Unconditional surrender (15 page)

There was a congress at Teheran at the time entirely occupied with quantitative judgements.

AT
the end of the first week of that December, History records, Mr Winston Churchill introduced Mr Roosevelt to the Sphinx. Fortified by the assurances of their military advisers that the Germans would surrender that winter, the two puissant old gentlemen circumambulated the colossus and silently watched the shadows of evening obliterate its famous features. Some hours later that same sun set in London not in the harsh colours of the desert but fading into the rain where no lamps shone on the wet paving. At that hour, with something of the bland, vain speculation which had been expressed on the faces of the leaders of the Free World, Uncle Peregrine stood at his front-door and regarded the woman who had rung his bell.

‘I’ve come to see Guy Crouchback,’ she said.

There was no light on the landing. The light in the hall was a mere glimmer. Uncle Peregrine found the blackout congenial and observed the regulations with exaggerated rigour.

‘Does he expect you?’

‘No. I’ve only just heard he was here. You don’t remember me, do you? Virginia.’

‘Virginia?’

‘Virginia Crouchback, when you knew me.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You are, are you?’ Uncle Peregrine was never really disconcerted but sometimes, when a new and strange fact was brought to his notice, he took a little time to assimilate it. ‘It is a terrible evening. I hope you did not get wet coming here.’

‘I took a cab.’

‘Good. You must forgive my failure to recognize you. It’s rather dark and I never knew you very well, did I? Are you sure Guy will want to see you?’

‘Pretty sure.’

Uncle Peregrine shut the front-door and said: ‘I was at your wedding. Did we meet after that?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘You went to Africa. Then someone said you had gone to America. And now you want to see Guy?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Come in here. I’ll tell him.’ He led Virginia into the drawing-room. ‘You’ll find plenty to interest you here,’ he added as though presaging a long wait. ‘That is, if you’re interested in things.’

He shut the door behind him. He also shut Guy’s before he announced in a low tone: ‘There’s a young woman here who says she’s your wife.’

‘Virginia?’

‘So she claims.’

‘Good. Send her in.’

‘You
wish
to see her?’

‘Very much.’

‘If there’s any trouble, ring. Mrs Corner is out, but I shall hear you.’

‘What sort of trouble, Uncle Peregrine?’

‘
Any
sort of trouble. You know what women are.’

‘Do
you
, Uncle Peregrine?’

He considered this for a moment and then conceded: ‘Well, no. Perhaps I don’t.’

Then he went out, led Virginia back and left husband and wife together.

Virginia had taken trouble with her appearance. Kerstie was away, attending St Nicholas’ Day festivities at her son’s prep school, and Virginia had borrowed some of the clothes she had lately sold her. She bore no visible signs of her pregnancy, or, in Guy’s eyes, of the many changes which had occurred in her since their last meeting. She came straight to his bed, kissed him, and said: ‘Darling. What a long time it’s been.’

‘February 14th, 1940,’ said Guy.

‘As long as that? How can you remember?’

‘It was a big day in my life, a bad day, a climacteric … I’ve heard news of you. You work in Ian’s office and live with him and Kerstie.’

‘Did you hear something else, rather disgusting?’

‘I heard rumours.’

‘About Trimmer?’

‘That was Ian’s story.’

‘It was all quite true.’ Virginia shuddered. “The things that happen to one! Anyway, that’s all over. I’ve had a dreary war so far. I almost wish I’d stayed in America. It all seemed such fun at first, but it didn’t last.’

‘I found that,’ said Guy. ‘Not perhaps in quite the same way. The last two years have been as dull as peace.’

‘You might have come and seen me.’

‘I made rather an ass of myself at our last meeting, if you remember.’

‘Oh,
that
,’ said Virginia. ‘If you only knew the asses I’ve seen people make of themselves.
That’s
all forgotten.’

‘Not by me.’

‘Ass,’ said Virginia.

She drew a chair up, lit a cigarette and asked fondly about his injuries. ‘So brave,’ she said. ‘You know you really are brave.
Parachuting
. I’m scared even sitting in an aeroplane, let alone jumping out.’ Then she said: ‘I was awfully sorry to see your father’s death.’

‘Yes. I had always expected him to live much longer – until the last few months.’

‘I wish I’d seen him again. But I dare say he wouldn’t have wanted it.’

‘He never came to London,’ said Guy.

Virginia for the first time looked round the sombre room. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘Tan and Kerstie say you’re rich now.’

