Three Brothers (25 page)

“Good evening, Father.”

“And here is my favourite son-in-law.”

“If you can’t say anything nice, Martin, don’t say anything at all.”

“I am nice, Maud. Nice as pie.” Sir Martin poured the drinks, and made a point of filling the glasses to the brim. “May I propose a toast,” he said, “for the cure of barrenness.” Guinevere blushed.

Harry resisted the urge to hit him. “A quick word, sir?”

“Well, darling,” Lady Flaxman said to her daughter, “the fighters are in the ring. There will be blood on the floor. I see it coming. And we have ringside seats. Aren’t we lucky?”

“I have had a talk with Cormac Webb,” Harry was saying. “He told me about a coup. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Coup? As in military coup?”

“That’s it.”

“What bloody coup? Nobody tells me anything.”

“The army against the government. Mountjoy. Hatton. Burleigh.”

“Toy soldiers. No lead in their pants. They couldn’t arrange a picnic, let alone a coup. Does Webb believe this nonsense?”

“It seems so.”

“He is a cunt. Don’t trust anything he says.”

“I have had some confirmation.”

“Oh?”

Harry whispered something to him but, to his evident discomfiture, Flaxman burst out laughing. “They talk about coups,” he said, “because they have nothing better to do. They are pathetic. They are just posturing.”

“I don’t know if there is a word for it,” Lady Flaxman said, “but things keep on disappearing in this house.”

“What do you mean, Mother?”

“Little things. Handkerchiefs. Earrings. Only the other day I put down a small pair of scissors and, when I turned round, it was gone.”

“Daft cow,” her husband said.

“Then, yesterday,” Lady Flaxman was saying, “it turned up in a completely different place. I was mystified.”

“You’re going senile.”

“No, Martin, I am not. Don’t you agree, Guinevere?”

“When I used to live here,” her daughter replied, “there were some strange things. Do you remember, Mother, when that little gold pen just went from my desk?”

“Of course. The little gold pen.”

“And then two days later it was back on my desk.”

“Bullshit.” Her father poured himself another drink.

“Where do these things go?” Lady Flaxman asked no one in particular. “That’s all I want to know.”

“I used to get very tense in this house,” Guinevere was saying, “I would become so anxious that I used to lie down. I would imagine the most terrible things. If I had a headache, I thought that I was suffering from a brain tumour. If my eyes ached, I was sure that I was going blind. Whenever I come back here, I feel a sense of panic.” She turned to her father. “But things can change for the better. I have a client called Sparkler—”

The face of Martin Flaxman altered colour, and he seemed to choke on his drink. Guinevere watched as her father stumbled and fell against a large sofa covered with red brocade. “Oh Jesus,” he whispered, “more trouble.” He looked fiercely at his daughter. “Where did you hear that name?” Then he slumped onto the floor. “Why him?” White spittle came from the sides of his mouth.

Lady Flaxman delicately and deliberately put her hand on his pulse. “Don’t celebrate too soon, Mr. Hanway,” she said. “He is still alive.”

A comedy sky

D
ANIEL
H
ANWAY
believed the publication party to be going well. It was being held in the board room of Connaught & Douglas, which had changed not at all from the occasion when, three years before, he had attended the “bash” as Wilkin had called it. Even the books, scattered on the small tables, seemed to be the same. Wilkin was here again, as were most of the people Daniel had met at lunch above the Ancient Druids in Soho. Damian Etheridge had lost his job as literary editor of the
Chronicle
, and now earned a more precarious living as a freelance reviewer and literary interviewer. He looked more haggard than before, and had assumed a peevish or dissatisfied expression.

Clive Rentoul was as supercilious as ever. The words seemed to glide from him as if from a great height. “Well done, Daniel. You have surprised me.” Daniel concentrated upon his nose; it was narrow, and slightly curved, with large nostrils. It implied superiority; it had a look of perpetual contempt for anything put before it. “We must have lunch,” Rentoul said. “When you’re next in London.”

They were joined by Virginia Crossley. “Now,” she said to Daniel, “I expect you to do some serious work.” She had the
same blustering and bullying manner. “You’ve got away with it this time. But now we want a masterpiece.”

