Parade's End (34 page)

From tea-time that day until it was time to catch the midnight train for Bishop’s Auckland he had been occupied with his son Mark in the writing-room of the club. They had made many notes. He had seen his son Christopher, in uniform, looking broken and rather bloated, the result, no doubt, of debauch. Christopher had passed through the other end of the room and Mr. Tietjens had avoided his eye. He had caught the train and reached Groby, travelling alone. Towards dusk he had taken out a gun. He was found dead next morning, a couple of rabbits beside his body, just over the hedge from the little churchyard. He appeared to have crawled through the hedge, dragging his loaded gun, muzzle forwards, after him.
Hundreds
of men, mostly farmers, die from that cause every year in England… .

With these things in his mind – or as much of them as he could keep at once – Mark was now investigating his brother’s affairs. He would have let things go on longer, for his father’s estate was by no means wound up, but that morning Ruggles had told him that the club had had a cheque of his brother’s returned and that his brother was going out to France next day. It was five months exactly since the death of their father. That had happened in March, it was now August: a bright, untidy day in narrow, high courts.

Mark arranged his thoughts.

‘How much of an income,’ he said, ‘do you need to live in comfort? If a thousand isn’t enough, how much? Two?’

Christopher said that he needed no money and didn’t intend to live in comfort. Mark said:

‘I am to let you have three thousand, if you’ll live abroad. I’m only carrying out our father’s instructions. You could cut a hell of a splash on three thousand in France.’

Christopher did not answer.

Mark began again:

‘The remaining three thousand then, that was over from our mother’s money. Did you settle it on your girl, or just spend it on her?’

Christopher repeated with patience that he hadn’t got a girl.

Mark said:

‘The girl who had a child by you. I’m instructed, if you haven’t settled anything already – but father took it that you would have – I was to let her have enough to live in comfort. How much do you suppose she’ll need to live in comfort? I allow Charlotte four hundred. Would four hundred be enough? I suppose you want to go on keeping her? Three thousand isn’t a great lot for her to live on with a child.’

Christopher said:

‘Hadn’t you better mention names?’

Mark said:

‘No! I never mention names. I mean a woman writer and her daughter. I suppose the girl is father’s daughter, isn’t she?’

Christopher said:

‘No. She couldn’t be. I’ve thought of it. She’s twenty-seven. We were all in Dijon for the two years before she was born. Father didn’t come into the estate till next year. The Wannops were also in Canada at the time. Professor Wannop was principal of a university there. I forget the name.’

Mark said:

‘So we were. In Dijon! For my French!’ He added: ‘Then she can’t be father’s daughter. It’s a good thing. I thought, as he wanted to settle money on them, they were very likely his children. There’s a son, too. He’s to have a thousand. What’s he doing?’

‘The son,’ Tietjens said, ‘is a conscientious objector. He’s on a mine-sweeper. A bluejacket. His idea is that picking up mines is saving life, not taking it.’

‘Then he won’t want the brass yet,’ Mark said, ‘it’s to start him in any business. What’s the full name and address of your girl? Where do you keep her?’

They were in an open space, dusty, with half-timber buildings whose demolition had been interrupted. Christopher halted close to a post that had once been a cannon; up against this he felt that his brother could lean in order to assimilate ideas. He said slowly and patiently:

‘If you’re consulting with me as to how to carry out our father’s intentions, and as there’s money in it you had better make an attempt to get hold of the facts. I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t a matter of money. In the first place, no money is wanted at this end. I can live on my pay. My wife is a rich woman, relatively. Her mother is a very rich woman… .’

‘She’s Rugeley’s mistress, isn’t she?’ Mark asked.

Christopher said:

‘No, she isn’t. I should certainly say she wasn’t. Why should she be? She’s his cousin.’

‘Then it’s your wife who was Rugeley’s mistress?’ Mark asked. ‘Or why should she have the loan of his box?’

‘Sylvia also is Rugeley’s cousin, of course, a degree further removed,’ Tietjens said. ‘She isn’t anyone’s mistress. You can be certain of that.’

‘They
say
she is,’ Mark answered. ‘They say she’s a regular tart… . I suppose you think I’ve insulted you.’

Christopher said:

‘No, you haven’t… . It’s better to get all this out. We’re practically strangers, but you’ve a right to ask.’

