Джеймс Хилтон: So Well Remembered

“Aye, I’ve just come from seeing her.”

“She’s a little off her head, as I daresay you must have noticed.”

George, despite his own liking for downright statements, was somewhat shocked by the coolness of the remark.

Winslow went on: “I suppose it’s what she went through in Hong Kong.”

“It might have been.”

“Though to tell you the truth, she was rather—er— unpredictable, even before that… Of course it’s a problem to know quite what to do. Especially in regard to Charles.”

“Aye, that’s what matters.”

“I’m glad you think so. She’s dead set on taking him to live with her in Ireland, but in my opinion that would be a mistake, even if it were feasible, which it probably isn’t. I doubt if the Government would issue permits.”

“Permits?”

“You see, it’s Southern Ireland. Neutral country. They wouldn’t be quite sure what she was up to in a place like that… I heard this in confidence from a chap in the Passport Office. They have everybody tabbed, you know.”

“But I don’t see—”

“Oh, nothing significant—nothing at all, I’m quite certain. She probably mixed with some of the wrong people somewhere—she’s really rather eccentric in her choice of friends. Personally I don’t think it ever meant a thing, though it certainly can’t have helped Jeff… any more than it would help Charles.” Suddenly Winslow rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, turned to George with the remark: “I hope you’ll stay to dinner.” George was surprised by this on top of other surprises, and had hardly begun to stammer his regrets when Winslow interpreted them to the butler as an acceptance.

“It’s kind of you,” George said when the man had gone, “but I was thinking of my train. It leaves at six-fifteen.”

“Oh, there’s another one after that.”

“Are you sure? Because I looked it up and—”

“Positive… I’m so glad you’ll stay. I’d like to talk things over with you… I’m sure we both have the boy’s best interests at heart.”

So George found himself dining at Winslow Hall—just himself and Lord Winslow in the enormous panelled room that could have seated fifty with ease. The sunset slanted through the windows as they began the meal, but later, when the butler approached to draw the black-out curtains, Winslow left his seat and beckoned George to share with him a last look at the view. “You see how it is,” he said quietly. “I have no children. All that— and this—may belong to Charles eventually.” They went back to their places at the table. Winslow went on: “Oh yes, I know what you’re going to say—one can’t keep up these great estates any more—all this sort of thing’s done for, outmoded, a feudal anachronism, and so on. That’s the fashionable attitude, I’m aware. But fashionable things are usually wrong —or half wrong. All kinds of Englishmen are busy nowadays explaining to other countries how England has changed, is changing, and will change after the war. No doubt it goes down very well—especially with Americans. But between you and me England may not change as much as some people expect. And the kind of people who talk most about change don’t seem to have changed much themselves—at least not to my somewhat jaundiced scrutiny.”

“Aye,” answered George. “You might be right about that. And there’s certainly one thing about England that won’t change—and hasn’t changed.”

“What’s that?”

“Ninety-five per cent of us are working folks and have been for a thousand years.”

A slight flush came into Winslow’s face. He poured himself an extra brandy. “True, of course—as well as a useful demagogic statistic… It only remains now for you to assure me that it’s the rich what gets the pleasure, it’s the poor what gets the—.”

“Nay, I don’t say that. There hasn’t been much pleasure for your brother or your nephew these past few years—rich or not. And there isn’t going to be much for them—or for any of us, maybe—in the years ahead… That’s why I’d like you to think twice about what you want Charles to do when he grows up.” And George, now in a proper stride, became talkative for the first time since his arrival. “I’m very fond of the boy. He’s taught me a bit since I knew him and maybe I’ve taught him a bit too. Don’t saddle him with all this stuff. When I was a lad the rich had all of what were called advantages, but there’s been a difference lately. It isn’t that there’s going to be a bloody revolution to take all this away, but are these things going to go on being such advantages? That’s what folks are beginning to wonder, and once they start wondering, the bottom’s out of the market. Take the Right School and the Right Accent, for instance. You’ve got the right ones, I’ve got the wrong ones, but suppose some day we all wake up and find the whole thing doesn’t matter?”

“Of course. I’d be all for it. But what if some of your extremist fellows merely reverse the positions and call your accent right and mine wrong —what then?”

George gave a faint grin. “Aye, that would be a pity. But I daresay some of the chaps on your side are pretty good mimics. Our side always produced a few.”

Winslow’s flush deepened. “Maybe it will come to that. Lip- service to Demos could hardly be more literal.”

George had to think that one out. Then he answered: “I don’t know what you mean by Demos. I don’t care for words like that. I don’t like to hear people called ‘the masses’ or ‘the proletariat’ or even ‘the average man’. Take my own town of Browdley. There’s not an average man in the place—they’re all individuals—different, separate, with their own personal problems same as we all have. And we don’t know any Demos either. We’ve never seen the animal.”

Winslow smiled coolly. “I think we’re straying rather far from the point —if there ever was a point… You obviously think there’s no future in inheriting a title, a place like this, a seat in the House of Lords— and all the responsibilities as well as privileges it entails?”

George answered: “I never like to say what there’s a future in. Sounds too much like a tip on the stock market… It’s WHAT’S IN THE FUTURE that matters more. I can’t forecast that, nor can anybody. But I’ve often thought it’s as if we’re all in a train going somewhere. Some people don’t like travelling, and just grumble about having to. And others think that trains go backwards or that you can push a train by leaning on a door-handle. And quite a lot of folks seem to think that miracles can happen to a train. But it really doesn’t matter what you think unless it’s based on what you can see out of the window. The train’s going to get you somewhere, wherever that is— and the one place it certainly won’t be is the place you started from.”

“Sounds very wise, Boswell. But whenever I hear a man enunciating a philosophy, I always ask him how has he handled his own life by its aid? Has he been a success or a failure? Has he been right when other men have been wrong? Has he made many mistakes?… Or is all that too personal?”

“Aye, it’s personal, but I don’t mind answering it. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, and I’ve often been wrong. And I’ve been a failure if you measure by what I once had ambitions about.”

Winslow helped himself to more brandy. “Very honest of you to admit it… and if I might be personal again and suggest a reason—not perhaps the ONLY reason, but A reason… might it not be the same one as in the case of my unfortunate brother?”

George was silent and Winslow went on, after waiting for some answer: “To put it bluntly… LIVIA.”

George pushed his chair back from the table. “I think we’ve discussed her enough,” he said gruffly. “Perhaps I ought to be thinking of my train.”