A Dance To The Music Of Time Part 12

He spoke in a preoccupied, confidential tone, as if Miss Weedon's reply might make all the difference by its orientation to plans on foot for Maisky's education.

'I don't care for monkeys,' said Miss Weedon.

'Oh, don't you?' said Jeavons.

He stood pondering this flat, forthright declaration of anti-simianism on Miss Weedon's part. The notion that some people might not like monkeys was evidently entirely new to him; surprising, perhaps a trifle displeasing, but at the same time one of those general ideas of which one can easily grasp the main import without being necessarily in agreement. It was a theory that startled by its stark simplicity.

'Molly has taken a great fancy to him,' he said, at last.

'I know.'

'Oh, well,' said Jeavons. 'These fancies come and go.'

Miss Weedon made no attempt to deny the truth of that observation. Nor did she elaborate her dislike of monkeys. She continued to smile her arctic smile. Jeavons slowly strolled off again, as if to think out the implications of what Miss Weedon had said. I was aware once more of my strong disagreement with those-amongst whom I suspected Miss Weedon might be numbered-who found Jeavons without interest. On the contrary, he seemed to me, in his own way, rather a remarkable person. An encounter with him away from his own home confirmed that there existed more sides to him than might be apparent in the Jeavons drawing-room.

This episode took place a month or two later, on an evening that had begun with having a drink with Feingold in the pub near the Studio. Feingold had plans to write a satirical novel about life in the film business. He wanted to tell me the plot in the hope that I might be able to suggest a suitable ending to the story. Returning to London later than usual as a result of Feingold's unwillingness to treat the subject in hand briefly (he himself lived in the neighbourhood of the Studio), I decided to dine off a sandwich and a gla.s.s of beer at some bar. The pubs in the neighbourhood of my own flat had not much to offer, so, quite fortuitously, I entered an establishment off the south side of Oxford Street, where an illuminated sign indicated an underground buffet. It was the kind of place my old, deceased friend, Mr. Deacon, used to call a 'gin palace'.

At the foot of the stairs was a large, low-ceilinged room filled with shiny black-topped tables and red wicker armchairs. The bar, built in the shape of an L, took up most of two sides of this saloon, of which the pillars and marbled wall decoration again recalled Mr. Deacon's name by their resemblance to the background characteristic of his pictures: Pupils of Socrates, for example, or By the Will of Diocletian. No doubt this bar had been designed by someone who had also brooded long and fruitlessly on cla.s.sical themes, determined to express in whatever medium available some boyhood memory of Quo Vadis? or The Last Days of Pompeii. The place was deserted except for the barman, and a person in a mackintosh who sat dejectedly before an empty pint tankard in the far corner of the room. In these oppressively Late Roman surroundings, after climbing on to a high stool at the counter, I ordered food.

I had nearly finished eating, when I became obscurely aware that the man in the corner had risen and was making preparations to leave. He walked across the room, but instead of mounting the stairs leading to the street, he came towards the bar where I was sitting. I heard him pause behind me. I thought that, unable at the last moment to tear himself away from the place, he was going to buy himself another drink. Instead, I suddenly felt his hand upon my shoulder.

'Didn't recognise you at first. I was just on my way out. Come and have one with me in the corner after you've finished your tuck-in.'

It was Jeavons. As a rule he retained even in his civilian clothes a faded military air, comparable with-though quite different from-that of Uncle Giles: both of them in strong contrast with the obsolete splendours of General Conyers. A safety pin used to couple together the points of Jeavons's soft collar under the knot of what might be presumed to be the stripes of a regimental tie. That night, however, in a somewhat Tyrolese hat with the brim turned down all the way round, wearing a woollen scarf and a belted mackintosh, the ensemble gave him for some reason the appearance of a plain-clothes man. His face was paler than usual. Although perfectly steady on his feet, and speaking in his usual slow, deliberate drawl, I had the impression he had been drinking fairly heavily. We ordered some more beer, and carried it across the room to where he had been sitting.

'This your local?' he asked.

'Never been here before in my life. I dropped in quite by chance.'

'Same here.'

'It's a long way from your beat.'

'I've been doing a pub crawl,' he said. 'Feel I have to have one-once in a way. Does you good.'

There could be no doubt, after that, that Jeavons was practising one of those interludes of dissipation to which Lovell had referred, during which he purged himself, as it were, of too much domesticity.

'Think there is going to be a war?' he asked, very unexpectedly.

'Not specially. I suppose there might be-in a year or two.'

'What do you think we ought to do about it?'

'I can't imagine.'

'Shall I tell you?'

'Please do.'

'Declare war on Germany right away,' said Jeavons. 'Knock this blighter Hitler out before he gives further trouble.'

'Can we very well do that?'

'Why not?'

'No government would dream of taking it on. The country wouldn't stand for it.'