“Would you excuse me?” Daniel went over to Hanky Panky, who was in excited conversation with Graham Maland concerning the literary feud between two middle-aged novelists. Cressida von Stern had given a bad review to Edgar Cowper, in which she had made a veiled accusation of plagiarism. Cowper had retaliated, three months later, with an attack upon a short book written by von Stern on the modern novel. He had accused her of being “ignorant” and “wilful” in her choice of the significant novels of the last decades. None of his had been chosen.

“What he should have done,” Maland was saying, “is obvious. He should not have responded to her. Silence is the best policy.”

“But I like a good cat-fight,” Hanky Panky replied.

“Cressida is a bitch, not a cat.”

“Oh that is so
naughty
.” Hanky Panky was delighted. “An interesting crowd, don’t you think?”

“Well, all people are interesting if you don’t really want to know them.”

“That is the cleverest remark I have heard all day.”

Daniel was about to join the conversation, when someone roughly shook his shoulder. It was Wilkin, who seemed to be swaying slightly. “He never wrote to me,” he said, pointing his wineglass towards Hanky Panky.

“I did mention it to him.”

“But he never wrote.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Who do you think I am? It is not as if I don’t have a reputation.”

“You are being orgulous.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Overbearing.”

“You’re a clever little shit, aren’t you?”

Denis Davis came over at that moment. “It’s a comedy sky, isn’t it?” In the frame of the window pink clouds, inflamed by the setting sun, hovered in a frosty blue sky. “Have you seen the painted sky in the Palladian theatre at Vicenza? Just like that.”

Hanky Panky turned round to Daniel. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with ‘F.’ ”

“Filing cabinet?”

“No.”

“Fireplace?”

“No.”

“Fender?”

“Oh no. That
Fraud
over there.” He was looking at Denis Davis.

“Who is
he
?” Graham Maland suddenly pointed to a portrait from the late nineteenth century just beside the window.

“He? He is our founder. A very distinguished old
Fart
.” It was a picture of a middle-aged man with side-whiskers and a formidable moustache, bearing the stern and almost marmoreal expression of one who is constantly aware of his duties. “Do you see what is written beneath him? Charles Connaught, Philanthropist and Educationalist. I prefer to read that as Pederast and Hypocrite.”

“You are too cynical.”

“Oh I don’t think you can be
too
cynical.”

Virginia Crossley came up to them. “Do either of you happen to know where the phrase ‘feasting with panthers’ comes from? We were just discussing it.”

“Oscar Wilde,” said Hanky Panky.

“Jacobean tragedy,” said Graham Maland.

At that moment Daniel saw Sparkler entering the room. He became very still as he saw him crossing the room and walking towards Hanky Panky. Why had he come? He must
have been invited by Hanky Panky—Daniel had never mentioned the party to him—but for what purpose?

He realised now that Sparkler had seen him, and was raising a glass of wine in his direction. Something had to be done. Daniel stared at him, and walked out of the room. As he hoped, Sparkler followed him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“What?”

“Mr. Rackham made sure that I got a job. In the post room. I didn’t want to go back to the old game. He asked me to come to a party. I didn’t know you would be here, did I?” He put his hand on Daniel’s arm. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?” Daniel instinctively recoiled from the touch. “Oh? Is that the way it is?”

“I don’t know.”

Sparkler understood the situation at once. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“No.” He sounded hesitant. “Not at all.”

“Are they your friends in there?”

“Some of them.”

“From Cambridge?”

“And from London.”

“And what am I? The abominable snowball?” Daniel shook his head and said nothing. “So why don’t you come back inside with me?”

“It’s complicated.”

“What is?”

“They don’t realise.”

“That you’re queer?”

“That’s one way of putting it. I don’t want it to be generally known.”

“So you put your friends before me.”

“It’s my career—”

“I was right. You are embarrassed of me.”

“I’m confused. That’s all.”

“You know, once I would have done anything for you. I would have died for you.”

“A bit extreme, isn’t it?”

