All this Mr Perkins had told Mark within half an hour of arriving in London, which he did a day after getting Mark’s letter saying he looked forward to meeting Mr Perkins when next-etc.
But why was Wilhelm Esse Perkins so anxious to rashly risk all his money on such philanthropies? It was simple: he was in the grip of a sudden conversion of the type which was to be so common in the seventies. What had touched it off was that he had chanced to read a secret and confidential report (kept from the owners by the chemists they employed) on the results of certain chemical research in a factory where he had his shares. God forbid that it should be thought that Mark’s modest little factory (with a capital of £15, 000) or that the products of that factory (some machines for hospitals, a few devices for the manipulation and rearrangement or obliteration of human or animal brains) should be compared with the fortune and activities of Mr Perkins, who was many many times a millionaire and the products of whose laboratories influenced the health of continents; but what had happened to Mark had happened to Mr Perkins-that they should discover this only after actually being drawn together (like being attracted to like) caused neither more surprise than is common when such things occur in life. Mark began by seeing Mr Perkins as a man afflicted by a sudden case of inappropriate morality (for so do other people’s attempts towards truth always strike us), but soon saw (it was Rita who kept exclaiming in awe at the amount of money he had) that after all, this man might be the solution to his problem. The trouble was (when they first met, at least) there seemed to be not one aim shared by them; they had in common only a cause for remorse. However, as they talked and they talked, it was always in Mark’s study, so persuasive in any discussions that took place there; and
it became evident that their aims were not so far apart after all. Mr Perkins would have to shed his visions of the city beautiful, since the future was not likely to include one; Mark would have to accept a benevolent dictator-it occurred to him that he had already: he was quite prepared to spend the rest of his life (which he felt would be short) on this scheme. What Mr Perkins needed was
to do good
: the nature of the good to be done was pretty irrelevant to him when one got down to it. What Mark needed was money.
The time Mark spent with Mr Perkins in his study had resulted in a large tract of unfortunately very dry sand being acquired in Tunisia. They did not own it; at least not yet; but they had permission to build on it. They were at cross-purposes with the Government who saw them as particularly devious holiday speculators: for why anyone would want to build a holiday resort in a desert was not immediately clear. An army of spies and informers and information-mongers of all kinds were busy finding out what the Coldridge-Perkins company was really up to: nobody believed them when they said what they were doing.
Which, admittedly, was mostly to talk-at least, at the moment. Mark was once again back in another version of the unconstituted committee.
And, in three days’ time, Mark and Rita would take off for a village of a few hundred souls in North Africa where, soon, Patty Samuels and John Patten would join them. Both had decided to devote themselves to this work. They and Willy Perkins would in the next few months set up an office and organization in London; and another in America; while Mark and Rita brought their new baby into the world well out of England (the divorce with Lynda would not be through for some months) and engaged suitable natives (people who lived in, or were familiar with, the local terrain) and generally acclimatized themselves to what in their Plans was called Point A. Point B, probably on the west coast of Ireland, was to be developed next. A Point C was envisaged.
A great deal of money would shortly be available: the person who inherited Martha’s position-Patty Samuels? -would be adding millions of pounds to millions of pounds. But of course by then the thing would be so large that it would need battalions of lawyers and accountants: already Willy Perkins had bought himself a couple of first-quality lawyers in New York who were doing nothing else but envisage difficulties.
This afternoon and evening, probably one of the last for Martha in Coldridge territory, was likely to prove an apex of complications and emotional cross-purposing.
Weeks ago, when John Patten had told his wife that he felt he could contribute usefully to the new scheme, Margaret had said that of course he must not worry about her. She meant it. She would miss his courteous attendance on the fringes of her social life; but living side by side as they had for years, trying to be kind about each other’s needs which they could not meet, made both unhappy. He said he would leave the house for her to use as she liked: for his part he did not expect to be much in England.
