The Balliols (55 page)

“Now, this line, Mr. Producer, reminds me of a passage in
The Earthly Paradise
. I cannot exactly recall where. But that particular fall, the caesura in the fourth foot, is strangely familiar. It's not so much the actual words as their underlying sense; the rhythm.”

There was one line that caused him particular concern.

“
How art thou fallen, son of the morning
.”

“It's absolute plagiarism,” he said, “straight out of Stephen Phillips'
Christ in Hades
. ‘Oh, all fresh out of beautiful sunlight.'”

“There doesn't seem to me much resemblance between those lines,” said Balliol.

“Haven't you any ear? I don't mean in the literal sense: in the meaning of the lines: that's nothing. Poetry is sound not sense. Listen to the two lines ‘How art thou fallen, son of the morning—Oh, all fresh out of beautiful sunlight.'”

“If you asked me my opinion I should say that neither of those lines scanned.”

“My dear sir! Why, a judge of prosody like Robert Bridges, described that line as the finest in the whole poem!”

“I don't know about Robert Bridges and Stephen Phillips but as
far as Mr. Parkinson is concerned, I am convinced that it is a case of a defective ear. I'll investigate.”

Balliol walked over to the producer.

“Have you ever read a poem called
Christ in Hades?”

“Well … er … I know … I'm afraid … my spare time is very limited: parochial matters.”

“Have you ever heard of a poet called Stephen Phillips?”

“In a way … I don't know … the name does seem in a way familiar.”

“Thank you very much.”

But the young intellectual was not convinced. “There is such a thing as subconscious influence. You remember Kipling's story about the chemist's assistant who was found writing a poem beginning: ‘My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains.' It isn't as though that was the only line, now look at this …”

His interruptions grew so frequent that the curate sought Balliol's advice.

“Is it all right; about the play, I mean? That young man keeps harping on plagiarism. I couldn't get into any trouble, could I?”

Balliol reassured him.

“The play is vastly improved by it.”

The undergraduate was taking the part of Mark. It was a small part; a matter of fifteen lines, which he declaimed like a Union debater. He began as though he were to continue for at least twenty lines; the surprise to the audience when he stopped at the twentieth syllable was that of a tube-train traveller when the car stops in the middle of a tunnel. But he could not have been more conscientious had he been cast for Peter. He was frequently consulting the curate's advice on the correct interpretation of his part. “Now, what is the psychology of Saint Mark?” he would inquire. “I mean, what is your conception of his character? Is he as stupid as he appears, or is he a wise man pretending to be a fool?”

“I'm sure I don't know. I mean … I didn't know he appeared to be stupid.”

“But, Mr. Producer, look at the things he has to say!”

And he declaimed in their entirety the fifteen lines of his part.

Said Edward Balliol: “That young man is an unmitigated nuisance, but he has added considerably to my enjoyment of this exceedingly absurd activity.”

But the greatest amusement unquestionably was provided by what Balliol described as the episode of the Virgin. The part of Mary
was taken by a young person whose accent precluded any doubt as to her origin. She was pretty, pleasant, and she threw herself into the rôle with a commendable zest. But the blank verse of Mr. Parkinson was beyond the scope of her Board School education. Mrs. Simonds was frankly distressed. At the end of the first rehearsal she took Balliol aside.

“I must explain about Gertrude. She is my husband's choice. I had wanted to ask Miss Stone. You know her? No? Ah, but you should. Her mother's the Honourable Mrs. John Stone. Lady Tathly's daughter-in-law. Such a beautiful face, so reverent, so wistful. But my husband said ‘No. If we have a girl like that it will look as though we are worshipping the Virgin. And the Bishop would not approve.' So he chose Gertrude. And frankly, Mr. Balliol, I'm not happy at all about her. A good girl, but not a lady. Quite common. That hat now; dreadfully bad style. I hope you don't mind acting with her?”

“Why ever should I! At my age.…”

“Oh, but it wasn't you I was thinking of. It's Francis far more.” She looked across to where Francis and Gertrude were in conversation. “He's so much younger, of course. I suppose it's really quite all right. But mixing with a girl like that … I'm not sure that I should like it in the case of my own boy. For his sake, of course, not mine. As far as I'm concerned class simply does not exist. And if you feel the same way … Oh well, I'm very glad.”

