Читать книгу Cardboard Castle - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 13

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Yes, as I have admitted, I must confess that I liked Captain Bertie-Norton fairly well at first, though I can honestly say in defence of my powers of intuition, my social instincts and my judgment, that I did not like him very much, did not quite take to him, as they say.

Nor, curiously enough, did Anthony. He wasn’t, as a rule, particularly critical or censorious, and I never encouraged him when he was.

Usually, when any new visitor had departed and left us together, if neither of us could commend, we refrained from more than an exchange of a glance and a smile. Eyebrows rather than lips.

But with Captain Bertie-Norton, for some reason, we put our thoughts into words.

“Do you like that chap, Mr. Waring?”

“Do you?”

“Not very much.”

“No, nor I.”

It must have been the silly laugh that put us both off, I think, for there was nothing whatever wrong with his appearance, manner or speech.

As Anthony and I were sitting on the terrace at tea on a lovely June afternoon, Jenkins brought me a card on which was inscribed, Captain M. Bertie-Norton, the name of a Service Club and an address, presumably that of a West End flat.

“I told the gentleman that Her Ladyship was not at home, Sir,” began the butler, and I remember that this struck me as an interesting example of understatement, seeing that Her Ladyship was at the other side of the world. “But he particularly wanted to see somebody.”

“Do you know him by sight or name?” I asked.

“No, Sir. Never seen nor heard of the gentleman before.”

“Where is he?”

“In the drawing-room, Sir. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, as you might say, although I told him that neither Her Ladyship nor Sir Arthur was at home nor likely to be. Said he’d very much like to see Master Anthony.”

“And you, Sir,” added Jenkins.

“Me? I don’t know him.”

“No, Sir. But he having enquired as to whether Master Anthony was at school or at home, and when I said at home, he having enquired whether he had a governess, I enounced No, that he was in charge of a gentleman.”

“Well, I had better see him, then. He may have some business or other.”

And pushing back my chair, I rose, asked Anthony to excuse me for a moment, and made my way along the terrace and through a french-window into the drawing-room.

On the hearth-rug stood a tall well-dressed man contemplating with interest the portrait of Oliver Cromwell, painted from life by Sir Peter Lely; a valuable and somewhat famous picture which had been in Lady Calderton’s family for generations, her grandmother having been a Miss Fairfax, descendant of one of Cromwell’s Generals and stout brother-in-arms.

It was of this portrait that poor little Anthony, as he confessed to me, had lived in abject terror, a terror that returned to him even yet, in nightmares.

As Captain Bertie-Norton turned and eyed me, I suppose I should, if this were fiction, at once have noticed that his eyes were too closely set, his lips too thin, his expression either shifty or cruel. There should have been signs of dissipation about his face, or of seediness about his apparel.

But actually, there was nothing of the sort. If I took exception to anything at all, it was to a stare which was perhaps frank rather than hard, and to a slightly supercilious manner and tone of voice, as he said,

“Good afternoon. May I ask who you are?”

I can also stare and adopt a supercilious manner.

“Good afternoon. You may. I am Henry Waring, tutor to Anthony Calderton. And you?”

“Well, that doesn’t matter much” (to you, my worthy fellow, the intonation implied). “’Point of fact, I am a very old friend, indeed, of Lady Calderton.”

“Then doubtless you know that she is at Montiga with Sir Arthur.”

“’Point of fact, I didn’t know. Only just got back to England myself. Don’t correspond much. Not with anybody.”

“No,” said I unhelpfully, for it seemed foolish to say, “Can I send her any message?” as presumably the gentleman was quite competent to send his own messages; and equally foolish to observe that I was sorry he had missed her, as he had done so by some thousands of miles and a few months.

There was a perceptible pause during which we eyed each other. Almost warily, I was going to say, and yet there was no need for anything of the sort. I had no earthly reason to suppose he wasn’t exactly what he professed to be, a very old friend of the family, and particularly of Lady Calderton.

And yet I had a perfectly groundless and unreasonable feeling that there was something wrong. I should like here to give credit to my fine and perceptive intuition. “’Point of fact,” as Captain Bertie-Norton would say, it was probably nothing more nor less than pique at his attitude and manner of de haut en bas. After all, I wasn’t a servant, and he knew it.

“Dashed awkward,” observed Captain Bertie-Norton to himself.

Again I was unhelpful.

“’Point of fact, I was going to propose myself for a visit here.”

“Yes?” I said, still unhelpful.

“Yes. Ought to have written, but I had somehow got the idea that they were still at home. They were when I last wrote. Let’s see. How long ago would that be?”

“Afraid I don’t know,” I replied.

“Don’t know? Don’t know when they went away?”

