‘Haycock had worked very hard all his life. He wanted some relaxation in his later days. That was understandable. They got on quite well so far as I can see.’
I began to apprehend a little of what Widmerpool was hinting. Mrs. Haycock’s outline became clearer. No doubt she had graduated from an earlier emancipation of slang and cigarettes, to a habit of life with threatening aspects for a future husband.
‘Did they have any children?’
‘Yes,’ said Widmerpool. ‘They did. Mildred has two children. That does not worry me. Not at all. Glad to start with a family.’
He said all this so aggressively that I suspected a touch of bravado. Then he paused. I was about to ask the age and sex of the children, when he began to speak hurriedly again, the words tumbling out as if he wanted to finish with this speech as quickly as possible.
‘I should not wish to appear backward in display of affection,’ he said, developing an increased speed with every phrase, ‘and, in addition to that, I don’t see why we should delay unduly the state in which we shall spend the rest of our life merely because certain legal and religious formalities take time to arrange. In short, Nicholas, you will, I am sure, agree — more especially as you seem to spend a good deal of your time with artists and film-writers and people of that sort, whose morals are proverbial — that it would be permissible on my part to suppose — once the day of the wedding has been fixed — that we might — occasionally enjoy each other’s company — say, over a week-end—’
He came to a sudden stop, looking at me rather wildly.
‘I don’t see why not.’
It was impossible to guess what he was going to say next. This was all far from anything for which I had been prepared.
‘In fact my fiancee — Mildred, that is — might even expect such a suggestion?’
‘Well, yes, from what you say.’
‘Might even regard it as usage du monde?’
‘Quite possible.’
Then Widmerpool sniggered. For some reason I was conscious of embarrassment, even of annoyance. The problem could be treated, as it were, clinically, or humorously; a combination of the two approaches was distasteful. I had the impression that the question of how he should behave worried him more on account of the figure he cut in the eyes of Mrs. Haycock than because his passion could not be curbed. However, to have released from his mind these observations had clearly been a great relief to him. Now he cheered up a little.
‘There is a further point,’ he said. ‘As my name is an uncommon one, I take it I should be called upon to provide myself with a sobriquet.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘In your own case, the difficulty would scarcely arise — so many people being called “Jenkins”.’
‘It may surprise you to hear that when I embark on clandestine week-ends, I call myself “Widmerpool”.’
Widmerpool laughed with reasonable heartiness at that fancy. All the same, the question of what name should cover the identity of Mrs. Haycock and himself when first appearing as husband and wife still worried him.
‘But what surname do you think should be employed?’ he asked in a reflective tone, speaking almost to himself.
‘“Mr. and Mrs. Smith” would have the merit of such absolute banality that it would almost draw attention to yourselves. Besides, you might be mistaken for the Jeavonses’ borrowed butler.’
Widmerpool, still pondering, ignored this facetiousness, regarding me with unseeing eyes.
‘“Mr. and the Honourable Mrs. Smith?” You might feel that more in keeping with your future wife’s rank and station. That, in any case, would strike a certain note of originality in the circumstances.’
At this suggestion, Widmerpool laughed outright. The pleasantry undoubtedly pleased him. It reminded him of the facts of his engagement, showing that I had not missed the point that, whatever her shortcomings, Mildred was the daughter of a peer. His face lighted up again.
‘I suppose it should really be quite simple,’ he said. ‘After all, the booking clerk at an hotel does not actually ask every couple if they are married.’
‘In any case, you are both going to get married.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said.
‘So there does not seem much to worry about.’
‘No, I suppose not. All the same, I do not like doing irregular things. But this time, I think I should be behaving rightly in allowing a lapse of this kind. It is expected of me.’
Gloom again descended upon him. There could be no doubt that the thought of the projected week-end worried him a great deal. I could see that he regarded its achievement, perhaps righdy, as a crisis in his life.
‘And then, where to go?’ he remarked peevishly.
‘Had you thought at all?’
‘Of course it must be a place where neither of us is recognised — I don’t want any—’
His words died away.
‘Any what?’
‘Any jokes,’ he said irritably.
‘Of course not.’
‘The seaside, do you think?’
‘Do you play any games still? Golf? You used to play golf, didn’t you? Some golfing resort?’
‘I gave up golf. No time.’
Again he looked despairing. He had devoted so much energy to achieving his present position in the world that even golf had been discarded. There was something impressive in this admission. We sat for a time in silence. The fat man was now enjoying the first taste of some apple-pie liberally covered with cream and brown sugar. The yellow-faced couple were still occupied with the situation in Central Europe.
‘La position de Dollfuss envers le parti national-socialiste autrichien serait insoutenable s’il comptait sur une gouvernement soi-disant parlemcntaire: il faut bien l’avouer.’
‘Heureusement le chancelier autrichien n’est pas accablé d’un tel handicap administratif.’
Widmerpool may have caught some of their words. In any case, he must have decided that the question of his own immediate problems had been sufficiently ventilated. He, too, began to speak of international politics; and with less pessimism than might have been expected.
‘As you probably know,’ he said, ‘my opinions have moved steadily to the left of late years. I quite see that there are aspects of Hitler’s programme to which objection may most legitimately be taken. For example, I myself possess a number of Jewish friends, some of them very able men — Jimmy Klein, for example — and I should therefore much prefer that item of the National Socialist policy to be dropped. I am, in fact, not at all sure that it will not be dropped when matters get straightened out a bit. After all, it is sometimes forgotten that the National Socialists are not only “national”, they are also “socialist”. So far as that goes, I am with them. They believe in planning. Everyone will agree that there was a great deal of the old Germany that it was right to sweep away — the Kaisers and Krupps, Hindenburgs and mediatised princes, stuff of that sort — we want to hear no more about them. Certainly not. People talk of rearming. I am glad to say the Labour Party is against it to a man — and the more enlightened Tories, too. There is far too much disregard, as it is, of the equilibrium to be maintained between the rate of production and consumption in the aggregate, without the additional interference of a crushing armaments programme. We do not want an obstacle like that in the way of the organised movement towards progressive planning in the economic world of today. People talk of non-aggression pacts between France, Belgium and ourselves. The plain consequence of any such scatter-brained military commitments would be merely to augment existing German fears of complete encirclement. No, no, none of that, please. What is much more likely to be productive is to settle things round a table. Business men of the right sort. Prominent trade unionists. Sir Magnus Donners could probably play his part. If Germany wants her former colonies, hand them back to her. What is the objection? They are no use to anyone else. Take a man like Goering. Now, it seems pretty plain to me from looking at photographs of him in the papers that he only likes swaggering about in uniforms and decorations. I expect he is a bit of a snob — most of us are at heart — well, ask him to Buckingham Palace. Show him round. What is there against giving him the Garter? After all, it is what such things are for, isn’t it? Coffee?’