Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

How pleasant to think of these things, to plan them gently in his mind while Palan bellowed his abominable French amidst the gilt-framed mirrors and Buhl cabinets that seemed, by their contrasting elegance, to focus the whole eye of the past upon the world’s deplorable present.

On the day of Gerald’s arrival events at the Conference had been particularly trying. To begin with, Sir Malcolm’s arthritis had forced him to quit at the lunch interval and leave affairs during the afternoon in Charles’s hands, and this, which in normal circumstances would have been both a challenge and an opportunity, turned out much more like an ordeal. For Palan, under the silent surveillance of his own superior, had concentrated upon Charles with a certain grim joyousness that had been just amusing enough to keep the Conference room in the wrong kind of good humour; Charles had a feeling he was being baited, and that even a few of his colleagues were enjoying the performance. Not that Charles lacked weapons of his own. He was sound if somewhat precise in argument; he had an expert’s knowledge of the matters being discussed; he was also patient, often witty, and unfailingly polite. He could not bring himself to show temper, even when he felt it rising within himself; whereas Palan, he suspected, often put on an act of temper when he felt none. Moreover, Charles had acquired a masterly technique of listening with apparent equanimity while he was being ridiculed. ‘M’sieur Anderson is, of course, a man of much greater diplomatic experience than I,’ Palan had mocked, ‘but I would venture to match my knowledge of the world against his, for when you have probed behind all the statistics in blue books and white papers, when you have got down to the bedrock of reality, what is it that you find? Is it merely a diplomatic game, to be played by those who have been to the right school and college like M’sieur Anderson, or is it LIFE?’ And all that sort of thing.

Charles had replied: ‘M’sieur Palan is in error if he supposes that I regard these proceedings as a game. Since I dislike games I am certainly under no temptation to adopt such an attitude.’ (A few titters from his neighbours.) ‘And as for M’sieur Palan’s knowledge of the world, I have no means of computing it, but I should not readily assume it to be greater than mine, though doubtless it has been of a very different kind of world.’ There had been a general laugh at that, but Charles had not been quite certain at whose expense.

Throughout the afternoon they had sparred, and more and more it had seemed to Charles that Palan was regarding him as a personal adversary. By the time of the adjournment Charles could only pray that Sir Malcolm’s arthritis would improve enough for him to take over the following morning. Charles felt that though he had done quite creditably as a substitute, it had worn some frayed edges on his nerves.

His spirits rose, however, as he waited on the platform at the Gare de l’Est. It was good to have a growing-up son, and he thought happily of the corner table at the Cheval Noir which Henri was doubtless already preparing. The train came in, with the familiar place names attached to its coaches —Berne, Delle, Vesoul, Chaumont, Troyes… It had been Gerald’s first European trip—what magic it must have contained, and now to culminate so fittingly!

Charles was still thinking of that when his son spotted him first. ‘Hello, dad… I didn’t really expect you to meet me—I thought you’d be too busy.’

‘My dear boy…’ They shook hands. ‘However busy I am, I’d take time off for this, I assure you.’

The noise of the station excused him from saying more. Gerald was instructing the porter who had carried his luggage—a small suitcase —from the train. Charles was tactful enough not to correct or amplify the boy’s halting French, but he did, with his own French, summon a taxi and ask the driver to put the suitcase in the cab. Gerald then tipped the porter a hundred-franc note and Charles told the driver to take them to the Crillon.

As the taxi left the station Charles said: ‘How times have changed— I can remember when a hundred francs was really money! But the city hasn’t lost its fascination. Did you see much of it on your way out?’

‘Not a thing. The train just shunted into some station in the middle of the night. I was half asleep.’

‘Ah yes, the Ceinture.’ Charles could not repress an emotion of astonishment—that anyone who had never seen Paris before could allow himself to be taken in and out without even leaving the train for a quick look. ‘You were here once when you were a baby—just passing through. But this can be called your first real visit.’

‘Yes. I know I ought to get a thrill.’ The boy was peering through the window. ‘I must say everything looks a bit run down after Switzerland.’

‘Everything is. France, remember, has been through two world wars.’

‘And the Swiss have been sitting pretty, I know. But the mountains— the clean air—I think that’s really more in my line than big cities.’

‘You went to the right country, then. You look very fit. And still growing —or is it my imagination?’

Gerald was a little shy of his height, which was already six foot one. He laughed. ‘Oh, I hope not, or I’ll be a freak. I think I’ve stopped, though.’

‘I sometimes wish I had an inch or two more myself. Not that five feet nine is really short. But you can look over my head.’

‘It’s useful in climbing,’ Gerald admitted.

‘Did you do much of that?’

‘Just Pilatus and the Faulhorn and some of the easier ones.’

Charles was suddenly aware of an emotion which, in a younger man and in connection with a woman, he would have diagnosed as jealousy. ‘So you got along all right with that schoolmaster—I forget his name?’

‘Tubby Conklin? Oh, he isn’t so bad when you get to know him. Not really stuffy—just a bit of a watchdog. I suppose he felt he had to be, with all of us on his hands.’

STUFFY. Charles caught the word as if it had been a hit below the belt, but immediately decided that Gerald was unlikely to have heard of the nickname—and if he had, as he must sooner or later, what did it matter? Perhaps that was one of the confessions that would develop so naturally towards midnight at the Cheval Noir. He imagined an opening. ‘D’you know what they call me at the Office, Gerald? STUFFY Anderson.’ (Pause for merriment.) ‘I suppose having any sort of nickname’s a good sign— after all, they called Disraeli Dizzy, but you can’t imagine Gladstone ever being called Gladdy… Gladwyn Jebb, perhaps, but not Gladstone… I hope, though, I’m not TOO stuffy. Now that you’re old enough to judge, you must tell me if ever you think I am.’ Perhaps he would be able to talk like that before the evening was over.

Gerald was still staring out of the taxi window. ‘Where are we going, dad?’

‘The Crillon. My hotel. I thought you might like a bath before dinner. I have to change myself anyhow.’

‘Change? You mean—’ Gerald looked round and seemed to be studying his father’s attire.

‘Well, I had thought of a black tie in your honour.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t bring—’

‘Oh, then it doesn’t matter. I’ll wear what I have on, and if your lounge suit needs pressing the hotel people can do it in a hurry.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, Dad, but I’ll have to wear what I have on, too. All my clothes went through in a trunk to London—this bag’s only got souvenirs and things in it—’

What Gerald had on included an open-necked shirt, tweed jacket, and grey flannel trousers.

Charles smiled. ‘You could have something of mine, but since you’ve grown so tall I rather doubt… Well, the only real essential is a tie— which I CAN provide. I can also lend you pyjamas.’