'Do you think we ought to be
The entrance was through a wide semi-conservatory, with stone flags and odd, quasi-armorial grills at the window, like a rather grand bank. Through this one came into a cumbrous entrance hall. Thick, square Victorian columns stood everywhere, but the decision in the rebuilding not to raise the original ceiling height of the old house gave it the look of some central German under-vault, making one feel like a caryatid. The de Marney crest in loud colours was on every wall and an ornate family tree, framed in gilt, hung over the gas-log fire. Lady Uckfield stared at it. 'They've got the wrong branch,' she said happily.
An immensely important head waiter came towards us and mistaking Bob Watson's nervous enquiry about the reservation for the general tone of the party he attempted a very superior air as he ushered us into what he referred to as the 'withdrawing room'. He was soon disabused.
'What a horrid colour!' said Lady Uckfield, ignoring the chair he was indicating and plumping down onto a sofa instead.
'Too sad, as this was really the only room that was nice at all. It was the music room in the old days although they were tone deaf to a man!' She laughed pleasantly, as the crushed waiter tried to salvage his position by fawning over her for her choice of 'aperitif.
'I think Lady Uckfield would like some champagne,' said Bob loudly, and one or two lacquered heads in the corners of the room looked round. He, in his turn, wanted to get some mileage out of bringing such a distinguished group to this, as he imagined, smart venue and I can't say I blamed him. Heaven knows he was going to pay dearly for it. His tone further flattened the attendant who was sufficiently familiar with the area to realise by now the extent of his initial
'Haven't you got any of the ninety-two?'
The waiter shook his head with murmured apologies. Just as Bob's timorousness had at first made us all worthless so far as he was concerned, now Lady Uckfield's presence made us all fine folk indeed.
Eric glowed at his deference. 'Then you shouldn't say it's ninety-two, should you?' He dropped the bottle back into its holder and sat back as the waiter poured.
Across the group Edith caught my eyes and rolled hers.
Bob was fumbling. He knew he faced a bill of something in the region of seven or eight hundred pounds and already the mixture of suppressed giggles and secret smiles was telling him that, mysteriously, his treat was making him not eminent but ridiculous. This was doubly irritating to him as his wife had tried to talk him out of it and had suggested, instead, asking the Broughtons and the Uckfields to dinner at the Ivy in London (which would, of course, have been perfectly acceptable to them).
Charles came to his aid. 'This is delicious,' he said firmly, sipping his wine and looking towards the rest of us.
'Absolutely lovely,' said Adela, and I nodded away.
Actually, it was quite nice but too cold. However, Simon, on this dangerous evening, had clearly decided to go for broke.
Once and for all he was determined to shake off the concept that he was in any sense overawed by the present company.
'Would it be a great bore if I have a whisky?' he said.
'Good idea,' said Eric. 'Me, too.'
The careful cruelty of this was that Bob had already ordered three bottles opened, which the rest of us could not now possibly finish. He was foundering. His wine had been rejected, he had been insulted and yet somehow he had to go on as if everything was going swimmingly. 'Of course!' he smiled broadly. 'What about you, Edith?'
Edith sank back into the over-stuffed, chintz-covered chair and stared her pellucid stare. I could see her gaze trailing over Charles, who was giving her an admonishing look, imploring her to behave. Poor man. These were his wife's friends and yet it was he who was having to work to save the evening. Behind him, Simon stood beaming at her. 'I wouldn't mind some vodka,'
she said. Simon half winked, and they both caught in their smiles before they spilled over into impropriety.
'Fine,' said Bob in a lacklustre voice. He looked around for more trouble but Caroline, with a deliberate gesture, reached across Eric to help herself to a large glass of champagne. The battle-lines were forming.
The food was predictably pretentious, with bonfires going at practically every table. Inadequate portions arranged like cocktail hats followed each other in blank, tasteless succession, fussed over by suspiciously French waiters. The maitre d'
would not, by this time, leave us alone and kept dashing up for a review of the current course until Simon finally suggested he might like to take a seat to save himself the bother. Of course we all laughed and of course he was never seen again. In truth the dinner itself was the least awful part of the evening because of Simon. He certainly was on very funny form that night. He could match Annette's stories without challenging her and the pair of them did keep things going. Even Lady Uckfield gave in to the prevailing mood and chuckled away as she toyed with her unsatisfactory and costly dishes.
Charles, on the other hand, was more or less in hell the entire time. He was not quick enough to get the point of most of the anecdotes, let alone tell his own. These were not his kind of people and unusually for him (for he seldom risked the possibility) he was outnumbered. Unlike his father he was not a flirt, unlike his mother he had very little sense of humour.
Caroline tried to rescue him once or twice but she was in a dark mood of her own and in the end it was Adela who got him onto the business of improving the shoot at Feltham. He had apparently only restarted it three years before after a long gap and the topic released some of the pent-up flow within him, but even this had a limited success for when Simon was telling a story about some production he'd been in where the stage manager had filled the bath with boiling instead of cold water, he paused for the punch line and into the silence came Charles's voice:
