“Hullo, hullo, hullo,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks—Pa always repeated words and actions—“Well, well, well, what a drive, what a drive. I left at ten, no, ten-thirty, and it’s now seven, continual hold-ups, if I hadn’t had my special pass I should never have got here at all. How is Mad? Is she upstairs? Is she in bed? Has Bevil Summers been again?” Pa never waited for one to answer his questions. He was always on to the next before you could frame your reply. He was lugging his bag from the back seat as he spoke. “Where’s Joe?” he asked. “Will he put away the car? I want a drink, I’m dying for a drink, I must have a bath too before eating. How’s Dottie, is she in good form? Those horrible children won’t be feeding with us, will they?”
“No, Pa darling, of course not. The little ones are probably in bed by now.”
“Thank the Lord for that. One doesn’t want to drive nearly three hundred miles non-stop and be met with a gang of shouting young.” He put his arm round his daughter’s shoulders, and they walked up the path together to the house. “Everything’s so quiet here. I can’t understand it, I thought you said you had commandos under every bush, helicopters springing from the trees. It’s all nonsense, nothing appears to have happened at all. Mother?”
His voice boomed through the house. She was waiting in the hall, arms open.
“My darling Vic.”
Emma, watching, was struck, as always, by the family likeness. Hair, eyes, noses, chins, exuberance, and then finish. Not one thought, one ideal, in common. Only a mutual determination, and, when thwarted, bloody-mindedness.
They embraced on both cheeks, another family custom (Mad said it was French), and then Pa stepped back and looked at his mother.
“But you look very well,” he said, “you look better than when I saw you last. I don’t believe there is anything the matter with you, the whole thing is a plot to get me here. Emma, is it a plot? Hullo, Folly, still alive, good heavens, what is she now, fifteen, sixteen? I suppose when she dies you’ll embalm her. Mother darling, I’m exhausted, isn’t someone going to minister to me, pour me a drink, is there any ice?”
“If you’d only stop talking for one single moment, you’d see it was all here,” said Mad, “whiskey, soda, gin, tonic, ice forever. You’ve got the most frightful bags under your eyes, I hope it’s driving and not toping. I often wonder how you manage alone in that London flat, if you are alone, which I’ve never believed for a moment, there must be rows of women waiting in queues to come in and cook your meals and darn your socks, don’t tell me…”
“It isn’t true, it isn’t true, I’m the most solitary of creatures, so exhausted when bedtime comes I literally drop between the sheets, I…”
Emma went from the room, reeling. The trouble was, when Pa and Mad got together in the flesh it was even worse than when they spoke to each other on the telephone. Other people became worn out. The sheer noise of it deafened you.
She went into the kitchen to warn Dottie. “Pa’s here.”
“I heard him,” replied Dottie.
“And you know he’ll want a bath after his drink, and that means dinner about eight-thirty or after.”
“In old days,” said Dottie, who had rescued the colander Colin had been wearing earlier in the day and was rinsing it under the tap, “Madam had a staff in her kitchen, and they used to run round in circles when Master Vic came home for the school holidays. Those days are gone. And praise be, she did not include me among the staff.”
Oh Lord, Emma sighed, Dottie was in one of her status moods. Give her an inch and she would start naming the stars who hung about the dressing room at the Theater Royal, and those who had accompanied some cast or other on tour, all of which must have taken place at least thirty years ago, probably more, and she would proceed to hint, furthermore, that it was not everyone who would condescend to lose face and turn her hand to every sort of menial chore when they had once hobnobbed with the famous.
“The soup can stand on the hot plate when it’s ready,” Dottie continued. “Madam can say it’s borscht if she likes, but you and I know it’s got nothing in it except Joe’s beetroot. As for that plaice…”
Emma disappeared from the kitchen and returned to the music room. The ding-dong argument between mother and son was going full steam ahead.
