Sensible Life (32 page)

Sighting the names of Macfarlane and Tait on a brass plate, Hubert straightened his tie and banished Flora. Yet she returned as he stood in the waiting-room, too exhilarated to sit. Her mind had wandered when he grew long-winded on the Fabians. She had pretended not to know the difference between Socialist and Communist and complained that in
The Times
newspaper the two seemed to be one, teasing him.

The clerk ushered Hubert into another room. “Mr. Wyndeatt-Whyte,” said the solicitor.

“Mr. Macfarlane,” said Hubert.

“Tait, actually, Macfarlane’s dead. Do sit down. Cigarette? Don’t smoke? Mind if I—”

Hubert sat and watched the solicitor light a cigarette, prop it on an ashtray, reach for a bundle of documents tied with pink tape, shake it, lay it in front of him and clear his throat. He had the moon face of a clown, with monkey eyes. “These are the deeds of Pengappah and your cousin Mr. Hubert Wyndeatt-Whyte’s will,” he said in a depressed voice.

“Do call me Hubert.”

“Oh, well, thanks. Well, there are—um—yes—do you know the place, er—Hubert?”

“No.” Smoke was spiralling up from the ashtray. How much revenue did the government rake in annually from tobacco? How much did this Tait contribute to the bourgeois system? “My cousin never invited me. I rather gathered he was a recluse.”

“Recluse? My goodness, no, not a recluse. You couldn’t call him a recluse,” said Mr. Tait. “No, that would not fit.”

“What would?”

“Does it matter now?”

Hubert was surprised by a note of acrimony. “Not if he’s dead.”

Mr. Tait said, “Well, he is.”

Hubert said, “Good.”

There was a pause. Mr. Tait rested his hands on the documents. Hubert said, “Let’s get on, then,” hoping he sounded polite; he would never get back to Flora at this rate.

Thus urged Mr. Tait got on. “Pengappah, such as it is, is yours for life. I believe you are aware of that? Your cousin left a small income, this.” Here he pushed papers towards Hubert. Hubert read, registering the amount of the income with pleasure. It was not his idea of small. “That’s for the upkeep of the house, such as it is, and the land, such as it is. You say you have never been there?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

“All I know is that there are six baths in the bathroom.”

“No, Mr.—er—Hubert, not any more.”

“Why not?”

“You were not informed? Perhaps not. You see, half the house burned down six years ago.”

“So that’s why you say, ‘such as it is’.”

“Precisely.”

“It’s a ruin?”

“No, no, not a ruin. Just half the size of what you expected.”

“I have not known what to expect.”

“I see.” Mr. Tait picked the remnant of his cigarette from the ashtray and stubbed it out. “I believe,” he said, “your cousin, old Hubert Wyndeatt-Whyte, reorganised the house and sold some of the land to do so. We were not consulted.”

“What a shame.”

Mr. Tait said, “Yes, a shame. We were his legal advisers.”

Hubert said, “Of course.”

Mr. Tait said, “Not that we would have advised him to do other than he did.”

Hubert breathed in. “Not a recluse, no six baths and half a house—”

“Oh, it looks whole.”

“Are there things for me to sign?” (It was amazing that the streets of this part of London were not festooned with solicitors dangling from lamp-posts.)

“There were six baths, that would be in my partner’s day, and yes, yes, of course, there is this and this for you to sign—I will ask my clerk to witness—and a map of how to get there.” Being rushed came as a surprise to Mr. Tait.

It did not take long; anxious to get away, Hubert thanked Mr. Tait and prepared to leave. Mr. Tait said, “You’ll need a car, it’s rather isolated.”

Hubert said, “I’ll borrow one.” He would take Cosmo’s. Cosmo was going up by train for Christmas at Coppermalt; Cosmo wouldn’t mind.

“I would like you to lunch with me.” Mr. Tait would not take no. Hubert thought that time need not be wasted; he could pump Mr. Tait about Cousin Thing and Pengappah. Mr. Tait took him to Simpson’s and, while they ordered their roast beef, admitted that he had never met Cousin Thing or seen Pengappah. His recently defunct partner had handled all Cousin Thing’s affairs.

Hubert resolved to remove his affairs from Mr. Tait as soon as feasible, but now the man undermined his fury by asking, “Are you married?”

Hubert said, “No.”

Mr. Tait said, “Do you intend?”

Hubert said, “I—”

Mr. Tait said, “You should bear in mind that your property is entailed on a male heir but
don’t,
oh, Hubert,
don’t.
My wife left me this morning—the grief, the desolation, the despair.” The monkey eyes glistened, then in a choking voice he said, “The bloody, bloody bitch. I shall kill her.”

