What's Become of Waring, page 5
‘The East Minhinnick knew twenty-five years ago is not the East of T. T. Besides, what does Minhinnick know of the life of the youth of today? That is what gives the Waring books their indefinable background. Besides, Minhinnick has never been to Africa; nor America so far as I know.’
‘Perhaps not,’ boomed Bernard. ‘But he is a man of the world.’
This was a status by which Bernard set great store. One of the reasons why he had so resented the necessity for his younger brother’s intrusion into the business was his conviction that no schoolmaster could be a man of the world. When Bernard said this he made such a noise that he must have brought home to both of them that they could be heard all over the square. He and Hugh now lowered their voices. For a time there was only muttering. Shirley lost interest. He began to tell a long story of how he had just missed a contract to make a lecture tour in America. In a few minutes we heard Bernard’s door bang. Hugh reappeared. Shirley jumped up with some of the romping energy that had carried him up the stairs on his arrival.
‘My dear Hughie, hullo.’
Hugh blushed. There was something about Shirley that always caused him to blush when they met. Besides, it always made him a little uncomfortable to be addressed as ‘Hughie’. ‘Hugh’ was more usual. He countered with a great outburst of heartiness.
‘Well, sir. And how are we?’
‘Oh, Hughie, I came in to know if you could let me have a little more money. I’m terribly hard up. Absolutely stony-broke.’
Shirley put his head on one side and with his round, doggy eyes gazed at Hugh.
‘Of course we shall have to see the figures.’
‘I’ve got them here.’
Hugh took the paper on which were recorded the results of my visit to the sales department. I prepared to return to my room. As I opened the door to go out Hugh looked up quickly. He said:
‘Don’t go. I want you here about things.’
He sat looking at the paper in his hand, running his finger down the column of figures, smiling all the time to himself. He always showed signs of nervousness at the threat of being left alone with Shirley. Looking up at last, he said:
‘Oh yes. I don’t see why not. Say ten pounds.’
‘Couldn’t you make it twenty-five?’
Hugh seemed to consider for a second. Then he said:
‘Yes, yes. Of course. If that is the amount you want. The main thing is for you to be contented.’
‘Thank you awfully, Hugh. It is sweet of you.’
Hugh cleared his throat to show that the subject was dismissed for the time being.
‘Shirley,’ he said, ‘did you ever read any of T. T. Waring’s books?’
Shirley, whose face had brightened at the ease with which his financial needs had been satisfied, now became peevish again. He said:
‘Oh, he’s dead, isn’t he? There was something about it in the paper. I tried to read one of his books once. I thought it awful. I always thought all that mysteriousness so silly too. Of course I know I’m not a highbrow.’
Hugh pursed his lips and set his head a little at an angle as if the better to observe Shirley’s tilted face. He said:
‘T, T. Waring was not a highbrow, Shirley. There was nothing narrow about T. T. He wrote for all the world. Perhaps you did not give the book a fair chance. Some people found T. T. an acquired taste. I am sure you would have liked it if you had stuck to it, Shirley.’
‘No. I’m sure I should never have liked it. It was the sort of thing I can’t bear.’
Hugh made a hissing noise in his throat, expressing disagreement. Shirley tossed his head. He looked away from Hugh and out of the window at the trees of the square. Hugh tried another approach. It was clear that he diagnosed Shirley’s attitude, no doubt rightly, as a simple case of jealousy.
‘I’ve been thinking you ought to try a new line, Shirley,’ he said. ‘These historical reconstructions are all very well so far as they go. Of course they have sold excellently. That is all the more reason why the public should not be allowed to grow tired of them. What about a novel?’
Shirley showed some interest.
‘You know, I can’t write a novel, Hugh. I’ve tried. But you are right. I ought to give them something different next time. But what?’
Hugh nodded his head.
‘We must think of something,’ he said. ‘I put up a suggestion this morning. But Bernard was against it.’
‘Oh, that dreadful old man, even though he is your brother. How he hates me! What was it, Hughie?’
