When I Was Otherwise (24 page)

Specifically, the guidance she needed was often to do with business; she'd asked him to be her stockbroker. She had only a small amount of money but she trusted him to do his best with it—miracle worker, she sometimes called him. He imagined it had come from her parents, from her father anyway, more than from her husband, although naturally he'd never had such indelicacy as to try to find out. She had never once mentioned Henry. Andrew didn't mention him either; not to her. Reading between the lines of what Marsha said about him, dismissing out of hand all Florence's effusions, and relying mainly on his own instincts—objectively inspired by snapshots in the family album—he privately supposed Henry had belonged to the species of ‘poor fish'. Physically, at any rate, he had been a sadly underdeveloped specimen. Andrew had stared with some contempt at a photograph taken on the beach at Scarborough in 1929, when Henry had been much the same age as he himself was now. And even facially…well, not to put too fine a point on it, Andrew had considered it was almost an effeminate face, weak and indeterminate, a ‘pretty' face—rather similar to Marsha's as a matter of fact—not quite decent in a man. No. He would never have spoken to Daisy about it, obviously, nor yet to Marsha, but he rather suspected that Henry hadn't been a wholly decent type. Indeed, ‘decent' wasn't a word which he'd apply to him at all. As this was the one adjective which more than any other Andrew hoped people would use about himself after his death, he was aware that he was passing quite a judgment on this unknown brother-in-law of his. But the very fact Daisy never mentioned him surely pointed up the soundness of such a judgment. He believed that, short though it was, Daisy had probably led a brute of a life with Henry. Poor little thing! She was so small!
Brave
little thing! Whenever he thought about it he wanted to enfold her in his arms and let her know the solid comfort of what a true man's strength could be. For, after all, what was the purpose of acquiring strength if it wasn't to share it?

But though such a form of financial guidance clearly involved discussing his work to some degree—and when he left the office these days this was precisely the last thing he normally wished to do—he found that, strangely, he didn't object to talking shop with Daisy. It wasn't merely her quick grasp or even the look of admiration so discernible in her gaze: it was more the impression of wistfulness she conveyed. If only she had been a man she too would have chosen the Stock Exchange; that's what he understood. What other job was so requisite of flair, boldness and imagination—a refusal just to play it safe and ape the common herd? He read this in her eyes, and it made him feel, if only temporarily, that yes he had a fine career. She could make things come alive, could Daisy. She could conjure up excitement.

They had a lot to talk about as well in the way of politics; here guidance and enlightenment converged. There was, for instance, the death of the king and the accession of…himself! “If ever his brother should try to depose him before the coronation,” cried Daisy, rather confusingly, “we know exactly whom we could send to take his place! You'll have to swim the moat, of course. I'm sure that you
can
swim?” Well, certainly he could; her confidence was not misplaced. “Farewell to the sower of wild oats!” sighed Daisy. “Hail to the sweet and sobered king!” That was in January. In March there came the German repudiation of the Locarno Treaty and the return of its armed forces to the Rhineland; there were a few harsh words spoken about Erica at this point. In May, Italian troops occupied Addis Ababa—but Daisy and Andrew hadn't yet found their small Italian restaurant and by the time that they had, in mid-July, the Civil War in Spain provided, politically, the chief topic of conversation. Their evening outings had now become monthly ones—and if he'd been forced to give them up Andrew didn't know what he'd have done; but, even so, they'd only been to their new and regular meeting place five times when the newspapers and wireless finally announced the awful news: that King Edward,
their
Edward, was to abdicate after a reign of merely three hundred and twenty-five days. As it happened, they met for the sixth time at that small restaurant exactly two days later—12
^th
December—the day his brother George had ascended the throne in his stead.

“But I take it I won't have to swim the moat now?”

It was a miscalculation. Although not solely on account of this remark Daisy grew as outraged as she'd become on considering the fate of Joan of Arc. She would patently have liked to see another female shoved up in the French girl's place.

