While England Sleeps (3 page)

I passed the afternoon in a state of restless anxiety, then at three headed off to the Dents’ house in St. John’s Wood. The rain was pissing down and I had left my umbrella on the underground and so asked Rupert if I might borrow one. Drearily he rummaged in a cupboard before locating the necessary implement.

The tube ride to St. John’s Wood took almost forty minutes, presumably because of the weather. Happily the rain had cleared up by the time I got there. I walked through a puddled and intermittently sunny atmosphere to the Dent house. I was sent up to his room—Mrs. Dent’s room, rather, claimed by Nigel for the duration of his stay. There he was, in bed, very red in the nose, surrounded by papers and books. The place reeked of cigarettes. On the floor were stacked stained teacups, which Mrs. Dent hastily gathered.

“Hello, Brian. How nice to see you,” said Mrs. Dent.

“I haven’t shit for three days,” Nigel announced. “Just wanted you to know.”

Mrs. Dent left hurriedly.

It was obvious that he was indeed not in the best of spirits—in fact he was in a bloody beastly frame of mind, cruel and teasing, as if testing how much I would take from him before I lashed back. Still, I was determined not to give in.

“So what’s brought you to London, Nigel?” I asked, trying to sound as if I really didn’t care.

“Negotiating a contract with Heinemann. They want to collect my ‘Letters from Abroad.’ I’m not sure, though. Heinemann is not exactly
avant-garde
.”

Pride and envy coursed through my blood in equal measure at this information. Also bewilderment; the Nigel I knew, upon receiving such monumentally good news, would have called me instantly.

“Nigel, that’s wonderful,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Yes, well. Now I’ve got something to say to you, Brian, and it isn’t going to be pleasant. I’m sure you’re wondering why I haven’t rung you up when I’ve been in London close to a fortnight. Well, that’s why I wanted you to come by today, to explain to you that I’ve had it with you. You annoy me thoroughly. You’re sniveling and loud and altogether too much of a presence. You parrot my views. You dress embarrassingly. And as for that story you sent me—dreadfully bad. Unspeakably bad. I thought you had potential once, Brian, I really did, but you’ve quite extinguished what little hope I had for you with this”—he held the offending sheets out in front of him, as if they positively reeked—“this loose stool.”

My mouth opened in instinctive protest. “It’s only a first draft—” I began.

“A first draft! A first draft!” He gave one of his whooping laughs. “You really are such a big girl’s blouse, Brian, the biggest blouse any girl ever wore. I attack your story, which, by the way, I honestly consider to be shit, and what do you do? Do you defend it, or yourself? No! You try to sneak away from it, you try to disclaim it.”

“But really, I think you’re right, it does need work—”

“But that’s just my point! First draft my arse—you thought it was brilliant until this minute! If you really aspire to be a literary man, you must learn to hold your own, and not just gobble like a turkey and agree with what everyone else says just to please them. And you must get out of the habit of changing your views so that they match mine. If you say, ‘I think S. is a good poet,’ and I say, ‘I think he’s shit,’ the next minute you’re kicking dirt back like a cat to cover it up. Which brings me to my final point. Tonight, as you may have heard, Anne Cheney is having a dinner in my honor. I don’t know if you’re invited, but if you are, I should prefer you not attend. And if you do attend, I shall leave.”

The bluntness of this demand stunned me. “Well, all right, Nigel,” I said. “If that’s how you feel, I think I shall leave right now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve just arrived. Have some tea.”

I glared at him.

“Oh, you’re pathetic. Just because I’ve said what I’ve said, you act as if we’re no longer friends. All right, go then, if that’s how you feel.”

I walked out of the room, upsetting, along the way, a cup of cold tea his mother had somehow neglected to clear away. Nigel took no notice and, getting out of bed, followed me into the hall. “A new piece I’ve written,” he announced, thrusting an envelope into my hand. “It’s about left-handed pianism. It is to be the leadoff for the new volume.”

“Thank you,” I said. We shook hands grimly, and I departed.

