The Sacred and Profane Love Machine (8 page)

Monty did not in fact want to see Harriet at all. He let her come to him in this emotional impetuous way out of a kind of politeness, because this was something which
she
needed and wanted. She needed the sense of helping him, she wanted the flavour of his grief. A weary sense of duty upheld him in receiving her, in giving her that little wan smile which she so rightly recognized as peculiar. On the other hand she did not irritate him as his mother would certainly have done. Harriet was capable of being silent, and although she very much wanted to touch him (to hold his hand for instance) she accepted his renewed evasions with tact and grace. She had qualities of physical repose which his mother entirely lacked and which poor Sophie had lacked too.

How awfully neat he is, Harriet was reflecting, and how much I have been looking forward all day to seeing him. Even now he has put on a clean shirt and a tie and such smart cuff-links which he must have chosen to wear, I’m sure I’ve never seen them before, and he is so fantastically clean-shaven, and so clean, even his fingernails are clean, which Blaise’s never are. Of course Monty’s father was a curate, I’m sure that’s significant, he looks so absurdly clerical. And he’s so compact and small-scale, though he is quite tall, he seems so dainty after Blaise’s untidy smelly masculineness.

‘Don’t grieve, my dear,’ she said, just to say something. ‘She had a happy life.’

‘Oh Harriet, please don’t talk rubbish. You don’t know whether Sophie had a happy life or not. Even I don’t know. And what does it matter now what sort of life she had?’

‘I always felt that Sophie—’

‘
Please
.’

Harriet kept trying to make him talk about Sophie, she wanted to hear him rehearse his loss, she wanted, unconsciously of course, to triumph over Sophie. Any woman is glad when a man loses another woman. Harriet wanted, in a sense, to ‘move in’. It was natural and Monty did not resent it.

‘Are you eating? Your kitchen looks too tidy.’

‘I open tins.’

‘I do wish you’d let me deal with your letters.’

‘I sort out my mother’s ones, the rest don’t matter.’

‘But aren’t there any letters from friends —’

‘I have no friends.’

‘Oh
nonsense
!’

It was true, thought Monty. Sophie had pretty well cleaned him out of friends.

‘Well, I’m your friend, Monty.’

Thanks.’

‘Oh Monty, don’t – do break down or something – don’t bottle it all up – it’s not good to be so remote and calm about it all.’

‘Women always want men to break down,’ said Monty, ‘so that they can raise them up again. I am quite sufficiently broken down, I assure you, without any demonstrations. In fact I’m behaving in an extremely unmanly way. If I had an ordinary job to do I’d have to get on with it Being self-employed I can brood all day. It’s undignified and bad. Bereavement is not uncommon. One might just treat it like the ’flu. Even Niobe stopped crying eventually and wanted something to eat.’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself —’

‘I don’t. I ceased some time ago to believe in goodness. My judgements are purely aesthetic. I am behaving like a milksop.’

Harriet got up and moved to stand beside him. A ragged-winged white butterfly, resisting the slight warm evening breeze, was clinging on to a tassel of mauve wistaria just outside the window. Monty and Harriet watched the butterfly together in silence. Beyond, upon the close-cut lawn, three of the dogs, who had come round with Harriet by the road, were waiting to escort their mistress home. (The only dog who, at great danger to his organs, Harriet felt, could jump the orchard fence was Ajax.) Babu and Panda, who usually went about together, were playing a familiar game of taking it in turns to he down and be sniffed over, and then to leap up when least expected. Nearer to the window Ganymede, his tail now languidly set in motion by the sight of Harriet, was stretched out in his typical slug-like pose, his muzzle on the ground, his front and back legs fully extended.

‘Dogs are normally pack animals unless redeemed by attachment to an individual master. But your collection of creatures seem to display both characteristics.’

Harriet’s hand gently sought out Monty’s hand and took it in a firm cautious gentle grip like a retriever holding a bird. Monty smiled the wan smile, lightly pressed the intrusive hand, and moved away. He repressed a shudder at the unwelcome contact. His flesh mourned. Harriet sighed.

Oh get out, get out, get out, thought Monty. He said, ‘Please go, Harriet dear.’

‘All right, all right. Aren’t we going to eat our chocolate fish? Just a little bit.’

‘It’s melted,’ said Monty. He began to pull off pink silver paper coated with gluey pale brown chocolate.

