The fact that the Springles were obviously carrying out someone’s specific request to make a fuss of him did not irritate him; he recognised it for what it was — kindness and hospitality, to be faced with humility and tolerance. The fact that he would far rather have been left to his own devices was beside the point; he would have done exactly the same thing if he had been in their shoes.
‘I find it fascinating,’ he said, ‘that you uprooted everything from one continent and transplanted it to another.’
June smiled. ‘It’s hard to realise,’ she said, ‘that this is not the same house. It is, of course, an exact replica of our bungalow in the Union. It’s funny to think that the original one is still there, being lived in by complete strangers. It probably looks quite different now — the furniture will be someone else’s, the walls will be different colours, their favourite flowers will have given the place a different scent.’ She saw his expression. ‘You must think us a bit silly, I think! Perhaps a little pretentious, too. But when you get used to a place, and you like it, and you’re happy in it — well, you cling to those things. We loved Africa, you see; and I confess that England means much less to us than it should — after all, we should be grateful to the English because they believe in the things we believe in, and have allowed us to go on living our life as we like to live it. But I doubt if they would blame us for trying to bring a little bit of Africa with us!’
‘I understand,’ said Heatherfield. But she knew that he did not. She knew he was thinking ‘these people have money: how happy would they be together without it?’ She knew this, but she forgave it; because Mr Heatherfield was a rather conventional person and that was the conventional point of view.
‘This is about the swellest party I’ve ever been to!’ said Kate. ‘It makes me feel rather a mouse. Everybody else conveys the impression of just having stepped off a plane.’
‘Most of them have,’ said Dick. ‘You’re quite right; we’re both mouses. Don’t you realise how wonderful it is to be supremely unimportant? Let’s dance: I like this record — it’s Dave Brubeck.’
She continued the conversation without a pause; as if they were still sitting down. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing arrogantly top-drawer about most of the people here, yet they make me feel what people used to call bourgeois. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I know exactly what you mean. You’ve had too much Chelsea, my girl. All those parties with gin in cracked cups. Now you think you’re still sipping from the same thick kitchenware, whereas everybody else is using elegant crystal glass.’
‘That’s exactly it!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s the cure?’
‘The cure,’ he said, ‘is to have another gin — and out of a proper glass, too. Add the ice and the sliver of lemon, and you’re one of them. It’s quite simple, really; like the conjurer who keeps talking so that you don’t see what he’s got up his sleeve.’
‘It’s not,’ she said definitely. In brackets she thought: Dick does dance well. ‘It’s not the answer; the people here aren’t playing a part. Take the Springles — they’re as natural as boy-meets-girl. Or Anglea Seff; she doesn’t have to hear the tinkle of ice-cubes to help her fit into the scenery. Or Poor George.’
He grinned at her. ‘How do you know Poor George?’
‘Because I’m always having to fix appointments with him. Half the Department seems to be on his books.’
‘Where did he get his nickname? He’s certainly not poor financially — he’s one of the most expensive dentists who ever pulled a tooth.’
‘Didn’t you know?’ said Kate. ‘He’s called Poor George because he’s been in love with June Springle since the year dot. He knew them in South Africa, and like an obedient spaniel he followed them here. And you see? There he sits following June about the room with his eyes — baby and all! But he’s quite natural, you see, and he fits. He’s the man at the party who’s in love with his hostess.’
‘Well, we fit, too. We’re the young couple who nobody knows from Adam.’
‘Dick, why do we talk such absolute rubbish?’
‘Because it’s fun. Look at poor Gatt. He never talks rubbish. And he’s absolutely miserable.’
They danced on for a few bars without speaking. Kate’s brow, normally unfurrowed and therefore lending her rather a dead-pan expression, pinched into a tiny frown. One of her larger freckles, situated just above her nose, disappeared into the little trough that was formed.
‘You’re thinking,’ said Dick.
‘I was wondering what Manson was saying to Gatt a few minutes ago.’
‘Oh, you noticed them talking too! I’ve no idea what was going on, but I didn’t like the way Angela suddenly walked away.’
Kate’s eyes were focused searchingly on to his. ‘Everybody’s watching everybody else,’ she observed. ‘I’m glad we’re only “mouses”; the cats are frightened.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘Are you going to take me home?’ She wanted him to.
‘I think that might be arranged. We’ll drop off old Heatherfield first. Will your mother mind?’
‘I think she’d be rather surprised if you didn’t! I expect the coffee will be bubbling in the percolator.’
They danced close together, she smiling up at him, he wondering exactly what his own feelings were.
He didn’t think they were the same as hers.
It was towards the end of the party that Angela wandered over to Ed’s built-in bar to join Gatt. He stood there alone, his glass empty in his hand. Angela sat on one of the stools beside him. She said nothing for a while, just letting the dance music from the record-player swirl around them. For a long time she sat there, watching Gatt, till the noise of the party was forgotten and only the empty glass seemed important. ‘Let me fix you another drink,’ she said at last.
Arlen spoke without looking at her. ‘No, thanks.’
She smiled and got up from the stool. ‘Well, I’m going to have one, anyway.’ Arlen watched her silently as she poured herself a long one. ‘What have you been thinking about,’ she asked him, dispensing some ice with a large pair of silver tongs, ‘all hunched up by the bar?’
‘You really want to know?’ he said, smiling.
‘No, I guess not.’ She drank thoughtfully. ‘The trouble with you is you’re too civilised. You never really flip, do you? You’d feel much better if you let yourself really get high once in a while.’
Gatt blew a smoke-ring and idly watched its course across the bar until it disintegrated. ‘I tried that once. I spent an evening with a bottle of Cognac and got “good and high” — as you would call it. And when I recovered, rather late the next day, I asked myself where it had got me. The only result, you see, was a broken decanter and some rather horrified friends.’
‘They couldn’t have known you very well.’
‘Not that well, no.’
She said: ‘Back in Canada I saw a man get like that once. Like your friends, I was pretty horrified. It was only long afterwards that I discovered why he was like that.’
‘What was his problem?’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter very much what it was, does it? The point is, he had one.’
‘Quite.’ Gatt gave her a funny sort of smile. ‘I’ll have that drink now, Angela.’
‘Good.’ She knew he was more relaxed now. He waited till she had poured it out in the proportions he liked. Then they clinked glasses.
‘Angela, about Jack.’ Her eyes registered caution. Arlen reassured her. ‘It’s all right; I don’t listen to Alec. He’s never said anything about anyone in his life without having some angle of his own.’