Closed Circle (4 page)

The following morning found me up and restless at dawn, eager for the end of our voyage. I decided to take a swim before breakfast and descended to the pool hoping to find it deserted at such an hour. And so it seemed to be, just the stone turtle who kept permanent guard over the deep end waiting to greet me. But solitude, as so often aboard ship, proved illusory. While I was hanging my robe and towel in one of the cubicles, I heard a door further down the row open and close, followed by a splash as somebody dived into the pool.

It was a woman, swimming fast and vigorously. As I stepped out of the cubicle, I moved instinctively behind a pillar and watched her reach the end nearest me, then turn and complete another length. It was only then, as she pushed herself away from the edge and slowed into a backstroke, that I could be certain who she was: Diana Charnwood. As soon as I emerged from behind the pillar, she saw me and stopped, treading water in the centre of the pool.

"Most impressive," I said, raising my hand and smiling.

"Mr. Horton," she replied breathlessly. "I didn't ... I thought I was alone."

"So did I."

"I come here most mornings ... at this time."

"Then you could reasonably expect to be alone. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"Don't be silly. Aren't you going to join me?" Her smile seemed genuinely inviting. With as much athleticism as I could muster, I dived in, swam past her once, then joined her beneath the turtle, where she had moved to rest against the rail. Even in a bathing cap, with her face wet and bare of make-up, her uncommon beauty was apparent.

"I don't suppose you've succeeded in luring Max down here," I remarked.

"No. He says he can't swim."

"Quite true, I'm afraid. You'll have to teach him."

"I'd like to if ..." She blushed slightly. "You and Max are close friends, Guy, I know. May I call you Guy? Max has told me such a lot about you it's hard to think of you as Mr. Horton. And please call me Diana. Max and I ... well, we... It sounds silly, schoolgirlish almost, but I've never met anyone quite so.. . I like him a lot. He's able to make me happy. Some men I've known seem to have found that difficult. Even impossible."

"Surely not."

"It's true. But.. . Look, what I want to say is this. I think Max and I are actually rather good for each other. But I've no intention of trying to change what he is. Too many people have tried to change what I am for me to make the same mistake. So, there's no question of my coming between Max and his friends. Especially his best and oldest friend of all."

"I never thought there was."

"Good."

"I wish I could say the same for Mr. Faraday." She frowned. "He's been quizzing me about Max. On your aunt's behalf, I gather."

"On nobody's behalf but his own." Her tone had suddenly altered. "What Aunt Vita sees in the horrible little man I don't... I advise you to ignore Mr. Faraday, Guy. As I do. And as I wish Aunt Vita would."

"I'll do my best."

"How about doing your best over a couple of lengths? A race will give me an appetite for breakfast."

And so it may have done. But, in my case, another kind of appetite was sharpened at the end of our race which we agreed to pronounce a tie when she climbed from the pool, costume plastered to her skin, and walked slowly round to her cubicle. It had been easy and safe to admire her facial beauty. But now, confronted with the physical reality of her seemingly perfect body, it was even easier and far less safe to acknowledge the stirrings of sexual desire. How I wished then that I rather than Max had taken her fancy. Profit was one thing, but Max seemed likely to have more than his share of pleasure as well. While all I could do was watch and imagine.

A pall of cloud over the ship heralded England in all its summer glumness. With the Cornish coast looming grey and sodden off the port bow, I headed for my cabin to pack. But hardly had I commenced the task when a visitor arrived. It was Max.

"I thought we should have a word, old man," he announced.

"It would make a pleasant change, Max, certainly."

"I've been rather preoccupied of late."

"Oh, I quite understand. Diana explained everything to me this morning."

"So she told me."

"Your campaign seems to have been a resounding success."

"So far, yes. And remember it's our campaign."

"I haven't forgotten. It's just that I'm finding it difficult to believe. I mean, how far is this romance going to go? Should I be preparing a best man's speech?"

"Very funny, Guy." But he was not laughing. There was an earnestness about him which suggested matrimony might not be so very far from his thoughts. "Wouldn't a dowry be just as acceptable as a bribe?"

"It would. Especially for you, I imagine."

