‘Any news of him since they all arrived in Scotland?’
‘Silence de glace. But as a matter of fact I have never received a letter from Sigismond in my life – I wouldn’t know his writing on an envelope if I saw it. I pity the women who fall in love with him. When he first went to Eton I gave him those printed postcards: I am well, I am not well – you know, rayer la mention inutile. Of course he never put one in the box. Steamed off the stamps, no doubt. Afterwards he said the only thing he wanted to tell me was that his fag-master had stolen £5 from him and he couldn’t find that on the list. They went back yesterday, didn’t they?’
‘Day before, I think.’
‘I rang up my father in London this morning – thick fog over there, needless to say – look at the glorious sun here, it’s always the same story – yes, so I begged him to go down and see them. No good worrying, is it? Charles-Edouard doesn’t in the least. He says if Sigi is ill they’ll have to let one know and when he’s expelled he’ll come home. He’ll be obliged to, if only to worm some money out of us.’
‘I suppose so, at that age. Later on they don’t seem to need money and then they vanish completely.’ I was thinking of Basil.
‘What d’you hear of the crisis?’ said Grace.
‘Can you explain why the government fell at all? It seems so infinitely mysterious to me. War widows or something?’
‘They were already bled to death on foreign affairs. The pensions for remarried war widows only finished them off. It’s always the same here, they never actually fall on a big issue – school meals, subsidies for beetroot, private distilling, things of that sort bring them down. It’s more popular with the electorate (they like to feel the minorities are being looked after) and then the deputies don’t absolutely commit themselves to any major policy. C’est plus prudent.’
‘Does your husband like being in the Chambre?’
‘He gets dreadfully irritated. You see he’s a Gaullist; he can’t bear to think of all these precious years being wasted while the General is at Colombey.’
‘Nobody seems to think he’ll come back.’
‘Charles-Edouard does, but nobody else. I don’t think so, though I wouldn’t say it, except to you. Meanwhile all these wretched men are doing their best, one supposes. M. Queuille has failed – did you know? – it was on the luncheon-time news. Charles-Edouard thinks the President will send for M. Bouche-Bontemps now.’
The telephone bell rang and Katie Freeman said, rather flustered, ‘I’ve got M. Bouche-Bontemps on the line.’
‘But the Ambassador is in the Chancery.’
‘Yes, I know that. It’s Northey he wants and I can’t find her – she’s not in her office and not in her room. He’s getting very impatient – he’s speaking from the Élysée.’
‘Let me think – oh I know, I believe she’s trying on something in my dressing-room.’ She had borrowed two months’ wages from me, bought a lot of stuff and had turned my maid, Claire, into her private dressmaker. ‘Just a moment,’ I said to Grace, ‘it’s M. Bouche-Bontemps.’ I went to look and sure enough, there was Northey being pinned into a large green velvet skirt. ‘Come quickly, you’re wanted on the telephone.’
She gathered up the skirt and ran into the Salon Vert. ‘Hullo, oh, B.B.?’ she said. ‘Yes, I was working – not in my office – my work takes many different forms. That would be lovely. Ten o’clock would be best – I’m dining with Phyllis McFee but then I’ll say I must go to bed early. Ten, and you’ll pick me up? Oh, poor you, you must really? Never mind, soon be over.’ She rang off.
Grace looked very surprised at this conversation.
‘B.B. has to see the President now, which is a bore he says. But when that’s over he’ll take me to Marilyn Monroe.’
‘That means he’s going to refuse,’ said Grace. ‘The crisis will go on and the English will bag the Îles Minquiers, you mark my words. It’s intolerable.’ She said to Northey, ‘You must come and dine one evening and we’ll go dancing. I’ll arrange something as soon as the household is a bit organized.’
‘The utter kindness of you,’ said Northey and trotted back to Claire.
‘What a darling!’
‘Oh, isn’t she! You can’t imagine how much I love her – so does Alfred.’
‘And Bouche-Bontemps, it seems.’
‘He’s very kind to her. Don’t look like that, Grace, he’s a grandfather.’
‘Mm,’ said Grace.
‘And she’s as good as gold.’
‘All right, I believe you.’
‘Yes, you must. I sometimes think I would swap all my naughty boys for one daughter like Northey.’
‘I’ve got three little girls, you know, but they are babies. The eldest is only six. I wonder – they are heavenly now, but people say girls can be so difficult.’
These words of Grace’s soon came true. Adorable as she was, Northey was by no means an easy proposition. She was now in love, for the first time (or so she said, but is it not always the first time and, for that matter, the last?) and complained about it with the squeaks and yelps of a thwarted puppy. Her lack of reticence astounded me. When dealing with the children, I always tried to think back to when my cousins and I were little; any of us would have died sooner than admit to unrequited love, even in a whisper to each other, in the Hons’ cupboard, while the grown-ups never had the smallest idea of what went on in our hearts. But with Northey there was no question of concealing the worm, the canker and the grief; she displayed them. The loved one himself was not spared.
‘Oh, Philip, I worship you.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Shall I chuck B.B. and dine with you instead?’
‘No, thank you. I’m