Now an elderly, almost an old man who for so long had impressed everyone with his damped-down carefulness, that they had forgotten he must once have had something to damp down, he had come to life suddenly in a late burst of energy, was learning Arabic, had shed fifteen years. Margaret’s reaction to learning that she would be living alone was to shed fifteen years, buy herself new clothes and have the house repainted. The two forgave each other for being so pleased to separate.
Margaret had said: ‘We’ll have a big send-off party for all of you.’ This was generous, for she did not approve of or share the new enthusiasm. But, having committed herself to a party, she took to lying awake at night to brood about the sad fortunes of her family-for whom was she to ask?
Mark and-who? Margaret could not stand Rita, but saw that there ought to be a marriage for the baby’s sake. She had never liked Lynda, but wondered if Lynda ought to be asked with Rita. This annoyed Mark, because of
course
Lynda should be asked.
And who, after all, was Margaret to disapprove? (She conceded this quickly before someone, probably Francis, had time to point it out.) When Oscar Enroyde came to England he would stay with his current wife at Margaret’s; and she and John and Oscar and whoever it was found the rewards of being civilized worth any pain or embarrassment. Very well then, Lynda and Rita would both come, and so would Martha. There was Sandra … no, that was asking too much, there Margaret would draw the line. Dorothy had been bad; Sandra was awful. So Lynda was asked without her friend and replied that without her she would not go. Mark then complained to Margaret who extended the invitation to Sandra: but it was no good, neither would come.
Francis was asked with Jili, but Margaret had added that she hoped ‘not more than half the menagerie at most’ would find time to come. Francis had returned the answer that they were moving that day ‘as it happened’ and the menagerie would be too busy to come. Later it turned out that there would be a great party in Margaret’s room to which at least a hundred young people had been invited.
Margaret, hearing about this, had rung up Francis in tearful accusation. Francis had said he quite agreed two parties were absurd: he could perhaps bring his friends out to her house?
So there were going to be two parties.
Yesterday Margaret had telephoned to say that they must not expect too much-hers would be a small informal gathering: quite clearly no one really wanted to come to her party at all.
It was natural she should be feeling irritable and sad: the word went out that ‘everyone’ had to go to her party even if only for an hour.
The first car-load to leave was Mark, Rita, Paul, Jill. Rita, six months pregnant, was in magenta chiffon. Paul had chosen the dress. Paul chose all her clothes. She looked gorgeous, they all said; and she did.
Lynda came up from the basement to say-it was clear she had hoped to say it more publicly-that she would not come. She found Martha in her bedroom.
Martha let her adjust her manner from the one which had been prepared to what she hoped would be at least an attempt at Lynda at her best. But Lynda was tired with packing, and had not slept. She had come up unkempt, fingers torn and raw, and had found only Martha, with whom she needn’t bother to be defiant about Sandra, and to whom she had already said everything she wanted to say.
She sat down and watched Martha put on a rather dull dress of the kind that is ‘suitable’ for a variety of occasions.
So Martha wasn’t at her best either.
In the mirror Martha saw Lynda’s face at an angle to hers: it was looking past her out at the sycamore tree.
Lynda said: ‘Do you know what you are going to do yet? ’
She sounded perfectly sensible. A black cat, the old black cat’s successor, stalked around the corner of the door and got up on to her lap.
‘Not yet.’
Lynda and she had already had this conversation: they were making some sort of small talk now.
‘I suppose you hate Sandra like everyone else so it’s no use asking you to stay with us while you are at a loose end.’
‘I don’t mind being at a loose end.’
Well over fifteen years ago Martha had arrived in London without an idea of what she was going to do, and everything had followed quite naturally.
She had said to Lynda: ‘I stepped into the dark then. I’ll do it again now. Why not? Doing it then I landed with you lot. I could have done worse.’
‘Not much, ’ Lynda had said, and had giggled.
Remembering this conversation Lynda started giggling, and Martha laughed too.
‘Mark wants me to go and help him with his refugee camps, ’ said Lynda.
‘Yes I know. And me too. Perhaps I’ll go-after all, I suppose it would be useful.’
‘Not really.’
