Surfeit of Lampreys (10 page)

When they returned to the hall Roberta saw that the Lampreys were in a family rage. Henry and Frid were white and the twins and Patch scarlet with fury. Roberta wondered if these reactions were the natural consequences of their complexions, if fair people were always more choleric than dark ones. Henry, she saw, was the angriest. He walked off down the passage calling “Michael!” in a voice that brought Mike running. “Your mama is asking for you,” said Henry.

“I've lost the pot,” said Mike. Henry turned on his heel and came back into the hall. He picked up rugs and hats and slung them indiscriminately into the cupboard.

“That was a howling success, wasn't it?” said Frid. “Did either of them so much as glance at us, do you happen to know?”

“They've got the manners of hogs,” said Patch violently.

“Uncle Gabriel,” muttered Stephen slowly, “is without doubt an old—”

“Shut up,” said Colin.

“Well, isn't he?”

“I hope Mummy's pleased,” said Henry. “She's seen us make as big fools of ourselves as can reasonably be expected in one afternoon.”

“It's not Mummy's fault,” murmured Colin uncomfortably.

Mike came in looking scared. “I can't find the pot I've got to give Uncle Gabriel,” he said. His brothers and sisters paid no attention; Roberta hunted helplessly round the littered hall. Mike, looking anxious, wandered into the drawing-room.

“Shut that d-door,” said Stephen.

Patch hurled Lord Wutherwood's bowler to the far end of the hall.

“Don't be a fool, Patch,” said Henry. Colin picked the bowler up and pretended to be sick into it. The others watched him moodily.

“This has been great fun for Robin,” said Henry. “We're sorry our relations are so bloody rude, Robin.”

“What
does
it matter?” said Roberta.

Henry stared at her. “You're quite right,” he said, “it doesn't matter. But if any of you think that noisome old treasure-trove in there is going to hand us two thousand pounds, you're due for a disappointment. Daddy could go bankrupt six times over before his charming brother would help him.”

“You th-think we're for it then?” asked Stephen.

“I do.”

“We'll wriggle out,” said Frid. “We always have.”

“Wolf, wolf,” said Henry.

“Why? I don't see it.”

“Let's get out of this,” suggested Patch. “Mummy's going to take the aunts into 26, isn't she?”

“Let's go into the dining-room,” said Frid.

Colin reminded them of Mike and the Chinese vase and wondered vaguely if they ought to look for it. Stephen said Lord Wutherwood could be depended upon to take the vase and go away without offering them any assistance. Frid and Henry said they thought the gesture with the vase should be attempted.

“Was it wrapped up?” asked Roberta suddenly.

“Yes. Mummy bought a smart box for it,” said Patch.

“Then I know where it is. It's in her bedroom.”

“There let it lie, say I,” said Stephen.

“But if Charlot wants it?”

“Robin,” said Frid, “be a darling and go into the drawing-room. Hiss to Mummy where the pot is and then if she wants it she can send Mike.”

“All right,” agreed Roberta, and returned nervously to the drawing-room. She managed to give Charlot the message.

“Where's Mike?” murmured Charlot.

“Didn't he come in here?”

“Yes, but he's wandered away.”

“Shall I find him?”

“No, never mind.”

As Roberta made for the door she heard Charlot say brightly: “Come along, Violet, come along, Aunt Kit, we'll leave the boys to talk business.” Roberta hurried through into the dining-room where she found the Lampreys lying close together on the floor with their heads to the wall.

“Lock the door,” they whispered.

Roberta locked the door. Henry moved slightly and invited her with a gesture to lie between Frid and himself.

“What's this in aid of?” asked Roberta.

“Ssh! Listen! Get closer.”

Roberta now saw that this part of the wall consisted of a boarded-up door which evidently had at one time opened into the drawing-room. The Lampreys were listening at the crack. The voices of Lord Charles and his brother could be clearly heard above the comfortable sounds made by the drawing-room fire.

“I'd better not,” breathed Roberta, diffidently.

“It's all right,” said Frid in her ear. “Daddy wouldn't mind. Ssh!”

“…so you see,” said Lord Charles's voice, “it's been a series of misfortunes rather than any one disaster. The jewellery and
objets-d'art
idea seemed a capital one. I really couldn't foresee that poor Stein would shoot himself, you know. Now could I?”

“You go and tie yourself up with some miserable adventurer—”

“No, no, he wasn't that, Gabriel, really.”

“Why the devil didn't you make some enquiries?”

“Well I—I did make a good many. The truth is—”

“The truth is,” said Lord Wutherwood's voice edgily, “you drifted into this business as you have drifted into every conceivable sort of blunder for the last twenty years.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Lord Charles's voice: “Very well, Gabriel. I'll take that. It's quite useless in my predicament to offer excuses. I readily confess that the sort of explanation I have to make would seem quite ridiculous to you.”

“And to anyone else. I may as well tell you at the outset that I can't do anything about it. I've helped you twice before and I might as well have thrown the money into the sea.”

“We were extremely grateful—”

“Is it too much to suggest that you might have shown it by pullin' yourselves together? I told you then that you should recognise the fact that you were a man with a small income and a large family and should cut your coat accordingly. It's preposterous, the way you live. Butlers, maids, cars, bringin' gels out, doin' the season, trips here, gamblin' there. Good God, you ought to be livin' like a—like a clerk or something! Why haven't you got some post for yourself where you earned a wage? What are those three boys doin'?”

“They've tried extremely hard to get jobs.”

“Nonsense. They could have gone into shops since they're not qualified for any professions. I said when they were at school that they ought to face the facts and work for professions!”