Sparkler put down his drink, and walked down the staircase. Daniel felt unwell for a moment, and instinctively put his hand up to his chest. Then he went back to the party, where Virginia Crossley had launched into a violent diatribe against the
Times Literary Supplement
. A young man came up to him. “You are the author, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am the author.”

“I’m Tristram Ferry. I’m the senior researcher for
Book Ends
.” This was a literary panel show broadcast on BBC 2 every Tuesday evening. “I think you could rock the boat.”

“Excuse me?”

“You would be good. You have a natural authority.”

Daniel laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re an academic, but you’re also a reviewer. Best of both worlds. I’ve read your work.” Daniel presumed that he was referring to his new book. “In the
Post
. How would you feel about coming on to the show?”

Daniel was delighted. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m not convinced that I could do it.”

“I know what you mean. There is an art to television—”

“But I am happy to give it a try. Certainly.”

“Do you have an agent?”

“No.” Daniel cleared his throat. “But I’ll give you my telephone number at college. You can contact me there at any time.” Sensing that he may have appeared over-eager, he now frowned slightly. “But what would I be asked to talk about?”

“We’ll know that closer to the time.”

Wilkin lurched toward them. “I don’t give a fuck about any of this,” he said. “The fucking publishing scene is corrupt. I despise the lot of you.”

“I’m not a publisher, Paul.”

“That’s beside the point. You’re all in bed together.” Wilkin leered at Daniel. “In bed with that old queer.” He was clearly very drunk. “When a good writer like me is ignored. It’s not right, is it?” He stepped closer to Daniel. “There was a time when I was ten times better known than you will ever be. I won the Poetry Council award for my first book. Do you know that?” Then he seemed to lose interest in what he was saying, and walked up to Graham Maland; much to Maland’s discomfort he simply stared at him without any attempt at conversation. Having patted Maland heavily on the back, Wilkin then approached Hanky Panky. “Well, old dear,” he said, “I don’t suppose you remember me. I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?” Hanky Panky had been talking to Clive Rentoul.

“I am sure,” Hanky Panky said, “that you will have something interesting to add.”

“Add this,” Wilkin said and flung the glass of wine he was holding over Hanky Panky. Wilkin then staggered back and fell heavily against the nineteenth-century portrait of the founder of Connaught & Douglas. His right shoulder broke the canvas, and left a hole where the mouth of Charles Connaught had once been.

Daniel was looking down from the double-bowed window when he saw Sparkler; he glimpsed him walking along New Bond Street. His shoulders were hunched, and his head bowed, as he made his way slowly through the crowd.

Beginning to rain

“I
’M JUST
popping out,” Julie Armitage said to Sam Hanway. “To clear my head. I’m a great believer in fresh air.” They were sitting in Sally’s house; they had moved Ruppta’s business to Borough a few days before. “May I have permission, Sally?”

“Of course.”

“You are too kind. Ta very much.” In fact she wanted to go outside for a quick snack.

When she had left the house, Sally turned to her son. “We’ve got five minutes. She took a bag of doughnuts with her. One minute a doughnut. Where did she leave her handbag?”

It was a capacious handbag, wrought out of leather dyed purple and with an interior lining of green silk. It smelled of mints and of nail varnish, and it contained many half-empty packets of nuts and sweets as well as bus tickets, paper handkerchiefs and assorted items of cosmetics. There was also a small diary, the days neatly divided five to a page. “What was the day of his death?” Sam asked his mother.

“Four months ago. April the fourth.”

Sam turned to that day. “She’s written down an ‘F’ and underlined it. She did say that she was going to see her sister in Folkestone.” Then he noticed, at the top of the same page,
what seemed to be some blurred letters that had been unsuccessfully erased. He held the page up to the light, and could distinguish numbers rather than letters. There were seven of them. Sam read them out.

“A telephone number,” Sally said.

“I’m going to try it.” He picked up the telephone, and dialled the number.

There was a woman’s voice in reply. “Sir Martin Flaxman’s office.”

“Sorry, wrong number.” He told his mother what had been said and then carefully put the diary into the handbag, in the position where he had found it; he replaced the bag beneath Julie’s desk.