“But I don’t understand, I don’t understand,” Pa was saying. “However did Bevil Summers manage to knock down Terry, who must have been standing in full view at the top of the drive? Was the man drunk? Doctors should never touch alcohol. Or was Terry himself high on some drug? I wouldn’t put it past him. These boys need an iron hand, they are completely out of control. As for that disreputable business on the beach with fireworks…”
“You forget I might have been dying,” Mad interrupted. “Darling Terry was distraught, I think he tripped over the bumper, I don’t know, and Bevil had no other thought in his head but to get to me in time. As it was I had to have an injection, a sedative, don’t ask me what it was, I don’t know, but it worked miracles, here I am perfectly well. As for the fireworks, none of those marines had any sense of humor, typical of Americans, I remember once in New York…”
Pa was banging on, though, not listening. “The Minister rang me up himself, or rather his secretary, tremendous offence given, really tremendous, wanting to know who was trying to throw a spanner in the works in the west country, was there some underground movement. I don’t know, I said, I haven’t the slightest idea, my mother will be eighty any moment and has been bats for years, you must totally disregard her…”
“… Always lose their heads in an emergency. I remember a snowstorm on Long Island, a few telegraph poles down, the President had to intervene because chaos broke out…”
Meanwhile Joe, who had slipped quietly into the hall while no one was looking, seized Pa’s bag and took it upstairs to the spare room, while Colin and Ben, who had followed in his wake, ran through to the music room washed, brushed, and in their dressing gowns. They looked like cherubs minus the wings.
“Hullo, Vic,” cried Colin, never abashed in adult presence, and to show equality smote his elder on the backside. Pa whipped round as if stung.
“Hullo, you horrid little boy,” he said. “Why aren’t you in bed? When I was your age I was tucked up in my cot and asleep by six o’clock.”
“No, you weren’t,” replied Colin. “When it was your bedtime you used to lie on the floor and kick, Madam told me.”
“It’s a lie, a complete travesty, I did no such thing,” Pa appealed to his mother. “I protest, you bring up these children to believe the most appalling fantasies, I can’t allow it. Ask Dottie, ask anyone, I…”
“You know perfectly well you kicked and screamed,” said Mad. “You frothed at the mouth like a horse, you…”
“Vic,” interrupted Colin, “I’ve taught Ben to speak. He knows several words. Do you want to hear them?”
He whispered in Ben’s ear, who grinned and nodded his head.
“Yes, yes,” said Pa, snatching at a chance to turn the conversation. “Let me hear what Ben has to say. Then the child isn’t a moron after all? He’ll grow up to be a leader of Black Power yet and murder us all. Come on, Ben, say your piece, I’m all ears, I’m all attention.”
The flow of words confused the three-year-old. He frowned and concentrated hard, but the exclamation that was to astonish his audience wouldn’t come forth.
“Sh… sh… sh… or f… f… f…” urged the mentor Colin, taking his hand, “it doesn’t matter which.”
But Ben, bewildered, muddled his instructions. “Shuck,” he said, “shuck, shuck, shuck,” and started to run round in circles.
“The child is a moron,” declared Pa. “What’s he pretending to be, a hen that has just laid an egg? Cluck, cluck, cluck, is that it? Run along, child, run along. Nobody wants an egg. Emma darling, has anyone remembered to turn on the heater in the spare bedroom? I don’t want to freeze. I must go and say hullo to Dottie. Has somebody taken up my bag? Mother dear, shouldn’
t you be resting? I can’t think why Bevil Summers didn’t order you to stay in bed. He doesn’t know his job. I shall ring him up.”
Emma managed to propel her father out of the room and towards the stairs. “Say hullo to Dottie after you’ve had your bath,” she urged. “Joe has taken up your bag and he’s putting away your car. I’ll bring you up another drink.”
“No, no, no, I’ll have one when I come down. What’s the hurry? Everyone’s always in a hurry in this house, nobody ever relaxes.”
He was still protesting as he entered his room, and throwing open his overnight bag he emptied the contents on the floor. Emma, from long habit, picked everything up. Ivory brushes on the dressing table, silk pajamas on the bed. Pa, at forty-eight, was shockingly trained. All Mad’s fault, of course.
