Mrs. Phipps was not an ill-disposed woman, and not any more of a tittle-tattle than anyone else at the Princes. She nevertheless found it impossible to keep her information to herself. She confided the substance of it to Mrs. Forrest and together they talked to Miss Rumbold, who had the reputation of being a bit of a radical, having voted Liberal several times, though of course at the last election she had voted for dear Mr. Churchill. To Mrs. Forrest she was a woman of standards, though when she had listened twice to the story she still felt quite troubled — her cheeks were high pink in colour, and she had to struggle to find a way through her uncertainties.
“So what you are — no, you are not implying anything — what the sounds you heard seem to suggest—”
“That’s better,” said Mrs. Phipps. “I should hate it if—”
“Of course you would. What those sounds suggest is that the pair of them have imposed themselves on us as mother and son, whereas in fact they are... she is... he is... Oh dear. I don’t know the word.”
“No,” said Mrs. Forrest wistfully. “When an older man has a younger woman for his... you know... there are quite a lot of words and phrases, some of them quite vulgar, to describe the situation.” Mrs. Forrest’s voice sank to a whisper. “But this... Would the world ‘gigolo’ describe him?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Miss Rumbold. “It brings to mind someone like Rudolph Valentino. Do you remember him? How my heart used to flutter! It suggests someone Latin. Someone like — would Tyrone Power fit the bill?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Mrs. Phipps. “Someone like that. I believe he’s Irish. He’s quite unlike Simon Webber.”
“If that is his real name. Oh, I agree. He’s so tall and regular featured and fair. One would say the Aryan type if it hadn’t been made a dirty word by those dreadful Nazis.”
A thought struck Mrs. Forrest.
“But what about his ration book? How would he get one in the name of Simon Webber?”
“I worked in London during the war,” said Miss Rumbold darkly. “In London you can get anything at a price. And though Mrs. Webber says she only has the normal petrol ration, they do get around a lot, don’t they? Could they have... contacts?”
“What sort of contacts?”
“People with a husband in Civil Defence could still have contacts that he made in the war. Where I worked, CD officers were notorious.”
It might have seemed that guilty verdict had already been passed, but in the end they lacked courage and decided they had to consult with someone, preferably another of the guests, so that the thing would be kept within the four walls of the Princes. Pixton was a traditional, elderly, straight-laced town, and nothing could damage the residents more than a sex scandal centred on what was now their home. In the end they decided to talk to Major Catchpole, whose first reaction was not unlike Miss Rumbold’s: Where she went pink, he went scarlet.
“We thought,” said Mrs. Phipps carefully, winding up her tale, “that you with your greater experience—”
“Experience, dammit! I don’t—” But he quietened down almost at once. It would strain belief if he denied ever having had contacts with adultery. “But of course it’s sometimes known. When I was in India there were cases of officers’ wives with subalterns, even with one of the dusky-faced johnnies, damn them. And during the war, with couples separated, and many women becoming widows... Stuff happens that it’s better not to talk about.”
“Oh, we do agree!” said Miss Rumbold. “We are so uncertain that we couldn’t put a name to what he is.”
“What who is?”
“Simon. We finally fixed on the word ‘gigolo,’ but it doesn’t seem quite right.”
“No, it doesn’t. Some of the young chaps in the mess had a word for it — toyboy. But that doesn’t seem quite right either. Seems a serious young man, this Simon.”
“It’s the uncertainty that makes it so troubling,” said Mrs. Forrest. “There might be other explanations.”
“The question is, even if it were certain, would it be for us to judge?” asked Major Catchpole, whose military career had left him with a life’s motto: Anything for a quiet life.
“But if we knew, and did nothing, and it got out around the town!” said Mrs. Phipps. “The reputation of all of us would be at rock bottom! We have a certain reputation because the Princes has a certain reputation. The townspeople respect us, the spa patients and their relatives respect us. We have a position in the community out of all proportion to the rent we pay.”
Major Catchpole was quick to placate Mrs. Phipps.
“Of course, of course. I’d be the last one to throw that away. But the thing is, we must be sure. We must think up a plan of campaign and when we are sure, and only then, we can decide on a strategy, think up a course of action and stick to it.”
Major Catchpole was not the only person who was decisive in theory but inconsistent in practice. That same evening he invited Mr. Somervell to have a beer with him in the King’s Head, and in a corner of the saloon bar he confided in him the gist of the two ladies’ story. From that moment, the battle for secrecy was lost.
When everyone in the Princes except Mrs. Hocking knew what was suspected of the Webbers they became grateful for the afternoon excursions of Mrs. Webber and Simon (they were no longer referred to as mother and son). That was when the rest could talk the situation over. The thing that was most difficult for most of them was the injunction that, until they were sure, no change should come over their behaviour to the pair.
“I just hate having to talk to them,” said Mrs. Matthews, a roly-poly widow with strong opinions. “Just smiling and pretending it’s all right.”
“It’s the same for all of us,” said Mr. Somervell.
“Oh, I know, but I just have this strong feeling, this thing. After all, this has always been a respectable spa town — not like Harrogate, where all sorts of things were going on. Pixton has always had genuine invalids, not people sneaking away from their families in order to have a dirty time. And an older woman, much older, and a very young man. My blood freezes — it really does. I can hardly stop shivering.”
The atmosphere had definitely changed, but subtly at first. The moment of transition was symbolised for Mrs. Webber in the spa’s conservatory — a glass attachment to the theatre, depleted by war and the terrible winter but still a gracious and heartwarming place to be as the summer sun streamed in. It was here that Cynthia Webber, strolling through on her own (Simon was at his books) and looking at plant labels and descriptions, was cut by Mrs. Phipps and Mrs. Forrest. She had seen them coming from the next room and prepared herself (for she was far from unobservant, and had seen how things were going) for a frosty nod or a distant “Good morning.” In fact, the two ladies, faces set firmly ahead, their steps proceeding to the tea room, ignored her entirely and did not even look away but stared straight through her. Mrs. Webber did not enjoy the experience but she joked about it to herself. When, that evening, she told Simon he said, “Vicious old cows,” and, “It’s time we moved on.” She did not disagree with him.
It was two mornings after this, at breakfast, that the next change began. Mrs. Hocking brought in the post when it was nearly nine and Simon had already gone on a long walk “to think things over,” he said, and was heard to say. The Webber package included a bulky, official-looking envelope which Mrs. Webber opened. It was addressed to Simon, but she knew what it must be.