Deck With Flowers Page 7

  “That’s what Claudius was wondering. Oliver doesn’t think it matters; he says if people ever get a chance to read the memoirs, they’ll be too deeply interested to stop and ponder about inaccuracies.”

  “Oliver? Oh, that’s Oliver Tallent. Straight out of Madame Tussaud’s.”

  “Rubbish. Oliver’s all right.”

  “That’s just what he said about you, when I remarked that I didn’t think you should have taken off for America for a whole month, leaving Madame Landini without her park patrolman. He said in that warm, excitable, enthusiastic manner of his that you were doing wonders over there, promoting the book. Why does he change his women so frequently? I had to go to his house twice, with typescript, and each time there was a different woman in residence. What attracts them?”

  “He does.”

  “Not for long, apparently.”

  “No girl has ever left him. He—”

  “—throws them out, the way my mother threw you?”

  “He’s a bad judge of women, that’s all. He always hopes that a girl he likes will—”

  “—stick, but she doesn’t?”

  “Will you allow me to—”

  “Present his softer side? Go ahead.”

  “He wants to find a wife and settle down, but the type he chooses doesn’t seem interested in settling down. None of his girl friends has any nest-building qualities.”

  “Not qualities. Instincts.”

  “Instincts. So that’s what keeps happening—he starts something, and the thing folds.”

  “How did two men as different as you and O. Tallent ever get to be friends?”

  “Our families live within a mile of each other in Cornwall. We went to the same schools and we were up at Oxford together. Then he became a literary agent and asked me to join him, but when I came to London to see D. S. Claud, he offered me a job in his firm.”

  “And, still warm with gratitude, you took it?”

  “You might put it that way.”

  “How else would . . . You can’t go down that street—it’s one-way.”

  “I wasn’t going to go down it. I just stopped to look at it. I’ve got an uncle living in that house—Victoria Lodge.”

  She turned to look at him in surprise.

  “That’s Sir Julian Mull’s house—is he your uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t tell people. They might think it ran in the family.”

  “You think he’s crazy?”

  “Would you rather I called him eccentric?”

  “Much rather. Did you go to his house and get water thrown at you?”

  “No, but I know people who did. I’ve seen him around. He does his shopping in our district. Everybody knows who he is, and if you think it isn’t crazy for a man of his age to go out in weather like this, for instance, without even a coat, and if you think it’s merely eccentric to empty jugs of water on to harmless people who knock on his door—”

  “He only gets annoyed if they go on knocking. He’s not deaf; if he wanted to answer the door, then he would, wouldn’t he? If he doesn’t, why should he let people go on hammering and battering?”

  “Why does he stay in that great house all by himself?”

  “He can’t afford servants.”

  “Afford! Just think what the house must be worth! He could sell it and live in comfort in some nice, small—”

  “He sold it years ago. The family lawyers bought it and they let him live in it rent free. He couldn’t move to a smaller house. He needs large rooms.”

  “What for?”

  “Would you like to go and see?”

  “What about that coffee?”

  “It’ll keep. As a matter of fact, I’d rather like a word with him, if he lets us in and I can talk to him. He was out in India all his working life, in the Indian Civil Service, and he might be able to tell me where I heard the name Hardanipur.”

  “He’s Madame Landini’s Maharajah.”

  “Yes, he is. When she first mentioned his name, I had an idea I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t think where. If I heard my uncle mention it, it must have been in my extreme youth, because he and my father quarrelled when I was about four or five, and he hasn’t been down to Cornwall since then. And I hadn’t set eyes on him until I came to live at Brighton and looked him up.”

  “Did he throw water on you?”

  “Yes, the first time. After that, I got clever at dodging.”

  He started the car and turned down the next street and then at the end of it turned again to approach his uncle’s house.

  “Why hasn’t he got any money?” Nicola asked, as he stopped the car at the gate.

  “He lost it. He thought up a scheme to double his capital, and the scheme backfired, and then he wrote to my mother to tell her he’d discovered the flaw in his scheme, and could now make her rich and get his own money back too. My father was at sea; by the time he’d got her letter telling him she’d handed over her money, it was too late to do anything. My father never forgave him.”

  “Did your mother?”

  “Yes. Her only complaint was that he sold all the furniture that was in this house without giving her a chance to buy any of it. She and my uncle were both born and brought up in the house, and she would have liked to see some of the stuff in our house in Cornwall. She’s a bit vague in some ways; I don’t think she ever realised quite how much money he’d poured down the drain—but my father knew. He and my uncle had a row which stopped just short of a shooting match, and after that, Uncle Julian passed out of our lives. My mother hasn’t seen him since the row. When I was living here, she came up and paid me a visit and tried to see him, but he wouldn’t let her in until she brought a written retraction from my father of all the harsh things he’d said. She was sorry not to get another look at the inside of the house.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Far from social, but not anti-social like Uncle Julian. She gets busy on odd things like pollination experiments and crossbreeding. At the moment she’s keeping Chinese geese.”

  He got out and opened the gate and then drove the car to the front door. Before he could knock, a window on the ground floor opened and a head was thrust out.

