Time and Time Again Page 14

  'Yes--gladly. I was equally glad to end my argument with Mansfield, in which--I think you tend to overlook this--I really succeeded in getting you out of serious trouble. . . . Tell me, incidentally--this isn't arguing, I'm just curious--what would be your rating of Mansfield?'

  'Rating? I don't know that I rate people at all. I thought him decent and honest, simple and--and--in a sort of way--sweet. Like a good apple. I'd trust him. He'd keep his word--even if he ought never to have given it.'

  'So it puzzles you a little--why he did give it?'

  'Not when I think of you in action against him. You have a persuasive manner.'

  'And you think that was all? I'm really flattered, Charles.' Havelock poured himself more claret and again Charles saw, as in his dreams, the pose of one about to strike, even at the risk of unwisdom; grim glee infesting the eyes, a euphoria that ran riot in the bloodstream, so that the cheeks reddened and shone with what, in an athlete, would have suited the moment of passing the tape or vaulting the bar. 'Charles, my experience in the courts taught me many things. One of them is the meaning of the word "corruptible". It means "more corruptible than the person using the word". Take plain bribery, for instance. With some people--those we call honest--a bribe has first to be explained as something else-- something reasonable and fair and legitimate. Then cupidity must be aroused--a universal attribute--after which the payment offered must be large enough to administer a slight shock, so that the honest payee will wonder if it IS a bribe, and--out of a mixture of doubt and guilt and gratitude--will wish to treat the payer with the utmost fidelity. It's a very interesting process.'

  He paused, aware that he was losing Charles's attention, then retrieved it by a fast grab. 'How do the Mansfields come into all this? I'll tell you. They're quite hard pressed financially-- buying their house through a building society and a radio- gramophone on the instalment plan--all that sort of thing. He has steady employment, but poorly paid--only about five pounds a week, so the three girls and the boy have to help to support the family from their own small earnings. Clearly, then, Lily couldn't give up her job and live in the country for a year at their expense . . . so the fair thing to do was quite obvious. But--and this really IS the point at last--how much do you think it costs a girl to live with her relatives in the country for a year?'

  Havelock took out his wallet and pushed a folded paper across the table to Charles. It was a cancelled cheque made out to and endorsed by Frederick Mansfield for two thousand pounds.

  * * * * *

  Charles felt rather sick. 'All right . . . so you pulled it off. You've been clever, I admit that. It's an odd thing to prove to me on the day I'm supposed to become a man--that life's full of wormholes and that you know how to find them . . . never mind, though, I'll admit that also. But now I've got a disillusionment for you. This career of mine you talk of--this career--this-- this . . .'

  His eyes were riveted by something else on the table before him. It was a telegram, addressed to Charles at Beeching, from his college tutor.

  HEARTIEST CONGRATULATIONS ON OBTAINING NOT ONLY FIRST IN TRIPOS BUT YOUR THESIS ALSO CONSIDERED SO GOOD STRONGLY RECOMMEND SUBMISSION FOR THE COURTENAY PRIZE. . . .

  'It came yesterday,' said Havelock. 'I took the liberty of holding it back for our celebration tonight. . . . NOW will you have a little more claret? We shall be late for the theatre, but who cares?'

  PARIS II

  Thirty-one years later Charles could sum up his early life as 'nothing to complain of without really wondering whether it had been or hadn't. He was much too pleased by his son's remark that he didn't look anything like his age; and for a second he glanced in a mirror on the wall of the Cheval Noir that showed him trim and distingué in his dark suit. 'Do you really think, Gerald,' he asked, fishing for another compliment, 'I could safely allow a photograph of the author to be used as a frontispiece for my book?' He laughed, of course, so that his son should know it was partly a joke.

  'You bet you could,' Gerald answered, loyally. 'You're really very handsome. You look a bit like Ronald Colman.'

  'And WHO is Ronald Colman?'

  'Oh, come now, dad, you must know that.'

  'I will admit I do, but I find that a great impression can be made nowadays by claiming never to have heard of somebody.'

  Gerald grinned. 'You're pretty smart too.'