They had reached the cheese stage. Hubert swallowed his mouthful of Stilton, crunched a piece of celery and murmured, “Each man kills the thing he loves.”

Mr. Tait raised his head and voice. “But
he
was a queer.”

Several people looked round, then quickly away. Hubert said, “Maybe he
was,
but he screwed out a couple of sons. I say, Mr. Tait, I must go. I hadn’t realised the time. Thank you so much for your help and lunch,” and began shuffling to his feet.

Mr. Tait said, “It’s been a pleasure. Waiter, my bill.”

Shaking Mr. Tait’s hand, looking into the little monkey eyes in the clown’s face, Hubert said, “You won’t kill her, will you, not really?”

Mr. Tait finding his pocket book, looking embarrassed, murmured, “I shall think of something better—”

Escaped into the Strand, recovering his balance, Hubert decided that Mr. Tait was mad, but what did it matter? He had the keys of Pengappah in his pocket, the deeds in his hand, and the prospect of an interesting job. Cheered by his thoughts, he set off to borrow Cosmo’s car.

Cosmo, in shirt-sleeves, was packing a suitcase. “Borrow the car? Of course, here are the keys. Treat her kindly. Sorry, but I’m in rather a rush. I am catching the train with Father and he will skin me if I miss it.” He folded a coat, laid it in the case. “Shoes, socks, shirts, pants. Where are you going?”

“Pengappah.”

“So you’ve
got
it? It really
exists
?” He paused in his task.

Hubert shook the keys in the air. “Keys! Deeds!”

“After all these years, it’s yours. Congratulations. Lord of Pengappah, a landed gentleman. Shall you change your political mores?”

Ignoring the tease, Hubert said, “
And
I’ve got a job.”

“No!” Cosmo was delighted. “How splendid.”

“Germany, commissioned to write articles on the Nazis—”

Cosmo, mouth open, listened to details of the job. He said, “You will be so much happier than working in that bank.”

“Much.”

The friends stood smiling at one another, then Cosmo said, “I must get on; Father’s getting old, he fusses. I wish you were coming to Coppermalt for Christmas, but I quite see you can’t wait to see your house. Knowing you, you want to savour it alone.”

“Who is going to be at Copper—”

“Mabs and Nigel, Tash and Henry. Infants too, of course.”

“Joyce?”

“Gone to the Canaries with Ernest.”

“It’s over, then?”

Cosmo said, “Joyce is not a habit, she’s an incident. You should know.” He laid a pair of trousers in the suitcase and closed it. “Now, what have I forgotten?” He looked round the room. “I was tempted to hare after Flora when we saw her off. If you must know, I realised the thing with Joyce was on the wane. I wonder how she’s getting on?”

Hubert said, “I’m sure she’s all right. Well—many thanks for the car. I’ll leave it back here in a week,” and left.

Mounting the stairs to his own flat twenty minutes later with jubilant step, filled with pleasurable anticipation, Hubert called, “Flora?” The flat was empty, the bed they had lain in the night before cold. His stomach contracted in panic. Confidence evaporated, he was filled with manic rage. “Where the hell have you been?” he yelled, as Flora appeared in the doorway. “What have you been up to? Where have you been?”

“Out.”

“Where? Doing what?”

“Spending a sensible day.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Why so cross?”

“I thought you had gone. I was bracing myself against disaster.” He held her close.

“Why should I go? How was the meeting with the lawyer?” Disturbed by his fury, she disengaged herself, kicked off her shoes and lay back in an armchair. “Don’t tell me there is no Pengappah? What was the old man like?”

“Not old, rather odd. Gave me the keys and so on, and insisted on giving me lunch. His wife has just left him. He wants to kill her.” Joyce had lain back in that chair in much the same attitude, but Joyce was aware of the effect. “I thought we could start at once, this afternoon.” He would not tell her yet about the job; he would keep the news as a treat.

She said, “Wonderful,” smiling. “Was the man deranged?”

“Drive through the night,” ignoring the question.

“Drive?”

“I’ve borrowed a car.”

“How splendid.”

“Have you had anything to eat? Are you starving?”

The habit of privacy wrapped her too close to tell him of her lunch with Angus. “I’ve been sensible.” She smiled up at him.

Joyce had smiled too. “You look very cocky,” he said, looking down at her.

