Orlando king, p.31
Orlando King, page 31
‘Then of course you must come and see us.’
As Orlando began to give detailed directions as to how to find Lecceto, he noticed that Caroline, who had been kneeling on the floor quietly picking up the torn pieces of paper and putting them tidily on a table, was now looking anxiously in the direction of Henry. Turning, Orlando saw him moving towards the chemin-de-fer game.
Caroline came and sat on the arm of his chair.
‘You’re worried?’ he asked her.
‘I wish he wouldn’t do it, it’s so silly. He’s in such trouble already.’
‘Through gambling?’
‘Didn’t his father tell you? He’s terribly angry with him. He’s paid his debts twice, and he’s refused ever to do it again. I know he means it. It’s partly his own fault, you know. He won’t trust Henry with money, he never has. He gives him the tiniest possible allowance, and it’s so unfair because people think he must be rich because he’s Conrad’s son. And then he’s absurdly generous. He’s always in terrible money trouble, and now his father says he’s going to stop his allowance altogether because he’s left Oxford and ought to be getting a proper job, and it’s so silly when lots of people with fathers like that have had everything made over to them already, to avoid death duties. It’s terribly hard on Henry, it really is.’
‘Has he ever had a job?’
‘Oh lots, but not the sort Conrad counts. He’s working for Brian now – that man over there in the white dinner-jacket – they do up vintage cars and sell them. I suppose it isn’t really a full-time job, but he works terribly hard sometimes.’
Orlando moved slightly in his chair, so that he could see Henry, who was now standing by the table watching the game. At that moment he looked up and saw Orlando and Caroline watching him. Immediately he moved to an empty chair at the table, sat down and without any change of expression called out, ‘Banco.’
‘He knew we were talking about him,’ said Caroline.
‘Wouldn’t he like that?’
She shook her head, wrinkling her nose in irritation.
‘He’d think he was being impinged on.’
She turned her back to the gambling table and reached out for her glass of champagne, but as she did so she caught sight of a middle-aged man of decidedly sinister appearance who was approaching their corner of the room, and to Orlando’s surprise put down her glass, jumped to her feet and ran to kiss him on both cheeks.
‘Charlie!’
The others looked up and greeted him, if not with quite as much enthusiasm as Caroline had shown, certainly with friendliness. He was a stocky, heavily built man with sticking out ears who looked like a burglar.
‘This is Charlie Edwards,’ said Caroline. ‘He’s a burglar.’
‘How do you do?’ said Orlando.
‘Who did the Antibes job, Charlie?’ asked the man in the white dinner-jacket whom Caroline had called Brian.
‘French mob,’ said Charlie, sitting down and accepting a glass of champagne. ‘Had some English friends of mine working for them – they’re the only ones they can trust to do an honest job – but it was a French-organized show. How’s the game going then? Our Henry’s sticking to it, I see.’
‘Waiting for you, Charlie,’ said Brian. ‘How are you feeling tonight?’
Charlie, who was wearing a dinner-jacket with very broad shoulders shot his cuffs, straightened his bow-tie and crossed himself. ‘Not bad,’ he said weightily. ‘Not too bad.’ He drained his glass, stood up and moved towards the table. Brian and one or two others of the group followed him. The man with the big nose was talking about Existentialism.
‘Isn’t he sweet?’ said Caroline, smiling affectionately after Charlie Edwards’ broad back. His ears seemed particularly protuberant from behind.
‘Quite only, I thought,’ said Orlando.
‘Oh you don’t understand, he’s terribly kind and generous and his stories are marvellous. He’s retired now really, except for a few special jobs. He’s going to start an antique shop and write his memoirs.’
He had certainly moved in on the game in a thoroughly businesslike manner.
In a few moments Henry left the table and came back to sit beside Orlando and Caroline.
‘Isn’t it super to see Charlie?’ said Caroline.
‘He’s in good form,’ said Henry. ‘I said we’d all have dinner together on Wednesday.’
