WE WERE IN A MARQUEE out on the lawn at the back of the school, by the tennis courts. Where this morning the boys had been fed gruel they were now fortified with sticky buns, cucumber sandwiches and lemonade, while their parents were treated to tea, coffee, fino and oloroso. The older boys circulated with the sherry, their circulation becoming steadily more uncertain as the afternoon wore on. I rather suspected that they might be helping themselves when out of sight. Morley found himself, as always, in a throng, with parents and boys asking him to autograph books and pamphlets, and quizzing him about his various writing and campaigning activities, and his opinions on various matters of great public import. What did he think of the National Government? What about the abdication? What about Spain? Mr Hitler? The state of the novel? The state of the nation? And what was his advice on removing stains from rugs and carpets? The usual tiresome sort of questions, which, to his credit, he never tired of answering.
A father – a big bluff, heavy-handed sort of chap, with the look of a West Country cattle-dealer – shuffled forward with his son, who might as well have been the cattle. Big-boned and slow, with decidedly bovine features, the boy stood sullen by his father’s side, as though awaiting the butcher’s blow.
‘Mr Morley,’ said the father, tipping his hat.
‘Sir,’ said Morley, respectfully adjusting his bow tie.
‘I wonder if you might have some advice for our budding young writer here?’
‘Budding young writer, eh?’
‘Well,’ said the budding young bovine writer, blushing.
‘What is it you would like to write?’
‘Erm.’
‘Tell him,’ said his father, nudging him sharply.
‘I would like to write poetry.’
‘Ah, poetry,’ said Morley. ‘The spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, eh?’
The boy’s father looked rather uncomfortable. ‘So any advice, Mr Morley, on how he could break into the business?’
‘My advice, sir,’ said Morley, addressing the boy but not the father, ‘would be not to attempt to break into the poetry “business”. For in literature there is no “business”. If you want to write, write. And if not, don’t. That’s all.’
‘That’s all?’ said the father, clearly disappointed.
‘If he must, he shall,’ said Morley. ‘And if he can, he will.’
‘That’s it?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. I wish there were more to it.’
Having delivered this devastating insight Morley then returned to signing books, swiftly, with his quick and much practised flourish, insisting on talking to each person at great length about their life, opinions, hobbies and interests, often far beyond the point at which they had lost interest in talking about it themselves. During our time together I gradually learned how to extricate him from such encounters: ‘Now, now, Mr Morley, don’t forget there is a queue,’ or ‘Thank you, sir/madam/young man/young lady, I’m sure you have many things to do,’ but most effective of all, ‘Come, come, Mr Morley, we are running behind time.’ I was officially employed as Morley’s assistant but I often felt more like a flesh and blood barrier between Morley and the endless needs and desires of his many fans. Fortunately the book signing that afternoon continued in a reasonably orderly and predictable fashion – until the elderly Mrs Standish arrived, escorted by the headmaster.
Mrs Standish was clearly not one to stand on ceremony and she simply walked past the assembled children and parents to the head of the queue and presented herself before Morley. Since having delivered me back to All Souls earlier in her pony and trap she had, thankfully, removed her tam o’ shanter – which was presumably her version of a flying helmet, or a motoring cap – and had donned a long fluffy grey woollen shawl. She now stood before Morley, smoking from a long cigarette holder, her steel-grey hair sleek upon her head. In the light of the afternoon I noticed she had distinctly downy jowls, which, combined with her vast size, and the grey shawl, and her steaming cigarette, gave her a profound animal presence – as though she were only part human and mostly mammal, a presence further suggested because her slightest move was followed by a posse of cats, the same posse, I assumed, who had greeted her earlier, and who now stood around her as if on show, or on guard, their tails erect. The circus had most definitely come to town.
‘The famous Mr Morley, I presume?’ she said.
‘Yes, madam.’ Morley stood to greet her.
‘I’m Marjorie Standish, mother of the two boys.’
‘Hardly boys,’ said Morley. The headmaster looked rather sheepish. ‘The headmaster and Alex must be—’
‘Do you have children?’ asked Mrs Standish.
‘I have a daughter and I had a—’
‘Then I would have expected you to understand, sir. One’s children always remain one’s children.’
‘Of course they do, madam.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Morley.’
‘All of it good, I hope?’ said Morley.
She ignored the question.
‘Actually, I wonder if we’ve met before, Mrs Standish?’ continued Morley.
‘I don’t believe so, sir.’
‘No? You’re not a fellow writer, perhaps, Mrs Standish?’
‘Mother likes to paint, don’t you, Mother?’ said the headmaster.