“Poor fool! Poor sad fool! To let himself become ensnared by a typically designing woman! Busy at her loom, painstakingly weaving her web! Of course, one always knew he would come to a sticky end. The signs were always there for anyone to see. I'm not at all surprised.”

But she was bitterly disappointed. Andrew was amazed that anyone could feel things—things which didn't directly concern themselves—half so vehemently as she did. In a way he was envious; he thought she might have the makings of a much finer person than he was.

Yet all this empathy and all this fury…so utterly remote from anything in his own experience. And personally he wasn't sure he could ever have welcomed an involvement quite so passionate. (Not to mention, he supposed, fairly tiring. In the long run.)

“Married
twice
already!” she said. “I should have thought that was warning enough for anyone—even the biggest fool going!”

Andrew felt a sneaking sympathy for the man, which was utterly lacking in passion: that anyone could have fallen so far and so swiftly from grace!

“
And
American. And what's that silly heathen name which she rejoices in?—Wallis.
Wallis
? Does she think she's a photographer's shop or something? Besides—she's not even good-looking. I can't imagine what he thinks he sees in her. She's bewitched him, that's all.”

And from the way she glared at him across the table he could believe he must indeed bear a strong resemblance to the king. Ex-king.

“Plainly, though, one can see what
she
was after! Oh, very nice to be the Queen of England, I daresay. Very nice to get your hands on all those crown jewels, stow them away in your shopping bag! Well, she jolly well underestimated
us
, didn't she—us loyal subjects of the British Empire? Silly ass! How
like
an American! She probably thought she could bring her friends here—if she has any, which I doubt—and turn them all into dukes and earls and prime ministers. The sheer and utter gall of it! Besides, she's old enough to be his mother.”

“Hardly!”

“Well, she looks it, anyway—which comes to the same thing. But what's the matter with you tonight? You're very quiet it seems. Cat got your tongue?” She gave a sharp laugh; none too pleasant. This was certainly a different Daisy. “Have
you
ever been to Wallis Heathen? Everybody else has.”

The mistake was intentional. She was referring to Wallis Heaton and he knew he'd be done for if he admitted he'd lately bought a camera there. (
And
been overcharged for it; wasn't Oxford Street supposed to be cheaper than most of its competitors?) But he was too honourable to tell a lie. He contented himself with a shrug.

“No, obviously. I think it's every bit as appalling as you do.”

“To abandon your native heath like that!” she exclaimed. “Just to slough it off like an old skin! The country that suckled and supported you! The empire that gave you a playground! And all in the name of what the songwriters would have you think was love!” She gave a snort; it was undeniably a snort. “
Love
!” she repeated. “To abandon everything for love!” She made the notion sound obscene.

“Yes, no doubt about it, he's a cad,” agreed Andrew.

A cad, when just three days ago he'd been…a card. And Andrew couldn't
help
but feel slightly sorry for him: weak, licentious, a shirker of duty though the fellow had plainly proved to be. He wouldn't have expected to feel sorry for him. But it was all so final somehow—turning your back on a life and a throne and a people who had worshipped you. And behaving this way for some kind of chemical imbalance which Haley, or was it Johnson, had claimed couldn't last for more than eighteen months at the outside. So you'd be bound to regret it, bound to look backwards—or sideways—and wonder in a particular moment of dislike, or boredom, or discontent, what exciting thing you might have been doing
now
if your life had just gone down that other road, the road which everyone, yourself included, had assumed it would.

“Yet the thing is,” he said to Daisy, “surely you have to feel sorry for someone who's made such a mess of things? Especially when he started out with such a very fine hand?”

“Oh, you make it sound like a game of bridge or pontoon!” snapped Daisy, who had never had much affection for cards—at all events, not the kind you shuffled; and still wasn't feeling pleased with him.

So Andrew didn't add that somehow he found the downfall of a playboy—of such a darling of the gods—distinctly reassuring. He realized it wasn't quite the decent way to feel.

What he
didn't
realize was that, on occasion, he could actually have drawn comfort from the downfall of anyone; and that at odd times throughout his life he most certainly would.

