Patricia and Malise (4 page)

Much time was taken up with preparation. Malise poured, meticulously, over money matters and found that it was possible (out of income) to pay for the new clothes and his share of rent and food in the Pimlico flat. He would have to look for some form of employment – even if unpaid.

During these long days, the loss of Christian's besottedness was his chief bugbear. He had never deciphered a warning but had believed the brotherly love to be indissoluble; unshakeable. Both men were shut to reason. His thoughts sometimes told him that Christian held a hammer over his head; threatened him in a loutish way. He knew Christian to have always been a misfit, lonely, doing heaven knew what with boy scouts, but, whatever else, eternally rapturous as disciple.

Now Christian was supposing himself to be responsible for the possible future of the family line – however remote from the centre of ducal power. Leader of the McHips. Hip Hip Hooray. It was outrageous. Malise had always outshone and destabilised his brother into weakness.

After more dreary months at the farm he was all set for Pimlico. Not long before his departure he had seen, with Christian who had needed persuasion when it came to accompanying him, an Ealing Studio comedy.
Passport to
Pimlico
. Christian had pronounced it ‘tewwibly funny.' Malise had enjoyed it too – even if uneasy in Christian's reluctant company – and considered his viewing of it fortuitous, what with his decision to move to the area.

After agonising negotiations, he bought himself a dark green, second hand Lagonda and tinkered with it as lovingly as he had done with his motorbike at school. He christened it ‘Ruggles' – a tribute to the family responsible for the ‘hop' where Dawn had responded with such liveliness to his kilt. Hop. Hip. Mc Hip.

Before departure he packed all his expensive clothing. He also heaped a rustic basket full with withered apples from Alyson's stored rack.

He arrived at the Pimlico ground floor flat, unloaded his car and thrust the apples at one of his future sharers and asked for the basket to be returned. Alex was surprised. He had in store several tins of peaches in syrup and they seemed to be adequate for supper parties. He did not appear to remember having had a crush on Malise at school and Malise certainly would not have remembered him had they met elsewhere.

He looked at his room and approved. Uninteresting, but possibly answering his needs. Almost to his liking. A small room with a small bed. Small bed. Hmm.

As it happened he stayed in that small room for several years.

He managed to persuade his cousin at the House of Lords to allow him to run, although without payment, a few errands. Thus he was able to say, looking mysterious, that he had something to do with the Upper House.

After that first journey he drove the car back and left it at the farm.

Every month or so he returned home – always by train. It meant travelling by underground to Liverpool Street Station . He disliked the journey because almost everyone smoked and it was cloudy and stank. Tobacco had, although unacceptable anywhere, struck him as less seedy when smoked in Italy.

He did, however, enjoy some of the advertisements. One in particular. There was a wispy picture of a girl in bridal dress looking happy and prepared for her wedding day. Under it was written ‘… and Berlei sheets will do the rest.' He knew, full well, that unless he found an heiress with quarterings, he was not destined to ‘do the rest.' The realisation, since Christian's defection, made him a trifle uneasy.

Christian always met him at the station and asked, but showing no enthusiasm, ‘So. How is the big, bad city?'

Christian's life had improved. He was free of thraldom to Malise , the choir was reformed and senior scouts provided him with unsteady excitements.

Malise, irked, decided to try returning to his old masterly ways. Shock tactics. Possibly turn the clock back.

‘So Cwissy. Now you seem to think you are worthy to gather up the cwumbs.'

‘Cwumbs. That's about it. I'll give you cwumbs.'

No headway.

Alyson was lamer. The father more bent.

Apart from sporadic unease when brooding over Christian, these were happy times for Malise. He saw little of his London flat mates and found them easy to share with. Occasionally he ate in with one or other of them. Each had a regular girlfriend and sometimes brought one home for supper. Meals always ended with tinned peaches – sometimes brandy added and sometimes a tube of condensed milk. Malise liked coming in to find one or other of the courting couples on the small sofa in the sitting room. It amused him to see if he could disturb the girl into some sort of interest in him before, politely, retiring to his room to read about the Etruscans in whose history he had become doggedly intrigued. He never managed breaking a romance up, though. He felt it was because he did not try hard enough. He disliked sharing a bathroom in which he did a lot of gargling and screwed tops onto tooth-paste tubes (this reminded him of his mother and then, uneasily, of Christian when pinned to the floor) left on the basin by the others – before walking to the House of Lords in search of errands. Sometimes there were none but one of the secretaries was pretty. Solitude was necessary to him and he walked a great deal in London, scheming as he went.

