The oxford fellow, p.5
The Oxford Fellow, page 5
The open door revealed two women. Two young women, the lead one Esmay Fortny, who was making her way in even as she said, ‘You must forgive me, Mr Denton, but I must talk to you again!’ She was in by that time. The other woman—younger, rather sullen, eyes elsewhere—came in behind her. ‘Will you speak with me, Mr Denton?’
‘Miss Fortny—of course—I didn’t expect you …’
‘The very reason I didn’t send a telegram ahead. I wanted to catch you off guard. Ifan said you were very unhelpful.’
‘Uhh … as I told you both …’
‘May we go up, Mr Denton? This is my sister, by the way. Rose. Rose, Mr Denton, the novelist.’
Rose raised her eyes for a fraction of a second and looked away again. If she had bothered to speak, he thought she would have told him she’d far rather have been somewhere else. He said, ‘Miss Fortny …’ meaning the younger one. Then, to the older one, ‘Yes, please go up—please.’
Esmay Fortny went up his stairs with her chin well up. Her sister followed, chin down. Denton came behind, finding himself in the uncomfortable position of looking at a young woman’s rear. It was the after end of the younger sister, little to be learned from it—pale green silk pulled in at the waist by a darker velvet cinch. Bustles now out; they had once provided some visual protection. She was the one who had been at school, was now in the world. To do what, other than live with her sister in Half Moon Street? He supposed she knew what her older sister’s visit was about. Of course, because the only reason she was there was to make the visit proper: two women could visit a man’s house but one couldn’t. Propriety, it seemed, hadn’t caught up with what three people could do.
‘As you can see, Mr Denton, I refuse to give up!’
He offered them chairs; they—Esmay, at any rate—preferred to stand. She said, ‘I shan’t stay. I’ve come to tell you that I will not take no for an answer. I want you to look for my father.’
‘I explained to Gurra—’
‘And you explained to me, yes, yes. You are simply being stubborn.’
It actually made Denton smile. ‘Miss Fortny, it’s you who are asking me to do something for you! “Stubborn” is a bit thick, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t see that you have anything better to do.’
‘How could you possibly know?’
She looked at her sister as if saying, You see what I told you about him? To Denton she said, ‘I’ll make a bargain with you, Mr Denton: if you will spend one week—one short week—looking into our father’s disappearance, and you can then honestly say that there is nothing—no little mystery, no loose end, no dangling thread, no unanswered question—then I will never trouble you again.’
Denton shook his head. He chuckled. He said, ‘Do sit down, please. Both of you.’ As they settled themselves (not entirely happily; he supposed there had been some agreement that they wouldn’t sit), he walked to the window and looked down into the street. A cab was waiting in front of his house; off to the left, there was activity at the Lamb. The repetition of what he’d seen from the same window the night before was unmistakable—the anomalous cab that had been parked there after Gurra had visited him. Something shimmered in his brain, died …
He felt a hand on his arm. He turned and found she was standing close to him, so close that their bodies almost touched. He hadn’t heard her coming. She was looking at him—and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Please,’ she whispered.
He looked down the room. The sister was sitting with her back to them. Esmay Fortny was so close he could smell her scent, feel her breast brush his coat. He could have kissed her, was what he was thinking; she was that close, seeming to offer herself.
She whispered again, ‘Please,’ and then, ‘My entire future happiness depends upon it.’
Her entire future happiness depends on her finding her father? Was that what she meant? It sounded extreme, perhaps perverse. Yet he found that he was moved; she suddenly was a different person, older, less selfish, deeply touching. She moved a little away and stood in profile, no longer in contact with him, her head bent so that her forehead actually touched the window as if she wanted the cooling effect of the glass. He said, ‘I didn’t understand that it meant so much to you.’ He found that he was whispering, too. He touched her arm. ‘Look, I said I think it’s hopeless, but …’
Her lips were trembling, her lower jaw actually quivering. She really was at the end of her tether, he thought; all of the flirtatiousness and the propriety and the wilfulness had been stripped off; what was left was naked feeling, an intensity of which he had thought she wasn’t capable. She was suddenly a passionate woman.