Gertrude was absent from the next rehearsal.

“What's the matter?” Balliol asked.

The curate looked embarrassed.

“As a matter of fact, I think she's giving up her part.”

“Why? I thought she was rather good.”

“Apparently some of the people here objected to her.”

“What people?”

The curate's embarrassment increased.

“As a matter of fact your name was quoted.”

“Was it? I'll write to Mrs. Simonds.”

The letter he wrote to Mrs. Simonds was a stern one. The next rehearsal saw Gertrude reinstated. But Mrs. Simonds was unabashed. “I was so glad to get your letter: to know that you feel as I do about these things. There are so many people who don't. And I was afraid that you only
spoke
that way about Gertrude, so as to make things easier for me: that at heart you
were
worried. Of course, myself, I'd eat my dinner off the floor with anyone. But then I've been brought up with them, I know them. I know how
to make allowances for girls like Gertrude. She's such a radical, you know, Mr. Balliol, so independent. Do you know, I once wrote and asked her to come to a G.F.S. outing. She just sent a card saying ‘Sorry, other engagement. Can't come.' What can one do with a girl who behaves like that? Still, since you understand.…”

Said Balliol that evening in Francis's hearing, “When people tell you that class does not exist for them, you can be fairly certain that they are riddled with class-consciousness.”

Easter drew near. Maundy Thursday arrived. The play suffered perhaps from the pomp that Lady Lovemay had showered on it. The contrast was too great between the uncertain acting, the uncertain lines, and the glitter of spears and armour and gilded banners. But the evening was admittedly a success. The hall was crowded, the friends and relatives of the actors were delighted at the spectacle of a familiar figure resplendent in unaccustomed plumes. And a telegram from the Bishop was read out in which he expressed his regret at not being able to be present, and wishing the company all success.

As the cast was disrobing afterwards, the Vicar of St. Cuthbert's, a neighbouring and smaller parish, asked if he might speak to Mr. Balliol.

“I
must
congratulate you. A very reverent, a very beautiful piece of work. Now, I want to ask you a favour. Do you think you could persuade your cast to act it for us on Saturday? I will of course finance the moving. I should be proud if I could arrange for it to be acted in my parish.”

“Naturally, as far as I'm concerned. But it's a matter for Mrs. Simonds and Mr. Parkinson to decide upon.”

The cast were enthusiastic over the prospect of a repeat performance. They had been touched by the glamour of the footlights. The curate was flattered at his play's success. To everyone's surprise, however, Mrs. Simonds refused to consider the idea.

“I'm sorry. But I couldn't think of allowing that. I know my husband will see eye to eye with me. Maundy Thursday is one thing, Easter Eve another. It's too big a strain on you, Mr. Parkinson. The Easter-day services ahead. And besides, people shouldn't be appearing at a place of public entertainment, even if it's a religious entertainment, at an hour when Our Lord was in Hell. We should all be preparing ourselves for our Easter Communion. No, really, Mr. Parkinson, I'm afraid I can't allow it.”

The curate did not argue the issue.

“Mrs. Simonds knows her mind,” he explained to Balliol.

Remarked Balliol that evening: “My explanation of the matter is an extremely simple one. Mrs. Simonds had taken a great deal of trouble getting the patronage of Lady Lovemay. The production was a credit to her husband and to herself. The Bishop had taken notice of it. It was a step towards promotion. She had no intention of sharing any of the spoils with another parish.”

Francis's opinion was unvoiced. But he remembered the spirit in which Mrs. Simonds invited their co-operation. All that talk about “duty,” about “war-time,” about our debt to the soldiers at the front. It was very much the same here as it was at school. People were trying to force you to do things you didn't want, things that were in their interest, but not in yours; and were making the war an excuse. Getting away with murder. At the back of it all nothing but self-interest and self-seeking. “When I'm in a position to make decisions for myself,” vowed Francis, “I will never let myself be influenced by abstract arguments. I shall look on everything as a bargain. There are no such things as disinterested impulses. I'll say: ‘Good. You want me to do something for you. What are you going to do for me in return?' I'll show them, when I grow up.”

