The Wheel of Fortune (63 page)

Once more I reviewed those true colors. Of course she was common, but I had been prepared for that. Of course she was vulgar, but even her intolerable familiarity, nauseous as it was, I could somehow have overlooked for my father’s sake. But what I could not overlook was the unmistakable sign that Mrs. Straker was addicted to power. My years at the Foreign Office had taught me a good deal about power and the manipulation that inevitably accompanies it, and I recognized in Mrs. Straker a clever, ambitious, thoroughly unscrupulous woman. Her vulgarity had not been the artless chatter of a woman who knew no better; it had been carefully staged, and every word she had spoken in that bedroom had been designed to underline to me her influence over my father. Desiring above all else to avoid a new quarrel with him I had kept quiet, but nevertheless I had been horrified.

I could see exactly how the situation would appear to her. My father was fatally dependent on her company, Robert was a cripple, Celia was in Heidelberg, Lion was dead, Edmund was ineffectual and Thomas was a child. She was safe from all opposition there. That left me, and I was the one potential enemy. She must have long since realized that if anyone threatened her rule at Oxmoon it would be “Mr. John,” and that was why she had staked out her territory so forcefully the moment I had recrossed my father’s threshold.

Oxmoon was no stranger to predators. It had survived Owain Bryn-Davies, and I supposed it would survive Milly Straker, but nonetheless the prospect of an avaricious woman exercising her power there without restraint was chilling indeed. The only conclusion I could reach was that whatever happened I had to avoid quarreling again with my father.

It seemed a daunting challenge, and after grinding out my cigarette in despair I drove to Little Oxmoon to consult Robert.

III

“This is one of those nerve-racking situations,” said Robert, “when one yearns for the gift of clairvoyance. Our main problem here is that we have insufficient information.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you’re taking a dim view of the future on the grounds that Straker’s a clever scheming woman, but on the other hand, it’s quite possible that he may have tired of her by Christmas. How long do Papa’s mistresses last, I wonder? If he’s like most men his affairs probably run a predictable course over a predictable period of time.”

“She has an appalling air of permanence.”

We were in the dining room where I had just finished an excellent breakfast. Ginevra had gone to Swansea with Robin and his nanny to see Aunt Charlotte off on the train to London. Kester was howling somewhere as usual in the company of his nursemaid. Outside it was still raining.

“I simply can’t understand what he sees in her, Robert. She’s neither good-looking nor particularly young. It’s a complete mystery.”

“My dear John, it’s the commonest of all fallacies that sex can only flourish in an atmosphere of youth and beauty. I had the most extraordinary case once involving a man of forty, a woman of sixty-five and a youth of eighteen with a harelip …”

Robert talked on but I barely heard him. I had begun to remember another most extraordinary case of sexual attraction, the case of a gentleman of twenty-nine who had become obsessed overnight with a working-class girl six years his junior. I was thinking of their two separate worlds, coexisting in time yet unlinked by any bridge but the bedroom.

“Robert,” I said, interrupting his saga of the homicidal youth with the harelip, “have you ever slept with a working-class woman?”

He naturally assumed I was still trying to make sense of my father’s affair with Mrs. Straker. “Of course. Why?”

“Did you find the experience exceptional? I mean … did you find you could talk to such a woman more easily?”

“Talk! What about? How can one even attempt a serious conversation with such a person? There’s no common ground. Anyway one hardly goes to bed with a working-class woman with a view to conducting a
conversazione
between the sheets!”

“No,” I said, “I suppose one doesn’t. … Robert, have you ever known a fellow who actually married a working-class woman?”

“One does; of course, hear of the occasional blockhead like Oswald Stourham who becomes besotted with a platinum-blond chorus girl, but fortunately such disasters are fairly rare. Don’t worry, John, I believe Papa when he swears he’ll never marry this woman. He’s not a complete lunatic.”

I was silent.

