The Manticore Page 12

  The war was a field-day for Ramsay as an historian. The legends that clustered around Hitler and Mussolini were victuals and drink to him. "The Fuhrer is inspired by voices – as was St. Joan: Il Duce feels no pain in the dentist's chair – neither did St. Appollonia of Tyana when her teeth were wrenched out by infidels. These are the attributes of the great; and I say attributes advisedly, because it is we who attribute these supernormal qualities to them. Only after his death did it leak out that Napoleon was afraid of cats."

  I liked Ramsay, then. He worked us hard, but he was endlessly diverting and made some pretty good jokes in class. They were repeated around the school as Buggerlugs' Nifties.

  My feelings about him underwent a wretched change when my mother died.

  4

  That was in the late autumn of 1942, when I was in my fifteenth year. She had had pneumonia, and was recovering, but I don"t think she had much will to live. Whatever it was, she was convalescent and was supposed to rest every afternoon. The doctor had given instructions that she was on no account to take a chill, but she hated heavy coverings and always lay on her bed under a light rug. One day there was a driving storm, turning toward snow, and her bedroom windows were open, although they certainly should have been shut. We assumed that she had opened them herself. A chill, and in a few days she was dead.

  Ramsay called me to his room at school and told me. He was kind in the right way. Didn't commiserate too much, or say anything that would break me down. But he kept me close to him during the next two or three days, and arranged the funeral because Father had to be in London and had cabled to ask him to do it. The funeral was terrible. Caroline didn't come because it was still thought by Netty and the Headmistress of her school that girls didn't go to funerals, so I went with Ramsay. There was a small group, but the people from down by the crick were there, and I tried to talk to them; of course they hardly knew me and what could anybody say? Both my Staunton grandparents were dead, so I suppose if there was a Chief Mourner – the undertakers asked who it was and Ramsay dealt with that tactfully – I was the one. My only feeling was a kind of desolated relief, because without ever quite forming the thought in my mind, I knew my mother had not been happy for some years, and I supposed it was because she felt she had failed Father in some way.

  I recall saying to Ramsay that I thought perhaps Mother was better off, because she had been so miserable of late; I meant it as an attempt at grown-up conversation, but he looked queer when he heard it.

  Much more significant to me than my mother's actual death and funeral – for, as I have said, she seemed to be taking farewell of us for quite a long time – was the family dinner on the Saturday night following. Caroline had been at home all week, under Netty's care, and I went home from school for the week-end. There was a perceptible lightening of spirits, and an odd atmosphere, for Father was away and Caroline and I were free of the house as we had never been. What I would have done about this I don't know; I suppose I should have swanked about a little and perhaps drunk a glass of beer to show my emancipation. But Caroline had different ideas.

  She was always the daring one. When she was eight and I was ten she had cut one of Father's cigars in two and dared me to a smoke-down; we were to light up and puff away while soaring and descending rhythmically on the see-saw in the garden. She won. She had a reputation at her school, Bishop Caimcross's, as a practical joker, and had once captured a beetle and painted it gaily before offering it to the nature mistress for identification. The nature mistress, who was up to that one, got off the traditional remark in such circumstances. "This is known as the nonsensicus impudens, or Impudent Humbug, Caroline," she had said, and gained great face among her pupils as a wit. But when Mother died, Caroline was twelve, and in that queer time between childhood and nubile girlhood, when some girls seem to be wise without experience, and perhaps more clear-headed than they will be again until after their menopause. She took a high line with me on this particular Saturday and said I was to make myself especially tidy for dinner.

  Sherry beforehand! We had never been allowed that before, but Caroline had it set out in the Drawing-room, and Netty was taken unaware and did not get her objection in until we had glasses. Netty took none herself; she was fiercely T.T. But Caroline had asked her to dine with us, and Netty must have been shaken by that, because it had never occurred to her that she would do otherwise. She had put on some ceremonial garments instead of her nurse's uniform, and Caroline was in her best and had even put on a dab of lipstick. But this was merely a soft prelude to what was to follow.