  “What the devil d’you mean by driving in? Clear out, d’you hear?”

  “I’ve brought a beautiful girl to see you.”

  “Then take her away.”

  Nicola had left the car and was standing beside Rodney, studying with frank interest the thin, lined, angry face at the window.

  “What are you staring at?” Sir Julian asked irritably. “I suppose you think I’m off my head?”

  “Rodney said you weren’t. How about proving it, one way or the other?”

  “Eh?”

  “I said—”

  “Come round the back,” Sir Julian ordered.

  He unlocked the back door to admit them. He was wearing a pair of shapeless corduroy trousers and a warm sweater. From the front, he looked totally bald; when he turned, his stringy grey hair could be seen springing from the top of his head and straggling down to his collar.

  He led them into a room which, once a commodious kitchen, had been turned into a living room. A small electric fire stood on the outdated range; in spite of this, the room temperature was lower than that in Rodney’s rooms in London. Near the fire was a low, cushioned cane chair. The dresser, bare of plates, now held rows of heavy books. On the table lay the remains of a meal: bread, cheese, yoghurt, sliced onions, unsliced tomatoes and a jug of coffee.

  “Instant,” Nicola said, bending over to smell it. “If you had any coffee beans, I could show you—”

  “I have no coffee beans and I do not require to be shown anything, and I’d rather you didn’t touch those books.”

  She had taken down a large volume.

  “Religions of the World,” she read, and opened it. “Look, gods. Hindu gods.”

  “Wrong,” snapped Sir Julian. “You’re looking at Lakshmi, the goddess—not
the god—of prosperity.”

  “Did you ever see a nicer hat?” Nicola turned a page. “And look, another heavenly hat. Oh, and look at this one—two heads and two lovely hats.”

  Sir Julian took the volume from her and replaced it with its fellows.

  “She can’t get her mind off hats,” he growled. “Rodney, take her away.”

  “Certainly. But while we’re on India, I have a question.”

  “Well, out with it.”

  “Would it have been from you that I heard, in the distant past, the name Hardanipur?”

  His uncle stared at him for a few seconds in the utmost amazement. Then he spoke angrily.

  “No. Certainly not. Absolutely not. I am quite certain I never mentioned the name in your hearing, or in your parents’ either.”

  “You wouldn’t by any chance know the Maharajah of Hardanipur?”

  “What d’you want to know for?”

  “Just curiosity. He’s connected with one of our authors. You knew him?”

  It was clear that Sir Julian was debating whether to pursue the subject, or close it. He spoke reluctantly.

  “I knew him probably better than any other Englishman did. I was Resident at Hardanipur for a time.”

  “Resident?” Nicola repeated inquiringly.

  “Don’t you know what a Resident was?”

  “No. I’m not even sure what a Maharajah is.”

  “Then you’re not very well-informed. A Maharajah means great prince or great ruler. I suppose you understand that I’m talking of the days when the British ruled India?”

  “Now that you’ve told me, I do. So what’s a Resident?”

  “He was a member of the Political Department of the Indian Civil Service who was sometimes appointed by the British to live in a native State and keep an eye on political and financial matters. If you’re going to think of the Maharajahs of those days, you’ve got to think of them in terms of royalty. They were chiefs who had pretty well complete control of all that went on within their boundaries, and when I speak of boundaries, you can think of some States as half the size of Wales. The Maharajahs held court, and they held durbars from time to time, to entertain visiting potentates or, it may be, the Viceroy. Their private spending was their own affair, unless it outran the bounds of reason—but they had to keep their hands off the State revenue and the State regalia and the State jewels. Are you following me?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Maharajah of Hardanipur was one of the most important princes. He was entitled to a salute of fifteen guns. This was reduced, in my time, to ten.”

  “Why?” Rodney asked.

  “Long story, and none of your business. And it’s all dead and gone.”

  “If it’s all dead and gone, then how does this Maharajah come to have so many millions?” Nicola asked.

  “By being more far-seeing than his fellow-princes. He was clever enough, cunning enough, if you like, to make an early switch from native prince to merchant prince. He made his own estimate of what was going to happen when the British left, and he began to build his own empire. Today, he and his sons are joint owners of an industrial kingdom, and because it’s a family concern, it’s got a unity and cohesion and togetherness that no joint stock company ever managed to attain. It had a good start, of course—some twenty millions which he’d managed to get out of Hardanipur.”

  “A crook?” Rodney asked.

  “It depends who’s talking. In my view, he’s a splendid chap. But if you ever come across him, I’d rather you didn’t mention my name. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now don’t let me keep you.”

  “There’s one thing more. Couldn’t you show Nicola—”

  “No. Didn’t I tell you from the start that I wouldn’t have you bringing a string of your friends down here and expecting me to let them loose round the place?”

  “Have I ever brought anybody before?”

  “No.”

  “Then treat this as a special case.”

  Sir Julian hesitated. Then he turned and went abruptly out of the room, motioning to them to follow. He went through a large, empty, marble-floored hall, stopped at a door on the far side, waited for the others to catch up with him, and then unlocked it.