“The last thing he’d want is to commit social suicide,” said Robert soothingly. “Even if he could face being ostracized by his friends, how could he ever face being humiliated before his children? No, he’ll stay away from the altar, don’t you worry—he’ll draw the line there.”

“Draw the line,” I said. “Yes.” I stood up to go.

“Well, John,” said Robert, preparing to say goodbye, “I’m sorry you spent all last night being racked by loneliness, but if that’s resulted in a better understanding of Papa then maybe you haven’t suffered in vain. Now promise me you’ll come back here tonight instead of incarcerating yourself all over again in that bloody Manor. There’s nothing heroic, I assure you, about preferring suffering to comfort.”

But I needed more time to consider my plans, and after promising to telephone him later I returned once more to Penhale.

IV

Back at the Manor I gradually began to realize that my situation had become intolerable for at least three reasons, and that once more my life required a radical change.

The first reason involved my father. If I remained in Gower, I doubted if I would be able to avoid clashing with him eventually over the subject of Mrs. Straker—and a clash would be just what my enemy wanted; in fact she would probably do all she could to promote it in order to drive a wedge between me and my father and keep me out of Oxmoon. My best hope of outwitting her undoubtedly lay in being a dutiful, affectionate but distant son until he came to his senses.

The second hard truth that I had to accept was that despite Bronwen’s understanding words, Blanche’s memory was intolerably painful to me and likely to remain so for some time. I did realize intellectually that my feelings about Blanche would become more quiescent as time passed, and I did think it likely that one day in different circumstances, I might well wish to live again in the house that was so conveniently close to Oxmoon, but at present I could see nothing but the piano and the white roses and know only that I had not loved my wife as I should.

The third reason which made a departure imperative concerned the woman I did love. If I stayed on in Penhale I would inevitably meet Bronwen again, and then I knew we would be drawn into an affair which she had made it very clear she did not want. It was useless for me to be foolish and romantic, dreaming of establishing her in a neat little terrace house in Swansea. Even if she were willing, such a scheme would be out of the question because the deserted husband would be sure to make trouble, and in the resulting scandal all the children, both hers and mine, would be certain to suffer.

I had a vision of chaos and shied away from it. I thought of my mother and of how horrified she would have been by the scandal. I thought of my father deciding I had played my cards disastrously after all. And finally, when there was no one else left to think about, I thought of my grandmother and Owain Bryn-Davies.

At once I made up my mind that I could never see Bronwen again.

Insanity threatened.

Destruction was imminent.

I drew the line.

V

I met Harley Armstrong three weeks later at a reception given by my former chief at the Foreign Office, and nineteen months afterwards Armstrong was introducing me to his daughter Constance. I had known for some time that he wanted me to marry her.

 I have often examined this part of my life with scrupulous care, but I have come to the conclusion that in the worst possible way I was destined for Constance. I told Robert later that it was as if a
deus ex machina
were operating, and Robert promptly embarked upon a dissertation on the Greek concept of fate which incorporated the so-called “madness of doom,” the hell where men rushed to destruction because they were driven by forces beyond their control. However at the time I thought I was being supremely sane and Robert thought I was being commendably rational. Never were two intelligent men more deceived.

To have avoided Constance, I would have been obliged to avoid London for even if I had somehow managed to elude Armstrong in 1921, I would certainly have met Constance and her sister in 1923 when they were moving in Society. But I did not avoid London. I embraced it as a solution to my problems in Gower. I could have retreated to my lands in Herefordshire, but I recognized that I was going through an interim period of my life, and it seemed to me that such an interim could be most profitably passed in the capital. There I could slip back more easily into a social life which would help me recover from my bereavement, my children were bound to benefit from a stimulating environment and I would, if I were lucky, find some occupation far more congenial to me than my former dull routine at the Foreign Office.

I was unsure how long my self-imposed exile from Gower would last, but I suspected five years would see the conclusion of my problems. At the end of that time my father would surely have tired of Mrs. Straker, Blanche would be no more than a poignant memory and Bronwen would have faded into a Welsh myth. Then I would be safe.