On the tube ride back I read Nigel’s essay—it seemed brilliant to me, which made me even more miserable—and arrived back at Rupert’s around six. Almost as soon as I’d stepped through the door I had the ghostly sensation that I was not holding something I should have been holding. Of course—it was Rupert’s umbrella! So before going into the sitting room, where Rupert was waiting with tea, I asked the maid if I might use the telephone. Nigel’s mother answered: no, she was sorry, I hadn’t left any umbrella; indeed, as far as she was aware, when I arrived I hadn’t been carrying an umbrella at all. I thanked her and rang off, feeling annoyed at the money I would have to waste replacing not only Rupert’s umbrella but my own. Two in two days was a record, even for me!

Rupert was in his smoking jacket, pouring tea. He seemed to be in considerably higher spirits. “Hello! Do sit down. I’ve just had a fresh pot brewed. How was Nigel?”

“Rupert,” I said, “I’m afraid I’ve lost that umbrella you loaned me. Awfully sorry. I’m such an oaf when it comes to umbrellas.”

His smile disappeared.

“What?” he said.

“I said I’m afraid I’ve lost that umbrella you loaned me.”

“Where?”

“On the underground. Rupert, I—”

“Then it’s hopeless. We’ll never get it back.”

He stood, turning away from me, his face ashen. Really, I was thinking, all this fuss over an umbrella!

“Of course I’ll replace it,” I offered.

“Replace it! Good God, don’t you have eyes? Didn’t you see the silver on the base? The ivory handle? The monogram?”

“Well, as I said—”

“That was no ordinary umbrella you lost, Brian! My God, it was antique! From before the war! Worth a hundred pounds, at least!”

“A hundred pounds,” I repeated faintly. “Oh, God.” I sat down, aghast—a hundred pounds for an umbrella! Then I stood up again. “I’ll call the lost property office at Baker Street,” I said. “Maybe someone—”

“Don’t even bother. Any idiot could tell how much that umbrella was worth. Probably it’s being dismantled as we speak, the silver melted down to sell, the ivory—” A tear snaked out of his left eye. He fell back into the cushions in an attitude of despair, and I turned away, overcome by contradictory emotions: horror and guilt at having lost something of such value, and at the same time amazement that Rupert would have loaned me the umbrella in the first place. Certainly had I been aware that it was not just an ordinary umbrella, I never would have taken it.

“Rupert,” I said finally, “I don’t care if it cost a
thousand
pounds; I’ll replace it”—wondering where on earth I’d come up with that sort of money. But Rupert gulped and heaved, and with what seemed Herculean effort recovered his good breeding.

“Don’t give it another thought; it’s in the nature of umbrellas to be lost. I’ve simply overreacted because of its sentimental value, for which I apologize heartily. Now have some tea.”

He poured out the tea, which by now was bitter and black, and with great wrenching and ripping hauled the conversation away from that fatal object with which we had both become—and would remain for some time—horribly and unalterably obsessed. “Did I tell you about Daisy Parker’s wedding? What a nightmare
that
was! Her old flame showed up, drunk, just as I was giving my toast!” I hardly listened. Instead my mind was crawling backward, trying to recollect the exact moment the umbrella had been misplaced.

After tea I went upstairs to rest but could not stop thinking about the wretched umbrella, which in truth I had hardly looked at. Was I a fool not to have appreciated its value? No, it had simply never occurred to me that there could be such a thing in the world as a hundred-pound brolly!

Around seven-thirty the doorbell rang. Dutifully I dragged myself downstairs. Across the living room sofa from Rupert, a jowly old woman was peering through an old-fashioned
pince-nez
at the antique crystal collection. I recognized her face, though I wasn’t sure where from.

“Brian, may I introduce Lady Abernathy? Lady Abernathy, Mr. Botsford.”

“How do you do.”

Her hand barely grazed my own, and she returned to examining the crystal. I sat next to Rupert. A mask of politesse barely covered the stricken look that had taken his face like a palsy.

“Brian is a writer,” Rupert said to Lady Abernathy, as we sat down to table. “He’s just about to finish his first novel.”

