Vile Bodies

  “But you’re coming too?”

  “Well, no. I don’t think I will, if you don’t mind… I’ve got rather a pain.”

  “My dear, if you knew what a pain I’ve got…”

  “Yes, but that’s different, darling. Anyway, there’s no object in our both going.”

  “But what am I to say?”

  “Darling, don’t be tiresome. You know perfectly well. Just ask him for some money.”

  “Will he like that?”

  “Yes, darling, of course he will. Why will you go on? I’ve got to get up now. Good-bye. Take care of yourself… Ring me up when you get back and tell me what papa said. By the way, have you seen the paper this morning?—there’s something so funny about last night. Too bad of Van. Good-bye.”

  While Adam was dressing, he realized that he did not know where he was to go. He rang up again. “By the way, Nina, where does your papa live?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? It’s a house called Doubting, and it’s all falling down really. You go to Aylesbury by train and then take a taxi. They’re the most expensive taxis in the world, too… Have you got any money?”

  Adam looked on the dressing table: “About seven shillings,” he said.

  “My dear, that’s not enough. You’ll have to make poor papa pay for the taxi.”

  “Will he like that?”

  “Yes, of course, he’s an angel.”

  “I wish you’d come too, Nina.”

  “Darling, I told you. I’ve got such a pain.”

  Downstairs, as Lottie had said, everything was upside down. That is to say that there were policemen and reporters teeming in every corner of the hotel, each with a bottle of champagne and a glass. Lottie, Doge, Judge Skimp, the Inspector, four plainclothes men and the body were in Judge Skimp’s suite.

  “What is not clear to me, sir,” said the Inspector, “is what prompted the young lady to swing on the chandelier. Not wishing to cause offense, sir, and begging your pardon, was she…?”

  “Yes,” said Judge Skimp, “she was.”

  “Exactly, ” said the Inspector. “A clear case of misadventure, eh, Mrs. Crump? There’ll have to be an inquest, of course, but I think probably I shall be able to arrange things so that there is no mention of your name in the case, sir… well, that’s very kind of you, Mrs. Crump, perhaps just one more glass.”

  “Lottie,” said Adam, “can you lend me some money?”

  “Money, dear? Of course. Doge, have you got any money?”

  “I was asleep at the time myself, mum, and was not even made aware of the occurrence until I was called this morning. Being slightly deaf, the sound of the disaster…”

  “Judge What’s-your-name, got any money?”

  “I should take it as a great privilege if I could be of any assistance…”

  “That’s right, give some to young Thingummy here. That all you want, deary? Don’t run away. We’re just thinking of having a little drink… No, not that wine, dear, it’s what we keep for the police. I’ve just ordered a better bottle if my young butterfly would bring it along.”

  Adam had a glass of champagne, hoping it would make him feel a little better. It made him feel much worse.

  Then he went to Marylebone. It was Armistice Day, and they were selling artificial poppies in the streets. As he reached the station it struck eleven and for two minutes all over the country everyone was quiet and serious. Then he went to Aylesbury, reading on the way Balcairn’s account of Archie Schwert’s party. He was pleased to see himself described as “the brilliant young novelist,” and wondered whether Nina’s papa read gossip paragraphs, and supposed not. The two women opposite him in the carriage obviously did.

  “I no sooner opened the paper,” said one, “than I was on the ’phone at once to all the ladies of the committee, and we’d sent off a wire to our Member before one o’clock. We know how to make things hum at the Bois. I’ve got a copy of what we sent. Look. Members of the Committee of the Ladies’ Conservative Association at Chesham Bois wish to express their extreme displeasure at reports in this morning’s paper of midnight party at No. 10. They call upon Captain Crutwell—that’s our Member; such a nice stamp of man—strenuously to withhold support to Prime Minister. It cost nearly four shillings, but, as I said at the time, it was not a moment to spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Ithewaite?”

  “I do, indeed, Mrs. Orraway-Smith. It is clearly a case in which a mandate from the constituencies is required. I’ll talk to our chairwoman at Wendover.”

