Vicky seemed to have settled down well in London. She had registered for a course in German but had abandoned it when she
had become pregnant, and anyway she was too busy organizing her new home to pay serious attention to studying. Her letters
described her struggles with the English interior decorators, Eric’s first day at his English nursery school, the difficulties
of living up to the expectations of British servants (I thought of Carraway and sympathized), the miraculous quality of English
radio and television, and the ever present fascination of the Queen, the Coronation and the weather. Occasionally she mentioned
a new movie or imported American musical which she and Sam had seen in the West End, but they were too busy entertaining Sam’s
new clients to go out much on the town.
Several times every week I spoke to Sam on the phone to make sure everything was progressing satisfactorily in London, and
although I knew he resented me breathing down his neck I was determined to keep him on his toes by regularly reminding him
who was boss. In the circumstances it seemed the least I could do to restore the correct balance of power between us and a
small price for him to pay for his new life in Europe. However I was careful to keep our conversations friendly, and no one
eavesdropping on us would have guessed that our good-humoured exchanges masked bitterness on my part and probably exasperation
– to say the least – on his.
‘So how are the British, Sam?’ I said on the first working day after the Coronation in June. ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself
drinking the Queen’s health and listening to everyone declare that the spirit which conquered Mount Everest was the spirit
which won the war!’
‘Well, I’m all for giving credit where credit is due,’ said Sam placidly, ‘and why shouldn’t I drink the Queen’s health? I
like the Royal Family. They’re all German anyway.’
That was one of our milder exchanges, I reminding him that living in Europe wasn’t all moonlight and roses and he rebuffing
me by bragging about how well he was handling a potentially hostile environment. But our most acrimonious conversations arose
over the kind of image I wanted the new Van Zale’s to present in London.
Van Zale’s had had a London office for some sixty years but I had closed its doors and withdrawn our capital from Europe before
the outbreak of war there in 1939. Banking had changed greatly over those sixty years. Originally we had specialized in letters
of credit and loans to foreign governments, but after the First World War that business had died and by the time Steve Sullivan
went to London to be the resident partner in 1929 we had become interested in putting American money into English business
– not an easy task as British business often raised the money for their needs without the help of issuing houses. However
Steve had done well in adverse circumstances and our London house had shown a profit until the impending war had cast a shadow
over European finance. Now times had changed yet again; the shadow was gone, American corporations were spearheading an economic
invasion of Europe and it was natural for them to turn for help to an investment banking house with the best transatlantic
connections.
‘We must make it clear we’re an outpost of America,’ I said firmly. ‘After all, this is economic war. I know the British feel
sentimental about Americans because we beat Hitler for them, but the economic reality is very different from that political
fantasy which the politicians are pushing to convince the Russians that the West is totally united. The economic reality is
that we’re fighting for control of Britain, the Empire, Europe and the world. Forget the politicians talking about friendship.
The future lies in the presence of the American bottle of ketchup on the English breakfast table. I want the most modern office
you can get, the most modern equipment and, whenever possible, American staff. I want a portrait of the President in the lobby
and the stars-and-stripes flying right alongside the Union Jack—’
‘Neil, you’re dreaming. Wake up. The British don’t feel that sentimental about us. They don’t even admit we won the war for
them. In fact they haven’t forgotten how we left them to fight the Battle of Britain alone, and if there’s one thing they
resent nowadays it’s Americans like you who think America can muscle in and convert England overnight into a US satellite.
We must soft-pedal the American image. We’ve got to be quiet and discreet and gentlemanly.’
‘Is there a law which says we can’t be quiet and discreet and gentlemanly – Jesus, how godawful that sounds! – in modern offices
with modern equipment?’
Our old office in Milk Street, a dark dismal relic of the Victorian era, had fortunately been bombed to pieces so there was
no question of going back there. I was glad. We needed a new image, and anyway I’m not sentimental about old buildings. One
can get very, very tired of sordid plumbing.
However Sam told me that the right location was more important than modern conveniences, and presently I was informed that
he had taken a floor of a building off Lombard Street.
‘How old’s the building?’ I said suspiciously on learning that it had survived the blitz.
‘New by English standards. It was built in 1910.’
‘
1910
! Christ, are you sure there’s not a demolition order on it?’
Sam tried to tell me that since much of the City of London was still in ruins we were lucky to find decent office space at
all, but I cut him off.
