Before the War (9 page)

She hates the food Syrie Maugham serves for her mother’s smart parties – bitter oysters Rockefeller and watery scrambled eggs – and most of all she hates the zebra rug (poor slaughtered beast) which now covers the lovely old oak floor of the morning room at Dilberne Court. And she is the one who has signed the cheques for most of it, so far as she can see, though there are more stubs in the cheque book than she can recall having written out… Perhaps her mother forges her signature? She complains often enough that it’s simple and childlike. Which is true – though if she’d been allowed to go to school instead of having a series of inept governesses it might now have character enough. As it is, forgery would be easy. But that way madness lies.

Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold

‘Rise, Sir Jeremy,’ says the King, and Vivvie’s father arises. She feels a pang of pride for him, and of affection for her mother, sitting next to her in Coco Chanel black silk georgette and the dearest pink satin cloche hat, weeping a tear or so of happiness. But Vivvie can see change must come. She must take charge of her own destiny. No-one else will.

But what can she possibly say, and when, and how? Everyone gets angry and indignant if she brings up the subject of money, and tells her to leave it to those who understand financial matters. Her father once even said ‘don’t bother your pretty little head about it’, which was fairly absurd since her head was neither pretty nor little. Her mother said ‘we have family lawyers to look after all these things. They manage your Alpine estate’; but she had failed to give her the name of the lawyers and Vivvie hadn’t liked to follow it up, which was silly of her, she knew. But they expected her to know things without actually telling her, and if she asked for detail saw it as evidence of her folly. She knew she wasn’t half witted but they behaved as if she were. She’s known for some time that when she reached twenty she would come into money but twenty had come and gone and she still had no more money in her purse than before, only now they put Coutts cheques in front of her which she was expected to sign. Early on she’d dared ask the crusty old lawyer who turned up from time to time, and in the presence of her parents, what the mysterious Alpine village consisted of, and been told it was a remote village sited on a lake amongst mountains, complete with an abandoned Benedictine abbey popular with visiting antiquarians, an old church, a town hall, a Gasthaus, a cluster of houses, some meadows and some cows and a goat herd and that was all. She should not make too much of it, but ground rents and tithes had built up while the will was under dispute, and she should consider herself wealthy.

‘What a fuss about nothing,’ Vivvie heard Adela say. ‘It should all have come to me. No such thing in English law for disinheriting unto the third generation. No English judge would have allowed it.’

‘Alas,’ Mr Courtney had replied, ‘he was foreign. As was your grandmother.’

Which, Vivvie thought, put Adela in her place. From the conversation which followed it seemed to Vivvie that the lawyers visited the village once a year but not Sir Jeremy (‘
Too much to think about
’) or Adela (‘
Ugh, Austria. So primitive!
’)

Vivvie had asked if the cows had bells and been told yes, to an impatient sigh from both parents – but then she’d read
Heidi of the Alps
and they hadn’t. The village was called Barscherau, said Mr Courtney, and no, it was not a Swiss village but fortunately in Austria, where inflation had been brought under control, and not over the border in Germany where it was still rampant. Vivvie longed to go and see Barscherau. But who would she go with? Her parents would never let her go un-chaperoned. Or perhaps they just needed her at hand to sign cheques?

Other girls of her age had husbands who looked after matters of finance and the law. What she needed was a husband brave enough to tackle her parents. But who? And how would she find one? Well, as one found anyone, she supposes. One asks around.

The band in the balcony strikes up with a medley from
The
Pirates of Penzance
, rather feebly played, Vivvie thinks. Guests begin to file out. Vivvie’s replacement chair causes an obstruction and has to be moved: she sees her poor mother wince. There seems no end to the humiliations. If she was married there might be fewer of them.

She decides not to go to the office party her mother is to give to celebrate Sir Jeremy’s elevation. She will only be made to wear the dress with the big white bow – Coco Chanel, after all, her mother would insist. And she would have to admire the refurbishment and might blurt out the truth – that she hates it and misses the old musty, fusty, familiar offices her father used to take her to when she was little. Not that she was ever exactly little. No, she isn’t going to attend. A humiliation too far. Anyway.

