Last Friends (Old Filth Trilogy) (12 page)

‘The Adelphi Hotel is haunted,’ said Sir. ‘It is the hotel where doomed passengers of ship-wrecks have always gathered before embarkation. Filled with shadows. Such rubbish. In the back, now. The dickey-seat. I don’t ever drive with a boy along-side me for there is always talk in a Prep School. Mine is a clean school. Was yours?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Sir. Mine was run by a man called Fondle.’

‘That,’ said Sir, ‘is a bad start.’

They roared away north-north-east towards the Cumbrian fells, Sir occasionally blasting off into the empty night, upon the car’s bulbous horn, at resting rabbits. After a time the light around them began to fade into a gentle sunset. Sir stopped the car.

‘Bladder relief.’

‘Now,’ he said, ‘another day is done. By what I hear it has been a day you are unlikely to forget. Time will tell us if you were directed by some spiritual force of nature, by instinct or by selfish whim. I heartily advise you to beware, if it is because of “whim” (look the word up. Old English sudden fancy or caprice OED), never to do such a thing again. Is that understood? I dare say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Now, look at the dark hyacinth-blue of the umbrageous mountains (look up ‘umbrageous’: and ‘hyacinth’ too, they both have a splendid classical root). Tell me, do you care for birds?’

‘Well, I think we only have sea-gulls at Herringfleet.’

‘A pity. And most unlikely. Birds can be a great solace. They never love you and you can never own them. Dogs often—and even cats sometimes—can cause pain by their enduring love. Sycophancy (look that up) is never to be encouraged.’

(Who is he? A madman? I like him.)

‘And although I wish I could have the privilege of teaching you, you are, as I say, a little old. We stop at twelve or thereabouts. Where are you bound for next, I wonder?’

For the first time it occurred to Terry that he had not the faintest idea.

‘I should like to come to your school, Sir, but I don’t think there is any money. I stand to inherit £25, but not until my benefactor is dead.’

‘Is that per annum, boy?’

‘No. It will be net.’

‘Ah.’

‘I could make an exception,’ said Sir, ‘but I will not. We might grow fond of each other, I fear that we are unlikely to meet again.’

‘I’m very sorry, Sir.’

‘Yes. I have to admit that I am often very sad, when a boy leaves my school (though not always). There was one excellent boy called Feathers came to me. Left a year or so ago. Had a cruel stammer. We cured it in a term. He’ll be a barrister. You’ll see. Rather your sort of calibre. Feathers will have a charmed life and he deserves it for he had a terrible start. He was unloved from birth. Whereas you—boy—I understand have had a loving home and interesting parents. This will get you through everything. Almost. Because you were loved you’ll know how to love. And you will recognise real love for you. Here we are.’

The school was on a hill up from a lake that gleamed through black fir trees. Boys erupted through its front door and took charge of a large package, the size of a double-bedded bolster, which Sir took from somewhere beneath his feet. ‘Warm it up at once. Fish and chips. Hake. Irish sea. Made me late at Liverpool. Hake a wonderful fish, not common. Good for the brain (look up “hake”. Is it Viking?). God bless our fishing boats. No car here yet? No Mr. Smith to take you home? Boys, this is Terry Veneering. Yes.’

The boys were all disappearing into the school with the bolster. ‘Veneering, you’ll have to stay the night,’ said Sir and Terry felt suddenly that it had been a long day.

* * *

He stayed for three nights with Sir and there was no message from Herringfleet. He slept in an attic and listened to the birds. He was hauled in to help with football and was a success. In the gymnasium it was even better. ‘You may start them on Russian,’ said Sir, passing by on the third day. ‘We may all be needing it soon. I forbid German, however.’

‘I think there’s a car, Sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Standing in the drive. It might be Mr. Smith.’

‘Excellent. Start now. First Steps in Russian with Class 1. Call them “First Steppes” and see if they get—. I will send for you. You are right. It is Mr. Smith. They are approaching slowly: There seems to be a priest with him.’

An hour later Terry was summoned to the Parents’ Waiting Room where a tray of tea and Marie biscuits, off the ration, had been laid out and Mr. Smith and Father Griesepert told him that both his parents had been killed in the air-raid on Herringfleet the night he left home. Muriel Street was gone, as were the old rabbit-hole houses in the dunes. Mr. Parable-Apse was dead, along with the people in the ticket-office, and nobody had seen Nurse Watkins.

