He sat stroking the steering wheel with trembling fingers. Sometimes—though rarely—impulses gripped him that led him into wild blunders. He made moves that he half knew to be ill-judged before they were made; yet even after, while the mood still gripped him, he couldn’t go back. So now. He knew the one way out was to pass the thing off lightly, as she was trying to do, to say sorry, my mistake, to make a joke of it. But two waves had collided in his heart and in his mind. Common sense, judgement, were still out of focus.
“I suppose I’ve bitterly offended you.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Have you hated this evening?”
“You know I haven’t, Michael.”
“D’you hate me?”
“Of course not.”
“You must feel I’ve let you down.”
She said: “It’s I who’ve let you down … if that was what you wanted.”
He said with a tremendous effort: “ It was your own fault. You’re too lovely. Why were you afraid?”
“Being afraid or not afraid doesn’t enter into it.”
“I’m a boor and a fool, that’s it, isn’t it? But this sort of ending is the usual thing.”
She said breathlessly: “Michael, you must have spent twenty pounds on me. For that, what do you usually get? I suppose you class me now with the blonde who gets a headache on her doorstep. I’m not playing fair. You think because I won’t let you paw me about.… Is that the way I should have paid back?.… All right, I’m sorry, but that’s not my way. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know whether you are right or I am, but as you say, there are dozens of girls who agree with you. There must be a lot even who would let you go to bed with them in a nice cosy flat, not stuck on Hampstead Heath, and for half the price.…” She stopped, dry-eyed, choking with tears that had gone the wrong way.
“All right, I’m sorry,” he said, cooling slightly. “It’s all my fault. I know. I’ll drive you home in a moment or two. I’m only trying now to explain, to put my point of view. You know it’s not any other girl I want, I only want you. But I think you take it all too seriously. This sort of thing is fun if you let it be fun and don’t tie it up with all sorts of other things.”
“Such as?”
“Love and marriage come later. They’re more important, but they’re not harmed if you’ve enjoyed yourself first. There’s so little time. We must live life while we’re young. Ask men and women of forty about their youth and ninety-nine per cent, if they’re being honest, will tell you it’s the things they didn’t do that they regret—not the things they did!”
A meteor flickered across the sky, but by now she couldn’t even pretend an interest in it. “Michael, there’s nothing I can say to you now that won’t make me sound like a frozen spinster. But if it were true that some people say that—even if I say it when I’m older, it won’t alter what I feel now. Perhaps people change when they get older. Perhaps they forget how they felt when they were young. To me sex without love is—is just not in the book at all. All right, I don’t understand, you say. That may be. But, until I love you, I’m not willing to let you prove me wrong.”
There was silence. “And when will that be?” he said.
“I—don’t know.”
He said: “Will you try to answer me one thing quite honestly?”
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t you in your heart want to be made love to? Hasn’t that been a part of your thoughts ever since you grew up?—as making love has been a part of mine?”
“I don’t think this is going to get anywhere, Michael. Don’t ask me anything more now, please. Let’s go home.”
Chapter Seven
“No,” said Dame Maria, “we’ve got to go through that again. It’s lifeless, without character; look pleased, angelic, not with those fixed grins. As soon as we get on the big stage you behave like circus ponies. Louis, from the beginning again!”
Six black-clad girls described multiple fouettees as they entered again from the wings and whirled past the two chairs in the middle of the stage, while the staff pianist played the tune. Air bearing female warmth and scent of talcum powder wafted past Don, and his chair vibrated with the thud of their feet.
“Well, it’s better. Now, Karena, please.…”
Presently Dame Maria grudgingly admitted it would do, and at once the whole stage disintegrated into chattering murmuring figures strangely humanised and foreshortened as they came down upon their heels and threaded their way off. Soon there were only the two chairs in the middle of the stage and Henry de Courville sauntering on from the wings.
“So you see,” Dame Maria said, patting Don’s arm, “we’ve our hands full. A new ballet and two revivals, and we are two ballerinas short. I have ten like that one, coming along, but not yet really ready for the exacting role. That, my dear boy, is even more important than extra woodwind for the new ballet.”
Don let out a thoughtful breath. Ballet, even in the raw, wove odd spells about him. “Could I possibly disagree?”
Somewhere carpenters began to hammer. “No, well, there it is. Last season, I admit, it’s true.…”
“Last season,” said de Courville, “we were playing half the time with a crowd of deputies. The main orchestra was in Australia.” “So long as I get time enough on the new things,” Don said.
“Don’t worry,” said Dame Maria. “ You’ve the four necessities: musicianship, the right psychology, a sense of theatre, and you understand the importance of the stick.”
“Like a Victorian father,” said Don.
“Well, there are points of similarity. But you’d be surprised how many we’ve had here with such poor stick technique; they double with the left hand and make geographical gestures of no importance. But perhaps you wouldn’t be surprised. You know far more about it than I do.”
“I’m coming to doubt that.”
Henry de Courville said: “The Administrator hasn’t gone yet. If you’d like to come to his office we can sign the thing now.”
