The Merciless Ladies (24 page)

‘You won't raise any opposition, then?'

‘Not if Paul gets rid of his obstruction. If he doesn't I don't know what will happen. I never took any notice of
my
mother. I'd have married Clem even if he'd been a Mormon.' She bent down and raised a struggling, wriggling cocker spaniel to her face. ‘Holly must live her own life, Bill. Ethelred's tail is getting quite out of hand.'

‘You're very broad-minded', I said.

‘He must have it clipped. Is it true that some dealers bite 'em off? Disgusting! Christianity was not broad-minded in my young days. Nor tolerant. It's time it became so.'

‘Surely it's become so', I said. ‘The question now is where tolerance ends and indifference begins.'

‘Dear Bill. I believe you're a Presbyter at heart.'

‘Far from it. But while we're on this subject, tell me something I'm curious about. Holly said to me recently that you never taught her much of religion. I wonder why that was.'

The puppy made a substantial meal off Lady Lynn's face, and presently she set him down on the table among all the books and papers and candies and siphons and scientific magazines. He stood there looking up at her uncertainly, waving his top-heavy tail, then began a cross-country journey over the litter to the other side of the table.

‘Dear Bill', she said again. ‘ I taught Holly a certain amount about Christianity; as much as I taught any of them; so that they could approach the subject with an historically informed and perfectly open mind. I didn't teach them religion, because nobody can do that. Religious life is a mattet of
a priori
experience.'

‘Oh, God!' I said.

She darted round the table in time to prevent Ethelred from committing suicide over the other edge. I wondered if she would have done the same for her daughter.

‘Naughty boy! Naughty boy!' She picked up the puppy and set him down on the floor, whereupon he squatted and made a pool. ‘Naughty boy', she added perfunctorily. ‘You know Paul better than we do, Bill. Do you think he could make Holly happy?'

I hesitated. I don't know quite what he wants to
do
with his life. As you say, he talks about changing, somehow. Well, what is that going to mean? I'd put nothing past him if he made up his mind to it. But he's overflowing with commissions, overflowing with engagements, overflowing with invitations. It isn't human nature to refuse them. But Holly may like all that.'

‘You remind me of Old Moore'; said Lady Lynn. ‘He generally contrives to say that there may be war next year, but if there isn't there'll be peace.'

‘Well, I don't charge twopence for my prophecies.'

‘No', she admitted reasonably. ‘Now where did I put that rag?'

‘This it?'

‘Thank you, dear.' She bent down and dabbed half-heartedly.

‘Let me do it.'

‘Thank you, dear.'

‘Do you train your dogs?' I said. ‘Or do you allow them to learn house manners by
a priori
experience?'

‘Now, Bill, you're being rude. I should be furious with you. Thank you, dear; give me the cloth and I'll hang it out of the window to dry.'

I followed her slowly to the window. Holly, Paul and Sir Clement were standing by the sundial in the centre of the lawn. Sir Clement was talking. Paul's large well-groomed head was bent slightly forward as he listened; the cheekbones had become more prominent with maturity. One seldom attains to a detached view of a close and constant, friend; I thought, in ten years he'll have the head of an apostle or a satyr, I don't know which; God help Holly, for no one else will.

Holly was standing beside him, as tall as he, still lanky but with a pleasant suggestion of shapeliness. Sir Clement, long-jawed and bald and full of pencils, was emphasizing his point by gesturing with a long bony hand. He often made these gestures when lecturing; they helped to illustrate his meaning or gather up the threads of an argument.

I thought of the many times I had played about that dial in the past with Holly and Bertie and Leo. Lady Lynn, characteristically, had for many years used it as a bird table, so that the figures were now obscured.

‘Perhaps', said Lady Lynn, ‘ you'd find out for us what he's – er – aiming to do about things. Speak as an old friend of the family. Of course
we
could ask him, but we don't know him well enough to see into his answers, if you follow me.'