There was a network afoot in the social world and Malise managed to get himself on to some vital lists. Debutante balls were revitalised and, with his looks and his being associated, however spuriously, with The House of Lords, hostesses showed an interest in him. A redoubtable lady called Jennifer worked for the
Tatler
magazine and helped debutantes' mothers when compiling lists for coming-out dances.

There were no black marks against his name, even though his advancing age might have told against him. Some of the boys had NSIT next to their names – warning girls that they were not safe in taxis should they offer a lift home after a dance. Malise had never been in a taxi, nor did he plan to break the habit, safe in it or not. A small part of him disapproved of the loss of war time equality – as smart London revived to distance itself from the memory of servantless days – but he knew where he rightfully belonged.

Before each dance there was always a dinner party – held in the house or flat of a debutante's mother and/or father – depending on their situations in marriage.

There were usually about ten guests, gender matched, at these dinners and many of the young men were recruited by Jennifer from an army camp at Windsor. Malise was older than the average young man. Conversation could be sticky. Young men were expected to ask the young ladies they had been seated next to at dinner to dance when they arrived at the ball.

Often these balls took place at hotels. The Savoy River Room, The Hyde Park Hotel, Claridge's. Malise was always wary for fear of being expected to escort a girl home. Not that he didn't often fancy one. He liked to walk back to Pimlico – often in breezy contentment after having made a conquest.

More often than not, they danced to the music of Tommy Kinsman's band. Kinsman was a lively, short, spirited bandleader. Some of the plainer girls got to know him well and often, noisily, plucked, when needed, a partner from his troupe.

One evening, at The Hyde Park Hotel, Malise danced with a beautiful girl. She did not match up to Dawn's lack of restraint on the floor but, after they had danced close to the strains of ‘ Mountain Greenery' she was not to be the same for years to come. Her knees were weak and her eyes enormous. Malise clasped her round the waist and pressed his cheek to hers. He had to bend a bit as he was tall. She did not quite have an orgasm as had Dawn – and he did not wear a kilt. Nonetheless she was unsettled.

When the beauty drifted away to powder her nose – her eyes showing him that, before minutes were up, she would be back in his arms for the next dance, he nipped down the stairs and was away. The band struck up with ‘Some Enchanted Evening' as the girl made frantic searches for her partner. He had been doing no more than keeping his hand, or whatever, in.

Although he lacked ease of manner, Malise was invited to many of these parties. He tended to give courtly bows and to force jokes. These traits held him up with the more sophisticated girls. Some even pronounced him ‘creepy.' He was unable to talk naturally. His words were composed, resulting in a failed air of spontaneity.

On free evenings, he sometimes went to the cinema. He never met with a friend or relation; never invited a young lady to dine with him although he occasionally gave thought to the one who had swooned in his arms at The Hyde Park Hotel.

In spite of being conceited in some areas, he was aware of being a misfit, pedantic, stiff and lacking in feeling. He feared being seen as a cardboard character for his attempts at mixing were awkward. He did have a scholarly side and wished that he hadn't been in love with a motorcycle when at school.

When not doing his slight job, he spent many hours at the British Museum reading about Etruscans and, in other spare time, redeveloping his anti-clericalism.

He stuck to his budget and convinced himself that he was not at his imaginary best without eight hours of sleep each night.

He was well over thirty by the time he knew that he had to make a change. Visits to the farm, with Christian silent and semi-hostile, became less and less appealing; visits to the British Museum Etruscan department, more and more so.

There he poured over funerary practices, language, customs and engravings of rock-cut chamber tombs.

He tired of, and knew that he was bad at, social life. Hostesses tumbled to the fact that he was never likely to marry their daughters. He did hear, twice by letter, from his ‘conquest' at The Hyde Park Hotel but did not reply. She must have winkled out his address with the help of Jennifer who still worked for the
Tatler
magazine.

With a friendly, youngish Italian man, Giovanni, who worked at the museum, he heard of a small flat that he might be able to rent in Volterra. The Italian man's aunt was no longer able to live alone there and the flat was about to become empty. Malise thought he would be able to survive on his income and yearned to buy fresh comestibles (as he called food) from local markets.