“Did Summers take her blood pressure?” he asked, going into the bathroom and turning both taps full on. “We all suffer from high blood pressure in our family. I must say, she doesn’t look particularly ill, but then she has immense reserves, like me. If I didn’t, I couldn’t survive. You’ve no conception what these past days have been like. Meetings, conferences, never getting to bed until three, I have no business to be here at all.”
“Tell us all about it at dinner, darling,” said Emma, and closing the door behind her went along the passage to her own room to fling herself on her bed for five minutes. My reserves can’t be as strong as Pa’s, she thought; if they were I wouldn’t be lying here now, I’d be taking his visit in my stride. It’s just that so much seems to be happening, hour by hour…
The hot bath, the change of clothes, slippers, a second drink, all had their calming effect upon the traveler. Even the whirlwind visit to the kitchen and the salutation to Dottie, with a quick inspection of the middle boys’ room, did not bring the rise in temperature that might have been.
“Something must be done about that boy’s eyes,” Pa was saying when Emma, who had also changed, came into the music room. “He must see an expert, an operation may be necessary.” (He was referring, of course, to Sam.) “One should always take the highest advice. And isn’t there some terrible infection one can catch from squirrels? Yes, yes, I’m sure I’m right. Or is it parrots? Probably both. Weil’s disease, or psittacosis, I can’t remember which. Emma, my lovely daughter, how exquisite you look. You’re wasted down here. Come back with me to London.”
Just at that moment Dottie gave a blast on the gong and Mad led the way in to the dining room. Dottie had lighted the candles to give a festive air. Mad peered at the hot plate and turned round with a radiant smile.
“Borscht,” she said, “your favorite soup, and delicious sole to follow. Em, isn’t Joe going to join us?”
“He asked to be excused,” said Emma. “He had high tea with the boys.”
The truth was that Joe, loyal and devoted though he was, found Pa overwhelming and, silent by nature, became mute in his presence.
“Oh? Oh, well…” Mad seemed disappointed. She enjoyed an audience round the dining room table when there was a chance of confrontation with her only son by birth and not adoption. Terry was usually her mainstay, giving as good as he got. Emma couldn’t help feeling relieved that he was in hospital and not poised here, like an athlete, ready to leap into action.
“Joe knows his place,” said Pa, spooning his soup with relish—he was a noisy eater, Mad’s poor training again. “He’s a natural hewer of wood and drawer of water, an excellent lad, but dim. Salt of the earth, nature’s gentleman, however you care to put it, we have to have them in society today, pity there are not more like him to wait upon the élite like ourselves.”
“Who says we are élite?” countered Mad. “Just because I entertained millions in my time it doesn’t put me in some top bracket. And as for you, fiddling the bank balances of Argentine tycoons…”
“I do nothing of the sort, I do nothing of the sort. Fiddling doesn’t come into it. It so happens that it requires a certain type of intellect to deal with a certain type of problem. Monetary matters are my specialty, always have been, always will be, and not thanks to you, may I say; if anyone has made a hash of her finances through a long and successful career then my revered mother…”
“Pa,” Emma broke in, “what we really want to know is, can you tell us what is happening in the world, or rather to this country? Is USUK going to work?”
The topic of the hour should surely bring them onto neutral ground.
Pa wiped his mouth with the table napkin. “It has to work,” he declared. “If it doesn’t we might as well all cut our throats tomorrow, no, tonight. The only hope for existence in this island lies in union with the U.S., economically and strategically, there is no argument about it, no argument at all. We may not like it, historically we may feel ourselves outraged and raped, but tant pis, there is no alternative. The entry into Europe was a flop, a disaster, prices rose nearly fifty percent, do you remember? We had a political storm and near revolution. So what happened? A general election with the country hopelessly divided, then a referendum, and finally the Coalition Government we have today, which has seized on the idea of USUK as a drowning man clutches at a straw. The only difference is that the straw is not a straw but a bloody great plank, my darlings, which will carry us all, if not to El Dorado, at least out of the threat of extinction.”
He paused for breath. Mad did not seem to be listening. She was pouring the remains of her soup into a saucer for Folly to lap.