‘Who knows? ’
‘I do, ’ said Lynda seriously. But, as Martha looked away from the mirror, and straight at Lynda, to meet this, Lynda stood up, hastily, with a quick frowning evasive look, scooped up a cigarette from Martha’s box, and said: ‘I’m sorry if Margaret is going to be hurt about my not coming, but she’ll have so many people she won’t notice.’
She went downstairs.
From her door (soon to be whose door?), Martha shouted upstairs: ‘Francis, Francis, are you ready? ’
‘Coming.’
But he did not come. So she went downstairs to wait in Margaret’s room for him, and for the others-Phoebe and Gwen were going with them.
In Margaret’s room a nice-faced boy and a pretty dark girl put out great flasks of wine, coloured gold, red and pink for tonight’s party.
She had not seen them before. Had they moved in too?
If so, where were they going to find room to … but it was no longer her business. She had lost the capacity to care. Oh yes, she
really was on her way out and away. No longer was this house her responsibility; she contributed nothing, held nothing together: the holding operation was long over.
A pang? Only a mild one.
She would not mind going.
She would not mind—what would it be? Living in a bed-sitting-room again? A small hotel?
No, all that was no problem, did not trouble her. Her secret preoccupation was (she might have shared it with Lynda once, but not now) that she had made no step forward at all since that last ‘bout’ or ‘session’ just before Rita’s coming all those months ago. She had gone thick and opaque again. Her dreams, faithful monitors, kept her informed of what was going on, but that was a dull enough record. Her other senses were strictly utilitarian and there were no surprises anywhere.
And people too were thick and opaque; and it was not easy to be with them. She would look at them and think: I know that’s not what you are, I know that-what are you then? This couple at the end of the room for instance, arranging glasses in rows beside the wine flasks, the fair open-faced boy, and the pretty girl-well, that was what they were, there weren’t any currents running.
Still, she had learned that one thing, that most important thing, which was that one simply had to go on, take one step after another: this process in itself held the keys. And it was this process which would, as it had in the past, be bound to lead her around to that point where-asking continuously, softly, under one’s breath. Where? What is it? How? What’s next? Where is the man or woman who … she would find herself back with herself. Of course. But there are times, there are indeed times, when to put one foot soberly after another seems harder than to wrestle with devils or challenge dangers-which in retrospect seemed tame enough. She had forgotten then? Yes, her memory of the last time had blunted. She remembered everything except-how frightened she had been. Well that was a mistake, a danger in itself. She was forgetting, she had forgotten, one always forgot…
Into the room came Francis, rather larger than he had been, a generously built, round-faced ruffle-haired young man who carried a weight of responsibility and showed it.
‘Martha, ’ he said, ‘I’m ready if you are.’ To the unknown pair he said easily: ‘I’ll be back in at eight. You could get that rice cooked
up with stock and put on some soup. And could you please go and see that the babies are all right in about half an hour? Leslie’s got to leave then, and Claire says she’s fed up with baby-minding.’
They accepted these instructions; and he escorted Martha down to the car, where Gwen was, with Phoebe. Mother and daughter began conversing, with the best of good intentions: this car-load arrived at the house in silence.
It was immediately clear that a very large party was in progress.
From the darkening house light glimmered intimately on to lawns where a crowd strolled among the roses who said they were there only by their scent. As the party passed through the house to catch the last hour of dusk, every room was bright and crammed with people.
A hot, bright, noisy, jostling house; but on the slopes to the river, were hushed voices and faces turned towards the sky.
If one is a hostess-then that is what one is. Margaret’s first generous impulse had envisaged a splendour of a party for her son and his new plan. But this guest list had dwindled in the old irritations and checks. At the idea of a small party every instinct went into insubordination.
There must be two or three hundred people here, and of a most extraordinary variety. Groups of strangers kept passing each other; and the most frequently used words were: ‘Who is that, do you know? ’ The least numerous guests were those for whom the impulse had first sprung. The ‘family’ were hardly there, or came and went away early.