In the Time of Greenbloom (41 page)

“What exactly are you going to do when you get there?”

“The usual: pick up a couple of women at a tea-dance, spend as little as possible on 'em and then run 'em up on to the Downs. Come on, join us and share expenses!”

“Not likely! What's your excuse this time?”

“The Match! Mr Leveson-Gower's Gentlemen
v
. The County. All we've got to do is to buy an evening paper and memorise close-of-play scores. It's a cinch?”

John shook his head.

“Yellow! That's what 'ee iz,” said Jones.

“You're dead right—I am. Victor's been watching me like a cat lately—” He realised his mistake a little too late.
Jones had started to chew his thumb again and the narrow eyes were on him.

“Juss what I said!
an
' it's something to do with the letters.”

“Oh for God's sake!” groaned Stuart turning his back on him. “We must get organised. What are
you
going to do, Bowden?”

“I'm going down on to the beach to bathe.”

“Oh, the leg-show! Time you grew up old boy; never get anywhere just
looking
.”

John dissembled. “It's better than nothing; besides, I'm making progress. One of 'em smiled at me three times last Saturday.”

“What's the good of that? We'll be paying for more than
smiles
, won't we Jones?”

“You certainly will when the old man catches you,” said John.

“Bull!” said Stuart. “You're the one he'll catch. Instead of drooling about on the beach with your tongue hanging out, you want to go in and win.”

“There's something in that; but until I feel a little less fatherly interest radiating in my direction I'm playing safe.”

“What did I tell you?” said Jones. “Bowden is yellow an' I'm bettin' it's for a good reason.” They pocketed the last of the biscuits, paid the bill and sidled out into Montague Street.

A vigorous breeze was blowing from the Front and as they passed the side streets they could just see the bright blue bar of the sea over the promenade wall and the small silhouettes of walkers bath-chairs and kiosks against the sky-line. “Half an hour till lunch,” said Stuart. “Just time to get Mavis to put on a few records in Marks and Spencer's and then fill up the Sphinx for the afternoon's frolic.”

Later, they drove back along the wind-swept Front, down Grand Avenue with its exotic fir trees, and turned left into Mill Road. They parked the car in front of the yellow plate:

GILBERT VICTOR, M.A., L.C.P.
PRIVATE TUITION

and walked up the short drive to the house.

In the conservatory, its mildewed vine covered as always in the summer with bunches of minute green grapes, they met St Clair on his way out. They neither liked St Clair nor disliked him; he was all right, but only just. For one thing he was an R.C., and that, as Stuart put it, was 'unhealthy'; in addition, and this had more to do with their attitude, he was resident in the town—a Worthingtonian.

He lived with his malarial mother in a flat somewhere between Mill Street and the Western Promenade, no one quite knew where. His father was in Malaya in the Consular Service and the breakdown in his mother's health had meant the end of his education at Beaumont College and his subsequent arrival at Rooker's Close during the preceding term. He was thus in two senses cut off from them, and rightly or wrongly they felt that he disapproved of them and that consequently he was not to be trusted. There was a certain smugness about him which angered them: though he never talked women or smut he never betrayed evident disapproval when they did so themselves, and though at such times his silence was not ostentatious they could not help noticing that he never troubled to laugh at their jokes. Religion was the only subject on which he could be drawn; and for this reason because he seemed to enjoy arguments about Henry the Eighth and the Inquisition, because he seemed always to be vastly amused by the fact that Mr Victor encouraged them to serve at the Altar of St Jude's, they seldom gave him the satisfaction of discussing the pros and cons of Roman Catholicism.

But today, warm from their recent conversation about the plans for the afternoon and quick to the suspicion that for all they knew St Clair might himself constitute one of the hidden threats to their safety, they were all disposed to challenge him. The sight of him; his pink serene face, the neat wad of
books under his arm and the hint they gave of orderliness and domesticity within the ambience of the town which was at once their delight and their enemy, enraged them. Instantly, at Stuart's first words to him, they were united by a quiet antipathy.

“Going, dear boy?”

