The Valley of Bones (18 page)

‘My God, so do I,’ said Stevens. ‘They
train your I. Corps personnel at Mytchett, don’t they?’

He seemed perfectly at ease in this
rather odd gathering. Before I had time to say much to Mrs Wisebite, a middle-aged
man rose from an armchair. He had a tanned face, deep blue eyes, a very neat
grey moustache. The sweater worn over a pair of khaki trousers seemed very
natural clothes for him, giving somehow the impression of horsy elegance. It
was Dicky Umfraville. Frederica was right. His presence was certainly a
surprise.

‘You didn’t expect to find me here,
old boy, did you?’ said Umfraville. ‘You thought I could only draw breath in
night-clubs, a purely nocturnal animal.’

I had to agree that night-clubs seemed
the characteristic background for our past encounters. There had been two of
these at least. Umfraville had turned up at Foppa’s that night, ages before,
when I had taken Jean Duport there to play Russian billiards; then, a year or
two later, Ted Jeavons had brought me to the club Umfraville himself had been
running,
where Max Pilgrim had sung his songs, Heather Hopkins
played the piano:

‘Di, Di, in her collar and tie …’

I had not set eyes on Umfraville since
that occasion, but he seemed determined that we were the oldest of friends. I
tried to recall what I knew of him: service in the earlier war with the Foot
Guards, I could not remember which; some considerable reputation as
gentleman-rider; four wives. Like many men who have enjoyed a career of more
than usual dissipation, he had come to look notably distinguished in middle
years, figure slim, eyes bright, face brown with Kenya sun. This bronzed skin,
well brushed greying hair emphasised the blue of his eyes, which glistened like
Peter Templer’s, as Sergeant Pendry’s had done before his disasters. I could
not recall whether or not Umfraville’s moustache was an addition. If so, it
scarcely altered him at all. His face, in repose, possessed that look of innate
sadness which often marks the features of those habituated to the boundless
unreliability of horses. I asked him how he was employed in the army.

‘On the staff of London District, old
boy.’

He spoke with an exaggerated dignity,
squaring his chest and coming to attention. Frederica, who was handing round
drinks, now joined us. Once more she began to laugh helplessly.

‘Dicky’s got a very grand job,’ she
said, ‘haven’t you?’

She slipped her arm through Umfraville’s.
This was unheard-of licence for Frederica, something to be regarded as
indicating decay of all the moral and social standards she had defended so
long.

‘It’s certainly one of the bigger
stations,’ Umfraville agreed modestly.

‘Of course it is, darling.’

‘And should lead to promotion,’ he
said.

‘Without doubt.’

‘Collecting the tickets perhaps.’

‘Dicky is an RTO,’ said Frederica.

She was quite unable to control her
laughter, which seemed not so much attributable to the thought of Umfraville
being a Railway Transport Officer, as to the sheer delight she took in him for
himself.

‘He’s got a cosy little office at one
of those North London stations,’ she said. ‘I can never remember which, but I’ve
visited him there. I say, Dicky, we’d better tell Nick, hadn’t we?’

‘About us?’

‘Yes.’

‘The fact is,’ said Umfraville
speaking slowly and with gravity, ‘the fact is Frederica and I are engaged.’

Isobel came through the door at that
moment, so the impact of this unexpected piece of news was to some extent
lessened by other considerations immediately presenting themselves. Then and
there, no more was said than a few routine congratulations, with further
gigglings from Frederica. Isobel looked pale, though pretty well. I had not
seen her for months, it seemed years. We went off to a corner together.

‘How have you been?’

‘All right. There was a false alarm
about ten days ago, but it didn’t get far enough to inform you.’

‘And you’re feeling all right?’

‘Most of the time – but rather longing
for the little brute to appear.’

We talked for a while.

‘Who is the character on the floor
playing bricks with the children and Priscilla?’

‘He’s called Odo Stevens. He’s on the
course and brought me over in his car. Come and meet him.’

We went across the room. Stevens got
to his feet and shook hands.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I must go.
Otherwise Aunt Doris will be upset something’s happened to me.’

‘Don’t rush off, Mr Stevens,’ said
Priscilla, still prone on the carpet, ‘hullo, Nick, I’ve only had a wave from
you so far. How are you?’