‘Do you know the least beautiful part of the female anatomy for painting, Mr Morley?’
‘I don’t, no, Mrs Standish, no,’ said Morley.
‘The breast.’
‘Ah.’
‘But for photographing? Magnificent! Ironic, is it not?’
‘A different medium, I suppose, Mrs Standish. We must allow for these differences.’
‘There’s a subject for one of your little newspaper essays, Mr Morley.’
‘Indeed.’ Morley examined her features very closely. ‘There really is something very familiar about you, Mrs Standish.’
‘I have an excellent memory, Mr Morley, and I can assure you that if we had met before I would be able to recall it.’
‘Well, perhaps not then – which makes it all the more pleasurable to make your acquaintance now.’
‘Indeed.’ The cats quivered expectantly around her feet.
The small queue of boys with their parents stuck behind Mrs Standish, meanwhile, were becoming rather restless. The headmaster turned and apologised to them, and then attempted to move his mother on.
‘I think Mr Morley is rather busy at the moment, Mother, signing books and what have you. Perhaps we’ll speak with him again later?’
Mrs Standish had begun rifling through her large handbag.
‘It’s your school, isn’t it? These other people can wait for five minutes, can’t they? What’s wrong with them? Train to catch?’
‘I’m sure they can wait, but—’
‘Do you like cats, Mr Morley?’
Never one to be thrown by an unexpected question, Morley had an instant response.
‘I’m afraid, madam, I’m the kind of cat-lover who likes them best when they bark,’ he said.
‘I adore cats,’ said Mrs Standish, producing a paper bag full of fish heads, tails and entrails, which she proceeded to toss to the felines gathered around her. ‘Fresh this morning from Sidmouth,’ she said. ‘I go at least twice a week for supplies.’
‘Excellent,’ said Morley.
The boys in the queue, like Morley, were unperturbed but some of the parents expressed their shock and disgust at Mrs Standish’s outlandish behaviour. Sensing the beginnings of a commotion, Alex arrived to assist, with Miriam. He took instant control of the situation.
‘You’ve met Mr Morley then, Mother?’
‘Clearly,’ said Mrs Standish. ‘And who is this?’
‘This is Mr Morley’s daughter, Mother,’ said Alex.
‘I see,’ said Mrs Standish. ‘Pretty little thing. Have you ever met the Duchess of Richmond?’ she asked, entirely irrelevantly.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Miriam.
‘You would enjoy the Duchess of Richmond! Utterly charming.’ Miriam would also so enjoy, apparently, Freya Stark, Nancy Mitford, and Lord and Lady Londonderry.
‘We should perhaps allow him to continue with his book signing,’ said Alex.
‘I have already said we should go,’ said the headmaster.
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Standish, shaking the remaining fish parts from out of her paper bag. ‘You’re a literary man, Mr Morley,’ she said as a parting shot. ‘Have you ever read Bulwer-Lytton?’
‘Of course, madam.’
‘Pelham? Godolphin?’
‘Indeed. And The Last Days of Pompeii. Rather too brilliant for his own good, I always thought,’ said Morley.
‘Really?’ said Mrs Standish.
‘Come on then, Mother,’ said the headmaster.
‘Can one be too brilliant for one’s own good?’
‘Biographies of the great and the good certainly seem to suggest such,’ said Morley.
‘I always wonder who it is who reads biographies,’ said Mrs Standish. ‘I find them terribly infra dig.’
‘Then infra dig I am, madam,’ said Morley.
‘Clearly,’ said Mrs Standish.
‘Mother was a great friend of Bulwer-Lytton, weren’t you, Mother?’ said Alex, having taken her firmly by the arm and attempting to steer her away from Morley and towards one of the refreshment marquees.
‘Indeed. I was blessed to have been acquainted with him. He was a genius.’
‘I am always rather wary of the term genius,’ said Morley.
‘Father,’ said Miriam.
‘Inferior people often are,’ said Mrs Standish.
‘We can all have a nice chat later, Father,’ insisted Miriam.
‘The term I think is often misapplied,’ continued Morley regardless, ‘to those who have been blessed with time and money rather than with the artistic gifts that we assume are their natural talents. It is a mistake to confuse good luck with genius, I believe, though certainly it makes us feel better about the injustices of this world.’
‘Bulwer-Lytton was an entirely exceptional man,’ said Mrs Standish.
‘I think I’m right in saying he spent the final years of his life in Torquay, is that so?’ said Morley.
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Perhaps it is easier to appear exceptional in Torquay than it is elsewhere?’
‘Goodbye for now, then, Mr Morley,’ said Alex, heaving his mother away.
