The Last Houseparty (12 page)

“Playing it rough, eh, Dibs?” called Flitwick-Johnson. “My turn,” said Vincent.

“No, hold on a moment. I can see …”

Vincent paid no attention but walked off towards the further end of the court. Flitwick-Johnson almost scampered to catch him up.

“You'd much better let me have a go at red,” he said. “It's only half the distance and if I miss I'll be out of harm's way. But if you have a go at me and miss, Nancy can run sixth, hit yellow, run One Back, yellow again and I'll be lying down by Two Back for her …”

“I'm going to have a go at yellow.”

“But you're wired! Dibs left you wired on purpose. Mine's the only ball you can see. Didn't you notice him smiling?”

By this time they had reached the corner where the black ball lay. Flitwick-Johnson was right. Sir John had left the balls so that the corner hoop lay directly between black and yellow, and also screened red, which was poised ready to run the near centre hoop.

“Have to jump it,” said Vincent.

“Honestly, Masham …”

“I'm not g-going to let him g-g-get away with it.”

It would not be true to say that Flitwick-Johnson's face turned white—it was never in any case of a particularly healthy colour—but he certainly swallowed with some violence.

“Now look here …” he said.

“Be a good chap,” said Vincent, smiling, apparently quite confident and even happy with the sudden certainties of action. Flitwick-Johnson swallowed again.

“For God's sake watch out for the lawn,” he muttered.

Vincent grunted and studied the stroke. After a few seconds he straddled his ball with his feet rather further forward than for a normal stroke. He made only one brief practice swing, then brought the mallet head through a sharp arc so that it was still travelling downward when its upper edge struck the black ball. The ball, compelled thus to bounce, successfully leapt the hoop but also cleared the yellow ball by a couple of feet, running on to smack briskly against the red. Clapping broke out from the pavilion, but stopped abruptly as Sir John, so far punctilious about the courtesies of the game, strode on to the playing area.

“Bit of a fluke, really,” said Vincent cheerfully. “I was g-going for yellow.”

“Questionable stroke, in my opinion, Dibs,” said Flitwick-Johnson, gabbling slightly.

“Nonsense,” said Sir John. “But let's see what Masham's done to my turf.”

“Bit of a dent, I'm afraid,” said Vincent. “Couldn't help it. I was so jolly close to the hoop.”

He stood aside. Just where he had struck the ball the nap of the grass was spoilt by a sudden scar, almost an inch deep, shaped like the imprint of a giant fingernail, where the corner of his mallet head had bitten into the turf. Sir John palped the wound with the point of his shoe, then turned and beckoned to the gardener who had been rolling the lawn when they first arrived and who had since been standing alone in the corner of the hedges opposite the pavilion, watching the game. He came forward carrying a large trug full of tools, from which he selected a garden fork with curved tines. Prodding this into the turf at various points around the indentation and levering downwards he gently raised the soil at the centre against the sole of his shoe. When at length he straightened and stood aside the surface was as smooth as it had ever been, though admittedly the grass that composed it had rather a bruised look. Once more Sir John pressed his foot gently around the place.

“Sorry about that,” began Flitwick-Johnson. “I tried to talk him …”

Sir John looked at him bleakly.

“No real harm done,” said Sir John in his normal deadish tone. He glanced half sideways at Vincent.

“You didn't leave me much else, sir,” said Vincent.

“Don't do it again,” said Sir John. “Black to play. You've just roqueted red.”

He walked back to the pavilion.

The match ended unexcitingly. Flitwick-Johnson's game seemed to fall apart, as if he had quite lost interest. Vincent made some untidy progress. Sir John led his side out easy winners, and then took everyone off to watch the end of the game on the tennis court, whence laughter and cries of excitement and despair had now been coming for some time.

4

“What on earth did you get up to at Bullington, Vince?”

“Played croquet. Lost.”

