The words of that Teddy boy came back to me. ‘Old Baz is a travel agent … he’s joined up with his Grandad.’ I became very thoughtful. What was I going to tell Alfred when I got home?
I said: ‘At least that sounds fairly respectable?’
‘Don’t you believe it. A chap in the House was telling me about these travel agents. Bandits, he said. Take people’s money and give them ten days of hell. Of course, going abroad in itself would be hell to me. Now how many would you say that makes, Fanny?’
‘What, Uncle Matthew?’
‘How many husbands has the Bolter had now?’
‘The papers said six –’
‘Yes, but that’s absurd. They left out the African ones – it’s eight or nine at least. Davey and I were trying to count up. Your father and his best man and the best man’s best friend, three. That takes us to Kenya and all the hot stuff there – the horsewhipping and the aeroplane and the Frenchman who won her in a lottery. Davey’s not sure she ever married him, but give her the benefit of the doubt: four. Rawl and Plugge five and six, Gewan seven, the young man who writes books on Greece – relatively young – old enough to be the father of this one – eight and the new boy nine. I can’t think of another, can you?’
At this point the telephone bell rang and my uncle picked up the receiver. ‘That you, Payne? Where are you now – East India Docks? I’d like the Evening Standard, please. Thank you, Payne.’ He rang off. ‘He can take you to the station, Fanny. I suppose you’re catching the 6.05? If you wouldn’t mind being a bit on the early side so that he can be back here in good time for the cocktail party.’
‘Cocktail party?’ I said. I was stunned. Uncle Matthew loathed parties, execrated strangers and never drank anything, not even a glass of wine with his meals.
‘It’s a new idea – don’t you have them at Oxford? You will soon, mark my words. I rather like them. You’re not obliged to talk to anybody and when you get home, it’s bedtime.’
Timidly, without much conviction, but feeling it my duty to do so, I now broached the subject which was the reason for my visit. I asked him if he would like to see Fabrice, Linda’s child whom Alfred and I had adopted. He was at school with our Charlie; they had been born on the same day and in the same nursing home; Linda had died; I had survived and left the home with two babies instead of one. Aunt Sadie went to Eton sometimes and took the boys out but Uncle Matthew had not set eyes on his grandson since he was a baby, during the war.
‘Oh, no, my dear Fanny, thank you very much,’ he muttered, embarrassed, when he understood what I was trying to say. ‘I don’t set great store by other people’s children, you know. Give him this and tell him to keep away, will you?’ A pocket book lay beside him – he took out a fiver. This unlucky idea of mine was a cold spoon in the soufflé; the conversation lapsed and I was thankful when Payne arrived with the Evening Standard.
‘Eighteen and six on the clock, m’lord.’
My uncle gave him a pound and two half-crowns. ‘Thank you, Payne.’
‘Thank you – much obliged, m’lord.’
‘Now, Payne, you’ll take Miss Fanny to Paddington – no scorching, I beg, we don’t want her in the ditch, we are all very fond of Miss Fanny. While you are there, would you go to Wyman’s, present my compliments to Mr Barker of the book-stall and see if he could oblige me with a ball of string? Come straight back, will you? – we are going to Lord Fortinbras in Groom Place. I am invited for six-thirty – it wouldn’t do to miss the beginning.’
When I arrived at Oxford I was startled to see Alfred waiting for me on the platform. He never came to meet me as a rule – I had not even said what train I would take. ‘Nothing wrong?’ I said. ‘The boys – ?’
‘The boys? Oh dearest, I’m sorry if I frightened you.’ He then told me that he had been appointed Ambassador to Paris.
2
It may be imagined that I got little sleep that night. My thoughts whizzed about, to begin with quite rational; more and more fantastic as the hours went on; finally between sleeping and waking, of a nightmare quality. In the first place, of course, I was happy to think that my dear Alfred’s merits should have been publicly recognized at last, that he should receive a dazzling prize (as it seemed to me) to reward him for being so good and clever. Surely he was wasted in a chair of Pastoral Theology, even though his lectures on the pastoral theme made a lasting impression on those who heard them. During the war he had filled a post of national importance; after that I had quite expected to see him take his place in the arena. But (whether from lack of ambition or lack of opportunity I never really knew) he had returned quietly to Oxford when his war-work came to an end and seemed fated to remain there for the rest of his days. For my part, I have already told1 how, as an eager young bride, I had found University life disappointing; I never reversed that opinion. I was used to being a don’s wife, I knew exactly what it involved and felt myself adequate; that was all. The years rolled by with nothing to distinguish them; generations of boys came and went; like the years I found that they resembled each other. As I got older I lost my taste for the company of adolescents. My own children were all away now: the two youngest at Eton; Basil
