Nobody at the wedding reception seemed to read anything into the bird.
His parents had rented a house in Belgrave Square for the reception. They seemed mildly ill at ease in this pretend home, with its white and gold hall and its handsome staircase leading to the drawing rooms. But Mark, who at Cambridge had acquired a taste for uncomfortable grandeur, enjoyed the rooms and wondered if he would ever inhabit such a place himself.
The two families had hurried there for the photographs. There were pictures of the bride and groom on their own, with parents, with attendants, with their entire families. They took a long time to set up, particularly the last picture, which showed all thirty of them, arranged according to etiquette and height. Sophia made a fuss about being photographed, said she looked ugly and fat.
Keen to study the arriving guests, Mark had earmarked a vantage point halfway up the stairs. He loved to be an observer. Up the stairs the guests progressed, chattering like macaws. He supposed that, as a diplomat, he’d attend events like this all the time. He was excited by the idea of the Diplomatic Service. When Sir Ernest had taken him to lunch at the Travellers’ Club, it was flattering to be told he seemed wholly suitable. Sir Ernest could drop a word. ‘They still listen to me. I have a brief to look out for the right kind of fellow. . . You seem ideal: intelligent, a good First, you say; good background, character. No vicious tastes, I imagine?’ They laughed.
His little sister squeezed her way down the stairs, as though in search of something. This turned out to be him. ‘Do come out from there. It’s too unreasonable of you to hide. I’m having to work ever so hard and you’re a grown-up, you should be helping. Do come, Mark.’ He waved her away.
He had no friends of his own here. Of course, when he was married, he’d invite friends by the hundred. Not that he had hundreds of friends yet, but he planned to. If he could participate in the Season, he’d meet people like those glowingly confident young men one met from Trinity and King’s. These guests were not the sort of people he had in mind: lawyers and their wives, figures from the City, dons, one or two celebrated authors and several who scraped a living writing initialled reviews in John O’London’s Weekly, clever women who wrote pamphlets on the poor. And of course his mother’s new smart friends like Lady Belfield, about whom she was perpetually talking, though he wasn’t convinced they were as smart as she supposed.
In the reception line, Thomas was friendly and brisk. Irene spoke at length to the guests, particularly her artistic set. The Berlin contingent were easily recognisable, with their cultivated faces, different from the mild, untidy Saxons among whom Mark had lived last year. He’d been intrigued by Paul, one of Thomas’s brothers, whom he’d met the evening before. Paul was his own age, a student at Heidelberg. He had apparently mastered not only classical and German philosophy and literature, but English philosophy, literature and history as well.
Edward Jenkinson came up the stairs, talking to a dark, striking-looking girl Mark did not recognise. Edward, or Teddy, it was not clear which, was a new phenomenon in their family life. He seemed cheerful: clearly he liked a party. He waved jovially. ‘Hello there, not joining in?’
Mark could see his mother gesturing at him. She liked him to be seen, since, as she often told him, he ought to be less shy; he was special, people would enjoy meeting him. It really was time to emerge, into the friendly company of Uncle George and Aunt Lavinia and their children. They were a lively, good-humoured family; their optimism always encouraged him.
The reception was engulfed in vivacious noise. The hospitality was lavish. There was champagne, champagne, champagne, and Mosel provided by Thomas’s family, and vast quantities of little sandwiches and cakes from Searcy’s. By the time they were ready for speeches everyone was a little tipsy, glowing in the balmy afternoon, the long windows having been opened onto the deep balcony and the plane trees in the square.
Everyone enjoyed the speeches. Mr Benson was characteristically dry. He said he would miss his daughter but at last he’d be able to finish the book he’d been working on for ten years as his younger children were less demanding. He welcomed so many friends from abroad. He thanked his wife, his constant helpmeet. She laughed and cried at the same time.
Friedrich, the best man, apologised for his bad English – ‘I want to make better my English,’ he stated, ‘but not with an audience of five hundred people!’ He laughed at his own jokes, it was hard to resist. He said, in capturing Irene Benson, his brother had won Germany’s finest victory since Waterloo – ‘though the fighting was hardly less violent, and when finally my brother wins the battle, we are all thinking, will he ever win such a battle again? But Thomas adores England – do you know about this? When he is young, he comes to London to study the architecture – always the architecture, he talks about nothing else, except Irene, and maybe one or two other girls, but they are a long time ago, you understand. Then he comes home and we hear always about England, how fine it is, the people are so friendly, the houses so comfortable, the humour so amusing, we are driven mad. We all think he would like to be English, he wants to look English, he has his hair cut by an English barber, he uses English slang, and I have to tell you, someone once actually thought my brother was English – Thomas was delighted, even though this person was blind and deaf and came from Russia. So when I first came to England, I said to myself, I am sure I will not like this country. In Germany we are suspicious, you know. They say it is so old-fashioned and the people are pompous and cold. But after a few days, I realise I am completely wrong! England is wonderful, and beautiful too! I am a convinced Anglophile, within one week. Now I plan to come and live here and study business, so my English will be better than Thomas’s and who knows, I may find an English bride.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Of course, I cannot hope to find an English bride as beautiful, as kind, as good, as Irene. Now, with her, Thomas will become not only a fine man, but a fine husband and a fine father. With such a wife, he can face anything. Now, I say a few words in German.’ He drew himself up to his full height. ‘Und jetzt, meine Damen und Herren, ist es mir eine Ehre auf Sophia und die anderen Brautjungfern anzustoßen. To the bridesmaids.’