She seemed to make a great effort, and he thought she was going to speak; he was convinced that it would be to say something important, difficult, perhaps life-changing, a confession or a vow, but her sister’s voice, surprisingly deep, cut in to say, ‘It’s almost one o’clock, Esmay! We have an appointment.’
Esmay turned to face him. She looked frightened; still intense. Then the moment had gone; whatever she had been going to say was lost. Yet he had seen: he believed the depth of whatever feeling had been there—looking at her eyes, he wondered if in fact the feeling had been fear as much as a great longing.
She whispered that she had to go.
He said without thinking, ‘I can’t give you a week. But I can go to Oxford this weekend. You’ll have to allow me to go into the house.’
Before Esmay could answer, her sister said, ‘Mrs Dregs.’
Esmay gave a slight twitch, as if she had been woken, and said, ‘Oh—Mrs Lees. No, she’s not in the house. She’s she’s gone off … To Canterbury, to her daughter’s.’
Denton said, ‘Who is Mrs Lees?’ but was thinking, Dregs—Lees, there’s contempt for you. And he was wondering what secret Esmay Fortny would have spoken to him if she hadn’t been interrupted—and if the sister had interrupted so it would not be spoken at all.
Esmay said, her voice still shaky, ‘Mrs Lees was my mother’s nurse.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘I couldn’t get rid of her after my mother died. When we closed the house, she had to leave, you see.’
Denton looked at Rose Fortny, who hadn’t moved and had the same sullen look, just as if she hadn’t spoken. He said, ‘If I go to Oxford, I’ll need a list of all the servants who worked there when your father disappeared, and I’ll need two letters—no, three—one saying I have your permission to be in the house, one to the servants saying they should answer my questions, and one to the world in general saying that I’m investigating a matter for you and have your permission to ask any and all questions.’
She hesitated. They were still at the window; she hadn’t recovered. Still, she was able to say, more like her usual self, ‘I shouldn’t want you asking personal questions.’
Denton curled one side of his mouth. ‘Personal questions are the only kind that get useful answers, I’m afraid.’
‘The servants from that time have scattered. I’ve no idea where most of them are.’
‘The ones you can locate, then.’
She looked at her sister, who was examining the wall of books above the fireplace, bored as only adolescents can be bored. Esmay said, ‘I’ll need … an hour or two to make up the list and write the letters.’ She seemed not be thinking about what she was saying. ‘I’ll send them by a concessionaire …’ She was breathing through her mouth, almost panting. She frowned at him. ‘You’ll really go?’
‘If we have an agreement—the weekend, and then if there’s nothing, I’m done.’
‘It isn’t enough time—not enough time …’
She reached into her handbag and took out a ring of keys, handed it to him and, now following her younger sister, went down the stairs as if she were a toy being pulled along by a string. He came behind her and watched as they went to the cab and she seemed to fall back into it as if exhausted. He wished she had been able to say whatever it was. My entire future happiness was such a vague and trite expression. Nonetheless, it had worked on him.
‘Fred’s still off somewhere.’
It was after nine; Atkins had come up for a chat. ‘He nips over to the Lamb now and then.’
‘He was gone when I got back here this afternoon; he hasn’t been back since last night.’
‘Not too reliable, Fred.’ Atkins had gone for the decanter.
‘Not all there, you mean. But unless he’s gone completely non compos, he can’t have just wandered away.’ Denton snorted in frustration.
Atkins poured them both a small glass of port. Outside, it was dark, drizzling, the street lamps surrounded with balls of light like dandelion fluff. ‘He’ll come back.’
Denton scowled at the damp window. ‘I feel responsible for him.’
‘Oh, to the missus, right. Oh, crikey.’
‘Not sure I can go to the coppers about it. “My doorman has disappeared.” They’d tell me to hire another one and not to bother them.’
Atkins concentrated on his tea, then put his cup down. ‘Still, madam will be in a state if you’ve lost him.’