‘Aren’t you playing any more?’ asked Orlando, who had been surprised after what Caroline had said to see Henry leave the table so soon.
‘I don’t play with Charlie,’ said Henry pleasantly. ‘What’s become of Paul, I wonder?’
‘I think he’s in the other room.’ Orlando was rather impressed by what struck him as a certain grandeur in Henry’s attitude. He was also reminded that perhaps it was time to find Paul and go home. He stood up, but was prevented from explaining his purpose to Henry by the arrival of the fat young man from the gambling table, who was now paler than ever with the effort of controlling what appeared to be extreme rage.
‘Which of you lot asked that man here?’ he said, coming uncomfortably close to Orlando and Henry. ‘I know perfectly well it was one of you.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Henry coldly.
‘It was either you or Brian, I know it was. I suppose you think it’s funny. You know perfectly well . . .’ He was interrupted by Daintry, who put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Marvellous party. I’m afraid I’m pocketing my winnings and going on my way, it’s long past my bedtime.’ He shook Orlando warmly by the hand. ‘We’ll be in touch. Super that you came along.’
‘You see what I mean?’ muttered the fat young man furiously to Henry, and indeed almost immediately afterwards the rich peer whom Orlando had recognized rose to his feet and a minute or two later left the room.
‘You’ll all have to go,’ said the fat young man. Orlando had not until that moment realized that he was in fact their host. ‘I won’t have my party broken up like this. You all seem to think you can do anything you like. Half of you weren’t asked. Go on, get out, the lot of you . . .’
A startling burst of sound interrupted him.
‘Put another penny in,
In the nickleodeon.
All I want is loving you
And music, music, music
Flushed, Caroline rose from behind a chair, where she had succeeded in plugging in a gramophone and saving the situation. For although the change of atmosphere was not immediate, and the host merely raised his voice in order to go on berating Henry – who shrugged his shoulders with a smile and indicated that he was unable to hear, though one or two people standing near were evidently not suffering from the same disadvantage and were seen by the host to be exchanging amused glances at his expense – nevertheless within a quarter of an hour or so some furniture had been moved, several people were dancing, and the party had changed its tone.
The host, out of control of events, swallowed the contents of the nearest glass and turned back towards the gamblers, several of whom were carrying on without paying any attention to the increasing noise in the other part of the room. Orlando followed him towards the gambling table, with the idea of passing it and going on into the other room to look for Paul.
He paused for a moment, looking down at the green baize cloth, and as he looked up again he saw opposite him the man whose face had seemed familiar when he had seen it earlier, but this time he was close enough to recognize that the pink cheeks, grown pinker and plumper since he had last seen them, and the fair moustache, a little faded now, belonged to Robin Barwick, his late wife’s military lover and the putative father of Imogen. Almost immediately he was aware of Imogen’s face, misty with distance and wearing an expression of exaggerated alarm, swimming in the air behind Robin Barwick: and the two faces, gazing towards him with differing degrees of the same wondering alarm, were without any doubt alike.
So now it was hallucinations. His ever-present wariness about his health made Orlando put Imogen’s manifestation down to that, and since he did not particularly want to talk to Robin Barwick he turned quickly away from the table, and to avoid the latter’s gaze moved round until he was behind him. It was too late. Robin Barwick had risen to his feet with some kind of explanation and now put a hand on Orlando’s arm. At the same time a stir in the corner of the room closest to him drew Orlando’s attention. A figure was moving quickly away from him, pushing people aside rudely. He could not make out whether or not it was Imogen, but with a quick readjustment of his suppositions the possibility did occur to him.
‘Is that a girl over there?’ he asked Robin Barwick. ‘Just behind those two there. Can you see?’
‘Blonde girl, young-looking, you mean, in blue?’ said Robin Barwick.
‘Yes, that’s her. Forgive me, I must just . . .’ He left Robin Barwick baffled and vaguely gesturing, and pushing past a couple seized a girl by the arm – the wrong girl, but so unlike Imogen that she could never have been mistaken for her. His problem was unsolved. He pushed on and suddenly found that he had cornered her. Her back was to the wall, her eyes expressed the most urgent guilt and fear, and she was undoubtedly Imogen. She waited in silence, while he came close enough to convince himself.
