Sarah Caudwell - Thus Was Adonis Murdered

My spider-legged neighbour, on the other hand, is pleased with everything. This, he says, is the life. “Got to hand it to the travel agent johnnies,” he says. “Do a chap proud on a package like this. Good plane, good food, decent-sized noggin to drink, bang-up dish to sit next to. That’s the life for Bob Linnaker, all right.”

He seemed to intend a compliment.

“The travel agents,” I said, putting on what I hoped was a Ragwort-like expression, “had no tide to include me in the package. If they claimed to do so, your remedy is under the Trade Descriptions Act.”

At this he laughed immoderately and said that I was a sharp one. I fear I am not perfect in my imitation of Ragwort. I must study carefully, when I return to London, how he achieves that austere narrowing of the eyelids and daunting compression of the lips.

“I am afraid,” said Ragwort, “that Julia, however much she may practise, will never achieve the appearance of truly formidable propriety. Her shape is against it.”

“I think that Julia has rather a nice shape,” said Cantrip. A certain tenderness softened his witch-black eyes: he was no doubt thinking of times before the spider episode.

“Precisely,” said Ragwort, his features composing themselves in that expression of cold decorum which would have been so useful to Julia. “It is the sort of shape, to put the matter with all delicacy, which gives rise to a misleading inference of sensuality.”

“Not all that misleading,” said Cantrip, continuing nostalgic.

“Most misleading,” said Selena, “to those most apt to draw it.”

As for the two young men, I can tell you nothing more — our relative positions prevent me from observing them. I wish I could see the face of the thin one. The face is for me of the essence of attraction. No matter how graceful the figure, if the face lacks aesthetic charm, I can feel no spark of passion. It is, I know, absurd — you will make fun of me for being a sentimental woman: well, that is how I am, Selena, there is no help for it.

“Would one say,” said Ragwort, “that Julia was sentimental, exactly?”

“Incurably,” said Selena.

My neighbour still seems to believe that proximity is the sole condition of friendship. He addresses me as his dear. In reply, I have addressed him coldly as Mr. Linnaker; but he is undiscouraged. Actually, he says, it’s not Mr., but Major, though he doesn’t bother with it now he’s in Civvy Street. Anyway, to his friends he’s just Bob. This puts me in a dilemma: to call him Bob will seem an admission of friendship, to call him anything else will seem uncivil.

He has also taken to patting my knee. This is making me rather peevish. I try to be tolerant of other people’s innocent pleasures; but it is, after all, my knee. Still, it is hardly feasible, when sitting next to somebody on an aeroplane, to move unobtrusively away.

I could try reading the Finance Act. That would surely give an impression of quite implacable respectability. I must, at some stage, give some attention to the Finance Act: I promised William, if he would allow me to go to Venice, that my Opinion on Schedule 7 would be ready within forty-eight hours of returning. Yet somehow, despite the interest of its subject-matter and the elegance of its style, the Finance Act does not at the moment appeal to me.

The only refuge seems to be the lavatory. I don’t suppose I can stay there for the rest of the journey — other passengers would become vexed; but it would be a temporary respite from the Major. And I should be able to get a look, on the way, at the face of the thin young man.

“The next paragraph,” said Selena, “is rather difficult to read. The writing, even by Julia’s standards, is unusually irregular. She also seems to have spilt gin over it. Do get some more coffee, Cantrip.”

Ah, Selena, Selena. “The face of the thin young man” I have written, as if of some commonplace and worldly thing. How casually my pen first wrote that phrase, not knowing of what it wrote: with what trembling ardour do I inscribe it now. “The face of the thin young man”—ah, Selena, such a face. A face for which Narcissus might be forsworn and the Moon forget Endymion. The translucent skin, the winging eyebrows, the angelic mouth, the celestial profile — lament no more, Selena, the drabness of our age and the poverty of our arts — over the time that has brought forth such a profile not Athens, not Rome, not the Renaissance in all its glory shall triumph: Praxiteles and Michelangelo kneel in admiration.

I grow too faint with passion to continue. It is a dreadful thing, at such a moment, to lack the benefit of your advice; but I shall post this immediately on arrival, so that you may know as soon as possible of the agitation which now affects my spirits. I remain, in the meantime,

Yours, as always, Julia

PS. The above, I need hardly say, is entirely without prejudice to my devotion to the virtuous and beautiful Ragwort, to whom please convey my respectful regards.

“I think Julia’s quite struck with this blond chap,” said Cantrip — he is noted for his insight into the feminine heart. “She hasn’t gone on like this about anyone since that Greek barman they took on to help out in Guido’s in June.”

“If then,” said Selena. “I don’t think she’s mentioned Praxiteles since the out-of-work actor in February.”

“The whole letter,” said Ragwort, “is perfectly disgraceful. I am very relieved that we have reached the end of it.”

I would not impute to any of my readers a less refined sensibility than belongs to Ragwort, or for any frivolous reason risk offending it. I have none the less thought it right to set out Julia’s letter in extenso, containing, as it does, descriptions of various individuals who will be mentioned later in my narrative, including her supposed victim.

There was a coolness. Selena said that she did not in the least blame Timothy but added that one might have known how Henry would go on about it. Ragwort was satisfied if the Bar Council saw no objection — and confessed to a little surprise on hearing they had not been asked. Cantrip used the expressions “blackleg” and “teacher’s pet.”

All this because Timothy was going to Venice — unlike Julia, at someone else’s expense. His absence from coffee on my first morning in London had been due, as the attentive reader may recall, to an application for his advice by the senior partner in a leading firm of solicitors. The senior partner — Mr. Tiddley or Mr. Whatsit, I am not sure which — was one of the trustees of a discretionary trust. “Quite a nice little trust,” the senior partner had said modestly; worth, on the most recent valuation, just under a million pounds. The principal beneficiary, advised to take certain steps to mitigate his prospective liability to capital transfer tax, had been found recalcitrant. Timothy’s assistance was required to persuade him of the seriousness and urgency of the matter.

To do so, moreover, in person. Attempts to explain in writing — and a number of long letters had already been sent on the subject — had been met with an obdurate refusal to perceive the need for action. It happened that the beneficiary, though normally resident in Cyprus, would shortly be going to Venice to settle the affairs of his recently deceased great-aunt, who had made her home in that city: an admirable occasion, thought the senior partner, while his mind was directed to such matters, for him to consider also his position under the English trust, established by his late grandfather. It would therefore be most kind if Timothy — for a fee, it went without saying, which would reflect not only the intrinsic value of his advice, but also the inconvenience to him—“Oh, quite,” said Ragwort — of being absent for several days from London — if Timothy would go to Venice. Timothy, kindness itself, had consented.