The Last Houseparty (6 page)

“But didn't we g-give our word to the Jews?” said Vincent. “The Balfour Declaration and all that?”

“You gave more than one word, Masham. You have promises to keep to us Arabs also. You are soon going to have to break at least one promise. Why should it be the one you gave us?”

“There must be some cuh … cuh … cuh …”

“Compromise? You mean you think it fairer to break both promises, rather than keep one and break one? I tell you bluntly, Masham, how it appears to the Arabs. Herr Hitler is chasing his Jews out of Germany. You do not want them here. If they have a country of their own you can keep your consciences clean by telling them to go there. You are a deeply anti-Semitic people.”

“Oh, I don't …”

“Remember I have lived here now almost ten years. There were a few Jews at Harrow. Not only the boys but also many of the masters openly despised them. Some of them despised me also. I have heard myself called a nigger by a grocer's son—behind my back, but he intended me to hear—yet believe me such behaviour was made easier to bear because I could see that it was superficial compared with the dislike of the Jews.”

“I'm afraid we had a bit of that at Eton, too. I think it was only rather stupid boys …”

“Sir Oswald Mosley is not stupid.”

“Yes, but … really he only says those things because his party must have somebody to attack. In private—he's been to Snailwood several times, you know—in private he plays all that down. It's only when he's ranting on a platform.”

“It is still part of his policy that the Jews must have a national home. Is that part of Sir Charles Archer's policy also?”

“I believe so. Last year he was pushing Madagascar …”

“That is rubbish. The only place the Jews will agree to go to is one that contains Jerusalem—which is one of the great holy places for the followers of Islam. Was not Abraham our father? Why should the Jews have Jerusalem? Tell me, Masham, why?”

“I don't know. I suppose that's one of the problems. I mean it's difficult for us to understand anyone feeling so strongly about something like that. No one I've talked to in the army is at all k-keen on the idea of fighting the Palestinian Arabs, but one has to keep order, you know.”

The Prince checked his answer, nodded and smiled, now looking considerably older than Vincent.

“One has to keep order indeed,” he said. “Explain to me, Masham, about this aunt of yours. I don't mind telling you hers was a rather peculiar invitation, but as I am at Oxford to study politics my tutor suggested it would be worth the experience to come. I have already met a few of your notorious English aunts. Would you say Lady Snailwood is a typical specimen?”

“Zena? G-g-good lord, no!”

Still trailing its fuming cloud the Daimler swung down the tight curves of the drive and sighed to a stop beneath the battlements of Snailwood's east façade. The arrival was not particularly well timed, as they passed the Sunbeam coming from the other direction after depositing the guests from the Marlow train. Under the
porte-cochère
—for that was all it was, though imposingly tricked out as part of the fortifications—stood the loose pile of their luggage, with Purser beside it evidently supervising its removal. He gave a furious glare at the approaching Daimler, picked up the lightest available case and stalked out of sight. The only figures left beneath the ponderous frontage were Sally Dubigny and a vapid-looking woman whose outfit—grey felt hat, grey quasi-military coat, flat-heeled shoes—though not exactly a uniform would at once have declared her to be a nanny even if there had not been a child in sight.

The guests climbed from the Daimler, first Sir Charles, then Mrs Blech—lemon-coloured and holding a handkerchief to her mouth—and finally the Professor still talking volubly over her shoulder to Sir Charles.

“One moment,” said Sir Charles, turning and beckoning dramatically to the nanny, as though he himself had posted her there to cope with precisely this contingency.

“Mrs Blech is going to be sick,” he said. “Take her somewhere, will you?”

“But Sally …” began the woman.

“Quick!” snapped Sir Charles.

“I'll look after Sally,” said Vincent.

“Excellent,” said Sir Charles. “And I'll take care of his highness. Well, get on with it, nurse! Now, your highness, Professor, I had better explain to you that one of the minor delights of staying at Snailwood is to watch the progress of the campaign between our hostess and her butler, the redoubtable Mr Purser …”

The group broke up, the nanny at last moving decisively, putting her arm round Mrs Blech's waist and supporting her up the steps. Sir Charles stayed where he was, to allow them time to get clear and also seizing the chance to give his set-piece entertainment on the subject of the Snailwood Feud, its alliances, treaties and betrayals. The Prince began to laugh almost at once. Professor Blech composed himself into that attitude of acid patience which serious foreigners learn to adopt when confronted with exhibitions of native childishness.

