The Oracles (26 page)

‘That’s all right. Forget all about it.’

‘He would mind so much if he knew. He would feel that he hadn’t appreciated you properly.’

‘He needn’t know. Was that why you never told him?’

‘Later on, yes. But at first … out of unkindness. Oh, but I am so glad you aren’t angry.’

‘Why should I be?’ he asked, in obvious surprise.

‘It might have done you a lot of harm.’

‘So Frank says. But it hasn’t.’

‘It was Mr. Wetherby’s fault. I’m sure it was. He egged Martha on. I suppose it was his idea of a practical joke.’

‘It would be. But we’ve been too many for him.’

Bobbins threw a coloured woollen ball outside his pen. Conrad stooped to retrieve it, smiling to himself and repeating:

‘Too many!’

‘Mr. Swann …’

‘No hurry, you know. Forget about it for a bit, and then think it over.’

‘I’d feel more comfortable if I could tell him. But why should I upset him just because I want to feel more comfortable?’

‘Wait. Later on, it might not upset him so much.’

‘Oh, it would. Unless he changes a lot.’

‘Yes. But he might.’

‘Change? People don’t change.’

‘Oh yes. They change all the time.’

‘Do they?’

He did not answer that, because she was finding an answer for herself. Where was the furious child who had crawled about on this floor looking for pins?

‘I love him so much,’ she said, with a sigh.

When they rejoined the others in the lounge they found Dickie both composed and elated. Archer had explained Conrad’s strange behaviour: there was still, he hinted, a certain amount of instability, although there was every hope of complete recovery. The Apollo could only be regarded as evidence of temporary
insanity
, so that it was good that he could now laugh at it. Dickie, by opposing Martha and preventing a hasty purchase of the thing, had done him an inestimable service.

‘Thanks to you,’ Archer had said, ‘the whole business can now be hushed up and forgotten. If you hadn’t used your eyes, and stood up to them, we should be in a God-awful mess.’

All this was balm to Dickie. To have been right in his judgment, to have done Swann a good turn, to find himself once more in accord with Christina, gave him considerable grounds for elation. And he was deeply thankful that Bobbins was going to be spared the Apollo.

After a cordial leave-taking Archer hurried his friend off the premises.

‘I was a fool not to drop you into the sea too,’ he said, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘You couldn’t have behaved worse.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Conrad. ‘But I took her out of the room so that you could tell him I’m still a little mad.’

‘I did.’

‘And he looked quite happy when we came back.
He’s all right. We didn’t really hurt his feelings. She’s the one I’m sorry for.’

‘Did you talk to her? Will she hold her tongue?’

‘I think so. She won’t want to upset him.’

‘Yes. He takes himself rather seriously, I fancy.’

‘So he ought,’ said Conrad. ‘Nobody else will if he doesn’t. I think people should take themselves seriously. But I don’t see why he should make such heavy weather over taking me seriously. If I take myself seriously, that’s quite enough. Trying to … trying to … I’m sorry! I still can’t help laughing. Why should he try so hard?’

‘He’s a disappointed man,’ said Archer thoughtfully.

He did not take Pethwick’s view of Dickie. He did not assume that the choice of an easy life in East Head arose from any strong desire for leisure in which to appreciate Swann. On the contrary, he suspected that all this culture might have originated in frustration, and that Dickie would have preferred a more arduous career.

‘He’s got a lot to sit on and nowhere to put it,’ said Archer. ‘If his job gave him more headaches, he wouldn’t take you so seriously. I know that type. You see them around, in the galleries, trying away. But they don’t often have the cash to buy anything, so I don’t have many dealings with them.’

He had observed that type, the frustrated, the
disappointed
, the unsuccessful, which asks for most from Art, since it is continually haunted by questions which life has not answered. Who am I? What am I? What do I here? Is this my destiny, or have I made some avoidable mistake? Give me truth which disregards me, in which I play no part, but which stands unshaken and admirable, which I may contemplate and so forget my lot.
Give me escape from hope and regret, anguish and solace; carry me into some other world where explicable laws prevail.

