an end for ever to being at the call of people like Alexander and Robinson.

  In future, if this came off, he would be on the other side of the desk. To gain that Roger was prepared to do a great deal.

  He remembered he had seen Michael only twice in the last month. This year there would be no breaking up, no cheerful talkative dinners together in his flat during the early weeks of August, no holiday at Antibes. He phoned Michael and asked if he could get off on Wednesday afternoon.

  They met in the box at ten past five. Michael slipped into the seat beside him and smiled a greeting before settling to watch. Roger thought he had lost weight and looked pale and pasty. Too many late nights, too many snack meals, too many girls. It was a familiar pattern. What could one do on twelve pounds ten a week? Roger felt a twinge of conscience at letting him loose in the city.

  The game was a cut and thrust men’s singles. One player scowled at the umpire, queried line decisions, muttered under his breath and sulked. “Let’s go out for a bit,” Roger said at the end of the second set. “ I can’t stand these hairy-legged prima donnas.”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in tennis.”

  “I’m not; but I had the tickets. I brought a girl on Monday but decided today to invite you instead.”

  “Rather an anti-climax.”

  “Not an unagreeable one. Wimbledon acts as a giant catharsis for women. They lose their individuality in some sort of psychological purgation.”

  “Anyway I was glad to come.”

  They went out into the main thoroughfare between the scoreboards. After pushing through the crowd and queuing for a drink they sat on the grass and talked.

  Roger found it pleasant to be with his son again. Women were wonderful but exacting. His own standards in their company were exacting. Michael was easy to be with. And Michael, after the wear and tear of the last few weeks, found it easy too.

  It was eight days since he had done with Peter—not quarrelling but absolutely and decisively finishing with him on the spot in the Piccadilly tube after the telephone call. That was wild man’s work, Michael said, to inform on Kenny when Kenny might do the same back, and he was having no more of it. Maybe, as Peter argued, Boy, if caught, wouldn’t dare to say anything about them for fear of getting in deeper himself. (And in any case there was no proof.) But Michael didn’t like the idea of a few hints being dropped in the wrong places. Although Peter had found the tyres of his taxi slashed and the number plates torn off, Michael cared little or nothing for the spite of a few barrow boys. He was worried about the police. And he felt he had been shoved head first into a war of nerves that could do no one any good. He was angry enough about being let down and about the killing of the dog, but one had to keep some sense of proportion.

  So his, promise to Bennie had been fulfilled ahead of time. And he was back on his own resources except for a few pounds he still kept under his bed.

  Roger said: “D’you like living on your own?”

  “Y
es, fine.”

  “What d’you do with your time? You don’t come and see me.”

  “I thought my last visit was disastrous enough.”

  “Yes, well.… The next time need not be. D’you still see Bennie?”

  “Yes.”

  “You look a trifle etiolated in the sunlight. D’you get out of town much?”

  “I went down to the coast a few Sundays ago. And you. Dad?”

  Roger laughed. “I don’t want to pry into your affairs. I was always on my own and I came out all right. But remember if you want any help or advice I’m always on tap. I’ve done my best to give you a pretty wide-awake outlook; but I’m an experienced and seasoned warrior and there’s nothing like having been in the fight for twenty years to put you wise to things.”

  “Thanks,” Michael said. It was very much on his tongue then to tell his father everything from the beginning. It was all waiting to spill out in a complicated tale of doubt and annoyance and half failure.

  But however near it all was to being told, it would never have come. The closeness of the relationship made the gap wider; even their liking for each other did not help; Michael could more easily have told it all to a passing tramp. In that moment he felt the Catholics were off the track to call a confessor “father”.

  After a pause that seemed long to him he eventually muttered “Thanks” again and scrambled to his feet. Roger, seeing the darkness and uncertainty in his face, nearly said something further but decided not to. The offer was there. He could do no more.

  They spent three hours there and then took bus and tube back to London. They had a snack meal at a public house and then separated, Michael having promised to have lunch with his father at the club on the Friday. Michael got a bus home the rest of the way and turned down his street whistling under his breath, the only whistling he ever did, when he was content.