11
“Awdry,” said Munday, putting the receiver into its cradle. “He’s invited us over to his New Year’s Eve thrash.” Emma removed her reading glasses before she spoke. She said, “Tomorrow?”
“Someone must have backed out.” "
“Still, it might be fun. I hope I can find something to wear.”
But Munday was saying to Mrs. Branch, “What do you know about Mr. Awdry?”
Mrs. Branch smiled and paused, and for a few moments she nodded, considering slowly what she would say. It was a habit of response she had picked up since Munday had begun questioning her, and Munday felt that her delay, miming reflection, was a purposeless show of self-importance he had encouraged in her. She said, “They say that in the manor they had these painters doing pictures on the ceiling—lying on their backs they was.” She shook her head at the madness of it. “Keeps his dishes locked up in a safe, and he’s got this little gold bell on the table, very expensive, that he rings when he calls the cook—that’s Mrs. Hosmer. He gave her twenty pounds at Christmas. He’s posh, is Mr. Awdry, but they say he’s ever so kind.”
“I’m sure,” said Munday. He doubted that, and the late invitation annoyed him; but he was glad to have it.
Lewesdon Manor was at the end of a long gravel drive lined with boxwood hedges whose fullness and size told the age of the house. In its facade of warm floodlit stone, made mild by the lights, were twelve bright windows—there were candles in the upper ones—and through one of the ground floor windows they could see some people standing before a fire flickering in a hearth. Large, open, and well lighted, it was a house which welcomed with its warmth and its close arched doorway, female with wisteria which, even leafless, retained a look of complicated clinging elegance.
“So glad you could make it,” said Awdry, and he introduced the Mundays to Mrs. Awdry, who had just entered the high-ceilinged hall in a dress of green watered silk; she was also wearing a frilly white apron —‘Tm helping out in the kitchen,” she explained. “We’ve got flu.”
“We haven’t had it, thank goodness,” said Emma.
“It’s worse than malaria,” said Mr. Awdry. “And I know, because I’ve had malaria!”
“It sucks one so,” said Mrs. Awdry.
“I once had cerebral malaria,” said Munday.
“I knew a chap who died from a bout of that,” said Mr. Awdry.
“It’s usually fatal,” said Munday. “A mission doctor prayed for me. Fortunately he also had the foresight to treat me with chloroquine.” Mr. Awdry said “We’ve got lots to talk about” to Munday, and Mrs. Awdry took Emma aside and explained how at a country auction they had picked up the Jacobean church pew Emma was admiring, which served as a bench in the hall. Then Mrs. Awdry excused herself saying, “I must see to the turkey.” Standing near the fire in the living room were the vicar and Mrs. Crawshaw, and two young couples who were introduced as the Stricks and the Motherwells.
“This is Doctor Munday, the writer,” said Awdry.
Munday tried to correct him.
Anne Motherwell said, “We’re talking about children.”
“My favorite subject,” said Munday.
“How many do you have?” asked Janet Strick.
“None that I know of,” said Munday, “which means I can be perfectly objective.”
“Punch?” asked Awdry.
“Lovely,” said Emma.
“Whisky for me,” said Munday. “No ice, a little water.”
“Won’t be a moment,” said Mr. Awdry and went for the drinks.
“We’re all having the punch,” said Janet Strick to Munday, as Emma drifted over to the vicar and his wife.
Munday made a face. “But one never knows what they put in punch, does one?”
“Mr. Awdry’s punch is quite famous,” said Janet eagerly. “He makes it with the local cider and some secret ingredients.”
“You see what I mean?” said Munday. But his attempt at humor failed. Though his intentions were friendly his irony was always too peevish to seem like anything but aggression. The woman frowned and took a step back.
“Tell Doctor Munday what you just told us,” said Peter Motherwell.
Janet laughed. “Well, only that”—and here her husband began to snicker—“my Rachel’s nappy smells like mangoes.”
“Incredible,” said Peter Motherwell. He was beaming; the vicar’s eyes darted, making his smile one of dismay.
“It does," Janet protested. “When she makes a poo. There’s something about it.”
“I should say,” said Munday, “you’re a lot luckier than most young mothers. Your child must have phenomenal bowels.”
“Used to have a delicious mango tree in my garden,” said Mr. Awdry, approaching with the drinks. He gave Emma and Munday their glasses and said, “They were like this.” He measured with his hands. “Cook used to steal them.” “Cooks are very good at that sort of thing,” said Emma.
“Mine wore pink dancing pumps/’ said Awdry. “Except when he climbed the mango tree. They were my daughter’s. She threw them in the dustbin and the next thing we knew he was wearing them. Hate to think what he would have done if she’d thrown away her gym slip. Odd fish that cook.” “Obviously keen on dancing attendance,” said Munday.
“Yes,” said Awdry coOlly, but the others laughed.
“I’d love to be in a place where mangoes grew,” said Anne Motherwell. “So would I,” said her husband.
“Africa,” said Awdry. “Doctor Munday and I were both there.” He turned to Munday and said, “I always say it’s as if we’d gone to the same school.”
“But sent down in different years,” said Munday. “We enjoyed your talk at the church hall,” said Peter to Munday.
“Were you there?” asked Munday.
“All of us were,” said Peter, surprising Munday: why had he only seen those aged people? He wondered if his failing eyes had obstinately sought those failures to address. He didn’t like to be reminded of details he had missed, for he was certain there must be more.
“We were fascinated,” said Michael Strick, drawing close to his wife and adding, “Weren’t we? Janet and I have been reading some anthropology lately— The Naked Ape. So we were especially interested.”
“You should write something like that,” said Janet. “You could make a fortune.”
“Color supplement stuff,” said Munday, “written for the credulous semi-educated. And in any case I already have a fortune—my wife is quite wealthy. So you see the whole enterprise would be rather pointless.”
“Have you read Levi-Strauss?” asked Peter.
Munday turned to Awdry and said, “People I meet are always recommending books to me. Why is that? Very curious.” Now he spoke directly to Peter: “I haven’t opened an anthropology book since I was an undergraduate. It’s not necessary—not when one has a people to study. Books aren’t much use in the field—even Malinowski agreed with me on that. He was a character. ‘Alfred,’ he said to me once, ‘I can swear in seven languages.’ So, honestly, I haven’t read Levi-Strauss,” he went on, “but on the other hand I’m fairly sure Levi-Strauss has read me ”
“Caroline Summers said your lecture was the best one she’s heard,” said Janet.
“She’s smashing,” said Anne.
“She’s coming tonight,” said Awdry. “Late as usual.” He smiled “Dear Caroline.”
“She’s so funny,” said Anne. “She showed up at the Hunt Ball in a beautiful dress and gloves, very elegant! But she was wearing—wait for it!—orthopedic shoes. Did we laugh!”
“Caused quite a commotion,” said Awdry. “Some of the lady members went a bit glassy-eyed.”
“I didn’t know you were at the Hunt Ball,” said Janet, coldly.
“Peter had tickets,” said Anne. “It seemed a shame to waste them.”