‘Nobody can', I said, ‘because he can't himself. I'll do my best. I'm convinced he's in earnest. That's all I know.'

‘Clem's hair needs cutting', said Lady Lynn. ‘Did you ever see anything so ridiculous as that beard he came home with? He looked like Uncle Sam.' She stared down penetratingly at the puppy rolling at her feet. ‘I mustn't forget to write to Bertie and Leo about Holly. I always forget these things when I take a pen in my hand. I wonder why dog breeders are so conservative. If they'd only allow all dogs to mix together, just separating them into large, medium and small, look what variety there would be. Eventually, too, one would achieve the mean average dog.'

‘Mr Everydog', I suggested.

‘Exactly. The Dog-in-the-Street. Just like human beings. Most interesting. You'll not forget to ask Paul, will you, Bill?'

‘I'll do my best.'

III

If there was some truth in the suggestion that Holly was as much in earnest as Paul I didn't learn it that day, for by luck or good management I didn't catch her alone. In any event I should not have known what to say, for she would have been needle-sharp to detect any reservation on my part. If she was happy then the last thing I wanted was to cast any damper on her happiness.

Might it last.

IV

On the Wednesday I flew to Ireland with a couple of other Journalists. It was my first flight. I think it was a de Havilland 50 J. Anyway it was the type of plane in which Alan Cobham had just flown to Cape Town and back, and it was thought an interesting thing to write about. For my part, as we wobbled up out of Croydon and droned across England and the Irish Sea, with plenty of cloud to provide the bumps, I decided that a fifty-eight-ton cutter was much more to my liking.

Of course I personally had no business to grab this fairly trivial assignment, but I had told the editor I wanted to get out of England again for a spell. (‘You've only just come back', he said plaintively. ‘Scott won't like it when he gets to hear.') But having seen my set expression and having presumably some wish to keep me on the paper, he decided to square his conscience by arranging an interview for me with Kevin O'Higgins, who had done so much to put the Irish civil service on its feet after Independence; this I accordingly did – not knowing then that his life was soon to be cut short by assassination. I also sent back an article on the Abbey Theatre, and two on the partition problem; so in the end it was three weeks before I lacked an excuse to stay on. Then I worked at the head office of the paper for three more weeks before returning to London.

I had only been home two days when Paul called at my flat.

‘You didn't write', he said. ‘ I wondered what had happened.'

‘I wrote to Holly. I thought she'd tell you.'

‘Later she did. But she's been in Oxford and she's not on the telephone …'

I said: ‘So what news?'

‘D'you mean? …'

‘Have you been to see Olive?'

‘Yes. I went that first week after you left, but I didn't get much encouragement. Not then. Since then she's changed her mind.'

‘D'you mean about a
divorce?
'

‘Yes.'

I stared at him. ‘I don't know how you ever persuaded her!'

‘I didn't have to!'

I lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantelpiece, thinking this through, trying to feel pleased about it.

‘Have a drink', I said.

‘No, thanks.'

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing further.

He said: ‘The first meeting was pretty grim. You're right: she hasn't changed much.'

I waited.

‘I went to see het on the Thursday. I knew it wasn't any good going and telling her the exact truth: that I'm keen to marry again, that I feel I'm at a sort of cross-roads and need – need Holly to help me change direction, that I want to cut out so much … and can't do it without her help. On the other hand I knew she wouldn't believe me if I started telling her a pack of lies …

‘So I began according to plan, saying I felt it was time we both had our freedom, and that of course I'd provide her with the evidence if she was willing. She laughed at me.'

‘That's what I would have expected.'

‘We talked for a while, argued. In the end she said: ‘‘Well, Paul, I'm afraid you're going to have to stay married to me for a bit yet. Get used to the idea. If you've any little starlet lurking round the corner hoping she's going to become the second Mrs Stafford, tell her to forget it. Explain to her what fun it is living in sin.'' '

I could hear Olive's voice saying this. I could see her sitting on her white settee, carefully moistening her lips each time she spoke.

‘So what has happened to make the difference?'

