Page 15 of Put Out More Flags


  Now she said to herself as loudly as though to someone sitting opposite on the white Empire day-bed, “Maginot Line—Angela Lyne—both lines of least resistance,” and laughed at her joke until the tears came and suddenly she found herself weeping in earnest.

  Then she took a pull at herself. This wouldn’t do at all. She had better go out to the cinema.

  Peter Pastmaster was taking a girl out that evening. He looked very elegant and old-fashioned in his blue patrol jacket and tight overall trousers. He and the girl dined at a new restaurant in Jermyn Street.

  She was Lady Mary Meadowes, Lord Granchester’s second daughter. In his quest for a wife Peter had narrowed the field to three—Molly Meadowes; Sarah, Lord Flintshire’s daughter; and Betty, daughter of the Duchess of Stayle. Since he was marrying for old-fashioned, dynastic reasons he proposed to make an old-fashioned, dynastic choice from among the survivors of Whig oligarchy. He really could see very little difference between the three girls; in fact he sometimes caused offence by addressing them absent-mindedly by the wrong names. None of them carried a pound of superfluous flesh; they all had an enthusiasm for the works of Mr. Ernest Hemingway; all had pet dogs of rather similar peculiarities. They had all found that the way to keep Peter amused was to get him to brag about his past iniquities.

  During dinner he told Molly about the time when Basil Seal had stood for Parliament and he and Sonia and Alastair had done him dirt in his constituency. She laughed dutifully at the incident of Sonia throwing a potato at the mayor.

  “Some of the papers got it wrong and said it was a bun,” he explained.

  “What a lovely time you all seem to have had,” said Lady Mary wistfully.

  “All past and done with,” said Peter primly.

  “Is it? I do hope not.”

  Peter looked at her with a new interest. Sarah and Betty had taken this tale as though it were one of highwaymen; something infinitely old-fashioned and picturesque.

  Afterwards they walked to the cinema next door.

  The vestibule was in darkness except for a faint blue light in the box office. Out of the darkness the voice of the commissionaire announced “No three and sixes. Plenty of room in the five and nines. Five and nines this way. Don’t block up the gangway please.”

  There was some kind of disturbance going on at the guichet. A woman was peering stupidly at the blue light and saying, “I don’t want five and nines. I want one three and sixpenny.”

  “No three and sixes. Only five and nines.”

  “But you don’t understand. It isn’t the price. The five and nines are too far away. I want to be near, in the three and sixpennies.”

  “No three and sixes. Five and nines,” said the girl in the blue light.

  “Come on, lady, make up your mind,” said a soldier, waiting.

  “She’s got a look of Mrs. Cedric Lyne,” said Molly.

  “Why,” said Peter, “it is Angela. What on earth’s the matter with her?”

  She had now bought her ticket and moved away from the window, trying to read what was on it in the half light and saying peevishly, “I told them it was too far away. I can’t see if I’m far away. I said three and sixpence.”

  She held the ticket close up to her eyes, trying to read it; she did not notice the step, stumbled and sat down. Peter hurried forward.

  “Angela, are you all right? Have you hurt yourself?”

  “Perfectly all right,” said Angela, sitting quietly in the twilight. “Not hurt at all thank you.”

  “Well for God’s sake get up.”

  Angela squinnied up at him from the step.

  “Peter,” she said, “I didn’t recognize you. Too far away to recognize anyone in the five and ninepennies. How are you?”

  “Angela, do get up.”

  He held out his hand to help her up. She shook it cordially. “How’s Margot?” she said affably. “Haven’t seen her lately. I’ve been so busy. Well, that’s not quite true. As a matter of fact I’ve not been altogether well.”

  A crowd was beginning to assemble in the twilight. From the darkness beyond came the voice of the commissionaire, policemanlike, saying, “What’s going on here?”

  “Pick her up, you coot,” said Molly Meadowes.

  Peter got behind Angela, put his arms round her and picked her up. She was not heavy.

  “Ups-a-daisy,” said Angela, making to sit down again.

  Peter held her firm; he was glad of the darkness; this was no position for an officer of the Household Cavalry in uniform.

  “A lady has fainted,” said Molly in a clear, authoritative voice. “Please don’t crowd round her,” and to the commissionaire, “Call a cab.”

  Angela was silent in the taxi.

  “I say,” said Peter, “I can’t apologize enough for letting you in for this.”

  “My dear man,” said Molly, “don’t be ridiculous. I’m thoroughly enjoying it.”

  “I can’t think what’s the matter with her,” he said.

  “Can’t you?”

  When they reached Grosvenor Square, Angela got out of the taxi and looked about her, puzzled. “I thought we were going to the cinema,” she said. “Wasn’t it good?”

  “It was full.”

  “I remember,” said Angela, nodding vigorously. “Five and nines.” Then she sat down again on the pavement.

  “Look here,” said Peter to Lady Mary Meadowes. “You take the taxi back to the cinema. Leave my ticket at the box-office. I’ll join you in half an hour. I think I’d better see Angela home and get hold of a doctor.”

