The Road from the Monument Page 3

  Gregory had turned to greet a guest, a woman, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway. Discreetly, with an air of slyness, Lambert drew Gate across the room to a window. The lack of deference in his manner was very marked — as though, thought Gate, amused, he wants me to realise the distance between us now.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve seen him since Danesacre?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What d’y’think of him? How d’you think he looks?’

  ‘Very much as he did twenty-seven years ago. More dignity. A certain stiffness. He doesn’t look fifty.’

  Lambert said, smiling, ‘Oh, he’s a grand chap. As handsome as ever, and damned good at his job. As for his books — well, my dear Gate, did you know you were bringing up a genius? The real goods.’

  ‘I may have suspected it.’

  ‘I didn’t. Damned if I did. Which shows what a fool I was. He’s a great man.’

  Gate’s heart softened to him. He thought: He may be calculating — with his upbringing, could he be anything else? — incapable of spontaneity, a climber, one eye screwed to the main chance. But he’s sound and sensible, and his affection for Gregory very touching…. He was disarmed into forgetting his rule — never to put himself forward or offer his company to anyone.

  ‘We have a great deal to talk about,’ he said warmly. ‘I shall be here a week.’

  Lambert did not take this up. ‘Ah, you’ll have plenty to see. You’ve never been to London before, have you?’

  ‘No.’ That was silly of me, he thought. He did not resent the other’s lack of interest in him. No doubt he was an extremely busy man. Why for heaven’s sake should he bother with an old scarecrow from his past? It had been ridiculous to suggest it. He turned away.

  ‘I want to present you to another old friend of mine,’ Gregory said. ‘Harriet Ellis. Harriet, this is Mr. Gate.’

  He recognised the name — a writer, novelist, not especially well known, not, that is, one of the names obligatory in any essay on the modern novel. Not admired. Rather grudgingly respected. He liked her at sight. Absurd as it was, he felt a sympathy, almost a likeness, between his battered old self and this middle-aged woman with her big arched forehead, prominent grey eyes, and clumsy movements. We are both, he thought ruefully, reckless and secretive, timid, afraid of strangers, and contemptuous; we show our teeth when we have to, usually at the worst possible moment for ourselves; we’re both of us injudicious and shrewd, tough and excessively ludicrously soft. He saw, too — guessed — that she was in love with Gregory. I don’t suppose he has noticed it, he thought. Poor woman. But why pity her? So long as you love, even without hope, without security, you are not destitute, not absolutely alone.

  She had brought Gregory’s wife a present, a small Chinese seal in white jade. ‘You said you’d lost your seal. I found this for you in an antique shop. It’s not valuable.’

  Beatrice turned it over on her hand. ‘What do the characters mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Beatrice glanced at her with a sharp smile. ‘But they may stand for anything! Greeting, devotion — in which case you should have given it to Gregory — a prayer. You’re very rash, Harriet.’

  Harriet blushed.

  She was spared further mockery by the arrival of another friend of Gregory’s. A clergyman. He came in breathing apologies. ‘I’m late, I know I’m late. Do forgive me, Beatrice. Really, the trains from Oxford are abominable — I ought to have had plenty of time. I dropped my bag at the Connaught and came straight here, unwashed, unshorn. You must forgive me.’

  ‘No, you’re not late,’ Gregory said, smiling. ‘May I present you to my oldest friend, and tutor, Mr. Gate. Canon Pulmer.’

  ‘Ah, you were his tutor? How extraordinarily interesting. Where——’

  Gregory interrupted him to say easily, ‘Your journey from Oxford is nothing, my dear Pulmer. Mr. Gate has come from the north-east coast, from Danesacre. Nearly three hundred miles.’

  ‘Today? You came today?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ Gate said. He was not particularly pleased by his promotion to tutor. He told himself that Gregory had wanted to make clear to this suave cleric that he was not, as he might have supposed, talking to a tramp. He had had his suit pressed, and had sponged it, but — he had just caught sight of it in a looking-glass between two windows — it was not all that bettered. He scolded himself for the instinctive dislike he felt for a priest who is elegant as well as — why doubt it? — a good sincere man. It takes all sorts to make a Church, he thought, and why shouldn’t God appreciate learning and intelligence and breeding?