She had learned why the men she had danced with on the ship grew lumps in their trousers. It had happened too at Coppermalt, but she had not then known the reason. “Goodness,” she said, as Hubert picked her up out of the chair, “not on the floor!” They fell onto the bed. “We seem to be doing rather a lot of this,” she said, as Hubert pulled off her knickers. “You smell nice,” she said. (Not a bit like my parents, she thought.) Then, while Hubert swooned, she thought of how she had been waiting all her childhood and seven interminable years at school for something to happen and now it had.

Hubert said, “I love you. I might even marry you some day.”

“If I don’t marry someone else.”

“Who, for instance?” He stroked her silky thigh.

“Felix?”

“He’s married.”

“His wife might die. Or Cosmo.”

“Can’t have that.” He felt a twinge of guilt. Should he not this afternoon have been more open—

“You may have to ‘have it’.”

“Come to think of it, I promised I would share you. We were pretty young at the time.” Hubert got off the bed. “But as St. Augustine said, ‘Not yet, oh Lord’.”

Flora said, “What cheek! Without asking me? Share?” She was shocked.

“You had gone, swept off by Miss Felicity Green. We had a fight.”

“Who won?”

“Nobody. I blacked his eye, he trod on my foot. Come on, get cracking. We should be on the road.”

Driving past Hammersmith Broadway, Flora said: “Is this car Cosmo’s?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Thought so.”

“How d’you guess?”

Flora said, “He came to see me off at Tilbury with Joyce. You must remember.”

“And?”

“It smells of Joyce.”

“A lot of things smell of Joyce; she wears scent which hangs around. Jolly girl, though, Joyce.” I should be grateful to Joyce, he thought; catching up with Flora at Marseilles wouldn’t have been much fun if Cosmo had made it too.

Flora did not want to think of Joyce, jolly or not. She was sorry she had brought her up; there had been faint unsettling traces in Hubert’s flat. She supposed they shared Joyce, as they had agreed to share her. She stared ahead as they drove past the suburbs towards the Great West Road.

They had left London far behind when Hubert said, “For the sake of propriety I shall tell people at Pengappah you are my cousin.”

“You did not bother about propriety in France.”

“Pengappah is different.”

“I am not your cousin. Why not pretend I am your sister? We are both dark. That would be much more proper.” She was contemptuous of his new respectability.

Ignoring the acidity in her tone, Hubert said serenely, “I could not marry a sister.”

Flora spaced her reply. “I—do—not—want—to—marry—you.”

Hubert was indulgent. “You will change your mind.”

Bearing in mind her phantom trio, Flora said, exasperated, “How could I?”

Hubert did not answer.

Presently Flora asked, “How long shall we stay?”

“Not long. You can stay on if you like it. I have to go to Germany.”

Flora turned towards him. “Germany? What for? What’s this about Germany?”

He told her about the job; she listened bleakly as he outlined the project. It was a wonderful chance, just the kind of life he wanted. He viewed his immediate prospects with enthusiasm. So he too could be secretive, she thought. She said, “How jolly for you,” keeping her tone neutral.

Ignoring her chill, Hubert said, “Far jollier than banking. I was going to tell you, but you were not there when I got in—” He could not tell her of his terror when he found the flat empty and thought her gone. He was glad that he could reproach her, conscious, too, that he had deceived Cosmo, and pleased when she said: “You are a selfish beast.” Driving on in silence he began to wonder why the hell he had brought her. Had he not looked forward in his dreams to the moment when he would at last acquire Pengappah, to doing it alone? There had never been anyone else when he put the key in the door and pushed. Was she in the way?

Flora thought, If he plans to leave, would I not do better to stop now, go back to London and get a job, any job? There must be some jobs I can do. Who do I know who could help me? She opened her mouth to say, “Stop the car, let me out,” but remained silent, afraid her voice would shake and betray her desolation.

She had been sleeping and woke when Hubert stopped the car to pore over a map by the light of a torch. She said, “Where are we?”

“Nearly there. I am memorising the way, it’s a very secret place. Like some chocolate?” He snapped a bar in half and handed it to her. “Now don’t talk, I must concentrate.”

Realising that she was painfully hungry, she ate the chocolate as Hubert drove down a lane which dipped into a valley and over a hill. Beside her, Hubert muttered, “Right, half-right, left, left again, cross over, turn right, left through the splash, right here, that’s right, here’s the clearing, aha, and there’s the gate. Could you hop out and open it?” There was excitement in his voice. She got out of the car, stiff from the journey, opened a gate and closed it when Hubert drove through. “Go on,” she said, “I’d like to walk.”