The Nice and the Good (10 page)

“You’re old enough to flirt with John Ducane, anyway!”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t
old
enough for anything. And I don’t flirt with John Ducane. He just happens to be my friend.”

“And look at the way you’ve put your skirt.”

“I haven’t
put
it. It’s just that I don’t care, whether you’re here or not.”

“You’re little Miss Important Person now, aren’t you!”

“I’ve always been little Miss Important Person.”

“Would you like to see a nuthatch’s nest, Barbie?”

“No. You’ve already told me three times about that nuthatch’s nest.”

“Well, you’ve told me five times about your visit to the Château de Chillon.”

“I wasn’t telling you. I was telling other people and you were just listening.
Que tu es bête
, Pierce!”

“Don’t bother to show off your French to me, I’m not impressed.”

“It’s
natural
, I’m
not
showing off, I’ve been
talking
this language for months!”

“Don’t scream at me. All right, I’m going. It’s low tide. I’m going to swim to Gunnar’s Gave. I’m going to swim
into
Gunnar’s Cave.”

Gunnar’s Cave held a prime place in the mythology of the children. It opened at the base of the cliff directly into the sea, and although reputedly a smugglers’ cave its sole entrance was only above water for a short time at low tide. Mary Clothier, whose vivid subterranean imagination had rapidly extended itself in awful scenes of trappings and drownings, had long ago strictly forbidden the children to swim into the cave at all. Barbara and the twins, who were rather frightened of the cave, always obeyed. Pierce, who was very frightened of the cave, sometimes disobeyed. He had several times swum into the entrance at low tide, and although he had not touched any dry land within, had gained the impression that the cave went upward into the cliff. If this was so it might be that there was an upper cavern which was above water level even at high tide when the mouth of the cave was below the sea, a wonderful hiding place for smugglers. Pierce did not see any method of finding out whether this was so other than by the experiment of climbing up through the cave and waiting to see what happened. Of course if one was wrong, and the high tide completely filled the cave, then one would be drowned, but even this vision, though it filled Pierce with horror, was also curiously exciting, and especially since Barbara’s return he had thought constantly about the cave, picturing its blackness as a kind of consummation in which treasure troves and death by drowning blended together into a buzzing vortex of divine unconsciousness. But this belonged to the world of fantasy. In fact his explorations had been brief and timid so far, and he had swum hastily back on each occasion and out of the mouth of the cave well before the tide had come near to covering the entrance, which was only open for a period of about forty minutes.

“Well, go if you want to,” said Barbara. “Only I think it’s silly to do things that frighten you, it’s neurotic.”

“I’m not frightened, I’m curious. It’s a smugglers’ cave. I’d like to find out if there’s anything left inside.”

“You don’t
know
it’s a smugglers’ cave. You don’t
know
Gunnar was a smuggler. You don’t
know
Gunnar ever existed at all. It’s not like the Romans. Gunnar’s just a story.”

“The Romans, ha ha! You remember that Roman coin you found in a pool?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you didn’t really find it. I put it there for you to find. I bought it off a chap at school.”

Barbara sat up and dragged her dress down. She glared at Pierce. “I think it’s
hateful
of you to tell me that now,
hateful
!”

Pierce stood up. He mumbled, “Well, I did it to please you.”

“And now you’re telling me to hurt me.”

What has happened to us, thought Pierce. We were so happy once.

With a soft fluffy sound Montrose materialised on top of the tombstone with the carving of the sailing ship, and tucking in his paws made himself into a furry ball, looking down at Barbara with insolent narrow eyes.

Pierce scooped the cat into his arms, inhaled from the warm fur a whiff of Barbara’s special eau de Cologne, and threw Montrose on to Barbara’s lap.

He said, “Oh Barbara, I’m so sorry, don’t be cross with me.

Barbara twisted round and knelt in the ivy, hugging Montrose up against her face. Pierce knelt down opposite to her, and reaching out he touched her bare knee with one finger. They looked at each other with puzzlement, almost with fear.

“I’m sorry too,” she said. “Do you think we’ve just become bad?”

“How do you mean, bad?”

“Well, you know. When I was younger, when I read in the papers and in books and things about really nasty people, bad people, I felt so completely good and innocent inside myself, I felt that these people were just utterly
different from me, that I could never become bad or behave really badly like them. Did you feel this?”