  “Bumbles,” said Molly. “I’m coming up too.”

  Outside her door Angela suddenly rallied, found her key, opened the flat and walked steadily in. Grainger was still up.

  “You need not have stayed in,” said Angela. “I told you I shouldn’t want you.”

  “I was worried. You shouldn’t have gone out like that,” and then seeing Peter, “Oh, good evening, my lord.”

  Angela turned and saw Peter, as though for the first time. “Hullo, Peter,” she said. “Come in.” She fixed Molly with eyes that seemed to focus with difficulty. “You know,” she said, “I’m sure I know you quite well, but I can’t remember your name.”

  “Molly Meadowes,” said Peter. “We just came to see you home. We must be going along now. Grainger, Mrs. Lyne isn’t at all well. I think you ought to get her doctor.”

  “Molly Meadowes. My dear, I used to stay at Granchester when you were in the nursery. How old that sounds. You’re very pretty, Molly, and you’re wearing a lovely dress. Come in, both of you.”

  Peter frowned at Molly, but she went into the flat.

  “Help yourself to something to drink, Peter,” said Angela. She sat down in her armchair by the radio. “My dear,” she said to Molly, “I don’t think you’ve seen my flat. I had it done up by David Lennox just before the war. David Lennox. People say unkind things about David Lennox… well, you can’t blame them…” Her mind was becoming confused again. She made a resolute attempt to regain control of herself. “That’s a portrait of me by John. Ten years ago; nearly done when I was married. Those are my books… my dear, I’m afraid I’m rather distrait this evening. You must forgive me,” and, so saying, she fell into a heavy sleep.

  Peter looked about him helplessly. Molly said to Grainger, “Had we better get her to bed?”

  “When she wakes up, I shall be here. I can manage.”

  “Sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Well then, Peter, we’d better get back to our film.”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “I’m awfully sorry for bringing you here.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” said Molly.

  Peter was still puzzled by the whole business.

  “Grainger,” he said. “Had Mrs. Lyne been out this evening? To a party or anything?”

  “Oh, no, my lord. She’s been in all day.”

  “Alone?”

  “Quite alone, my lord.”
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  “Extraordinary thing. Well come on, Molly. Good night, Grainger. Take care of Mrs. Lyne. I think she ought to see a doctor.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” said Grainger.

  They went down in the lift together, in silence, each full of thought. When they reached the hall Peter said, “Well, that was rum.”

  “Very rum.”

  “You know,” said Peter, “if it had been anyone else but Angela, I should have thought she was tight.”

  “Darling, she was plastered.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “My dear, stinko paralytico.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to think. It certainly looked like it. But Angela… besides her maid said she hadn’t been out all the evening. I mean to say, people don’t get tight alone.”

  Suddenly Molly put her arms round Peter’s neck and kissed him warmly. “Bless you,” she said. “Now we’ll go to that cinema.”

  It was the first time anyone had ever kissed Peter like that. He was so surprised that in the taxi he made no attempt to follow it up; so surprised that he thought about nothing else all through the film. “God Save the King” brought him back to reality with a jolt. He was still pensive while he led Molly to supper. It was hysteria, he decided; the girl was naturally upset at the scene they had been through. She’s probably frightfully embarrassed about it now; best not to refer to it.

  But Molly was not prepared to let the matter drop.

  “Oysters,” she said. “Only a dozen. Nothing else,” and then, though the waiter was still beside her, “Were you surprised when I kissed you just now?”

  “No,” said Peter hastily, “certainly not. Not at all.”

  “Not at all? You mean to say you expected me to?”

  “No, no. Of course not. You know what I mean.”

  “I certainly don’t. I think it’s very conceited of you not to be surprised. Do you always have this effect on girls, or is it just the uniform?”

  “Molly, don’t be a beast. If you must know, I was surprised.”

  “And shocked?”

  “No, just surprised.”

  “Yes,” said Molly, seeing it was not kind to tease him anymore. “I was surprised, too. I’ve been wondering about it in the cinema.”

  “So have I,” said Peter.

  “That’s how I like you,” said Molly, as though she were a photographer catching a happy expression. She saw the likeness herself and added, “Hold it.”

  “Really, Molly, I don’t understand you a bit to-night.”

  “Oh but you must, really you must Peter. I’m sure you were a fascinating little boy.”

  “Come to think of it, I believe I was.”

  “You mustn’t ever try playing the old rip again, Peter. Not with me, at any rate. Now don’t pretend you don’t understand that. I like you puzzled, Peter, but not absolutely cretinous. You know, I nearly despaired of you to-night. You would go on bucking about what a gay dog you’d been. I thought I could never go through with it.”

  “Through with what?”

  “Marrying you. Mother’s terribly keen I should, though I can’t think why. I should have thought from her point of view you were about the end. But no, nothing else would do but that I must marry you. So I’ve tried to be good and I’ve let you bound away about the good old days till I thought I should have to pour something on your head. Thought I couldn’t bear it anymore and I’d decided to tell mother it was off. Then we met Mrs. Lyne and everything was all right.”

  “It seemed awfully awkward to me.”