  “Yes, do, Mrs. Ithewaite. It is in a case like this that the woman’s vote can count.”

  “If it’s a choice between my moral judgment and the nationalization of banking, I prefer nationalization, if you see what I mean.”

  “Exactly what I think. Such a terrible example to the lower classes, apart from everything.”

  “That’s what I mean. There’s our Agnes, now. How can I stop her having young men in the kitchen when she knows that Sir James Brown has parties like that at all hours of the night…”

  They were both wearing hats like nothing on earth, which bobbed and nodded as they spoke.

  At Aylesbury Adam got into a Ford taxi and asked to be taken to a house called Doubting.

  “Doubting ’All?”

  “Well, I suppose so. Is it falling down?”

  “Could do with a lick of paint,” said the driver, a spotty youth. “Name of Blount?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Long way from here Doubting ’All is. Cost you fifteen bob.”

  “All right.”

  “If you’re a commercial, I can tell you straight it ain’t no use going to ’im. Young feller asked me the way there this morning. Driving a Morris. Wanted to sell him a vacuum cleaner. Old boy ’ad answered an advertisement asking for a demonstration. When he got there the old boy wouldn’t even look at it. Can you beat that?”

  “No, I’m not trying to sell him anything—at least not exactly.”

  “Personal visit, perhaps.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.”

  Satisfied that his passenger was in earnest about the journey, the taxi driver put on some coats—for it was raining—got out of his seat and cranked up the engine. Presently they started.

  They drove for a mile or two past bungalows and villas and timbered public houses to a village in which every house seemed to be a garage and filling station. Here they left the main road and Adam’s discomfort became acute.

  At last they came to twin octagonal lodges and some heraldic gateposts and large wrought-iron gates, behind which could be seen a broad sweep of ill-kept drive.

  “Doubting ’All,” said the driver.

  He blew his horn once or twice, but no lodge keeper’s wife, aproned and apple-cheeked, appeared to bob them in. He got out and shook the gates reproachfully.

  “Chained-and-locked,” he said. “Try another way.”

  They drove on for another mile; on the side of the Hall the road was bordered by dripping trees and a dilapidated stone wall; presently they reached some cottages and a white gate. This they opened and turned into a rough track, separated from the park by low iron railings. There were sheep grazing on either side. One of them had strayed into the drive. It fled before them in a frenzied trot, stopping and looking round over its dirty tail and then plunging on again until its agitation brought it to the side of the path, where they overtook it and passed it.

  The track led to some stables, then behind rows of hothouses , among potting sheds and heaps of drenched leaves, past nondescript outbuildings that had once been laundry and bakery and brewhouse and a huge kennel where once someone had kept a bear, until suddenly it turned by a clump of holly and elms and laurel bushes into an open space that had once been laid with gravel. A lofty Palladian facade stretched before them and in front of it an equestrian statue pointed a baton imperiously down the main drive.

  “ ’Ere y’are,” said the driver.

  Adam paid him
and went up the steps to the front door.

  He rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. Presently he rang again. At this moment the door opened.

  “Don’t ring twice,” said a very angry old man. “What do you want?”

  “Is Mr. Blount in?”

  “There’s no Mr. Blount here. This is Colonel Blount’s house.”

  “I’m sorry… I think the Colonel is expecting me to luncheon.”

  “Nonsense. I’m Colonel Blount,” and he shut the door.

  The Ford had disappeared. It was still raining hard. Adam rang again.

  “Yes,” said Colonel Blount, appearing instantly.

  “I wonder if you’d let me telephone to the station for a taxi?”

  “Not on the telephone… It’s raining. Why don’t you come in? It’s absurd to walk to the station in this. Have you come about the vacuum cleaner?”

  “No.”

  “Funny, I’ve been expecting a man all the morning to show me a vacuum cleaner. Come in, do. Won’t you stay to luncheon?”

  “I should love to.”

