‘You have known Bertha and the General for a long time?’
‘Since I was a child.’
‘That was when you met Mildred?’
‘Yes.’
‘You probably know all the stories about their father, Lord Vowchurch?’
‘I’ve heard some of them.’
‘The remark he is said to have made to King Edward just after Bertha’s engagement had been announced?’
‘I don’t know that one.’
‘It was on the Squadron Lawn at Cowes. The King is supposed to have said: “Well, Vowchurch, I hear you are marrying your eldest daughter to one of my generals”, and Bertha’s father is said to have replied: “By Gad, I am, sir, and I trust he’ll teach the girl to lead out trumps, for they’ll have little enough to live on”. Edward VII was rather an erratic bridge-player, you know. Sir Thomas Lipton told me the story in broad Scotch, which made it sound funnier. Of course, the part that appealed to Sir Thomas Lipton was the fact that it took place on the Squadron Lawn.’
‘How did the King take it?’
‘I think he was probably rather cross. Of course it may not be true. But Lord Vowchurch certainly was always getting into trouble with the King. Lord Vowchurch was supposed to be referring to some special game of bridge when he had been dummy and things had gone badly wrong with King Edward’s play. You said you’d met my Uncle Alfred, didn’t you?’
‘A couple of times.’
‘And you know whom I mean by Brabazon?’
‘The Victorian dandy—“Bwab”?’
‘Yes, that one.’
‘Who said he couldn’t remember what regiment he had exchanged into — after leaving the Brigade of Guards because it was too expensive — but “they wore green facings and you got to them by Waterloo Station”?’
‘That’s him. How clever of you to know about him. Well, when Uncle Alfred was a young man, he was dining at Pratt’s, and Colonel Brabazon came in from the Marlborough Club, where he had been in the card-room when the game was being played. According to Uncle Alfred, Colonel Brabazon said: “Vowchurch expwessed weal wesentment while his Woyal Highness played the wottenest wubber of wecent seasons — nothing but we-deals and wevokes.”’
‘I had no idea your uncle had a fund of stories of that kind.’
‘He hasn’t. That is his only one. He is rather a shy man, you see, and nothing ever happens to him.’
This was all very lively; although there was at the same time always something a shade aloof about the manner in which these anecdotes were retailed. However, they carried us down the King’s Road in no time. There was, in addition, something reminiscent about the tone in which they were delivered, a faint reminder of Alfred Tolland’s own reserve and fear of intimacy. Amusing in themselves, the stories were at the same time plainly intended to establish a specific approach to life. Beneath their fluency, it was possible to detect in Frederica Budd herself, at least so far as personal rather than social life was concerned, a need for armour against strangers. Almost schooled out of existence by severe self-discipline, a faint trace of her uncle’s awkwardness still remained to be observed under the microscope. There could be no doubt that I had scored a point by knowing about ‘Bwab’.
‘I met your sister, Priscilla, at the Jeavonses the other night — only for a minute or two. Chips Lovell drove us both home.’
She did not seem much interested by that, hardly answering. I remembered, then, that she probably did not care for Lovell. However, her next words were entirely unexpected.
‘I am on my way to call on my sister, Norah, now,’ she said. ‘It seemed rather a long time since I had set eyes on her. I thought I would just look in to see that she is behaving herself. Why not come and meet her — and see Eleanor again.’
‘Just for a second. Then I shall have to move on.’
At the sound of this last statement I was aware of a faint but distinct disapproval, as if my reply had informed her quite clearly — indeed, almost grossly — that I was up to no good; yet made her at the same time realise that in a locality where so much human behaviour commanded disapprobation, minor derelictions — anyway, in a man — must, in the interest of the general picture, be disregarded. However, together with that sense of constraint that she conveyed, I was by then also aware of a second feeling: a notion that some sort of temporary alliance had been hurriedly constructed between us. I could not explain this impression to myself, though I was prepared to accept it.
By that time we had arrived before a dilapidated stucco fa£ade in a side street, a house entered by way of a creaking, unlatched door, from which most of the paint had been removed. The hall, empty except for a couple of packing-cases, gave off that stubborn musty smell characteristic of staircases leading to Chelsea flats: damp: cigarette smoke: face powder. We climbed the uncarpeted boards, ascending endlessly floor after floor, Frederica Budd taking the steps two at a time at a sharp pace. At last the attics were reached; and another battered door, upon which was fastened a brass knocker, formed in the image of the Lincoln Imp. Attached with four drawing-pins to the panel below this knocker was a piece of grubby cardboard inscribed with the names:
TOLLAND
WALPOLE-WILSON
Frederica, ignoring the claims of the Lincoln Imp, clenched her fist and banged on the door with all her force, at the same time shouting in an unexpectedly raucous voice:
‘Norah! Eleanor!’
There was a sound of someone stirring within. Then Eleanor Walpole-Wilson opened the door. She was wearing a very dirty pair of navy blue flannel trousers and smoking a stub of a cigarette. Apart from her trousers and cigarette, and also a decided air of increased confidence in herself, she had changed very little from the days when, loathing every moment of it, she used to trail round the London ball-rooms. She still wore her hair in a bun, a style which by then brought her appearance almost within measurable distance of ‘the mode’; or at least within hail of something that might, with a little good will, be supposed unconventionally chic. Square and broad-shouldered as ever, she was plainly on much better terms with herself, and with others, than formerly.
‘I’ve brought an old friend to see you,’ said Frederica.
Eleanor showed no surprise at my arrival. There was even a slight suggestion of relief that Frederica Budd had not to be entertained singly; for towards Frederica Eleanor displayed a hint of her old aggressiveness, or at least gave indication that she was on the defensive. This sense of quiet but firm opposition became more positive when we moved into the sitting-room.
‘How are you, Nicholas?’ said Eleanor. ‘Fancy your turning up here. Why, you’ve got a grey hair. Just above your ear.’
The place was horribly untidy, worse than the Jeavonses, and the furniture struck an awkward level between boudoir and studio: an ancient sofa, so big that one wondered how it could ever have been hoisted up the last flight of stairs, stood covered with chintz roses among two or three unsubstantial, faintly ‘Louis’ chairs. The walls had been distempered yellow by some amateur hand. A girl was lying prone on the ground, her skirt rucked up to her thighs, showing a strip of skin above each stocking. This was Norah Tolland. She was pasting scraps on to the surface of a coal-scuttle.
‘Hullo, Frederica,’ she said, without looking up. ‘I shan’t be a moment. I must finish this before the paste runs out.’