Memento Mori

Charmian.

He doubted if Charmian ever thought with gratitude of his action. Still, he adored Charmian. She had been wonderful, even when he had met her a year ago at a time when her mind was failing. Now that she was so greatly improved, what a pity she had this Godfrey trouble on her mind. However, he adored Charmian for what she had been and what she still really was. And he had earned Lisa’s money. Trinidad might be delightful next winter. Or Barbados. He must write for some information.

When they drew up at the Old Stable Percy Mannering appeared out of the back garden and approached the car waving a magazine in the direction of the front door where Guy’s message was pinned up.

‘Away for a few days,’ shouted Percy.

‘I have just returned,’ said Guy. ‘Tony will give me a hand, and then we will go indoors for a drink. Meanwhile let us not alarm the lilies of the field.’

‘Away for a few days,’ shouted Percy, ‘my foot.’

Tony trotted round the car and took Guy by the arms. ‘I’ve been waiting,’ shouted Percy, ‘for you. Guy, as he was helped to his feet, was trying to recall what exactly he had written about Ernest Dowson in the latest published instalment of his memoirs which so enraged Percy. Guy was not a moment inside the door before he found out, for Percy then started to inform him.

‘You quote from the poem about Cynara, ‘“I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.”

‘You then comment, “Yes, that was always Dowson’s way, even to the point of dying in the arms of another man’s wife — his best friend!” — That’s what you wrote, is it not?’

‘It must be,’ said Guy, sinking into his chair, ‘if you say so.’

‘And yet you know as well as I do,’ shouted Percy, ‘that Sherard rescued Dowson from a pub and took him home to be nursed and fed. And Dowson did indeed die in Mrs Sherard’s arms, you utter snake; she was sustaining and comforting him in a sudden last spasm of his consumption. You know that as well as I do. And yet you write as if Dowson and she —’

‘I am but a hardened old critic,’ said Guy.

Percy banged his fist on the table. ‘Critic — You’re an unutterable rat.’

‘A hardened old journalist,’ said Guy.

‘A steaming scorpion. Where is your charity?’

‘I know nothing of charity,’ said Guy. ‘I have never heard of the steaming properties of the scorpion. I never cared for Dowson’s verse.’

‘You’re a blackguard — you’ve slandered his person. This has nothing to do with verse.’

‘What I wrote is the sort of thing, in my opinion, that might have happened,’ said Guy. ‘It is as near enough my meaning.’

‘A cheap jibe,’ yelled Percy. ‘Anything for a cheap joke, you’d say anything —’

‘It was quite cheap, I admit,’ said Guy. ‘I am underpaid for these essays of mine.’

Percy grabbed one of Guy’s sticks which were propped beside his chair. Guy grabbed the other stick and, calling out for Tony, looked up with his schoolboy face obliquely at Percy.

‘You will write a retraction,’ said Percy Mannering with his wolf-like look, ‘or I’ll knock your mean little brains out.’

Guy aimed weakly with his stick at Percy’s stick, and almost succeeded in knocking it out of the old man’s quivering hand. Percy adjusted his stick, got it in both hands and with it knocked Guy’s stick to the floor, just as Tony came in with a tray and a rattle of glasses.

‘Jesus, Mary,’ said Tony and put down the tray.

‘Tony, will you kindly recover my walking stick from Mr Mannering.’

Percy Mannering stood fiercely displaying his two greenish teeth and gripping the stick ready to strike, it seemed, anyone.

Tony slithered cautiously round the room until Guy’s desk was between him and Percy. He lowered his head, rolled up his eyes, and glared at them from beneath his sandy eyebrows like a bull about to charge, except that he did not really look like a bull. ‘Take care what ye do,’ he said to them both.

Percy removed one of his hands from the shaking stick and took up the offensive journal. He fluttered this at Tony.

‘Your master,’ he declared, ‘has uttered a damnable lie about a dead friend of mine.’

“Tis within the realm of possibility,’ said Tony, clutching the edge of the desk.

‘If you will lay a piece of writing paper on the desk, Tony,’ said Guy, ‘Mr Mannering wishes to write a letter of protest to the editor of the magazine which he holds in his hand.’

The poet grinned wildly. The telephone, which was on a side table beside Guy’s chair, mercifully rang out.

‘Come and answer the phone,’ said Guy to Tony.

But Tony was looking at Percy Mannering who still clung to the stick.

The telephone rang on.

‘If ye will lift the instrument I’ll lay out the paper as requested,’ said Tony, ‘for a man can do but one thing at a time.’ He opened a drawer and extracted a sheet of paper.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Guy was saying. ‘Well, now, sonny, I’m busy at the moment. I have a poet friend here with me and we are just about to have a drink.’