The Mule on the Minaret (72 page)

She waved her hand, the door clicked behind her, and he was standing in the half-lit hall, with his suitcase and satchel at his feet. A soldier's homecoming. He thought of the Great Duke of Marlborough returning unexpectedly from his high triumphs in the Low Countries and pleasuring that great lady, his wife, twice, without taking off his boots. He looked about him. It was a flat like two hundred others. He opened a door; the sitting-room: a chesterfield and two armchairs ranged before an electric fireplace: over the mantelpiece a Medici reproduction of the ‘Last Supper.' A cocktail cabinet with decanters half and quarter filled: the dining-room opened off it: a dark chill room, facing north, that probably could be made attractive at night with candlelight and flowers; a large twin-bedded room; with photographs on the dressing-table: photographs of the boys, and one of him, an enlargement of a snap taken on a cricket tour in 1935. No sign of the American. And no sign really here of Rachel; apart from the silver hairbrushes with her initials, a wedding present. A bathroom divided it from a small dressing-room with a single bed: he opened the cupboard doors to see how much of his wardrobe had survived: the blue pin-stripe double-breasted suit, those well-worn tweeds, broad black and white checks; but what had happened to the brown check with the red stripe running through it? A casualty maybe. There was the dark charcoal suit that he had worn for college functions, but where was the bottle green suit that it had amused him to flaunt on stodgy tea parties? He appreciated the moths' taste.

He opened the drawers. Cotton shirts were immune to moths' depredations. What a number of evening shirts he had; and ties, he had forgotten that he had so many ties. Socks? The moths would have got at them, no doubt. But he was well off for handkerchiefs. He went into the kitchen. There was a stack of dirty plates. Had Rachel any help? Did she do all the cooking? There
was a large refrigerator. It was stacked with partially consumed morsels: lettuce, potato salad, sardines, canned peaches, sausages. There was a closet containing an iron frame for cellarage. It was well stocked. He pulled out a bottle. La Tache 1926. How well he remembered ordering that? Had it retained its quality? Nineteen years? Perhaps. But the half bottles of Richebourg 1923 would probably have passed.

The clock over the gas range pointed to half past nine. Perhaps his father hadn't left yet for his office. That was a number that he did remember. The welcome at the other end was reassuringly warm. ‘Noel, my dear boy. I can't believe it. I knew that you were due back soon; but not so soon. It's wonderful, dear boy. It's wonderful.'

‘What about lunch today?'

‘If I were lunching with the P.M. I'd cancel it.'

‘The—Athenaeum, then, at half past twelve?'

‘At half past twelve, yes, but not the Athenaeum. You must lunch with me. At the Isthmian. What day is it? It's Thursday. We're in luck. We can get wine on Thursdays. At half past twelve. And don't be late, dear boy. All the best food gets eaten if one is.'

Half past twelve, and it was not yet half past nine. Three hours to put in, and after lunch, presuming it was over by half past two, there would be another four hours before Rachel's return; before his zero hour. For that was how he foresaw the evening: the hour of crisis on which would depend the outcome of the last third of his life. In the meantime there were these chores ahead of him; the registration with the food office, his visit to Olympia to collect the free suit of clothes—the shoes, the shirt, the hat, the raincoat to which every demobilized soldier was entitled; and then the visit to Anderson and Shepherd, to hand in his clothing coupons, to place his order for two new suits. In the meantime he could get out of khaki, into that dark blue pin-stripe suit. He looked at the date inside the pocket. July 8, 1937. How little he had expected then, that he would be wearing it practically brand new in 1945.

He was relieved to find that it still fitted him. He had not put on weight.

It all took longer than he had expected. He had to wait in a queue at the Food Office and the girl at the desk seemed incredibly
slow in filling in his particulars: there was a series of queues too at Olympia. Savile Row would have to wait till after lunch.

He was glad to be lunching at the Isthmian. He had been a constant guest there both of his father and of his solicitor. ‘I can't think why you don't join us,' Jenks had said. ‘You must eat here at least once a month.'

