A Dance to the Music of Time: 2nd Movement

  ‘Do you? But you won’t know her mother, who’s come with them this afternoon. She’s lived most of her life in South America. She must be partly South American, I think. She looks like one of those sad Goya duchesses. She and Robert Duport, the owner of the Collection, have been separated for years, so Polly Duport told me, but have been seeing a good deal of each other lately. He’s never brought her along before. She was married to a South American politician, who was killed by urban guerillas. That’s why she came back to England.’

  Henderson’s explanation had taken so long that the people next door, tired of waiting, now moved into the room where we were talking; Duport’s wheeled-chair pushed by his daughter. Her mother followed. Norman Chandler, who was directing the Strindberg production to which Henderson referred, was one of this party. Henderson was right about Jean. The metamorphosis, begun when the late Colonel Flores had been his country’s military attaché in London at the end of the war, was complete. She was now altogether transformed into a foreign lady of distinction. The phrase ‘sad Goya duchess’ did not at all overstate the case. Chandler gave a dramatic cry of satisfaction at seeing someone with whom he could exchange reminiscences of Mr Deacon.

  ‘Nick, so you’ve come to see Edgar’s pictures? Who’d ever have thought it? Do you remember when I sold him that statuette called Truth unveiled by Time? Barney and Chuck ought to have that on show here too. I wonder where it is now?’

  Duport stirred in the wheel-chair. He looked a rather ghastly sight. All the same he recognized me at once, and let out a hoarse laugh.

  ‘How the hell do you know he hasn’t come to see my pictures, Norman, not these naked Roman queers? He probably loves the sea.’

  He turned in my direction.

  ‘I can’t remember your name, because I can’t remember anyone’s name these days, including my own most of the time, but we were in Brussels together, looking after different fragments of the Belgian military machine.’

  ‘We were indeed.’

  I told Duport my name. Chandler hastened to make additional introductions.

  ‘So you and Bob know each other, Nick, and I’m sure you’ve met Polly. This is her mother, Madame Flores—’

  Jean smiled graciously. She held out the hand of a former near-dictator’s lady—Carlos Flores cannot have been much short of dictator at the height of his power—a clasp, brief and light, not without a sense of power about it too. There could have been no doubt in the mind of an onlooker—Henderson, say, or Chuck—that Jean and I had met before. That was about the best you could say for past love. In fact Jean’s former husband, whom I had never much liked, was appreciably less distant than she.

  ‘I’ve gone down the drain since those Brussels days. It all started in the Middle East. Gyppy Tummy, then complications. Never got things properly right. Look at me now. Shunted round in a bathchair. Penny for the guy. That’s how I feel. One of the things I remember about you is that you knew that château-bottled shit Widmerpool.’

  Polly Duport patted her father’s head in deprecation of such forcible metaphor. Duport’s appearance certainly bore out an assertion that he was not at all well. There seemed scarcely room in the chair for his long legs, the knees thrust up at an uncomfortable angle. Spectacles much altered his appearance. His daughter looked much younger than her forties. Firmly dedicated—somebody said like a nun—to her profession, she was dressed with great simplicity, as if to emphasize an absolute detachment from anything at all like the popular idea of an actress. This was in contrast with Jean, who had acquired a dramatic luxuriousness of turnout, not at all hers as a girl. Polly had always greatly resembled her mother, but, their styles now so different, perhaps only someone like myself, who had known Jean in her young days, would notice much similarity. Duport was not in the least disposed to abandon the theme of Widmerpool, whom he regarded as having at one moment all but ruined him financially.

  ‘Polly once saw Widmerpool knocked out by an American film star. I wish I’d been there to shake him by the hand.’

  ‘He wasn’t really knocked out, Papa. Only his specs broken. And Louis Glober wasn’t a film star, though he looked like one.’

  ‘It was something to break that bastard’s glasses. I’d have castrated him too, if I’d ever had the chance. Not much to remove, I’d guess.’

  Jean made a gesture to silence her former husband.