‘Sssh. These walls are very thin. I am afraid I cannot possibly divulge a confidential conversation between two of the firm’s partners to satisfy even your curiosity, Shirley.’
‘Give me some idea.’
‘It was a suggestion that would surprise you, I think.’
Hugh sat back in his chair and folded his hands on the desk. His demeanour re-created vividly his schoolmastering days. You could almost see the blackboard behind him. I made another effort to escape. Again Hugh detained me.
‘Something historical?’ said Shirley.
‘In a sense.’
‘But I thought you wanted me to get away from all that sort of thing for a bit.’
‘This was something rather different. Something that might bring into play the qualities that make the rest of your work a success. Of course you might not have liked the idea yourself. In fact, from something you said just now I am not at all sure that you would.’
‘Do tell me, Hughie.’
Hugh shook his head. Shirley came round to the other side of Hugh’s table, very close to Hugh. Looking down at him, Shirley repeated in a small humble voice:
‘Do tell me what the suggestion was.’
Hugh laughed, fidgeted, and passed his hand over his reddish shreds of hair.
‘I’ll tell you what, Shirley,’ he said. ‘If you can guess it, I will reveal the secret to you. Not otherwise.’
‘Oh, but, Hughie, how can I do that?’
Shirley retired to the chair again. He sat there looking reproachfully at Hugh. There was silence. Hugh shifted about uncomfortably, grinning all the time. Suddenly Shirley said:
‘I believe it was something to do with T. T. Waring.’
The violence of the twitch that passed over Hugh’s face unsettled his pince-nez.
‘My dear Shirley, how did you guess?’
‘I expect you wanted me to write his life or something.’
Hugh took a cigarette from the packet of Melachrino lying on the table. He offered them round. Shirley and I both refused. Hugh puffed out some little clouds of smoke, gasping to himself and chuckling.
‘That was smart of you, Shirley,’ he said. ‘I must admit that was very smart.’
‘And old Bernard didn’t like the idea?’
Shirley was thoroughly roused now. Hugh must have seen this, but preferred not to lay all his cards at once on the table. He said:
‘The way you talked about T. T. Waring when I mentioned his name first of all makes me think that my brother was probably right.’
Shirley stood up. He removed his camel’s-hair overcoat. He hung it on a hook on the door and drew up a chair to the writing-table. Nonsense was at an end now. He wanted to talk business.
‘Now look here, Hugh,’ he said, ‘I’ve guessed what it was. Now you must tell me the whole story. What did you suggest? What were Bernard’s objections? Who does he want himself?’
Hugh squirmed about in his chair, showing his teeth. Shirley could be firm in matters of business.
‘As soon as T. T. was dead,’ Hugh said, ‘—that is, as soon as I got over the shock—I decided we must do a life of him. I thought over various possibilities. None of them seemed attractive. Then I thought, why not try someone completely new? In fact yourself. I suggested this to Bernard this morning. He did not seem to like the idea.’
‘What did he say?’
‘As you know, he always has a tendency to disagree. He showed few signs of wanting to publish a life of T. T. Waring at all. When I mentioned your name he would not hear of it. However, I may succeed in talking him round if we decide that it would be a good thing for you to do.’
‘But of course it would be a good thing for me to do. What an old drab he is! Who does he want to do it?’
Hugh cleared his throat again.
‘Someone called Minhinnick,’ he said.
‘Who is he? I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Minhinnick has written several books on economics. He also published an epic poem called Aristogeiton. He is one of the people Bernard has known for thirty or more years. He was a friend of my other brother, Paul, when he was alive. He contributes occasional articles to the weeklies.’
‘Do his books sell?’
‘They have what is called succès d’estime,’ Hugh said guardedly.
‘But why should he be pitched on to write a life of T. T. Waring?’
‘Absolutely no reason whatever. I don’t expect he has ever heard of T. T. Waring. It is just Bernard being difficult again. He wants to shelve the whole question.’