Reid had shaken his head. ‘One should be a member of two clubs and a guest of three. That's the definition of a Londoner.'

As he walked into the hall, a man whom he had known for years without having the least idea who he was, hailed him genially. ‘I haven't seen you around here for a while.'

‘I've been abroad, in Middle East.'

‘In oil?'

‘No, in the Army.'

‘Back for good then now, I suppose?'

‘It looks like that.'

‘Then I hope we will be seeing you a lot.'

‘That's what I'm hoping too.'

The man clearly had no idea who he was and imagined that he was a member. What was the point of joining several clubs provided one had friends?

There was no bar in the Isthmian. Preprandial sherries and pink gins were served in the drawing-room. His father was sitting with three other men, one of whom was Jenks. Jenks did not get up to welcome him. ‘Please forgive me, my dear boy, but getting up and sitting down has become an effort. You know us all, I think.'

There were no introductions, in self defence Reid presumed. His father would have felt shy of failing to identify old acquaintances. Reid sat next Jenks. They exchanged a conspiratorial glance. ‘I suppose that I may expect a visit from you soon,' the lawyer said.

‘Yes, very soon.'

Reid wondered whether when the divorce was underway, Jenks had ever mentioned it to his father. He did not suppose he had. Reid did not indeed know whether his father had any idea that there had been a situation. He had never mentioned it. ‘Now what would you like, dear boy? Not that there's really any choice. It's either pink gin or sherry. I've caught the waiter's eye. I'd recommend the gin. One doesn't expect it to be pleasant, so one's not disappointed. I've taken the precaution by the way of ordering a bottle of claret. We've still got some ‘29s I'm glad to say.' His
father was fussing a little, and Reid noticed that his hand shook as he reached forwards for his glass. He gave the impression of trying to steady himself before each movement. He kept his fingers round the glass, before he lifted it. His father after all, was over eighty now, and each of these last years with their strain and their privations must have been the equivalent of two. Yet his voice was as firm as ever. He was holding his own in the general conversation. He seemed to be enjoying life.

Reid's pink gin arrived. He could not remember when he had drunk a pink gin last. It was not very pleasant on the palate; but it was strong. He needed something strong. ‘In five and a half hours' time,' he thought. He sipped at his gin slowly. There had been no bar on the ship. For three weeks he had touched no hard liquor. He wanted to keep his reactions fresh.

His father took out his watch. ‘Five minutes to. I don't want to hurry you, dear boy, but if you could empty your glass within three minutes, I should be grateful. A number of members I regret to say stand at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for the gong. Not very dignified. Looks greedy too, not only looks but is. I like to start moving across the room, so that I reach the foot of the stairs, simultaneously with the gong.'

Reid realized why his father needed that two minutes. His rising from his chair was a laboured process. And now that he stood up, his son could recognize that he had acquired a stoop. His walk had become a shuffle. Yes, he was an old man now.

His syncronization was astute. Half a dozen members had a short lead of him. And one or two others pushed their way past him on the stairs, but the coffee-room was not a tenth part full when he came into it. ‘We'll sit at the long table, nearer the buttery,' he said. A decanter of red wine was set before them. It was the first wine of quality that he had tasted since his trip to Cairo, in the autumn of 1942. The reserves on the Egyptian wagon lit had been long exhausted. ‘This is a treat, Father. I had forgotten how good good wine could be.'

‘It almost makes you forget how bad bad food can be.'

‘It doesn't seem so bad.'

‘You're being polite.'

‘No really, no.'

‘You wait, till you've had precisely the same food every day for thirty days and none of it with any backbone. It's the monotony that gets you down. That's been the trouble with everything over
here. Monotony. Each day exactly like the last. That's where you've been lucky, you've had variety.'

Reid smiled. He thought of those long hot July days when the temperature stood steady around 110
^°
with an occasional jump to 120°; and the only respite to the heat was that little breeze that lifted off the Tigris at four each morning, when you woke with a silent shiver and pulled a sheet over your shoulders. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘I've been very lucky.'