  ‘How are you, Nick? You’re looking well. Better than the time you and your wife came to a party we gave, when Carlos was over here. Everybody in London was so utterly tired out at the end of the war. Do you remember our party? How is your wife? I liked her so much.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear—’

  Before Jean could answer, Duport, recognizing the imminence of condolences for the death of Colonel Flores, broke in again.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about Carlos. Carlos didn’t do too badly. Had the time of his life, when the going was good, then went out instantaneously. Lucky devil. I envy him like hell. Wish I’d met him. He always sounded the sort of bloke I like.’

  Jean accepted that view.

  ‘I’ve often said you’d both of you have got on very well together.’

  Polly Duport, possibly lacking her parents’ toughness in handling such matters, at the same reminded by them of emotional complications suffered by herself, turned the conversation in the direction of these.

  ‘You know Gibson Delavacquerie, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I haven’t seen him for a month or two. He said he was working very hard.’

  ‘Gibson and I are getting married.’

  ‘You are? How splendid. Best possible wishes.’

  ‘He’s got a new book of poems coming out. That’s why he’s gone into retirement as much as possible.’

  She looked very pleased; at the same time a little sad. I wondered whether the poems had anything to do with the sadness. In any case there had been quite a bit of sadness to surmount. She had given this information in an aside, while her parents were laughing, with Chandler and the owners of the gallery, about some incident illustrated in one of the Deacons, to which Chandler was pointing. Now he turned to Polly and myself.

  ‘Goodness, don’t these bring Edgar back? Do you remember his last birthday party when he fell down stairs at that awful dive, The Brass Monkey?’

  ‘I wasn’t there. I knew that was the final disaster.’

  Duport stared round disapprovingly.

  ‘I prefer my wind and waves. Smart of me to hang on to them all these years, wasn’t it? That took some doing. Do you remember, Jean, how your brother, Peter, used to grumble about looking after my pictures for me, when I was in low water, and hadn’t anywhere to put them. He hung them in the dining-room of that house he had at Maidenhead. He’d no pictures of his own to speak of—except that terrible Isbister of his old man—so I can’t see what he was grousing at. I might easily have got rid of them, but was spry enough not to sell. They wouldn’t have made a cent.’

  Jean laughed.

  ‘Poor Peter. Why should he keep your junk? You weren’t in low water. You were running round with Bijou Ardglass.’

  ‘Perhaps I was. One forgets these things. Poor Bijou too.’

  ‘Do you remember the pictures in the dining-room, Nick? Peter’s Maidenhead house was where we met.’

  ‘And played planchette.’

  ‘Yes—we played planchette.’

  Duport, becoming suddenly tired, lay back in his chair. He gave a very faint groan. I felt I liked him better than I used. His daughter made a movement to leave.

  ‘I think we’d better go home now, Papa.’

  Duport sat up straight again.

  ‘So we’ve only got one more to sell?’

  Henderson agreed. Jean once more held out her hand. Fashion, decreeing one kissed almost everyone these days, might not unreasonably have brought that about had she kept herself less erect. It was thus avoided without prejudice to good manners.

  ‘So nice to have met.’


  ‘Yes, so nice.’

  Polly Duport smiled goodbye. I told her how glad I was to hear about herself and Delavacquerie. She smiled again, but did not say anything. Chandler waved. Taking Henderson and Chuck each by an arm, he led them towards the door, evidently imparting an anecdote about Mr Deacon. Duport gave a nod, as he was wheeled away. I strolled round the marine painters. There was—as Jean had said—a vague memory of sea pictures, hung rather askew, on Templer’s dining-room wall. Rather a job lot they had seemed to me that weekend. Even if other things had not been on my mind—that soft laugh of Jean’s—Victorian seascapes would have made no great appeal.

  ‘It’s the bedroom next to yours. Give it half an hour. Don’t be too long.’

  The Needles: Schooner Aground was by no means without all merit. The painter had evidently seen the work of Bonington. I was less keen on Angry Seas off Land’s End. Henderson returned.

  ‘Polly Duport’s sweet, isn’t she? Don’t you find her mother a little alarming? But then you’d met her before. She must have been very handsome when young. Let me show you that last remaining one of the Duport Collection. You might like to consider it yourself.