  ‘Shall we go down?’ Gregory said.

  The dining-room was on the floor below. Beatrice, who had been sitting swaddled in cushions in her chair, rose stiffly, with a light groan.

  ‘Your sciatica, Beatrice,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Oh, I’ve recovered from my latest bout, but it never goes completely, there’s always a reminder when I first move. It’s nothing.’

  She walked downstairs in the same stiff way, a hand on her husband’s arm. Gate found himself placed on her right at the table. She turned to him with a droll bitter smile.

  ‘How I dislike growing old. The humiliation of it — the way in which our bodies betray us. Our minds, too, I daresay, but I’ve not reached that final decrepitude. Not yet. Though there are already days when I seem to myself to be older than anyone I know. Far older than my husband. Old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘I’m seventy,’ Gate said. ‘I don’t see any reason to be sorry. The chief difference between Paul Gate young and Paul Gate old is that I know now that I shall die. Probably soon. But — when one door closes another opens. Why should we care much?’

  She gave him a sharp glance from her blue eyes. ‘You live alone?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It makes a great difference.’

  He had not the slightest idea what she meant. She turned from him to speak to the Canon, on her other side. Gate looked down at his place. There were four wine-glasses, a line of heavy crested silver, and an extraordinarily handsome plate. A man-servant took this from him and replaced it by another, covered by slices of smoked salmon. He knew what it was only because Canon Pulmer exclaimed,

  ‘Ah, Beatrice, you always give me smoked salmon. You mean well — I have never in my life had enough — but you make a glutton of me. And gluttony, as you know——’

  ‘You can do penance,’ she said coolly.

  The centre of the table was a mass of yellow flowers. There were silver candlesticks. A slice of pâté followed the smoked salmon; then a bird, grouse, Gate thought, but since he had never eaten it before he was only guessing; thin slices of another flesh he did not recognise, and no one dropped a clue; a cream handed by the man-servant; cheese; fruits which at first he thought were unreal, they had the smoothness and gloss of wax. There were various wines, and Gregory discussed each of them with his brother-in-law, who roused a little from his faintly sleepy indifference and spoke almost with passion.

  ‘I should like your honest opinion of this, Arthur.’

  Arthur sipped, twice. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘From Berry. I never go anywhere else.’

  ‘Have they any left, d’you know?’

  ‘Ah, you like it? I think I bought their last twelve. Since you approve of it I’ll send you two bottles.’

  And later, ‘Now this, my dear Arthur, this is the Chambertin I promised you. If you don’t like it I shall be very disappointed.’

  Dear me, thought Gate, does he care so much whether his brother-in-law enjoys what he eats and drinks? He himself had never eaten food of this delicacy in his life, and since he was not used to drinking had taken only one sip from each glass as it was filled. The slight bewilderment he felt had nothing to do with wine. It was obvious that Gregory not only enjoyed but felt a sort of respect for wines. The boy has had to teach himself a taste for them, he thought; no doubt it’s part of a life I am too much out of
the world to understand as I ought…. He sent a cautious glance round the table. Gregory had flushed very slightly, and his eyes were bright. He’s better than good-looking, Gate thought…. Harriet Ellis was watching him, with a controlled expression on her rather heavy face. So was his wife.

  Upstairs in the drawing-room, the curtains had been drawn, shutting out the view but not the ceaseless undertone of sound from the road between house and Park.

  To sit in this great room, isolated above the rumour of traffic, had, Gate thought, a feeling of unreality repeated in the people round him, Gregory’s friends. He felt confused. What am I doing here? he thought suddenly. No, no, I am happy, he scolded himself. What does it matter that I have nothing to say to them? I didn’t come here for their sake…. The spectacle of Arthur Blount sprawling in the corner of a sofa, very much the elderly dandy, disconcerted him.

