Until the Colours Fade (25 page)

‘I expect so.’ Magnus was surprised by a definite feeling of reluctance and could not escape the conclusion that, though fond of his sister, he did not want her to become friendly with
Strickland
. She evidently sensed his misgiving but mistook his reason.

‘Are you afraid I may make a fool of myself?’ she asked with a reproving smile. ‘I like him. No more than that. So you needn’t worry about father’s disapproval.’

The teasing, almost coquettish way in which she had spoken irritated him.

‘Father’s disapproval never influenced me,’ he replied,
looking
at the French clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve a “fly” waiting,’ he said, raising his hands helplessly.

‘Then you must go.’

He did not move for a moment, but then, seeing her come towards him, he kissed her cheek and left the room.

*

In the departing ‘fly’, Magnus was still troubled by his reaction to his sister’s interest in Tom, nor could he get Charles’s question out of his mind. He thought of the perfect days when Charles and his father had been away at sea, and he living at home with his mother and Catherine: an age of innocence soon ended. Oxford. Some friends, bent on his initiation, had taken him to a notorious brothel. The girls, many of them no more than twelve or
thirteen
, had been lined up in a row, their expressions bored and
listless
. His friends lifted up skirts with their canes, prodded breasts and thighs, with as much delicacy as they might have shown
inspecting
horses for sale at a fair. The slang term for copulation then in vogue was to ‘spend’; an appropriate one, Magnus thought. The customers had been separated from each other by thin partitions. Magnus had thought of animals mounting in a farmyard as he listened to the grunting and oaths of his friends
and the whores’ feigned squeals and moans of enjoyment. The smells, the blind gropings and the absence of all feeling, except a coarse and brutal hunger for flesh, sickened him. His friends laughed at him, but he did not return. Instead he had showed his nerve in other ways: by gambling and never hesitating to use his fists if insulted. The laughter had stopped, but his personal
isolation
had begun.

In Ceylon the same. Being attractive and thought richer than he was, he had been pursued by numerous daughters of army officers and planters, who clutched hysterically at every new arrival who seemed at all likely to fulfil their dream of marriage. He remembered pink faces shining with sweat and the touch of damp hot hands at regimental balls. In tropical heat the girls had still danced in seven or eight petticoats. Their trivial jealousies and constant obsession with clothes and etiquette had made them seem absurd and pathetic to Magnus when he recalled his mother’s intelligence and serenity.

Some of his brother officers had married out of frustration and boredom, others had taken native mistresses. Magnus had found pleasure in renunciation; lonely at first, but in time
deriving
positive satisfaction from his self-sufficiency. He alone, the sheltered cossetted boy, proved impervious to the isolation of remote surveying expeditions and to months away on
outstations
working on the colony’s roads. This sense of
completeness
, of possessing everything within himself had been his answer to his inability to find either desire or pleasure with women.

And now? he asked himself in the dark interior of the ‘fly’. At the first hint of a close friendship with Strickland, he had behaved with a child’s possessiveness. But at least he knew the answer to Charles’s question. What he wanted most was to end his long isolation – to recapture lost happiness through true friendship.

Two days after Charles’s departure for Devonport, Sir James Crawford visited Hanley Park to call on his god-daughter. On entering the hall he was surprised by the absence of any visible signs of mourning. In fact the atmosphere at first reminded him of the air of bustle and preparation preceding a ball. Doors were open and servants hurrying back and forth, carrying china, dragging furniture aside, and shouting instructions to each other. Only when he saw their faces did he realise that their task was not a happy one. While waiting for a maid to fetch the butler, he watched two grumbling footmen stagger past,
supporting
between them a large gilt-framed mirror surmounted by an eagle. Obviously the main reception rooms were being
shut-up
.

The butler came down with the news that her ladyship was with her bailiff and her agent, but that Lord Goodchild would see Sir James at once. Although he had last seen Humphrey as a boy of nine, the shock of hearing him addressed by his new title passed quickly. Crawford followed the butler through a
succession
of cold uncarpeted rooms, past shapeless stacks of furniture under brown hollands and dust sheets towards the library. Even the curtains and pictures had been taken down. Clearly this reduction of accommodation would be followed by a similar reduction in staff. That Goodchild had left debts did not surprise Sir James, but that these drastic economies should be needed, so soon after his death, seemed incredible. A feeling of pity for Helen was followed by one of anger with the dead man.

