Джозефина Тэй - To Love and Be Wise

Weekley had come over to them because he could not keep away from the hateful beauty of Leslie Searle, and Walter caught himself wondering if Searle knew it. For Searle, who had been all gentle indifference with the eager Toby, was now engaged in throwing a rope over the antagonistic Silas. Walter, watching the almost feminine dexterity of it, was willing to bet that in about fifteen minutes Searle would have Silas roped and hog-tied. He glanced at the big bland clock behind the bar and decided to time him.

Searle did it with five minutes to spare. In ten minutes he had Weekley, resentful and struggling, a prisoner in his toils. And the bewilderment in Weekley’s sunken eyes was greater than ever the bewilderment in Toby’s fish-scale ones had been. Walter nearly laughed aloud.

And then Searle put the final touch of comedy to the act. At a moment when both Silas and Toby were doing their rival best to be entertaining, Searle said in his quiet drawl: ‘Do forgive me, won’t you, but I see a friend of mine,’ and got up without haste and walked away to join the friend at the bar. The friend was Bill Maddox, the garage keeper.

Walter buried his face in his beer mug and enjoyed the faces of his friends.

It was only afterwards, rolling it over in his mind to savour it, that a vague discomfort pricked him. The fun had been so bland, so lightly handled, that its essential quality, its ruthlessness, had not been apparent.

At the moment he was merely amused by the typical reactions of Searle’s two victims. Silas Weekley gulped down what was left of his beer, pushed the mug away from him with a gesture of self-disgust, and went out of the pub without a word. He was like a man fleeing from the memory of some frowsy back-room embrace; a man sickened by his own succumbing. Walter wondered for a moment if Lavinia could possibly be right, and Weekley was after all a little mad.

Toby Tullis, on the other hand, had never known either retreat or self-disgust. Toby was merely deploying his forces for further campaigning.

‘A little farouche, your young friend,’ he remarked, his eye on Searle as he talked to Bill Maddox at the bar.

Farouche was the last word that Walter would have used of Leslie Searle but he understood that Toby must justify his temporary overthrow.

‘You must bring him to see Hoo House.’

Hoo House was the beautiful stone building that stood so unexpectedly in Salcott’s row of pink and cream and yellow gables. It had once been an inn; and before that, it was said, its stones had been part of an abbey farther down the valley. Now it was a showpiece of a quality so rare that Toby, who normally changed his dwelling-place (one could hardly say his home) every second year, had refused all offers for it for several years now.

‘Is he staying long with you?’

Walter said that he and Searle planned to do a book together. They had not yet decided on the form of it.

‘Gypsying Through Orfordshire?’

‘Something like that. I do the spiel and Searle does the illustrations. We haven’t thought of a good central theme yet.’

‘A little early in the year to go gypsying.’

‘Good for photography, though. Before the county becomes clotted with greenery.’

‘Perhaps your young friend would like to photograph Hoo House,’ Toby said, picking up the two mugs and moving with admirable casualness to the bar with them.

Walter stayed where he was and wondered how many drinks Serge Ratoff had had since last he noticed him. He had been only two short of a row then, he had reckoned. Now he must be almost at explosion point.

Toby put the mugs on the counter, entered first into conversation with the landlord, then with Bill Maddox, and so quite naturally with Searle again. It was dexterously done.

‘You must come and see Hoo House,’ Walter heard him say presently. ‘It is very beautiful. You might even like to photograph it.’

‘Has it not been photographed?’ asked Searle, surprised. It was quite an innocent surprise; an astonishment that a thing so beautiful should be unrecorded. But what it conveyed to his hearers was: ‘Is it possible that any facet of Toby Tullis’s life has remained unpublicized?’

This was the spark that ignited Serge.

‘ Yes !’ he shrieked, shooting out of his corner like a squib and sticking his furious small face within an inch of Searle’s, ‘it has been photographed! It has been photographed ten thousand times by the greatest photographers in the world and it does not need to be made cheap by any stupid amateur from a country that was stolen from the Indians even if he has a profile and dyed hair and no morals and a–’

‘Serge!’ said Toby, ‘shut up!’

But the wild babble poured out of Serge’s ravaged face without a pause.

‘Serge! Do you hear! Stop it!’ Toby said, and pushed Ratoff lightly on the shoulder so as to urge him away from Searle.

This was the final touch, and Serge’s voice rose into one high continuous stream of vituperation, most of it couched in mercifully unintelligible English but spattered liberally with phrases in French or Spanish and studded here and there with epithets and descriptions of a freshness that was delightful. ‘You middle-west Lucifer!’ was one of the better ones.

As Toby’s hand took him by the back of the collar to drag him away from Searle by force, Serge’s arm shot out to where Toby’s new-filled beer mug was waiting on the counter. He reached it a split second before Reeve, the landlord, could save it, grabbed it, and launched the whole contents into Searle’s face. Searle’s head moved sideways by instinct, so that the beer streamed over his neck and shoulder. Screaming with baffled rage, Serge lifted the heavy mug above his head to fling it, but Reeve’s large hand closed on his wrist, the mug was prised out of his convulsive clutch, and Reeve said: ‘Arthur!’

There was no chucker-out at the Swan, since there had never been any need for one. But when any persuading had to be done, Arthur Tebbetts did it. Arthur was cattleman up at Silverlace Farm, and he was a large, slow, kind creature who would go out of his way to avoid treading on a worm.

‘Come now, Mr. Ratoff,’ Arthur said, enveloping with his Saxon bulk the small struggling cosmopolitan. ‘There’s no call to get fussed over little things. It’s that there gin, Mr. Ratoff. I’ve told you afore. That ain’t no drink for a man, Mr. Ratoff. Now you come with me, and see if you don’t feel the better of a dose of fresh air. See if you don’t.’

Serge had no intention of going anywhere with anyone. He wanted to stay and murder this newcomer to Salcott. But there was never any successful argument against Arthur’s methods. Arthur just put a friendly arm round one and leaned. The arm was like a limb of a beech tree, and the pressure was that of a landslide. Serge went with him to the door under pressure, and they went out together. Not for one moment had Serge stopped his torrent of accusation and offence, and not once as far as anyone knew had he repeated himself.

As the high babbling voice died into the outer air, the onlookers stirred into relief and conversation again.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Toby Tullis, ‘I apologize on behalf of the theatre.’

But it was not said lightly enough. Instead of being an actor’s gay smoothing over of an awkward moment, it was Toby Tullis reminding them that he spoke for the English Theatre. As Marta had said: everything that Toby did was a little off-key. There was a murmur of amusement, but if anything his speech added to the village’s embarrassment.

The landlord mopped Searle’s shoulder with a glass-cloth, and begged him to come in behind and his missus would take some clean water to his suit and get the smell of the beer off it before it dried in. But Searle refused. He was quite amiable about it but seemed to want to get out of the place. Walter thought that he was looking a little sick.