The assured, the successful men, to whom he sold his wares, had found their place in this world, had found work which absorbed all their faculties, which set
problems
serious enough to preserve them from the
importunities
of those other, unanswerable questions. They knew what they were buying and valued their
acquisitions
. They took pleasure in their aesthetic sensibilities. They snatched an afternoon, occasionally, to visit an exhibition; they took an evening off for a concert. Some of them might read poetry before they went to sleep. But certain transports were denied to them, since they were reconciled to life. These are reserved for the unreconciled—for those among the failures who refuse to wither, to rot, to drink, or to rail at fortune. Such men save their souls by turning to some great
disinterested
activity.

‘You think he’d better be an appointed man?’ asked Conrad.

‘A what?’

‘The opposite of a disappointed man. In a job which gives him a lot of headaches, so he doesn’t have much time to be solemn.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Then I wonder he doesn’t appoint himself
somewhere
. What’s to keep him here?’

‘I dare say he’s got into a rut. And I don’t think his little Mrs. would like moving. She’s got her roots here.’

‘She’d do anything in the world for him,’ said Conrad. ‘I think you ought to manage it, Frank. You know how to make people do things. We owe them both a lot. It
would be a good way of saying thank you if you kicked him out of here.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Archer, after a pause during which he sought vainly for adequate words. ‘Sometimes I think the disappointed men get the best of it. That Fellow up there,’ he jerked his thumb skywards, ‘is a good deal fairer than you might suppose. There’s an orange for most people—if only they have the sense to see it.’

T
HE
young Pattisons moved into The Rowans at Michaelmas. Early in December they took a short trip to London. Dickie had to go there for a Chancery action, and Christina, consigning Bobbins to the care of Mrs. Hughes for five days, went with him. She had not been away for eighteen months and felt that she needed a little holiday.

They went expecting to have a wonderful time, and had the sort of time which is usually the lot of country cousins in Town for a week. On the night of their arrival they dined in Bayswater with Christina’s relations, the Barlows. It was a dull evening. The dinner was vile and their hosts appeared to be overcome by the effort of producing it at all. They had, they complained, no servants, and they were still haunted by the memory of queues and ration books. Nobody in London, so they said, tried to entertain any more. Things had become too difficult. Christina, listening to the
lamentations
of the other women over their tepid coffee, reflected that the same difficulties had prevailed in East Head, but had been defied by an endemic
neighbourliness
which seemed to be lacking in Bayswater. People in London did not enjoy one another’s company; the other guests at this dreary feast had obviously been invited because some debt of hospitality was owing to them, and they could be worked off with the Pattisons. Everybody watched the clock, and at halfpast ten they all trooped out together.

Dickie, on the drive home, refrained from crying: What a sluggery! He would have liked to say something appreciative, and racked his brains for a pleasant
comment
, but could think of none. Christina, however, was not offended by his silence. She was wondering why the coffee was cold; had people in London never got around to the idea of a percolator?

He was occupied with business during the day. On Tuesday Christina explored all the shops in Oxford Street, bought some Christmas presents, and lunched with Mrs. Barlow in a well-known store. In the evening they went to a restaurant in Soho, of which Dickie had heard; the food was eatable, but only just, by
Christina’s
standards. Afterwards they went to the current intellectual play. Christina, who did not attempt to understand what it was all about, enjoyed it, since the acting was first-rate and several scenes were very funny. Dickie came away feeling that he must have missed something.

On Wednesday Christina did the shops in
Knightsbridge
and Piccadilly. She explored the Burlington Arcade and walked up Bond Street. That night they dined with Frank Archer, who had kept in touch with them ever since his last visit to East Head. He and Christina had corresponded over the fate of Serafina Swann, and he had urged her to let him know if they ever came up to London.

He entertained them in a private room at a famous restaurant, and Christina was able to wear the dinner dress which she had hopefully brought to London. The food was something to remember and so were the wines. But it was the company which impressed Dickie, for it included Sir Miles Corry, of Maxwell, Burke & Corry, a titan firm, in comparison with which Pattison & Pattison
was as a minnow to a whale. Maxwell and Burke had both been cremated a long time ago, but Sir Miles was extant and had recently acquired a Mary Cassatt from Frank Archer. Both Christina and Dickie were struck by the difference in Archer’s manners and appearance on this occasion; he did not look nearly so odd as he had at East Head. He seemed to possess some protean quality which enabled him to get by in any company.

