Jane Gardam - Last Friends

The dining room reminded him of the English House of Commons, and he was the only guest. The menu was not adventurous. There was a very thick soup, followed by Malta’s speciality, the pasta pie, the pie-crust substantial, and then a custard tart. A harsh draught of Maltese red wine. There was no lift to take him back to his room which was huge and high, the long windows shuttered, the bed a room in itself with high brocaded curtains that did not draw around it. In one of them a hole had been cut for the on-off switch of a reading-lamp that stood on a bedside table that was a bridge too far. The sheets were clean but very cold. Rain like artillery crashed about the island. There was thunder in it. He lay for a long time, thinking.

But in the morning someone was grinding open the shutters and the new day shone with glory. Palm trees brown and dry but beautiful rattled against a blue sky and racing clouds. At breakfast, with English marmalade and bacon — and bread of iron — there was a pot of decent tea strong enough for an old English builder. A man on the other side of the breakfast room with another pot of it lay spread out like a table cloth over a rambling, curly settee. His feet reached far into the room. He said, ‘Hullo, Veneering. It is Veneering isn’t it? I’m Bobbie Grampian.’

‘Good Lord! Yes, I am Veneering. I’m said to be unrecognisable.’

‘Not at all. We’re all said to be unrecognisable. It’s just that there’s no one much left to recognise us. Staying long? I’m here with Darlington.’

‘I used to live near there.’

‘No, no. Chap. Darlington. Always been here. He wants to be a barrister’s clerk. Viscount or something. He’ll be delighted—.’

‘Hasn’t he left it a bit late? I’ve been retired about twenty years.’

‘Eccentric chap. Lives in the past.’

‘Are you still dancing? I mean reeling, Bobbie?’

‘O, God, yes. Never without the pipes. Mother’s gone I’m afraid.’

‘Well yes. Are you in the same house?’

‘Where you came that night? Kensington. Splendid evening — or was it the Trossachs?’

‘Actually I never quite got there.’

‘Remember you doing the reels—. But you inherited those marvellous Chambers! People pay to visit them now. Listed. Apparently once belonged to John Donne.’

‘John Donne? The poet?’

‘Wasn’t he the King of Austria?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Yes, “John Donne of Austria is marching to the War”. Dear old G. K. Chesterton. He was a Catholic.’

‘I think that was Don John.’

‘Yes? I’m very badly educated. Very sexy man John Donne. Sexy poetry.’

‘He was Dean of St. Paul’s.’

‘Extraordinary. To think you inherited a royal dwelling. Sold it I suppose? Get rich quick. What d’you think of this hostelry? Bit like after the war. What a funny new-old world we’ve lived through.’

‘Well,’ said Veneering, ‘it’s large and cold. I came here for Christmas cheer. A break from Dorset winter.’

‘Alone? Oh, most unwise. We must get together. There’s a Caledonian Club I’m sure, and I have the pipes. Ah — and here’s the man. Here’s the man!’

Unchanged since Betty and Edward Feathers’ honeymoon, a shambling person shuffled towards them demanding porridge. ‘Hullo?’ he said. ‘Know you, don’t I? Golf? Are you on your own?’

‘It’s Veneering,’ said the Scot.

‘Oh.’

‘Veneering. The retired judge. Friend, no, contemporary, of The Great Filth. Come here for a Christmas break.’

‘Ye gods! Very few of us left. Splendid. Anything special you want to see? Some wonderful ancient tombs, and so on. And the skeletons of pygmy elephants. No?’

‘Well I would rather like to see the cliffs again. There was a fresh-water spring.’

‘Place we used to go to for picnics. Very British place. Take you there now if you want. You’ll be able to see to the horizon and down to the depths. Heaven and hell, ha-ha. You coming with us, Grampian?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Ready then, Veneering? Porridge good here isn’t it? Actually Veneering, I have something to ask you.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve always had a hankering to be a Barrister’s clerk. Don’t know why. I can organise, and I like the Ambiance.’

(He must be eighty!)

‘You may have heard of me. Always around.’

‘What was — is — your profession?’

‘Never had one. It wasn’t a thing all the expats wanted after the war you know. Bit knocked about. Prison-camps and so on.’

‘You were in one of the camps?’

‘Not actually. A good many friends. Pretty upsetting—. I ought to write my memoirs. Trouble is I haven’t many of them. Getting on a bit! “Riff-raff of Europe” they used to call the English in Malta after the war, but actually I think we were harmless. Just rather poor —. Not unhappy.’

‘And you must know everybody?’ said Veneering.

‘I know the villagers of my village. And a good many ghosts. Could be worse.’

The exile from Darlington laughed heartily, not knowing what else to do. Stopped his ancient Rover on a hair-pin bend at the top of a steep slope and began to lead Veneering across a rough terrain of scrub.

‘A bit slippery,’ said Veneering. He looked about him. There was nothing but underbrush. Up above there was a circle of unfinished housing, ugly and raw, little stone gardens, scarcely a tree. Standing by itself, at the very edge of the cliffs was a small rose-pink palace with stone-work of white lace. ‘Eighteenth-century,’ said the would-be clerk. ‘For Sale. Dirt cheap. I could arrange something if you were tempted. Here we are. Stretch yourself out on your belly and you might see the silver stream. Runs under-ground most of the way. Then it falls towards the sea. Noise like choir-boys singing.’

‘Mind you I haven’t lain out flat on my belly for a long time. No-one to appreciate it — ha-ha. Not sure I’d know what to do now with a woman even if she was all laid out like lamb and salad as we used to say. We’re all impotent here you know. Don’t know what’s become of us all. If you ask me what we need is another good war.’

Veneering moved further off. The stones beneath his unsuitable shoes became sharper. Twice he stumbled into what might be a fissure in the cliff but saw and heard no running water. He decided to crawl about and dropped slowly and painfully to his knees. He put his ear to the rock.

‘You’re a game old bird,’ said his companion. ‘You know, the last time I was here was over half a century ago. Picnics up here were special. Planned months ahead. Time of “the sixpenny settlers”. More money than ever before. Each other’s houses, or sailing. Lots to drink. Fornicating. We came up here once though for a sort of honeymoon party. That arrogant old bugger Eddie Feathers (Old Filth they call him now, and I wouldn’t disagree) had his bride Betty with him. Should have seen his face when I asked him to arrange a clerkship for me.

‘As for her! Never forgot her. I was sitting cross-legged with my wine glass and she was standing right beside me, and she dropped on her knees and looked down the crack. She was like a kid. And she splayed herself out and I patted her bottom and she was up like a kangaroo, and she hit me! Yes, hit me. Don’t think he saw. — On their honeymoon it was. She said, “I’m going to get out of this. I’m going down the cliff to the sea” and she went off and him after her. Old Filth. Mind you, she was the one who I’d have thought not exactly pure as a lily. Some very nasty stories about her going off with men into the New Territories in Hong Kong. Even though she looked like a school girl. Oh , yes. She stepped on me! Small of my back, and made off down the cliff, him after her. Expect he knew she wasn’t all she might have been, even on the honeymoon. Hey, what’s the matter? Stop that. What have I done?’