“I don’t feel myself raped,” she said, raising her head, “but I do feel outraged. An economic association, well, fair enough, even a partnership. But not a takeover bid, which is what USUK amounts to, Vic, surely?”
“Darling mother, take the analogy of the shipwreck again. You are in a small boat, a storm is brewing, the boat may upset any moment, and a thumping great liner comes alongside and suggests taking you on board. You accept, but on reaching the deck you don’t expect that you and your boatload of survivors will steer the ship, do you? No, you sit back grateful for the rescue, and do as you’re told.”
Emma removed the soup and stacked the saucers. Dottie had disguised the plaice with a white sauce. Emma wondered if this was wise, it made it look like invalid food in hospital. Still… She helped her father generously.
“I think I’d rather brave the storm,” said Mad. “The small boat wouldn’t have to be leaking. If the planking was sound, and people had oars, you could keep it head to wind, or merely let it drift before the gale. You’d be bound to come to land sometime.”
“Or hit a reef,” said Pa, “if you hadn’t upset in the meantime. Don’t be absurd, darling. In the world as it is today nobody can go it alone, we have to combine—USUK and its allies, South America, Africa, Australia, Canada, we can say boo to everyone else, strategically and economically. We shall have joint nuclear and air power, and a joint currency. The rest of the world can get on with their own affairs, starve, succeed, make love, blow each other up, it won’t matter to us. What’s this, Emma sweetheart, it’s not the cream from the borscht being served up again?”
“It’s sole,” said Mad. “You know you always demand fish. Fresh Dover sole caught in the bay by dear old Tom Bate.”
“I didn’t know,” replied Pa, “that it was possible to have Dover sole swimming about in Cornish waters, anymore than you can have Dublin prawns anywhere but in Dublin. Still, I take your word for it. Where were we? Oh yes, strategic and economic affairs. A tremendous advantage to have the same currency. It hasn’t been decided yet whether we stick to the dollar or invent something entirely new. The pound will go, of course. I’m all for reviving the ducat. Shylock, you remember. My daughter! O! My ducats! The tourists would love it.”
“Ducat,” mused Mad. “Rather unfortunate rhyming associations. One can imagine…”
“H’m, peculiar sort of sole,” Pa went on as he shoveled a forkful into his mouth. “Has a strange resemblance to cotton wool. No, no, no… I’m not complaining, but this creature never saw Dover in its life. Perhaps the
marines have done a swap, dredged up your local fish and substituted something from Long Island Sound.”
Nevertheless, he demanded a second helping, washing it all down with a doubtful chablis.
“I must remember to send you down some Californian wine,” he said. “Crates of it have arrived already. Not wildly exciting, but new to the palate. Everyone’s drinking it in London.”
“Oh, Vic darling…” protested his mother.
“Why not, why not? The climate in California is better than anything you get in France. Acres of vines being grown on the west coast of America. It will cost us less into the bargain. I assure you, once USUK is firmly established we shall be eating American fruit, cheese, butter. We shall all grow enormously fat, of course, but it can’t be helped—better than than becoming skeletons like the Asiatics.”
“I shall keep a cow,” said Mad firmly, “two cows. The boys can milk them, or possibly Jack Trembath would let them run with his herd—run is the right expression, isn’t it? Thank heaven for all our apples… As for vines, I see no reason why we shouldn’t plant vines, Em, at the back somewhere. We could all tread them in the autumn, the boys would adore that.”
Pa threw back his head and laughed in derision. “The boys, angel mother, will be so busy learning and adjusting to the American way of life that they won’t have time to tread grapes. The interchange of visits among the young will do a power of good,” he continued, cracking an ancient filbert, which, though he did not know it, had been purloined from Sam’s squirrel. “I suggest we send Terry, and possibly Andy, across with one of the first flights. No use to Joe, he can’t read or write, the exercise would be wasted on him… One thing I must impress upon you both,” and he looked first at his daughter and then at his mother, “and make no mistake about it—we’re all in this thing up to our necks. There’s no going back. If we don’t cooperate to the full, take everything that is suggested with a good grace, then we are in for trouble, real trouble.”