The sun, shining through the west-facing window of The Boys' Room laid a slab of strong light across the beds. Harry lay on his, smoking, with his pale and hairy legs emerging from the split of his orange silk dressing gown to rest with crossed ankles on the brass bed-end. Vincent, wearing only underpants and dress shirt, as yet collarless, was standing in shadow, arranging studs, cufflinks and waistcoat buttons in drill order on the chest of drawers.

“That all? According to Zena you've somehow got us all in dutch with old Dibs.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Just that. All sweetness and light when the croquet started. Icicles when it ended. Dibs perfectly civil, but told her something had come up which meant he wouldn't be able to send his quota over for the dance this evening. It was only going to be half a dozen of the young, so it won't matter all that much.”

“Prince Solly's not going to be too happy. He's hit it off no end with Dolly F-J. Perhaps Dibbin's trying to break that up.”

“Zena says it's something to do with you. She's just guessing, Vince, but she's pretty hot on that sort of thing—and if she's on to anything she'll do her damnedest to see Uncle Snaily hears about it. I imagine that's why she was so eager I should ask you.”

“The only thing that happened was that I made a small dent in Dibbin's lawn.”

“A hole in his holy turf! Vince! On purpose?”

“I didn't just go out and bash it with my mallet, if that's what you mean. I had to jump a hoop, and I was a bit close. I realised I'd probably take a divot, but I didn't mind. That ass Johnson had just told me some stuff about Dibbin that put my back up, and then he—Dibbin, I mean—left me on play with a thoroughly sneaky set-up and went off smirking the way he does. I just wasn't going to let him get away with it.”

“I wish I'd been there.”

“And Johnson kept wittering round trying to stop me, telling me it wasn't the thing. How should he know? He's an ass.”

“He's going to be editor of
The Times
one day.”

“That won't stop him being an ass.”

“What had he told you about Dibs? I'd have imagined fawning loyalty to the great man was his line.”

“That only made it muckier. He couldn't see any harm in Dibbin keeping a secret file on Charles Archer.”

“Well, of course he does. He's that sort of person.”

Vincent, who had been pushing his studs into various patterns with his fingertips as they talked, now turned and took a cigarette from the open case on his bedside table. Holding it unlit between his fingers he spoke with slow emphasis.

“I don't think being ‘that sort of person' lets anyone off.”

“Let's try one of your fags … Thanks. Being that sort of person. I don't know. Look at it the other way round. Suppose Herr Hitler … No, he's too monstrous a monster … Suppose old Dibs, just once in his life, has done something completely uncharacteristic. Suppose, for instance, he has performed one generous action. Don't you think he gets extra credit for that because it was so much harder for him? When he stands before St Peter, I mean … Really this is the basic moral question…Did F-J tell you what Dibs has actually got in this file?”

“Mucky little hints. Something about a house in Paris. Children.”

“Oh,
that
. I wonder whether Dibs has got anything which actually proves Charles … You know about
l'affaire Panquelin
, Vince?”

“By the sound of it I'd rather not.”

“It affects you, distantly. You remember that rumpus a couple of years back when Uncle Snaily tried to tell Zena he wouldn't have Charles in the house any more? That was because some busybody in Boodles had explained to Snaily about the
affaire …
”

“Johnson says everybody believes Zena and Charles are lovers.”

“So I've heard. I suppose it's possible, but I very much doubt it. Zena's far too much of a narcissist to want to be anyone's lover, unless it suits her in other ways. I'm not saying she's frigid. In fact my impression is that she gave Uncle Snaily a very good time for quite a while—a real change from Aunt Clara—but I think Purser's right and she's now decided that she's paid off her debt for having him make her a countess. Have you noticed what a tricky temper he's in?”

“I was there when he made up his mind to sack McGrigor. D'you think some fellow in Boodles has told him about Charles and Zena?”

“Possibly. Purser says that yesterday morning he came down early to breakfast and tore up all the toast. He swore that if Purser had been his fag he'd have beaten him till he blubbed, making him toast like that. Purser blamed it on Zena for ordering a new kind of bread. You know, I can't help feeling sorry for Uncle Snaily after all those years with Aunt Clara, but I must say I hope he doesn't make Joan's life impossible here.”

