‘I find this depressing,’ said Richard, a few minutes later.
‘I know what you mean. But I do love Covent Garden. We might have a look around there.’
‘I’d rather get a meal,’ said Richard. ‘I shall have to eat before I drive home. And my lunch was forgettable.’
‘We’d better go into the Strand.’
‘I’d like somewhere quiet.’ Richard was now sure he would talk about Violet. ‘And I’m not dressed for any decent restaurant.’
‘I don’t think they expect much of one nowadays. And you are wearing a tie – just. Still … there’s a café over there – or rather, a caff, and that’s flattering it. Undoubtedly quiet.’
It was almost empty. Richard opted for it.
‘Difficult to choose between twenty tables,’ said Drew. They settled near the window, far away from the counter. ‘Well, I gather one goes and gets what one wants.’
Sandwiches seemed safest, plus cups of tea, no pots being available. ‘Sorry I let you in for this,’ said Richard, as they went back to their table. ‘You wouldn’t think such places could survive – those archaic urns, in these days of dashing Espressos.’
‘It’s probably used by Covent Garden porters. Anyway, London’s full of survivals, like the streets we’ve walked through. For that matter, all England is, as our family’s proved these last weeks. Merry with the desiccated Crestovers – they’re typical of hundreds of great families on their last legs. Me with Miss Whitecliff, though I don’t say she’s typical. I’m not sure I didn’t create her out of my love of Edwardiana; perhaps she isn’t there when I’m not.’
‘And is Clare’s man typical royal blood and all?’
‘Perhaps she created him. But really he is typical and so’s my Miss Whitecliff, in a curious, basic way. They’re typical because of … their unusualness, their eccentricity. I’m convinced England’s overflowing with eccentric people, places, happenings. Indeed, you might say eccentricity’s normal in England.’
‘Only it just so happens that Rowley isn’t of English descent.’
‘Well, England not only breeds eccentrics, it plays host to them. How I long to have met that old dead king! Come to think of it, we’re a bit freakish as a family, particularly Clare and I. Do you think that’s why we’ve landed in such … well, freakish circumstances? Perhaps like gravitates to like.’
It was the kind of discussion Drew could enjoy for hours. ‘What interests me more,’ said Richard, ‘is that you’ve gravitated to such rich circumstances. Why haven’t I that knack?’
‘Probably because you belong to the future – not to the past, as individual wealth really does. Anyway, I never heard of a great composer who began life wealthy.’
‘The idea of my becoming any kind of composer has begun to strike me as ludicrous,’ said Richard gloomily.
‘No work at all? Well, you’ve so much to worry about. I do wish you’d let me help with expenses at home.’
‘I will when I need to.’ Richard took a long drink of very nasty tea and decided it was now or never as regards mentioning Violet and it was going to be now. ‘By the way, I don’t think I’ve told you that Violet has arrived.’
Drew looked blank but only for a second. ‘You mean Father’s Violet? No, Richard, you haven’t told me that.’
There was no sign of avid curiosity; merely a mild, encouraging interest. It was the usual Drew technique for eliciting a full confidence and Richard had no desire to resist it. He waded in without conscious reservations, and knew that Drew was liable to spot unconscious ones and trot them out for inspection. Incidentally, telling the story clarified certain points for himself and he was not surprised when Drew said: ‘But, my dear Richard, she obviously came with just one idea in her head: you. Didn’t she show any special interest in you when you called on her after Father bolted?’
‘Looking back, I see that she may have done.’
‘I, of course, knew of your interest in her from your very first meeting. I assure you I did.’
‘Nonsense. You’re just being wise after the event.’
‘No, really. Clare knew, too.’
‘Well, I didn’t, anyway,’ said Richard.
‘Because you didn’t let yourself. It would have been – what’s the word you’ve just used repeatedly? Distasteful: a horrid word, sort of sour. Well, what are you going to do? Obviously you must let the girl have her head, I mean as regards having her say.’