'Of course they wouldn't,' said Jeavons.

'Well?'

'Well, we'll just have to wait,' said Jeavons.

'I suppose so.'

'Wait and see,' said Jeavons. 'That was what Mr. Asquith used to say. Didn't do us much good in 1914. I expect you were too young to have been in the last show?'

I thought that enquiry rather unnecessary, not by then aware that, as one grows older, the physical appearance of those younger than oneself offers only a vague indication of their precise age. To me, 'the Armistice' was a distant memory of my preparatory school: to Jeavons, the order to 'cease fire' had happened only the other day. The possibility that I might have been 'in the war' seemed perfectly conceivable to him.

'Some of it wasn't so bad,' he said.

'No?'

'Most of it perfect h.e.l.l, of course. Absolute b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l on earth. b.l.o.o.d.y awful. Gives me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s even to think of it sometimes.'

'Where were you?'

'Joined up at Thirsk. Started off in the Green Howards. Got a commission after a bit in one of the newly-formed battalions of the Duke of Wellington's Regiment. I'd exchanged from the Duke's into the Machine-Gun Corps when I caught it in the tummy at Le Ba.s.see.'

'Pretty unpleasant?'

'Not too good. Couldn't digest anything for ages. Can't always now, to tell the truth. Some of those dinners Molly gives. Still, digestion is a funny thing. I once knew a chap who took a bet he could eat a cut-off-the-joint-and-two-veg at a dozen different pubs between twelve o'clock and three on the same day.'

'Did he win his bet?'

'The first time,' said Jeavons, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face painfully at the thought of his friend's ordeal, 'someone else at the table lit a cigarette, and he was sick-I think he had got to about eight or nine by then. We all agreed he ought to have another chance. A day or two later he brought it off. Funny what people can do.'

Conversation could be carried no further because at this point 'closing time' was announced. Jeavons, rather to my surprise, made no effort to prolong our stay until the last possible moment. On the contrary, the barman had scarcely announced 'Time, gendemen, please,' when Jeavons made for the stairs. I followed him. He seemed to have a course for himself clearly mapped out. When we reached the street, he turned once more to me.

'Going home?'

'I suppose so.'

'Wouldn't like to prolong this night of giddy pleasure with me for a bit?'

'If you have any ideas.'

'There is a place I thought of visiting tonight. A club of some sort-or a 'bottie party' as they seem to call it these days-that has just opened. Care to come?'

'All right.'

'A fellow came to see Molly some weeks ago, and gave us a card to get in any time we wanted. You know, you buy a bottle and all that. Makes you a member. Chap used to know Molly years ago. Gone the pace a bit. Now he is rather hard up and managing this hide-out.'

'I see.'

'Ever heard of d.i.c.ky Umfraville?'

'Yes. In fact I met him once years ago.'

'That's all right then. Umfraville is running the place. Molly would never dream of going near it, of course. Thought I might go and have a look-see myself.'

'Is d.i.c.ky Umfraville still married to Anne Stepney?'

'Don't think he is married to anyone at the moment,' said Jeavons. 'That would make his third or fourth, wouldn't it?'

'His fourth. She was quite young.'

'Come to think of it, Molly did say he'd had another divorce fairly recently,' said Jeavons. 'Anyway, he is more than usually on the rocks at the moment. He used to stay at Dogdene when Molly's first husband was alive. Gilded youth in those days. Not much left now. First-cla.s.s rider, of course, Umfraville. Second in the National one year.'

While we talked, Jeavons had been making his way in a south-easterly direction. We continued in silence for some time, threading a path through a tangle of mean streets, past the plate-gla.s.s windows of restaurants opaque with steam.

'I think we must be close now,' said Jeavons, at last. 'I know more or less where the place is, and d.i.c.ky has drawn a sort of map at the back of the card.'

By that time we were in the neighbourhood of the Trouville Restaurant, a haunt of Uncle Giles, where one night, years before, I had joined him for a meal. The entrance to the club was concealed in an alleyway, by no means easy to find. We discovered the door at last. The name of the place was inscribed upon it on a minute bra.s.s plate, as if any kind of display was to be avoided. At the end of a narrow, dimly-lit pa.s.sage a villainous-looking fellow with watery eyes and a nose covered with blue veins sat behind a rickety table. On the mention of Umfraville's name and production of the card, this d.i.c.kensian personage agreed that we might enter the precincts, after he had with his own hand laboriously inscribed our names in a book.

'The Captain's not in the club yet,' he said, as he shut this volume, giving at the same time a dreadful leer like that of a very bad actor attempting to horrify a pantomime audience. 'But I don't expect he'll be long now.'

'Tell him to report to the Orderly Room when he comes,' said Jeavons, causing the blue-nosed guardian of the door to reveal a few rotting teeth in appreciation of this military pleasantry.