* * *

Terry was to leave that same evening in Mr. Smith’s car. Father Griesepert was a governor and an old boy of a famous Catholic boarding school where it was hoped Terry would remain for the next few years. He went to see Sir again by himself and found him seated at a desk which looked far too big for him, staring ahead.

But he was talking before Terry was through the door. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘You will not only survive but you will shine. Remember the boy, Feathers. You will outshine him. I know, I am never wrong.

‘But remember—I am only a walk-on part in your life. This is merely a guest-appearance. You will have to get down to your own future now.’

Pompous, Terry thought. Totally self-absorbed. Stand-up comedian. Needs adulation. Probably homosexual. Twerp.

‘And so, goodbye, Veneering.’

‘Goodbye, Sir. And thank you.’

‘Hurry up. I have work to do. Mr. Smith is waiting.’

Veneering turned at the door to shut it behind him and saw Sir staring ahead, his eyes immense, wet beneath his glasses. Unseeing.

On her Memory-Dream mattress sixty years later Dulcie was now listening to the Dorset rain. A sopping Spring. At last she heard the swish of Susan’s car returning from the station, the front door opening and closing. Some kitchen sounds. The radio—.

(She’s taking her time to come up.)

‘Susan? Susan? Is that you? Are you back?’

‘You know it’s me, I’m getting your lunch. Here. Sit up. Soup and cheese. I seem to have been bringing people food all day. Oh, don’t
snivel
, Ma. I suppose you’ve forgotten that I’m going home tomorrow?’

‘No, I haven’t. Is Herman going too?’

‘Where else d’you think he’ll live?’

‘And I’m not snivelling. It’s a cold. I must have caught it in the church.’

‘The less said about that the better. Ma—tell me something. Did Fiscal-Smith have some sort of a
thing
about Veneering? I always thought it was Old Filth he was mad about.’

‘Thing?’

‘Is he gay?’

‘Oh my dear! Good heavens, no. He’s 80 plus.’

‘He’s not related to Veneering, is he? Told me at the station he’d known him since they were eight.’

‘Well, they’re both from the North somewhere. Nobody knows. The North is big I suppose. I must say they’ve both dealt pretty well with the accent. They’re both Roman Catholics. Expensive schools and Oxford.’

‘How weird. It’s just that Fiscal-Smith, poor little scrap, flipped a bit as the train came in. Made a speech at me about Veneering.
At
me. Eyes glittering. Very odd. He kept pressing that lighted button on the carriage door and all the doors kept opening and closing.’

‘Once,’ said Dulcie, looking away, ‘you were fined twenty-five pounds for that. Pulling the cord for fun. We did it once at school and then we all jumped out and ran across the fields and my foster family nearly killed me. I wrote to my father in Shanghai to come and rescue me and he wrote back saying he would never write to me again and nor would my mother until I’d written letters of shame to everyone, including the railway company. It was the dear old LMS.’

‘Whatever that was. Here, Ma. Eat your rhubarb.’

‘I hate the way people call it rhubarb now. It should be rhu-BUB. Only the Queen and I pronounce it properly.’

‘When did you discuss rhubarb with the Queen? The last thing—when the doors did close—Fiscal-Smith was saying was that Veneering once had a different name and he was some sort of a hero. Very brave. Huge admiration. Did you know?’

‘Perhaps he was Veneering’s best-man, too.’

‘Oh now! Veneering was married frightfully young. When he was doing his national service in the Navy after the War. His ship was showing the flag around the Far East. He met and married Elsie ten years before he met the rest of us. Before he met Betty.’

‘Yes. We know all that. Everyone knew his wife drank. People always do.’

‘Elsie was Chinese of course. Never saw anyone so beautiful. But she drank.’

‘We knew all that, too.’

‘She was rather after the style of that pink-coat woman at the funeral, Isobel.’

‘Isobel does
not
drink!’

‘That will do, Susan! Do you know Isobel?’

‘O.K.—keep your hair on. I did once. It can’t be the same one.’

‘
Actually
,’ said Dulcie, spooning rhubarb, ‘there
was
some link between little Fred Fiscal-Smith and Edward. Something awful. Orphans, of some sort. Well, you don’t ask, do you? Not done.’

