George Passant (15 page)

‘I wish,’ Martineau chuckled, ‘everyone wouldn’t refer to me as though I were either insane or dead.’ We all laughed, George very loudly.

‘It’s good of him,’ said Martineau. ‘But I’m afraid he might as well save the time. I consider that it isn’t mine any longer, you see. For – it isn’t decided by a form of law–’

Soon afterwards Martineau left. When I heard the door click outside, I said: ‘Whatever’s going to become of him?’

On George’s face injury struggled with concern: he shook his head. Morcom said: ‘God knows.’ But, at that time, even our most fantastic prophecies would not have approached the truth.

‘The first thing,’ said George, ‘is to satisfy ourselves that he can find a living. We can’t take any other steps until we’re sure of that.’

‘Apparently he told his brother he was going to earn enough by various methods. Which he wouldn’t give any details of,’ said Morcom. ‘I simply don’t know what he means.’

‘Though how he reconciles giving up his share,’ said George with an impatient laugh, ‘and earning a living in any other way, is just beyond me. I suppose consistency isn’t his strong point. Oh God!’ he broke out, ‘don’t you find it hard to realise that this has
happened
?’

‘Of course he won’t starve,’ Morcom said. ‘That’s one comfort. There is plenty of money in the family. In fact, that’s one of his brother’s chief anxieties. That they’ll have to support him. The Canon’s a hard man, by the way. I don’t think I like him much.’

‘Not so much as you like Eden, I suppose,’ George said.

Morcom paused slightly: ‘Nothing like,’ he said.

The strain between them was showing in every word. I said hastily: ‘What’s he going to do with the house? Does he own it or not?’

‘He’s got some scheme for turning it into a boarding house,’ said Morcom. ‘With his housekeeper in charge.’

‘That means we’ve had the last “Friday night”,’ I said. ‘I shall miss them,’ I added.

‘You have to realise,’ said Morcom deliberately, ‘that he’s cutting himself away from his present life. That means cutting himself away from us as much as from the firm. You have to understand that. He doesn’t want to see much of us again.’

Suddenly George burst into gusts of laughter. I found myself grow tense, watching him shake, seeing the tears that came so easily.

‘I’ve just thought,’ he wiped his eyes, then began to laugh again as helplessly. ‘I’ve just thought,’ he said at last in a weak voice: ‘Martineau’s position is exactly this. He thinks a man couldn’t hold his share in the firm if he’s either a Christian or a socialist. So he gives it up, being neither a Christian nor a socialist.’

It was a typical George joke, in its symmetry, in the incongruity that would strike no one else. But he had been laughing more for relief than at the joke. Soon he was saying, quite soberly: ‘We’ve been assuming all the time that everything’s settled. We haven’t given ourselves a chance to do anything in the matter.’

‘Of course we can’t do anything,’ said Morcom.

‘I don’t know whether I accept that completely,’ said George. ‘But if so we shall have to set to work in another direction.’

I did not know what those words foreshadowed; I was easier in mind than I had been that afternoon, to see his spirits enlivened again.

AFTER he went away from George’s, none of us saw Martineau for weeks. There were some rumours about him; he was said to have bought a share of a small advertising agency, and also to have been seen in a poor neighbourhood visiting from house to house. Several times at Eden’s we talked of him and speculated over his next move. The whole episode often seemed remote, as we sat in the comfortable room, hung with a collection of Chinese prints, and heard Eden say: ‘These things will happen.’ He said it frequently, with a tolerant and good-humoured smile.

Now that ‘Friday nights’ no longer existed, he had suggested that we call on him instead. He changed the day to Sunday, explaining that Friday was inconvenient for him, as his wife entertained that night. His real reason, I thought later, was a delicacy we did not appreciate enough. He gave us good food and drink, and the conversation was, more often than not, better than at Martineau’s. The liking I had formed for Eden after casual meetings strengthened now. It was difficult to remember that this was the man whom George so much disliked.