The Fate Of Nations

As it happens the investiture is held at three in the afternoon on October 22
nd
1922 which also turns out to be a turning point in the fate of nations, as well as that of Vivvie. It’s the day the coalition of Liberals and Conservatives finally fails; an event largely brought about by Balfour – a long time friend of Adela’s, as it happens. Lloyd George is removed from office and Bonar Law, a modest Canadian businessman, becomes Prime Minister. Some days seem more conducive to change than others, and so perhaps it’s no coincidence that this is the day Vivvie comes to the conclusion she does: she needs to marry, and to a man who understands money. A man whose boots let in water because he doesn’t have the cash to pay the boot-mender understands money very well.

The door stands open. Sherwyn finds Sir Jeremy admiring himself in the mirror, proof that Sir Jeremy does not stand on ceremony and treats his employees as partners. One could be buried alive, Sherwyn thinks, beneath the weight of so much hypocrisy. But everything, not just the hypocrisy of the rich and famous, now irritates Sherwyn. The lumbering daughter thinking she can buy him, Mungo with his private means saying flippant, self interested things. And Sherwyn has had to go without lunch – Rita having failed to make him sandwiches and his credit at Rules being unreliable. The state of his shoes; everything, the excessive luxury of the office, the vulgarity of the lighting caryatids – most of all the way his manuscript sits on Sir Jeremy’s shelf because Sir Jeremy can’t be bothered to read it.

Sherwyn is aware that he needs all the indignation he can muster to be able to resign in style. He is doing his best, while still seeing himself as a likeable fellow, and of an easy and amiable turn of mind. He is torn between a scowl and a sneer and goes for a curl of the lip, which comes easily enough, and always looks good beneath his moustache.

This is how the meeting was to go, not quite as Sherwyn was to report it that night to the lovely, lascivious Rita, with whom he temporarily shares the most bohemian of artistic lodgings, and to whom he currently owes three weeks’ rent.

‘Do sit down, my dear boy,’ Sir Jeremy said over his shoulder but in jovial enough tones. Sherwyn sat. Sir Jeremy continued to admire himself. ‘A glass of sherry?’ Sherwyn nodded but Sir Jeremy chose to assume it was a shake of the head. Sherwyn, defeated before he began, gave up the sneer.

‘No? Very wise. Drink not, fail not. Tomorrow I will be fifty-seven. For a man of my age I put up a good show, don’t you think? Every day and in every way I am getting better and better. We need a list in the Behaviourist Sciences, don’t you agree? I notice a growing interest. Pity George Stanley got hold of the Coué book. Should have come straight to us. Did terribly well and still is.
Self-Mastery through Conscious Autosuggestion.
Read it?’

‘I haven’t had the time, sir. I am quite busy. I work late.’

‘Do I spot self pity on the orlop deck, Sexton? It won’t do. Just read the book! Look at me. Good head of hair, slim waist, well set up and recognised by the King himself for services to literature. Every day in every way I am getting better and better.’

‘But how could such a thing be possible, sir?’ asked Sherwyn.

‘Don’t mock me, boy,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘I’m practising the art of autosuggestion. I recommend it. I grant you the slim waist is a bit of a challenge but one does one’s best. I am glad you dropped by. Shut the door. I read your thriller. What was it?
The Uncertain Gentleman.
The title will have to change, for a start. But I liked it. Not exactly great literature, not exactly paving the way for the new socialist world order, not the new Coué, but for a piece of entertainment, not at all bad.’

Rage and resentment faded in Sherwyn’s heart: a great gratitude took its place. He tried to prevent a smile: it did not do to show enthusiasm, let alone gratitude. He spoke casually and languidly.

‘So you can see your way to recommending the work, sir?’

‘More than that, old chap. I mean to publish it.’

‘But we don’t publish fiction.’

‘We do now.’

‘I see, sir.’