“Yesterday afternoon you said …”

“I wasn't far off, either. I don't mean he's come padding along to her room yet, but she tells me there've been Snailyish gallantries which hint at that possibility.”

“What's her reaction?”

“Not very enthusiastic—though one must make allowances for what she would tell another admirer.”

“That's you, I take it. You certainly seem to have hit it off with her.”

“To put it mildly. That's why I'm in such a benevolent mood about the sexual affinities of everyone else in the neighbourhood. I positively glowed with pleasure when Zena told me about Dolly F-J making huge blue eyes at your dusky friend all round the croquet lawn.”

“He's going to ask her to advise him on his collection of British artists he's decided to start. I said you'd find out what sort of commission he should pay her.”

“Dolly will leave him in no doubt. How is F-J taking this romance?”

“He hasn't had much time to be aware of it.”

“Dolly will tell him, first thing. And, you know, my guess is he'll rather relish it. He's a very curious bird. Will you do something for me, Vince?”

“Depends what.”

“Squire Nan Blaise around a bit this evening. Do you mind?”

“Nancy's all right. Wouldn't have thought she'd have much trouble finding partners.”

“No … it's just a bit awkward, you see. Short of being positively embarrassing, but … well, I asked Zena to have her along.”

“I see.”

“No, it's not like that. I've only met her a couple of times. Zena started it by telling me she wanted a bit of younger talent round the place this week-end, and I put Nan's name up. Just inquisitive about her, much as anything … but now that my main aim is to spend every minute I can wangle, night and day, with Joan, I don't want Nan to feel left out.”

“Night and day?”

“It may come to that. My impression is Joan's fairly easy-going.”

Vincent, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed smoking his cigarette, got up sharply and stubbed it out on the wash-stand.

“I'll take Nan off your hands,” he said. “She's all right.”

Harry seemed to pay no attention to his cousin's mild agitation. In any case he was presumably used to behaving as though it didn't exist, a phenomenon it was friendlier to ignore, similar to the stammer.

“You know,” he said dreamily, “nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems. It is the superficially complicated desires such as old Dibs's with his ballet girls, or Charles's supposed inclinations, which are really easiest to grasp. Whereas meeting a nice girl and wanting to go to bed with her always seems to become an immensely complex experience, almost at once—more complicated if you bring it off than if you don't. I appear to myself at the moment to be in love with Joan; but what I want from her is honestly much the same old Dibs wants from one of his dancers, without the fancy frills he goes in for. And when old Dibs has got it he probably doesn't give it another thought, beyond looking back on it with a good deal of relish, I suppose, rather the way you or I might look back on a reasonably cooked meal or a passable night at the theatre. But if Joan and I … it's possible I'm mistaken, of course, and it will turn out to have been no more than a night at the theatre, and not necessarily a very successful one. The whole notion of being in love may be only a way of appeasing one's residual conscience, but one can't say it feels like that. No amount of introspection will analyse the notion of love away, or so it seems to me, and I must have been in and out getting on for a dozen times, with varying degrees of satisfaction …”

“Why do they do it?” said Vincent, angrily.

“Girls go to bed with one? That indeed is an intractable mystery. They'll tell you so themselves—without being asked.”

“No. People like Dibbin. Or Charles, supposing …”

“Rather a drearier mystery. I believe that according to Freud it's the inability to cope with one's mother at the emotional level that sets it off. Not very useful, even if true. In Dibs's case I'd guess it was just another aspect of his general power mania. He is stimulated by making his fellow human beings do things which would normally repel them. He needs that sort of stimulus to get going with a woman, that's all. I suppose Charles might be nearer the Freudian pattern—always, as you say, supposing. I've never heard anything about his parents, but, well, wouldn't you say there's still something of the terribly clever schoolboy about him? And that war hero stuff?”

“It wasn't stuff, Hal.”

“I wasn't …”