Frederica joined us.

‘Another drink,’ she said.

‘No, thank you, really,’ said Stevens,
‘I must be moving on.’

He turned to say goodbye to Priscilla.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘you’ll lose your
brooch, if you’re not careful.’

She looked down. The brooch hung from
its pin. It was a little mandoline in silver-gilt, ornamented with musical
symbols on either side, early Victorian keepsake in style, pretty, though of no
special value. Priscilla used to wear it before she married Chips. I had always
supposed it a present from Moreland in their days together, that the reason for
the musical theme of its design. While she glanced down, the brooch fell to the
ground. Stevens stooped to pick it up.

‘The clasp is broken,’ he said. ‘Look,
if I can take it with me now, I’ll put it right in a couple of ticks. I can
bring it back on Sunday night, when I turn up with the car.’

‘But that would be wonderful,’ she
said. ‘Do you know about brooches?’

‘All about costume jewellery. In the
business.’

‘Oh, do tell me about it.’

‘I must be off now,’ he said. ‘Some
other time.’

He turned to me, and we checked the
time he would bring the car for our return to Aldershot. Then Stevens said
goodbye all round.

‘I’ll come to the door with you,’ said
Priscilla. ‘I want to hear more about costume jewellery, my favourite subject.’

They went off together.

‘What a nice young man,’ said
Frederica. ‘He really made one feel as if one were his own age.’

‘Take care,’ said Umfraville. ‘That’s
just what I was like when I was young.’

‘But that’s in his favour,’ she said, ‘surely
it is.’

‘Barely twenty,’ said Umfraville, in
reminiscence. ‘Blind with enthusiasm. Fighting like a hero on Flanders fields.’

‘Oh, rot,’ said Frederica. ‘You said
you were nearly twenty-four when you went to the war.’

‘Well, anyway, look at me now,’ said
Umfraville. ‘A lot of good my patriotism did me, a broken-down old RTO.’

‘Cheer up, my pet.’

‘Ah,’ said Umfraville, ‘the heroes of
yesterday, they’re the
maquereaux
of tomorrow.’

‘Well, you’re my
maquereau
anyway,’ said Frederica, ‘so shut up and have another
drink.’

Later, when we were alone together
upstairs, Isobel gave a fuller account of herself. There was a lot to talk
about. The doctor thought everything all right, the baby likely to arrive in a
couple of weeks’ time. There were, indeed, far more things to discuss than
could be spoken of at once. They would have to come out gradually. Instead of
dealing with myriad problems in a businesslike manner, settling all kind of
points that had to be settled, making arrangements about the future – if it
could be assumed there was to be a future – we talked of more immediate, more
amusing matters.

‘What do you think about Frederica?’
Isobel asked.

‘Not a bad idea.’

‘I think so too.’

‘When did she break the news?’

‘Only yesterday, when he arrived on
leave. I was a bit staggered when told.
She’s mad about him. I’ve never seen Frederica like that
before. The boys get on well with him too, and seem to
approve of the prospect.’

Frederica and Dicky
Umfraville getting married was something to open up hitherto unexplored fields
of possibility. The first thought, that the engagement was grotesque, bizarre,
changed shape after a time, developing until one saw their association as one
of those emotional hook-ups of the
very near and the very far, which make human relationships easier to accept
than to rationalize or disentangle. I remembered that if Frederica’s husband,
Robin Budd, had lived, his age would not have been far short
of
Umfraville’s. I asked Isobel if the two of them had ever met.

‘Just saw each other, I think. Rob
looked a little like Dicky too.’

‘Where did Frederica pick him up?’

‘With Robert. Dicky Umfraville knew
Flavia Wisebite in Kenya. Her father farms there – or did, he died the other
day – but of course you know that.’

‘Do you suppose Flavia and Dicky—’

‘I shouldn’t wonder. Anyway, it was an
instantaneous click so far as Frederica was concerned.’

‘Frederica is aware, I suppose, that
the past is faintly murky.’

‘One wife committed suicide, another
married a jockey. Then there was the wife no one knows about – and finally Anne
Stepney, who lasted scarcely more than a year, and is now, I hear, living with
J. G. Quiggin.’