  “Splendid. I get very little company nowadays. You must forgive me for opening the door to you myself. My butler is in bed today. He suffers terribly in his feet when it is wet.

  Both my footmen were killed in the war… Put your hat and coat here. I hope you haven’t got wet… I’m sorry you didn’t bring the vacuum cleaner… but never mind. How are you?” he said, suddenly holding out his hand.

  They shook hands and Colonel Blount led the way down a long corridor, lined with marble busts on yellow marble pedestals, to a large room full of furniture, with a fire burning in a fine rococo fireplace. There was a large leather-topped walnut writing table under a window opening on to a terrace. Colonel Blount picked up a telegram and read it.

  “I’d quite forgotten,” he said in some confusion. “I’m afraid you’ll think me very discourteous, but it is, after all, impossible for me to ask you to luncheon. I have a guest coming on very intimate family business. You understand, don’t you?… To tell you the truth, it’s some young rascal who wants to marry my daughter. I must see him alone to discuss settlements.”

  “Well, I want to marry your daughter, too,” said Adam.

  “What an extraordinary coincidence. Are you sure you do?”

  “Perhaps the telegram may be about me. What does it say?”

  “ ‘Engaged to marry Adam Symes. Expect him luncheon. Nina.’ Are you Adam Symes?”

  “Yes.”

  “My dear boy, why didn’t you say so before, instead of going on about a vacuum cleaner? How are you?”

  They shook hands again.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Colonel Blount, “we will keep our business until after luncheon. I’m afraid everything is looking very bare at present. You must come down and see the gardens in the summer. We had some lovely hydrangeas last year. I don’t think I shall live here another winter. Too big for an old man. I was looking at some of the houses they’re putting up outside Aylesbury. Did you see them coming along? Nice little red houses. Bathroom and everything. Quite cheap, too, and near the cinematographs. I hope you are fond of the cinematograph too? The Rector and I go a great deal. I hope you’ll like the Rector. Common little man rather. But he’s got a motor car, useful that. How long are you staying?”

  “I promised Nina I’d be back tonight.”

  “That’s a pity. They change the film at the Electra Palace. We might have gone.”

  An elderly woman servant came in to announce luncheon. “What is at the Electra Palace, do you know, Mrs. Florin?”

  “Greta Garbo in Venetian Kisses, I think, sir.”

  “I don’t really think I like Greta Garbo. I’ve tried to,” said Colonel Blount, “but I just don’t.”

  They went in to luncheon in a huge dining room dark with family portraits.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Colonel Blount, “I prefer not to talk at meals.”

  He propped a morocco-bound volume of Punch before his plate against a vast silver urn, from which grew a small castor-oil plant.

  “Give Mr. Symes a book,” he said.

  Mrs. Florin put another volume of Punch beside Adam.

  “If you come across anything really funny read it to me,” said Colonel Blount.

  Then they had luncheon.

  They were nearly an hour over luncheon. Course followed course in disconcerting abundance while Colonel Blount ate and ate, turning the leaves of his book and chuckling frequently. They ate hare soup and boiled turbot and stewed sweetbreads and black Bradenham ham with Madeira sauce and roast pheasant and a rum omelet and toasted cheese and fruit. First they drank sherry, then claret, then port. Then Colonel Blount shut his book with a broad sweep of his arm rather as the headmaster of Adam’s private school used to shut the Bible after evening prayers, folded his napkin carefully and stuffed it into a massive silver ring, muttered some words of grace and finally stood up, saying:

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have a little nap,” and trotted out of the room.

  “There’s a fire in the library, sir,” said Mrs. Florin. “I’ll bring you your coffee there. The Colonel doesn’t have coffee, he finds it interferes with his afternoon sleep. What time would you like your afternoon tea, sir?”

  “I ought really to be getting back to London. How long will it be before the Colonel comes down, do you think?”

  “Well, it all depends, sir. Not usually till about five or half past. Then he reads until dinner at seven and after dinner he gets the Rector to drive him in to the pictures. A sedentary life, as you might say.”

