Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

‘Pyjamas?’

‘In case you forgot to pack them. And don’t worry about a room—the Crillon can fix you up in my suite.’

‘But I—I’m—I wasn’t planning to stay overnight. I’m booked through on the boat train from St. Lazare—’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes. I’m terribly sorry if—’

Charles was hurt, but did not want to hurt himself more by showing it. ‘You didn’t say so, and I’m afraid I assumed—’

‘I didn’t think it mattered so long as there was time for dinner.’

‘Of course. Oh, of course. Though if you wished I daresay even as late as this I could have your train ticket changed—’

‘Except that I—I’d—well, actually I’d planned to join up with some of the others on the boat-train—some of the people I’d been with—I sort of promised… And then I’ve got dates in London tomorrow —Mallinson, for one—he has to fix a filling that came loose, so you see…’

‘My dear boy, that’s all right—don’t let it bother you. I’m glad you’re careful of your teeth—most important… Well, here we are —the Place de la Concorde—one of the great sights of the world, and the best time to see it is about now when the lights are just coming on. Rather splendid, don’t you think?’

Gerald seemed much more impressed by his father’s suite when they reached it. ‘The British taxpayer certainly has to shell out for this,’ he commented, walking around.

‘Only because the British Government is anxious that its representatives abroad should not appear as impoverished as they usually are.’

Gerald grinned. ‘Are WE impoverished?’

‘We certainly should be if we had to live on my salary.’

‘Ah… so the old family fortune’s standing up pretty well?’

Charles was never quite sure when Gerald was having fun with him, or what kind of fun it was. He answered, half seriously: ‘It isn’t much of a fortune, after inflation and taxes. But you needn’t worry.’

‘Oh, I don’t… You know, dad, if I were you I’d spend every penny during the next ten years or so, then you’d be sure of enjoying yourself. Or is that a crazy idea?’

‘Not at all. You’d be surprised how popular it seems to be—hence in part the present state of Europe. But don’t get me on to politics or I shall say the kind of things that annoy Sir Malcolm.’

‘Your boss?’

‘Boss, chief, or head of department.’

‘Like rod, pole, or perch?’

‘Exactly.’

‘What kind of chap is he?’

‘Very able. I’d introduce you if he were staying here, but he prefers the Embassy. A fine diplomat and—so they say—an EXCEEDINGLY fine bridge player.’

‘I guess all that means you don’t like him much.’

‘Oh now, come, come,’ protested Charles with restrained glee. ‘You mustn’t guess anything of the sort. Sir Malcolm and I work very well in harness. But even a horse doesn’t want to be in harness all the time.’

Gerald laughed heartily, and Charles thought that the evening, after a somewhat inauspicious start, was proceeding well.

An hour later they were at the corner table in the Cheval Noir with Henri hovering about them like a benign and elderly angel. Charles introduced Gerald proudly. ‘Henri, I want you to meet my son. Quite an occasion— his first evening in Paris as well as his seventeenth birthday.’

Henri bowed, but Gerald offered his hand; Charles was pleased at this —it was intelligent of the boy to realize that Henri was not just an ordinary restaurant keeper. After the exchange of civilities Charles added: ‘Henri is one of mankind’s truest benefactors—his hu tres Mornay puts him with Cellini and Michelangelo. Too bad they’re out of season— oysters, I mean.’

After Henri, beaming at the compliment, had gone off, Gerald said: ‘Do you really think cooking’s an art like painting, dad?’

‘A much HIGHER art than some modern painting. Anyhow, it’s a polite thing to say to a cook who really is an artist.’

‘I suppose being a diplomat you get a lot of practice saying polite things.’

‘I wish I got more. I sometimes feel at a disadvantage because I’m not equally proficient in saying nasty things.’ He was thinking of Palan.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Perhaps because the world isn’t getting any better.’ Charles rallied himself from the dark reflection. ‘Though I must admit I see it looking pretty good here and now.’ Henri was serving the Vino de Pasto. ‘I’m very happy to be with you tonight, Gerald. I drink an affectionate toast to your future.’

Gerald grinned embarrassedly, then sipped from his glass. ‘Thanks, dad. Is this sherry?’

‘Yes… Smoke a cigarette if you like—it’s the only wine that isn’t spoiled by smoking.’ Charles, proffering his cigarette case, thought he had conveyed his hint rather tactfully. ‘I hope you like it.’

‘It’s—well, I daresay one could get used to it.’

‘Just about my own first reaction. That, I remember, was at a Foundation dinner at Cambridge. I mixed my drinks rather recklessly—with the inevitable result. My gyp told me afterwards I’d tried to festoon the chapel belfry with toilet paper.’

Gerald laughed. ‘It’s hard to imagine you ever getting drunk.’

‘That’s because you think of me as I am today.’

‘Or else because I really don’t know you properly.’

The remark, so seemingly cold, was actually warm to Charles; it hinted that Gerald too was aware of the barrier and that such awareness might be a first step towards their joint effort to remove it. He said agreeably: ‘I’ve often thought that’s one of the biggest drawbacks of a career like mine. Chopping and changing posts, with you in England half the time when you were a baby, then the war came and you went to America, and even after that there was school and we could only meet during the holidays if I happened to be in London. The wonder is we know each other at all. But now you’re getting older and I’m not likely to be abroad so much, things ought to work out better.’

Charles waited for a word of encouragement, then decided that the boy’s friendly face was itself one. He continued: ‘Besides, I’ll be off duty for good in a few more years. I’d thought of buying a place in the country if I can find something that isn’t too huge or too cute. How would you like that?’

‘You mean a place like Beeching, dad?’

‘Oh no, much humbler… but I’m sure you don’t remember Beeching.’

‘I do—because I remember Grandfather there.’

‘Really?’

‘There was a big white fireplace and once a hot coal fell out on the rug and Grandfather squirted soda water over it. I think that’s really the first thing I remember about anything.’

‘I don’t recall the incident, but there was certainly a big white marble fireplace in the hall, so perhaps you’re right… Much TOO big—the fireplaces and everything else—we used to consume fifty tons of coal a year and still the rooms were chilly in the winter. Think of trying to get fifty tons of coal nowadays to heat a private house… No, the place I might look for would be small and modern—just to settle down in after I’ve retired. Not too far out of London, but quiet.’

‘You might be lonely. You’re so used to London.’

‘Don’t forget there’s the book I’ll be writing.’

‘You’re really going to do it?’

Charles smiled; the book was almost a joke because it had been talked about for so long. Whenever Charles said anything witty at a dinner party, which was fairly often, people were always apt to exclaim: ‘You know, Charles,’ (or ‘Stuffy’ if the occasion were intimate or ribald enough) ‘you really ought to write a book some day’, to which Charles would answer either thoughtfully ‘Yes, I suppose I might’, or confidently ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do.’ But nobody really believed he would, whatever he said; somehow he dined out too often and lived too elegantly to seem capable of such sustained effort. So one day the book would astonish everyone by actually appearing—published by Macmillan, he hoped, and at not more than twenty-five shillings, if the price of things didn’t go up any more. But it would offer a further surprise by being the kind of book few would expect from him—a really serious and authoritative piece of work—in fact, that of a man WHO OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN MADE AN AMBASSADOR. Charles could even extract wry satisfaction from the thought that this lesson would be learned too late, for he was fairly certain now that it WOULD be too late. He was disappointed, but realized that the character he had built up for himself would not allow him to show it.