‘I’m convinced she’ll just tell me a pack of lies.’
Drew looked at him searchingly. ‘Richard, do you like her at all? I used the word advisedly.’
‘Not much. Sometimes I actually dislike her.’
‘Then I think you should turf her out. I don’t feel at all strongly about your “distasteful” angle. It’s a bore she was Father’s girl friend but that barrier’s not much more than conventional and if you were really in love I’d give you my blessing. I even would if you … well, just felt fond of her. But to have an affair with a woman you actually dislike strikes me as sheer vice.
‘You’re leaving out one trifling fact,’ said Richard. ‘At times I find her overpoweringly attractive.’
‘You don’t – if she hasn’t overpowered you.’
‘Well, she’s only been on the job a week.’ Richard was beginning to find Drew’s paternal manner annoying. Really, his dear, intuitive but utterly innocent brother was out of his depth. ‘Oh, I must just work it out for myself. And I ought to be able to – after all, I had two affairs when I was in Germany.’
Drew smilingly remembered. ‘One with a near tart and one with a near virgin, you told me. An interesting selection, though I never believed in the latter; virgins, surely, are or aren’t. Anyway, my advice is: go home, let poor Violet talk, then make up your mind what you really want. Don’t just, well, oblige her. Would you like some more of this revolting tea?’
Richard shook his head.
‘Then let’s go. Peculiar place this – like a television set without enough people in it. Where did you leave your car?’
‘Back of Regent’s Park – vaguely.’
‘I hope you don’t mean “vaguely”.’
‘No, no, I memorized the name of the street. Only … well, it’ll come back to me.’
‘It had better,’ said Drew, ominously. ‘Let’s cut through to the Strand and get a taxi. I’ll come with you. I’ve still got over an hour. Don’t talk. Just try to remember.’
‘I feel sure it was near the Zoo.’
‘Well, that’s something. We’ll start there.’
As they got into the taxi Richard said: ‘It was one of those streets which run away from the Zoo.’
‘Run north?’
‘If that would be north.’
Drew and the taxi driver worked out a plan of campaign which conveyed little to Richard. He sat looking out of the window and presenfly remarked that the Strand struck him as garish.
‘Very. Don’t waste your mind on it,’ Drew told him. ‘Just go on trying to remember.’
‘I am sorry. And I’d have said I’d been better of late; nothing like as absent-minded as when I’m working.’
‘I’m all for your being absent-minded when you’re working. And you’re really more single-minded than absent-minded. But you might have to spend hours looking for that car.’
They drove in silence until Richard suddenly said:
‘Hello! This looks like the place.’
‘This, Richard, is the south side of the park and quite a long way from the Zoo.’
‘Oh. Well, I am sure about the Zoo, because I went there. Though it comes to me now that I parked before I had lunch and then walked to the Zoo.’
‘Well, we’ll start east of Primrose Hill and try every street.’ They went for some distance up three streets. Richard gazed at the lighted windows of flats and houses with envy. So many people safely in for the night, and so aloof from him and his plight; slight resentment was added to the envy. After another street, Drew said: ??
?Are you sure you came in the car?’
Richard’s eyes went blank; then light retumed to them. ‘Yes! Look, I’ve got the key!’
They tried more streets, with no better luck.
‘You’ll miss your train, Drew,’ said Richard.
‘I shall have to dash for it soon, as I promised to get back tonight.’
‘And I’m sure we’re too far from the Zoo. You take this taxi on to your station and I’ll walk back and go a bit farther up each street, right from the beginning.’
‘You wouldn’t know where the beginning was,’ said Drew. ‘Anyway, let’s do the job properly. There are only two more streets before the road where all the buses are. Even you couldn’t have parked there.’
They found the car in St John’s Wood High Street, close to the churchyard.
‘Believe it or not,’ said Drew, ‘that building has nothing to do with the Zoo. It’s St John’s Wood Church – Clare’s future parish church, incidentally. Not that she was ever by way of being religious.’