  ‘Gregory,’ Blount said casually, ’you didn’t tell me that they had offered you a knighthood.’

  ‘A K?’ said Lambert. ‘They’re giving you a K? Splendid!’

  Beatrice laughed shortly. ‘Oh, he refused it.’

  Canon Pulmer laid his head on one side with an air of superb discretion. ‘I’m sure you had a good reason for refusing. And indeed it doesn’t sound quite right — Sir Gregory Mott. A little — what shall I say? — a little out of character. The O.M. now…. But that will come. Later. It’s too soon.’

  ‘Writers don’t need these things,’ Gregory said. ‘And certainly not a title.’

  Lambert was staring at him with a flicker of irritation in his eyes. ‘My dear chap, you’re much too modest. I admire it. I admire your integrity. I thought — last year when you refused a C.B.E. I thought: What’s he waiting for? I was clean off the mark. I see now why you refused, I — yes, it’s grand. Damned rare, too, in our day — modesty.’

  Is he, without knowing it, jealous? Gate wondered.

  Beatrice’s eyes gleamed and she made the darting movement with her head that reminded Gate of a savage bird. ‘What makes you so sure that he refused out of modesty? It could just as easily be out of pride or vanity. He’s atrociously vain.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Beatrice,’ Harriet Ellis said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  Gregory’s smile was purely mischievous, not a trace of annoyance. ‘My wife knows me better than anyone in the world,’ he said. ‘If she tells you I’m vain you’d better believe it. She would know.’

  ‘And, if you were really vain, she wouldn’t tell us,’ Harriet said. She smiled at the other woman, who for once did not scratch. (Perhaps, thought Gate, she honours tact even when it is being used on herself.) She said nothing. Neither did Gate. He was overwhelmed, not that Gregory had been offered a knighthood, but that he had rejected it, apparently without giving it a thought…. For less than a second he saw Gregory’s father, the shabby gaunt sea-captain with his wind-wrinkled face, blackened finger-nails, and the untrimmed moustache hiding toothless gums. For Gregory, who had started there, to have come so far. To be offered and to refuse an honour that several men in Danesacre, men who could have bought up his father like buying a box of matches, would give an ear for…. No, I’m surprised, he thought. Why did he refuse? Integrity or pride? And what sort of pride?… He approved. He was glad that Gregory had refused; he would have been very faintly shocked if he had snatched at the offer. Yet, something — a sharp point of uneasiness and bewilderment, remained in his mind. He loved Gregory so much. And for the first time in his life he caught himself thinking: How little I know about him.

  ‘Gregory,’ his brother-in-law said warmly, ’did the right thing. In his place I should have refused.’

  ‘I can’t conceive why anyone should want to be Sir’d,’ Beatrice said in her driest tone. ‘It’s not a thing you inherit. What possible importance can it have?’

  Her husband gave her a friendly smile. ‘You see? Now and then I do something you approve of.’

  How patient he is with her, thought Gate.

  Canon Pulmer had brought a copy of A Man Sought by God, for Gregory to sign. ‘Not for anyone you would know. For an old woman — to tell the truth rather an unpleasant old woman. She used to run the shop I get my newspapers from in Oxford, and she bullied her children until they left her: now that she’s dying of cancer not one of them has been to see her. I believe I’m her only visitor. She’s read the book — I don’t say she understood it, but she would be enormously proud of a signed copy. Do you mind?’

  ‘Not in the least. I’m delighted.’

  Pulmer inspected the signature. ‘What a beautiful hand.’ He turned to Gate. ‘Did he get that from you as well? No?… Thank you, my dear Gregory. My poor old friend will be happy.’

  This, reflected Gate, is a very worldly priest, but a kind man. He supposed that such priests were needed.

  ‘She’s not typical of your Oxford readers,’ Pulmer went on. He had a little laugh like the tearing of a piece of silk. ‘Many are young men, intelligent, even brilliant, of good family. The young men who in a few years will be in key positions in politics, journalism, broadcasting, affairs. In fact, you’re converting the future!’

  ‘Are they all from good families?’ Beatrice drawled.