‘God, I sometimes wonder why we’re bothering with this European office,’ I said. ‘Can it be worth it? I reckon Europe’s washed
up anyway. This economic boom will never last.’
‘Your trouble, Neil, is that you’ve never lived in Europe, you’re God knows how many generations removed from any ancestor
who grew up there and you just don’t understand it. Forget your simplistic American vision of Europe as a washed-up continent.
Europe’s always being washed up – it means nothing. The Romans washed it up, Attila washed it up, Napoleon and Hitler washed
it up, but the point is that Europe doesn’t wear out, no matter how often it’s sent to the cleaners. Europe survives. Invest
in it. And for God’s sake give me
carte blanche
to do what I know is best for Van Zale’s – I realize it’s hard for you, but just try not to be such a back-seat driver!’
We laughed coolly at the joke. I gave him the
carte blanche
. We hung up seething.
‘I wish you’d make the effort to come over here,’ Sam said after his new son was born. ‘I think you’d stop worrying so much
about the London office if you could see for yourself how well we’re doing.’
‘It’s not a question of making an effort,’ I said, although it was. It’s always an effort to go to a place where you know
you’ve no hope of feeling at home. ‘Of course I’ll make the trip! Do you think I’d want to postpone meeting the latest member
of the family?’
Sam laughed but I wondered if he had been secretly hoping I’d never summon the will to leave America. I wondered too, despite
the
fact that he seemed pleased to be a father again, how he really felt now that he had two little kids screaming at the top
of their lungs, giving their nurse hell and calling him Daddy. I supposed he was enjoying the novelty, although like Jake
he had never seemed interested in children. It all seemed kind of a waste to me.
Meanwhile I had decided I was ready for a vacation, even a vacation which had to be spent in Europe. Since Sam and Vicky’s
departure I had kept myself very busy, following the activities of the oil lobby in Congress, launching several large flotations
to improve the nation’s highway system, and attending numerous meetings of the Van Zale Fine Arts Foundation. I had welcomed
Eisenhower’s arrival at the White House, cheered the collapse of the marathon anti-trust case involving investment banks,
and invested in a painting by Kokoschka which no one, not even Teresa, liked. The end of the Korean mess was imminent and
I foresaw record peacetime demands for funds; it certainly seemed the right time to take a break before the economic pace
stepped up and we all reaped the benefits accruing from the new administration, but when I finally faced the prospect of an
overseas vacation I nearly flunked it. Europe was such a long way away. I couldn’t decide how to get there. Should reservations
be made on one of the Stratocruiser Speedbirds which flew daily to London? I decided I didn’t care for flying unless I knew
the pilot personally. Alicia suggested that a sea trip might be pleasant so I told my aides to fix passages on a transatlantic
liner, and when they had done that I told them to buy me all the latest guide books on England. I knew I had to be well prepared
for this trip. No European was going to think
me
an ignorant American barbarian who was incapable of approaching a foreign country with respect. I studied hard and often
read far into the night.
‘I’m not looking forward to this trip one bit,’ I confessed at last to Alicia. ‘Wish we were going to Bar Harbor as usual.’
‘But Cornelius, think how exciting it’ll be for you to see Vicky again!’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but nothing good ever happened to me in England.’ I thought of my one previous visit to Europe in 1940 when
I had been outwitted by my old enemy Dinah Slade. ‘I’ve got this feeling,’ I said, ‘that as soon as I set foot on English
soil something disastrous will happen.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Alicia firmly, and began to talk about the suite which had been booked for us on board ship. She seemed to
be looking forward to the vacation although I knew she liked Europe no better than I did, and she was clearly excited about
the voyage.
‘So you’re sharing a cabin with your wife!’ said Teresa when I finally
disclosed some details of my departure to her. ‘Great! And I’m supposed to step aside gracefully and cheer, I guess, while
you sail away on a second honeymoon!’
‘Nothing like that’s going to happen!’ I protested, much gratified by this display of possessiveness. ‘Of course we’ve got
to share a suite to keep up appearances, but there’ll be separate beds.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Teresa. ‘Well, have a good time and if you don’t come back here panting to jump into bed with me I’ll smell
the biggest possible rat!’
