Nothing So Strange (8 page)

“You mean he’s only just decided? I thought it was all settled weeks
ago.”

“Well, no. Apparently he wasn’t sure till they talked just now.”

“I didn’t see them talking much.”

“It was after you left the table. They had quite a private chat. Framm has
to go back to Vienna tomorrow night and if Brad can make arrangements in time
they’ll go together.”

“
Tomorrow night
?” That came as a shock.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that quick work?”

“He won’t have much to pack—Brad, I mean. Lives in furnished rooms,
doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know—I’ve never been there.”

“Well, your mother must have—or else he once told me.”

“Father, do you really think it’s the best thing he can do to go with
Professor Framm?”

“Why, don’t you like Framm?”

“I think he’s very charming, but it does seem rather sudden if Brad only
made up his mind tonight and he leaves tomorrow. I hope it’s the right
thing.”

“It’s a great chance—if he uses it. Of course if he doesn’t use his
chances, nothing at all will do him much good…. We shall miss him when he’s
gone—your mother will, I know…. By the way, where is she?”

“In the billiard room, I think. There’s some bridge going on.”

But later I noticed that the bridge players were back in the drawing room,
and I also couldn’t see Brad anywhere. I was sure people had begun to notice
my mother’s absence and I ran upstairs to see if she were feeling ill, but
there was no trace of her. I could see my father a little preoccupied behind
his facade of suavity, and every now and then Hugo Framm’s voice would
somehow make a silence and then quietly fill it. About eleven o’clock John
served more champagne and I hoped this was not a sign that the party would
continue late, for I was beginning to feel a tension in the
atmosphere—or perhaps it was only in my own mind. About a quarter past
eleven my mother walked into the room with flushed cheeks and clenched hands.
Few actually saw her, but she seemed to look for an audience from the doorway
before speaking out as if to gain one. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being
terribly discourteous, but I’ve been at the radio—we’ve got one that
picks up New York— it’s the only way you can get the latest about the
Simpson case over here….”

It was a few days before the story broke officially in England, though the
American tabloids and radio were agog with it, and London’s informed society
was already gossiping. There had been talk of it at the dinner table, and
nobody seemed unwilling to discuss it again. While this was going on I saw
Brad enter the room behind her. He edged into the crowd and stood by the
bookshelves in an alcove, listening in a detached way and not taking sides in
the argument, though I knew he was pro-Simpson. So was my mother—and
never more emphatically, or perhaps I should say more naively, than then.
Others differed and there was a lively exchange of views. Suddenly, amidst
the chatter, I heard Framm’s voice again and saw him towering above my mother
with his large expansive smile, the charm turned on full.

“I entirely agree with you, Mrs. Waring. There is no reason at all why
your King should not marry whomever he wishes. There are many precedents for
such marriages. Your Queen Mary’s own grandmother was a mere Hungarian
countess- -Claudine Rhedey, I think her name was, who married a Duke of
Württemberg who was nephew to the Emperor. And there is, of course, the
well-known example of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s marriage to the Prince of Wales who
later became your George IV. Two other direct descendants of George III were
also married morganatically—Prince George to Louisa Fairbrother, an
actress, and the Duke of Sussex to a lady called Cecilia Buggin …
Buggin
… which is not, I have been told, a very nice-sounding name in
English….”

We all gaped at this display of erudition, and I couldn’t myself decide
whether it proved how thoroughly Framm made himself master of subjects
outside his own field, or that he was just a snob. Anyhow, he sounded so
authoritative that nobody tackled him from the other side, if there was any
other side.

The party broke up soon after that, and Brad left with the rest. I thought
it was strange he didn’t stay for a more personal good-by when the others had
gone, but my father said he was probably hoping to get a lift into town with
Framm. “He hasn’t much time to spare if he’s to catch the evening train
tomorrow. It leaves at eight.”

I said: “He might have given me the chance to wish him well.”

“I’m sure he knows you do. Anyhow, you can telephone tomorrow.”

“He’s not on the telephone. It’s another of the things he can’t afford …
like taxis.”