‘Not really.’ The fish lay disclosed, staring-eyed, a little amorphous but quite whole. Harriet swooped on it, detaching its tail and conveying it to her mouth, licking her fingers. Monty pretended to eat a stick fragment. He wiped his fingers on a (Harriet noticed) freshly laundered white handkerchief.

‘Can I ask you something else quite abruptly?’ said Harriet. ‘You know Blaise’s doctor plan. Well, if we go ahead with it, could you if necessary lend us some money?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And if you leave Locketts, though of course we hope you won’t, would you consider selling us the orchard? You know how much Blaise has always wanted it.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘It seems awful to ask
both
things! We may have to sell Hood House anyway.’

‘Don’t worry about money for Christ’s sake. And of course you mustn’t sell Hood House.’

‘Thank you, Monty, you’re perfect. Yes, yes, I’m going. And you will talk to David, won’t you, about his not giving up Greek? He’s so attached to you.’

‘It’s mutual.’

‘Thank you, dear Monty. May I have just another little bit of our fish?’

‘Thank
you,
dear Harriet. Here wait a moment, take this.’ Monty picked up a large blue and white Chinese vase from the table in the hall and bundled it into Harriet’s arms.

‘Monty, you are absurd, you mustn’t give away all your things, whatever will your mother say! It’s so huge, and you gave me that Persian plate thing last time!"

‘The apparent scene is slowly falling to pieces revealing the reality behind.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think you do either!’

The opening door revealed Monty’s front garden, a large paved area dotted with dwarf veronica bushes, lavender, rosemary, hyssop, santolina and sage. The declining sun made a pattern of long rounded shadows upon the grey paving. Rushing round the side of the house the three dogs began to race about among the bushes, lifting their legs against them, almost without pausing, like canine athletes. The door also revealed, half-way up the path from the gate, Edgar Demarnay, now dressed in a light brown summer suiting and a very large green tie, his fluffy pale hair neatly combed, and carrying a straw hat.

Harriet, who had emerged, stepped aside. Edgar, reaching the door, also stepped aside, placing his straw hat upon his heart and bowing to Harriet. He then turned and bowed to Monty.

‘Professor Demarnay, Mrs Gavender,’ said Monty.

‘Not Professor any more actually,’ Edgar murmured, staring at Harriet.

‘Thanks, Harriet. Good night.’

Harriet moved away. As Edgar began to say something to him Monty said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, but I meant it. I really don’t want to see you. At all. Good-bye.’ He shut the door in Edgar’s face and went back into the drawing-room feeling very upset.

A moment later he realized that he had made a ridiculous mistake. He ought to have held Edgar in play long enough to let Harriet leave the scene. As it was he had practically thrust them into each other’s arms. Cursing, he crept into the dining-room and peered through the curtains.

Harriet and Edgar were standing at the gate in close converse, Harriet holding the large Chinese vase as if it were a baby. Damn, damn, damn, thought Monty. Did he then feel possessive about Harriet? Evidently. And how very much he did not want Edgar hanging around. Edgar typified all that messy mysterious side of Sophie’s life which had so much tormented him. And all those bloody letters and giving her his telephone number! Now Harriet would feel sorry for Edgar. She must have been intrigued by Monty’s treatment of him. She was a woman, that is an inquisitive interfering busybody. Edgar would be questioned. Edgar would be delighted to tell all. Edgar would acquire a contact, a foothold. Edgar would be back. Oh damn, damn, damn.

Edgar and Harriet began to walk slowly off together in the direction of Hood House.

Monty went back into the dressing-room, wrapped up the milk chocolate fish in a copy of
The Times,
and took it out to the bin in the kitchen. Then he went out into the garden. The light had its velvety dramatic evening quality, a portentous vividness conscious of the dark. In the still absurdly light green greenery of the privet hedge a wren was singing with piercing accuracy, and two blackbirds and a thrush were having a musical contest in the orchard. Less coherent birds, ostentatiously unimpressed, were contributing chaotic background noise, like an orchestra tuning up. Monty felt frenzy, anger, despair and a stupid bitter resentment against everything. He had been very irritated at being asked to sell the orchard. That was not Harriet, that was Blaise. Typical Blaise, clumsy, greedy egoist, wanting to have everything at once, however incompatible. A large black animal emerged strolling from the orchard. Ajax. Monty did not entirely trust Ajax and never patted him. ‘Clear off!’ he said to the dog in passing. There was a faint growl. Monty thrust on into the orchard, his shoes and trousers soaked by the long grass which, already heavy with dew, was hanging in arches over the clipped path. He reached the fence of the Hood House garden. Was it conceivable that Harriet would invite Edgar in?