‘I’ll remember that!’ I promised, feeling more gratified than ever, and thought how lucky I was that we still got along so
well after more than four years together. Occasionally I did wonder if she were unfaithful to me but I was reassured by her
chronic untidiness which would have made it impossible for her to conceal infidelity for long. Certainly she always behaved
as if she liked me. I had become increasingly fond of her as the years passed.
‘So long, Teresa,’ I said on the evening before my vacation began. ‘Be good.’
‘You too, Angel-Face. No screwing around.’
We kissed with commendable passion and parted.
I sighed. Europe loomed ahead, as cold and uninviting as an iceberg, and trying not to feel as if I were as doomed as that
notable iceberg victim the
Titanic
I trudged home to Fifth Avenue and went to bed with the latest copy of the London
Times
.
[1]
Alicia travelled only with her maid but I brought with me two aides as well as my valet and my bodyguard. I like to be protected
from all the more unpleasant aspects of travel, and with my aides dealing with the tiresome details, my valet ensuring that
my clothes were always immaculate, and my bodyguard preventing any unwelcome intrusion from either the press, the needy or
the just plain curious, my journey to Europe was uneventful.
It was also unembarrassing. I had been worried in case Alicia privately regretted having to sleep in the same room as me in
order to
keep up appearances, but the suite was so large and the twin beds so far apart that we both quickly relaxed. Soon I even felt
happy; after years of separate bedrooms it was painfully exciting to sleep so close to her again. Of course I knew I must
never upset her by any thoughtless proposition but I would surreptitiously watch her brush her hair or apply her make-up,
and think how lovely she was. It was as if I were seeing her again after a long absence, and the further we travelled from
New York the more fantastic it seemed that I should find it easy to go to bed with another woman. Fortunately the liner docked
at Southampton before my fantasies of a miraculous reconciliation could overwhelm my common sense, but I think Alicia sensed
my happiness in being near her again because her habitual cool politeness eased into a warmer gentler manner which was far
less formal.
I had told Vicky there was no need for her to meet the ship since Southampton is some way from London, but of course she was
there with Eric, Nurse and the new baby. Paul Cornelius Keller was dark and glum. I turned to Eric with relief. He was three
years old now and looked more like Vicky than ever but he seemed to have become very shy and it was difficult to get a word
out of him.
‘It’s just a phase he’s going through,’ said Vicky embarrassed.
‘Sure! I understand,’ I said, but I had expected an effusive welcome and couldn’t help feeling disappointed ‘How’s Sam?’
‘Oh, Sam’s fine! He said he was so sorry not to be here to meet you, but he had this very important meeting—’
‘Well, of course business must come first!’ I said, but I didn’t like Sam side-stepping the chore of meeting me.
My aides had arranged for two limousines to transport us to London, but I travelled in the inevitable Keller Mercedes-Benz
with Vicky. Sam used their other car, a Daimler, to impress his English clients in the City.
I took a cautious look at England from behind the stout glass windows of the Mercedes, and as we left Southampton and rode
smoothly deep into the Hampshire countryside, I felt that well-remembered tension rise within me to set my nerves on edge.
The best way I can describe it is to say it felt like a kind of nakedness – the nakedness of an unarmed soldier advancing
towards heavy artillery lined up on some appalling battlefield. I looked at the pretty fields and the quaint little villages
and felt not only foreign but stripped of the identity which nurtured me in New York. In New York I was someone special: Cornelius
Van Zale, the well-known banker and philanthropist. But here I was no one, just an exile in a land as alien to me as the far
side of the moon.
I was back in my teens again suddenly, overwhelmed by feelings of inferiority, terrified that people would laugh at me, dreading
their casual contempt. The anger returned too, the anger I could remember so clearly from my youth. The same voice in my head
said: no man laughs at me and gets away with it. And as we passed through a little town I looked out of the window at the
British and thought: I’ll show them.
‘Isn’t England lovely?’ said Vicky with a sigh. ‘Isn’t it nice to think most of our ancestors came from here?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but I couldn’t imagine my ancestors being at home in any country except America. I couldn’t even imagine my
ancestors. The only ancestor I’ve ever been interested in was my father and I only got interested in him because I was going
through such hell in the present that for once the past seemed to have something to offer. I was wrong. There was nothing
there. My father might have been tenacious enough to build a small homestead into a large prosperous rural fiefdom; he might
have been bold enough to marry out of his social background and tough enough to withstand the Van Zale’s family’s disapproval;
he might well have been the kind of guy I could have got along with. But what use was that to me since he had died when I
was four and I now had no way of communicating with him? Before the war I had bought the farm he had owned in the hope that
it would somehow bring me closer to his memory, but I had been wasting my time. The past is dead. It’s wound up and ploughed
under, and to believe anything else is self-indulgent fantasy.