  He did so. There was no sale. Chuck reappeared.

  ‘Time to close.’

  Henderson looked at his watch.

  ‘You were telling me you still had some line on the Murtlock/Widmerpool setup. I’d be most interested to hear more of what went on there.’

  Chuck interposed.

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  Henderson hesitated.

  ‘No thanks, Chuck. I’ll deal with everything. Just do the usual, and go home. I’ll follow on.’

  Henderson seemed divided between wanting to tell his story, and something else that appeared to weigh on his mind. Then he must have decided that telling the story would be sufficiently gratifying to make up for possible indiscretion in other directions.

  ‘If you’ve got a moment, we could go down to the office.’

  I said goodnight to Chuck, by then making preparations to leave. Henderson led the way down a spiral staircase to the basement. The narrow passages below were cluttered with more pictures, framed and unframed. We entered a small room filled with filing cabinets and presses for drawings. Henderson took up his position behind a desk. I chose an armchair of somewhat exotic design, of which there were two. Henderson now seemed to relish the idea of making a fairly elaborate narration. He had perhaps exhausted the extent of persons of his own age prepared to listen.

  ‘When we all crashed Clare Akworth’s wedding, did you notice an old fellow with us. He had a beard and a red sweater. It was him all the trouble was about at the end, so I heard. Chuck and I had gone off by then.’

  ‘You mean Bithel?’

  ‘You know about him? I was told Scorp had almost to carry him home. Bith was a drunk. Somebody sent him along to us when he was just about to freak out. Bith was the only man or woman I’ve ever seen Scorp behave in a decent way to. He pretty well saved Bith’s life. Bith worshipped Scorp in return. When he got better, Bith did odd jobs about the place nobody else wanted to do. That was pretty useful. There was no one who liked household chores. There was another side too. Scorp said an aged man was required for certain rites. Bith didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind what he did.’

  Henderson’s face suggested that some of the acts Bithel had been required to perform were less than agreeable, bearing out Widmerpool’s reluctance to detail his own experience in that line.

  ‘Could he stand being allowed no alcohol?’

  ‘That’s the point. Bith found that a drag. It was just the knowledge he was being kept alive prevented him from packing it in—plus adoration for Scorp. From time to time Bith would get hold of a little money, and have a drink on the quiet. Scorp winked at that. He’d never have stood it from anyone else, unless for strictly ritual purposes. That was permitted, like getting high on whatever Scorp might sometimes decide to produce. I used to give Bith the price of a drink once in a while, so he’d do things for me. I’d got some money hidden away.’

  ‘You weren’t allowed money?’

  ‘Scorp controlled all that. Most of them hadn’t much anyway. I’d hidden some at the top of the house under the eaves. I’d been thinking about getting away for some time, but it wasn’t so easy. Then seeing Chuck gave me the chance. If Chuck hadn’t been working in the same firm as Clare Akworth—he’s one of their drivers, and gives her lifts to the office—I might not be here. I might not even be alive, if she’d not invited Chuck to the wedding, and he hadn’t always wanted to wear a grey tailcoat.’

  Henderson looked absolutely serious when he said he might not have been alive. His manner had become even a little disconcerting in its seriousness.

  ‘It’s Bith who looks in to see me occasionally. Scorp sends him to London sometimes to do odd jobs. Perhaps with a message to Canon Fenneau, if a respectable link is needed. It is sometimes. Fenneau helped once about getting a girl who was having a baby into hospital. Scorp recognizes that Bith will arrive back drunk, but he just makes him do a small penance. There’s a particular thing Widmerpool’s got that I hope one of these days to get out of him. That’s why I keep in touch with Bith. He isn’t very coherent as a rule. That doesn’t much matter. Do you ever hear anything of Fiona? She used to use Bith too.’

  ‘Her mother got a letter from her the other day. Fiona seems all right. They’re in the Middle West.’

  The Cutts parents, ‘good’ as ever, never complained about hearing rarely from their daughter. Probably they took the view that no news was better than bad news.