It transpired that Sir Jeremy was diversifying in the New Year into what he called ‘intelligent commercial fiction’. He wanted
The Uncertain Gentleman
– provisional title, of course – to be the lead novel in his new list. He had taken his time getting back to Sherwyn until various boring details could be settled. He was sorry for the delay which had been of his co-directors’ doing, not of his. The new list was to be announced with great fanfare in the spring. Sir Jeremy could see an encouraging future in fiction so long as it was designed to sell to the discerning and discriminating reader: pulp fiction was a thing of the past and not to be confused with what Ripple & Co, one of the great literary, intellectual and political publishers, was doing.

‘I should certainly hope not, sir.’

‘Quite at ease with the long words, aren’t you, boy. Quite the Old Pauline. Do please translate “abecadarian” for me.’

‘A beginner, sir. A dilettante. It describes my detective.’

‘Um. Never overestimate the intelligence of the reader, boy. Modern publishing’s first rule.’

‘I’ll remember that, sir.’

A publishing house, Sir Jeremy went on to say, must have its own character and nature, which must be recognisable and distinctive. Clever but not too clever.
The Uncertain Gentleman
seemed to fit the bill. These days a reader was as likely to trust a publishing house as a writer. Be as guided by a logo as title or author. He could see a future in jackets in a distinctive colour – pale blue, for example. Readers looking for intelligent but plot based fiction would look for the pale blue rather than the author’s name. He’d discussed it with Mungo and Mungo thought it was a good idea.

‘I might call the new list
Not for Numbskulls
. How does that strike you as a slogan, Sexton? You used to work with Mungo in public policy advertising.’

Sherwyn did not reply at once. His world was shifting and changing and resettling around him in a landscape that glittered with a thousand facets of fame and fortune, champagne and beautiful girls. A published writer! By Ripple & Co. Even though in a pale blue cover more significant than his name.

‘Speak your thoughts without fear or favour, Pauline.’

The important thing, Sherwyn knew, was not to show gratitude. It was the emotion demanded by publishers as they sought to control writers; it made acceptance itself seem so great a prize that writers seldom asked for better terms. Publishers operated an unspoken cartel. Writers must not get above themselves. The initial opening gambit ‘not exactly great literature’ had been deliberate on Sir Jeremy’s part, designed to ensure that Sherwyn did not get ideas above his station. ‘Clever, but not too clever’ likewise. And the notion of the colour of the cover being more important than the author’s name was the same. Well, Sherwyn would respond coolly.

‘
Not for Numbskulls
? Far too negative, sir, if I may say so. Ripple & Co must surely appeal directly to the positive aspirations in every reader. You might call it
Forward-looking Fiction
or something like that?’

Sir Jeremy raised his eyebrows in evident disparagement and doubt, but said nothing. Sherwyn decided that a lie was his best option.

‘Actually I had thought of sending my manuscript to Duckworth’s – they have a well-established fiction list – I showed the manuscript to you merely for an opinion in the hope of a recommendation. But there being a delay I sent a copy off anyway, and they’ve come back to me most favourably, though of course nothing’s signed yet.’

‘Um,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘Thank you for confiding in me.’ And then, ‘I wouldn’t think it wise for a writer of your capabilities to associate with Duckworth. They have such a fondness for seamy romances, bestselling or not; codswallop; cheap paper, cheap minds. All that madness of tender caresses. No, no, stay with Ripple, we are a serious house. Things are hard in the publishing business but we will make it worth your while.’

That was better. ‘A writer of your capabilities. A serious house.’ No-one had uttered the word genius but they might as well have. And Sir Jeremy had taken out his very expensive Waterman pen and his Coutts cheque book and was actually writing out a cheque, but for how much Sherwyn could not see. The stub and the date had already been filled in, but not yet the amount. Sir Jeremy put the cheque on the desk but kept it folded. Nor did he push it over towards Sherwyn. It lay there in front of them, a bargaining tool for an undisclosed amount.

‘A word of warning, Sexton,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘Steer clear of the markets. Keep your money under the marital mattress for the time being.’ It must be a considerable amount if he was talking about investments. ‘There’s trouble brewing. Instability is inherent in the classism of the capitalist model. What’s happening in Russia will be a financial upheaval, no doubt about it, but in a proper socialist economy stability will prevail. It must in the end. The Soviets deal in the reality of trade, of actual production, not figures on paper.’