‘Do you truly like England, Vicky?’
‘Oh
yes
, Daddy! Everything’s so civilized and I just love all the pageantry and the tradition and the—’
I somehow kept my mouth shut but I felt unutterably depressed. I had hoped Vicky would already be restless in her new environment,
but evidently I had hoped for too much too soon.
My depression deepened when we reached London. There’s something nightmarish about that city, those grey streets sprawling
endlessly in all directions, those huge haughty buildings, those fanatically well-tended parks, those hostile inhabitants
talking English with a whole range of unintelligible accents. London’s like some elaborate maze designed for a minotaur whose
desire for formality borders on obsession. I thought of New York, of cosy bunched-up Manhattan teeming with colour and vitality,
chock-a-block with gleaming sky-scrapers and glimpses of glittering water, crammed with vistas ravishing in their geometrical
simplicity, and by the time
we arrived at the Savoy Hotel I was so homesick that I could hardly drag myself out of the car.
I pulled myself together. It was now important that I made a good impression since in the eyes of the staff of the Savoy I
was just another American tourist who might or might not know how to behave in public. I felt thankful that I was travelling
in a convoy of two Rolls-Royces and a Mercedes-Benz together with five servants, a beautiful wife and a mountain of the best
quality leather luggage. The English could plainly see I was no carpet-bagger from California or, worse still, some jumped-up
Texas cattle-baron in a ten-gallon hat. I checked my black suit, dusted my cuffs, concealed my nervousness behind my most
impassive expression and prepared to represent my country with as much dignity as possible.
My aides had been working hard. On reaching the lobby I was welcomed effusively and ushered upstairs to a gargantuan suite
overlooking the river. There were flowers everywhere. A complimentary magnum of champagne stood in a silver ice-bucket. I
was introduced to the floor-waiter who promised to do everything necessary to ensure my gastronomic comfort.
‘Thanks very much,’ I said, keeping my face expressionless so that they would all think I was an old hand at touring the grand
hotels of Europe, and nodded to my aide to start distributing tips.
By this time I was feeling better. The Savoy had acknowledged that I was a visitor of consequence, and I began to feel that
my New York identity might possibly be within my reach again. I saw the phone and picked up the receiver. That made me feel
better too, and as I started to dial I knew that although my power had been temporarily switched off, like an electric current,
it was now starting to flow smoothly again.
‘I’ll leave you to get settled in,’ said Vicky after I had spoken to Sam and replaced the receiver, ‘but do come on over as
soon as you can, won’t you? Eric can’t wait to show you his nursery!’
I made a couple more calls to business acquaintances in order to jack up the voltage of my electric current, and afterwards
felt so completely recovered that I was reluctant to leave the phone.
‘Get that last letter I had from my sister,’ I said to my aide on an impulse.
The aide came running, the letter in his hands.
‘Who are you calling now, Cornelius?’ called Alicia from one of the bedrooms.
‘I promised Emily I’d call those English stepchildren of hers. I may as well get it over so that I can enjoy the rest of the
trip.’ I found the
Cambridge telephone number and told the aide to start making the call.
Alicia was in the doorway. ‘I guess we ought to see them while we’re here.’
‘No, why the hell should we? They haven’t been in touch with us for years. I didn’t like to complain to Emily, who always
makes out she’s fond of them, but I was kind of disgusted by their lack of gratitude.’
‘You should have told Emily.
She
may enjoy playing the long-suffering martyr who dotes on her husband’s children by another woman, but I don’t see why you
should have to follow in her footsteps.’
‘It’s bad enough Emily and I never seeing eye to eye with each other about her canonization of Steve’s memory. I couldn’t
make matters worse by arguing with her over those kids as well.’
‘The number’s ringing, sir,’ said my aide. Then: ‘Hullo? Mr Cornelius Van Zale is calling Miss Elfrida Sullivan – is she there,
please? Thank you, will you hold the line.’ He passed me the receiver.
I assumed a neutral voice. ‘Elfrida?’