Though by this time I knew something of George’s antipathies, I tried to argue him out of this, the most practically important. It seemed more than ever urgent for him to gain Eden’s approval. He protested angrily, but was less obdurate than in the summer. One Sunday I persuaded him to come to the house, and he was nervously silent apart from a sudden quick-worded argument with Eden upon some matter of political history; it was the first time I had seen that drawing room disturbed. When Morcom and I disagreed with Eden, it meant only one of his good-humoured aphorisms, followed by a monologue that did not lead to controversy.

George said, as he stopped outside the gate to light a pipe: ‘I hope you’re satisfied now.’

In the match light, he was smiling happily. To him, I suddenly realised, for whom most meetings and most people were full of unknown hostility, the night had been a success.

‘You must go again,’ I said.

‘Naturally,’ said George. ‘After all, I’ve truckled for three years, in the firm. I must say, though, that he went out of his way to be civil tonight.’

It began to rain heavily, and we got on a tram-car. As it moved towards the town, we pieced together the rumours about Martineau. Often George guffawed: ‘Fancy having one’s goods advertised by Martineau,’ he burst out. ‘And fancy giving up,’ he chuckled, ‘a perfectly respectable profession to take up one more disreputable by any conceivable standards in the world. The only advantage being that it’s almost certain to fail.’ He laughed and wiped his eyes. ‘Oh, Good God in Heaven, whatever is the point? Whatever does he think is the point?’

Suddenly George said, without any introduction: ‘I think we’ve exaggerated this upheaval in the firm.’

I shook my head, and said: ‘I am quite certain of one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That, whatever happens, Martineau will never come back to the firm. I’m sure that’s true. It’s unpleasant for you. But you must resign yourself–’

George said: ‘I did that weeks ago. I assumed it as soon as Martineau disappeared.’

‘Then what did you mean?’ I said. ‘About the upheaval in the firm being exaggerated. Whatever could you mean?’

‘Oh,’ said George. ‘I decided, as I said, that Martineau could be ruled out. He obviously wouldn’t be any further help. But what I meant was, I couldn’t see why Eden shouldn’t do as much for me as Martineau ever did. And I began to realise there were reasons why he should do a great deal more.’

‘At once?’

‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t be taking steps to make me a partner. Fairly soon.’

‘Is that likely?’ (I was thinking: this ought to have been foreseen.)

‘I don’t see why not.’

The tram was rattling to a stop: I rubbed the window with my sleeve. The rain had ceased, though it was dripping from the roofs. We were near the railway bridge, by some old mean streets.

‘Look here,’ said George. ‘I’ve got a bit of a head. Let’s walk from here.’

The gutters were swirling as we got off. George said: ‘I don’t see why not. After all, he’ll be gaining enough by this business. He can afford to take a partner without any capital. He would have to get someone in my place, naturally. But Eden would still be better off by a very decent amount, compared with what he has been. With the advantages of having me as a partner.’

‘Those being? I mean, from Eden’s point of view?’

We were walking under the bridge. Our footsteps echoed, and I shivered in the cold. George’s voice came back.

‘The first is one we all tend to forget. That is, there is such a thing as ordinary human justice. Eden can’t be too comfortable if I’m doing more work than the rest of the firm put together – which I have been doing for the last two years – and getting the money, which doesn’t matter so much, and having the position, which matters a great deal, of a fairly competent clerk.’

‘Are you sure he realises that – altogether?’

‘If he doesn’t,’ said George, ‘it’s simply because he doesn’t want to see. But even then – it must be perfectly obvious.’ He walked along, looking straight ahead. ‘The other reason is what plain blunt practical men would consider a great deal more important. That is, Eden doesn’t know anything about half the cases we have to deal with. You know perfectly well, we’ve got a connection in income tax and property law and other kinds of superior accountancy. Well, Martineau could cope with those before he began to be troubled with doubt’ – he chuckled – ‘and even lately he could give people the impression that he knew something about it. Well, Eden simply couldn’t. He’s grotesquely incompetent at any piece of financial detail. In three or four years he’d have ruined our connection. It’d be too ridiculous, he’s bound to realise it.’ He went on, very quickly, as though to dismiss any argument: ‘No, so far as I can see, there’s only one possible reason for his not taking me in, and that is, he hasn’t much sympathy for my general attitude.