‘Not
now
. The lawyers are still busy. But it looks as if I may be a bit better off eventually.’

‘I’m dead broke,’ said Virginia.

‘That isn’t at all like you.’

‘Oh, you’ll find I’ve changed in a lot of ways. What can I do to amuse you? We used to play piquet.’

‘I haven’t for years. I don’t suppose there are any cards in the house.’

‘I’ll bring some tomorrow, shall I?’

‘If you’re coming tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ll come. If you’d like me to, that’s to say.’

Before Guy could answer the door opened and Uncle Peregrine entered.

‘I just came to see you were all right,’ he said.

What did he suspect? Assassination? Seduction? He stood studying the pair of them as the statesmen had studied the Sphinx, not really expecting an utterance, but dimly conscious of the existence of problems beyond his scope. Also, and more simply, he wanted to have another look at Virginia. He was unaccustomed to such visitors and she in particular had lurid associations for him. Well travelled, well read, well informed, he was a stranger in the world. He had understood few of the jokes which in bygone days Ralph Brompton used to devise at his expense. Virginia was a Scarlet Woman; the fatal woman who had brought about the fall of the house of Crouchback; and, what was more, to Uncle Peregrine she fully looked the part. Not for him to read the faint, indelible signature of failure, degradation, and despair that was written plain for sharper eyes than his. In the minutes which had passed since he had shown her in to Guy, he had not attempted to resume his reading. He had stood by his gas-fire considering what he had seen during his brief passage. He had returned to confirm his impression.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t any cocktails,’ he said.

‘Good gracious no. I should think not.’

‘Guy often has some gin, I believe.’

‘All gone,’ said Guy, ‘until Jumbo’s next visit.’

Uncle Peregrine was fascinated. He could not bring himself to leave. It was Virginia who made the move.

‘I must be off,’ she said, though in fact she had nowhere at all to go. ‘But I’ll come back now I know what you need. Cards and gin. You won’t mind having to pay for them, will you?’

Uncle Peregrine led her to the door; he followed her into the lift; he stood with her on the benighted steps and gazed with her into the rain.

‘Will you be all right?’ he asked. ‘You might find a cab at Victoria.’

‘I’m only going to Eaton Terrace. I’ll walk.’

‘It’s a long way. Shall I see you home?’

‘Don’t be an ass,’ said Virginia, stepping down into the rain. ‘See you tomorrow.’

It was, as Uncle Peregrine observed, a long way. Virginia strode out bravely, flickering her torch at the crossings. Even on that inclement evening every doorway held an embraced couple. The house, when she reached it, was quite empty. She hung up her coat to dry. She washed her underclothes. She went to the cupboard where she knew Ian kept a box of sleeping pills. Kerstie never needed such things. Virginia took two and lay unconscious while the sirens gave warning of a distant, inconsiderable ‘nuisance raid’.

At Carlisle Place Uncle Peregrine returned to Guy’s room.

‘I suppose it’s quite usual nowadays,’ he said, ‘divorced people meeting on friendly terms?’

‘It has been so for a long time, I believe, in the United States.’

‘Yes. And, of course, she has lived there a lot, hasn’t she? That would explain it. What’s her name?’

‘Troy, I think. It was when I last saw her.’

‘Mrs Troy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Funny name. Are you sure you don’t mean Troyte? There are people near us at home called Troyte.’

‘No. Like Helen of Troy.’

‘Ah,’ said Uncle Peregrine. ‘Yes. Exactly. Like Helen of Troy. A very striking woman. What did she mean about paying for the gin and the cards. Is she not well off?’

‘Not at all, at the moment.’

‘What a pity,’ said Uncle Peregrine. ‘You would never guess, would you?’

When Virginia came next evening she greeted Uncle Peregrine as ‘Peregrine’; he bridled and followed her into Guy’s room. He watched her unpack her basket, laying gin, angostura bitters, and playing-cards on the table by the bed. He insisted on paying for her purchases, seeming to derive particular  pleasure from the transaction. He went to his pantry and brought glasses. He did not drink gin himself, nor did he play piquet, but he hung about the scene fascinated. When at length he left them alone, Virginia said: ‘What an old pet. Why did you never let me meet him before?’

