Less Than Angels (22 page)

‘Oh, of course. It’s always on a Thursday, isn’t it.’

The arrival of other travellers enabled him to escape, and he set out to walk through the ‘town’ to the house where his mother and brother lived. Thursday was early closing day, w
T
hich was why the carnival and flower show were always held then. Some of the shops had their blinds down, and Tom could see himself reflected in the dark surfaces, a shabby trudging figure, carrying a brief-case and canvas bag. He resented this, and tried not to catch any more glimpses of himself. In the centre of the town there were some signs of what might have been described as festivity. Lines of coloured flags strung across the main street hung limply in the hot afternoon air, interspersed with notices welcoming visitors to the town. Char-a-bancs, or coaches as they were now called, were drawn up in the car-park, and troupes of children dressed in fairy, Chinese and pirate costumes, were to be seen getting out. When he came to the town’s park, Tom noticed the big marquee where the flowers and vegetables would be exhibited.

The scene reminded him of the African festivals he used to attend, observing meticulously how this or that old custom of which he had read had died out and been replaced by some new and ‘significant’ feature, avoiding in his descriptions the least suggestion of vivid or picturesque language, and flattening out the whole thing until it sounded rather less interesting than a flower show and carnival in a small English market town.

Mallow Park, for the house bore the name of the family who had lived in it for several hundred years, lay a little way out of the town on a slight eminence above it. It was a red Victorian house, with a small Georgian bit hidden away somewhere but now almost engulfed by later ‘improvements’. There was a long drive leading up to it, bordered on each side by dark shrubberies, now excessively luxuriant after the summer rains.

Tom’s brother, Giles, was standing on the terrace. He was a conventionally good-looking young man of twenty-seven, dressed in an old but good tweed suit.

‘Well, Tom,’ was his greeting, ‘so you’ve come at last.’

‘Yes, my thesis is finished now.’

Giles could not be expected to appreciate the significance of this announcement and he certainly gave no sign that he had, merely remarking that if Tom had let them know what time he was coming he would have brought the shooting-brake down to the station to meet him. ‘I suppose you left your luggage there?’ he added.

‘This is all I have,’ said Tom, indicating the canvas bag he was carrying. ‘We travel light in the bush. Where’s mother?’

‘In the garden. We’re all going to the flower show in a minute. I suppose you’ll come?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ll just go and find her.’

If the shrubberies and lawns seemed overgrown and neglected, the large vegetable garden was well kept, for Mrs. Mallow had a stall in the local market and sold the produce at it, like some African woman petty trader, Tom thought. He expected to find her among the beans or peering at something in a frame. But when he came upon her she was standing very still, looking into the distance. The massive grey-clad figure with its rather small head stood out like a great Henry Moore sculpture in a London park. She showed no emotion at seeing her son, merely inclining her stony cheek for him to kiss. Tom was her favourite son and she loved him deeply, indulging his whims and thinking by that to bind him more closely to her. But it was Giles who had stayed behind. Now she worked hard in the garden and found comfort in the things of the earth, even in digging, for she was a strong active woman and the hand that Tom took was rough and not very clean.

‘Well, Tom,’ she said, ‘so you got the nine-ten from Paddington?’

‘Yes.’

She remembered this train from the old days when she used to go to town, but it did not occur to her that he would have had nothing to eat. Tom had also forgotten it by this time.

‘I’m showing begonias and carnations as well as vegetables this year,’ she said, as they wralked back to the house together. ‘And what have you been doing? Your aunt tells me that you have been living with a young woman in Camden Town but that you have now abandoned her—is that so?’

‘Well, yes, in a way.’

‘Surely you must know whether you have or not?’ asked Mrs. Mallow sharply.

‘I suppose I don’t like the word “abandoned”’, Tom admitted. ‘We parted by mutual consent. It was leading nowhere.’

‘Where did you expect it to lead?’

5
We didn’t really think of that when we started. It seemed pleasant and convenient …’ he broke off, conscious of the inadequacy of the words he was using to describe his relationship with Catherine. ‘I think I was in love with her in a ourious way and perhaps still am. Then there was Deirdre, a young girl of nineteen …’

Mrs. Mallow gave a snort of laughter. ‘Oh, there are always young girls of nineteen,’ she said. ‘Giles is to marry Felicity,’ she continued in a different tone. ‘We are all very pleased.’