  She led Adam into the library and put a silver coffeepot at his elbow.

  “I’ll bring you tea at four,” she said.

  Adam sat in front of the fire in a deep armchair. Outside the rain beat on the double windows. There were several magazines in the library—mostly cheap weeklies devoted to the cinema. There was a stuffed owl and a case of early British remains, bone pins and bits of pottery and a skull, which had been dug up in the park many years ago and catalogued by Nina’s governess. There was a cabinet containing the relics of Nina’s various collecting fevers—some butterflies and a beetle or two, some fossils and some birds’ eggs and a few postage stamps. There were some bookcases of superbly unreadable books, a gun, a butterfly net, an alpenstock in the corner. There were catalogues of agricultural machines and acetylene plants, lawn mowers, “sports requisites.” There was a fire screen worked with a coat of arms. The chimneypiece was hung with the embroidered saddlecloths of Colonel Blount’s regiment of Lancers. There was an engraving of all the members of the Royal Yacht Squadron, with a little plan in the corner, marked to show who was who. There were many other things of equal interest besides, but before Adam had noticed any more he was fast asleep.

  Mrs. Florin woke him at four. The coffee had disappeared and its place was taken by a silver tray with a lace cloth on it. There was a silver teapot, and a silver kettle with a little spirit lamp underneath, and a silver cream jug and a covered silver dish full of muffins. There was also hot buttered toast and honey and gentleman’s relish and a chocolate cake, a cherry cake, a seed cake and a fruit cake and some tomato sandwiches and pepper and salt and currant bread and butter.

  “Would you care for a lightly boiled egg, sir? The Colonel generally has one if he’s awake.”

  “No, thank you,” said Adam. He felt a thousand times better for his rest. When Nina and he were married, he thought, they would often come down there for the day after a really serious party. For the first time he noticed an obese liver-and-white spaniel, which was waking up, too, on the hearthrug.

  “Please not to give her muffins,” said Mrs. Florin, “it’s the one thing she’s not supposed to have, and the Colonel will give them to her. He loves that dog,” she added with a burst of confidence. “Takes her to the pictures with him of an evening. Not that she can appreciate them really like a human can.”

  Adam gave her—the s
paniel, not Mrs. Florin—a gentle prod with his foot and a lump of sugar. She licked his shoe with evident cordiality. Adam was not above feeling flattered by friendliness in dogs.

  He had finished his tea and was filling his pipe when Colonel Blount came into the library.

  “Who the devil are you?” said his host.

  “Adam Symes,” said Adam.

  “Never heard of you. How did you get in? Who gave you tea? What do you want?”

  “You asked me to luncheon,” said Adam. “I came about being married to Nina.”

  “My dear boy, of course. How absurd of me. I’ve such a bad memory for names. It comes of seeing so few people. How are you?”

  They shook hands again.

  “So you’re the young man who’s engaged to Nina,” said the Colonel, eyeing him for the first time in the way prospective sons-in-laws are supposed to be eyed. “Now what in the world do you want to get married for? I shouldn’t, you know, really I shouldn’t. Are you rich?”

  “No, not at present, I’m afraid, that’s rather what I wanted to talk about.”

  “How much money have you got?”

  “Well, sir, actually at the moment I haven’t got any at all.”

  “When did you last have any?”

  “I had a thousand pounds last night, but I gave it all to a drunk Major.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Well, I hoped he’d put it on Indian Runner for the November Handicap.”

  “Never heard of the horse. Didn’t he?”

  “I don’t think he can have.”

  “When will you next have some money?”

  “When I’ve written some books.”

  “How many books?”

  “Twelve.”

  “How much will you have then?”

  “Probably fifty pounds advance on my thirteenth book.”

  “And how long will it take you to write twelve books?”

  “About a year.”

  “How long would it take most people?”

  “About twenty years. Of course, put like that I do see that it sounds rather hopeless… but, you see, Nina and I hoped that you, that is, that perhaps for the next year until I get my twelve books written, that you might help us…”