‘That’s as many as are recorded. But
where did Robert contract Mrs Wisebite? That is even more extraordinary.’

‘One never knows with Robert. Tell me
about her. She is sister of your old school pal, Charles Stringham.
What else?’

‘Charles never saw much of her after
they were grown up. She first married a notorious character called Flitton, who
lost an arm in the war before this one. A great gambler, also a Kenya figure.
Dicky must know him well. Flitton ran away with Baby Wentworth, but refused to
marry her after the divorce. Flavia had a daughter by Flitton who must be eighteen
or nineteen by now.’

‘Flavia told me the late Mr Wisebite,
her second husband, came from Minneapolis, and died of drink in Miami.’

‘Is she sharing a room with Robert?’

‘Not here. There isn’t one to share.
The beds are too narrow. But, in principle, they seem to be living together.
How did you think Priscilla was looking?’

‘All right. She was being a bit
standoffish, except to Stevens. Who was the other child playing bricks? The
Lovells have only Caroline, haven’t they?’

‘That’s Barry.’

‘Who is Barry?’

‘A slip-up of Frederica’s maid,
Audrey. Audrey had to bring him along with her, owing to war circumstances.
Barry comes in very useful as an escort for Caroline. You know how difficult it
always is to find a spare man, especially in the country.’

‘Does Barry’s mother do the cooking?’

‘No, Frederica. She found herself
without a cook and no prospect of getting one. She’s always been rather keen on
cooking, you know. Now she could get a job in any but the very best houses.’

I had an idea, from the way she spoke,
that all this talk about Barry, and Frederica’s cooking, was, on Isobel’s part,
a means of temporarily evading the subject of Priscilla. I could tell, from the
way she had mentioned her sister, that, for some reason, Priscilla was on
Isobel’s mind. She was worried about her.

‘Any news of Chips?’

‘Priscilla isn’t very
communicative. Where do Marines go? Is he on a ship? She seems to hold it
against him that he hasn’t been able to arrange for them to have a house or a
flat somewhere. I don’t think that’s Chips’s fault. It’s
all
this bloody war. That’s why Priscilla is here. She is very restless.’

‘Is she having a baby too?’

‘Not that I know of. Audrey is,
though.’

‘Audrey sounds a positive Messalina.’

‘Not in appearance. She is a
good-natured, dumpy little thing with spectacles.’

‘A bit too good-natured, or her lenses
need adjusting. Is it Barry’s father again?’

‘On the contrary, but we understand it
may lead to marriage this time.’

‘I suppose Frederica will be the next
with a baby. What about Robert and Mrs Wisebite?’

‘No doubt doing their best. Robert, by
the way, is on embarkation leave. He’s only spending some of it here. He
arrived with Flavia just before you did.’

‘Where is he going?’

‘He doesn’t know – or won’t say for
security reasons – but he thinks France.’

‘How on earth has he managed that?’

‘He decided to withdraw his name from
those in for a commission, as there was otherwise no immediate hope of a
posting overseas.’

‘I see.’

‘Hardly what one would expect of
Robert,’ Isobel said.

His own family regarded Robert as one
of those quietly self-indulgent people who live rather secret lives because
they find themselves thereby less burdened by having to think of others. No one
knew much, for example, about his work in an export house dealing with the Far
East. The general idea was that Robert was doing pretty well there though not
because he himself propagated any such picture. He would naturally be enigmatic
about a situation such as that which involved him with Mrs Wisebite. It was
fitting that he should find himself in Field Security. Enterprise must have
been required to place himself there too. I wondered what the steps leading to
the Intelligence Corps had been. At one moment he had contemplated the navy. No
less interesting was this attempt on Robert’s part to move closer to a theatre
of war at the price of immediately postponing the chance of becoming an
officer.

‘The war seems to have altered some
people out of recognition and made others more than ever like themselves,’ said
Isobel.

‘Have you ever heard of someone called
David Pennistone? He was a man in the army I talked to on a train. He said he
was writing an article on Descartes.’

‘Haven’t I seen the name at the end of
reviews?’

‘That’s what I thought. We didn’t
manage to find anyone we knew in common, but I believe I met him years ago for
a minute or two at a party.’