‘Felicity? Oh, of course, Elaine’s youngest sister. I should think that will be very suitable. I wish
I
could have done what was expected of me. If I had married Elaine…’ he began, but Giles had come towards them and was urging them to hurry.

‘Mother is to open the flower show,’ he said. ‘The usual story-they’d hoped to get some actress or television star, but in the end have to fall back on what we can provide. We’ve only twenty minutes before it begins. Surely you aren’t going like that, are you, mother?’ he went on in an exasperated tone.

‘I shall wear a hat, I suppose,’ said Mrs. Mallow, ‘my grey one. It is hanging in the hall.’

They were standing now in the little room which Giles used as a kind of study and from which the business of the estate, such as it was, was conducted. As he looked about him, Tom realized how little it had changed since his father’s time. The old horsehair-covered chair with the stuffing coming out of the seat was still unmended. The desk was stuffed with bills, receipts and forms dating back many years. Giles’s game-book lay open, recording in his sprawling schoolboy hand that he had shot so many pheasants, partridges and pigeons at various dates. The same stuffed hares’ heads, foxes’ brushes and crooked sporting prints looked down from the walls. Tom felt as if he were observing some aspect of a culture as alien to him as any he had seen in Africa. He imagined how Catherine would have enjoyed it, her bright eyes darting here and there, missing no detail. He wished now that he could have brought her to see his home.

‘Mother, there is earth on your hands,’ continued Giles in the same exasperated tone. ‘ Surely you are going to wash, at least?’

Mrs. Mallow glanced down at her hands indifferently. ‘Yes, I suppose I must,’ she admitted. ‘Where is your uncle? Is he ready to come with us, if he is coming?’

‘I’ll go and see,’ said Tom.

‘You’ll find him in the morning-room,’ said Giles.

Tom found his uncle sitting in semi-darkness, looking at some sporting event on the television set, which had the central position in the room like a kind of altar. Green plush curtains had been dragged across the windows, shutting out all but a chink of sunlight which filtered incongruously through on to the elderly man with his military bearing and white walrus moustache.

‘Hullo, uncle,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘Aren’t you coming with us to the flower show?’

‘Tom, my dear boy. When did you arrive? I think I shall
not
accompany you. Hearing Naomi make a speech is not my idea of an afternoon’s entertainment,’ he chuckled. ‘And besides, I don’t want to miss the women’s programme at three o’clock. This week we are to be shown the best cuts of meat to buy, most instructive. Of course it is for young housewives, really, newly-weds, I suppose you might call them, who haven’t had experience of these things.’

Tom left the room feeling rather sad. He had the impression that his uncle was a kind of prisoner, or a sacrifice laid before the altar of the television set which demanded a constant tribute of victims.

‘Hervey is not coming?’ asked Mrs. Mallow as Tom rejoined them. ‘I didn’t think he would. We’d better get a move on.’

Giles now began to criticize Tom’s appearance; apparently his blue corduroy jacket and grey flannels were not suitable for the occasion. ‘You must remember,’ he said, ‘that many eyes will be upon you. We are still the leading family here whatever else may have changed.’

Mrs. Mallow had found a shooting-stick in the antlered umbrella stand. ‘ You could carry this,’ she suggested.

‘The insignia of rank,’ said Tom, ‘but not a particularly distinctive one. Only the chief is permitted to wear a necklace of leopards’ teeth.’

‘Well, it does make you look slightly better,’ said Giles seriously. ‘We shall be seeing Felicity and Elaine, of course. Delia is away. You remember Elaine, don’t you?’

They were driving in the shooting-brake now, down the road along which Tom had walked less than an hour before.

‘Yes, I remember her,’ said Tom. ‘I must congratulate you on your engagement to Felicity. Do you feel you can afford to marry?’

‘Well, they have money of their own, those girls,’ Giles reminded him. ‘Not that that really makes any difference to one’s feelings, but in this case it’s certainly a help. We shall be able to get a good many things done. Mother and uncle will move to the lodge, but mother will keep the garden, of course.’

‘I hope the lodge has a suitable site for the television set,’ said Tom.