“I am; why?” St Clair's smile was vexatiously certain.

“Are you sure you've got everything, now Patrick?”

“Quite certain thanks.”

“The Aeneid?”

“Yes.”

“Monday's Maths?”

“Yes.”

“Last year's papers?”

“Everything, thank you very much.”

Stuart paused; St Clair's good humour was patent.

“And St Clair—?”

“Yes Stuart?”

“Have you been to your Confession? Have you cleaned the slate, dear boy, so that you can make a fresh start on Monday with all the lovely little sins that it's such fun to commit?”

“I have.”

“Good! How very convenient.”

“Yes,” said St Clair, “it is. But you've no idea how I envy
you
, Stuart. You won't forget to say a little prayer for me tomorrow will you? The Old Man tells me you're assisting at the Seven o'clock in the morning.”

“Am I? Hell! That's dear Peter's privilege.”

“Oh no Stuart! Not according to
my
information. Peter has been promoted to the little heresy that takes place at eleven o'clock with vestments and incense as laid down in the fortieth article of the New Faith and recently defined by an Archbishop of Canterbury.” He smiled happily. “So you won't forget me, will you Stuart? You'll look so beautiful at that hour and I know that you will mean well despite your invincible ignorance.”

“Only lend me a Rosary, St Clair, and I'll play with my little beads all through the service.” He sniffed the air. “But come, we mustn't keep you from your devotions or the Pope might feel a draught. Tell me, St Clair, what are we being given for lunch today?”

“League of Nations pudding, I should imagine. Isn't that the usual fare on a Saturday?”

“No doubt, no doubt. Well don't forget now, make a good confession!”

“I shall, Stuart.”

He turned and they saw him mount his bicycle outside the conservatory and disappear round the red-brick wall which separated Rooker's Close from the road.

“I wonder if he was joking,” said Stuart. “If he wasn't I'm going to put a stop to this somehow. Trouble is that with a dog-collar in the family it's so damn' difficult to approach my governor; though what on earth good he thinks all this serving nonsense is going to do me, I can't think. Haileybury made me decide to bring up my children to be free-thinkers if I'm unlucky enough to have any; a few more terms in this place and I'll make damn' certain they'll grow up into happy little atheists.”

“Well 'ou should tackle the Old Man, isn't it?” said Jones. “Tell 'im you won't do it.”

“Don't be a fool! If I were to cut up rough over this he would cancel his permission for me to run the Sphinx. I had a big enough job wangling it in the first place; practically had to pretend that I thought I might be getting a Vocation.” He lowered his voice. “The old boy's conscience is the root of it all; I'm sure he's having to take it out in his religion. If he had any sense he'd go the whole hog and become an R.C.; then he could have it both ways at once: run the Boy Scouts and make his confession once a week instead of once a year to that ciss Delaura—
Hed
sympathise. I can't understand these spikes, they get the worst of both worlds.”

“Listen to 'im,” Jones snickered. “Why don' you tell 'im?
He'd love it! Tell him you got doubts man! an' that you can't go on serving till you got rid of 'em?”

“It's all very well for him, isn't it Bowden? Why the Hell didn't
we
have the sense to say that we were Welsh Methodists or Plymouth Brethren the moment we arrived? Then
we
could have avoided all this religiosity. I'm going to tackle dear Peter about this—it's all he's good for and he's let us down.”

They heard Humphrey beating the gong for lunch and hurried upstairs to the bathroom.

“Keep it light at lunch!” Stuart whispered as they made their way to the dining-room. “Bags of interest in the Brighton Cricket.”

Humphrey opened the door for them and stood to one side as they passed him. As always at this time of the day he had on his black uniform and his ‘servant-face'; he smelled faintly of silver polish.

At the far end of the table Mr Gilbert Victor sat squarely over the dish-cover; and beside him, very upright, his blue tie bearing out the blueness of his eyes, sat Peter. In some scarcely definable way he contrived to enlarge the authority of Mr Victor; they were, the moment they saw him, made more sensible of their lateness, of their failure to conform to all that Mr Victor expected of them.