‘But, Hugh, we mustn’t let him do that.’
‘No, no. Of course he can’t be allowed to do that,’ Hugh said.
All the same he did not look too hopeful.
‘What do you think about it yourself?’ he said. ‘Do you think you could take it on if Bernard was squared?’
‘But of course. It would sell awfully well. It would have all my publicity behind it and all T. T. Waring’s as well.’
‘It would entail a lot of trouble,’ Hugh said, resuming his pedagogic drone. ‘You realise that? It wouldn’t be a thing you could just scribble off.’
‘Now, Hughie, do you think that I ever just scribble things off, as you call it?’
‘You have been very conscientious lately, I admit. I only said that because I was anxious for you to improve your sales with this.’
‘Well, what are we to do?’
Hugh extinguished his cigarette. He altered the arrangement of the books lying on the table. He said:
‘I think the best thing would be to wait for a day or two. You see, there are certain other difficulties here at the moment. They have got to be dealt with at the next Board meeting. I mentioned something of the sort to Bernard the other day. Possibly it is because of this that he is proving intractable.’
Shirley watched Hugh’s face anxiously.
‘Don’t let the chance slip, Hughie,’ he said. ‘It might mean everything to my career.’
3
WHEN a letter directed to the office arrived from Mrs. Pimley, Captain Hudson’s future mother-in-law, I had almost forgotten that he had promised that this should happen. Mrs. Pimley wrote that she had heard of my meeting with Hudson, and expressed a hope that I would stay with them the following week-end when we could renew our acquaintance. If this were possible Hudson would drive me there in his car. It would be nice to see me again and hear my gossip.
I could not flatter myself that most of the gossip I was in the position to recount would be of great interest to Mrs. Pimley; nor indeed would some of it be in the least suitable for her ears. However, before I had time to think things over, the telephone-bell rang. It was Hudson speaking from his orderly-room. He sounded a far more determined character than when he had emerged from the séance. I suddenly found that without a struggle I had agreed to visit the Pimleys. It was arranged that I should pick up Hudson at his flat after lunch on Saturday.
For the time being all was quiet on the T. T. Waring front. There had been a number of appreciations of his work in the literary papers. One or two dailies had had leaders about him. On the whole, there was less said than might have been expected. It appeared now that he had not died of a chill, as originally stated, but had been drowned while bathing. The earlier account had appeared first in an American paper. Sceptics suggested that he was not dead at all, but had arranged the whole thing as an incident in an advertising campaign, and that he would appear in several months with a book about some obscure spot to which he had travelled while the obituaries were appearing. Most people agreed with Hugh in thinking such a supposition not merely silly but also in the worst possible taste. Nothing further had been arranged about a biographer, but Hugh was preparing another attack. As a matter of fact, there was a lot to do at the office. Work in publishing comes in rushes. A ferment of manuscripts, delayed proofs, and bad-tempered authors occupied everyone’s attention. Even Bernard found himself compelled to read and give his opinion on one or two books, so that the truce was voluntary on both sides.
I went round to Hudson at the end of the week. He had just finished strapping up a suitcase.
‘Come on,’ he said.
We set off for Camberley. The journey was not enjoyable. Hudson was morose and his car uncomfortable. He seemed to have lost all the friendliness he had shown at our previous meeting. I could not imagine why he had negotiated my invitation to stay with the Pimleys. When I saw more of him I found that he was often like this until he had been in one’s company for an hour or so. A warming-up process had to take place.
‘What did you think of Mimi drawing attention to the death of T. T. Waring the other night?’
‘Mimi?’ he said.
‘At the séance. Don’t you remember the medium kept on saying “tee-tee”?’
‘Oh, that?’ said Hudson. ‘I thought it was a lot of rot.’
He was so gruff and uneasy that conversation was out of the question. We drove along in silence as far as the neighbourhood of Chobham Ridges. This sombre region of pines and heather, an anonymous bit of country that might have been anywhere in Europe, except for the character of the English suburban architecture through which we passed, woke him up. He said:
‘When I retire I shan’t settle here.’