They drank the toast and clapped and even cheered, and the English guests remarked, surprised, how humorous he was.
It was Thomas’s turn. This was the man, Mark reflected, who was taking away his sister, but the speech disarmed him. Thomas thanked the Bensons for their kindness and recalled how he and Irene had met. Then he announced that he wanted to speak seriously. ‘I apologise, it’s our national failing.’ He hoped that in an age when Britain and Germany shared many noble objectives – improving social conditions at home, advancing technology and scientific understanding, teaching the arts of civilisation to primitive peoples – they would not forget the gentler friendships and emotions they shared. The British and the Germans were kinsmen, sprung from the same stock, united by years of friendship. He cited the extended connections between the royal families of Britain and Germany. He trusted that his marriage would follow this example. ‘Though ours will be a German house, it will also be English. I won’t undertake to try to transform Irene into a German, or indeed anything else – I know that, whatever I say, she will behave as she chooses.’ They laughed at that. ‘But I hope that in our new home we shall succeed to create a household and family that will unite the best of the English and the German traditions, and that our friends from England will feel, when they walk over our threshold, that they are at home.’ And then, rather slowly, he spoke a few words in German, and if they did not understand him, everyone appreciated the warmth and affection behind his remarks. ‘Laßen Sie mich mit einem Toast auf meine Braut beenden, an deren Hand durchs Leben zu gehen, mein Glück sein wird. Prosit!’
The guests raised their glasses and surrendered to the enjoyable emotions appropriate to a wedding. Then Mark saw in the midst of the artistic set a back turned on the bridal couple. So Julian had come, after all. Mark knew that when Irene had told Julian about her engagement, he had shouted, burst into angry sobs, vowed he would never speak to her again. Now here he was, red in the face, wearing a not-too-clean suit.
Other people’s lives were mysterious. Mark was thankful that he’d never had an affair, if it led to so much pain. But of course he too would marry one day.
His eyes returned to the new couple as they moved among their guests, Thomas in the lead, Irene a little flushed. He asked himself: this perfect love which means you lose yourself in someone else – was that what Irene felt for Thomas? Mark was sure it was what Thomas felt. But Irene?
There was a stir from the artistic corner, raised voices, jostling bodies. Julian emerged, pushing his way to the middle of the room until he was staring at Thomas, who, always polite, held out his hand to this stranger. Julian glared, moved towards the bride. He thrust aside the man she was talking to, and placed himself in front of her, legs apart.
Julian did not frighten Irene. ‘I am happy to see you here.’ She held out her hand. He raised it to his lips, kissing it fervently. She pulled it away. ‘I’m glad you could come.’ She took her husband’s arm and they moved away.
Mark was disconcerted when Julian caught his eye. But he only said, ‘Mark, hello. Happy occasion, eh? Pleased?’ Mark felt sorry for him. Julian was not such a bad fellow, it was just that love made him miserable. ‘I love her, you know that, I love her.’
‘Yes,’ said Mark.
‘I always have. You see, Mark, it’s not just a romantic dream. I just love her, everything about her, the whole woman. I can’t imagine ever feeling like this about anyone else.’
‘It might be best to try.’
‘I can’t.’ Then he pulled himself together, looked penetratingly at Mark. ‘She loves you very much. She was so angry when I mobbed you up at that party – sorry about that, old boy. She said, whatever I thought about you at first sight, underneath you’re as good as gold. You’ll miss her too.’
‘Yes, I shall.’
Julian was fiercer and yet softer than when they’d met before. He was like a dark hairy animal. For a moment he could see why Irene had liked him.‘Will she ever come back?’ Julian’s eyes glistened.
After a while, people moved downstairs to wave the couple off. Mark held back. In the almost empty drawing room he noticed himself in one of the long mirrors. Well, I suppose I don’t look so bad, he thought. Hair fairly much in order, face pleasant if rather flushed, features regular. Move on, Mark, he told himself. Looking at oneself in a mirror is not something a man does. Then he saw, reflected, someone looking in his direction. It was Paul, Thomas’s brother.
The two reflections regarded one another, Paul unsmiling but intent. Then Paul said, ‘You must be sad, that your sister leaves you, and comes to us.’
They went down the broad marble staircase together and joined the waiting crowd. A moment later, Irene and Thomas appeared in their going-away clothes. Mark kissed Irene goodbye, shook Thomas’s hand. Thomas put his arms round Mark. Mark stiffened, immediately regretted it.
As the couple stepped into the waiting Daimler, Mark was overcome by a sense of loss and hopelessness. He could not explain it. But the feeling did not last.
Paul turned to him, saying, ‘Will you show me something of London, my new brother-in-law? My new friend, I hope?’