That part of Italy had been dreadfully short of provisions during the war but, or so he had heard, quantity and quality had flooded back.

His mind was filled with cheeses, figs, salami, grapes and peaches. Not tinned ones in syrup. He pictured himself walking to the Etruscan Museum – might even land a small job there. Money posed a possible problem but ways could be found. Exchange was tricky. Basil, bars and Bolognese sauce. Cappuccinos and carafes. He planned to drive Ruggles there. Petrol? Proscuitto, Parmesan and Prosecco. Not that he drank much in the way of alcohol. Moderation. Sticking his neck above his collar, he strained in front of the looking glass – rehearsing absurd words aloud.

Italy, he fully decided, in spite of the chain smoking, was the place for him. He had seen dead and dying there as Germans struggled to hold on, but he had not been unhappy. No social skills had been needed. It refreshed him to remember how little his lack of them had mattered. Not that he had then understood that he lacked them – or had even known about them.

His failure to produce favourable reactions puzzled and almost hurt him.

There were hiccoughs during discussions with his Italian friend at the museum. The aunt, believed likely to spend the rest of her days in a home for the sickly, had recovered her strength and a tenant was no longer needed for her apartment in Volterra.

It dealt a blow to Malise who was rearing to go but did not wish to pay
pensione
fees as he looked for a more permanent perch. Giovanni begged for patience when Malise showed dismay.

‘I know the best place for you. Not Volterra but my cousin has a nice apartment for renting just now. In Lucca. A beautiful city. Little food in wartime but now in prosperity. It is not a long way – only two hours from Volterra so, if you take it, you can search from there.'

Giovanni lit a cigarette and talked in a low voice.

‘Lucca, for me, is a fantastic place. There are many large and beautiful gardens within the walls. That is why the city survived well during war.'

His cigarette burnt low as he continued talking. ‘For me, too, Lucca is special. My uncle was chief of police there. The Nazis ordered him to round up all Jews. I was only a boy. My uncle rounded them up – one day early – helping them on to trains and allowing them to escape. I don't know where they went. The next day the Nazis shot my uncle dead and my aunt took many pills to join him. In my family we are proud of this aunt and uncle.'

Giovanni looked sad and Malise remembered how near he had been to atrocity at the time. Not that the memory of his proximity to horror triggered off much in the way of sympathy or involvement.

The rent was low. The apartment was up seventy-nine steep steps – above a small piazza in the centre of the city; a city surrounded by walls – Part Medieval, part Roman.

‘My cousin is living in Birmingham and the place is empty. You find it enchanting. That I am sure.'

Giovanni was hopeful and so, after a bit of thought, was Malise.

He decided to go ahead and, after some planning, set off in Ruggles.

With a proud, resolute certitude, he made a stately and rewarding entry into the city, under one of the gates that arched through the walls. There were few cars and Ruggles caused a satisfactory stir as he drove cautiously into the town. Many times he stopped and asked, in faltering Italian, for help with directions. Always he caused interest. He was able to park Ruggles in the
piazza
outside the entrance to the building near to the top of which his future apartment perched. Cats writhed round doorways. He looked up and noticed that his rooms were the highest. A basket hung from one of the top windows on a rope. Elevator for shopping. Picturesque, he decided. Bells, pigeons, walls, a Roman amphitheatre, cobbles, bakeries, flowers, an orthopaedic shop, a pet shop where a parrot spoke in Italian. Olive oil, honey, bicycles (few riders paying attention to the use of handle bars.)

The city, although short of food, had not been harmed during the war. Malise blanked the war out. He had the knack.

He learnt that Lucca had belonged to Napoleon and that he had given it to his sister. Had he had a sister, he would not have given it to her. Nor to a brother.

There was a forecourt below the apartment building where nobody stopped him leaving his car. It constantly amused him that he had named it ‘Ruggles.' Again he thought back to his long past dance with Dawn in Mrs Ruggles's drawing room where the carpet had been rolled back. He, in his kilt, had all but been rolled back too and he revelled in that moment of the past. Even wondered how Dawn's marriage was going.

He saw himself as picturesque as he filled the basket with lentils, pastas and focaccia loaves before racing up the seventy nine steps, three at a time.

From the window, with immense satisfaction, he wound the rope upwards.