"You are in Mr. Roper's employ, sir?" Apostoll persists. "You have joined one of his great enterprises? Mr. Roper is a man of rare power."
"I'm enjoying the hospitality of the house," Jonathan replies.
"You could do no better, sir. You are a friend of Major Corkoran's perhaps? I think I saw you two exchanging pleasantries some minutes back."
"Corky and I are old pals."
But as the group moves on, Roper takes Apostoll quietly aside, and Jonathan hears the words "Mama Low's" spoken with discretion.
* * *
"Basically, you see, Jed," says an evil by the name of Wilfred as they lounge at white tables under a hot moon, "what we at Harvill Maverich are offering Dicky here is the same service as the crooks are offering, but without the crooks."
"Oh, Wilfred, but how terribly boring. Wherever will poor Roper get his kicks from?"
And she catches Jonathan's eye again, causing serious mayhem. How does this happen? Who looks first? For this is not affectation. This is not just playing games with somebody her own age. This is looking. And looking away. And looking again. Roper, where are you now we need you?
* * *
Nights with evils are endless. Sometimes the talk is got up as bridge or backgammon in the study. Drinks are self-serve, the ushers are told to hop it, the study door is guarded by the protection, the servants know to stay away from that side of the house. Only Corkoran is admitted ― these days not always Corkoran.
"Corky's fallen from grace a bit," Jed confides to Jonathan, then bites her lip and says no more.
For Jed too has her loyalty. She is no easy frontier-crosser, and Jonathan has warned himself accordingly.
* * *
"Chaps come to me, you see," Roper explains.
The two men are enjoying another of their strolls. This time it is evening. They have played fierce tennis, but neither has won. Roper doesn't bother with scoring unless he is playing for money, and Jonathan has no money. Perhaps for this reason, their conversations flow without constraint. Roper walks close, letting his shoulder ride unconsciously against Jonathan's, as it did at Meister's. He possesses an athlete's carelessness of touch. Tabby and Gus are following at a distance. Gus is the new crusher, recently added to the strength. Roper has a special voice for chaps who come to him:
" 'Meestaire Ropaire, geeve us state-of-art toys.' " He graciously pauses to allow Jonathan to laugh at his mimicry. "So I ask 'em: 'State of what art, old boy? Compared to what?' No answer. Some parts of the world, if you gave 'em a Boer War cannon, they'd move straight to the top of the heap." An impatient gesture of the hand moves them there, and Jonathan feels Roper's elbow in his ribs. "Other countries, pots of money, mad for high tech, nothing else will do, got to be like the fellow next door. Not like him. Better than. Miles better. They want the smart bomb that gets into the lift, goes to the third floor, turns left, clears its throat, blows up the master of the house but doesn't hurt the television set." The same elbow nudges against Jonathan's upper arm. "Thing they never realise is: you want to play smart, you've got to have the smart backup. And the chaps to work it. No good buying the latest 'fridge and shoving it in your mud hut if you haven't got electricity to plug it into, is it? Well, is it? What?"
"Of course not," says Jonathan.
Roper plunges his hands into the pockets of his tennis shorts and gives a lazy smile.
"Used to enjoy supplying guerrillas when I was your age. Ideals before money... cause of human liberty. Didn't last long, thank God. Today's guerrillas are tomorrow's fat cats. Good luck to 'em. Real enemies were the big power governments. Everywhere you looked, big governments were there ahead of you, flogging anything to anybody, breaking their own rules, cutting each other's throats, backing the wrong side, making it up to the right side. Mayhem. Us independent chaps got squeezed into the corner every time. Only thing to do, get in ahead of 'em, beat 'em to the draw. Balls and foresight, all we had left to rely on. Pushing the envelope, all the time. No wonder some chaps went off the reservation. Only place to do business. Young Daniel sail today?"
"All the way round Miss Mabel's Island. I didn't touch the rudder once."
"Well done. Cooking another carrot cake soon?"
"Whenever you say."
As they climb the steps to the gardens, the close observer notices Sandy Langbourne entering the guesthouse and, a moment after him, the Langbourne nanny. She is a demure little creature, about nineteen, but at that instant she has the casual larceny of a girl about to rob a bank.
* * *
There are the days when Roper is in residence, and there are the days when Roper is away selling farms.
Roper does not announce his departures, but Jonathan has only to approach the front entrance to know which kind of day it is. Is Isaac hovering in the great domed hall in his white gloves? Are the MacDanbies milling in the marble anteroom, smoothing their Brideshead hairstyles and checking their zips and ties? They are. Is the protection manning the porter's chair beside the tall bronze doors? It is. Slipping past the open windows on his way to the back of the house, Jonathan hears the great man at his dictating: "No, damn it. Kate! Scratch that last paragraph and tell him he's got a deal. Jackie, do a letter to Pedro. 'Dear Pedro, we spoke a couple of weeks ago,' blah-blah. Then drop him down a hole. Too little, too late, too many bees round the honeypot ― that one, okay? Tell you what, Kate ― add this."
But instead of adding this, Roper interrupts himself to telephone the Iron Pasha's skipper in Fort Lauderdale about the new paintwork on the hull. Or Claud the stablemaster about his fodder bills. Or Talbot the boatmaster about the bloody awful state of the jetty on Carnation Bay. Or his antiques dealer in London to discuss that decent-looking pair of Chinese dogs that are coming up at Bonham's next week, could be just right for the two seaward corners of the new conservatory, provided they're not too bilious green.
"Oh, Thomas, super! How are you ― no headaches or anything ghastly? Oh, good." Jed is in the butler's pantry, seated at a pretty Sheraton desk, talking menus with Miss Sue the housekeeper and Esmeralda the cook while she poses for the imaginary photographer from House & Garden. She has only to see Jonathan enter to make him indispensable: "Now, Thomas. Honestly, what do you think? Listen. Langoustines, salad, lamb ― or salad, langoustines, lamb?... Oh, I'm so glad. Well, that's exactly what we thought, isn't it. Esmeralda?... Oh, Thomas, can we possibly pick your brains about foie gras with Sauternes? The Chief adores it, I loathe it and Esmeralda is saying, very sensibly, why not just let them carry on with champagne?... Oh, Thomas" ― dropping her voice so she can pretend to herself that the servants can't hear ― "Caro Langbourne is so upset. Sandy's being an absolute pig again. I wondered whether a sail might cheer her up, if you've really got the energy. If she goes on at you, don't worry, just sort of close your ears, do you mind?... And, Thomas, while you're about it, could you bear to ask Isaac where the hell he's hidden the trestle tables?... And, Thomas, Daniel is absolutely determined to give Miss Molloy a surprise birthday party, if you can believe it, on the eighteenth. If you've got any ideas about that at all, I'll love you for absolutely ever...."