Rain fell during the night, but the next morning there was
blue sky and
sunlight. I had breakfast before anyone else, then went out for a walk on the
Heath. It was more than sunshine there, it was pure radiance. I followed my
usual trail, along the Spaniards’ Road to Highgate and then down the hill. I
kept thinking of Brad and Framm and how odd, in several ways, the previous
evening had been.

Suddenly, as I was crossing Parliament Hill Fields, I remembered my
father’s remark about Brad’s furnished rooms and that my mother “must have”
been there; if that were so, or even if it weren’t, the conclusion leaped at
me that there was no reason against my calling on him myself. I also
remembered the address from that night of the Byfleets’ party when we drove
him home and he gave directions to Henry; it was 25 Renshaw Street, off the
Camden Road. I found a tram that took me near by. In daylight the street
seemed what it mainly was, a slum; but in London appearances can be
deceptive; some of those identical houses have declined to different levels,
so that they are not always either as bad or as passable as they look. The
one Brad lived in had the remains of quality; it was dingy but not dirty; one
could have lived in it if one had to. There was a rack of names in the
hallway, and the stale smell of cabbage and floor polish that seems to
pervade so many London houses whether slums or not. Brad was on the second
floor; I climbed to it and tapped on his door. He called “Come in,” as if he
had left it ready for someone to open.

It wasn’t such a bad room, especially in the morning sunshine. The windows
were tall and there was a marble mantelpiece surmounting a small gas fire.
The furniture was shabby and the whole place littered as one might expect
when anyone has a day’s notice to pack for abroad. I took in the surroundings
first because Brad was in some inner room; he came out fixing his tie.
“Well….” he exclaimed. “This
is
a surprise….”

I said yes, I imagined it was, and I hoped he didn’t mind my having called
on him without warning. “I was just taking a walk, it’s such a lovely day, I
thought I’d drop in to say good-by properly … there wasn’t a chance last
night.”

He laughed. “So many things were happening.”

I laughed also. “I see you’re packing and I know you must be terribly busy
… but I did want to wish you plenty of fun and success.”

“That’s nice of you—very nice of you.”

I decided I wouldn’t stay more than ten minutes, but in the meantime I
might as well sit down. When I did so he moved over to the mantelpiece,
leaning his back against it and looking as if he didn’t know what to say
next.

I said: “I’m glad I’ve seen where you live. These old houses do have big
rooms, that’s one thing.”

“I changed from the set upstairs a few months ago. These are bigger and
there’s a kitchenette. I couldn’t exactly afford the change, but I decided to
spend more on luxury. I’m not such an austere devil at heart as some people
imagine.”

“I wouldn’t call it
luxury
.”

“Well, of course,
you
wouldn’t.”

There was a silence then which both of us, I think, kept up deliberately
till it was broken by some rather noisy plumbing in another part of the
house. He laughed again. “Do you wonder I didn’t give any dinner parties
here? Impossible place, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so. You once said all you wanted was to do useful work.
Plenty of useful work has been done in rooms like this.”

“And you think I’ve changed since I said that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the mood you’re in at the thought of
leaving.”

He said suddenly: “Let’s take a walk.”

“
Now
? A walk? But … can you….” I looked round at the unfinished
packing.

“You said it was a lovely day.”

“On the Heath, yes, but—”

“Then let’s go there.”

“Are you sure you’ve enough time?”

“Yes.”

“All right then.”

We took a bus up the Hampstead Road, and during the ride he went on
talking of his rooms and their amenities so ironically that I began to see
less and less point in it. Was he trying to hate the place just to help him
over the wrench of departure? I hinted at that, and he answered: “Wait till
we start walking and I’ll let you into a secret.”

We got out at Jack Straw’s Castle, then took to the open Heath. “Well?” I
asked.

“I’m not going away.”

I had a curious instant of relief that surprised me more than he had; then
I was shocked.

“You mean you’re not leaving for Vienna tonight?”

“I’m not leaving for Vienna … at all.”