‘Nor me.’
‘I say, I hope you won’t be bored,’ he said, ‘there is nothing whatever to do. Especially as you don’t play golf. I wanted you to meet Beryl again. Only—I never seem to have any friends, so I thought she ought to see that I know somebody.’
He laughed as if he wanted to hide the embarrassment he felt at making this speech.
‘Perhaps my arrival will spread consternation.’
‘Oh, rot!’
His face clouded. Not wanting him to sink back into his earlier state of sulkiness, I hastily said:
‘Have you known the Pimleys long?’
‘I was at school with Alec,’ Hudson said. ‘That was how I first got to know them. Then we didn’t see each other for years. The next thing was I met Beryl at the Derby. We were one of a party who had chartered a bus to take us there. It was frightfully wet. We got engaged soon after that.’
‘But who is Alec?’
‘Beryl’s brother.’
‘I had no idea there was a son. What does he do?’
Huson laughed.
‘They keep him pretty quiet,’ he said. ‘I don’t think they even know where he is now. He was a bad hat. He got into a lot of ghastly messes in England, so they shipped him off to the East. Then he got into a lot of ghastly messes there. I don’t think anyone knows where he is now. That was all some time ago.’
‘It must have been, because it is quite ten years since I knew them. I never heard him mentioned then.’
‘It was about twelve or fifteen years ago,’ Hudson said. ‘Alec was a hopeless fellow. An absolute wrong ’un. Though not by any means a fool.’
‘How did you come to be friends with him?’
‘Well, you know how it is when you’re at school. He seemed all right then. There was something rather attractive about him as a kid. He was always his grandfather’s favourite.’
‘There was a grandfather alive in those days, was there?’
‘Alive in those days? He is alive now. Very much so.’
‘I never met him.’
‘Oh Lord,’ said Hudson, ‘I ought to have warned you about him. You see, he is over ninety and doesn’t quite know what is going on. At least he is supposed not to. He sometimes comes out with some pretty telling remarks all the same.’
‘Are there any other members of the family who will be new to me?’
‘No. I think that is the lot,’ Hudson said, laughing. ‘The grandfather is called Captain Pimley, which seems all wrong when his son is a General.’
Soon after this we turned off the main road and drove along under pine trees. We passed some houses with white gates and short drives leading through laurel bushes.
‘Here we are,’ Hudson said.
The Pimleys’ house was about three hundred yards from the road, set back a short way from a sandy lane which led to more pine woods and a common. It was the last of a row of similar detached red-brick, creeper-covered houses. Beyond it were clumps of gorse and bracken where Crown Land began. A man in shirt-sleeves whom I recognised as General Pimley was mowing the lawn. He was much as I remembered him, slight and wizened, with a dome-shaped head across the brow of which ran three heavily marked lines that gave him the worried humorous expression of an actor wearing a false forehead. When he saw us he hunched his shoulders and swung forward ape-like over the mower. His posture and the fact that he had removed his collar and tie heightened the illusion that he was a sad clown about to perform a tumbling act to entertain a not very appreciative audience.
I followed Hudson across the lawn and shook hands. General Pimley said a few words about the days when I had known them on Salisbury Plain, enquired after my family, asked if I still collected stamps; and seemed relieved to hear that I did not play golf. He said:
‘In that case you won’t mind if Tiger and I fit in nine holes between tea and dinner.’
Hudson was evidently a favourite with his prospective father-in-law. While we were talking Beryl came out of the house. She kissed Hudson, and turning to me said how glad she was that he and I had met. Time had improved her. She was fair, with a slight tendency to freckles. The pointedness of her features, even a kind of foxiness, was not unattractive. Hudson had told me she was twenty-nine. Like so many girls whose lot has been to lead dull lives, her manner implied that all men were her slaves. Hudson naturally figured as her most notable vassal. She was clearly proud of having captured him.