  'Am I--away from dinner parties and agreeable company? Sometimes lately I've begun to doubt it.' At a remark like that Palan stepped into Charles's mind like an unwanted guest who finds the door left open, and because he would otherwise have had to quell an almost unconquerable preoccupation Charles began to talk about Palan to Gerald, though of course without mentioning the name. 'You know, Gerald, this job I have isn't the kind of thing it used to be. You may think me snobbish--it's so easy to be thought that nowadays--but when I first started in diplomacy one could always assume that whatever the sort of fellow one was up against there'd be at least some things in common--a professional training, for instance, and a minimum code of manners. Your opponent might trick you, he might be dishonest or corrupt--my father used to say that everyone was corrupt to some extent--but you could count on him not yelling across the room like an auctioneer or belching after a heavy lunch . . . But I mustn't bore you--here's Henri, wondering what we're going to eat. Anything special you fancy, my boy? This is an occasion, remember.'

  Henri presented the menu, which Gerald studied for a moment before replying: 'My French isn't equal to it--maybe you'd better do the choosing.'

  Charles smiled. He had been prepared for this. 'How about soup to begin with? May I suggest tortue claire?'

  'Fine, whatever it is.'

  'Just turtle soup. And then perhaps sole Véronique--that's sole cooked in wine and served with a very delicate cream sauce and fresh grapes--and after that I can recommend Henri's way with a small chicken--poulet en casserole ŕ la maison--'

  Gerald put down the menu and tried to catch Henri's eye with a knowing wink, but of course Henri did not respond. 'I wonder if I could just have a good thick steak after the soup.'

  'Certainly, M'sieu'.'

  Charles continued to smile; he had been prepared for this too. All he said was: 'One thing you never have to specify here, Gerald-- everything always IS good . . . I think then a tournedos garni for Gerald, Henri, with those little potatoes and champignons. I'll have the sole.'

  Henri bowed. After he had left them Gerald said, still looking amused: 'What first made you so interested in food, dad?'

  'To that question, Gerald, I had better quote an answer made by a titled Englishwoman to the Duchess of Marlborough--who, as perhaps you know, was a titled American. The Duchess was informed that considering it is the only pleasure one can count on having three times a day every day of one's life, a well ordered meal is of prime importance . . . Ben trovato, possibly.' Henri had approached with the wine list. 'A Chablis, Henri . . . Try a small glass, Gerald, after the soup.'

  'Okay.'

  'It's a very simple wine.'

  'I thought one ordered wines by the year.'

  Charles smiled again; it was a matter he liked to have brought up. 'Your millionaire junk merchant ALWAYS does--he learns a few words and dates like Liebfraumilch Forty-Seven and thinks it makes him a connoisseur. I myself would GENERALLY know the best years for a Burgundy or a champagne or a claret, but with a Chablis I leave everything to Henri, who was born quite close to the town of Chablis . . . isn't that so, Henri?'

  'At Auxerre, M'sieu',' said Henri, beaming.

  'Oh yes?' Gerald suddenly spoke up. 'I think I know of it.' He was evidently at pains to demonstrate that he wasn't an ignoramus in every field of knowledge. 'Didn't Clovis capture Auxerre from the Romans in the fifth century?'

  'I haven't the slightest idea,' answered Charles with keen delight, 'and I don't suppose Henri has either. So you put us both in our place. I took my degree in history, and I've never regretted doing so, though I expect I've forgotten ninety per cent of all I ever learne
d. One does, you know. But the other ten per cent, if well cared for, can stand one in pretty good stead. . . . Thank you, Henri. Oh yes--and a small salade gauloise.' Henri bowed and left them again. 'I'm glad you're interested in history, Gerald. Perhaps it'll win you a Cambridge scholarship next year.'

  'I think I shall take Economics.'

  'Well, that includes a lot of history--and vice versa. I remember when I was at Cambridge I used to go to Pigou and Keynes--that was at the end of the war which we now call the FIRST World War, though it was Colonel Repington back in 1919 who originated the phrase and was well trounced for it.'

