A Disturbing Influence (12 page)

Of course that was no way to bring up a child, carting him about with them like that. But that was Mildred, she insisted on it. And then when they did come back to England to settle down at last, of course he didn’t adapt to public-school life. The idea of sending a boy to a public school—and one with none too high a reputation, at that—when he’d hardly ever spent a night away from home was ridiculous. Sixteen was too old for a boy to be expected to sink himself smoothly into such a rigid and special kind of society. He was a very advanced sixteen in some ways, too. His education was simply appalling, of course, but he knew a good deal of—well, of life: which the other boys certainly would not have known. It was a great mistake. But that was Frank’s fault, not Mildred’s. They should have sent him to one of those places in Switzerland. Of course his reports were unfavourable. One couldn’t have expected anything else. People don’t just adapt like that.

He was past the post office, and about to turn from the High Street into Brunswick Street, when he met Dr Nye.

‘’Afternoon, Vicar,’ said Nye. ‘Have you been praying for rain again? It looks like it.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Henderson, exasperated by the permanent foolishness of the joke.

‘Come now, feeling under the weather? You mustn’t start cursing your parishioners, Raymond; won’t do at all. Come and have a cup of tea. Marjory’s just put the kettle on. She’d be glad to see you.’ Nye was all smiles and delight at having caught Henderson off his guard.

‘It’s very kind of you, but my nephew David is coming—in fact he should have arrived by now. I really must go and make him welcome. Otherwise I’d love to. It’s most kind of you to invite me.’

‘Your nephew? Oh yes, you told me. Didn’t you say he’d been ill?’

‘Yes. He’s supposed to be here to convalesce.’

‘Good, good‚’ said Nye. ‘Didn’t you say something about some strange disease, though?’ He sounded friendly rather than
professional
, but Henderson rather resented the questioning.

‘Something he picked up in the tropics, I expect.’

‘Well, there’s not much here to disturb his convalescence‚’ said Nye. ‘He ought to be able to relax all right, and recuperate. If you’ll stop praying for rain, Raymond.’

‘The doctor said something about getting him out of London for a while. Country air, you know.’

‘London doctors‚’ said Nye, with disgust and admiration. ‘The money they get for telling you the obvious. I suppose their patients think people who live in the country never die.’

‘Well, perhaps they do‚’ said Henderson. ‘Will you excuse me? I ought to go and make sure Mrs Crawley hasn’t refused to let David in. She’s terrified of pedlars, you know, she thinks they’re all out to murder her. Do give my best wishes to Marjory, and tell her how sorry I am. Some other time, perhaps.’

They said good-bye, Nye heading towards the post office.

David Mander had been eighteen when Raymond last saw him, a rangy, rather awkward youth, with a smile that looked insolent even when he was genuinely amused. Somewhat against his will Raymond had had to admire his refusal to accept the enthusiasm for national service which Frank had tried to generate. ‘I shall loathe it‚’ he had said, ‘and it’s silly to pretend anything else, Frank’ (he had that curious custom of calling his parents by their first names), ‘and if you don’t stop talking about it I shall register as a conscientious objector.’ No one could persuade him that the Army might, in a certain sense, be quite fun. Raymond had agreed with Frank that a spot of discipline could do the boy no harm at all. Apart from the unpleasantnesses he’d got himself into at school, there was a distinct air of unco-operativeness about him, of
independence
not so much of spirit or thought as for its own sake and as an irritant. He took part in everything with a graceless lack of enjoyment. He certainly wasn’t an easy boy to get on with.

Henderson wondered what the boy would find to do in
Cartersfield
, which had none of the attractions of London, none of the endless ways of filling time that a fairly rich young man requires. If only he’d passed his WOSB and made some friends in the Army, had experienced some of the cameraderie of the mess. But he’d failed the board, and then he’d gone down with this curious illness, and after twelve months in and out of hospitals the Army had discharged him. A long sickness like that could change a young man a good deal, might make him even more independent and
unco-operative
. Henderson hoped not. David was twenty now, though, he should have a pretty good idea of the sort of thing he wanted to do. And he could borrow the car if he found Cartersfield too dull.

‘Has he arrived?’ he said to Mrs Crawley, who seemed to have been lurking in the hall, waiting for him.

