We had no car, so reached the Morelands’ by train.
‘It must be generations since anyone but highbrows lived in this cottage,’ said Moreland, when we arrived there. ‘I imagine most of the agricultural labourers round here commute from London.’
‘Baby Wentworth had it at one moment,’ said Matilda, a little maliciously. ‘She hated it and moved out almost at once.’
‘I’ve installed a piano in the studio,’ said Moreland. ‘I get some work done when I’m not feeling too much like hell, which hasn’t been often, lately.’
The cottage was a small, redbrick, oak-beamed affair, of some antiquity, though much restored, with a studio-room built out at the back. That was where Moreland had put his piano. He was not looking particularly well. When they were first married, Matilda had cleaned him up considerably. Now, his dark-blue suit — Moreland never made any concession to the sartorial conception of ‘country clothes’ — looked as if he had spent a restless night wearing it in bed He had not shaved.
‘What’s been wrong?’
‘That lung of mine has been rather a bore.’
‘What are you working on?’
‘My ballet.’
‘How is it going?’
‘Stuck.’
‘It’s impossible to write with Hitler about.’
‘Utterly.’
He was in low spirits. His tangled, uncut hair emphasised the look his face sometimes assumed of belonging to a fractious, disappointed child. Matilda, on the other hand, so far from being depressed, as Isobel had represented her, now seemed lively and restless. She was wearing trousers that revealed each bone of her angular figure. Her greenish eyes, rather too large mouth, for some reason always made one think she would make a more powerful, more talented actress than her stage capabilities in fact justified. These immediately noticeable features, arresting rather than beautiful, also suggested, in some indirect manner, her practical abilities, her gift for organisation. Matilda’s present exhilaration might be explained, I thought, by the fact that these abilities were put to more use now than when the Morelands had lived in London. There, except late at night, or when they lay in bed late in the morning, they were rarely to be found in their flat. Here, they must be alone together most of the day, although no doubt much of the time Moreland was shut away in the studio at work. Matilda, when not acting, had sometimes complained in London that time hung on her hands, even though she was — or had formerly been to some extent — a kind of agent for Moreland, arranging much of his professional life, advising as to what jobs he accepted, what interviews he gave, when he must be left in peace. All the same, as I have said, it was chiefly matters outside the musical world that caused him pain and grief. In the business sphere, Matilda no doubt took a burden from him; in his musical life as such, he may sometimes even have resented too much interference. Since the baby had died, they had had no other child.
‘You are eating sausages tonight,’ said Matilda, ‘and half-a-crown Barbera. As you know, I’m not a great cook. However, you’ll have a square meal tomorrow, as we’re going over to Stourwater for dinner.’
‘Can you bear it?’ said Moreland. ‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘Do cheer up, darling,’ said Matilda. ‘You know you’ll like it when we get there.’
‘Not so sure.’
‘Anyway, it’s got to be faced.’
Things had certainly changed. Formerly, Moreland had been the one who liked going to parties, staying up late, drinking a lot; Matilda, bored by people, especially some of Moreland’s musical friends, wanted as a rule to go home. Now the situation seemed reversed: Matilda anxious for company, Moreland immersed in work. Matilda’s tone, her immediate manner of bringing up the subject of Stourwater, was no doubt intended to show in the plainest terms that she herself felt completely at ease so far as visiting Sir Magnus was concerned. Although she had never attempted to conceal her former association with him — which would certainly not have been easy — she seemed to feel that present circumstances required her specially to emphasise her complete freedom from embarrassment. This demeanour was obviously intended to cover Moreland in that respect, as well as herself. She was announcing their policy as a married couple. Possibly she did not altogether carry Moreland with her. He was rebellious about something, even if not about the visit to Stourwater.
‘Have you seen the place before?’ he asked. ‘You realise we are going to conduct you to a Wagnerian castle, a palace where Ludwig of Bavaria wouldn’t have been ashamed to disport himself.’
‘I was there about ten years ago. Some people called Walpole-Wilson took me over. They live twenty or thirty miles away.’
‘I’ve heard Donners speak of them,’ said Matilda.
She always referred to Sir Magnus by his surname. Isobel and I used to discuss whether Matilda had so addressed him in their moments of closest intimacy.
‘After all,’ Isobel had said, ‘she can only have liked him for his money. To call him “Donners” suggests capital appreciation much more than a pet-name. Besides, “Magnus” — if one could bring oneself to call him that — is almost more formal than “Donners”, without the advantage of conjuring up visions of dividends and allotment letters.’
‘Do you think Matilda only liked him for his money? She never attempted to get any out of him.’
‘It’s not a question of getting the money. It’s the money itself. Money is a charm like any other charm.’
‘As a symbol of power?’
‘Partly, perhaps. After all, men and women both like power in the opposite sex. Why not take it in the form of money?’
‘Do you really think Matilda liked nothing else about poor Sir Magnus?’
‘I didn’t think him very attractive myself the only time I saw him.’
‘Perhaps Matilda was won by his unconventional ways.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I don’t express an opinion.’
‘Still I must agree, she left him in the end.’
‘I think Matilda is quite ambitious,’ said Isobel.
‘Then why did she leave Sir Magnus? She might have made him marry her.’
‘Because she took a fancy to Hugh.’
That was no doubt the answer. I had been struck, at the time she said this, by Isobel’s opinion that Matilda was ambitious.
‘Who are the Walpole-Wilsons?’ asked Moreland.
‘Sir Gavin Walpole-Wilson is a retired diplomat. His daughter, Eleanor, has shared a flat for years with Isobel’s sister, Norah. But, of course, you know Norah and Eleanor of old.’
Moreland reddened at the mention of Isobel’s sisters. Thought of them must still have called Priscilla uneasily to his mind. The subject of sisters-in-law was obviously one to be avoided. However, Matilda showed some inclination to continue to talk of them. She had rescued her husband from Priscilla, whom she could consider to have suffered a defeat. She may have wanted to emphasise that.
‘How are Norah and Eleanor?’ she asked.
‘Eleanor is trying to make up her mind again whether she will become a Catholic convert,’ said Isobel. ‘Heather Hopkins became an RC the other day. Hugo says that puts Eleanor in a dilemma. She wants to annoy Norah, but doesn’t want to please Hopkins.’