‘
I
was a Raj Orphan,’ said Susan.

‘Yes. You made a great fuss. I can’t think why. It is such a character-forming thing to be separated from one’s parents. I never saw mine for years. I didn’t miss them at all. Couldn’t remember what they looked like after about a week. But then, I’ve never been very interesting and I’m sure they weren’t.’

‘I missed mine,’ said Susan.

‘Your father, I suppose.’

‘No. I missed you. Dreadfully.’

‘Susan! How lovely! I had no idea! How
kind
of you to tell me. I did write you thousands of letters—. But—. I think I’ll get up now and write to Fiscal-Smith. I think I was a little hard on him for bringing that overnight-case. He’ll be nearly home by now. I hope there was a dining car on the train. He remembers—and so do I—when railway cups and saucers—.’

‘“Had rosebuds on them”. Yes, we know. And for godsake, Ma, don’t get up until I’ve done down-stairs. The kitchen’s full of damp church vestments.’

‘And after this,’ she said in the kitchen, ‘thank God, we must start packing for America.’

Dulcie, not waiting to dress got out of bed, found some writing paper and sat at her dressing table.

My dear Fiscal-Smith,

I am sorry that we did not say a proper goodbye after our little adventure this morning. I had not expected you to leave immediately and I am
very
sorry if we seemed to be hurrying you away, Sincerely, your oldest friend, Dulcie.

PS: I don’t seem to be able to get
not
Old Filth—Eddie—out of my mind, but
Veneering
. Am I right in thinking that you knew him better than anyone else did? That there are things you never told us? Just a hazy thought. I’ve so often wondered how he got where he did. So flashy and brash (if I dare say so) so brilliant in court, so good at languages, so passionate and so—whatever they say about him with women—so common. But oh so honourable! Don’t forget, I knew Betty very well. But I am saying too much—too much unless it is to a dear last friend which I know it is.

DW.

* * *

And now I am completely restored, she thought the next day, waving Susan and her grandson off in the hired car for the airport, back to Boston, Mass.

Susan had kissed her goodbye. Even Herman had hugged her, if inexpertly. This visit had been a success! Susan talked of returning soon. Even of sending Herman to boarding school here with the boy his own age over in Veneering’s old house, the poet’s son. Well, well! I wish she’d say what’s happened to her husband. An electric fence around her there.

* * *

Today and probably for the next few days Dulcie decided she would do nothing. It was time for her to be quiet and reflect. So idiotic at my age, but I must reflect upon the future. ‘Reflect’, perhaps the wrong word. It has a valedictory connotation. But I am not too old to consider matters of moral behaviour. There is Janice coming to clean on Wednesday and Susan’s already done the sheets. I will
not
go over to Veneering’s house to see that new family. I mustn’t get dependent on them. I mustn’t become a bore. I shall—. Well I shall read. Go through old letters. Plenty to do. Prayers. Wait for Fiscal-Smith’s reply.

But when this had not arrived by Friday Dulcie began to think again how much he irritated her. She knew she had hurt him by sending him home, but, after all, she had not invited him. It was that supply of clean shirts she’d seen in the case that she couldn’t forget. The image brought others: his ease the night before with her drinks cupboard, his arrogance in the church. How he had criticised the vicar. He knew that the Church of England had to regard their priests as wandering planets now, the current one arrived on a scooter dressed as a hoodie and vanished after the service without a word to anybody; but Fiscal-Smith need not have looked so RC and smug. And disdainful of St. Ague’s.

Of course she knew the village was dead. Dorset was dead. It was gone. Submerged beneath the rich week-enders, who never passed the time of day. Came looking for
The Woodlanders
of Thomas Hardy and then cut down the trees. The only life-timer in The Donheads was the ancient man in the lanes with the scythe. Willy used to call him the grim reaper. Lived somewhere in a ditch—never talked. Some said he was still here.

There was no-one to talk to. The village Shop, as Fiscal-Smith had said, was dying on its feet. He didn’t have to tell her. She scrapped another letter to him, written this time on an expensive quatre-folded writing paper, thick and creamy, from Smythson’s of Bond Street—which Fiscal-Smith would never have heard of—and set out on foot to the village shop herself.