“Thank you.”
Dame Maria was accosted by the choreographer, who as usual was worried about something, so Don said good-bye to her and the two men went off together.
“She doesn’t often pay compliments,” Henry said. “But have a care; a specially high standard is set for the favourites.… By the way, did you see today’s Times?”
“No, I came straight here.”
“There’s a letter about your father. I have it on my desk, so we can pick it up on the way.”
“When they came to Henry’s office he took up the newspaper and handed it to Don. The second letter on the editorial page was headed: “Sir John Marlowe”. Don’s eyes went to the signatures. Lord Queenswood and three others, all Q.C.s.
To the Editor of The Times.
Sir,
In a recent issue of The Sunday Gazette, in a column contributed under the pseudonym of Moonraker, grave and highly damaging insinuations were made about the late Sir John Marlowe. These must be wounding not only to his family but to his many personal friends, not to speak of the thousands who came to know him through his book and through his other writings.
The signatories of this letter all knew John Marlowe for upwards of twenty years. Two were fellow benchers of the Upper Temple and all knew him intimately both in and out of court. Since they are in a position to do so, they therefore consider it their duty publicly to refute the statements made in this Sunday newspaper in so far as these statements referred to John Marlowe’s professional activities as a Queen’s Counsel and as Recorder of Cheltenham.
No charge of unprofessional conduct was ever levelled against him, by his fellow benchers, by the Bar Council, or by any other legal or municipal body. It is false and tendentious to imply that if there had been any irregularities these could have been hushed up without resort to a full and formal inquiry. John Marlowe did not resign from the Upper Temple; he could have returned at any time. His decision to cease to practise was received with the greatest reg
ret by everyone in the legal profession. He was an ornament to the Bar, a candidate for high judicial office in the not distant future, and a man whom any aspiring barrister could well use as a model.
But this article, we would suggest, raises wider issues than the reputation of one man. Attacks upon the living are a common part of daily journalism; but irresponsibility and malice are curbed by threat of legal sanction. Attacks upon the dead are a relatively rare and very unsavoury development, and the law offers too little redress. This is a case surely on which the Press Council should act.
Yours faithfully,
Queenswood,
Arthur Morrissey,
John Lambton,
P. J. Greer.
Don handed the paper back. “I shall write to Queenswood and the others. I wish someone could ditch the charge about his book as effectively.”
“Did you ever know the Rev. George Chislehurst?”
“No. Did you?”
“I met him at your father’s house in the country, before he retired, one Sunday. I’d got to know your father the year before, and when he heard I’d been ill he invited me down for the week-end. It was queer—he could never bear to be ill himself, it hurt his pride—but he was always sympathetic when other people were. Chislehurst turned up while I was there. Except for his clerical collar he looked like everyone’s idea of a radical reformer of the nineteenth century.” They walked out of the office and along the corridor. “ By the way, I met Knott of The Observer today. He says on Tuesday they dug up a second-hand copy of Chislehurst’s book and sent it along with your father’s book to Professor Lehmann of London University for an opinion as to whether there are any resemblances. Lehmann is going to write an article that will be published in The Observer on Sunday.”
“I suppose Knott doesn’t know who Moonraker is?”
“No. But he did say he’s certain the same man has been writing the column since Bryan Hooker was killed.”
“The trouble is,” said Don, “ even if I get to know, there’s apparently nothing I can do about it, at least so far as the law is concerned.”
“You certainly can’t do a thing while he stays anonymous. That’s probably what he’s counting on. But if you do find out his name I wouldn’t be absolutely sure there’s nothing you can do. You remember I read law for a year. There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well, follow me now.” Henry knocked at the door of the Administrator’s office and they went in.
Joanna had only been in a few minutes when Roger rang. She nearly didn’t answer it. Twice on the way home she had been stopped by reporters, once coming out of the studio at Lime Grove and once at the door of the house. But in the end she went to the telephone.
When she heard Roger’s voice she looked quickly at the door of the bedroom and pushed it to with her foot, even though she knew there was no one in the house.
“Joanna, I didn’t see you on Tuesday.”
“No. I didn’t go out.”
“But you said you’d come for an hour. I waited.”
“I never said that.…”
“You said you’d try——”
“Roger.… Don’t ring me like this. It’s risky and it’s unfair.”
“To whom?”
“To me. I have to work this out. I can’t if you keep … intruding yourself.”
“Doesn’t Don? He’s in a bolt position.”
She said: “It isn’t that sort of a war.”
“What sort, then?”
“I tried to explain how it was before Don came home.”
“All you said was——”
“All I said was that there are some things I still draw the line at.”
“Self flagellation isn’t in season, my dear.…”
“Listen, please.”
He stopped. “All right. I’m listening.”
After a minute she said: “There’s no black or white to this. I’m not pretending so. The truth isn’t one thing; it isn’t even a number of things I can take apart and look at. It’s something very complex and deep inside, that I want to unravel—alone. You can’t help—you can only complicate.”