Morley returned to signing books and I was introduced by the rather shamefaced headmaster to some of the governors and benefactors of the school: a natty, foxy little man with blue eyes and a boyish figure, who wore a white waistcoat and sported a red carnation in his buttonhole; another man with glassy, fish-like eyes, which darted around as he talked, giving him a rather sinister appearance; and another, Mr Dodds, who I later discovered had made a vast fortune from the sale of underwater paint to the German navy, and who had cornered me up against a post in the marquee. He was a small round adamant sort of man in an unwise pinstripe suit, clutching a schooner of sherry with a determination that suggested he had no intention of ever giving up either on the sherry, or on his point, which was something to do with hunting.
‘Snuff?’ he asked, pausing in his conversation for a moment, and blowing his nose with a large bandana handkerchief.
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
He sneezed. ‘Excellent stuff,’ he said. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘Kenya?’ I said. For this was where our conversation had led. ‘In 1932?’
‘Exactly! So I took out my trusty side-loading carbine, came out of the tent, and all I could hear was the roaring of the lions. Ever heard the roar of a lion, man?’
‘I can’t say I have, sir, no.’
‘Makes your blood run cold. Like ice!’
‘I’m sure.’ I attempted to edge away and back towards Morley, but the small round adamant Mr Dodds shot out his sherry arm to restrain me.
‘So, off we go, with the guide, local chap, darkie, perfectly pleasant, eventually come upon the carcass of an antelope. Ever seen the carcass of an antelope?’
‘I can’t say I—’
‘Horribly mutilated, but still plenty of meat on it. So we know they’re coming back for more. “They’ll be back for more by dawn,” says our guide, and so there’s nothing for it but to hide ourselves and wait for the blighters to return, and blow me – blow me! – if our chap wasn’t exactly right.’ He took a swig of his sherry, and I made a quick lunge to escape, but was again too slow. ‘Three of the blighters!’
‘Three?’ I said. ‘Antelopes?’
‘Lions, man! Lions! Three—’
‘Of the blighters.’
‘Precisely. Aimed at the first, fired, bam, and she dropped. Loaded another cartridge in the rifle, fired—’
‘Bam?’
‘Bang, and the second lion she gives a roar but damned if she doesn’t keep advancing upon me! Rearing up, more like a horse.’
‘Like a horse?’ I said.
‘Exactly like a horse, except a lion. And I can tell you this for certain, man – if it wasn’t for our guide I wouldn’t be here today. Won’t have a word said against the dark races. Wonderful people. Terribly loyal.’
‘Good, well I’ll—’
‘So anyway, there’s the lion’ – he made an impression of a lion rearing up, baring its teeth, with a schooner of sherry in its paw – ‘and he takes the shot and brings her down. Three lions within no more than about three minutes. What do you make of that, man?’
‘Very impressive,’ I said.
‘Have them all as rugs now down at our place in Budleigh. Ever eaten a lion steak?’
I had not – and indeed never have – eaten a lion steak. They are delicious, apparently. The multiple rug-owning Mr Dodds then prevailed upon me to promise to join him stag hunting in November. I explained that I wouldn’t be in Devon in November, and attempted to excuse myself, but he was extremely adamant.
‘Tiverton Hunt, best in the West Country. Come down.’
‘I might, thank you.’
‘You shall!’
‘I would be very glad to.’
‘Good. Good.’
Despite my further attempts to extricate myself from his stories he then proceeded to tell me in great detail the highlights of some of the Tiverton Hunt’s most successful runs of the past few years. ‘Finest beam of antlers I’ve ever seen,’ he was saying, when his wife hove into view. I have rarely been so relieved.
‘Darling, I hope you’re not boring this gentleman with tales of your conquests?’ asked his wife, a woman whom I already knew to be greatly long-suffering.
‘No, no, not at all. Fellow enthusiast.’
‘Really?’ She raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Well, would you mind awfully going and bagging me a drink?’
‘Your wish is my etcetera,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, dear fellow. Off on an adventure!’
‘I do apologise for my husband,’ she said, as he moved out of earshot.
‘No need,’ I said. ‘Your husband certainly enjoys hunting.’
‘Yes. And you?’
‘Not big game, no.’
‘You prefer other pursuits.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘we’ve not been introduced, have we?’
‘No. My name’s Stephen Sefton.’
‘And I’m Valerie Dodds.’
‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs Dodds. Do you have children at the school?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We have …’ She waved a hand in dismissal of her own thoughts. ‘My husband likes to support local schools. Education is one of his passions.’
I somehow doubted this very much.