Mark said:

‘Then you haven’t got a girl and don’t need money to keep her… . You could have what you liked. There’s no reason why a man shouldn’t have a girl, and if he has he ought to keep her decently… .’

Christopher did not answer. Mark leaned against the half-buried cannon and swung his umbrella by its crook.

‘But,’ he said, ‘if you don’t keep a girl what do you do for …’ He was going to say ‘for the comforts of home’, but a new idea had come into his mind. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘one can see that your wife’s soppily in love with you.’ He added: ‘Soppily … one can see that with half an eye… .’

Christopher felt his jaw drop. Not a second before – that very second! – he had made up his mind to ask Valentine Wannop to become his mistress that night. It was no good, any more, he said to himself. She loved him, he knew, with a deep, an unshakable passion, just as his passion for her was a devouring element that covered his whole mind as the atmosphere envelops the earth. Were they, then, to go down to death separated by years, with no word ever spoken? To what end? For whose benefit? The whole world conspired to force them together! To resist became a weariness!

His brother Mark was talking on. ‘I know all about women,’ he had announced. Perhaps he did. He had lived with exemplary fidelity to a quite unpresentable woman, for a number of years. Perhaps the complete study of one woman gave you a map of all the rest!

Christopher said:

‘Look here, Mark. You had better go through all my pass-books for the last ten years. Or ever since I had an account. This discussion is no good if you don’t believe what I say.’

Mark said:

‘I don’t want to see your pass-books. I believe you.’

He added, a second later:

‘Why the devil shouldn’t I believe you? It’s either believing you’re a gentleman or Ruggles a liar. It’s only commonsense to believe Ruggles a liar, in that case. I didn’t before because I had no grounds to.’

Christopher said:

‘I doubt if liar is the right word. He picked up things that were said against me. No doubt he reported them faithfully enough. Things
are
said against me. I don’t know why.’

‘Because,’ Mark said with emphasis, ‘you treat these south country swine with the contempt that they deserve. They’re incapable of understanding the motives of a gentleman. If you live among dogs they’ll think you’ve the motives of a dog. What other motives can they give you?’ He added: ‘I thought you’d been buried so long under their muck that you were as mucky as they!’

Tietjens looked at his brother with the respect one has to give to a man ignorant but shrewd. It was a discovery that his brother was shrewd.

But, of course, he would be shrewd. He was the indispensable head of a great department. He had to have some qualities… . Not cultivated, not even instructed. A savage! But penetrating!

‘We must move on,’ he said, ‘or I shall have to take a cab.’ Mark detached himself from his half buried cannon.

‘What did you do with the other three thousand?’ he asked. ‘Three thousand is a hell of a big sum to chuck away. For a younger son.’

‘Except for some furniture I bought for my wife’s rooms,’ Christopher said, ‘it went mostly in loans.’

‘Loans!’ Mark exclaimed. ‘To that fellow Macmaster?’

‘Mostly to him,’ Christopher answered. ‘But about seven hundred to Dicky Swipes, of Cullercoats.’

‘Good God! Why to him?’ Mark ejaculated.

‘Oh, because he was Swipes, of Cullercoats,’ Christopher said, ‘and asked for it. He’d have had more, only that was enough for him to drink himself to death on.’

Mark said:

‘I suppose you don’t give money to every fellow that asks for it?’

Christopher said:

‘I do. It’s a matter of principle.’

‘It’s lucky,’ Mark said, ‘that a lot of fellows don’t know that. You wouldn’t have much brass left for long.’

‘I didn’t have it for long,’ Christopher said.

‘You know,’ Mark said, ‘you couldn’t expect to do the princely patron on a youngest son’s portion. It’s a matter
of
taste. I never gave a ha’penny to a beggar myself. But a lot of the Tietjenses were princely. One generation to addle brass; one to keep; one to spend. That’s all right… . I suppose Macmaster’s wife
is
your mistress? That’ll account for it not being the girl. They keep an arm-chair for you.’

Christopher said:

‘No. I just backed Macmaster for the sake of backing him. Father lent him money to begin with.’

‘So he did,’ Mark exclaimed.

‘His wife,’ Christopher said, ‘was the widow of Breakfast Duchemin.
You
knew Breakfast Duchemin?’