‘Oh, yes, there is a good enough little room,’ said Mrs.

Mallow casually. ‘Now here we are, and the mayor is waiting to receive us. Perhaps you will find this little ceremony of interest, Tom,’ she added dryly.

They entered the large marquee. It was very hot and smelled of roses and warm canvas and humanity. There was a buzz of conversation which died away when Mrs. Mallow and her entourage appeared on a little dais at one end. Tom and Giles stood down below, not listening to their mother’s speech, which was rambling and confused, obviously not prepared at all. But as she was a member of the leading family in the neighbourhood and well known to her audience it did not matter what she said.

Tom looked around to see whether anybody he knew was there, but the faces all seemed indistinct, the men ruddy and healthy or pale and worried according to their occupations, the women young or elderly all wearing light-coloured summer dresses and straw hats trimmed with various kinds of artificial flowers and fruits. Somewhere, at a lower level, there would be children, but Tom was not interested in them. Surely, he thought, Elaine and her sister Felicity would stand out in some way among this crowd, or had we really reached the point where all women looked alike, regardless of where they bought their clothes?

‘Well, Tom,’ said a voice, giving him what seemed to be the stock greeting here, ‘don’t you recognize me?’

‘
E
laine!
’
He took her hand in his and held it for a long time. ‘I was looking for you.’

She was, he noticed, dressed just like everybody else in a flowered silk dress with a white hat and gloves, but her pearl necklace and small stud ear-rings were probably real. She was a fair rather plump girl, the same age as Tom, with freckles and what are usually described as ‘candid’ grey eyes.

They were standing by a table where some fruit was displayed, little dishes of raspberries and plums arranged on leaves. The roof of the marquee cast a greenish light on to their faces, giving an air of magic and unreality to the occasion, as if they were under water or in a forest.

‘You haven’t been home for such a long time,’ she said, but without reproach in her tone.

‘No. Just a week-end here and there, but I think you were away the last time,’

‘I wrote to you for your birthday last year—did you get it?’

‘Oh, yes, thank you.’ He remembered now, such a very long letter, full of the daily trivia which can be so fascinating or so tedious according to the feelings of the recipient towards the writer.

‘You didn’t answer, so I wondered. I expect you were busy.’

‘Yes, there was the election of a new chief and trouble among the plantation workers, and we were cut off by the rains for six weeks—oh, and various other things.’

‘You always have such grand excuses, much grander than anybody else’s,’ she smiled. ‘You didn’t really need the “various other things”, did you, Tom?’

He marvelled, as he had done before, at the sharpness of even the nicest women. All except Deirdre, but she would learn, he supposed.

‘Well, anyway, it’s very nice to see you now,’ he said. ‘Could we have tea together? I didn’t have any lunch, now that I come to think of it.’

‘Oh,
Tom
I’ She was at once concerned and led him to the tea tent where she insisted on giving him all her share of the sandwiches and cakes provided. Somewhere a band was playing, its brassiness softened by distance into a pleasant background noise. ‘There’s the dance tonight,’ she said. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Yes, I’d forgotten—there’s always a dance, isn’t there, at the King Edward Rooms, I suppose?’

‘Of course! How could it be anywhere else?’ She paused and then said, ‘Did you know, I imagine you did, that we’re going to be related?’

‘Yes, Felicity and Giles. It seems a very good thing.’

‘Obviously …’ she looked down at the tablecloth. ‘I heard you were attached too.’

‘I? Don’t you believe it,’said Tom heartily. ‘I’m wedded to my work.’

Elaine finished her cup of tea and they got up to look at the begonias, too big and too brilliantly coloured to be regarded as flowers but seeming for that very reason to demand exclamations of wonder and disbelief. Mrs. Mallow’s exhibit had won a first prize.

‘Is it as big as a dinner-plate—that yellow one?’ asked Tom. ‘That’s what one hears people saying.’

Elaine laughed and looked up at him.

‘Could we slip off to a pub?’ he asked. ‘They’ll be open now.’

‘Not a
pub
,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I couldn’t really, Mummy wouldn’t like it, not
here
. If it were somewhere where I wasn’t known it would be different. But perhaps we can have a drink together at the dance tonight?’