Pursing his lips, he moved away across the cabin, stopping by the window to gaze out at the unwelcoming shores of home. "She's no fool, Guy. You said so yourself. I have to tread carefully."

"Of course."

"There's her father to consider. He'll need delicate handling." He took out a cigarette and propped it between his lips, but seemed disinclined to light it. "Very delicate handling." Then he removed the cigarette and turned to look at me. "She's invited me down to their house in Surrey next week. To stay for a few days."

"Sounds promising."

"The invitation's extended to you as well."

"That's kind of her."

"Yes. But then she is. Very. The snag is.. . Well, we want this to go smoothly, don't we? And.. that being the case..."

"Spit it out, Max, for God's sake."

"I don't want you there."

"What?"

"I want you to decline the invitation."

"Why?"

"Because ..." He put the cigarette back in his mouth and began patting his pockets in search of a lighter. Exasperated, I offered him mine. He accepted with a flickering smile of embarrassment and inhaled the smoke gratefully. "You'd feel the same in my position, Guy."

"Would I?"

"You know you would."

He was right, but I was not about to admit it. He knew, and so did I, that I would not be content to play gooseberry during a long week-end in the country. And, even if I were, it would only set back our cause. Yet I could not rid my mind of the memory of Diana as I had seen her that morning. Not promenading, of course, but bathing. "I'll decline," I said with a grudging nod. "As politely as I can."

"Thanks, old man."

"What about Faraday? Will he be there?"

"I hope not. With any luck, we'll soon have seen the last of Mr. Faraday. I met him over breakfast this morning and he said he'd be leaving on the tender at Plymouth in order to catch a fast train to London. Important business to attend to, apparently."

"But whose business? He seems uncommonly interested in ours."

"Don't worry about him. He's no threat. In fact, don't worry about anything." He was suddenly cheerful now I had agreed to give him a clear run, optimistic to a degree I only wished I could share. "I didn't want to scuttle back to England, Guy. You know that. But now... Well, I think it may have been the best move we ever made."

Faraday did leave at Plymouth. I watched him go, unsure whether to be pleased we were rid of him or perturbed by the urgency of his departure. Then, summoning a brave face, I lunched with Max and Diana and explained why my own 'important business' meant I could not join them in Surrey. Vita was still feeling queasy and, to aid her recovery, Diana had persuaded her to stay in

Southampton that night, at the South Western Hotel adjoining the docks. Max, it briskly transpired, had volunteered to stay with them. I, needless to say, could not spare the time for such dallying.

Which was ironic, in view of the fact that absolutely nothing awaited me in London except an empty flat near Berkeley Square. It belonged to Max's father, but was now seldom used by him. For a pair of returning exiles, it offered an adequate bolt-hole and Max had cabled ahead to say we would make use of it. I had not anticipated arriving there as now I would: alone.

We reached Southampton late in the afternoon. Viewing our stately progress up the Solent from the aft rail, I could not keep at bay the melancholy thoughts of many a traveller concerning the certainties he has left behind and the uncertainties he has yet to confront. Until 1922, this orderly land of jetties and fields had been my home. But 1922 was a long time ago. I had visited it only twice since then, most recently for my mother's funeral, which fog in mid-Atlantic had caused me to arrive twelve hours too late for. I could hardly claim to know it any more, but I supposed it would admit to knowing me.

And so to the gloomy chaos of disembarkation. The pampered ease of a first-class cabin was exchanged for the weary discomfort of the passport queue and the customs shed. Eventually, we reached the waiting boat-train. There, on the crowded platform, as porters scurried back and forth with huge numbers of trunks and portmanteaux, I said goodbye to Max, whose eagerness for me to be gone was transparent, and to Diana, who at any rate pretended she was sorry I could not remain. As for Vita, whom dry land was already reviving, the news that I would not be joining them in Surrey seemed genuinely to disappoint her. Affecting a different kind of regret from the one I actually felt, I took my leave of them all and, as the train moved out, headed straight for the restaurant car.