The great Sir Miles was very nice to Dickie and talked to him a good deal after dinner, when they went into another room for coffee. Christina was gratified by this, and appreciated the food, but found herself a little shy with the other women. Lady Corry was very kind, they were all kind, they smiled at her, but they seemed to be at a loss for anything to say to her beyond enquiries concerning her baby, when they discovered that she had one. Since they were too good-mannered to raise topics from which she was excluded, she had no idea of the kind of conversation natural to them. She believed, however, that they would have gossiped about people, would have discussed births, deaths and marriages in their own set, and that they were a little sorry for her because she knew nobody they knew. This, she thought, was just like people in London. But it was a pleasure to see Dickie so animated and happy, discussing ‘take-over bids’ with Sir Miles.

On Thursday she had a hair-do, for which she paid double the price of a good permanent wave in East Head. She could not believe that she looked twice as beautiful, but a new hair-do is an essential item in the ritual of a London holiday; she could not have gone home without one. In the evening they entertained the Barlows to dinner and a theatre. They had left the choice of a show
to their guests, supposing that the Barlows must have seen a great many, and unwilling to make them see anything twice. The Barlows, who never went to the theatre, chose a musical of which they could not help knowing because it was advertised on such very large posters. Nobody enjoyed it.

On Friday Christina lunched alone with Frank Archer, in a restaurant noted for the celebrity of its patrons. She hoped that he would point out a number of famous people, and came away without having gaped at one, not because there were none, but because of a
conversatio
n with Archer which put everything else out of her head.

That night she and Dickie set off to celebrate the end of their little jaunt. They went to dine and dance at a very special place recommended by Archer, which turned out to be all that he had promised. It deserved the champagne which Dickie ordered, and the orchid on Christina’s shoulder.

She let him get through one glass before she gave him Frank’s message, but she was anxious to deliver it as soon as possible because he would need time to think it over, and if he did decide to go and see Sir Miles he must do it early on Saturday morning.

‘Dickie!’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘I’ve got something rather important to say. I lunched with Frank, you know. It’s about Sir Miles Corry.’

Dickie, who had been watching some mysterious cooking operations going on at a neighbouring table, turned and gave her his full attention.

‘Frank told me … they want … Maxwell, Burke want somebody … a young man … a junior partner
really. A young man that was with them has decided to go to America. They want somebody instead. And Sir Miles liked you very much. And Frank and he have talked about you since: Frank told him that you are quite your own master and could come in, if you like the idea. I mean, if you sold the East Head practice you’d have some money to put in. Frank says, if you like the idea, will you ring Sir Miles and go and see him tomorrow?’

She got it all out in a rush, giving Dickie no chance to say anything at all. Even when she had finished he was speechless for quite a long time. At last he said:

‘Maxwell, Burke … me … but that … but that’s the sort of chance … Maxwell, Burke … anybody …
anybody
… they could pick and choose … me … Maxwell, Burke?’

‘Well, he liked you. And Frank talked to him.’

‘Maxwell, Burke! Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I’ve got a note to you from Frank. But I thought I’d explain first.’

She fished the note out of her bag; he read it while their wild duck was brought to them and the orange salad was served.

‘I could never have dreamt of such a thing,’ he said.

‘But would you like it, Dickie?’

He looked at her as though he could not quite grasp her question.

‘You’ve never been really happy in East Head,’ she suggested. ‘I believe you might be happier in some bigger firm. What do you think?’

Dickie shook his head. He was still a little stunned.

‘I don’t know,’ he said helplessly. ‘It’s so sudden.’

‘There’s no reason you should stay in East Head. While your father was alive, yes! But now …’

‘Yes, but …’

He tried to remember why he had thought that he could never get away.

‘Of course, the work,’ he said. ‘I’d have to be a good deal more on my toes. Would I be up to it?’

‘I suppose you’d have to work harder. Should you mind?’

‘No. No. But it would be … an upheaval.’

We’ve just got ourselves into The Rowans, he thought. And now I’m to be shoved out of it.
I
dread
to
be
led
from
East
Head.
What on earth is the matter with me? I should jump at it. I’m in a rut, and Tina is kicking me out of it. Tina!

‘But you?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’d rather hate it, wouldn’t you? You don’t like London. It would mean leaving all your friends and everything. You wouldn’t want to leave the new house?’

