Welcome debonaire Di in her chic tailor-mades …’
‘You see this sort of song, for instance,’ said Jeavons. ‘Who the hell wants to listen to something like that? God knows what it is all about, for one thing. Songs were quite different when I was younger.’
The song came to an end and there was a little clapping.
Templer came across the dance floor to our table. I introduced him, explaining that Jeavons had brought me; and also that Jeavons knew Widmerpool and Mrs. Haycock. I told him that at once, to forestall comments that might easily be embarrassing in the mood to which Jeavons had abandoned himself.
‘So you already know that Widmerpool is getting married?’ said Templer. ‘I was hoping to break the news to you. I am disappointed.’
For someone in general so sure of himself, he was a shade self-conscious at being caught entertaining Widmerpool in a haunt of this kind: hardly a routine place to take a business acquaintance. He had probably hoped that the news of Widmerpool’s engagement, by its broad humour, would distract attention from his own immediate circumstances.
‘The old boy behaved rather well about my brother-in-law, Bob,’ he said, rather hurriedly. ‘And then Dicky kept on pestering me to come to this dive of his. Do you know Dicky?’
‘Just met him once before.’
‘And then the girl I’m with loves to be taken to places she thinks “amusing”. It seemed a chance of killing several birds with the same stone.’
‘Who is your girl?’
‘She is called Betty. I can never remember her married name. Taylor, is it? Porter? Something like that. We met at a dreadful bridge party the other day. Her husband is only interested in making money, she says. I can’t imagine what she finds amiss in that. Rather a peach, isn’t she?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Why don’t you both come over and join us?’
Templer addressed the question to me, but he turned in the direction of Jeavons as if to persuade him.
‘As you know our friend Widmerpool already,’ said Templer. ‘I need not explain what he is like. I know he’ll be glad to see both of you, even though he is a bit under the weather tonight.’
Rather to my surprise, Jeavons at once agreed to join the Templer party. I was not nearly so certain as Templer that Widmerpool would be glad to see us. Jeavons bored him; while Templer and I were such old friends that he might suspect some sort of alliance against himself. He was easily disturbed by such apprehensions.
‘What is wrong with Widmerpool?’
‘Feeling low generally,’ said Templer. ‘Mildred had to drag him out tonight. But never mind that. It is extraordinary those two should be engaged. Women may show some discrimination about whom they sleep with, but they’ll marry anybody.’
Templer was already, so it appeared, on Christian name terms with Mrs. Haycock. We moved across, bearing our bottle with us. Widmerpool, as I could have foretold, did not look too well pleased to have us at the same table, but his state of health disposed him to show this no more than by offering a rather sour greeting. Mrs. Haycock, on the other hand, was delighted by this increase in numbers. Flushed in the face, she looked as hard as nails. She could hardly be called handsome, but there was a dash about her that Widmerpool could justly feel lacking in his own life as a bachelor. It was surprising to me not merely that he should be alarmed at the prospect of becoming her husband, but that he should ever have had the courage to propose; although, at the same time, plenty of reasons for his doing so presented themselves. Probably he was prepared — for he did most things rationally — to accept, even to welcome, attributes in a wife other men might have approached with caution. At the same time, the notion that he was entirely actuated by ‘rational’ motives was also no doubt far from the truth. He was possibly not ‘in love’, but at the same time impelled by feelings, if less definable than ‘love’, no less powerful. It was perhaps his imagination which had been captured; which is, after all, something akin to love. Who can say? Mrs. Haycock turned a dazzling smile upon us.
‘I’m Molly’s husband,’ said Jeavons gruffly.
‘But, of course.’
She held out her hand, cordially, but without any suggestion that she knew him apart from her recent visit to the Jeavons house. It was certain, I had no doubt on that point, that she remembered nothing of having met him on the earlier occasion. I was curious to see how he would conduct himself. Mrs. Haycock faced me.
‘I know you are an old friend of Kenneth’s,’ she said. ‘As you can see, the poor boy is still as yellow as a guinea, isn’t he? It was over-eating that did it.’
‘But he is always so careful about his food.’
‘Of course, he fusses all the time,’ she said. ‘Or used to. That is just it. I won’t stand any nonsense of that sort. I like my food. Naturally, if you are banting, that is another matter. What I can’t stand is people who pick at carrots and patent foods and never have a drink.’
This description sounded a fairly exact definition of the meals Widmerpool enjoyed.
‘I have been making him take me to some decent restaurants — such as there are in this country — and showed him how good food can be. I suppose some of it must have disagreed with him. He is back having his own way now, dining off a sardine and a glass of Malvern water.’
Widmerpool himself smiled feebly at all this, as if making no attempt to deny the truth of the picture presented by her of his medical condition. All the time she was speaking, I could think of nothing but the story Jeavons had told me of his former adventure with her. Conversation became general, only Widmerpool continuing to sit in bleak silence. Templer’s girl had large, liquid eyes, and a drawl reminiscent of Mona’s. She was evidently very taken with Templer, gazing at him all the time, as if she could not believe her luck. I asked her what she thought of the Pilgrim-Hopkins turn.
‘Oh, they were good, weren’t they?’ she said. ‘Didn’t you think so, Peter?’
‘A frightfully old-fashioned couple,’ said Templer. ‘The only reason they are here is because their act was a flop at the Café de Madrid. Still, I’m glad you liked them, darling. It shows what a sweet nature you have. But I don’t want you to wear clothes like Miss Hopkins. You won’t do that, will you?’
She found this dissent from her own opinion delicious, darting excited, apprehensive glances at him from under her eyelashes. I saw that it was no good attempting, even conversationally, to compete. Mrs. Haycock would make easier going. I asked whether she and Widmerpool had decided where they were going to live after they were married.
‘That’s rather a big question,’ she said. ‘Kenneth’s business keeps him most of the time in London. I like the idea of making our headquarters in Paris. We could have a small flat over there quite cheaply — in some dingy neighbourhood, if necessary. But I’ve lived too long in France to want to live anywhere else now. Anyway, for most of the year. Then there are the boys. That’s another problem.’
I thought for a second that she must refer to a personal obligation she owed to some male group living probably on the Riviera, to be generically thus classified. Seeing that she had not made herself clear, she added:
‘My two sons, you know.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘They are always cropping up.’
‘Are they at school?’
‘Yes, of course they are,’ she said, as if that were a foolish question to ask. ‘That is, when they haven’t been expelled.’
She stared at me fixedly after saying this, still seeming to imply that I should already know about her sons, especially the fact that they were continually being expelled from school. Uncertain whether or not she intended to strike a jaunty or sombre note, I did not know whether to laugh or commiserate. In fact, so peculiar was her tone that I wondered now whether she were entirely sane. Although in most respects impossible to imagine anyone less like Mrs. Conyers, a change of expression, or tone of voice, would suddenly recall her sister. For example, when she spoke of her children, I was reminded of Mrs. Conyers invoking the General. There was, however, one marked difference between them. Mrs. Conyers bestowed about her a sense of absolute certainty that she belonged — could only belong to the class from which she came, the world in which she lived. Mrs. Haycock, on the other hand, had by then largely jettisoned any crude certainties of origin. She may even have decided deliberately to rid herself of too embarrassing an inheritance of traditional thought and behaviour. If so, she had been on the whole successful. Only from time to time, and faintly, she offered a clue to correct speculation about herself: just as Jeavons would once in a way display the unmistakable action of his marriage on his point of view. On the whole, Mrs. Haycock’s bluff manner suggested long association with people who were rich, but rich without much concern about other aspects of life.