Richard apologized abjectly and offered to pay for the taxi. ‘Well, at least let me drive you to the station,’ he said, when Drew waved the money away.
‘No, thank you,’ said Drew. ‘I want to get there.’
He saw Richard into the car, then stood by the open window.
‘There’s so much we still haven’t talked about,’ said Richard, regretting he hadn’t done more to make Drew talk about himself.
‘Well, we must meet again before long. Richard, I was intolerant about Violet. And I don’t believe you do dislike her.’
Richard smiled. ‘You couldn’t be intolerant, Drew. And just because you never dislike anyone—’
‘But I do. And I can be intolerant.’
Drew’s tone was so cold that Richard looked at him in surprise and saw, by the light of a street lamp, that his brother’s expression was rigidly implacable. Then the moment passed and their usual liveliness returned to voice and face.
‘l must go, Richard. Do write.’
‘You, too. And tell Merry to.’
Richard waited until Drew was back in the taxi and on his way; then looked around, none too sure of his route out of London. Strange that Drew and Merry could always find their way about here, when Clare and he were so hopeless at it.
He wasn’t conscious of any other resemblance between Clare and himself – but then, how little he’d known her. Perhaps she was just a born bad lot. He doubted that, but if she was, it might be as well that she’d found it out.
Along the High Street came a small, white, lady poodle, out for a walk on a pale blue leash. Remembering Clare’s radiant confidence at the hotel, it occurred to him that she might be like those ultra-feminine dogs who are scared of even their own shadows but bold as brass with interested males. Being fond of dogs, he found the idea pleasing and his disapproval of Clare dwindled. Good luck to her, anyway. He cast a beneficent glance in what he imagined was the direction of St John’s Wood, then thought about Drew on his way back to Merry … Less than a month ago the four of them had been together every day, taking each other for granted, hardly aware of the pleasure they found in each other’s company.
Starting the car and heading – he hoped – for home, he played with the pretence that the Dome House of those days would be waiting for him, with the others asleep in their rooms when he entered the dark hall. But his thoughts soon slid to the Dome House of the present, where there was more than a chance that Violet would be waiting up when he entered the hall. Did he hope she would be? He couldn’t decide. But he did drive a little faster.
5
Two Views of the Dome
No one was waiting up for him. And when he woke, very late the next morning, and came down in a dressing-gown, he found the house deserted. Jane, of course, would have gone to Miss Willy; Cook and Edith would be at the Swan. But where were Violet and Aunt Winifred? He then discovered a note, addressed to himself, on the hall table. It said:
Darling Richard,
As you wouldn’t take me to London, I’ve gone on my own and taken your aunt – the poor old dear needs a change. Back in a day or two. Lots of love,
Violet.
Had they left yesterday or this morning? If this morning, Violet might not have made her bed … He looked into her room. The bed was made. Otherwise the room was untidy; but it smelt very nice and all the things left lying about were charming, not to say expensive. When with her, however much attracted, he always felt it his duty to be antagonistic. He was conscious of no such duty now and felt positively tender towards her possessions. Annoying of her not to be here when he was so much in the mood to see her …
He dressed, breakfasted on milk and biscuits, then sat in the hall reading the morning paper. Could one be so obsessed by the little problems of one’s inner world when the outer world was facing such gigantic problems? Unfortunately – or perhaps mercifully – one could. He put the paper aside and lay down, staring upwards and remembering that, in his childhood, this worm’s eye view of the dome had always made him feel physically small. He had mentioned this to his grandmother who had offered the explanation that the little dome of their house carried his thoughts up to the vast dome above it. Well, his thoughts weren’t likely to do any such soaring this morning.