  “Of course it did. You looked like a little boy at his private school when his father has come to the sports in the wrong kind of hat. An adorable little boy.”

  “Well,” said Peter, “I suppose as long as you’re satisfied…”

  “Yes, I think ‘satisfied’ is the word. You’ll do. And Sarah and Betty’ll be as sick as cats.”

  “How did you decide?” asked Margot, when Peter told her of his engagement.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t think I did. Molly decided.”

  “Yes, that’s usually the way. Now I suppose I shall have to do something friendly about that ass Emma Granchester.”

  “I really know Lady Metroland very little,” said Lady Granchester. “But, I suppose now I must invite her to luncheon. I’m afraid she’s far too smart for us.” And by “smart” Lady Granchester meant nothing at all complimentary.

  But the mothers met and decided on an immediate marriage.

  IV

  The news of Peter’s engagement was not unexpected and, even had it come as a surprise, would have been eclipsed in interest by the story of Angela Lyne’s uncharacteristic behavior at the cinema. Peter and Molly, before parting that night, had resolved to tell no one of the incident; a renunciation from which each made certain implicit reservations. Peter told Margot because he thought she ought to do something about it, Basil because he was still dubious about the true explanation of the mystery and thought that Basil, if anyone could, would throw light on it, and three members of Bratt’s because he happened to run into them at the bar next morning when his mind was still full of the matter. Molly told her two sisters and Lady Sarah from long habit, because whenever she promised secrecy in any matter she meant, even at the time, to tell these three. These initiates in their turn told their cronies until it was widely known that the temperate, cynical, aloof, impeccably dressed, sharply dignified Mrs. Lyne; Mrs. Lyne who never “went out” in a general sense but lived in a rarefied and enviable coterie; Mrs. Lyne whose conversation was that of a highly intelligent man, who always cleverly kept out of the gossip columns and picture papers, who for fifteen years had set a high and wholly individual standard of all that Americans meant by “poise”; this almost proverbial lady had been picked up by Peter in the gutter where she had been thrown struggling by two bouncers from the cinema where she had created a drunken disturbance.

  It could scarcely have been more surprising had it been Mrs. Stitch herself. It was indeed barely credible and many refused to believe it. Drugs possibly, they conceded, but Drink was out of the question. What Parsnip and Pimpernell were to the intelligentsia, Mrs. Lyne and the bottle became to the fashionable world; topic number one.

  It was still topic number one three months later at Peter’s wedding. Basil persuaded Angela to come to the little party with which Lady Granchester honored the occasion.

  He had gone round to see her when Peter told him the news; not immediately, but within twenty-four hours of hearing it. He found her up and dressed, but indefinably raffish in appearance; her make-up was haphazard and rather garish, like a later Utrillo.

  “Angela you look awful.”

  “Yes, darling, I feel awful. You’re in the army.”

  “No, the War Office.”

  She began talking intensely and rather wildly about the French. Presently she said, “I must leave you for a minute,” and went into her bedroom. She came back half a minute later with an abstracted little smile; the inwardly happy smile of a tired old nun—almost. There was a difference.

  “Angela,” said Basil, “if you want a drink you might drink fair with a chap.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  Basil was shocked. There had never been any humbug about Angela before, none where he was concerned anyway.

  “Oh, come off it,” he said.

  Angela came off it. She began to weep.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Basil.

  He went into her bedroom and helped himself to whisky from the bottle by the bed.

  “Peter was here the other evening with some girl. I suppose they’ve told everyone.”

  “He told me. Why don’t you switch to rum? It’s much better for you.”

  “Is it? I don’t think I’ve ever tasted it. Should I like it?”

  “I’ll send you some round. When did you start on this bat?”

  There was no humbug about Angela now. “Oh, weeks ago.”

 
“It’s not a bit like you.”

  “Isn’t it, Basil? Isn’t it?”

  “You were always bloody to me when I had a bat.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was. I’m sorry. But then you see I was in love with you.”

  “Was?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Fill up the glasses, Basil.”

  “That’s the girl.”

  “ ‘Was’ is wrong. I do love you, Basil.”

  “Of course you do. Is that how you take it?” he asked, respectfully.

  “That’s how I take it.”

  “Good and strong.”

  “Good and strong.”

  “But I think we’d be better suited to rum.”

  “Doesn’t it smell rather?”

  “I don’t see it matters.”

  “Don’t want to smell.”

  “Whisky smells.”

  “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s nice drinking with you, Basil.”

  “Of course it’s nice. I think it’s pretty mean of you to drink without me as you’ve been doing.”

  “I’m not mean.”

  “You usen’t to be. But you have been lately, haven’t you? Drinking by yourself.”

  “Yes, that was mean.”

  “Now listen, next time you want to go on a bat, let me know. Just ring me up and I’ll come round. Then we can drink together.”

  “But I want to so often, Basil.”

  “Well, I’ll come round often. Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “That’s the girl.”

  The rum was a failure, but in general the new arrangement worked well. Angela drank a good deal less and Basil a good deal more than they had done for the last few weeks and both were happier as a result.