  There were three places at table and it was clear enough that I was to have Father's chair, but when Netty was guided by Caroline to the other chair of State – my mother's – I wondered what was up. Netty demurred, but Caroline insisted that she take this seat of honour, while she herself sat at my right. It did not occur to me that Caroline was pulling Netty's teeth; she was exalting her as a guest, only to cast her down as a figure of authority. Netty was confused, and missed her cue when the houseman brought in wine and poured a drop for me to approve; she barely recovered in time to turn her own glass upside down. We had had wine before; on great occasions my father gave us wine diluted with water, which he said was the right way to introduce children to one of the great pleasures of life; but undiluted wine, and me giving the nod of approval to the houseman, and glasses refilled under Netty's popping eyes – this was a new and heady experience.

  Heady indeed, because the wine, following the sherry, was strong within me, and I knew my voice was becoming loud and assertive and that I was nodding agreement to things that needed no assent.

  Not Caroline. She hardly touched her wine – the sneak! – but she was very busy guiding the conversation. We all missed Mother dreadfully, but we had to bear up and go on with life. That was what Mother would have wanted. She had been such a gay person; the last thing she would wish would be prolonged mourning. That is, she had been gay until five or six years ago. What had happened? Did Netty know? Mother had trusted Netty so, and of course she knew things that we were not thought old enough to know – certainly not when we had been quite small children, really. But that was long ago. We were older now.

  Netty was not to be drawn.

  Daddy was away so much. He couldn't avoid it, really, and the country needed him. Mummy must have felt the loneliness. Odd that she seemed to see so little of her friends during the last two or three years. The house had been gloomy. Netty must have felt it. Nobody came, really, except Dunstan Ramsay. But he was a very old friend, wasn't he? Hadn't Daddy and Mummy known him since before they were married?

  Netty was a little more forthcoming. Yes, Mr. Ramsay had been a Deptford boy. Much older than Netty, of course, but she heard a few things about him as she grew up. Always a queer one.

  Oh? Queer in what way? We had always remembered him coming to the house, so perhaps we didn't notice the queerness. Daddy always said he was deep and clever.

  I felt that as host I should get into this conversation – which was really more like a monologue by Caroline, punctuated with occasional grunts from Netty. So I told a few stories about Ramsay as a schoolmaster, and confided that his nickname was Buggerlugs.

  Netty said I should be ashamed to use a word like that in front of my sister.

  Caroline put on a face of modesty, and then said she thought Mr. Ramsay was handsome in a kind of scary way, like Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre, and she had always wondered why he never married.

  Maybe he couldn't get the girl he wanted, said Netty.

  Really? Caroline had never thought of that. Did Netty know any more? It sounded romantic.

  Netty said it had seemed romantic to some people who had nothing better to do than fret about it.

  Oh, Netty, don't tease! Who was it?

  Netty underwent some sort of struggle, and then said if anybody had wanted to know they had only to use their eyes.

  Caroline thought it must all have been terribly romantic when Daddy was young an
d just back from the war, and Mummy so lovely, and Daddy so handsome – as he Still was, didn't Netty think so?

  The handsomest man she had ever seen, said Netty, with vehemence.

  Had Netty ever seen him in those days?

  Well, said Netty, she had been too young to pay much heed to such things when the war ended. After all, she wasn't exactly Methuselah. But when Boy Staunton married Leola Cruikshank in 1924 she had been ten, and everybody knew it was a great love-match, and they were the handsomest pair Deptford had ever seen or was ever likely to see. Nobody had eyes for anyone but the bride, and she guessed Ramsay was like all the rest. After all, he had been Father's best man.

  Here Caroline pounced. Did Netty mean Mr. Ramsay had been in love with Mother?

  Netty was torn between her natural discretion and the equally natural desire to tell what she knew. Well, there had been those that said as much.

  So that was why he was always around our house! And why he had taken so much care of Mother when Father had to be away on war business. He was heart-broken but faithful. Caroline had never heard of anything so romantic. She thought Mr. Ramsay was sweet.