“I don’t know,” said Pierce. “I think boys always know about badness.” But he was not sure.

“Well,” said Barbara. “I’m afraid it’s all turning out to be much more difficult than I expected.”

“Octavian darling, are you
never
coming to bed?”

“Just coming, darling. Listen to the owl.”

“Yes, isn’t he lovely. By the way, Mary has fixed for Barbie to borrow that pony.”

“Oh good. Kate darling, we’re out of toothpaste.”

“There’s a new tube on the dressing table. Don’t fall over all those maps and guide books.”

“Darling, I don’t think we can afford to go to Angkor.”

“I know. I’ve given up Angkor. I’ve decided I want to go to Samarkand.”

“You know it’s in the Soviet Union, darling?”

“Is it? Well, they wouldn’t eat us.”

“It’d be terribly hot.”

“Is Samarkand on the sea?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Wouldn’t you rather go somewhere on the sea?”

“Well, we
did
think Rhodes, of course—”

“We might ask Paula about Rhodes, you remember she went on that cruise. By the way, what’s the matter with Paula? I thought she was looking awfully depressed and worried.”

“Oh, it’s just end of term. She’s so conscientious about those exams.”

“Ducane did go to see Willy, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Ducane saw him and then Mary saw him.”

“Is Willy all right?”

“He’s fine. He told Mary that Ducane had cheered him up no end.”

“Ducane’s so nice—”

“He’s so
good
—”

“He’s certainly good for Willy.”

“He’s good for all of us. Octavian—”

“Yes, darling?”

“I kissed Ducane in the beech wood.”

“Good for you! Was he pleased?”

“He was
sweet
.”

“Don’t make him fall for you too much, darling, I mean so that it hurts.”

“No, no, he won’t get hurt. I’ll manage him.”

“He has plenty of sense actually, I mean as well as being thoroughly decent.”

“Yes. It’s funny that he’s never got married.”

“No need to make a mystery of it.”

“I don’t know. Do you think he’s queer, sort of unconsciously perhaps? I’ve never heard of his being connected with any woman.”

“That’s because he’s so devilish discreet and clam-like.”

“He
is
clam-like. You know he never told me about his being appointed to do that enquiry.”

“He’s jolly worried about that enquiry.”

“Then I’m all the more annoyed he didn’t tell me! By the way, he thinks we shouldn’t tell Willy about that poor chap, what’s his name, Radeechy.”

“He’s perfectly right. It wouldn’t have occurred to me.”

“He thinks of everything. I suppose there’s no chance that Radeechy really was a spy or something?”

“None at all. I think John’s just rather unnerved at the idea of probing into somebody’s private life.”

“I’m afraid I should find it fascinating!”

“I believe it frightens him. He thinks he may discover something—odd.”

“You mean—sexually odd?”

“Yes. He
is
an old puritan, you know.”

“I know, and I adore it. What do you think he thinks
we
do, darling?”

“He doesn’t think about it.”

“Octavian, do hurry up. I think Ducane would tell me now, I mean about the women, about his past. He
will
tell me now.”

“You mean you’ll ask him?”

“Yes. I’m not afraid of Ducane.”

“Implying I am? Well, maybe I am in a way. He’s a man I’d hate to think ill of me.”

“Yes, I know, me too. You don’t think it’s a bit fishy, his having that manservant?”

“No, I don’t. Ducane’s not homosexual.”

“Octavian, have you ever met that manservant?”

“No.”

“I shall ask Ducane about that manservant too. He’s incapable of telling a lie.”

“He’s capable of being embarrassed.”

“Yes, well, maybe I’ll just
investigate
the manservant. I’ll call some time when Ducane’s out and inspect him.”

“Kate dear, you don’t really think—”

“No, no, of course not, Ducane’s a man who doesn’t make muddles. That’s one of the marvellous things about him.”

“No muddles? That’s a lot to say of any man.”

“No muddles. Which is also why he can’t be hurt.”

“And you can’t. And I can’t.”

“Darling Octavian, I do love it that we tell each other everything.”

“I love it too.”

“God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world. Do come to bed, darling.”

“I’m just coming now.”

