‘I’ve just thought,’ he wiped his eyes, then began to laugh again as helplessly. ‘I’ve just thought,’ he said at last in a weak voice: ‘Martineau’s position is exactly this. He thinks a man couldn’t hold his share in the firm if he’s either a Christian or a socialist. So he gives it up, being neither a Christian nor a socialist.’
It was a typical George joke, in its symmetry, in the incongruity that would strike no one else. But he had been laughing more for relief than at the joke. Soon he was saying, quite soberly: ‘We’ve been assuming all the time that everything’s settled. We haven’t given ourselves a chance to do anything in the matter.’
‘Of course we can’t do anything,’ said Morcom.
‘I don’t know whether I accept that completely,’ said George. ‘But if so we shall have to set to work in another direction.’
I did not know what those words foreshadowed; I was easier in mind than I had been that afternoon, to see his spirits enlivened again.
16: Walk in the Rain
AFTER he went away from George’s, none of us saw Martineau for weeks. There were some rumours about him; he was said to have bought a share of a small advertising agency, and also to have been seen in a poor neighbourhood visiting from house to house. Several times at Eden’s we talked of him and speculated over his next move. The whole episode often seemed remote, as we sat in the comfortable room, hung with a collection of Chinese prints, and heard Eden say: ‘These things will happen.’ He said it frequently, with a tolerant and good-humoured smile.
Now that ‘Friday nights’ no longer existed, he had suggested that we call on him instead. He changed the day to Sunday, explaining that Friday was inconvenient for him, as his wife entertained that night. His real reason, I thought later, was a delicacy we did not appreciate enough. He gave us good food and drink, and the conversation was, more often than not, better than at Martineau’s. The liking I had formed for Eden after casual meetings strengthened now. It was difficult to remember that this was the man whom George so much disliked.
Though by this time I knew something of George’s antipathies, I tried to argue him out of this, the most practically important. It seemed more than ever urgent for him to gain Eden’s approval. He protested angrily, but was less obdurate than in the summer. One Sunday I persuaded him to come to the house, and he was nervously silent apart from a sudden quick-worded argument with Eden upon some matter of political history; it was the first time I had seen that drawing room disturbed. When Morcom and I disagreed with Eden, it meant only one of his good-humoured aphorisms, followed by a monologue that did not lead to controversy.
George said, as he stopped outside the gate to light a pipe: ‘I hope you’re satisfied now.’
In the match light, he was smiling happily. To him, I suddenly realised, for whom most meetings and most people were full of unknown hostility, the night had been a success.
‘You must go again,’ I said.
‘Naturally,’ said George. ‘After all, I’ve truckled for three years, in the firm. I must say, though, that he went out of his way to be civil tonight.’
It began to rain heavily, and we got on a tram-car. As it moved towards the town, we pieced together the rumours about Martineau. Often George guffawed: ‘Fancy having one’s goods advertised by Martineau,’ he burst out. ‘And fancy giving up,’ he chuckled, ‘a perfectly respectable profession to take up one more disreputable by any conceivable standards in the world. The only advantage being that it’s almost certain to fail.’ He laughed and wiped his eyes. ‘Oh, Good God in Heaven, whatever is the point? Whatever does he think is the point?’
Suddenly George said, without any introduction: ‘I think we’ve exaggerated this upheaval in the firm.’
I shook my head, and said: ‘I am quite certain of one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That, whatever happens, Martineau will never come back to the firm. I’m sure that’s true. It’s unpleasant for you. But you must resign yourself—’
George said: ‘I did that weeks ago. I assumed it as soon as Martineau disappeared.’
‘Then what did you mean?’ I said. ‘About the upheaval in the firm being exaggerated. Whatever could you mean?’
‘Oh,’ said George. ‘I decided, as I said, that Martineau could be ruled out. He obviously wouldn’t be any further help. But what I meant was, I couldn’t see why Eden shouldn’t do as much for me as Martineau ever did. And I began to realise there were reasons why he should do a great deal more.’
‘At once?’
‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t be taking steps to make me a partner. Fairly soon.’
‘Is that likely?’ (I was thinking: this ought to have been foreseen.)
‘I don’t see why not.’
The tram was rattling to a stop: I rubbed the window with my sleeve. The rain had ceased, though it was dripping from the roofs. We were near the railway bridge, by some old mean streets.
‘Look here,’ said George. ‘I’ve got a bit of a head. Let’s walk from here.’
The gutters were swirling as we got off. George said: ‘I don’t see why not. After all, he’ll be gaining enough by this business. He can afford to take a partner without any capital. He would have to get someone in my place, naturally. But Eden would still be better off by a very decent amount, compared with what he has been. With the advantages of having me as a partner.’
‘Those being? I mean, from Eden’s point of view?’
We were walking under the bridge. Our footsteps echoed, and I shivered in the cold. George’s voice came back.
‘The first is one we all tend to forget. That is, there is such a thing as ordinary human justice. Eden can’t be too comfortable if I’m doing more work than the rest of the firm put together — which I have been doing for the last two years — and getting the money, which doesn’t matter so much, and having the position, which matters a great deal, of a fairly competent clerk.’
‘Are you sure he realises that — altogether?’
‘If he doesn’t,’ said George, ‘it’s simply because he doesn’t want to see. But even then — it must be perfectly obvious.’ He walked along, looking straight ahead. ‘The other reason is what plain blunt practical men would consider a great deal more important. That is, Eden doesn’t know anything about half the cases we have to deal with. You know perfectly well, we’ve got a connection in income tax and property law and other kinds of superior accountancy. Well, Martineau could cope with those before he began to be troubled with doubt’ — he chuckled — ‘and even lately he could give people the impression that he knew something about it. Well, Eden simply couldn’t. He’s grotesquely incompetent at any piece of financial detail. In three or four years he’d have ruined our connection. It’d be too ridiculous, he’s bound to realise it.’ He went on, very quickly, as though to dismiss any argument: ‘No, so far as I can see, there’s only one possible reason for his not taking me in, and that is, he hasn’t much sympathy for my general attitude.
‘But I can’t believe he’d let that outweigh everything else,’ George went on. ‘There are limits, you can’t deny there are limits. And also he’s shown signs recently that he’s coming round. I think it’ll be all right. Anyway we must see it is all right. You realise,’ he said, ‘that Eden can be influenced nowadays.’
‘How?’
‘I should have thought it was obvious.’
‘How?’
‘Morcom, of course,’ George said. ‘Obviously Eden’s very much impressed with him for some reason. You noticed how he sent for him for that rather absurd conference with the Martineau’s. And Morcom sees him very often—’