They took their places silently and Mr Victor stood up.

“
Oh Lord bless this food to our use and ourselves to Thy service
.”

Jones and Peter joined him in making the sign of the cross; so much for his Welsh Methodism, thought John as he compromised with a wave of one hand and noticed that Stuart ignored the ritual entirely.

Mr Victor smiled automatically at Humphrey and the dish-cover was removed to reveal the Saturday silverside and its surrounding suet dumplings.

Mr Victor's bristling eyebrows drew closer together as he sharpened the carving knife and began to carve.

“Water please!” Stuart nudged John who looked over at Peter apologetically.

“Water please, Probitt.”

Peter passed the carafe and the glasses were filled. Plates of silverside began to arrive in front of them and they helped themselves to cabbage and mashed potato. Suddenly Stuart spoke again:

“Good morning at the Bank, Probitt?”

Peter glanced at Mr Victor who did not look up and then smiled his most open smile.

“Splendid, thanks.”

Mr Victor patted his hand.

“Peter is going to play tennis this afternoon,” he announced.

They made approving noises and Mr Victor glanced down the table sharply.

“Rooker's Close is to be represented at the Club courts this afternoon. I wonder what are the plans of Haileybury, Beowulf's and Cardiff?”

“We rather thought of the Cricket, sir, didn't we Jones?” said Stuart.

“Yes sir, thought it would be a very good match sir, we did,” sang Jones.

“At Brighton?”

“Yes sir.”

Mr Victor frowned. “A very long way to go surely; and a long way to return?”

“We have the Sphinx, sir.” Stuart was disarming and they laughed carefully.

“I rather fancied there might be a
lady
in the case, Haileybury.”

“Oh no, sir.”

“I had even supposed that you might, this Saturday as last, want my permission to accompany her on her travels?” Not looking for any reply, eating with a sudden raw gusto, they waited; but Mr Victor ate on for a few moments leaving
them in suspense as they chewed busily at the red beef and white cabbage.

At last he spoke.

“Are all three of you proposing to—watch the cricket?” he asked with a fractional hesitation.

“No sir.” John watched the expert manipulation of Mr Victor's knife and fork.

“What then are Beowulf's intentions?”

“I thought I might have a bathe sir.”

“In Brighton?” The question was very quick.

“Why no sir.”

“‘
Why no sir
.'” With a side smile at Peter Mr Victor mimicked his satisfaction. “Why not sir? May I ask?”

“Because I prefer to bathe here in Worthing sir.”

“Because perhaps you do not trust the lady with the four wheels,
Bowden
?”

“No sir, not that; but I like the Worthing beach.”

“He likes the Worthing beach,” said Mr Victor in a tone which suggested malice and charity at the same time. “Very commendable! So, my dear Beowulf's, do I; and so I know does Peter, though I think
we
prefer it in the winter when it is not quite so crowded, don't we Peter?”

“I think it
is
preferable, sir.”

Mr Victor wiped his lips on his table napkin and attempted to conceal a small belch as he did so.

“I am sorry that Peter will be unaccompanied on the courts this afternoon. But Saturday, after all, is Saturday, and as long as we remember that it precedes Sunday we shall come to no harm—what time are you proposing to return from Brighton, Stuart? You know our rules here?”

“Yes sir.”

What guts he had, thought John. He looked as insolently innocent as he did when in church.

“Then you will of course be back for the evening meal at eight o'clock?”

“Of course sir, as long as the Sphinx doesn't let us down.”

“That, naturally, is ‘
enigmatical
'!” punned Mr Victor
without waiting for Peter's laugh. “I shall look forward to your account of the afternoon's innings. No doubt, between you, you will regale us all with it during the meal?”

“We shall watch like hawks sir, won't we Jones?”

Jones of course was common; his coarse acneiform skin was giving him away. He was as red as the piece of silverside he was eating.

“Closer than 'awks!”

“It will then be unnecessary,” went on Mr Victor smoothly, “for any of us to go to the expense of buying an evening newspaper.”