She must have been twenty years younger than her husband, and perhaps ten years older than me. Where her husband was bald in his adamant pinstripes, she was all subtle silk and abundant Pre-Raphaelite hair. She was rich, thin and bored – which meant also of course that she was dangerous. I should have paid more attention to the warning signs.
‘And what brings you here?’ she asked. She spoke with a kind of feline tone and diction, so much so that she seemed almost on the verge of actually purring. ‘You’re not a teacher, are you? I think I’ve met most of the teachers. Son at the school perhaps?’
‘No, no. I’m here with Mr Morley, I work for him.’
‘The chap who gave the speech?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really. Didn’t quite know what to make of him. Terribly charming, I’m sure. But … Bit of a chip on the shoulder, perhaps?’
‘He is certainly very passionate about education.’
‘Quite.’ Like her husband, she took no real interest in what I had to say. ‘Sorry. Do you smoke? It’s a terrible habit, but on these sorts of occasions it does give one something to do with one’s hands.’
‘I do.’
I offered and lit a cigarette for her, and we stood together in silence, gazing around the room, like Pocahontas and John Smith, waiting for our captor to return. But before her husband made it back, Alexander came walking purposefully towards us.
‘Mrs Dodds,’ he said.
‘Alex,’ she replied.
And then turning to me he said, ‘I just wanted to say, I am so terribly sorry about this morning. We waited for as long as we could, but Miriam was very keen to get back for her father’s speech. You do understand?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘I’m afraid we left Mr Sefton rather stranded this morning when we went to visit the caves at Beer,’ he explained.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Dodds.
‘But you made it back OK?’
‘Evidently,’ I said.
‘So no hard feelings?’ He put out his hand.
I shook it, reluctantly. ‘None at all,’ I said, lying.
Miriam then made towards us as Alex was about to leave.
‘We waited for as long as we could, Sefton.’
‘So I understand,’ I said.
‘Alex had to get back for Founder’s Day, you understand?’
If there is anything worse than being lied to, it is being lied to by two people, neither of whom is aware that the other person has been telling a different lie.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He was just explaining.’
‘Good. Well, what did you think of Father’s speech then?’
‘Very good,’ I said. ‘Very good indeed.’
‘I thought it rather odd,’ said Miriam.
‘Precisely what I was saying,’ said Mrs Dodds, who had been eagerly examining Miriam. ‘Hello.’ She took Miriam’s hand in her own. ‘I’m a friend of Alex’s. Just like you.’
Miriam seemed rather taken aback by the older woman’s appraisal. ‘He’s just escorting me to the lemonade tent,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you’d like to join us, Mr Sefton? Mrs Dodds?’ offered Alex.
‘We hardly need provide a chaperone – even for you – to the lemonade tent,’ said Mrs Dodds. ‘Do we?’ Alex simply nodded in acknowledgement of the obvious slight. ‘We are perfectly fine here, thank you.’
‘Very good,’ said Alex.
‘Lead on, Macduff,’ said Miriam.
I watched them closely as they disappeared off to the lemonade tent.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mrs Dodds, lightly touching my arm.
‘Worry?’
‘You look concerned.’
‘Do I?’
‘Is she a friend of yours?’
‘No,’ I blustered. It was difficult to say exactly what Miriam was. ‘No. Not exactly. She’s Mr Morley’s daughter.’
‘Ah. Pretty young thing. Don’t worry. Women always fall in love with Alex.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. All the time.’
‘I see. You too?’
‘Once, perhaps.’
‘But no longer?’
‘Definitely no longer.’
‘Not your type?’
‘Not my type at all, no.’ She let the words hang in the air, and breathed slowly through her nostrils while looking me up and down. Then she ground out her cigarette under her heel.
‘Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Sefton. I should go and retrieve my husband – he’s doubtless bagged another innocent listener. I do hope you’ll be joining us this evening?’
‘This evening?’
‘At the fancy dress ball?’
‘The?’
‘Fancy dress ball?’
‘I didn’t realise there was going to be a fancy dress ball.’
‘Oh yes. It’s tradition, after Founder’s Day. A chance for everyone to let their hair down. Well, a recent tradition. Alex introduced it a couple of years ago, at the old school.’
‘He is a man of many talents,’ I said. ‘A party organiser also?’
‘Yes. Rousdon’s very own Trimalchio.’
‘Indeed. And you his Fortunata?’
‘Ha!’ At this she laughed.
I was rather proud: it was a riposte worthy of Morley himself. (In fairness, it was a riposte of Morley’s. I had recently, fortuitously, been reading Morley’s Rome and the Romans for Beginners (1930). His appalled description of the feast in the Satyricon was one of the only parts I could recall.)