Talk was general, lively, animated. They talked of the election; everybody was agreed that the Tories would get in by fifty. They talked about currency restrictions, about blackmarket restaurants, about income-tax; they speculated about how long the rationing of petrol, and food and clothing would continue. No one talked about the war. The war with Germany was over; their war, that was to say, was over. The war with Japan was another matter. It was scarcely their concern; it did not affect them personally.

Listening to the talk so brisk, so lively Reid had a surprising sense both of its intimacy and provincialism. The men here really liked each other. They were friends in the way that members of a club were not usually. Max Beerbohm in his essay ‘A club in ruins' had said, looking at a ruined building, ‘it was more than a home; it was a home against many homes; it was a club.' He had himself thought of a club as a refuge: as a harbour; a place where you went when a date had failed you; when you had nowhere else to go. But for these Londoners during the last six years, the Isthmian had been the centre of their private lives. Their families were in the country, or evacuated overseas. They had come here night after night, after their long dreary hours in offices either underground or with windows covered with anti-blast protection, so that all day long they had had to work under electric light. For long periods the blitz had roared about them. They had not thought of themselves as being in danger, but subconsciously they had been aware of danger. At any moment the building might be hit. Had not the Carlton only a few yards away been reduced to rubble? There was no closer bond than that of dangers shared. It was not surprising that they should have come to feel genuine affection for one another.

Yet at the same time their lives during those six years had been intensely narrow. The circle of their interests had been drawn with the shortest radius. They had commuted between their flats, their offices and their club. In wartime, with the blackout, with the
restrictions, any journey involved difficulties that one was loath to take. Against the background of great events, these clubmen had been chained to the trivial problems of their day to day routines. Everything from the big world came to them at second hand, by hearsay. ‘Will I ever,' Reid wondered, ‘find myself at one with them again?'

For coffee, his father took him into the billiard-room. They sat at the far end of a raised leather-covered settee from which, if they wanted, they could watch the play. ‘Have you seen Rachel at all yet?' his father asked.

‘For a couple of minutes. She was going out just as I arrived.'

‘How did you find her?'

‘She seemed all right. But I scarcely saw her; the hall was dark.'

‘I suppose that she'll soon be giving up her job at the Ministry?'

‘I imagine so.'

‘She's still very concerned with Palestine.'

‘So I'd inferred. Do you see her often?'

‘Not enough. We are both very occupied. No one seems to have any spare time nowadays, yet no one seems to do anything.'

There was a pause. There were several questions that Reid would have been glad to ask his father, but he refrained. He did not want to have this first crucial meeting with Rachel affected by preconceived ideas. He wanted to approach her with an open mind.

‘I suppose,' his father said, ‘that you'll be going down to Fernhurst to see the boys?'

It had not occurred to Reid. There was so much already on his mind, but perhaps it should have done.

‘I'd thought of going down one day next week.'

‘That is what I expected. I'd rather like to go down with you if you wouldn't mind.'

Reid could not have been more surprised, he was glad that the room was dark with the lights concentrated on the green baize cloth, so that his father could not notice his expression. ‘But that would be wonderful, of course.' He hesitated. ‘Tuesday's a half holiday. Why don't we go on Tuesday?'

‘That would be fine for me. We'll take the morning train.'

Tuesday. That was five days away. By the time he saw the boys, he would know what kind of life he and their mother would be sharing.

*

By half past five Reid was back in the flat in Bloomsbury. He unpacked the brown cardboard parcel that he had acquired at the demobilization centre. The sports coat that he had chosen in preference to a suit had looked well enough against a background of new suitings. Its texture seemed tawdry when set beside his Savile Row tweeds, worn though they were. His tailor had told him that it would take at least a year to get his new suits ready, though they had one or two suits that had been ordered before the war by customers who had never turned up to claim them which could be adapted to his measurements within two months. He should think himself lucky that his 1937 suits moth-scarred though they were, still fitted him.