“Why don't you get in the car?” said Vincent to Sally. “When I've got the luggage off we'll drive it round to the stables.”

“Can I steer? Daddy always lets me.”

“If you like.”

Even had Vincent taken his hands off the wheel there would have been little danger of Sally hitting anything. The Daimler appeared far sicker after its halt. Sluggish and reeking, but still ineffably sedate, it nosed round the corner tower, along the north front and the main entrance to the courtyard with the clock tower above, and at last in through the double doors of the old Coach House, dim-lit by grimy lower sections of lancet window high up on its inner wall. Vincent switched off the motor, but Sally stayed on his lap, vigorously heaving the large wheel to and fro. During the actual drive she had been entirely submissive to his movements, making no effort to steer of her own accord.

“C-come on, young lady,” he said. “I have to look after my g-guest.”

“I like it here. Let's stay a bit longer. You're warm.”

“A bit too warm, thanks. C-c-come on, miss Nanny will be wondering what's bec … bec … happened to you.”

“I hate Nanny. She's too new … I like you, Vince.”

Suddenly she took her hands off the wheel, squirmed round and hugged him by the neck in a gesture almost as violent as that with which she had seized her mother in the nursery the previous afternoon. Vincent sat rigid. The child, more tentatively, as if aware of moving into treacherous ground, placed her lips against his cheek and kissed him wetly. He did not respond until she lowered her head and twisted it to and fro against his jacket, like a puppy nuzzling its way to warmth. With a jerk Vincent raised his hands, took Sally round the rib-cage and wrenched her loose. She screamed.

“You're a silly little guh … guh … guh …” he said, shoving her across and dumping her in the passenger seat. Her scream became a sob. He paid no attention, but opened his door and stepped out on to the running board. Lord Snailwood was standing by the rear mudguard, sniffing in a puzzled way at the oily air.

“Ah, Vincent,” he said. “Looking for you. You heard McGrigor says he's sick?”

“Yes, sir. That's why I'm driving the Daimler.”

“Sent a note by that daughter of his to say he won't show us the clock. Vincent, I tell you I don't care for the way this motor is beginning to smell. McGrigor insists it's only because of the shirt-valves, but I suspect she's blown a gasket, eh?”

“I don't think so, sir. The engine could do with a tune, but I think the real trouble's something to do with the transmission. If you'd like …”

Vincent had stepped down as he was speaking but was still holding the door. Now Sally emerged, her face blubbered. Without looking at either of the men she edged along the running-board, climbed down and walked between them, sniffing loudly. Lord Snailwood stared at her but said nothing. As soon as she was out of the Coach House she broke into a stumbling run, crying as she went. Vincent was about to follow when Lord Snailwood said, “No, no. Must talk to you about the Daimler. Thought for a long time McGrigor's not been looking after it. Same with the clock. Mark you, don't think he's sick at all. Swinging the leg, that's more like it. Afraid of being found out when he shows you what he's been up to. What's that you were saying about the transition?”

“I'll just take a dekko, sir. Hold on.”

As if it were a relief to be dealing with the certainties of the world of machines Vincent took a large hand torch from the front pocket of the car, crouched down and swung himself further still, keeping his knees just clear of the floor by supporting his weight on the running board and on the knuckles of the hand that was holding the torch. Its beam shone yellow over the underside of the chassis, darkening perceptibly as the brief initial impulse of the exhausted battery died. A drop of clear oil fell from the bell-housing from which the transmission shaft emerged. Another fell almost at once, and then another. The big timbers that covered the inspection pit glistened with wetness. Vincent twisted slightly, swinging the fading beam towards the rear to pick out glistening spots along the chassis and an area of blackness on the exhaust pipe where it curved into the silencer, still perceptibly giving off a faint fume from the hot metal. He rose and dusted his hands.

“Well?” snapped Lord Snailwood.