  'Did you enjoy Cambridge?'

  'Very much indeed. Of course I'm fortunate to have it associated in my mind with pleasant things--such as a First in the Tripos and the Courtenay Prize. I didn't like games and I was too shy in those days to take part in Union debates, but I think I can say that Cambridge gave me, if nothing else, a sense of kinship with tradition--of being privileged, if the metaphor isn't too fanciful, to touch the pulse of five centuries with the tip of one's little finger. I remember what a thrill I got when I found that a previous occupant of my college rooms had introduced the turnip from Holland in the late seventeenth century--thus becoming a benefactor of English agriculture though certainly not of the English dinner-table. . . . Strange, though, when one looks back on early life, how it's the little incidents that stay in the mind. I remember once, while I was researching at the British Museum, being told that the desk I was working at had been used by Karl Marx when he was writing Das Kapital. . . . I mentioned that to Palan the other day, by way of making conversation--'

  'Who's Palan?'

  Charles had spoken the name without thinking, though now he had done so he felt it did not matter. 'One of my opponents at the Conference. A disciple of Marx, of course.'

  'I think I've seen pictures of him in the papers. Rather a jolly- looking fellow.'

  'He would certainly never forget to smile when being photographed.'

  'What did he say when you told him about the desk at the British Museum?'

  'Nothing. He just stopped picking his nose.'

  Gerald laughed. 'You've certainly got your knife into him all right.'

  'On the contrary, he has his into me. Mine's quite incapable of piercing such a hide. And yet, in an odd sort of way, I don't absolutely DISlike the fellow. It's hard to say why not. I have every reason to--personal, professional, and political. The other evening I was reading Montesquieu and I came across . . .' Charles stopped; he saw that Gerald had glanced covertly beneath the rim of the table at his wristwatch. The fact that the movement had been so carefully shielded, that the boy was clearly anxious not to hurt a father's feelings, gave Charles a needle-like twinge in the centre of his stomach. Was it possible that he was BORING Gerald? He continued hastily: 'But don't let me run on like this. Tell me more about your adventures in Switzerland.'

  'Yes, I'd like to, before I--I mean, while there's still time. I mustn't forget my train.'

  'When did you say it was?'

  'Er . . . ten-thirty . . .'

  'And from the Gare St. Lazare, I think you said. Leave here by ten and you'll be all right. . . . You were telling me earlier that you did some climbing.'

  'Oh yes--and golf and tennis too. At Mürren they were having tournaments at the hotel and I entered--just to get a game actually-- never thought I had a chance--but I won the mixed doubles--my partner was awfully good. It's a silver cup--I've got it in my bag-- like me to show you?'

  Even had Charles been interested in games he would not have cared to interrupt a dinner in such a way. He smiled tolerantly and answered: 'Oh, don't bother now--I'll see it when we're at home. But I'm very glad you were able to get the kind of holiday you enjoy. So many people--diplomats, for instance--have to enjoy the kind they get. When I think of all the time I've spent at horrible little resorts that happened to be the only places where the Legation staff could go to escape the heat, or dysentery, or some national holiday that was sure to be marked by anti-British demonstrations in the capital--'

  'You can put all THAT into your book, anyway.'

  'Oh, certainly. And I shall. There was a place near Constanza, on the Black Sea . . .'

  At ten minutes to ten he called for the bill and excused himself ostensibly to make a telephone call. The only telephone at the Cheval Noir was in Henri's little office at the rear; but Charles did not actually use the instrument. Presently he returned to find Gerald ready to leave and a little fidgety.

  'Dad, it's been a wonderful dinner--I've had a grand time.'

  'My pleasure too, Gerald. I only wish we could have seen more of Paris together.'

  'Yes, so do I.'

  'Maybe we'll have some other chance.'

  'You bet we will . . . and dad, why don't you stay here and finish your coffee?--I hate to rush you out like this--no need for you to see me off at the train, we'll be meeting again in London so soon.'

  'Very thoughtful of you, Gerald. In that case I'll just put you into a cab.'