‘Oh,
I
knew Breakfast Duchemin,’ Mark said. ‘I suppose Macmaster’s a pretty warm man now. Done himself proud with Duchemin’s money.’

‘Pretty proud!’ Christopher said. ‘They won’t be knowing me long now.’

‘But damn it all!’ Mark said. ‘You’ve Groby to all intents and purposes. I’m not going to marry and beget children to hinder you.’

Christopher said:

‘Thanks. I don’t want it.’

‘Got your knife into me?’ Mark asked.

‘Yes. I’ve got my knife into you,’ Christopher answered. ‘Into the whole bloody lot of you, and Ruggles and ffolliott and our father!’

Mark said: ‘Ah!’

‘You don’t suppose I wouldn’t have?’ Christopher asked.

‘Oh, I don’t suppose you wouldn’t have,’ Mark answered. ‘I thought you were a soft sort of bloke. I see you aren’t.’

‘I’m as North Riding as yourself!’ Christopher answered.

They were in the tide of Fleet Street, pushed apart by foot passengers and separated by traffic. With some of the imperiousness of the officer of those days Christopher barged across through motor-buses and paper lorries. With the imperiousness of the head of a department Mark said:

‘Here, policeman, stop these damn things and let me get over.’ But Christopher was over much the sooner and waited for his brother in the gateway of the Middle Temple. His mind was completely swallowed up in the endeavour to imagine the embraces of Valentine Wannop. He said to himself that he had burnt his boats.

Mark, coming alongside him, said:

‘You’d better know what our father wanted.’

Christopher said:

‘Be quick then. I must get on.’ He had to rush through his War Office interview to get to Valentine Wannop. They would have only a few hours in which to recount the loves of two lifetimes. He saw her golden head and her enraptured face. He wondered how her face would look, enraptured. He had seen on it humour, dismay, tenderness, in the eyes – and fierce anger and contempt for his, Christopher’s, political opinions. His militarism!

Nevertheless they halted by the Temple fountain. That respect was due to their dead father. Mark had been explaining. Christopher had caught some of his words and divined the links. Mr. Tietjens had left no will, confident that his desires as to the disposal of his immense fortune would be carried out meticulously by his eldest son. He would have left a will, but there was the vague case of Christopher to be considered. Whilst Christopher had been a youngest son you arranged that he had a good lump sum and went, with it, to the devil how he liked. He was no longer a youngest son, by the will of God.

‘Our father’s idea,’ Mark said by the fountain, ‘was that no settled sum could keep you straight. His idea was that if you were a bloody pimp living on women … You don’t mind?’

‘I don’t mind your putting it straightforwardly,’ Christopher said. He considered the base of the fountain that was half full of leaves. This civilisation had contrived a state of things in which leaves rotted by August. Well, it was doomed!

‘If you were a pimp living on women,’ Mark repeated, ‘it was no good making a will. You might need uncounted thousands to keep you straight. You were to have ’em. You were to be as debauched as you wanted, but on clean money. I was to see how much in all probability that would be and arrange the other legacies to scale… . Father had crowds of pensioners… .’

‘How much did father cut up for?’ Christopher asked.

Mark said:

‘God knows… . You saw we proved the estate at a million and a quarter as far as ascertained. But it might be
twice
that. Or five times! … With steel prices what they have been for the last three years it’s impossible to say what the Middlesbrough district property won’t produce… . The death duties even can’t catch it up. And there are all the ways of getting round
them
.’

Christopher inspected his brother with curiosity. This brown-complexioned fellow with bulging eyes, shabby on the whole, tightly buttoned into a rather old pepper-and-salt suit, with a badly rolled umbrella, old race-glasses, and his bowler hat the only neat thing about him, was, indeed, a prince. With a rigid outline! All real princes must look like that. He said:

‘Well! You won’t be a penny the poorer by me.’

Mark was beginning to believe this. He said:

‘You won’t forgive father?’

Christopher said:

‘I won’t forgive father for not making a will. I won’t forgive him for calling in Ruggles. I saw him and you in the writing-room the night before he died. He never spoke to me. He could have. It was clumsy stupidity. That’s unforgivable.’

‘The fellow shot himself,’ Mark said. ‘You usually forgive a fellow who shoots himself.’