‘Yes.’ The monosyllable was bleak and uncompromising.
‘Hi, how are you,’ I said, still maintaining my neutrality but with increasing difficulty. ‘I’m vacationing in London, and
Emily asked me to give you a call. How are Edred and George?’
‘Well.’
‘Good. Any special news that I can relay to Emily?’
‘None.’
I suddenly realized I was in the middle of a highly unpleasant interview.
‘Seen anything of Vicky lately?’ I said. ‘She didn’t mention you but I assume you’ve been in touch.’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Any special reason?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘You killed my father,’ said Elfrida Sullivan, and hung up.
[2]
Of course I’d done nothing of the kind. Steve Sullivan’s death was an accident. When I gave the final order to Sam in 1939
I didn’t say ‘Kill him.’ I just said … Well, my exact words didn’t matter. Steve had been persecuting me for years and I had
had no choice but to ensure he
emerged from our struggles with his career in ruins. It wasn’t my fault if he had found he couldn’t live with himself after
Sam and I had proved to the world he was an unstable drunk who had been hospitalized in one of London’s best-known nursing-homes
for alcoholics.
‘Fix him,’ I had said to Sam. ‘And I mean
fix
him.’
I remembered Sam’s shaken voice later on the transatlantic phone. ‘When Steve saw that photograph and knew he was finished
he drank a bottle of scotch and set off in his car to confront me …’
But there was no one now alive who knew exactly what had happened to Steve in 1939, no one except Sam and myself – and, apparently,
Elfrida Sullivan.
The full implications of this appalling fact suddenly streamed through my mind.
How
did Elfrida know? How long had she known? And who could possibly have told her?
‘How was Elfrida?’ I heard Alicia call from the bedroom.
‘Fine.’ I was in such a state of shock that I could hardly speak. Making a great effort I sat down and started to arrange
the known facts into some kind of coherent order.
It was possible that after Steve’s death his wife Dinah had broadcast the unsavoury facts to all and sundry, but all the evidence
suggested she had told very few people. If she had made a fuss I would have heard about it, but I had heard nothing and had
concluded that she had been too upset to magnify her bereavement by making unpleasant public scenes. Perhaps her grief had
been such that she had had difficulty discussing Steve’s death even with those closest to her, but that remained mere speculation;
the one fact I did know was that after her own death at Dunkirk in 1940 only two people appeared to know the whole story.
One was Alan Slade, the product of her famous liaison with Paul Van Zale back in the twenties, and the other was Tony Sullivan,
Scott’s younger brother and Steve’s second son.
I was in England at the time and met them both in London. Emily had cabled that she was willing to look after Steve and Dinah’s
three young children, and because Alan and Tony themselves were hardly more than schoolboys who were going to find it difficult
to care properly for their young half-sister and half-brothers, it was obviously best for them to accept Emily’s offer. Alan
was reluctant. He disliked the idea of the children going off with me to America. However Tony, who like Scott had been brought
up by Emily after his mother’s death, had convinced him of Emily’s unrivalled talent as a stepmother.
Despite our final agreement, it had been a hostile interview and even after the agreement had been reached Tony had still
wanted to tell the children that I had been responsible for their father’s death. A
most unpleasant scene then ensued which was only terminated when I pointed out sensibly that the children would hardly consent
to go off to America with me if they thought I was a murderer, and that it would be far better to leave the subject of their
father’s death well alone. Tony (in many ways a stupid boy) continued to insist mulishly that at ten years of age Edred and
Elfrida were old enough to hear the truth, but Alan (who was undoubtedly intelligent) saw the logic of my statement, and in
the end they agreed to keep quiet for the time being.
Both Alan and Tony were killed in 1944, and as far as I knew they died without having breathed a word against me to either
Edred or Elfrida or George. The children, brought up by Emily with her usual skill, remained civil to me for the duration
of their stay in America, and even after they returned to England they were willing enough to spend their next two summer
vacations at my Bar Harbor summer home. But on the twins’ eighteenth birthday in the January of 1948 they returned the cheque
I had sent them as a present, and since then I had received no communication from them. At the time I had been puzzled by
this rudeness, but frankly I had always found the children difficult and anyway eighteen is an age at which many adolescents
behave eccentrically. The thought that they might have uncovered the truth about their father’s death did cross my mind but
I dismissed the idea because I was sure no one could have told them. It was impossible.