“Ah,” Lady Abernathy said. “And am I correct in presuming that it will be a modern novel?”

“I suppose you could say so. Yes.”

“Then I’m afraid I shall never read it. The other day, I attempted to read a novel by Mrs. Woolf that dear Rupert had recommended. Quite horrifying. After fifty pages I was obliged to reach for my Bible.”

“So you value traditional works, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert said.

“There is only one novel I consider worth reading anymore—
Jane Eyre
. I read it every Christmas.”

“Ah, the Brontës,” Rupert said. “So quintessentially English.”

“Rupert,” Lady Abernathy said, “I have brought a letter I wrote. I wondered if you might read it and give me your opinion before I post it.”

“Of course,” Rupert said. “And to whom is the letter to be sent?”

“To Mr. Hitler.”

Rupert went white. “Mr. Hitler?”

“Indeed. I felt he might appreciate knowing that in spite of what the press may claim, there are many of us here in England who recognize his capacities and understand that he alone can save his country.”

“Of course I’ll be happy to read it for you, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert stammered. “Do you wish me to make substantive criticism or simply check the grammar?”

“I am more concerned that the style be . . . flowing, shall we say? And you were always such a talented writer, Rupert.
He
should write novels,” she added to me.

“How impressive it is, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert said, “that you consider it worth your valuable time to engage with the politics of the day.”

“Thank you. However, in doing so I am merely carrying on in the tradition of the late Lord Abernathy. He was, as you know, an inveterate letter writer, and never one to shrink from an opinion because it was unpopular.”

An awful silence ensued. The maid brought in the soup.

“I suppose the war in Spain can only become worse,” I said.

“I was just recalling, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert said, “the great pleasure I took at Lady Manley’s tea last week upon hearing your charming recollections of Deauville.”

“Rupert, dear, your friend has no interest in tedious anecdotes of my youth.” She turned to me. “I have been keeping abreast of the situation in Spain and can only say my hopes are with the rebels. Why, just the other night at dinner I was discussing the matter with Herr—oh, I am so bad with names—the German ambassador, and we quite agreed, the rebels are the only hope for Spain.”

“I’m afraid I’m of the opposite opinion,” I said. “The Republican government is an elected body.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the German ambassador,” Rupert interjected, “although Mummy dined with his wife when she was in Dresden last year. She brought back the loveliest china—”

“Mr. Botsford, you are young,” Lady Abernathy said, “and, if I might be so bold, susceptible to the worst sort of influences.”

“I appreciate your frankness, Lady Abernathy,” I said. “If I may be so frank myself—”

“By all means.”

“The German ambassador is Hitler’s hack. I have lived in Germany, I have seen the blood that flows when the National Socialists—”

“I have always felt politics to be beneath artists,” Rupert thrust in. “Artists must look beyond petty mortal conflict. It is what I so admire about Brian’s work—at least those snippets I was privileged to read during our years at Cambridge. There is a serenity of vision that seems to rise above the din of the contemporary.”

“The German ambassador,” Lady Abernathy said, “is a gentleman in every way. Ah, I fear his government has been quite misrepresented in the popular press, which is not surprising, given the fact that the popular press is now almost entirely under Jewish control. It’s no wonder that young people see such a distorted picture. The Jews as a race, if I might quote Lord Abernathy—”

My chair made screeching noises as I pushed it out from the table.

“Excuse me, but under the circumstances, I must retire.”

“Pardon me, Brian?”

“Are you not feeling well?” Lady Abernathy asked.

“I can only say that under the circumstances, I must retire.”

“Brian—”

I turned and walked up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I immediately started packing. Even though I felt calm, my pulse was racing. What would Nigel have counseled me to do? Storm away? Upend the table? “Lady Abernathy, if your hatred of foreigners is as boundless as that of your hero Mr. Hitler, then I am afraid, being half Polish myself, my continued presence at the table will upset your appetite, something I would never dream of doing.” Oh, but one never thought up such clever retorts until one had already left the table.
L’esprit de l’escalier
, the French call it. And how I wished I had walked away indignantly rather than fearfully!