  This word affected Netty and me in different ways. Old Buggerlugs sweet! I laughed much louder and longer than I would have done if I had not had two glasses of Burgundy. But Netty snorted with disdain, and there was that in her burning eyes that showed what she thought of such sweetness.

  "Oh, but you'd never admit any man was attractive except Daddy," said Caroline. She even leaned over and put her hand on Netty's wrist.

  What did Caroline mean by that, she demanded.

  "It sticks out a mile. You adore him."

  Netty said she hoped she knew her place. It was a simple remark, but extremely old-fashioned for 1942, and if ever I have seen a woman ruffled and shaken, it was Netty as she said it.

  Caroline let things simmer down. Of course everybody adored Daddy. It was inescapable. He was so handsome, and attractive, and clever, and wonderful in every way that no woman could resist him. Didn't Netty think so?

  Netty guessed that was about the size of it.

  Later Caroline brought up another theme. Wasn't it extraordinary that Mother had taken that chill, when everybody knew it was the worst possible thing for her? How could those windows have been open on such a miserable day?

  Netty thought nobody would ever know.

  Did Netty mean Mother had opened them herself, asked Caroline, all innocence. But – she laid down her knife and fork – that would be suicide! And suicide was a mortal sin! Everybody at Bishop Cairncross's – yes, and at St. Simon Zelotes, where we went to church – was certain of that. If Mother had committed a mortal sin, were we to think that now -? That would be horrible! I swear that Caroline's eyes filled with tears.

  Netty was rattled. No, of course she meant nothing of the kind. Anyway that about mortal sins was just Anglican guff and she had never held with it. Never.

  But then, how did Mother's windows come to be open?

  Somebody must have opened them by mistake, said Netty. We'd never know. There was no sense going on about it. But her baby girl wasn't to think about awful things like suicide.

  Caroline said she couldn"t bear it, because it wasn't just Anglican guff, and everybody knew suicides went straight to Hell. And to think of Mummy -!

  Netty never wept, that I know of. But there was, on very rare occasions, a look of distress on her face which in another woman would have been accompanied by tears. This was such a time.

  Caroline leapt up and ran to Netty and buried her face in her shoulder. Netty took her out of the room and I was left amid the ruins of the feast. I thought another glass of Burgundy would be just the thing at that moment, but the butler had removed it, and I had not quite the brass to ring the bell, so I took another apple from the dessert plate and ate it reflectively all by myself. I could not make head or tail of what had been going on. When the apple was finished, I went to the drawing-room and sat down to listen to a hockey-game on the radio. But I soon fell asleep on the sofa.

  When I woke, the game was over and some dreary war news was being broadcast. I had a headache. As I went upstairs I saw a light under Caroline's door, and went in. She was in pyjamas, carefully painting her toe-nails red.

  "You'd better not let Netty catch you at that."

  "Thank you for your invaluable, unsought advice. Netty is no longer a problem in my life."

  "What have you two been hatching up?"

  "We have been reaching an understanding. Netty doesn't fully comprehend it yet, but I do."

  "What about?"

  "Dope! Weren't you listening at dinner? No, you weren't, of course. You were too busy Stuffing your face and guzzling booze to know what was happening."

  "I saw everything that happened. What didn't I see? Don't pretend to be so smart."

  "Netty opened up and made a few damaging admissions. That's what happened."

  "I didn't hear any damaging admissions. What are you talking about?"

  "If you didn't hear it was because you were drinking too much. Booze will be your downfall. Many a good man has gone to hell by the booze route, as Grandfather used to say. Didn't you hear Netty admit that she loves Father?"

  "What? She never said that!"

  "Not in so many words. But it was plain enough."

  "Well! She certainly has a crust!"

  "For loving Father? How refreshingly innocent you are! One of these days, if you remind me, I'll give you my little talk about the relation of the sexes. It's a lot more complicated than your low schoolboy mind can comprehend."

  "Oh, shut up! I'm older than you are. I know things you've never even heard of."

  "You probably mean about fairies. Old stuff, my poor boy!"

  "Carol, I'm going to have to swat you."