“Darling, you’re so round—”

“Are you ready, darling?”

“Yes, I’m ready. Oh darling, just
guess
what Barbie brought you home for a present—she’s saving it for your birthday.”

“What?”

“A cuckoo clock!”

D
UCANE
faced Peter McGrath, the office messenger, across the desk.

Ducane said silkily, “I have information which leads me to suppose that you, Mr McGrath, were connected with the recent sale to the press of a scurrilous story concerning Mr Radeechy.”

Ducane waited. It was hot in the room. Outside, London roared quietly. A little silent fly kept circling quickly and alighting on Ducane’s hand.

McGrath’s very light blue eyes were fixed upon Ducane’s face. Then McGrath averted his eyes, or rather rolled them in his head as if he were doing an exercise. Then he blinked several times. He peered at Ducane again and smiled a little confiding smile.

“We—ell, Sir, I suppose it was bound to come out, wasn’t it,” said McGrath.

Ducane was irritated by McGrath’s light Scottish voice, whose exact provenance he could not diagnose, and by the man’s colour scheme. A man had no right to have such red hair and such a white skin and such pallid watery blue eyes and such a sugary pink mouth in the middle of it all. McGrath was in very bad taste.

“Now I require some information from you, Mr McGrath,” said Ducane, shuffling his papers about in a business-like manner and shaking off the fascinated fly. “I want first of all to know exactly what this story consisted of, which you sold, and then I shall ask you a number of questions about the background to the story.”

“Am I going to get the push?” said McGrath.

Ducane hesitated. In fact McGrath’s dismissal was a certainty. However, at this moment Ducane needed McGrath’s cooperation. He replied, “That is not my province, Mr McGrath. You will doubtless hear from Establishments if your employment here is to terminate.”

McGrath put two pale hands, lightly furred with long reddish hairs, on the desk and leaned forward. He said confidentially,
“I bet I get the push. Don’t you bet?” McGrath’s voice, Ducane now noticed, had Cockney overtones.

“We shall require to have, Mr McGrath, a copy of this story. How soon can you provide this?”

McGrath sat back. With a slight quizzical effort he raised one eyebrow. His eyebrows were a light gingery colour and almost invisible. “I haven’t got a copy,” he said.

“Come, come,” said Ducane.

“I swear I haven’t got a copy, Sir. You see I didn’t
write
the story. I’m not much of a hand at the writing. And you know what those journalist laddies are. I just talked and they wrote things down and then they read out to me what they’d written up about it and I signed it. I never wrote nothing myself.”

This is almost certainly true, thought Ducane. “How much did they pay you?”

McGrath’spale face became as smooth as a cat’s. “A man’s financial arrangements are his own affair, Sir, if I may—”

“I advise you to change your tune a little, McGrath,” said Ducane. “You have acted very irresponsibly and you may find yourself in serious trouble.
Why
did you sell that story?”

“Well, Sir, a gentleman like you, Sir, just doesn’t know what it’s like to need the necessary. I sold it for the money, Sir, and I’ll make no bones about it. It was a matter of looking after number one, Sir, as I daresay even you do, Sir, in your own way.”

An impertinent fellow, thought Ducane, and I should think a complete rogue. Though Ducane had never fully realised it, one reason why his career as a barrister had been less than totally successful was that he lacked the capacity to conceive of any kind of villainy of which he would not have been capable himself. His imagination reached out into the world of evil simply by prolonging the patterns of his own faults. So that his judgment upon McGrath that he was “a complete rogue” remained unhelpful and abstract. Ducane could not conceive what it could be like to be McGrath. The sheer opacity to him of this sort of roguery in fact had the effect of making McGrath more interesting to him and in a curious way more sympathetic.

“All right. You sold it for the money. Now, Mr McGrath,
I want you to tell me in as much detail as you can what it was you said to the press about Mr Radeechy.”

McGrath once more rolled his eyes, taking his time about it. He said, “I can’t really remember much—”

“You can’t expect me to believe that,” said Ducane. “Come on. We shall have the story itself in our hands very shortly. And if you help me now I may be able to help you later.”

“Well,” said McGrath, who seemed for the first time a little perturbed, “well—” Then he said, “I
liked
Mr Radeechy, Sir, I
liked
him, I did—”