I wondered if Lufkin recognized that this was the end. At times his realism was absolute: but, like other men of action, he seemed to have the gift of switching it off and on at will. Thus he could go on, hoping and struggling, long after an issue was settled; and then stupefy one by remarking that he had written the business off days before. At that moment he was speaking to Rose with the confidence and authority of one who, at a break in a negotiation, assumed that he will with good management get his way.
The same evening Gilbert came into my office. It was about the time I was leafing through my in-tray, packing up for the night; it was about the time that, the year before, when he and I and Margaret used to go out together, he habitually called in and sat waiting for me.
For months past he had not done so. Often, when I lunched with him or when we walked in the park afterwards, he jabbed in a question about me and Margaret, led up to traps where I had to lie or confide; he knew her, he knew her family and acquaintances, it could not be a secret that she and I spent many evenings together, but, taking that for granted, I responded to him as though there were nothing else of interest to tell.
Seeing him loom there, outside the cone of light from the desk lamp, I felt very warm to him.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we shouldn’t have won without you.’
‘I don’t believe anyone was listening to my piece,’ Gilbert replied. It rang mock-shy, like someone wanting praise for a drawing-room turn. In fact, it was genuine. Gilbert found it hard to credit that men paid attention to him.
Then he gave the hoarse high laugh one often hears from very strong, fleshy, active men.
‘Damn it, I enjoyed it,’ he cried.
‘What exactly?’
‘I enjoyed throwing a spanner into the works!’
‘You did it all,’ I told him.
‘No, I just supplied the comic act.’
He had no idea that his courage was a support to more cautious people. I wanted to reassure him, to tell him how much I admired it. So I said that I happened to be going out that night with Margaret: would he care to come too?
‘I’d love it,’ said Gilbert.
Without concealment, he did love it, sitting between us at the restaurant. Although he was so large a man he seemed to be burrowing between us, his sharp small eyes sensitive for any glance we exchanged. He enjoyed his food so much that he automatically raised his standard of living, for men obscurely felt that they owed him luxury they would never aspire to themselves; even that night, right in the middle of the war, I managed to stand him a good bottle of wine. It was freezing outside, but the nights had been raidless for a long time; in London it was a lull in the war, the restaurant was crowded and hot, we sat in a corner seat and Gilbert was happy. He infected me, he infected Margaret, and we basked in his well-being.
Suddenly, towards the end of the meal, with eyes glistening he said to me: ‘I’ve stolen a march on you.’
‘What have you been up to?’
‘I’ve been inside a house you might be interested in.’
I shook my head.
‘The house of a family that means something to you,’ said Gilbert, knowing, hot-eyed, imperious. Then he said, gazing straight at Margaret: ‘Nothing to do with you.’
For an instant, I wondered whether he had met the Knights.
‘Who is it?’ I asked.
‘Put him out of his misery,’ said Margaret, also on edge.
‘He ought to be able to guess,’ said Gilbert, disappointed, as though his game were not quite a success.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Well, then,’ Gilbert spoke to Margaret. ‘He’s got a new secretary. I’ve found out about her young man and his family. I’ve had tea with them.’
It was such an anticlimax that I laughed out loud. Even so, the whole performance seemed gigantesque. It was true that I had a new secretary, a young widow called Vera Allen: I did not know anything about her life. Gilbert told us that she was in love with a young man in the office, whose family he had tracked down.
When Gilbert described the visit, which he had planned like a military operation, his curiosity — for that alone had driven him on made him appear more gigantesque, at times a little mad. Telling us with glee of how he had traced their address, made an excuse for an official visit to Kilburn, called at the house, found they were out, traced them to a pub and persuaded them to take him home for a pot of tea, he was not in the slightest gratifying a desire to go slumming. He would have gone off on the same chase if the young man’s father had been a papal count.
Gilbert’s inquisitiveness was so ravening that he was as happy, as unceremonious, wherever it led him, provided he picked up a scrap of human news. Having an evening pot of tea with this young man’s parents, he felt nothing but brotherliness, except that hot-eyed zest with which he collected gossip about them, Helen, her marriage, perhaps at fourth-hand about Margaret and me.
‘You are a menace,’ said Margaret, but with indulgence and a shade of envy for anyone who could let himself rip so far.
When we went out from the restaurant into the bitter throat-catching air, we were still happy, all three of us. Gilbert continued to talk triumphantly of his findings and, walking between us, Margaret took his arm as well as mine.
24: Mild Wind after a Quarrel
ROSE worked fast after the meeting, and within a fortnight the contract was given to one of Lufkin’s rivals. During that fortnight, several of the Minister’s colleagues were rumoured to have gone to dinner at St James’s Court; the Minister’s own position was precarious and some of those colleagues did not wish him well. But, once the contract was signed, I thought it unlikely that Lufkin would waste any more time intriguing against the old man. Lufkin was much too practical a person to fritter himself away in revenge. For myself, I expected to be dropped for good, but no worse than that. Lufkin cut his losses, psychological as well as financial, with a drasticness that was a taunt to more contemplative men.
With that business settled and my mind at ease, I walked early one Saturday afternoon along the Bayswater Road to Margaret’s flat. It was mid-December, a mild wet day with a south-west wind; the street, the park, lay under a lid of cloud; the soft mild air blew in my face, brought a smell from the park both spring-like and rich with autumnal decay. It was a day on which the nerves were quite relaxed, and the mild air lulled one with reveries of pleasures to come.
For a couple of days I had not seen Margaret; that morning she had not telephoned me as she usually did on Saturday, but the afternoon arrangement was a standing one, and relaxed, comfortable with expectancy, I got out the latchkey and let myself into her room. She was sitting on the stool in front of her looking-glass: she did not get up or look round: the instant I saw her reflection, strained and stern, I cried: ‘What is the matter?’
‘I have something to ask you.’
‘What is it?’
Without turning round, her voice toneless, she said: ‘Is it true that Sheila killed herself?’
‘What do you mean?’
Suddenly she faced me, her eyes dense with anger.