Only to find myself sharing a table with a bibulous prophet of doom called Millington, whose acquaintance I had mercifully not made aboard ship. As soon as he heard how long I had been out of England, he launched himself on a colourful recital of the nation's woes. "Nearly three million unemployed. Closures and bankruptcies wherever you look. Gold flowing out of the Bank of England like blood from a severed artery. The Chancellor of the Exchequer no more able to balance the budget than he is a needle on its point. But what can you expect from a Labour government? Funk and folly's their recipe for everything. We'll end up like the Germans did, mark my words. Pushing barrow-loads of sovereigns down the street to buy a loaf of bread. A fine country brought to its knees by sheer bloody incompetence." He broke off to order another bottle of champagne, then glanced out of the window at the passing scene. "All I can foresee is total unmitigated catastrophe."

We were passing through Winchester at the time and all I could see, in my mind's eye, was the thirteen-year-old boy I had once been arriving for his first day at College, which was also the first day I met Max Wingate. There, on the station platform that was now but a fleeting blur, we had stepped down, overloaded with luggage and home-sickness, hot and nervous in the September sun. And, on discovering we were both scholars, had inaugurated our friendship with a solemn handshake. "Pleased to meet you? Max had said. And I had said the same.

"If I were you," Millington remarked, leaning towards me across the table, "I should clear straight off back to America. There's nothing here for an enterprising chap like you."

I smiled and said nothing, but silently agreed.

The flat in Hay Hill was small but comfortable, attended to by the redoubtable Mrs. Dodd, who ran a tobacconist's shop with her husband in Oxford Street. From them I obtained the key, settled in as best I could and awaited Max's arrival. In the event, the whole of a desolate week-end had passed before he put in an appearance, having telephoned me on Saturday from Southampton to say he was popping up to Gloucestershire first to see his parents. When he burst through the door on Sunday night with a merry laugh and a spring in his step, the contrast with my own mood was all too apparent.

"Down in the dumps, old man?"

"Somewhat."

"Well, why not look up your folks while I prosecute our ambitions in Surrey?" He rubbed his hands in glee at the prospect before him. "You've nothing else to do, have you?"

"Because," I replied with heavy emphasis, 'my family don't know I'm in England, a state of affairs I'm very happy with, and because, as a matter of fact, I have plenty to do once this rotten week-end's out of the way."

"No need to get shirty about it. Do as you please." "Thanks. I believe I will."

Max set off for Surrey on Tuesday, bright-eyed and confident. I wished him luck, though no more sincerely than I wished it for myself. Millington's analysis of England in the summer of 1931 seemed only too accurate to me as I wandered London's streets in weather more suited to February than July, read gloom-laden newspaper articles about the state of the economy and generally did my best to work up a fine sense of self-pity.

Tea with the Atkinson-Whites in Windsor on the afternoon of Max's departure supplied some welcome solace. Cheered by their willingness to follow my financial advice, I arranged to have lunch the following day with Trojan' Doyle. He had been a year below me at Winchester and was still making, as he had been in 1922, a comfortable living out of managing other people's money. Negotiating a share of the commission he would charge the Atkinson-Whites was unlikely to make me rich, but would at least keep me busy until Max brought home the bacon. Besides, Trojan who had earned his sobriquet by continually mispronouncing the name of the Latin poet Horace kept his ear to the ground in City circles. I wanted to know what he could tell me about Charnwood Investments. So, as soon as we had reached agreement where the Atkinson-Whites were concerned, I changed the subject.

"Charnwood Investments, Trojan. Ever had occasion to give it the once-over?"

"Can't say I have. Fabian Charnwood plays his cards close to his chest. Always has."

"But doing well?"

"Better than most." Trojan's eyebrows, which had developed into a pair of tangled hedges over the years, bunched together in a frown. "What's your interest?"

"I might just might do some business with him, that's all."

"I wouldn't if I were you. A slippery customer."

"More slippery than you?"

He grinned. "A sea-serpent to my eel. Simply no comparison. His father was in munitions before the war." I let the slight inaccuracy pass, calculating that the more ignorant he thought me, the more informative he might be. "Charnwood started with the firm as a salesman, flogging howitzers to Balkan hotheads. Ended up on the board. Became chairman when his father died. Then,