She came daily, staying sometimes for half an hour, sometimes for two hours, insinuating herself easily into Guy’s uneventful routine so that her visits became something for him to anticipate with pleasure. She was like any busy wife visiting any bed-ridden husband. It was seldom that they saw one another alone. Uncle Peregrine played the part of duenna with an irksome assumption of archness. On Sunday Virginia came in the morning, and while Uncle Peregrine was at the cathedral, she asked Guy: ‘Have you thought what you’re going to do after the war?’

‘No. It’s hardly the time to make plans.’

‘People are saying the Germans will collapse before the spring.’

‘I don’t believe it. And even if they do, that’s only the beginning of other troubles.’

‘Oh, Guy, I wish you were more cheerful. There’s fun ahead, always. If I didn’t think that, I couldn’t keep going. How rich are you going to be?’

‘My father left something like two hundred thousand pounds.’

‘Goodness.’

‘Half goes to Angela and a third to the government. Then for the next few years we have to find a number of pensions. I get the rent for Broome, that’s another three hundred.’

‘What does all that mean in income?’

‘I suppose about two thousand eventually.’

‘Not beyond the dreams of avarice.’

‘No.’

‘But better than a slap with a wet fish. And you had a pittance before. How about Uncle Peregrine? He must have a bit. Is that left to you.’

‘I’ve no idea. I should have thought to Angela’s children.’

‘That could be changed,’ said Virginia.

That day there was a pheasant for luncheon. Mrs Corner, who had come to accept Virginia’s presence without comment, laid the dining-room table for two and Guy ate awkwardly on his tray while Virginia and Uncle Peregrine made a lengthy meal apart.

On the tenth day Uncle Peregrine did not return until after seven o’clock. Virginia was then on the point of leaving when he entered the room, a glint of roguish purpose in his eye.

‘I haven’t seen you,’ he said.

‘No. I’ve missed you.’

‘I wonder whether by any possible, happy chance you are free this evening. I feel I should like to go out somewhere.’

‘Free as the air,’ said Virginia. ‘How lovely.’

‘Where would you like to go? I’m not much up in restaurants, I am afraid. There is a fish place near here, opposite Victoria Station, where I sometimes go.’

‘There’s always Ruben’s,’ said Virginia.

‘I don’t think I know it.’

‘It will cost you a fortune,’ said Guy from his bed.

‘
Really
,’ said Uncle Peregrine appalled at this breach of good manners. ‘I should
hardly
have thought that a matter to discuss in front of my guest.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Virginia. ‘Guy’s quite right. I was only trying to think of somewhere cosy.’

‘The place I speak of is certainly quiet. It has always struck me as discreet.’

‘
Discreet
? Gracious. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life been anywhere “discreet”. How heavenly.’

‘And since the sordid subject has been raised,’ added Uncle Peregrine, looking reproachfully at his nephew, ‘let me assure you it is
not
particularly cheap.’

‘Come on. I can’t wait,’ said Virginia.

Guy watched the departure of this oddly-matched couple with amusement in which there was an element of annoyance. If Virginia was doing nothing that evening, he felt, her proper place was by his side.

They walked to the restaurant through the damp dark. Virginia took his arm. When, as happened at crossings and turnings, he tried with old-fashioned etiquette to change sides and put himself in danger of passing vehicles, she firmly retained her hold. At no great distance they found the fish shop and climbed the stairs at its side to the restaurant overhead. New to Virginia, well-known to the unostentatious and discriminating, the long room with its few tables receded in a glow of Edwardian, rose-shaded lights. Peregrine Crouchback shed his old coat and hat and handed his umbrella to an ancient porter and then said with an effort: ‘I expect you want, that’s to say, I mean, wash your hands, tidy up, ladies’ cloakroom, somewhere I believe up those stairs.’

‘No thanks,’ said Virginia, and then added, as they were being shown to a table: ‘Peregrine, have you ever taken a girl out to dinner before?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Who? When?’

‘It was some time ago,’ said Uncle Peregrine vaguely.

They ordered oysters and turbot. Virginia said she would like to drink stout. Then she began: ‘Why have you never married.’

‘I was a younger son. Younger sons didn’t marry in my day.’

‘Oh, rot. I know hundreds who have.’

‘It was thought rather
outré
among landed people, unless of course they found heiresses. There was no establishment for them. They had a small settlement which they were expected to leave back to the family – to their nephews, other younger sons. There had to be younger sons of course in case the head of the family died young. They came in quite useful in the last war. Perhaps we are rather an old-fashioned family in some ways.’