Having by now got over his first surprise at the idea that she should be there, his strongest feeling was one of relief that Robin Barwick had obviously never seen her before.
‘Why are you looking so frightened?’ he asked her.
The question surprised her.
‘Well, I – I’m not meant to be here.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I mean, I thought you’d be angry.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I came by myself.’
‘That’s not true, sir. I brought her here, sir.’
Orlando peered at the youth who was standing beside Imogen, and who he had not realized was associated with her. He was slightly smaller than Imogen, had dark hair cut very short, a poor complexion and small brown eyes with which he stared unflinchingly at Orlando during the latter’s examination. He was wearing the virtuous expression of a schoolboy owning up to a misdeed, and seemed to be standing to attention. Orlando took an instant dislike to him.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jamie Henderson, sir, I’m a Grenadier.’
‘How perfectly ridiculous,’ said Orlando, since this was indeed how the information struck him. ‘Come along, my dear, we’ll go and get a drink.’ He took Imogen by the arm and began to lead her away. The young man followed him.
‘Look here, sir, I don’t think you ought to blame Imogen. I’d like to take full responsibility.’
‘Yes, yes, never mind,’ said Orlando irritably.
‘Jamie, I think actually it’ll probably be all right,’ said Imogen breathlessly over her shoulder.
‘I don’t want you to get into hot water. I’d like to explain.’
‘Tell him to go away,’ said Orlando.
‘Go away, Jamie,’ said Imogen obediently.
‘That’s better,’ said Orlando.
Imogen giggled. ‘I hope he’ll come back though. He’s got to drive me back to school.’
‘They don’t know you’re here presumably?’
‘Oh no.’ She was shocked at the thought.
‘Do you do this often?’
‘Oh no,’ she said again, less spontaneously.
‘You know it’s appallingly late. What time do you have to get up in the morning?’
‘I expect I’ll manage,’ she said.
‘You can have half an hour and then I’ll take you back to school.’
She looked at him, and he saw her wondering whether to question his decision, on the grounds, he felt fairly certain, of his own incapacity to drive rather than of any desire on her part to be alone with Jamie Henderson, but the fact of half an hour at a party won over all other considerations and she said, ‘Thank you’ enthusiastically, drank some of the champagne which he had given her and which immediately turned her cheeks a good deal pinker, looked round with excited interest and then said through her nose, ‘It looks a terribly boring party actually.’
‘Why do you say that?’ he asked mildly.
‘The same old people. . . ‘ she said in the same voice.
He looked at her. For a moment he thought she might smile and acknowledge her artifice, but instead she scuffed in her handbag, produced a packet of cigarettes and offered him one.
‘No thanks.’ He tried to remember the legal age for smoking, but failed. I don’t know her well enough, he thought; next time she will smile. ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you back here in half an hour.’
He turned away himself, meaning to make sure that he was as far away as possible from Robin Barwick, and found himself standing beside the art historian whom he had invited to Lecceto and who was now talking to the Existentialist with the big head.
‘I’m glad I ran into you because I’m afraid I didn’t hear your name.’
‘Raymond Phipps. This is Joe Hertz. Did you really mean that about coming to see you? Joe’s going to be with me as well.’
‘Of course.’
It was late, he’d had a lot to drink; besides, he liked them. Somehow in the half-hour he had given Imogen he asked most of them to come to Lecceto in the summer. He had a feeling by the end of it that he had at least managed to exclude Brian in the white dinner-jacket, but he was not even sure of that.
Turning back to look out for Imogen, he was confronted by a frowning Henry.
‘You shouldn’t have asked all those people to Italy. They’re the most terrible bunch of spongers and layabouts.’
‘I’m relying on you and Caroline being there to keep them in order.’