  "Putting me to silence by brute strength? Okay, Tarzan. Then you'll never hear the rest – which is also the best."

  "What?"

  "Do you acknowledge me as the superior mind?"

  "No. What do you know that makes you so superior?"

  "Just the shameful secret of your birth, that's all."

  "What!"

  "I have every reason to believe that you are the son of Dunstan Ramsay."

  "Me!"

  "You. Now I take a good look, in the light of my new information, you are quite a bit like him."

  "I am not! Listen, Carol, you just explain what you've said or I'll kill you!"

  "Lay a finger on me, dear brother, and I'll clam up and leave you forever in torturing doubt."

  "Is that what Netty said?"

  "Not in so many words. But you know my methods, Watson. Apply them. Now, attend very carefully. Daddy took Mummy away from Dunstan Ramsay and married her. Dunstan Ramsay went right on visiting this house as Trusted Friend. If you read more widely and intelligently you would know the role that Trusted Friend plays in all these affairs. Cast your mind back six years, to that awful Christmas. A quarrel. Daddy sweeps out in a rage. Ramsay remains. We are sent upstairs. Later we see Ramsay leave Mummy's bedroom, where she is in her nightie. We hear her call out, 'You don't love me.' A few hours later. Mummy tries to kill herself. You remember all that blood, that you couldn't keep your mouth shut about. Daddy isn't around home nearly so much after that, but Ramsay keeps coming. The obvious – the only – conclusion is that Daddy discovered Ramsay was Mummy's lover and couldn't bear it."

  "Carol, you turd! You utter, vile, maggoty, Stinking turd! How can you say that about Mother?"

  "I don't enjoy saying it, fathead. But Mummy was a very beautiful, attractive woman. Being rather in that line myself I understand the situation, and her feelings, as you never will. I know how passion drives people on. And I accept it. To know all is to forgive all."

  "You'll never get me to believe it."

  "Don't, then. I can't help what you believe. But if you don't believe that you certainly won't believe what came of it."

  "What?"

  "What's the good of my telling
you, if you don't want to hear?"

  "You've got to tell me. You can't just tell me part. I'm a member of this family too, you know. Come on. If you don't I'll get hold of Father next time he's home and tell him what you just said."

  "No you won't. That is one thing you will never do. Admit yourself to be Ramsay's son! Daddy would probably disinherit you. You'd have to go and live with Ramsay. You'd be branded as a bastard, a love-child, a merry-begot -"

  "Stop milking the dictionary, and tell me."

  "Okay. I am in a kindly mood, and I won't torture you. Netty killed Mummy."

  I must have looked very queer, for Caroline dropped her Torquemada manner and went on.

  "This is deduction, you understand, but deduction of a very superior kind. Consider: the orders were strict against Mummy getting a chill, so we must accept either that Mummy opened those windows herself or somebody else opened them, and the only person around who could have done it was Netty. If Mummy did it, she killed herself knowingly, and that would be suicide, and forgetting all that Netty so rightly calls Anglican guff are you ready to believe Mummy killed herself?"

  "But why would Netty do it?"

  "Love, dumb-bell. That tempest of passion of which you still know nothing. Netty loves Daddy. Netty has a very fierce, loyal nature. Mummy had deceived Daddy. Listen, do you know what she said to me, after we had left you hogging the wine? We talked a long time about Mummy, and she said, 'Everything considered, I think your mother's better out of it.' "

  "But that isn't admitting she killed anybody."

  "I am not simple. I put the question directly – or as directly as seemed possible in the rather emotional situation. I said, 'Netty, tell me truly, who opened the windows? Netty, darling, I'll never breathe it to a soul – did you do it, out of loyalty to Daddy?' She gave me the very queerest look she's ever given me – and there have been some dillies – and said, 'Caroline don't you ever breathe or hint any such terrible thing again!' "

  "Well, then, there you have it. She said she didn't."

  "She said no such thing! If she didn't, who did? Things make sense, Davey. There is nothing without an explanation. And that is the only explanation possible. She didn't say she hadn't done it. She chose her words carefully."