‘I should find that part rather hard,’ she agreed. ‘But I should get used to it, I expect. I’ve been thinking it over ever since lunch. I should be …’

She broke off and spared him the knowledge of what she had been thinking ever since lunch. Her own happiness must lie in promoting his. She should be miserable unless she thought that he was getting the best possible out of his life. So long as he seemed to be doing that, she did not much care, now, where she lived. In East Head he was perpetually confronted by his own mistakes; Maxwell, Burke might give him less time to think of them. Should a removal to London turn out to be another mistake, that, she decided, would be just too bad. She must then resign herself to the fact that she loved a man who never knew what he wanted.

‘I get rather impatient with East Head myself,’ she continued. ‘It’s a pity, really, to spend the whole of
one’s life in one place, unless one has a duty to. It’s a little cowardly; like a person who clings to their family too much because they can’t be bothered to make friends outside. I think a good shaking up is what we both of us need.’

This rational answer contented him, and it was true, as far as it went. East Head had ceased to satisfy her. She had lately been very unhappy there, and none of her friends could do anything to help her. But of this grief, and its origin, she would not speak, because he did not want to see it.

‘I believe you’re right,’ he said.

‘Your duck is getting cold, dear.’

They both began to eat.

Tomorrow morning, he thought. But I mustn’t begin, yet, to think of it as settled. I must see what he says. A lot of things must be thought of. The sale of the practice … the work … it will all be on a different scale. Another year or two in that hole and I don’t believe I’d have had the energy to tackle it. Thank heaven it’s come in time. To get away! To get away!

Why shouldn’t I make friends in London? she asked herself. People do have friends in London. Eight million people. Walking about in London and not knowing anybody. Not in the shops. Not in the streets. No Mrs. Hughes running in to help. No elevenses at the Pavilion, and hearing all the news. No news to hear unless they write. Pushing the pram out every day with Bobbins and Anne. I’m glad I didn’t tell him that I’m sure, now, about Anne. It might distract him. I will when he’s quite made up his mind one way or the other. Nobody stopping to look in the pram and say how they’re growing. But that’s nonsense. I shall find some
more friends sometime. If it was just going to another little town, I should soon pick up with things. Eight million people! How do eight million people ever get to know each other? They don’t enjoy themselves in London. We’ve been out every night this week, but I haven’t really enjoyed it. I get more fun in the Pavilion café. But I shall manage. I’m not a fool. I must manage. No use making him come to London and then sitting about with a long face, and grumbling.

‘Let’s dance,’ suggested Dickie.

They rose and went out on to the floor. They were good dancers and, in the past, had known some ecstatic moments as they moved to the same rhythm in one another’s arms. But now they danced rather badly because they were both preoccupied.

‘You’re a very good wife,’ said Dickie, bumping her into another couple. ‘I’m not worthy of you.’

‘You aren’t,’ agreed Christina. ‘You’re walking on my feet.’

‘You do know I’m grateful?’

To hell with gratitude, thought Christina. Grateful men can’t dance, it seems.

Having trodden a jerky measure, they went back to their table and ordered
pêches
flambées.

‘We could live in Bayswater,’ suggested the grateful Dickie. ‘Then you’d be near the Barlows.’

Since the Barlows were her only friends in London, it would be nice for her to live near them. Bayswater was, in his opinion, a sluggery, but he must do the best that he could for Christina’s happiness.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to live in Hampstead.’

‘Oh, do you? Why?’

‘Well, it’s nice there, isn’t it?’

She chose Hampstead because she did not want to
see too much of the Barlows. She did not mean to depend upon them. In Hampstead once, three years before, she had met a nice girl, of whom she sometimes thought and whom she would like to meet again. She had been taken there by the Barlows to walk upon the Heath, but she had somehow managed to miss them and to lose her way. So she had asked this girl, who was out with a dog and had been very friendly, not merely directing her but offering to go with her. They had walked for half a mile together, chattering gaily, until they ran the Barlows to earth in Ken Wood. Christina had never felt so much at ease with a stranger before, and the girl belonged to Hampstead, because she was married and lived in a little old house near the Heath, so she said. There might be others like her: Hampstead might turn out to be a place where lonely women made friends when they walked upon the Heath.

‘We’ll have some brandy,’ said Dickie when their coffee came. ‘We must celebrate.’

‘You have brandy,’ said Christina. ‘I’ll have
crême
de
menthe.’

A great big glass was brought for him, a little green one for her. If they were to get their money’s worth they ought to dance again, but they could not, at the moment, because the band was taking a rest, and the pianist was playing a solo.