‘Yes, Mr Henderson, he’s in your study.’ She seemed rather agitated. They hadn’t had a guest since Isobel died.

‘Good.’

She took his coat and said: ‘They’ll be on their way to France now, I expect.’

‘Who will be? Oh, Mengel and his wife. Yes, yes, they will be. Perhaps they’ll have some fine weather there. It’s really quite nippy today.’

‘I do hope you don’t mind, sir,’ said Mrs Crawley, ‘but I took the liberty of lighting a fire in there for him. You
did
say it was a bit nippy yourself.’

Henderson looked rather startled. It was an invariable rule that there were no fires after the first of May. ‘Well, I think we may as well make an exception, Mrs Crawley.’

‘Well, I thought so, too,’ she said, relief showing on her grey face in a puckered little smile. She was a short stumpy woman of
forty-five or fifty, with a greyness about her that seemed to drip from her wispy hair to her stout sensible shoes.

Henderson glanced at the afternoon post, a few long envelopes in a brass dish on top of the oak chest.

‘They seem to send one nothing but advertisements these days,’ he said. ‘It oughtn’t to be allowed. You’d better take these, Mrs Crawley. Some kind of soap coupons. We might as well save a few pennies where we can.’

She took them and went towards the kitchen, saying: ‘I’ll bring you your tea in just a minute, Mr Henderson.’

To his surprise he found himself trying to think of things to do before he went into the study. He was definitely nervous. How ridiculous, he thought, and went in.

David Mander was lying on the sofa with his feet dangling over the edge, reading a book. He looked up as his uncle came in and said: ‘Hello, Raymond,’ then swung himself into a sitting position, paused, looking coolly but not quite straight at Henderson’s face, then stood up.

‘How very nice to see you, David,’ said the uncle, putting out his hand. He noticed the pallor first, then the thinness. ‘Goodness, you do look as though you’ve been ill. But a spell in the country should fatten you up a bit.’

‘I’m all right,’ said David, smiling. The smile was a little crooked. They stared at each other for a moment, then Raymond went over to the fire and warmed his hands, thinking, I do wish he wouldn’t call me Raymond like that.

‘And how are your mother and father?’

‘They’re very well.’

‘Good. I’m sorry it’s such a miserable day. More like March than May. Well,’ he went on, as the other gave no response, ‘I don’t know what we’re going to find for you to do here, David, but I’m sure there must be something. It’s a very quiet place, Cartersfield.’

‘You mustn’t worry about that,’ said David, his voice sounding
courteous, though he looked extraordinarily arrogant, Henderson thought, with his thin features, his straight nose, his rich brown eyes. He was extremely self-assured. ‘I’m pretty well able to look after myself, you know.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you are. But tell me how you feel. Are you quite recovered from that illness now?’

‘Quite,’ said David.

They stood in silence for a while, Henderson conscious of the boy’s eyes judging and appraising, making him uneasy.

‘Did Mrs Crawley show you your room all right?’

‘Yes, thank you. It couldn’t be nicer.’ David sat down again. His eyes went to the book he had been reading, as though he had now finished surveying his uncle and had discovered all he wished to know about him.

‘You’ve got a funny accent, David,’ said Henderson, noticing it for the first time, deciding with relief that it was this that had been bothering him.

‘So I’ve been told. People say I sound South African.’

‘But you were never in South Africa, were you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, travelling about like that, I expect your accent has got a bit of everything in it, hasn’t it?’

‘Probably. I never listen to myself, I’m afraid, so I don’t know.’ David picked up the book, tore a piece of paper from a cigarette packet and marked the place, then put the book on a table. He lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and lay back on the sofa, saying: ‘It’s really most kind of you to put up with me.’

‘It’s a great pleasure, David, really a great pleasure. Since Isobel—your aunt—died, it’s been very lonely here at times. It’s a delight to have someone else in the house.’

Mrs Crawley came in with the tea things to break another silence.

‘Oh, Mrs Crawley,’ said Henderson, ‘would you get David an ashtray. There must be some somewhere.’

‘Very good, Mr Henderson.’ She put down the tray and went out. When Raymond turned to ask David whether he took milk or sugar he met the crooked arrogant smile and the eyes full on him. He cleared his throat.

‘Sugar or milk?’

‘Neither, thank you.’