The interior of the club was unimpressive. An orchestra of three, piano, drum and saxophone, were making a deafening noise in the corner of the room. A few 'hostesses' sat about in couples, gossiping angrily in undertones, or silently reclining in listless att.i.tudes against the back of a chair. We seemed to be the first arrivals, not surprisingly, for it was still early in the evening for a place of this kind to show any sign of life. After a certain amount of palaver, a waiter brought us something to drink. Nothing about the club suggested that Umfraville's fortune would be made by managing it.

'Anyway, as I was saying,' remarked Jeavons, who had, in fact, scarcely spoken for some considerable time, except for his negotiations with the doorkeeper and waiter. 'As I was saying, you did have the odd spot of fun once in a while. Mostly on leave, of course. That stands to reason. Now I'll tell you a funny story, if you'll promise to keep it under your hat.'

'Wild horses won't drag it from me.'

'I suppose it's a story a real gent wouldn't tell,' said Jeavons. 'But then I'm not a real gent.'

'You are whetting my appet.i.te.'

'I don't know why I should fix on you to hear the story,' said Jeavons, speaking as if he had given much thought to the question of who should be his confidant in this particular matter, and at the same time taking a packet of Gold Flake from his trouser pocket and beginning to tear open the wrapping. 'But I've got an idea it might amuse you. Did I see you talking to a fellow called Widmerpool at our house some little while ago-I believe it was the first night you ever came there?'

'You did.'

I was interested to find that new arrivals at the Jeavonses' were so accurately registered in the mind of the host.

'Know him well?'

'Quite well.'

'Then I expect you know he is going to marry someone called Mildred Hayc.o.c.k, who was also there that night.'

'I do.'

'Know her too?'

'Not really. I met her once when I was a small boy.'

'Exactly. You were a small boy and she was already grown up. In other words, she is quite a bit older than Widmerpool.'

'I know. She was a nurse at Dogdene when your wife was there, wasn't she-?'

'Wait a moment-wait a moment;' said Jeavons. 'Not so fast. Don't rush ahead. That's all part of the story.'

'Sorry.'

'Well, as I was saying, you did occasionally have a spot of fun in those days. Especially on leave. That's the point. No good going too fast. Had to dodge the A.P.M., of course. Still, that's by the way. Now I happened to get ninety-six hours' leave at short notice when I hadn't time to make any arrangements. Found the easiest thing was to spend the time in London. Didn't know a soul there. Not a b.l.o.o.d.y cat. Well, after I'd had a bit of a lie-up in bed, I thought I'd go to a show. The M.O. had told me to look in on Daly's, if I got the chance. It was a jolly good piece of advice. The Maid of the Mountains. Top-hole show. Jose Collins. She married into the aristocracy like myself, but that's nothing to do with the story. I bought myself a stall, thinking I might catch a packet in the next 'strafe' and never sit in a theatre again. Hadn't been there long before a large party came in and occupied the row in front of me. There were a couple of guardsmen in their grey greatcoats and some ladies in evening dress. Among this lot was a nurse-a V.A.D.-who, as I thought-and it subsequentiy proved correct-began to give me the glad eye.'

Jeavons paused to gulp his drink. He shook his head and sighed. There was a long silence. I feared this might be the termination of the story: a mere chronicle of nostalgic memory: a face seen on that one occasion, yet always remembered: a romantic dream that had remained with him all his life. I spurred him gently.

'What did you do about it?'

'About what?'

'The nurse who gave you the glad eye.'

'Oh yes, that. In the interval we managed to have a word together in the bar or somewhere. Next thing I knew, I was spending my leave with her.'

'And this was-'

'Mrs. Hayc.o.c.k-or, as she then was, the Honourable Mildred Blaides.'

Jeavons's expression was so oracular, his tone so solemn, when he p.r.o.nounced the name with the formal prefix attached, that I laughed. However, he himself remained totally serious in his demeanour. He sat there looking straight at me, as if the profound moral beauty of his own story delighted him rather than any purely anecdotal quality, romantic or ba.n.a.l, according to how you took it.

'And you never saw her again from that time until the other night?'

'Never set eyes on her. Of course, I've often heard Molly speak of Mildred Blaides and her goings-on, but I never knew it was the same girl. She and Molly used to meet sometimes. It so happened, for one reason or another, I was never there.'

'Did she say anything about it the other night?'

'Not a word. Didn't recognise me. After all, I suppose I've got to take my place in what must be a pretty long list by now.'

'You didn't say anything yourself?'

'Didn't want to seem to presume on a war-time commission, so I kept mum. Besides, it's just as well Molly shouldn't know. If you gas about that sort of thing too much, the story is bound to get round. Silly of me to tell you, I expect. You'll keep your trap shut, won't you?'

'Of course.'

'Just thought it might interest you-especially as you know Widmerpool.'