‘She doesn’t get into states, and Fred was on his own for three years without her help or mine. But you’re right, she’ll want to know what I’ve done about it.’ Denton made a face. ‘I’m spending part of the day with my son tomorrow, anyway—I can go by the police station on my way. Unless you want to do it.’
‘I’ve got a film business to run, Captain! I’m shooting the first flight of the three-winged Pennyapple heavier-than-air tomorrow! If it flies, which I doubt, but it’ll be good footage if it collapses into a heap. Low comedy. Unless he’s killed, which means a whole different set of titles. Want more port? You’re turning red as it is.’
Next morning, Denton walked to the E Division police station and reported a missing person to the desk sergeant. The response was tepid, but the sergeant took Fred’s name and description and told him that it was early days yet and he really ought to wait another twenty-four hours. Denton had expected nothing more.
He was dressed for lunch with his son, but it was still far too early to meet him at the Café Royal. He had steeled himself to it, tried to turn it into an ordinary engagement. Still, something in his gut seemed to be fluttering; every time he thought of the coming lunch with a son he hadn’t seen in sixteen years, he felt a pang and swoop as if an elevator had plunged down, taking him with it.
I need a drink. He hadn’t said that to himself since he’d made things permanent (well, permanent within her limits) with Janet. He got his coat and hat and walked, miles and miles, saw at last that it was after eleven. His thought was, I still need a drink.
Instead of going into the first pub, however, he walked along to the Café Royal—right up Regent Street, nothing easier. He waved off the maître d’ because he didn’t want a table yet; what he wanted was the bar, quick service. He recognised the signs, however, as dangerous. He veered off toward the tables.
He handed over hat, coat and umbrella and collapsed into a banquette. Almost at once, however, after a look around, he knew that he’d made a mistake in asking his son to lunch there. The Café Royal was a fine place to meet somebody like Frank Harris, a good place to take Janet, and it was a refuge when things were going badly, but it wasn’t a likely setting for a meeting with a grown-up child whose tastes were unknown.
Sitting under one of the caryatids to wait, seized again by doubts, Denton admitted that he couldn’t remember what his son looked like. Would his son remember him? He thought so: Denton wouldn’t have changed as much in sixteen years as his son must have, from youth to paterfamilias. He was some sort of businessman. A successful one.
It would be humiliating to have a complete stranger say, ‘I guess you’ve forgotten me. I’m your son.’
When he actually saw Jonas, however, he recognised him at once and would have known him anyway by his clothes and his air, very American, both suspicious and aggressive, as if he were challenging the Domino Room to tell him that he didn’t belong there. Jonas Denton was removing a soft felt hat and looking around with the half-smile of a well-off traveller getting his first look at an Arab souk. Denton knew that Jonas was thirty-seven, saw that he looked ten years older, probably deliberately—a belly, mutton-chops and a look of getting what he wanted. Now he waved off one of the waiters, advanced into the room with the same relentless half-smile, passed Denton by as he looked for his father elsewhere, and frowned at something noisy that was going on up by the Glasshouse Street entrance.
Denton signalled one of the waiters. ‘The man carrying his hat and coat is my guest. Could you bring him over?’
‘Piacere, signore.’ But the waiter went to the maître d, who only slowly went to Denton’s son, touched his arm, and indicated Denton, who had stood. Shock flitted across his son’s face, followed at once by delight, the first real, the second perhaps not.
‘Father?’
‘Jonas.’ Denton put out a hand, realised that he feared being embraced. They shook hands. His son said, ‘Well, well!’ in a tone that suggested that his next words would be How you’ve grown. His handshake was ‘manly’, the handshake of a nation that believed in muscular Christianity. ‘What a moment this is for me!’
Denton, too, said several things he didn’t mean, got them both seated. The waiter hovered with menus; Denton babbled about food. He realised that he had been, still was almost sick with apprehension. Would his son approve of him? No way to tell: Jonas Denton was practised at smoothing emotion from his face.
‘Well, Father! This is nice.’ Jonas looked up at a caryatid, away from a bearded man in a broad-brimmed hat who was talking about modernism. The man, Denton saw, was Augustus John. ‘This is really very nice.’ Jonas studied the menu. ‘I daren’t eat French food. My medical man warns against it. Too much acid. What do you recommend?’