Mrs Crawley came in with an ashtray: a small china dish with a picture of an early automobile in bright colours.

‘This is all I can find,’ she said.

‘That’s fine,’ said Henderson. ‘Well, we’re going to have to fatten him up a bit, Mrs Crawley, aren’t we?’

‘We’ll see what we can do,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘I expect he likes plenty to eat.’

‘I really don’t eat very much,’ said David. ‘Please don’t put yourself out at all.’

‘It won’t be any trouble, Mr David,’ she said. ‘It’s a pleasure to cook for someone as skinny as you are.’ She went out again.

‘I’m afraid you’ll find us very quiet,’ said Raymond. ‘There is a dance once a week, but it’s very local; not at all the sort of thing you’re used to, I expect.’ He handed him the tea-cup. ‘Just what they call a “hop”. I don’t know who goes, but I don’t expect the Simpsons or the Gilchrists would patronize it.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Well, Simpson’s a stockbroker—he goes up to London every day. They have a girl, Molly, about your age. But she’s not here at the moment. At Art School, I think. Girls don’t seem to stay at home these days the way they did when I was young.’

‘Wasn’t Gilchrist the taxi-man?’

‘Oh no.’ Henderson’s shocked tone made David smile. ‘Not at all. That’s Gilbert, not Gilchrist. The Gilchrists live at Mendleton Hall. I’m not sure exactly what he does—one of those people who go under the anonymity of “company director”, you know. They’re charming people. He reads the lesson. They have a boy at Oxford—Teddy. And Jane must be nineteen now. She was a débutante last
year, had a “season”, don’t they call it? Perhaps you met her at some dance.’

‘I was in bed most of last year,’ said David.

‘Yes, so you were. Well, Jane is at home now. She’s a great girl for tennis—she won some kind of championship last August, even with all her parties and things. The county championship for girls, I think. She is an excellent player. Do you play at all?’

‘In most of the places we’ve lived there’s been nothing else to do except play tennis,’ said David.

‘Oh, good.’ Raymond’s eyes lit up, and he sipped his tea with something approaching but not quite gusto. ‘Well, we must
certainly
get you two together.’

‘Where is this Mendleton Hall?’

‘It’s about three miles away. It’s a big manor house, you know, with a very long history. They say it may have been here before Cartersfield was, though that’s doubtful. But it was mentioned in Doomsday Book. Of course the Gilchrists only moved there after the war. I believe,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘that Gilchrist made a good deal of money in something like air-raid shelters, but that may not be true. Actually they’re a very old family, very old. And though they don’t live in the town, they do a lot for us. She’s
chairman
of the Women’s Institute, for instance. And he reads the lesson.’

‘Very helpful,’ said David, tonelessly.

‘There’s a chapel out there at Mendleton where I’m supposed to go and say Evensong once a month. It’s silly, really. The Mendleton people always come in to Cartersfield for Matins, so there’s never a soul there. I usually just sit and read to myself.’

David laughed. Henderson caught the mockery, and said: ‘I mean I read
the
service
to myself, of course.’ He blushed. ‘It was Thompson-Crowley’s father who built it. There’s a story that he had gout, and refused to let the horses be used on Sundays, and the distance was too far for him to walk, so he made the vicar go out there.’

‘Oh, England,’ said David. He laughed genuinely this time, Henderson thought, not mockingly at all, more with incredulity than amusement. ‘What an extraordinary country.’

‘Well, they were a bit odd in those days, perhaps. The last Thompson-Crowley died in—— Oh, a few years before the war, the last war. And then a lawyer bought the place, but he was killed just before VE-day. He was a nice fellow. Freeman, he was called, Harold Freeman. And then his widow sold the house to the Gilchrists.’

‘You know the neighbourhood as well as an estate agent,’ said David. ‘Is there anywhere to swim?’

Summoned abruptly from Mendleton and its history, Raymond looked confused. ‘There’s no town swimming-pool. They did talk of building one some years ago, but then there was a scare about polio, and they decided against it. But there are some old
gravel-pits
—places where they’ve dug out the gravel, you know, and then the water’s filled them up. People go and swim there. I haven’t swum myself, to be frank, since I was a boy.’

‘I just wondered,’ said David. ‘You never know your luck. This might turn out to be England’s one summer in fifty when it doesn’t rain every day.’