Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

‘The crude?’

This seemed an enormously suitable calling, whatever it was, for Duport to follow, but one could not in the least imagine financial or administrative shape taken by such employment.

‘Crude oil. That’s how it’s known in the trade. His business is mixed up with importing into Canada for processing. He doesn’t do too badly. That’s his life. Has been for quite a long time now. He’s rather crotchety these days. Trouble with his inside. He never really recovered from that upset in the war. Still, Papa has his moments.’

The way she said that recalled Jean again. Glober, who had been explaining to Isobel how he was going to shoot Match Me Such Marvel in Spain, returned to holding Polly Duport’s arm.

‘More Mozart now. We’ll see you at the next intermission.’

The Widmerpools, Tompsitts, and Short, were standing not far away, the men discussing something in an undertone. Mrs Tompsitt, no beauty, looked less than pleased. As Stevens remarked, she had the air of being rich. She and Pamela were not talking together. Pamela’s eye was on us. She was still smiling a little to herself. Glober glanced in her direction, raising his hand slightly in greeting. From the gesture, they appeared not to have met earlier that evening. Pamela made no sign in return, not altering her faint smile. If Glober felt himself in a delicate position, he gave no outward evidence of that. As he strolled away, hand on Polly Duport’s elbow, he was perfectly at ease.

‘That was the American who planned to run away with Lady Widmerpool, but is to do so no longer?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘She’s looking rather frightening tonight.’

Isobel’s comment, although it could not possibly have been heard by Pamela at that range, appeared in some manner to react on her. As we approached the marquee again, she broke off from the Tompsitt group, and came towards us. We said good evening.

‘I’ve just this afternoon found where Gwinnett’s staying.’

Pamela spoke that like a comment on something we had already discussed together.

‘You have?’

‘He’s been in hiding.’

She laughed. The laugh sounded a little mad.

‘You’ll never guess who gave me the address.’

‘I’m sure I can’t.’

‘A tart.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Does it surprise you, him knowing a tart?’

‘I’ll have to think about the answer to that.’

‘Perhaps you know her too?’

‘I’ve no reason to suppose so.’

‘She’s called Pauline.’

‘As it happens, I never met her.’

‘A girl of X’s.’

‘Of course.’

‘So it’s all above board, so far as Gwinnett’s concerned.’

‘I agree.’

The music began. She laughed again, and turned away. We found our seats. The Second Act took place, the drunken scenes, the setting to rest of fears that the girls might join the Pasha’s harem. When we came out for the second interval, Moreland reappeared. Gossage and Chandler came up.

‘I’m always fond of the English maid, Blonde,’ Moreland said. ‘Unlike the Pasha’s gardener, I find that vixenish touch sympathetic.’

‘I’m mad about Osmin,’ said Chandler.

Gossage giggled nervously, a giggle unaltered by increased age. He brought conversation back to more serious criticism.

‘The man’s more of a baritone than a bass. Some cardinal appoggiaturas went west in the last Act, I’m afraid. No harm in subordinating virtuosity to dramatic expression once in a way. Not least in a work of this kind. We can’t deny a lyrical tenderness, can we? I expect you agree with that, Mrs …”

Hesitating to call her ‘Mrs Maclintick’, after all these years of living with Moreland, at the same time, never having graduated to addressing her as ‘Audrey’, Gossage’s voice trailed gently away. Audrey Maclintick took no notice of him. She spoke quietly, but there was a rasp in her tone.

‘Have you seen the substitute Violin, Moreland?’

Moreland guessed from her manner of speaking trouble was on the way. He was plainly without a clue what form that might take, why she had asked the question.

‘Has he arrived tight, or something? I’ve conducted unshaved myself before now. One mustn’t be too critical. This one’s a substitute for the regular man, who’s ill. The orchestra wasn’t too bad. Allowing for Gossage’s just strictures on the subject of appoggiaturas.’

‘You haven’t noticed one of the Violins, Moreland?’

‘No, should I? Has he got two heads, or a forked tail emerging from the seat of his trousers?’

Moreland said that in a conciliatory manner, one he used often to employ with Matilda. Audrey Maclintick brought out the answer through her teeth.

‘It’s Carolo.’

Moreland was not at all prepared for that. It was not a contingency anyone was likely to foretell; at the same time, the musical world being what it was, one not in the least unheard of in the circumstances. At first Moreland looked dreadfully upset. Then, seeing the matter in clearer proportion, his face cleared. There were signs that he was going to laugh. He successfully managed not to do so, his mouth trembling so much in the effort that it looked for a second as if he might burst into an almost hysterical peal, similar to that brought on by news of Glober’s identity. Audrey Maclintick, for her part, showed no sign of seeing anything funny in the presence of her former lover — the man for whom she had left Maclintick — turning up in the Seraglio orchestra. Her demeanour almost suggested suspicion that Moreland himself had deliberately engineered transposition of violinists, just to disturb her own feelings. Seeing she was thoroughly agitated about what seemed to himself merely comic — another nostalgic enrichment of the Stevens party — he pulled himself together, plainly with an effort, and spoke soothingly.

‘Is this really true? Are you sure it’s Carolo? Musical types often resemble each other facially, especially violinists. I’ve noticed when conducting.’

Audrey Maclintick would have none of that.

‘I lived with the man for three years, didn’t I? Why should I say he was substitute Violin, if he wasn’t I got to know him by sight, even if he didn’t spend much time in the house.

Her fluster about the matter was unforeseen. On the whole, one would have been much more prepared for complete indifference. Objecting to the presence of Matilda was another matter. The intensity of feeling that bound Audrey Maclintick to Moreland was all at once momentarily revealed. Moreland made a face in my direction. He must have been wondering whether Matilda — actually married to Carolo for a short period in her early life — had also noticed the presence of her former husband. All this talk caused Gossage to suffer one of his most severe conjunctions of embarrassment. Like a man playing an invisible piano, he made wriggling movements in the air with fingers of both hands, while he mused aloud in a kind of aside.

‘I did hear Carolo was not so very prosperous some years ago. No reason why he shouldn’t have substituted tonight, prosperous or not. Did it to oblige, I expect.’

Chandler disagreed.

‘Who ever heard of Carolo being obliging, since the days when he was fiddling away at Vieuxtemps, in a black velvet suit and lace collar? He’s not dressed like that tonight, is he? Now that we’re none of us so young, I’m wearing quieter clothes myself.’

That gave Moreland a chance to deflect the conversation.

‘Nonsense, Norman, you’re known as London’s most eminent Teddy Boy.’

The measure was successful so far as putting an end to further discussion about Carolo, until time to return to the marquee. On the way there, Gossage was still muttering to himself.