A Future Arrived (26 page)

“When you can find the time, Tommy,” she said coldly, “you might do something about the W.C. It's a disgrace.”

Mrs. James snorted and pulled a plug from the telephone switchboard. “He's busy biting the hand that feeds him, that's what
he's
doing!”

The boy grinned and munched. “Just expressin' an opinion, Mrs. James. It's still a free country. As for the loo, Miss Jennifer, I'll get to it, never you fear.”

“The lad tore up his peace pledge, he did.”

“Now, Mrs. James, I didn't say I did and I didn't say I didn't. All I said was that Golden's editorial was bang on. Might just give notice and try the bloomin' army. Three squares a day and a bit of the old adventure thrown in. Maybe your da would put in a good word for me, Miss Jennifer.”

“Not ruddy likely. Join the navy.”

She felt distinctly out of sorts as she went into Calthorpe's untidy office and flopped into a leather chair by the open window. The publisher glanced up from the manuscript he was reading and smiled at her.

“That was a deep sigh, Jenny. Having problems?”

“Only in getting them on the proper trains.”

“It'll work out. And Reverend Donaldson is a resourceful man. I admire your sense of duty, but there was really no reason for you to come in this morning. Drive down to Abingdon now, why don't you? Spend the rest of the day in clean country air. What time would you say things would be getting started?”

“Eightish, I imagine. Knowing Lady Stanmore, there'll be a smashing buffet, so don't miss that.”

“I'm certain Hogarth would be devastated if we did. You might take a few dozen copies of his poems with you. Set them up on a table or something and he can autograph them after the reading. Mrs. James and Tommy sound as though they're at it again. What's the flap this time?”

“Tommy tearing up his peace pledge under the influence of the
Daily Post
.”

“Ah, well, quite a few others doing the same I warrant. It's not easy to remain steadfast in this confusing age. Tides of belief in surprising shifts, so to speak. Jacob Golden went to prison in nineteen seventeen rather than fight in a war he referred to as ‘an obscene mockery imposed by kings' …” He pointed to the shelves lining every square foot of wall space. “… And Martin Rilke's
An End to Castles
continues to be one of our best sellers. Yet neither man believes rearmament or war to be obscene when applied to stopping Herr Hitler. They have, you might say, torn up their pledges as young Tommy has torn up his.”

“They may have a point.”

Calthorpe rubbed a thumb across the deep hollow of a scar where a German sniper's bullet had once plowed his cheek. “God grant them wrong, Jenny.”

She turned her head and looked down on the square. Girls in light cotton frocks. Men in their shirtsleeves. Children. Baby carriages and dogs. “Yes, God grant that.”

S
HE SHARED A
large two-bedroom flat in Mayfair with her sister. It had not been her idea of a London apartment, being far too modern for her tastes, but Victoria had insisted on leasing it. Her objections to it had dissipated during the winter when the American-style central heating had proved such a blessing. When she came in she found Gerald Smith Blair sprawled on the drawing-room sofa reading a copy of
Picture Post
, a cup of tea balanced on his stomach, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was a tanned, curly haired blond of twenty-four who seemed to spend more time racing his yacht than reading for the bar. He was Victoria's fiancé, or ex-fiancé. It was difficult for Jennifer to keep track of his current position in her sister's life.

“Hello,” he drawled.

“And to you, Gerald. Where's Vicky?”

He scowled and flipped a page of the magazine. “Getting dressed—for the past hour.”

Victoria was in her room, seated half naked on the bed painting her toenails. When they had been children in boarding school and had worn uniforms they had been virtually impossible to tell apart, but no one mistook them any more. Victoria was silk to her sister's tweed, a stylishly coifed, chicly couturiered Mayfair deb.

“Hi ho!” Victoria called out cheerfully. “You're home early. Get the sack?”

“No such luck.”

“Why don't you chuck it in? What's the point anyway? Working for a living must be bad enough—working
unpaid
for Arnold Calthorpe is absolute madness. I think you're a masochist at heart.” She scowled at her wet, splayed toes. “Do you think this color does
anything?
”

“Not to me.”

“I'll ask Gerry.”

“He thinks you're dressing. Why don't you oblige him?”

“In due course. And, oh, we're not heading down till after eight. We're going to a cocktail party first … Jacques Heim's new showing in Grosvenor Street. You should come along, might give you some idea of style. What are you wearing, by the way?”

“Haven't thought about it. I'll find something appropriate.”

Victoria raised a dubious eyebrow. “Take something of mine. The pale green Schiaparelli with the leg-o'-mutton sleeves. You'll look a charmer.”

“I have my own clothes, thank you.”

Victoria bent forward and dabbed at a toenail. “So I've noticed.”

She tossed a few things in a suitcase. Her closet was Mother Hubbard's cupboard compared to her sister's, but then Victoria's only passions at the moment revolved around keeping in style and stringing Gerald Smith Blair along.

The mood of depression that had dogged her all morning faded rapidly as she drove her little two-seater Sunbeam out of London. Leaving the main highway, she darted along narrow country roads to Abingdon, the canvas top folded down, the wind whipping her hair into a tangled black nest.

Quite a few guests had already arrived and she parked her car among ponderous Daimlers, Packards, and other chauffeur-driven behemoths, including the limousine of the bishop of Guildvale. One of the Stanmores' footmen carried her suitcase to the house, along with the carton of books which she asked him to place in the ballroom.