“The oil seal's g-gone on the fluid flywheel. There's a pretty serious leak. That's why she's losing so much power. Most of that smell isn't exhaust—it's oil from the leak being blown back on to the exhaust pipe.”

“How long has this been going on, eh?”

“I don't know, sir. The leak's pretty serious. She wasn't pulling too badly when I started off this morning, but she hardly made the hill out of Wycombe on the way back. It might have g-gone all of a sudden. Or McGrigor might have known about it and just k-kept topping the oil up till he found a chance to replace the seal.”

“Dammit, he ought to have done it at once.”

“It's a fair size job, sir. Most owners would send the c-car back to Daimler to have it done.”

“Rubbish. What do you think I employ a trained mechanic for? Find me something to kneel on, will you? I see I'll have to look into this myself. Give me that torch, Vincent.”

“The battery's dead, sir. I'll fix up the …”

Vincent was interrupted by Lord Snailwood snatching the torch from his hand, pressing the switch several times to and fro, and finally glaring at the glass, behind which the bulb now glowed so faintly that the actual shape of the filament was discernible as a gold coil. Here was a dereliction whose mechanics the Earl could grasp. He switched off and tossed the torch on to the driving seat, then gave a curious little hop, as though he had been bitten from behind. It might have been the first step in a vehement dance of rage to which he could never give full expression.

“I tell you, Vincent,” he said in a slow, hoarse voice, “this is the last straw. The utter last straw. Where is that secretary woman? She shall type me a letter. I won't stand it any more. Zena filling my house with wogs and sheenies. Black spot all over Ophelia. McGrigor refusing to let me look at my own clock. They've no right to expect it. What do you say? They've no right, eh?”

“I daresay I c-could pick the lock of the tower and take a look at the c-clock without McGrigor.”

“Pick the lock? Rubbish! I'll fetch my own key!”

“I thought McGrigor …”

“Course I have a key! I'll go and fetch it at once, hey? What do you say to that?”

“Better to wait till after the noon strike, sir. It'll have to be wound, then. It would save making two visits.”

“Oh, very well, very well. Now look here, Vincent—what I want you to do is take a thorough look at this fly-piece thing and let me know how long it's been leaking. Then find that secretary woman and bring her to my study. She shall write me a letter dismissing McGrigor, and I'll show you where I keep the keys, eh? Then get hold of that new fellow—name's slipped my mind for the moment, you know, dash it, you saw him helping with the roses last afternoon … where was I?”

“You want me to show him how to wind the c-clock, sir.”

“Course I do. You don't have to tell me things like that!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, get on with it. Got to know about the car before I sack McGrigor, dash it. Got to be fair on the fellow. Caesar's aunt, hey? So I'm relying on you, Vincent.”

“All right, sir.”

“It's the last straw, I tell you!”

Lord Snailwood threw his arms above his head and brought them down in a gesture such as Moses might have made when smashing the Tables of the Law. He turned on his heel and stalked out, wheeling at once in the direction of the courtyard.

Left alone, Vincent drew a deep breath, held it and then blew the air up his face, shaking his head as he did so. He fetched an inspection lamp from the workbench which ran along the wall opposite the doors and opened the side of the bonnet to clip the leads to the terminals of the accumulator. He looked only briefly at the engine before fetching a tarpaulin and spreading it beside the car and in under the running-board. He took off his jacket, lay down and wriggled in beneath the car with the lamp. After a minute he slithered out and with a tyre-lever prised up one of the timbers over the inspection pit, rolling it aside, then lay on his belly to peer into the cavity. Even in those black recesses gleams of gold and green showed how much fresh oil had dripped down over the recent weeks. Vincent rose and after another sigh, another blow of cooling air up his face, put things back as they had been and left.

Mrs Dubigny was standing in the courtyard, on almost the same spot where she had been the afternoon before, but now she had Sally in her arms. The child's face was buried in her mother's shoulder and Mrs Dubigny was patting her spine in a manner that was no doubt intended to be calming, but at the same time was vaguely chiding, chiding that there should be any need to be calmed. Seeing them Vincent squared his shoulders and walked steadfastly across the courtyard. Mrs Dubigny withdrew her gaze from the clock to smile at him.