“We couldn't afford the University.”

“You could afford half a dozen white elephants. You could afford to traipse around the world in luxury liners, you could afford to take that place in the Highlands, entertain, and God know what.”

“My dear Gabriel! The amount of entertaining we do!”

“You dribble money away. Why don't those gels run the house? Plenty of gels one knows are doin' that sort of thing. Domestic.”

“Frid's going on the stage.”

“Yah!” said Lord Wutherwood. “Was that display she treated us to just now a sample? Showin' her legs and droppin' about in other people's scarves like a dyin' duck in a thunderstorm!”

Roberta felt Frid go rigid with hatred. Stephen and Colin thrust their fists into their mouths. Patch snorted and was savagely nudged by Henry.

“…I may tell you, Charles, that I'm plaguely hard pressed myself. Deepacres nearly kills me keepin' it up. I'm taxed up to the gullet. Looks as if I'll have to put down the London house. You don't know the calls there are on me in—well, in my position. When I remember what it'll end in I sometimes wonder why the devil I take the trouble.”

“What do you mean, Gabriel?"

“I've no boy of my own.”

“No.”

“And to be frank with you I don't imagine Deepacres is likely to survive the treatment of my heirs.”

“You mean Henry.”

“Oh you'll outlive me, no doubt,” said Lord Wutherwood.

“Then you mean me?”

“Put it baldly, I mean the pair of you.”

There was a long pause. Roberta heard the fire in the next room settle down in the grate. She heard the breathing of the young Lampreys and the flurried ticking of a carriage-clock on the dining-room mantelpiece. When Lord Charles at last broke the silence, Robert felt her companions stir a little as though something for which they had waited was about to appear. Lord Charles's voice had changed. It was at once gentler and more decisive.

“I think,” he said, “that I can promise you neither Henry nor I will do much harm to Deepacres. We might possibly care to let other people share its amenities occasionally. That's all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was thinking of your regard for Deepacres and wondering if after all it amounts to very much. As you say, one day it will be Henry's. Yet you are content to let him go down with the rest of us.”

“If he's got any guts he'll make his way.”

“I hope he will. I almost believe I am glad to go bankrupt without your aid, Gabriel. I've had to ask you for money. No doubt you would say I've come begging for money. You choose to refuse me. But please don't plead poverty. You could perfectly well afford to help me but you are a miserly fellow and you choose not to do so. It is not a matter of principle with you—I could respect that—it is just plain reluctance to give away money. I hoped that your vanity and snobbishness, for you're a hell of a snob, would turn the balance. I was wrong. You will go away bathed in the vapour of conscious rectitude. I doubt if you have ever in your life been guilty of a foolish generous action. Everything you have said about us is true; we
have
dribbled money away. But we've given something with it. Imogen and the children have got gaiety and warmth of heart and charm; over-rated qualities perhaps, but they are generous qualities. Indeed there is nothing ungenerous about my undisciplined children. They give something to almost everybody they meet. Perhaps they cheat a little and trade a little on their charm but I don't think that matters nearly so much as being tight-lipped monsters of behaviourism. They are full of what I dare to call loving-kindness, Gabriel, and that's a commodity I don't expect you to understand or applaud.”

“Oh Daddy!” whispered Frid.

“That's a damned impertinent stand to take,” said Lord Wutherwood. “It's as much as to say that people with a conscience about money are bound to be bores.”

“Nothing of the sort, I—”

“You're as good as puttin' a premium on dishonesty. It's the way people talk these days. ‘Charm!' Plenty of scamps have got charm; wouldn't be scamps if they hadn't, I daresay. Where's this lovin'-kindness you talk about when it comes to lettin' down your creditors?”

“Touché, I'm afraid,” muttered Henry.

“If I hadn't thought of that,” said Lord Charles, “nothing would have induced me to ask for your help.”

“You won't get it.”

“Then, as I fancy the Americans say, it is just too bad about my creditors. I rather think the poor devils have banked on you, Gabriel.”

“Insufferable impertinence!” shouted Lord Wutherwood, and Roberta heard the angry sibilants whistle through his teeth. “Sulking behind my name, by God! Using my name as a screen for your dishonesty.”

“I didn't say so.”

“You as good as said so,” shouted Lord Wutherwood. “By God, this settles it.”

The scene which had hitherto maintained the established atmosphere of drawing-room comedy now blossomed agreeably into a more robust type of drama. The brothers set about abusing each other in good round terms and with each intemperate sally their phrases became more deeply coloured with the tincture of Victorian rodomontade. Incredible references to wills, entails, and family escutcheons were freely exchanged. Lord Charles was the first to falter and his brother's peroration rang out clearly.

“I refuse to discuss the matter any further. You can drag yourself and your fool of a wife and your precious brood through the bankruptcy court. If Deepacres wasn't entailed I'd see that you never got a penny of Lamprey money. As it is—”

“As it is you will no doubt rewrite as much of your will as is not covered by the entail.”

“I shall do so, certainly.”

“You're a delightful fellow, Gabriel! I wish to God I'd left you alone.”

“You appear even to make a failure of the noble art of sponging.”

This, as Roberta and the Lampreys afterwards agreed, was the climax. Lord Charles and his brother in unison began to speak and in a moment to shout. It was impossible to understand anything but the fact that they had both lost their tempers. This lasted for perhaps fifteen seconds and stopped so abruptly that Roberta thought of a radio-knob turned off in the midst of a lively dialogue. So complete was the ensuing silence that she heard a far door open and footsteps cross the drawing-room carpet.