Getting her hair back to reasonable neatness was her first priority. The windows of her room looked down on the west terrace, and as she stood there combing her hair she could see a number of people that she knew, including the bishop and other pillars of No More War International sipping tea and chatting away with Hanna. She didn't feel up to conversing with anyone at the moment and made her way downstairs through the servants' stairs and the back passageways to the ballroom. Preparations for the buffet were being made, with servants setting up long, cloth-covered tables along one wall. There was a small table to one side of the bandstand and she began to unpack the slim books and stack them on it. While she was doing this, setting up some books so that the title showed,
Spanish Cross
by Hogarth Wells, and others to display the poet's famous portrait by Augustus John on the back cover, a man wandered in from the terrace and stood near her, scowling slightly at the book jacket. He was almost excessively good looking with pale violet eyes and the longest lashes she had ever seen on a man.

“Would you like to take a copy?” she asked.

“I don't think so,” Albert said. “I know most of them.”

“Surely not. The book hasn't been released yet.”

“In Spain. Hogarth was in Barcelona last year … briefly. He used to recite his new poems in the bar of the Hotel Florida.” He leaned forward to take a closer look at the portrait. “John painted that in nineteen thirty. Unbelievable how much a man can change in so short a time. Debauchery plain and simple. Too much whisky and too many girls.”

She forced a smile. “Are you one of the Quakers from the Friends for Peace?”

“Good Lord, no. I've nothing against debauchery as long as it doesn't lead to dissipation. My name's Thaxton, by the way … A. E. Thaxton.”

“Jennifer Wood-Lacy.”

He gave her a thoughtful stare. “Yes. You're the general's older daughter … one of a perfectly matched set. We've met before.”

“Have we? I'm sure you must be mistaken.”

“Right here. About eight or nine years ago. I'm not sure which one you are. One smiled and danced. The other did neither.”

“I'm probably the latter.”

“You don't look at all like young Kate.”

“She takes after Mother. Victoria and I are in Father's mold.”

“Daughters of The Hawk.”

“In looks only.” She found his eyes to be hypnotizing and glanced away. “When did you meet Kate?”

“The other day … at Charles and Marian's. Marian told me that she knows as much about biology as their regular teacher.”

“She's the brains of the family.” She fussed with the books. “Are you a relative of Marian?”

“No. I'm Martin Rilke's brother-in-law.”

“Of course.” She gave him a quick glance of recognition. “I remember you now. You wore a school blazer with a large crest embroidered on the pocket. You danced with my sister and she had a crush on you.”

“Did she? Outgrew it by now, I suppose.”

“Knowing Vicky that would be hard to tell. Are you staying here?”

“Resting up. I'll be leaving soon.” He picked up a book and leafed idly through it. “Nicely printed. Do you work for Calthorpe's?”

“Not really. I do odd jobs for NMWI. Arnold Calthorpe is chairman of the U.K. chapters … cochairman actually with the bishop of Guildvale.”

“No More War International,” he murmured, turning the book in his hands. “Hogarth is keen on it. Quite pointless, actually.”

She stiffened. “I'd hardly call it that.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't. My own personal observation. It might make some sense if Hitler became a member. Otherwise …” he placed the book back on the table “… it's a movement of futility. As hollow and meaningless as Hogarth's poems.”

She drew in her breath sharply. “What a rude and cynical remark.”

“Rude, perhaps … but nothing I wouldn't say to Hogarth's face—and have. I told him in Barcelona that what he is writing is claptrap. Spain as metaphor … all those allusions to bleeding crosses and dying bulls.”

“I found his poems to be very poignant.”

“I suppose they are in a maudlin kind of way. They confirm one's belief in the tragedy of war. But the significance of what's happening in Spain goes much deeper than that. The bombing of Guernica shocked the world, and rightly so, but one squadron of Hurricanes could have prevented that particular tragedy. What's truly shocking is that England never sent modern fighter planes to the Loyalists, they sent Hogarth Wells instead.”

“You really dislike the man, don't you?”

“Good heavens, no. I love and admire him. I was one of his students for three years at London University. But he was a different poet in those days. He wrote about what he knew and understood so well. The forgotten Englishman … the bloke on the dole. Compare
In Nottingham Town
to that Spanish fantasy and you'll see what I mean.” He took her arm in a gentle grip. “Look here, I don't know about you, but a terrace swarming with bishops and other ecclesiastics fills me with terror. Would you like to go for a walk in the garden?”

She wasn't sure whether she would or not. The amethyst eyes sparkled. His fingers were cool against the smooth skin of her arm. “All right.”

They avoided the terrace by going through the conservatory with its black-and-white tiled floor and potted palms and then out through a glass door into the gardens.

“It's good to meet old friends after so many years,” he said.

“Is that what we are?” she laughed. “We were barely introduced.”

“A minor point. I saw you arrive in your little green runabout. I was having a cup of tea on the terrace with some monkish fellow in a serge suit and I thought to myself, I wish a girl like that was a good friend of mine … and lo and behold she is … or will be, I trust.”

“A charming sentiment. And you just happened to find yourself in the ballroom to meet me.”

“Not exactly. I wandered about looking for you.”

“You seem to be a man who goes after what he wants.”

“The mark of a good reporter—and I am a good reporter.”

“I know. I've read your articles in the
Post
—including the one you did on my father in Egypt.”

“Ah, yes … that was a long time back. When I was on my way home from Ethiopia. Were you in Cairo then?”

“No. He was only there for a short time … maneuvers of some sort. We were in India.”

“How long were you there?”

“Two years.”

“Like it?”

“Some aspects … not others.” She plucked at a full-blown rose and tossed the heavy, waxen petals in her palm. “When one is so much a part of the raj one sees India from rather an unreal perspective. All pomp and palaces … the lancers riding ahead of Father's motorcar. That type of thing. I wandered around a bit with some Indian friends from the University of Delhi and glimpsed the other side.”