  ‘Scorp used to talk a lot about that American Fiona married.’

  ‘In connexion with Fiona?’

  ‘No, not at all. Scorp was angry when Fiona went away, but I don’t think he foresaw she would end up with Gwinnett. It was Gwinnett’s own potential powers that attracted Scorp.’

  ‘Transcendental ones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about Widmerpool? Did Murtlock think he possessed transcendental powers too?’

  The question was put lightly, even ironically. Henderson chose to answer it seriously. Having now abandoned the cult, he was prepared to denounce Murtlock as an individual; he had been too long connected with its system and disciplines utterly to reject their foundations. That was the impression his manner suggested.

  ‘Ken’s transcendental gifts were not what Scorp valued him for. I doubt if he possessed any. Not like Gwinnett. It was Ken’s will-power. Also, of course, the basic fact of being able to live in and around his house. Ken wanted to be head. I see now he never could have been. At first it seemed touch and go. At least I thought so. I was afraid Ken would take over. He picked up the doctrinal part so quickly. I was terrified.’

  ‘Why terrified?’

  Henderson looked surprise at being asked that.

  ‘Because I was in love with Scorp. I wanted him at the head.’

  ‘Is Widmerpool in love with Murtlock too?’

  This time Henderson did not give a snap answer. He hesitated. When he spoke it was objectively, almost primly.

  I don’t know. It was hard for me to judge. I thought everybody was in love with Scorp. I was jealous of them for that. Ken doesn’t actively dislike girls. He’d watch them naked, whenever he could. He may like boys better now he’s used to them.’

  ‘You mean in sexual rites?’

  ‘Or on runs.’

  ‘You went for naked runs?’

  ‘Not at all often. Very rarely. Sometimes the ritual required it. In spring or autumn we would have to wait for a fairly warm night. Even then it could be dreadful.’

  ‘Before breakfast?’

  ‘Breakfast—you don’t suppose we had breakfast? It was usually about half-past four in the morning. Only about once a year.’

  ‘Murtlock himself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Widmerpool too?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Bithel?’

 
‘No—not Bith. Bith was let off. He’d make up for it by the other things he had to do.’

  ‘And Widmerpool took part in the sexual rites?’

  ‘When he was able.’

  ‘Didn’t you meet anyone on your naked runs?’

  ‘Not in the middle of the night. It wasn’t often. Scorp took us along paths through the woods.’

  ‘Murtlock had Widmerpool completely under control in the end?’

  ‘Only after the arrival of Bith. That was the turning point. Ken hated Bith. There was no Harmony. No Harmony at all. That made Scorp angry. It made bad vibrations. He was quite right. It did. I won’t tell you some of the things Scorp made them do together. I don’t like to think of it.’

  Henderson shuddered.

  ‘Why didn’t Widmerpool leave?’

  ‘Where would he go? If he went, Scorp remained in possession of the house. There’s no getting him out. Ken’s believed to have bequeathed it to the cult anyway. He could have made it over already.’

  ‘Was thought of the house what caused Widmerpool to change his mind at Stourwater?’

  ‘It was Scorp’s will-power. That’s stronger than anything. You’d know, if you’d ever had to face it. He came to Chuck’s flat, and tried to get me back. There was an awful scene. I don’t know how I got through it. I was shaky for a fortnight after. I did somehow—with the help of Chuck.’

  Henderson shuddered again.

  ‘But what was the point of it all. What did—what does—Widmerpool expect to get out of it?’

  Once more Henderson seemed surprised. He was prepared to accept that he himself might find the ways of Murtlock harsh, horrible, even murderous. The aim of the cult, if impossible to express in words, was to him an altogether understandable one.

  ‘Ken was playing for high stakes, if he really became head. It’s hard to explain. Of course I don’t believe now, not in the least. But Scorp, for instance, where’s he going to end? He might go anywhere. That’s what Ken felt. Of course Ken was too old, apart from anything else.’

  ‘A messiah?’

  ‘If you like.’

  A bell rang at some length from upstairs. It sounded as if someone was following that up by rattling on the front door. Henderson rose,