  ‘Dear me, no. But many of them are.’

  ‘Only to be expected. When Gregory wants a crucifix he gets it from Spinks —jewelled.’

  Lambert Corry swung his nose round like a bird dog: a slyly-twinkling smile ran from his eyes over his furrowed cheeks. ‘Damn it, I must be the only liberal here,’ he said. ‘The mere thought of handing any of their power back to the priests makes my hair stand on end. I know that you —’ he turned his smile on Pulmer — ’wouldn’t burn me for the good of my soul, but can I be sure of the others?’

  ‘Aren’t you a little, ah, démodé?

  The suavity of Arthur Blount’s voice wiped out Lambert’s smile. ‘Oh, this country must be pulled together,’ he said adroitly. ‘I’m with you there. But don’t let’s overdo it — or the patient will die of his doctors.’

  Blount smiled without warmth. ‘Enthusiasm is always stupid,’ he said, yawning. Whether from boredom or debility, he yawned oftener than he smiled.

  ‘I can never understand,’ said Gregory, ’why clever chaps are so pleased to see big and little Stalins taking the place of the priests, with torture and brain-washing standing in for the confessional. The very first thing a successful revolution does is to invent new sins — and frightful punishments for them.’

  ‘Who really wants freedom?’ Blount said. He moved his hand through the air with the motion of a fish idling in calm water. ‘Hardly anyone. People obey their new and much more brutal masters quite as docilely as they did the old. Change makes few people happier, and the world a great deal more unsafe. I’m astonished that more people don’t see it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Lambert said in a jocular voice. ‘You must make allowances, you and Gregory, for my vulgar Methodist upbringing.’

  Gregory smiled. ‘We were brought up together, don’t forget.’

  His wife gave him one of her malicious glances, a flash of blue under creased eyelids. ‘I can’t imagine how you grew up so — so — plus royaliste que le roi? Why didn’t Lambert?’

  ‘I can’t answer for Lambert,’ her husband said coolly. ‘My own belief is perfectly simple. Human beings are born corrupt — they need discipline, rules, to make a decent orderly job of them.’ He looked very kindly at Gate. ‘Exactly what you taught me about words.’

  ‘Did you teach him his opinion of himself?’ asked Beatrice.

  It struck Gate sharply that she was not mocking Gregory so much as something — or someone — else? Herself? He wondered what a woman married to Gregory had done, or failed to do, that drove her to use her tongue on him so mercilessly. The boy gives her no excuse, he thought.

  ‘I tried to teach him to be himself,’ he said. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  Her face softened a little. ‘Perhaps.’

&nbs
p; ‘I yield to no one in my admiration for Gregory’s novels,’ said Pulmer. ‘But A Man Sought by God was written by a great writer who is also a great believer. A voice crying in our wilderness….’

  ‘I’m not at all sure how much I believe,’ Arthur Blount said in his coldly charming voice. ‘Perhaps I ought to call myself a theocrat — since I do most sincerely believe that God is socially necessary, and that we should go to church and bow before the necessity — if before nothing else.’

  Gate turned an eager look on Gregory. His meagre old body trembling a little in its worn-out clothes, he thought: Now! Now he’ll cut down to the heart of all this amiable nonsense, if it has a heart…. He held his breath, waiting to catch sight, if only for a second, of a boy’s candid face, blazing with enthusiasm, and to hear a voice, still marvellously alive in his ear, that he had been expecting all evening to hear and had not — not yet — heard.

  Gregory said,

  ‘But surely people need God for all kinds of reasons? One of them, a most reasonable one, is the need to provide a moral stiffening for society. I myself assent to the intellectual arguments for God. Wholly. Without any reservations. I believe with my reason — I have a rational, intellectual love of God…. I don’t, you know, really trust enthusiasm. I find the Mirfield lot, my wife’s friends — how shall I put it? — un peu trop de zèle.’

  Gate had an extreme and cruelly bitter sense of disappointment. He chased it away, struggling to think that his brilliant ‘son’ had said everything that needed saying.