  Charles noted the relief on Gerald's face. It hurt him again, but less so because he was now making plans of his own. He took the boy to the kerb and summoned a taxi from the line of them in the middle of the street. Then he shook hands with his son and gave the driver instructions in very rapid French.

  'Bye, dad. Thanks again.'

  'Goodbye, my boy. Bon voyage.'

  Charles returned to his table and asked Henri to bring him another fine. He felt chastened and also a little unworthy. For the thing he had done instead of telephoning was to look up the timetable and confirm that there was no such thing as a ten-thirty boat train from St. Lazare. And what he had told the driver in rapid French was to return to the restaurant and tell him where he had taken the young man.

  * * * * *

  Half an hour later Charles was in the same taxi, having ordered the driver rather testily: 'Just take me there--you don't need to describe the place.' Feeling as he did somewhat contaminated by the thought that he was about to spy on his own son, he certainly did not want to cement the treachery by any sort of gossip in advance. Naturally after such a rebuff the driver navigated the streets with added recklessness--the route led along the Boulevard des Capucines, then the Boulevard des Italiens, towards the Place de la République . . . And with every mile Charles wondered what he was going to do when he got to wherever it was, or if he could even do anything at all. For there were circumstances in which Paris was a wonderful city to be fatherless in . . . and at such a speculation Charles had nothing to aid him but certain recollections of his own.

  It would probably (he remembered) be one of those dingy buildings with a mansard roof and peeling stucco and an advertisement for Byrrh facing from across the street in huge letters . . . And to think of Gerald at seventeen . . . Why, in his own case he had been twenty-two when he . . . when he spent those six months with the Décharays to polish up his accent. Professor Décharay used to take him and the other students to the Louvre and the museums during the day, but sometimes in the evenings after dinner on the pretext of a lecture a few of them would go off on their own . . . He had often wondered if the good professor had guessed where they went, for he twirled his moustache rather waggishly when they greeted him the next morning at breakfast . . .

  And somehow now those adventures, though Charles shrank from the translation of them into the life and times of his son, nevertheless did not give him any equal distaste when they were recalled. Rather the contrary. Too bad one mustn't put that sort of thing into a book--not that he would dream of doing so, even if he could. He wasn't that sort of writer, though he must confess he could sometimes enjoy himself as that sort of reader. Fashions were changing, standards were crumbling, people talked at dinner- tables more freely, one might suppose (though one could hardly be sure), than eminent Victorians in bedrooms, chats on the radio and faces in television were taking the place of spellbinding oratory and the front line of the chorus . . . Perhaps he might devote a chapter
in his book to the changing world he had seen--or no, there could be nothing new to say, he had better stick to what was important. The big thing in his career had undoubtedly been the Macedonian Boundary Commission; he must concentrate on that. It was his only title to fame, if any; the rest was just run of the mill. . . .

  'RUN OF THE MILL'

  Charles and Brunon were among the New Year revellers welcoming 1922 at a Rhineland hotel. It was not a good time for painting, but Brunon had a short vacation from school and Charles, after Christmas at Beeching, had been glad to return to the Continent to meet his friend. During a succession of cold and sunny days they walked along the west bank of the Rhine, southward from Bonn. Brunon had visited this fabled territory before and knew of a small village called Assmannshausen, near Bingen, that would be pleasant to stay at, so they had arranged to have mail sent there poste restante. Assmannshausen was reached towards twilight after a flurry of snow from the hills, and Brunon went to the post office while Charles sat in a café reading German papers. There was not much news. More snow was forecast. Francs and marks had fallen further. The Washington Armaments Conference was still in progress. Charles felt drowsy in the warmth after the icy air outside. He also felt very fit and reasonably content. It had been a good idea, taking a walking tour in January. Eccentric but invigorating. Brunon came in with a batch of letters and sorted them out on the scrubbed table top. There was a sprinkling of fresh snow on his coat and his face was pink from the wind. None of Charles's letters looked important and he was putting them aside to read later when one slipped to the floor. As he picked it up he did not recognize the handwriting under Cobb's heavy crossing-out, but the postmark 'Linstead' caught his eye.