‘And you must come in costume. No excuses.’
‘I don’t have a costume with me,’ I said.
She looked me up and down again as she departed, with what one might describe as a male gaze. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something. I hope to see you later.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll see if I can find you, shall I?’ she said. ‘In your disguise?’
‘If you wish.’
‘I wonder if you’ll be able to find me?’
I escaped from the marquee and wandered over towards a group of boys who were gearing up for a game of croquet. Morley of course was in the thick of it, and was busy explaining to them the rules of a game called stoolball. ‘Think of it as a vigorous game of rounders,’ he was saying.
‘Stoolball, Sefton? You must know stoolball?’
I was not in fact familiar with stoolball.
‘No, Mr Morley, I’m afraid not.’
‘We’ll maybe get it set up tomorrow. We need some sort of wooden boards, about ten inches square, fixed to poles. Make a note, Sefton.’
I rather begrudgingly took out a notebook, while Morley dictated the rules of the game to me, and the necessary equipment.
‘… and then we set them facing each other about twenty yards apart. A bowler and batsman, the bowler attempting to hit the board.’
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Mr Morley, could I—’
‘Anyway indeed, Sefton. We’re about to move on to croquet, if you don’t mind. We’re running our own amateur Olympics.’
‘Aren’t the Olympics already amateur?’
‘An amateur amateur Olympics then,’ said Morley. ‘Are you in?’
‘I think I might skip this actually, Mr Morley.’
He had got hold of a croquet mallet.
‘Excellent mallet,’ he said, swinging it wildly. ‘Wood, brass, lignum vitae. A fine piece of Great British precision engineering, boys. Now, here’s a question for you: what wood would you say this is?’ He swung the mallet up aloft.
‘Willow?’ suggested one boy.
‘Ash?’ suggested another.
‘It’s not a cricket bat, sir,’ said Morley. ‘Sefton?’
‘Oak?’ I suggested.
‘Oak? Oak?’ said Morley. ‘Come, come. Hickory, gentlemen. The best wood for a mallet. Look at this. Quite marvellous. And all the more remarkable’ – he brandished the mallet now as though it were a club – ‘since croquet is in essence such a violent game. Much more so than most people realise. The aim, you see, is to destroy one’s opponent. To crush them utterly.’ At which he pretended to pound one of the young boys about the head with the mallet.
After more monkeying around the game eventually began, and Morley, to my surprise, knocked his ball not towards the first hoop, but rather off towards the east boundary of the court. There was a reason for this, though for the life of me I cannot now remember what it might be. He tried to explain to me many times the rules and the sequences of roquets, croquets and hoops and I have since read his introductory book, Croquet: A Guide for the Perplexed (1938) which, frankly, left me none the wiser. Suffice it to say, the knocking of the ball off towards the boundary is a classic opening move. To quote Croquet: A Guide for the Perplexed: ‘The chances of running a hoop from six yards with a margin of error of only an eighth of an inch are very slight indeed. In croquet, it is by indirection that one finds out direction.’
A boy, attempting to imitate Morley, then promptly knocked his own ball so hard it flew out of the boundary, and rolled away down the steep lawn leading towards the woods and the cliffs.
‘I’ll get it,’ I said, bored already, and went off to retrieve the ball. I thought I might also take the opportunity for a smoke.
It had rolled away quickly into the undergrowth, but I soon spied it, along with a group of boys busy making mischief.
Two tall, stout boys stood in silence apart from the group, scoffing party food – one of them a brace of sandwiches, the other what appeared to be an entire game pie. The poor things reminded me rather of Morley’s dogs back in Norfolk: the way they took sharp, sudden bites, snapping at their vittles, all the time looking around as if they might be discovered. Beyond them, deeper in the undergrowth, and with their backs turned to me, was a larger group of boys, who seemed to be poking with sticks at something or someone lying on the ground. The two scoffing boys had clearly been appointed as lookouts, but in their frenzy of eating they had forgotten to do much looking out, and so were shocked and terrified when I suddenly approached them from amid the dense vegetation. I had picked up the croquet ball and as I walked towards them I held it aloft as a sign of peace, and put my finger to my lips. They stopped chomping, and stood with eyes and mouths wide open – pie and sandwiches momentarily suspended, a look a terror upon their faces.
I went slowly and quietly towards the larger group and stood at the shoulder of one of the boys who was vigorously prodding with a stick.
‘Stay here,’ I said, in the sternest voice I could muster. ‘All of you. Understand?’
The boys nodded in mute agreement.
And then I went to fetch a policeman.