“Yes, but——”
“I want the chance to see this straight. In the next few weeks either I leave Don or I don’t.”
“As simple as that?”
“As difficult as that.”
He said: “Forgive me, I’m not trying to be cynical at Don’s expense, but don’t catch your moods from him, Joanna. Don’t be too intense. Your detachment has always been one of the things I’ve admired most in you. It takes a pretty intelligent person to see their own lives in perspective. Do that, my dear.”
“Meaning what?”
“D’you remember what Sir Toby said? ‘ Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’”
“Perhaps Sir Toby didn’t have to live with himself afterwards.”
“There isn’t an afterwards in love; only a continuing present.”
“Darling, I’m grown up. Remember?”
“Sorry. You provoke me. I can’t bear to be slick—to you of all people. But what I said would be true.”
“I don’t even think I wish I could believe it.”
“Where is Don now?”
“At Covent Garden. I’ll ring you if I get the opportunity early next week.”
“I shall wait for it.”
“Good-bye,” she said, hearing the front door; and then Don whistled as he ran up the stairs.
Roger had rung Joanna in an interval of his preparations for receiving Sir Percy Laycock and his daughter. Here all his peculiar flair for cooking came out, and by the time Mrs Smith, his “help”, returned he had been in the kitchen two hours and everything for the evening was under way, the wine decanted, the saddle of lamb cooking in bay leaves. Even the potatoes were ready mashed with butter and eggs and cut into shape; it would only be for her at the last moment to roll them in almonds and drop them in deep fat.
At seven he went into the living-room for a quick drink before he changed. He was irritated when a few minutes later Michael came down.
“What have you done to your suit? It looks as if you’ve slept in it. And that shirt isn’t clean.”
Michael said: “I forgot to hang it up when I came in last night. And this seems to be the only shirt.”
“Then go and take one of mine, for heaven’s sake. I don’t want you looking like an out-of-work waiter.”
They went up the stairs together, Roger with his hand proprietorially on Michael’s shoulder. While they were picking through the shirts he said:
“I think you’ll find Sir Percy Laycock interesting. He has quite, strong religious beliefs—and as I told you he’s a self-made man. His father left him three clothing stores, and in twenty years he opened a chain of sixty. They all prospered, and since then he’s bought up other rival concerns until he has become a very rich man indeed. They say he has a million pounds uncommitted.”
“That would make anyone interesting.”
“But he’s agreeable too. And rather ingenuous. He’s never been in touch with the literary world at all—and he looks on it with awe and with interest. He’s a man to know—very few people do. He’s not a diner out. I’ve tried to get him here before. One can’t appear to press.”
“What about this pique silk?” said Michael.
After a spasm of hesitation Roger agreed. “ But treat it with care. They cost me ten pounds each.”
“And the daughter?” said Michael.
“I haven’t met her; you must judge for yourself. But don’t forget what liking her might lead to.”
“I’ve never been in doubt about that since I was twelve,” said Michael.
Roger gave a little nervous irritable shrug of the shoulders. For once he was not in the mood for that sort of joke.
Since Tuesday night Michael had been going through a species of private hell that wa
s unlike anything he had ever imagined existed before. He didn’t know what had hit him. Up to now taking girls out had for him been one of the best games in the world—a delightful amusing ever-changing past-time. Women—there were millions of them. More than half the population of the world was female, and at least one per cent of it highly attractive, bent, as he was bent, on enjoying themselves. This blunt instrument that had struck him on Tuesday night, this crab that had clutched his stomach, this sickness which had robbed him of his sleep and of his food, it could hardly be connected with sex, one hesitated even to call it love. All he understood was that it was acute misery beyond his worst imagining.
Last night he had been out with Peter Waldo—which was as near as one could attain to the certainty of forgetting. Ashes, it was all ashes; drink tasted like paraffin, food choked him. He had stumbled home to his own bed about four, to sleep for two hours and then wake with the worst and least deserved hangover of his career. Today he had crawled about, going through the motions of cleaning his new flat, but with the feeling of utter disaster so much upon him that he could hardly move.
When Sir Percy Laycock arrived he came in on two sticks, plump, small, not old, smiling, apologetic for being late. He was not expensively dressed and his Cockney accent still clung to him like a home-knitted pullover. Marion was tall and brown-haired—not at all pretty, rather heavy in a young way. Her Molyneux frock was the wrong colour and she had no small talk.
Michael wondered what Bennie was doing, and thought of the tiny mole by her mouth and the feel of her naked shoulder and the look in her long dark eyes. While the rest of the party was drinking one cocktail he contrived to down three, and since he had eaten nothing all day they went to his head.
With a half-cynical detachment he watched his father turning on all the familiar charm: the easy conversation, the dignified but modest smile, the instant courteous deferment to one of his guests when they chose to reply. He was like a great man entertaining two of his followers, condescending to them without the smallest trace of condescension, making them feel at home, flattering them by developing some casual comment of theirs into a profound or clever thought and making it appear that it had originated with them.