This memory of his grandmother reminded him of how seldom he thought about her … strange, in view of how much her upbringing must have conditioned him. But he had never felt emotionally tied to her, as he would have to his mother if she’d ever given him the chance. ‘Grand’ had just been a kind, encouraging woman who put the tools of one’s trade within reach and made life at Dome House very comfortable. It was that life as a whole he thought of when he looked back over the years. Someone had once, with faint disparagement, referred to him and his brother and sisters as ‘grandmother’s children’, but they were really more the children of a house. Well, the others were out from under the dome now. He continued to stare up at it. The brightness of the mid-morning sun showed that it needed cleaning …
He was suddenly aware of having been lost in one of his moods of abstraction. He had been subject to them since his boyhood, had no control over them and only knew of them when they were over. They were of two kinds: one, a vague daydream, dimly rememberable, which left him depleted and dissatisfied with himself; the other, far rarer, left him with no memory of its content, but in a state bordering on exaltation and certain that he would shortly be capable of creative work. Today the mood was of the second description and he came out of it astounded at such good fortune, also very hungry, and surprised to find it was long past lunch time. He grabbed some bread and cheese, grudging the time it took, then hurried out to his music room.
On entering it he had a sudden doubt if he really would be able to work. But there was nothing new about that; for years he’d always had to force himself into actually starting. And he had felt confident. He must hang on to that.
The first three movements of his sextet, though far from satisfying him, did at least exist. The finale did not, in any performable shape – and it must be made to. With a tremendous mental effort, he got going.
He had been working a good three hours when Jane opened the door.
‘Do forgive me for disturbing you, Richard. If I wait until you come indoors Violet and Miss Carrington may have returned, or the maids may be around. And I need to speak to you privately.’
Curbing his irritation, he welcomed her in and settled her in a chair. She looked around with distressed eyes.
‘Oh, dear, this is the first time I’ve been in this room since I talked to your father here! Well, now …’ She became determinedly cheerful. ‘I don’t quite know how to begin.’
He smiled at her with great liking. Kind, reliable Jane, in her cashmere sweater, her well-cut tweed skirt and her admirable shoes. He had always thought she had a sweet face, a very girlish face for a woman nearly in her forties; he suspected there would still be something girlish about it if she lived into her nineties.
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‘Plunge right in,’ he advised.
‘It’s just that I’ve been working on a scheme. Briefly …’
She wasn’t at all brief and, from the beginning, he had to restrain himself from blowing her scheme sky-high. For what she had to suggest was that Miss Willy should take over as many rooms as possible at Dome House, for her overflow of teachers and a few senior pupils.
‘You see, if we could use Drew’s room and Clare’s and Merry’s – and if you could sleep in here, well, that would be four rooms. And if Violet and Miss Carrington would … well, go, that would make six. The rent of six rooms would enable us to keep the maids at home. They’d rather work here for a minimum wage than go to the Swan.’
‘Have you asked them?’ said Richard.
‘Well, yes – I needed to know their feelings before approaching you. They dislike working at the Swan and poor old Burly is having trouble with the young dog there who doesn’t respect his seniority. But I ought to say at once that the scheme will only work if we can let six rooms.’
‘Then it’s out of the question,’ said Richard, with relief. ‘I can’t turn my aunt out, and Violet’s stay is … well, indefinite.’
‘But how can things go on as they are? The maids are too tired now to do any cleaning here. The food gets worse and worse. The winter’s coming, already the house is insufficiently heated. And can you afford to cope with even the minimum expenses? Do forgive me if I’m being impertinent.’
‘You’re not,’ he assured her. ‘And, frankly, I can’t cope much longer. I see no chance, even, of paying next quarter’s rent. But damn it, what can I do? My aunt says she has no money. And she’s let her house.’
‘She informed me she’d merely closed it. Anyway, if she’s hard up, why doesn’t she claim an old-age pension? She had the nerve to tell me that’s something no lady would ever do. She’s victimizing you, Richard. As for Violet! You surely don’t think she’s poor?’
‘I did think she was, when she came,’ he said, uncomfortably.