‘The potpie is the house dish. They’re famous for it.’ His son was frowning. ‘It’s chicken. With hard-boiled eggs and things.’
‘I suppose I could eat that. Are you going to eat that?’
‘I ate it the last time I was here.’
‘Oh, you eat here every day?’ That seemed to penetrate Jonas’s smoothness.
‘Hardly.’ Denton laughed too hard and too long. He, too, stared at the menu. ‘You could have the cold salmon.’
‘Oh—salmon’s a bit fatty …’
‘You don’t like spaghetti, I suppose.’
‘I’ve never had it. But Italian food …’ Jonas gave one of his commercial smiles and closed the menu and said, ‘Oh, anything! I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
Denton had decided on the pâté, but he gave it up; it would have too much fat or acid or Frenchness for his guest. When the waiter came, he ordered two of ‘the luncheon’, which meant a plate of meat, potatoes, and some vegetable that could be ignored. He disliked ‘the luncheon’.
‘Well,’ Jonas said after the minute hesitation that meant neither knew what to say. He clapped his hands together as if he meant to smash an egg between them. ‘Here we are at last!’
‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Sixteen years, Father! I was just finishing at the Institute. We met in New York City to celebrate, do you remember?’ He needed no answer, got none. There was another silence, and Jonas said, ‘We ate down near the fish market. I’d never been there before …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You were getting ready to sail for England. And you’ve never come back.’
After some seconds, Denton said, ‘How is Aunt Agnes?’ Agnes was Denton’s sister, who had raised his two sons after his wife had died—most of their lives, in fact.
‘Oh, she’s a wonderful old lady now! James and I have put her in a lovely little retreat with several other ladies. She’s as happy as a clam.’
‘Do you go to see her?’
‘When I can. I’m in Lowell, now, you know, and she’s way down in Worcester. There’s a train, but luckily I do have business down there from time to time. You’d be astounded to see the States now, Father. Everything is up to date.’ He looked around him, frowned. After another silence he said, ‘Are you writing now, Father?’
‘Nothing at the moment.’
‘You had a very successful little book recently, I understand.’ He chuckled. ‘I fear it’s sometimes a strain, being the son of a famous father. I saw a man reading your little book on the ship, in fact. I was tempted to tell him of our relation, but I thought he might be English and think I was pushy.’ He leaned forward. ‘The English are very sensitive that way, I think.’
At last, neither could think of anything more to say, and Denton offered the one question that remained. ‘How’s business?’
The floodgates opened.
Their food came. Jonas said, ‘I never eat Brussels sprouts.’ Then, ‘Is this pork?’ Then, snapping his fingers at a waiter, ‘I believe I’ll need soda water.’
Denton said to himself, This will pass. This weekend, I’ll be with Janet. And had cause to say it several times more, even when he remembered that he’d promised to spend the weekend in Oxford.
He stayed with his son all afternoon and into the early evening, settling on a steam launch on the Thames to show him London from Westminster to the Tower. Afterwards, they walked a little, had tea—Jonas was a teetotaller, so afternoon drinks not on—and then moved along to St James’s so that Jonas could see the great men’s shops and the great men’s clubs.
‘You aren’t a member of a club, Father?’
Denton admitted he was not.
‘Bully for you. I don’t think exclusive things like clubs are right for we Americans. Although the Masons, of course, are quite important.’ He left a gap that Denton could have filled by saying that he was a Mason, but when he didn’t, Jonas went on to admire some custom-made boots in a window.
Eventually, it was over, having proved not half so bad as Denton had feared, having even been sometimes pleasant. He left Jonas at the Criterion’s ornate doors and walked along Regent Street, ignoring the temptations of the Café Royal, then by zigs and zags to Holborn, from which he turned into Lamb’s Conduit Street and walked to almost the north end of it. There was the Lamb; there next door was his own house. He let himself in—no Fred, of course—and went up the stairs to the first floor, where he used another key to open the door to the long room.