When Harry had proposed to Helen, Crawford, who had then often advised her widowed mother on many matters, had
recommended
refusal: a suggestion which had outraged both mother and daughter. Refuse a peer and a man of Lord Goodchild’s wealth? He must be mistaken about the young man’s character; further acquaintance would prove to him that Harry was
anything
but the coarse young rake his envious rivals might make him out to be. He was high spirited certainly; surely dashing manliness should not be condemned in one of his years? But Sir James, who had discovered that Goodchild had been scratched from the list of members at Almack’s for ‘insulting’ several
members
’
wives – rumour had it that he had tried to rape one of them – had not been impressed. He did not deny that it was common enough for rich young peers to boast of never going to bed till nine each morning, but sensuality apart, he had thought he detected in Harry an arrogant cynicism which would preclude the humility required on the lower slopes of any worthwhile career. And Sir James considered non-fulfilment through pride, neglect and pleasure seeking, rather than through innate
incapacity
, the worst sin that a man of rank and wealth could commit: a sin against himself. For Crawford it still seemed as reprehensible for a peer to decline the political opportunities opened to him by his position, as for a sailor to desert his ship. But, as Sir James walked through the stripped and echoing rooms, he felt sorrow rather than satisfaction in witnessing so striking a vindication of the opinion he had expressed fourteen years before.

Humphrey walked across the library and held out a stiff hand to his visitor. Ever since early childhood he had been in awe of Sir James Crawford, and although he had seen him less than a dozen times in all his thirteen years, the impression made had been a deep one; less by what the great man had said than by what Humphrey had imagined his part to have been in actions worthy to be classed with those of Howe, Nelson and
Collingwood
. Sir James would have been surprised to hear that for Humphrey the battle of Navarino, the Syrian War and the West African blockade evoked images as compelling as accounts of the Glorious First of June, and the battles of the Nile and
Copenhagen.
To be addressed as ‘my lord’ and treated as an equal by such a man made Humphrey blush with pleasure. He still vividly remembered the day when the admiral had shown him his sketch books, full of drawings of places as far away as Valparaiso and Rio, Batavia and Penang.

After expressing condolences for his father’s death, Sir James was at a loss what to say; to mention the activity he had
witnessed
below would merely be painful; instead he picked up the book Humphrey had been bent over when he entered: Book Four of Thucydides’s
Peloponnesian
War.

‘Did you know that Thucydides wrote an account of the battle of Navarino?’ he asked, knowing that the boy was interested in the action in which his grandfather had died.

Humphrey looked puzzled and embarrassed. Surely the
admiral
knew that the Greek historian had died two thousand years ago? Guessing his thoughts, Sir James told him how Sir Edward Codrington, being an amateur classicist, had pointed out to his
captains, on the evening before the battle, that the Athenians had defeated the Spartans in Navarino Bay in the fifth century B.C.

‘Not every admiral reads his captains Thucydides before an action, but that’s what we were treated to. The Athenians hemmed in the Spartan fleet between the mainland and the island of Sphakteria; so Codrington wanted us to do the same. We even sounded the channel but found it was too shallow. A pity, we might have attacked the Turks on both sides of their line.’

‘Like Nelson at the Nile,’ cut in Humphrey, eager to show his knowledge. Sir James smiled.

‘Not quite; that was a great victory against a far more
formidable
enemy. If you like I’ll show you what happened.’

Needing no further encouragement, Humphrey held out paper and a pen. Sir James quickly drew in the outline of the coast and islands and then started on the ships.

‘Your grandfather was here in the
Asia,
here I am in the
Philo
mel
.
Bathurst in the
Genoa,
and the
Dartmouth
….’

He looked up and saw Helen smiling at him; she had evidently been watching for some moments. He took in her widow’s cap and tight-waisted black dress.

‘James, the fools didn’t tell me it was you till a moment ago. Forgive me.’ She inclined her face for his formal kiss. ‘I’m sure Humphrey would hang onto you all day if I let him.’

‘We’ll go on another time,’ Sir James assured the boy with a conspiratorial wink, implying that women never appreciated the importance of tactics and battles but that they two knew better. Then wishing him good luck with his translation, Crawford
followed
Helen from the room.

She led him to a small sitting room dominated by a boule table covered with letters, notes and account books, and motioned to him to sit on a chesterfield by the window.

‘My poor Helen, that it should come to this…. My dear girl, I am so sorry.’

She looked down and sat on the ottoman opposite. No answer was possible or expected. She knew that his sympathy embraced not only her husband’s death, but the sadness of her marriage and her present difficulties. Since her wedding she had seen little of her godfather, but enough for him to have realised her
unhappiness
. Nor would she now have to explain about debts and
mortgages
for hours before he would believe her pessimism justified.

‘When will you leave here?’ he asked at last.