The frown became less ferocious. ‘I suppose I could weed them out a bit for you. I mean, I could tell some of them you’d made a mistake, couldn’t I?’
‘If you like. You organize it. So long as you come yourself.’
‘Will Agatha still be there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. She gets on awfully well with Caroline. She’s quite – what I mean is – she’s not like anyone else, Agatha. I’m very fond of her. I’ve always been very fond of her.’
Henry was still frowning and Orlando wondered whether it might not be as a result of the concentration needed to keep upright. It seemed to him that Henry was probably, though quite unostentatiously, very drunk indeed.
‘I’m just beginning to get to know her,’ said Orlando.
‘That must be marvellous for you. She frightens me. I’ve always been frightened of Agatha although I admire her enormously – well, also I know her weaknesses, I mean I know her awfully well in a way, though perhaps I don’t really, I mean one’s helpless, isn’t one, when people are attractive – she’s really beautiful now, Agatha – one can’t be detached about girls exactly, can one? But I have this feeling about her that one day she’s going to get me. No, not like that, I mean, though she does quite like me but she disapproves of me, but what I mean is I think she’ll probably kill me one day.’
‘Kill you?’ asked Orlando, surprised.
‘Yes. With a gun or something. She’s quite violent, you know. I have this feeling that one day she’ll point a gun at me and pow! – through the heart – blood everywhere.’ He gesticulated wildly to indicate the blood gushing from his heart. ‘I’ll have deserved it, of course, no doubt about that.’
He seemed to be quite serious, and indeed was gazing at Orlando with rather alarming intensity, so that it was a relief when Caroline appeared beside him, put her arm through his and said, ‘Paul seems to be in rather a state.’
‘Pow! Zam! Wheeee-uck!’ Henry pulled his arm free and with a succession of horrifying sounds went through a pantomime of having been shot by Caroline, which ended with his collapsing on the floor with a ghastly death-rattle. He then rolled on to his back with his arms and legs outstretched as if in crucifixion and began to laugh wildly.
‘Do get up, Henry,’ said Caroline.
He jumped to his feet with startling speed, put his arm round her shoulders, leaning on her fairly heavily, and asked her to dance.
Orlando, reminded once more that it was Paul who had brought him to the party, set off again to look for him. Passing near the dancers, he noticed that the lights had been turned out in that part of the room and that the couples had mostly merged into embraces of varying degrees of intimacy. Certain that one of the most entwined would be Imogen and the ghastly Henderson, he skirted past in embarrassment and continued his search. It was useless, because the room was now too dark for him to see who anyone was without putting his face very close to theirs, and the party was at a stage when such an approach was no longer acceptable. More than half the guests had left, and the ones who remained – save for those few who were more or less peacefully sleeping – were in a condition to resent close inspection. Orlando abandoned the search with relief and made his way back to the table beside which he had agreed to meet Imogen.
She was not there, but Paul was. He had turned a strangely translucent greenish white, and was leaning on the table at an awkward angle. He turned on Orlando a gaze which when it had focused itself appeared to be one of hostility.
‘I’m a homosexual,’ he said indistinctly.
‘I thought you’d given it up,’ said Orlando as if they were talking about golf.
‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Paul peevishly.
‘Have you seen Imogen anywhere?’ asked Orlando. ‘I’m supposed to be taking her back to school.’
‘I’m working for the Communists,’ said Paul, his gaze focused slightly to Orlando’s right.
‘I’ll make my own way back to the house after that, so don’t wait for me. Do you think I ought to have a key?’
‘You don’t believe me,’ said Paul, swaying towards Orlando.
Orlando put a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back against the table, in time to prevent all the glasses being swept to the floor.
‘Give me a key and I’ll see you in the morning,’ said Orlando. ‘I must find Imogen. Heaven knows where the school is. Miles from London, I believe.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything to you,’ Paul mumbled. ‘Trying to tell you something, doesn’t mean anything, nothing means anything.’ His voice was suddenly very loud but then sank again to a mumble. ‘Nothing anything. Rotten, rotten through and through.’