Still he could not deny that he had enjoyed this particular manifestation of the spirit of good works. Time hung heavily on his hands afterwards. Holidays were dull in war-time. Everyone was busy. His father at the office all day, and on duty every other night as a Special Constable. His mother attending endless relief committees, addressing parcels to prisoners, lonely soldiers, refugees. Occasionally Hugh would take him to a matinée; but he could not be expected to bother often about a younger brother. Helen was a nuisance and a noise about the place. No one was giving parties. No one was arranging expeditions. What a different time Hugh had had. A whole month devoted to giving him as good a time as possible. And Hugh had had first Lucy, then Ruth, to go about with. He hadn't a soul. He didn't know one fellow of his own age who lived within six miles of him. At school it was cheek to know anybody in another house. In your own house you only knew your contemporaries. Five other new boys had arrived on the same day as himself. One of them lived in Ireland. Two were in the country somewhere. There was one at Richmond, a good hour off. And the fifth he didn't like. No one for a fellow to go about with. And he didn't see what chance he stood of finding anyone if nobody gave parties.

There wasn't anything to do except read and go for walks. Occasionally his father would ask him what he was going to do that morning.

“Oh, mooch around,” he'd answer.

“What did you do yesterday?”

“Mooch around.”

His father would then dive a hand into his pocket.

“Here's half a crown. Take yourself to the cinema with it.”

A seat at the Theatre de Luxe at the foot of the hill cost him nine-pence. For a shilling with a twopenny bus fare there and back he could go to Cricklewood. His father's tips usually left him with a comfortable supply of change. He had no reason to grumble over a lack of pocket money. He had more pocket money than Hugh had ever had. But less to spend it on. He found himself looking forward to his return to school.

Balliol had small idea of the rebellious, exasperated state of mind into which his second son was drifting. His capacity for curiosity had never been fully exercised on Francis. He had begun by thinking him a nuisance. Later he had told himself that the child was Jane's concern, since she made no attempt to conceal he was her favourite. And now, when Jane was too busy with canteen work to have thought or care for anybody, he had grown into a too confirmed habit of ignoring Francis to take a very real interest in his concerns. The boy seemed to be doing well enough. He had been promoted practically every term; usually with a testimonial to his industry in the shape of a printed and signed statement that his prize account had been credited with two-thirds of a war-saving certificate. The reports were non-committally satisfactory. There did not seem anything particular to worry about; and there was much else that demanded his immediate concern.

Peel & Hardy was continuing to pay handsome dividends. The orders for champagne, port and whisky were unabated. No officer appeared to be equipped for service till he had a tobacco pouch and cigarette case in regimental colours and a pipe not markedly superior to any other pipe, but to be detected from another pipe by a small scarlet circle in the bowl for which insertion an additional charge of eleven shillings was exacted. There was also growing up among the younger members of the junior service the habit, highly profitable to a cigar merchant, of having specially blended tobacco, so that they could say in their mess, “Yes, this is my special mixture. It's not made for anybody else. Peel & Hardy's A317.” Each client had a different number and received such exclusiveness as could be obtained
from the variously proportioned blendings of four standardized mixtures. The ordinary shareholders had received a dividend of twenty per cent on the last balance-sheet.

The profits were considerable but so was the strain on the executive. Conscription had come, and with it the weeding out of every office staff throughout the country. There were not the men available to fill their places. Women were now so highly-priced by the munition factories that it was no longer possible to pick and choose; to insist, as Huntercombe had demanded, on plain and dowdy women. You had to take what you could find. And for that matter, the supply of plain and dowdy women seemed singularly short. A job, money and independence had given to even the most ordinary of women a briskness of manner, a brightness of smile, a happiness of look, a personal pride, that prevented you from thinking of them as plain and dowdy. They looked dashing and smart as they hurried to their offices with attaché cases, as they came clattering out of their factories in overalls; as they punched holes in bus tickets and collected their fares. They added a new sense of colour to the day's events. The sight of a woman in uniform in the London streets was so unexceptional that at first Balliol did not recognize the tall, trim khaki-clad, short-skirted, slouch-hatted figure who came striding towards him down St. James's through the soft, luminous sunshot glow of a late May evening.