Someone was standing in the garden, on the lawn, underneath the acacia tree, a boy. It was David. Monty watched him in silence. David stood a while with head thrown back, arms limply hanging, gazing up into the tree. Then he turned slowly towards the house, trailing his feet and making long slithering tracks in the dew. His attitude and his movement expressed the self-conscious histrionic dejection of youth. Poor David, thought Monty, poor poor David. A dog barked, rather hysterically. Another answered. Hood House remained enigmatic.

Monty turned back. Sophie had wanted him to build a wooden platform in one of the orchard trees so that they could have their evening drinks sitting on the platform. Monty had told her it was a stupid idea. He threw himself face downward in the long wet grass.

Emily McHugh now very much regretted having taken Constance Pinn into her confidence. And why had she now let her into the house? Pinn must have mesmerized her. Pinn, who had once been her charwoman, and was now her lodger. In fact it had for a long time been impossible to conceal anything from Pinn. Pinn’s coping with Luca had made possible Emily’s job, now defunct. The job was gone and Pinn was installed. How Emily lost the job was as follows.

Emily had been employed part-time to teach French at an expensive progressive girls’ boarding school in the vicinity. The academic standards were not high. The children, doubtless like their parents before them, were being groomed for life’s lower pleasures. The young ladies rode, swam, danced, fenced, played bridge and read a little sociology. There were no examinations. Languages were regarded as a hard option, and Emily, who had now no taste for study and was no star at French, had survived because her pupils were lazy, untested and easy to connive with. An unspoken pact kept the ineffectual lessons rolling along somehow. Then one day what Emily had long dreaded occurred. A French girl turned up in the class.

Kiki St Loy was in fact a mixture. Her father, a diplomat, was half French, half Cornish. Her mother came from Andalusia. Kiki spoke English, French and Spanish, all fluently and all not quite perfectly. She was every school-teacher’s nightmare: a beautiful precocious popular bossy over-sexed rebellious
intelligent
pupil. Emily, who saw the danger signals at once, could not help liking Kiki. In fact to begin with she almost ‘fell for’ the girl, and imagined that she could recruit her as an ally. This proved vain. As soon as Kiki realized her power she began to use it. She went into long infectious fits of laughter over Emily’s accent, which she amusingly mimicked. She gravely corrected Emily’s now even more frequent mistakes, pretending that she was the teacher and Emily the pupil. The class adored it. Emily began to be not just upset but frightened. She tried to ‘buy them off’ by yet more connivance, yet more concessions to rebellion and disorder. All pretence at serious work was given up. Her lessons became ‘shows’ directed by Kiki. Other teachers complained of the ceaseless uproar. At last after warning Emily several times, the headmistress, who had never understood the situation, since Emily could not bring herself to explain it, asked her to leave. Humiliated, and yet also with a sort of despairing end-of-the-world relief, Emily left.

All this too it had been impossible to conceal from Pinn who, through Emily’s own good offices, now also worked part-time at the school, as a clerk. She was said to be doing well. Emily watched her friend’s success story with mixed feelings. She had accepted Pinn as a lodger partly for financial reasons after the demise of the teaching job. Pinn was useful. She was better at dealing with Luca than Emily was. She was also much better at cooking and professed to enjoy it. Pinn, who knew all about Emily’s curious way of life, was the only person with whom it could be discussed. And of course Emily was fond of her. Only Emily had somehow not foreseen how irritating Pinn’s sheer
knowledge
would prove to be at close quarters, although Pinn, who was very shrewd, was also very tactful. Of course Pinn was fascinated; she could not conceal that. Since Pinn had become what she called a ‘secretary bird’ she had become much smarter. Her short auburn hair was stylishly cut. Her long narrow spectacles were of the latest fashion. Her clothes contrived to look expensive. She hummed and buzzed with vitality. Emily, since she had lost her job, wore the same old slacks and cotton sweater every day. With less to do, she felt far more tired. She had been unemployed for nearly a month.