And another thing which he didn't acknowledge, either to himself or to her, was his odd feeling of melancholy in the face of a love so deep and all-consuming that it could blind you to everything about you—everything—except your need to be with the beloved, to hold her and be held by her, no matter what the cost.

Even though it didn't last for more than eighteen months. Even though this period might be a scientifically proven fact, according to Haley. (Or was it Johnson?)

He tried to imagine what it would be like, at the moment, to be the universally reviled Edward Windsor.

He tried to imagine what it would be like, at the moment, to be the universally reviled Wallis Simpson.

Then he saw Daisy looking at him, and started somewhat, with an unformulated sense of guilt. Perhaps he even blushed. “But in a way,” he said defiantly, “you do have to feel a little sorry for him.”

To his surprise, after a further long pause, a really pregnant pause as it had seemed to him, Daisy not simply agreed, she agreed wholeheartedly.

“Yes, I know, dear. Yes, I know.”

So evidently the ex-king wasn't totally beyond the pale. He hadn't joined company with her mother yet or with her landlord, with Florence or with Erica. Andrew was beginning to realize, indulgently, what an awesomely overpopulated region it must be: that land beyond the pale.

“And in one way, perhaps, you could even say,” he felt emboldened by his small success, “you could even say that it was something quite romantic. To abandon everything for love.” Too late, he remembered that she herself had just used the same phrase; remembered the tone of voice in which she'd done so.

But again he was to be confounded.

“Yes, you're right, dear,” she said. “Up to a point. You nearly always are. It would be a drab world if it hadn't any room to house the unexpected or if everyone just listened to their mothers.”

He was delighted. It seemed that he could exercise authority over even her most cantankerous mood. He felt like King Canute; well, King Canute on a successful day. (Of course he had influence over Marsha too, but
everybody
had influence over Marsha, so there wasn't any true glory to be had from that. Besides—Marsha would have sulked for ages.) Daisy was now all laughter and tomfoolery. “Romance!” she said. She could even bring herself to use his own word, which he thought a minute ago would have stuck in her craw, in company with hers,
love
. “Romance! Yes, I shall have to sing you something from
The Desert Song
!”

Well, he didn't care for that so much. Why did every woman he ever met have this terrible compulsion to sing to him? Would Miss Eggling be the next?

But she was only joking, thank God. When an hour afterwards, at parting, he gave Daisy her Christmas present, a copy of
Gone With The Wind
, the same thing he had bought Marsha, he felt better pleased with her than ever—despite the fact he had only received in return a small tin of pipe tobacco and a packet of Callard & Bowser.

“Awful bosh!” Daisy was later to designate the book. (Though not to him; she
just
managed to save herself in time.)

Yet the minute Marsha had finished it, she turned right back to the beginning, and started it over again.

34

1937 came…and more than half went. But now not only did they have their monthly evenings out: three times, as well, they went to the races. They saw the Derby; they spent a day at Ascot; they even went so far as Doncaster. (They had lunch on the train;
that
was an occasion.) Yet after the Derby he had to be careful to avoid the big races, in case someone at the office twigged. As it was, when he telephoned on Derby Day, Miss Eggling cried out skittishly, “Now, Mr Poynton. Are you perfectly
sure
that you're reclining on a bed of sickness?” His colleagues were all aware of his interest—although none of them took it very seriously, except when they wanted, they said, to have ‘a bit of a flutter' and came sidling over for advice. Moreover, he'd had to use a neighbour's telephone to avoid the telltale rattle of the dropping coin: there was so much that had to be considered, so many small dangers that had to be weighed.

But it was worth it. Apart from anything else, he won more than twenty pounds on a rank outsider at Doncaster. When they returned to King's Cross he bought Daisy a hat—although she herself had backed the same horse—a hat of the type she couldn't just throw into a handbag (but would most likely never wear except when she was out with him). Well, never mind. As always in her company he felt quite reckless; lost all his prudence and his inhibitions! Arriving home he gave Marsha three pounds for herself—he informed her he'd placed the bet with a bookmaker—and a guinea to put into the baby's post office account the following day.