I asked if that meant that the whole arrangement with Framm was
canceled.

“Yes … or will be when he gets to hear of it.”

“You haven’t told him yet?”

“I called him at his hotel and they said he wasn’t to be disturbed until
noon. The prima donna.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Oh yes—he’s great. A genius, if ever there was one.”

“But you were packing?”

“Yes … until I changed my mind.”

“When was that?”

“I didn’t look at the clock.”

“You just
suddenly
changed your mind?”

“I’d been thinking it over most of the night. I didn’t sleep.”

“Oh, Brad, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry that I’m not going? That doesn’t sound as if I were very
popular.”

“You know I don’t mean that…. I’m just sorry you’ve had all this worry.
You must have been worried if it kept you awake all night.”

“And you’re also sorry I’ve decided to stay here … aren’t you?”

“Brad, it’s no good asking me for an opinion till I know what made you
change your mind. Maybe you have a perfectly good reason.”

“And what if I haven’t? Supposing I just don’t want to go? Dammit, I’ve a
right to please myself, haven’t I?”

“Of course.”

“And to change my mind as many times as I like?”

“Of course.”

We walked some way without speaking; then I said: “You should know best.
Whatever the reason is, I hope you’re right. My father will be disappointed,
but that doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though. He’s been very kind to me. You’ve all been kind.” I
caught the tremor in his voice and thought how foolish it would be if we both
broke down and wept in the middle of Hampstead Heath for no reason that
either of us would mention.

“Oh, don’t keep on saying that, Brad. My father often helps promising
young men—he gets a kick out of it. I don’t mean he doesn’t genuinely
like you, but I wouldn’t want you to feel so terribly grateful … he enjoys
it, just as he enjoyed it while Julian was baiting you the other night.”

“Baiting me?…
Julian
…?”

“That argument you had—about science and civilization, all that.
Julian was trying to break down something you believed in.”

“That’s what your mother seemed to think.”

“Of course a good deal of what he said may be true. It doesn’t pay to be
too idealistic. You said just now you weren’t as austere as some people
imagined, and that’s a good thing—you used to be
too
austere.
But you needn’t go to the other extreme.”

“Have you any idea what you’re talking about?”

“I think I have. Only you don’t help me to understand you. Perhaps you
don’t want me to.”

“It isn’t that. I’m not sure that I properly understand myself.” We walked
a few hundred yards, then he took my arm (the first time he had ever done
so); he said quietly: “Let’s chuck the argument. Do you mind? I told you the
secret—nobody knows yet that I’m not going … till I can wake the
professor. I don’t think it’ll bother him much, that’s one thing.”

“The real secret is why you changed your mind.”

“You’re a persistent child.”

“I’m not a child at all, but that would make another argument.”

“Yes, let’s not have one. Not even a small one, from now on. Change the
subject—talk of something else—anything else…. It
is
beautiful here, as you said. I didn’t somehow expect this sort of weather.
Everyone in Dakota knows about London fogs, but this bright cold air…. Look
at those boys— they’re optimists—they’ve brought sleds … or
sledges, isn’t it?”

“Sledges over here. Sleds in America.”

He picked up the topic with grateful artificial enthusiasm. “Lots of words
like that, aren’t there? Sidewalk, pavement—but in England pavement’s
called roadway. And of course subway and tube. Though that’s not quite right,
because there aren’t any real tubes in New York…. But the oddest of all, I
think, is thumbtack and drawing pin….
Drawing pin
…. Can you beat
that?”

I tried to, and we kept it up till we reached the pond at the top of Heath
Street. Then, as we were so near, I felt I wanted to go home. There was
nothing else I could say, and nothing at all I could do. I asked him not to
see me to the house and we separated at the tube station. “Oh, Brad,” I said,
as he put coins into the ticket machine, “you don’t have to tell me anything
you don’t want, but I hope you aren’t going to make a hash of things.”

He gave me an empty look and my arm a final squeeze, then dashed for the
elevator … lift, my mind checked, just as emptily, as I walked away.