The next day at Orly the lively face of Northey was in the crowd waiting for friends by the entrance. There was something about the mere sight of that child which made my spirits rise, as that of my own boys, alas, no longer did. She had hopped into the Rolls-Royce when she saw it leaving the Embassy. ‘Anything to down tools for an hour or two,’ she said, frankly, adding, ‘hot news!’
‘Don’t, Northey!’
‘Good news I mean – Coffirep has had children. Oh dear, I’m so over-excited – !’
‘Dearest – is that the badger?’
‘Fanny, do sharpen your wits and concentrate on my life. Coffirep is my shares – so I’m rich, my old age will be nice, oh do be pleased!’
‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am, specially about it not being the badger.’
‘As if he could all alone, poor duck. In the spring I’ll get him a sweet little wife – I’m sure he’s made a breeding chamber down there, we don’t want him to feel disappointed. Oh, I was dying to tell somebody. Alfred didn’t properly listen (he’s in a do about the boys); Philip only said he wished he knew if there really is any marketable oil in the Sahara; the holies don’t care about money, or so they say. (I note they always make me pay the cab if we go in one.) And Charles-Edouard is shooting, which he calls hunting, in Champagne. It’s very dull having nobody to take an interest – thank goodness you are back.’
Not another word about the boys; she was either being tactful or was too much occupied with her own affairs – the latter I suspected. She babbled on until we got home. When we drove into the courtyard I saw a group of people, who were obviously not followers, waiting by Northey’s entrance.
‘Mr Ward,’ she explained, ‘has very kindly allowed me to put up a notice in W. H. Smith offering my kittens to good homes. It gives me a lot of extra work, taking up references and so on; they have to be rather special people as you may imagine. They must promise not to – you know – castrate; they must live on the ground floor with a garden (I go myself and see), and above all they must not be related to any scientist, chemist or furrier. The kits aren’t ready to leave me and Katie yet; this is only for when they are.’
Of course Mockbar duly informed the world that Envoy’s Sons had left Eton because the headmaster had threatened to thrash them and were now employed by the London firm of such-and-such in their packing department. Mockbar hardly annoyed me any more nor even extracted a wry laugh; I was getting used to his style and the observations which punctuated all our doings. His paragraphs no longer made me tremble for Alfred’s career. Six million people read them, so one was told, and evidently regarded them as enjoyable fiction. He was too often obliged, by the solicitors of some victim, to withdraw a statement for the public to place much reliance in his word.
A few days later Charles-Edouard left hurriedly for London. To my secret rage and disgust he returned that same evening with Master Sigismond in tow. Grace informed me of this, adding, ‘He cracked the whip, darling. Thank God I married a Frenchman. Whatever you may say, they do have some authority in the family!’
‘The thing is, Alfred can’t go over just now; I don’t feel I ought to worry him by suggesting that he should. He’s having a difficult time, he’s busy.’
‘He must be. The English! Words can’t express what I feel! They are being quite simply too awful. I’m sure Sir Alfred can’t approve. Having that Niam on an official visit! Fanny, it’s the limit. He has eaten simply hundreds of Frenchmen and now he’s got a loan from Stalin – yes, I know, but they’re all Stalin to me, I can’t keep learning their new names – so that he can catch and eat hundreds more.’
‘Nonsense, Grace. In a profile of Dr Niam I read somewhere, they said he is a vegetarian and very pro-French at heart.’
‘At stomach they mean. Oh good, I’ve made a joke, I must tell Charles-Edouard. I’ve been too pregnant, lately.’
‘They say he’s firmly attached to the Western World and has a great sense of humour.’
‘Oh, do shut up. Are the English our allies or are they not?’
How I wished I knew what whip, cracked by his father, had brought Sigismond to heel. Cracking whips seemed to be something of which neither Alfred nor I was capable. When our boys refused to listen to reason we were done for. It was beginning to be borne in on me that as parents we were a resounding failure. While all three boys had been in full revolt I could just bear it; now that Sigi had returned to parental authority, the evil conduct of our two was stressed. Surely we, too, ought to be able to find some way of mastering them?
‘Hot news!’ said Northey. ‘Guess why Sigi is here?’
‘I thought M. de Valhubert went over and cracked a whip?’
‘Yes, well, if you really want to know, he went over because Sigi was in bad with the police. He was caught nicking shavers.’
‘Doing what, dearest?’
‘They were packing shavers – you knew that, didn’t you? And were getting £9 a week, which, incidentally, makes skilled secretarial work in embassies seem rather underpaid but let that pass. Clever Sigi discovered that if you nick a few every day (no, Fanny, don’t keep asking what things mean, sharpen your wits and listen) you can bump up the screw to quite a pound more. But as he’s not used to stealing, so far, he was caught and there was a fearful rumpus. Charles-Edouard had to go and buy him
