‘Did you see Sillery?’
I asked this because I could think of no suitable comment regarding the more interesting group. Members took no notice of the question.
‘I never thought they would go through with it,’ he said.
Neither St. John Clarke, nor Quiggin, wore hats. The novelist’s white hair, unenclosed in a cap such as Sillery wore, was lifted high, like an elderly Struwwelpeter’s, in the stiff breeze that was beginning to blow through the branches. Quiggin was dressed in the black leather overcoat he had worn in the Ritz, a red woollen muffler riding up round his neck, his skull cropped like a convicts. No doubt intentionally, he had managed to make himself look like a character from one of the novels of Dostoievski. Mona, too, was hatless, with dishevelled curls: her face very white above a high-necked polo jumper covered by a tweed overcoat of smart cut. She was looking remarkably pretty, and, like Sillery, seemed to be enjoying herself. On the other hand, the features of the two men with her expressed only inexorable sternness. Every few minutes, when the time came for a general shout to be raised, St. John Clarke would brandish in his hand a rolled-up copy of one of the ‘weeklies’, as he yelled the appropriate slogan in a high, excited voice.
‘It’s an absolute scandal,’ said Members breathlessly. ‘I heard rumours that something of the sort was on foot. The strain may easily kill St. J. He ought not to be up — much less taking part in an open-air meeting before the warmer weather comes.’
I was myself less surprised at the sight of Quiggin and St. John Clarke in such circumstances than to find Mona teamed up with the pair of them. For Quiggin, this kind of thing had become, after all, almost a matter of routine. It was ‘the little political affair’ Sillery had mentioned at the private view. St. John Clarke’s collaboration in such an outing was equally predictable — apart from the state of his health — after what Members and Quiggin had both said about him. From his acceptance of Quiggin’s domination he would henceforward join that group of authors, dons, and clergymen increasingly to be found at that period on political platforms of a ‘Leftish’ sort. To march in some public ‘demonstration’ was an almost unavoidable condition of his new commitments. As it happened he was fortunate enough on this, his first appearance, to find himself in a conveyance. In the wheeled chair, with his long white locks, he made an effective figure, no doubt popular with the organisers and legitimately gratifying to himself.
It was Mona’s presence that was at first inexplicable to me. She could hardly have come up for the day to take part in all this. Perhaps the Templers were again in London for the week-end, and she had chosen to walk in the procession as an unusual experience; while Peter had gone off to amuse himself elsewhere. Then all at once the thing came to me in a flash, as such things do, requiring no further explanation. Mona had left Templer. She was now living with Quiggin. For some reason this was absolutely clear. Their relationship was made unmistakable by the manner in which they moved together side by side.
‘Where are they going?’ I asked.
‘To meet some Hunger-Marchers arriving from the Midlands,’ said Members, as if it were a foolish, irrelevant question. ‘They are camping in the park, aren’t they?’
‘This crowd?’
‘No, the Hunger-Marchers, of course.’
‘Why is Mona there?’
‘Who is Mona?’
‘The girl walking with Quiggin and helping to push St. John Clarke. She was a model, you remember. I once saw you with her at a party years ago.’
‘Oh, yes, it was her, wasn’t it?’ he said, indifferently.
Mona’s name seemed to mean nothing to him.
‘But why is she helping to push the chair?’
‘Probably because Quiggin is too bloody lazy to do all the work himself,’ he said.
Evidently he was ignorant of Mona’s subsequent career since the days when he had known her. The fact that she was helping to trundle St. John Clarke through the mists of Hyde Park was natural enough for the sort of girl she had been. In the eyes of Members she was just another ‘arty’ woman roped in by Quiggin to assist Left Wing activities. His own thoughts were entirely engrossed by St. John Clarke and Quiggin. I could not help being impressed by the extent to which the loss of his post as secretary had upset him. His feelings had undoubtedly been lacerated. He watched them pass by, his mouth clenched.
The procession wound up the road towards Marble Arch. Two policemen on foot brought up the rear, round whom, whistling shrilly, circled some boys on bicycles, apparently unconnected with the marchers. The intermittent shouting grew gradually fainter, until the column disappeared from sight into the upper reaches of the still foggy park.
Members looked round at me.
‘Can you beat it?’ he said.
‘I thought St. John Clarke disliked girls near him?’
‘I don’t expect he cares any longer,’ said Members, in a voice of despair. ‘Quiggin will make him put up with anything by now.’
On this note we parted company. As I continued my way through the park I was conscious of having witnessed a spectacle that was distinctly strange. Jean had already told me more than once that the Templers were getting on badly. These troubles had begun, so it appeared, a few months after their marriage, Mona complaining of the dullness of life away from London. She was for ever making scenes, usually about nothing at all. Afterwards there would be tears and reconciliations; and some sort of a ‘treat’ would be arranged for her by Peter. Then the cycle would once more take its course. Jean liked Mona, but thought her ‘impossible’ as a wife.
‘What is the real trouble?’ I had asked.
‘I don’t think she likes men.’
‘Ah.’
‘But I don’t think she likes women either. Just keen on herself.’
‘How will it end?’
‘They may settle down. If Peter doesn’t lose interest. He is used to having his own way. He has been unexpectedly good so far.’
She was fond of Peter, though free from that obsessive interest that often entangles brother and sister. They were not alike in appearance, though her hair, too, grew down like his in a ‘widow’s peak’ on her forehead. There was also something about the set of her neck that recalled her brother. That was all.
‘They might have a lot of children.’
‘They might.’
‘Would that be a good thing?’
‘Certainly.’
I was surprised that she was so decisive, because in those days children were rather out of fashion. It always seemed strange to me, and rather unreal, that so much of her own time should be occupied with Polly.
‘You know, I believe Mona has taken quite a fancy for your friend J. G. Quiggin,’ she had said, laughing.
‘Not possible.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Has he appeared at the house again?’
‘No — but she keeps talking about him.’
‘Perhaps I ought never to have introduced him into the household.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she had replied, quite seriously.
At the time, the suggestion had seemed laughable. To regard Quiggin as a competitor with Templer for a woman — far less his own wife — was ludicrous even to consider.
‘But she took scarcely any notice of him.’
‘Well, I thought you were rather wet the first time you came to the house. But I’ve made up for it later, haven’t I?’
‘I adored you from the start.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
‘Certainly at Stourwater.’
‘Oh, at Stourwater I was very impressed too.’
‘And I with you.’
‘Then why didn’t you write or ring up or something? Why didn’t you?’
‘I did — you were away.’
‘You ought to have gone on trying.’