‘But I can’t believe he’d let that outweigh everything else,’ George went on. ‘There are limits, you can’t deny there are limits. And also he’s shown signs recently that he’s coming round. I think it’ll be all right. Anyway we must see it
is
all right. You realise,’ he said, ‘that Eden can be influenced nowadays.’

‘How?’

‘I should have thought it was obvious.’

‘How?’

‘Morcom, of course,’ George said. ‘Obviously Eden’s very much impressed with him for some reason. You noticed how he sent for him for that rather absurd conference with the Martineau’s. And Morcom sees him very often–’

‘Only on Sundays.’

‘I’ve seen them in the town.’ George frowned. ‘It’s absolutely patent that Morcom counts for a great deal with him. Well, we’ve got to take advantage of that.’

‘He can’t–’

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said George. ‘I know as well as you do that Morcom doesn’t approve of most of the things I do. I realise that and I’ve considered it. And I’ve decided I’ve a right to demand that he forgets it. He must talk to Eden about me. It’s too important to let minor things stand in the way.’ He paused, and then turned to me. Before, he had been looking straight ahead down the dark street. ‘You mustn’t know anything about this. Not even to Morcom. I’ll deal with him myself.’ Then his voice suddenly became friendly, and he talked as though he was pleasantly fatigued.

‘It’s important that Eden should take me in,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to stay there as a subordinate and watch myself getting old.’

‘That won’t happen,’ I said.

‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘Things have never fallen in my lap.’

I had a rush of friendship for him, the warm friendship which sometimes at this period I was provoked into forgetting.

‘It’s time they began,’ I said.

‘It isn’t that I’m not ambitious,’ said George. ‘I am, you know, to some extent. I know I’m not as determined as you’ve turned out to be – but matters never shaped themselves to give ambition a chance. I had to take the job here, there wasn’t any alternative to that. When I got here, I couldn’t do anything different from what I have done. Of course, I got interested in making something of people at the School. But I couldn’t help myself.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘It’s important from every point of view that I get promoted,’ he said quickly. ‘For the group as well. If I’m really going to do much for anyone. I haven’t got the money. I’m often powerless. I nearly was about Jack. God! how crippled one feels when there’s someone who only wants money to give them a start.’

‘You’d be worse off than you are now.’ I smiled. ‘Giving it away.’

George’s own smile grew vaguer.

‘There’s another possibility,’ he said. ‘I don’t know, but I may feel some time that I’ve done as much as I can with the School. After all, the present people will go away in time. I don’t know that I shall want to get interested in any more.’

It was the first time I had heard him permit such a suggestion.

‘I may want to do something useful in a wider field,’ said George. ‘And for that, I must be in with Eden. The group’s all very well in its way, but its success is inside oneself, as you’ve said before now. As one gets older, perhaps one isn’t pure enough to be satisfied with that.’

I tried to laugh it off. ‘Martineau seems to be satisfied pretty easily,’ I said. ‘If his success isn’t inside himself–’

George laughed. Then he said: ‘I may even want to get married.’

Although a wish, it was no clearer than the others. It was one of many wishes springing from the unrest, the hope, that brought to his face a happy and expectant smile.

I was upset by that talk with George.

He was mistaken, I knew, when he suddenly discovered that he was ambitious. If he had been truly ambitious, I should not have been so concerned; for, when this partnership failed him, he would have found something else to drive for. While George valued it more acutely, precisely because he did not usually care – just as a man like Morcom, not easily surrendered to love, may once in his life long for it with a passion dangerous to himself.

George at this moment longed for the place and security to which, for years, he had scarcely given a thought.

But that was nothing like all. I realised that Olive had been right. Months before, by a lucky guess or clairvoyance, she had divined something more important. ‘I think he sometimes knows he was unlucky to get amongst us. Sometimes he wants to get away,’ she said. He was trying to break from his present life, the School, the little world, the group. Jack’s confession might have weakened him – but Olive felt it long before, long before his most vehement declaration of faith, that night in the café by the river. I believed that she was right.

However much he was satisfied by the little world he had built up, he was able to think of breaking free. Perhaps he half realised the danger, the crippling danger to himself. Anyway, he seemed to know that for just these months there was a chance to break loose
from his own satisfaction
. He also seemed to know that, if this failed, he would never bring himself to the point again.