“Don’t know when you last wrote,” I corrected.

A slight muscular movement was perceptible in Captain Bertie-Norton’s cheek, as though a pulse beat briefly.

Good. I had annoyed him as much as he had annoyed me. A childish triumph.

Of course, it was as he said, very awkward, if he had come expecting to receive a warm welcome and an invitation to stay for as long as he liked.

Nevertheless, I was not in a position to invite him to come and stay, even had I the slightest inclination to do so.

“How’s young Anthony?” he asked.

“Anthony is very well,” I replied.

“Then I would like to see him,” announced the visitor, and there was, of course, no reason why he should not do so.

“We are just at tea. Would you care to join us?” I said, without any particular warmth of hospitality.

“Yes,” replied Bertie-Norton, without any particular warmth of gratitude.

And turning, I led the way to where Anthony awaited me.

“Hul-lo, old chap. I suppose you don’t remember me, do you?” Bertie-Norton greeted the boy as he rose from his chair.

And I can honestly say that I did feel there was a definite note of the faux bonhomme in his voice.

Evidently it struck thus upon Anthony’s sensitive ear for, although his manners were usually super-excellent, he replied with a cold uncompromising,

“No, I don’t,” his manner being even less cordial than his words.

“No. No. Of course you wouldn’t,” agreed Bertie-Norton as he shook hands with Anthony. “Silly of me. Of course you were quite a nipper when I was here before.”

“A nipper,” murmured Anthony softly, savouring the word.

“’Point of fact, I don’t think you saw me.”

And in a manner that would have done credit, or discredit, to a man of experience, Anthony, looking our visitor in the eye, observed,

“I’m quite sure I should have remembered you, if I had ever seen you.”

And again the tone and manner added point to the words.

“No. Years ago. Years ago. Well, this is a disappointment. Quite a blow,” continued Bertie-Norton a little gustily, as he seated himself in my chair.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Anthony, and seemed to imply that our visitor was disappointed because Anthony did not remember him.

“I mean, missing your mother.”

“And my father,” said Anthony.

“Yes, I was going to propose myself for a nice long stay here. Sort of holiday I used to have here before I went abroad. Silly of me not to write.”

“Yes,” said Anthony. “But they’ll be home next year. You must write then. I think we had better have some fresh tea.”

“No, no. Not for me. Not for me. ’Point of fact, I seldom take tea,” Captain Bertie-Norton assured us.

“A whisky-and-soda?” suggested Anthony with adult courtesy.

“Ah! Now you’re talking. Just my idea of a good tea. Whisky-and-soda and an anchovy biscuit, followed by—what?” enquired the Captain, heavily avuncular.

“A headache?” enquired Anthony.

“No, a cigar. A whisky-and-soda, an anchovy biscuit and a good cigar, and then it’s ‘Thank God for my good tea, Amen.’”

And for the first time, we heard Captain Bertie-Norton’s irritating silly laugh.

It may be supposed that I was prejudiced against the man for whom I had entertained so sudden a dislike, but had I heard that guffaw without seeing its owner—or perhaps I should say producer—I should have been struck by its blatant inanity, its fatuous silliness.

In justice, I am bound to admit that it accorded but ill with the man’s appearance and general style.

I caught Anthony’s eye, and our faces remained expressionless.

Robert, our fresh-faced young footman, was hovering near in anticipation of orders for the replenishment of the tea-table. To him I signalled, and as he approached, informed him without comment that a decanter of whisky, a syphon of soda, anchovy biscuits and a box of cigars were required.

Captain Bertie-Norton amplified the order.

“Six biscuits. Butter them with salt butter, and lay three anchovies, royans à la Bordelaise, between each pair,” he directed.

“Yes, dashed awkward,” he observed once again as the footman departed. “’Point of fact, I had made all my arrangements accordingly. My flat’s let, so without unpacking my stuff, I came straight on down here, expecting to stay.”

“Most unfortunate,” agreed Anthony. “I am sure my mother will be sorry.”

“One thing, there’s plenty of room here,” continued Bertie-Norton, running his eye along the southern façade of the house which he faced as he sat.

And again I had a, probably foolish and groundless, suspicion that he was seeing it for the first time. Why I should have thought such a thing I don’t know, unless his glance had been one rather of inspection than recognition, as it were, and that I had connected it with the look he had cast over the gardens below the terrace, before he sat down with his back to them. That look, I reflected, had surely been one of observation rather than of remembrance.

“Room!” I said. “The house is empty, of course, and Anthony and I lurk in our own corner of it.”

“Wouldn’t mind lurking with you,” said Norton promptly. And, for the second time, we heard the laugh that to me was to become one of the most unpleasant of sounds.