  There were three long rooms opening into one another. All the windows along one side reached to the floor, and all over-looked the sea—but nobody entering could have looked at the view. There was no furniture, and all the doors had been removed. On the parquet floor, stretching through the three rooms and curving out of sight into other rooms unseen, were railway lines. They ran straight, they curved, they went over hills and into valleys, disappeared into tunnels and came out again, branching, crossing, recrossing. In sidings stood a dozen trains, freight or passenger, their engines gleaming, varying in type from early locomotives to the latest streamlined models. All were over two feet in length. A small kitten could have travelled comfortably in one of the freight cars. There were stations and signals, mail vans and cattle trucks and sleeping cars. The only floor space not covered with lines or stations were the spaced oblongs designed to allow Sir Julian to step without displacing the track.

  Nicola, speechless, stood and stared. Then she turned to Sir Julian, to find that he had forgotten her. He had stepped to a wall on which was a large, complicated switchboard topped by a clock. He was checking the time by his own watch.

  “Got to send off the Bombay Mail,” he muttered.

  He pulled a lever. The Bombay Mail moved slowly, gathered speed and travelled unerringly along its complicated route. The pace was even, the curves rounded with steadiness and safety.

  “Madras Mail’s late. Been trouble down there,” he said. “Line damaged for a time.”

  The Madras Mail set off, its driver clearly determined to make up time. It raced through tunnels and outstripped the Delhi Express, which had been sent on its journey. The Darjeeling Mail moved out of its siding, took a wide circle round the room, went through a doorway and began to climb a realistic mountain built on one side of a staircase. Reaching the top, it moved along one of the stairs to the mountain on the other side, and began its descent. The Mount Everest Funicular went straight up the track built on the stairs, and stopped at Camp Two.

  “That’s as far as I’ve taken it,” Sir Julian explained. “I wanted to finish a new route I’ve got running across the Sind Desert. Time you went,” he proceeded without pause. “Shut all the doors as you go and don’t go chattering about this to your friends. I won’t be treated like a zoo.”

  They left him adjusting his timetables.

  “Well, crazy or eccentric?” Rodney asked as they drove away.

  “I can see where all the money went. Those engines...”

  “Yes. Expensive. He has them specially made up in Darlington.”

  “How did you get in in the first place?”

  “I climbed in through a back window. I’d gone to see him two or three times; the third time, there was dead silence, so I got in to see if he was all right. He was. Then one day I saw him out walking on the sea front. He’d stopped and was gazing out to sea and it occurred to me that there he was, able to see miles of sea from his house, and perhaps it would give him an interest to watch the shipping. So I drove to my room, fetched my telescope and rigged it up in one of his upper windows. He never mentioned it, and neither did I; I don’t know whether he uses it or not. I thought I was giving him a nice hobby; I had not the slightest idea he studied world religions or owned a railway system.”

  He stopped the car at the door of Number 12A and stood beside Nicola as she got out her latchkey.

  “I think I’d better say goodbye,” he said. “If you give me your phone number, I’ll be able to get hold of you if anything develops.”

  “We came here for coffee. Are you frightened of my mother?”

  “I don’t want to pull the switch again. Incidentally, if Madame Landini decides to continue, can you get out of this job you’ve fixe
d up?”

  She opened the door.

  “Deliveries? That’s not a job. I just help out whenever I’m home.”

  “Your mother said you had another job.”

  She stopped to stare at him, but he thought it too cold to pursue the topic on the doorstep. He repeated the statement when he was following her up the steep stairway.

  “She said you’d taken another job.”

  “That was to make sure you didn’t come back.” She raised her voice and called, but there was no reply. “She’s out, but I make coffee almost as well as she does. We usually talk French or German; which do you prefer?”

  “English. I always feel—”

  He stopped abruptly. He had reached the top of the stairs and was looking round the living room. She turned to take his coat and saw on his face an expression she was unable to identify.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  He did not answer. To speak would have meant trying to explain that here, at last, was his dream of the perfect home: simple, within his means, spotless, comfortable . . . homelike. His eyes took in the plain wooden floor, mirror-bright, the low chairs, the neat bookshelves, the fresh flowers by the window, the snowy curtains.

  “I like this house,” he said inadequately at last.

  “It’s only half a house. I used to be sorry we couldn’t see the sea—it seemed silly to be living on the coast and see nothing but houses all round. But you can hear the sea. Not often; at night, and sometimes during the day when there’s a minute or two without traffic noises. In the silence, you can hear the sea.” She opened a door. “Come into the kitchen and sit down while I get things ready.”

  He sat on a wooden chair, on the seat of which was tied a blue cushion. He watched coffee being taken from a jar and ground in an electric mill. When she opened cupboards, he saw neat rows of stores or crockery; in the refrigerator stood lines of plastic containers. This was a home, he thought, a place poised between the extremes of his father’s battleship order and the mess that Angela called a lived-in look.

  He carried the tray into the living room. As he set it down on the table, he heard the sound of a latchkey. Nicola came in holding a third cup, and called down the stairs.

  “Hot coffee to warm you up,” she said. “And a visitor.” She waited for her mother to reach the top. “Rodney Laird.”