Unconditional surrender (28 page)

The officers who had assembled at Mugg were not so scattered as those of other war-time units. Most of them had been together in prison. Luxmore had made an escape. Ivor Claire had spent six months in Burma with the Chindits, had done well, collected a DSO and an honourably incapacitating wound. He was often in Bellamy’s now. His brief period of disgrace was set aside and almost forgotten.

‘You’re going to invite everyone?’ asked Bertie.

‘Everyone I can find. What was the name of that old Halberdier? Jumbo someone? We’ll ask the sea-weed eater. I don’t somehow think he’ll come. Guy Crouchback of course.’

‘Trimmer?’

‘Certainly.’

But Trimmer had disappeared. All Tommy’s adroit inquiries failed to find any trace of him. Some said he had jumped ship in South Africa. Nothing was known certainly. Fifteen men eventually assembled including Guy.

The second, concurrent festivity was given in part by Arthur Box-Bender. He had lost his seat in parliament in 1945. He rarely came to London in the succeeding years but that June evening he was induced to pay his half share in a small dance given in an hotel for his eighteen-year-old daughter and a friend of hers. For an hour or two he stood with Angela greeting the ill-conditioned young people who were his guests. Some of the men wore hired evening-dress; others impudently presented themselves in dinner-jackets and soft shirts. He and his fellow host had been at pains to find the cheapest fizzy wine in the market. Feeling thirsty, he sauntered down Piccadilly and turned into St James’s. Bellamy’s alone retained some traces of happier days.

Elderberry was alone in the middle hall reading Air Marshal Beech’s reminiscences. He, also, had lost his seat. His successful opponent, Gilpin, was not popular in the House but he was making his mark and had lately become an under-secretary. Elderberry had no habitation outside London. He had no occupation there. Most of his days and evenings were passed alone in this same armchair in Bellamy’s.

He looked disapprovingly at Box-Bender’s starched front.

‘You still go out?’

‘I had to give a party tonight for my daughter.’

‘Ah, something you had to pay for? That’s different. It’s being asked I like. I’m never asked anywhere now.’

‘I don’t think you would have liked this party.’

‘No, no, of course not. But I used to get asked to dinners – embassies and that kind of thing. Well, so did you. There was a lot of rot talked but it did get one through the evening. Everything’s very quiet here now.’

This judgement was immediately rebutted by the descent of the Commando dinner party who stumbled noisily down the staircase and into the billiard room.

Guy paused to greet his brother-in-law.

‘I didn’t ask you to our dance,’ said Box-Bender. ‘It is very small, for young people. I didn’t suppose you’d want to come. Didn’t know you ever came to London as a matter of fact.’

‘I don’t, Arthur. I’m just up to see lawyers. We’ve sold the Castello, you know.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Who on earth can afford to buy property in Italy now? Americans, I suppose.’

‘Not at all. One of our own countrymen who can’t afford to live in England – Ludovic.’

‘Ludovic?’

‘The author of
The Death Wish
. You must have heard of it.’

‘I think Angela read it. She said it was tosh.’

‘It sold nearly a million copies in America and they’ve just filmed it. He’s a fellow I came across during the war.’

‘One of your party in there?’

‘No. We aren’t quite Ludovic’s sort of party.’

‘Well, the Castello should be just the place for a literary man. Clever of you to find a buyer.’

‘That was done for me by another fellow I met in the war. You may remember him. An American called Padfield. He used to belong here. He’s become Ludovic’s factotum now.’

‘Padfield? No. Can’t say I remember him. How’s everything at Broome?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Domenica all right, and the children?’

‘Yes.’

‘Farm paying?’

‘At the moment.’

‘Wish mine was. Well, give them all my regards.’ A voice called, ‘Guy, come and play slosh.’

‘Coming, Bertie.’

When he had gone, Elderberry said: ‘That’s your brother-in-law, isn’t it? He’s putting on weight. Didn’t I hear something rather sad about him during the war?’

‘His wife was killed by a bomb.’

‘Yes, that was it. I remember now. But he’s married again?’

‘Yes. First sensible thing he’s ever done. Domenica Plessington, Eloise’s girl. Eloise looked after the baby when Guy was abroad. Domenica got very fond of it. A marriage was the obvious thing. I think Eloise deserves some credit in arranging it. Now they’ve two boys of their own. When Domenica isn’t having babies she manages the home farm at Broome. They’ve settled in the agent’s house. They aren’t at all badly off. Angela’s uncle Peregrine left his little bit to the child. Wasn’t such a little bit either.’

Elderberry remembered that Box-Bender had had trouble with his own son. What had it been? Divorce? Debt? No, something odder than that. He’d gone into a monastery. With unusual delicacy Elderberry did not raise the question. He merely said: ‘So Guy’s happily settled?’

‘Yes,’ said Box-Bender, not without a small, clear note of resentment, ‘things have turned out very conveniently for Guy.’