Charles Snow - Last Things

Margaret was not used to north-country manners, but she detected that Diana was pleased. On the other hand, she didn’t detect that when Diana was pleased she did not become less obstinate but more. So that, immediately the prospect of a move to London was conveyed to her (by this time Margaret had three different offers arranged for), she refused point-blank. ‘I don’t see why we should.’

Maurice had to placate her. He might have been overconsiderate or even too diffident (for it was he who did the wooing), but it was clear he hadn’t mentioned the possibility, though his mother had been writing to him about it, and his replies had been grateful and willing.

‘It might be a good idea, sweetie,’ he said.

‘That’s as may be. I don’t see why we should.’

Well, they would be nearer to his family and friends. To which she replied, with truculent accuracy, that they would be further from her family and friends.

Doctors, Margaret was speaking of. She could recommend some of the best –

‘We’ve got doctors where we live. Ours aren’t that bad.’

By this time Margaret realised that this wasn’t shadow-boxing. In a mother-cum-sister fashion she began to speak of the flukes of childbirth, how she was certain that Diana wasn’t frightened of anything, but it would take a load off her (Margaret’s) mind if they took some precautions. She would feel happier – she didn’t approve of herself and she didn’t expect them to, but they might humour her – if they didn’t have the baby on the National Health. There was a good nursing home where she had had Charles –

Diana sat with an internal smile, looking deferred to and unmoved.

As a result, when she came to the dinner table, she was the centre of attention. As usual, she was wearing a dress in dingy chocolate brown, a colour for which she seemed to have a strong predilection.

In my eyes, she was plain, not ugly but plain, and the other young people were all personable, her husband much more than that, the most handsome man of his age whom I had seen in that room. Still, by a process of group hypnosis, it was she whom everyone was making up to and was anxious to please.

I had had a word with Charles on our own before dinner, and told him, for his mother’s sake, to do his best. He gave a workmanlike smile, and as he sat by her at the table, I was surprised to see how good his best could be. I had heard from his friends that he took much trouble to help: when he hadn’t a purpose of his own, he had, so they suggested, a lot of free energy, which he would dispense on anyone, without much favouritism or horns-and-halo partiality, who seemed to need it.

Certainly he was making more progress with Diana than any of us. I heard him begin on the attractions of London. Well, that might soften her some time, I thought, concerned for Margaret. As for myself, I shouldn’t have been sorry for that dinner party to be broken up. I was sitting between Diana with whom I couldn’t communicate and who showed no desire to communicate with me – and Muriel, with whom I could communicate, but who had communicated much that we couldn’t mention at that table, so that we were shy and abrupt with each other.

After dinner, Diana was sitting on the sofa between her husband and Charles. She was still being courted by Charles, but his conversational energies were flagging. Maurice watched with an affectionate smile, apparently gratified that she was receiving so much attention. The rest of us scattered round the room, Muriel preoccupied, Margaret once or twice glancing at me as though wishing that she and I had been trained to do simple conjuring tricks. It was about a quarter past nine, just about the time when, before the George Passant trauma, the first big wave of the Christmas party came breaking in. I asked round the room whether anyone would like more to drink. No takers. With someone to join me, I should have been ready to drink a good deal, which nowadays I rarely did.

Then there was a ring at the front-door bell. While Margaret and I were speculating – it wouldn’t be a visitor, perhaps a Christmas delivery from a shop – Charles went out to answer. A voice from the hall. He returned, looking not self-possessed but clouded, followed by his cousin Pat.

‘Hallo, Aunt Meg!’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Hallo, Uncle Lew!’ He made a bow, ceremonious and stately, to his former wife. He shook hands with the other two, and stood in the middle of the room, brown eyes bright, vigilant and defiant, rocking springily on his heels.

‘What are you doing in London?’ I was the first to speak to him.

‘Oh, I just thought there might be a party on.’

That couldn’t be true. He knew, as well as anyone there, that the old parties had been suspended for four years past. He didn’t even bother to make the pretext plausible.

Where was his wife, Margaret asked. That was his second wife, Vicky, whom we liked much more than we liked Pat. Oh, she was in Cambridge with his father. He (Pat) would drive down and join them late that night.

‘Who else do you think is there?’ He darted the question at his cousin with the sparkle of one who held the initiative and intended to keep it.

‘How do I know?’ Charles was gruff.

‘A friend of yours.’

Charles made no response.

‘A boy called Grenfell.’

‘Is he, by God?’ Charles couldn’t keep back a flash of interest. ‘I have a tiny suspicion – of course that may just be me – but a tiny suspicion that my lady mother fancies that he might be rather a good match.’

Smiles, reluctant, wintry, but nevertheless smiles from Margaret and Muriel. Maurice, who had often defended Pat, said amiably: ‘What does Nina think?’

‘My dear sister doesn’t give a thought to such mundane things.’ Pause. ‘That doesn’t mean, though, that she won’t snaffle him.’

More shamefaced smiles. His deserts might be small, no guest had ever appeared more often uninvited, but there was no denying that he had brightened the evening. But why had he come? Not to indulge in mild malice at the expense of his family. Not even to bring out miscellaneous items of news, regardless of accuracy. Was he there simply out of inquisitiveness? Or mischief making? (In the midst of his high jinks, his eyes strayed more than once in the direction of Muriel.) More likely, I thought, it was nothing more than one of his whims.

When he had sat down, taking a chair midway between Muriel and Charles, and been given a glass of the Christmas champagne, he began telling me about my native town. For, since he had at last married Vicky, he had been living there, supported, one presumed, by Vicky’s earnings as a doctor. It was strange to have those two as my only link with that place. Particularly as Pat’s news, though it might be inaccurate, had a knack of being disconcerting. He had been seeing the Patemans, father and son. With glee he told me that they were inclined to think that I had ‘let them down’. Particularly Pateman senior. He had come to the conclusion that I wasn’t a ‘man you could rely on’. ‘Fine words butter no parsnips’ was Mr Pateman’s considered view of my intervention in his affairs. Unless, and this was more sinister, I had my own reasons for not helping him as he patently deserved.

I cursed. When I thought of the time and trouble, and even the money, that I had spent on that man – the hours in that horrible back room of his, listening to the grating voice.

Margaret and Charles, who knew the whole story, were laughing out loud at me. They couldn’t understand how I had put up with him. I was supposed to be realistic: I had heard him speak with disapproval, rancour and hate of everyone who had helped him: and here I was, upset when I found he was doing the same about me.

While they were laughing, I noticed Pat address Muriel directly for the first time. I didn’t pick up the question, but across the room came Muriel’s clear reply.