‘Last week she rang me and said she'd changed her mind and would I like to go round? I dropped everything and went. She said she'd considered it and had decided we'd both be better free, so if I made the necessary arrangements she'd do her part.'

‘Any reason?'

‘Yes, thank God. She's remarrying herself. I suppose it was the natural thing, but I could have shouted with joy! Apparently some Member of Parliament wants to marry her. I've forgotten his name, but it seems they've known each other for quite a while—'

‘Peter Sharble.'

‘That's it. How d'you know?'

‘She's mentioned him more than once. And I met him at her flat soon after I came back from Rome.'

‘Well, God bless him, that's all I say! Poor devil, I hope he makes her happy.'

I put out my cigarette. ‘ So it's all going to come sttaight after all.'

‘Apparently. I've already been to see Kidstone, made arrangements about hiring some woman; it's just a routine one has to go through. I confess I'll be happier when it's done.' Paul ran a finger under his collar. ‘ You know, Bill, it's all going so well I'm scared. I'm scared of Olive in a way I've never remotely been before. There was a smirk about her expression that suggested she was enjoying some secret joke. I didn't live with her two years and not learn to know her rather well. I'm trying to persuade myself it's a smirk of self-satisfaction. After all a rising politician of good family is a much better proposition than a successful artist with no background. I looked up Sharble's constituency and he's in a safe seat. Olive will absolutely love being the Member's wife. I hope to God that's what it is; but I shall be happier when it's all through.'

V

A letter from Holly, dated 7 November but not delivered until late in the year, having twice crossed the Irish Sea. I have it before me now, much smeared and the ink faint for having been so often exposed to the light.

Dearest Bill,

Thank you so very much for your letter about Paul and me. Do write again, as, while I'm at Oxford, I get out of touch with things. One lives in a fortress – or is it just an ivory tower? – which keeps the world at a respectful distance.

I can count up quickly enough all the letters I've ever had from you – total six, and one of those was abusive, so it's time you made up a bit of leeway.

I do appreciate your good wishes. But to read your letter one would think the whole thing sealed and settled instead of very much in abeyance until Paul can get his freedom. Write and tell me sometime what sort of a woman Paul's first wife is.

You say in your letter that perhaps this – this being my prospective marriage to Paul – that perhaps this is what I've really needed, what I spoke of in the
Patience
, a lack of a sense of purpose, having no direction or object in life. Well, if it is I didn't know it then! All I know is that Paul says he needs my help. How can I help him? Perhaps I shall find out. What's wrong with us all, Bill, that none of us seems to fit into life as it is set out for us? People are like a litter of puppies, all struggling over each other and trying to edge someone else out and squeeze down into the corner that just suits them. And when they get there they find it doesn't really suit them so well after all.

Should I except you from this view? You always seem so quiet and level-headed and unperturbed by other people's strugglings. You're the puppy in the corner that takes no part in the scramble but ends by getting the most comfortable place. Am I right, Bill; or have you your own secret sorrows and your own special discontent?

I must stop now. Write me a long letter next week.

Love, Holly

In December I had arranged to have dinner with Paul at the Hanover Club, where he was now anxious to put me up for membership. It may be remembered that some of the newspapers reporting the lawsuit had made a lot of that part of Paul's evidence dealing with the rejection of the picture by Burlington House and the implication that this rejection could have been on politic rather than artistic grounds. So there had been more angry correspondence both in the newspapers and out. Paul's break with the Academy was now absolute. Since there had always been an influential number of artists who scorned the Academy anyhow, this didn't bother him, especially as he was now so we'll known that he no longer needed a showcase.

I called for him at Royal Avenue and we had a drink there first. As we were leaving to get into his car a tall man in a bowler hat asked for Mr Paul Stafford, thrust an envelope into Paul's hand, said ‘Good evening, sir', and walked off. Paul tore open the envelope, saw it was the divorce writ Olive had agreed to serve on him, grunted with satisfaction and drove off.