‘When we have somewhere smaller to go to. It’s not yet certain whether the house must be sold, or whether a tenant will suffice. The estate seems to have been as badly managed as it is possible to imagine.’ She smiled and murmured: ‘I am sure it is no
surprise
to you.’ He said nothing but shook his head slightly. ‘I often thought of the advice you gave me – when it was too late.’ But then in spite of the gloominess of what she was saying, she felt happy. Seeing Sir James again reminded her vividly of the years before she married. Unlike men of fashion he retained the short Roman hair-style now replaced by close curled and waved hair. Nor did he care that the ‘Osbaldiston’ necktie was rarely worn by the beau monde. He kept what he liked and added any new style to his wardrobe if it pleased him. Helen remembered that this had been his habit in her childhood and recalled her mother’s indignation that Sir James ruined the pockets of beautifully-cut coats with an assortment of papers, bank notes and coins. ‘That manservant of his is useless; he needs a wife,’ she had often said, after he had become a widower; and Helen had known very well that her mother would have liked to have become the second Lady Crawford. Helen had always admired her godfather’s casual attitude to clothes and appearances, thinking it the
hallmark
of a man of the world to be confident enough to consider an outfit or an opinion invulnerable simply because he assumed it. He entered society as a visitor from a rougher more demanding world and saw no need to make concessions. His ease in any company, she believed, sprang from his having had no
permanent
home for so long; he could make himself comfortable in any temporary place. She had never been deceived by the sleepy nonchalent look his heavy eyelids gave him; often she had noticed a keen darting glance at his blue eyes under his thick grey eyebrows and a slight flicker of amusement or disdain if he were being treated to a pompous or dull speech. Many people had spoken of him as cold and indifferent but this, she was sure, was because they never watched him closely.

‘Tell me about the great world,’ she said after a silence.

‘Doing excellently well without me.’

‘For long?’ she asked, lifting her hands in a show of
astonishment.

‘I fear so.’

‘Truly?’ she whispered, all flippancy gone.

‘Palmerston will get back, but not to the Foreign Office, and the First Lord has little regard for me.’

‘First Lords come and go.’

‘So do admirals, but being so numerous, they mainly go.’

‘Can Palmerston really do nothing for you?’

‘Not if I ask at the wrong time.’

‘But at the right time?’

‘Perhaps.’ He smiled carelessly. ‘But there are probably better things than satisfied ambition.’

‘For an admiral?’ she murmured.

‘I think even for them.’ She was looking at him questioningly. ‘The gift of understanding my children would be no mean
blessing
. The other evening I was foolish enough to suppose that Magnus might like to hear my opinion on his future plans. I was mistaken. But then even those who ask advice, rarely follow it.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘But why you should submit to my trivial woes I have no idea.’ He got up and looked down at her. ‘If you should ever want to talk to me, send and I shall come. And I promise that I have got over the desire to advise, help, suggest, or any such folly.’

She got up and came towards him.

‘I remember once when you were very cross with me over Harry, you said that nobody was worth anything until life had crushed the conceit and optimism out of them.’

‘I must have been feeling my age at the time. But now I’ve become quite as young and foolish as the rest.’ He shut his eyes for a moment, pained by the recollection. ‘Crushed did I say? Oh dear. You must have been particularly pert and insufferable that day.’

‘Life was very different then.’

James nodded and picked up his cane, remembering a young girl in a loose flowing dress with the low décolletage so favoured at the time, her eyes glowing with excitement and pleasure, and Harry Grandison’s glistening phaeton at the door, complete with crested panels and two perfectly matched black horses. Later, the red plush of a box at the opera, or the bare shoulders and flashing diadems at a ball. A country girl narrowly brought up by a naval officer’s widow. Could he ever have imagined she would follow his advice? Picnics of plovers’ eggs, prawns and aspic jellies washed down with champagne; young men with polished boots and flowered waistcoats kissing primrose gloves to her in the Row. What a fool he must have been to have tried to dissuade her. And now still beautiful, but pale and careworn, what an impossibly different situation ahead of her. Leaving the room he smiled at her and said:

‘When I come next, I should prefer it if you did without your
cap.

She laughed aloud and took it off at once.

‘My badge of widowhood. Gladly.’ She took a comb from her hair and shook it free so that it fell to her shoulders. Then she touched the jet brooch which fastened the high collar of her black dress. ‘My dressmaker tells me that jet trimmings are now considered elegant with full mourning.’ Sir James recognised the bitterness in her voice, but felt unable to say openly that he understood the cause. Instead he murmured:

‘Your life will not remain empty for long.’

‘It will take a veritable Sir Galahad to burden himself with my debts and anxieties, let alone with my poor boy.’

Crawford took her by the arm and led her across to the pier glass.

‘Look at yourself, Helen.’

She stared at her reflection for a moment and smiled.

‘Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘You’re very kind, James, more than I deserve.’

‘If reason really governed our actions, there would be no love, no courage and no despair. Men in spite of all that’s said are less rational than women. You’ll see.’

On his way out, they paused in the centre of the marble-paved hall.

‘You’ve done me good, James.’ Suddenly she laughed. ‘What were those expressions that used to amuse me so? The way sailors talk of women’s eyes?’

‘Her toplights made my heart jump like a brig’s boom in a calm.’

‘A little loose in stays,’ cried Helen. ‘I remember that best.’

Sir James looked slightly embarrassed.

‘Expressive, I suppose; some women, like some ships, don’t come round quickly.’

‘Promise me, James. You’ll come soon and make me laugh.’

‘I’ll try.’

She watched him put on his hat and go out to his coach.
Looking
back Sir James saw her solitary figure small under the
massive
portico. From a single chimney, that belonging to the room where they had sat, a thin ribbon of smoke was rising into the chill air. He stared glumly across the misty park at the bare trees and suddenly smiled. Like a brig’s boom in a calm.