Having arrived this far in the new script of my life, I looked around for someone who would lead me to the center of the stage, and immediately I was collared by Harley Armstrong.

Armstrong was an American of uncertain origins who had made and lost two fortunes on the New York Stock Exchange before the war, recouped his losses afterwards by profiteering in first canned food and then army surplus stock and was now in what he was pleased to call “Europe” to continue his profiteering in the new industries that had been developing fast since the war. He had acquired interests in petroleum, plastics and gramophone records, but his steady income came from his canning corporation, which was based in New York State. However Armstrong was bored with tinned food, and although he had opened a European subsidiary with a factory in Birmingham and occasionally toyed with the idea of launching a chain of grocery stores, his heart was now in plastics. I did wonder why he had abandoned America, but later he told me he regarded New York as an unlucky city for him, the scene of his two earlier lost fortunes, and he was one of those Americans who believe that if one cannot live in New York one might as well conquer Europe for lack of anything better to do.

During the period of his first fortune, he had contrived to marry a lady who independent sources assured me was far more respectable than he was, but she had not accompanied him to London, and later I learned that they had parted by mutual consent. Mrs. Armstrong lived with her two daughters in her native Boston. When I asked Armstrong what Boston was like, he said, “Even worse than Philadelphia” and shuddered. However he was very fond of his two daughters and dictated long, sentimental letters to them every week. Mrs. Armstrong was apparently interested in the idea that they should enjoy a season in London, and as soon as this possibility had dawned on the horizon, Armstrong was drawing up plans to crash his way into London Society.

“I’ve got to be in a position to launch my little girls in style,” he explained to me, and at once I knew that at the back of his mind lurked the delicious notion that his “little girls” might marry Englishmen and settle down forever within a mile of his doorstep.

I thought at first he was equating himself with Vanderbilt, whose daughter Consuelo had married the Duke of Marlborough, but in fact Armstrong had the kind of vitality which ensured that he would find the upper reaches of the English aristocracy repellently effete. As a self-made man he also possessed what Constance told me later was called an inferiority complex. Shrewd enough to know he was vulgar and ambitious enough for his daughters’ sake to want to do something about it, Armstrong decided towards the end of 1921 that what he needed was a well-bred, well-educated British private secretary—no one too grand, and certainly no one who had a title, but someone diplomatic and resourceful who could teach him how to behave in public.

He offered me the job on the morning after we had met.

My automatic inclination was to turn him down but then I thought, Why not accept? I had spent years loathing the stultifying English formality of life at the Foreign Office, and now here was an extraordinary opportunity to work for an unconventional bombastic foreigner. Whatever happened in his employment I was unlikely to be bored and I might even be greatly entertained. It would certainly divert me from the recent past. I therefore decided to accept his offer; the die was cast, and immediately I was whirled into the maelstrom of Armstrong’s private life.

Within six months I had extricated him from his lavish but unsuitable nine-bedroom flat at the wrong end of Westminster and had installed him in a house with a first-class ballroom at Eaton Walk off Eaton Square. I gave Harrods
carte blanche
with the interior decoration and the acquisition of the necessary antiques. It seemed safer to trust the leading department store in London than to rely on some fashionable decorator, particularly as very peculiar things were happening at that time in the world of interior decoration.

Once the house had been decorated I engaged the staff and ensured that the housekeeper and butler reported directly to me. I paid the wages. I organized regular and successful “little dinner parties for twenty-four” to show that I was a true son of my hospitable parents. I reconstituted Armstrong’s wardrobe and told him very firmly what ties he could never wear. I somehow got him accepted as a member of Brooks’s and Boodles. I bought him a suitable country estate in Kent for weekend entertaining and an equally suitable villa in St. John’s Wood for his mistress, a young French tart who had advertised herself as a governess. She had greedy tendencies but I enjoyed haggling with her in French over her allowance.