“Hello, Lady Antonia. How are you coping?”
“The minute we arrive in town I shall telephone Sir Ronald, whom I have known since he was in velveteen breeches, and demand an explanation. One is not accustomed to this kind of inconvenience, and if people like one do not use their influence to stem the tide of socialism that is ruining our country then we might as well start taking our orders directly from Moscow. Chivers! Make a note of that! I shall tell Sir Ronald in person, those very words. Orders directly from Moscow, girl! Come along! What is the matter with you?”
Chivers struggled with a notebook and pencil, her cheeks pink and shiny with drink, her brow knitted.
“Oh, dear old Ronnie, it seems a shame to bother him,” said Frankie, who seemed to be on familiar terms not only with the dowager and the chairman of the railway company, but also with most of the titled heads of Europe, at least if one were to believe his chatter. “He was so sweet to Mummy last year, after that business with Daddy and the Argentine chorus girl.”
“Well!” The dowager looked simultaneously shocked and eager. “So it was true, then.”
“Absolutely, my dear Lady Antonia. Every damn word of it.”
“How shockin’.”
“Yes, but you know Daddy. He was ever thus.”
“Ah yes, indeed he was. Your father was always a scapegrace.”
“And dear Ronnie… Well, of course, he’s always been sweet on Mummy, would have married her himself given half a chance, and a jolly good match it would have been too.”
“That’s no way to speak of your parents, young man,” said Lady Antonia—but she had a twinkle in her eye.
“I have every respect for my father, of course. At least, I have every respect for his wallet.”
“Your father is a very fine man indeed. He is distantly connected to the Stuart line.”
“As he never tires of telling me.”
“And thus may have a legitimate claim to the throne of England, should it ever become vacant.”
“You don’t say!” Frankie giggled. “Imagine! I could be a princess!”
“Well, really!”
Lady Antonia looked disgusted, and took a big sip of martini, almost dipping the tip of her beaklike nose in her drink. Frankie rolled his eyes and turned to us.
“You know, she’s really not as bad as she seems, old Antonia. She looks like a harridan, but she’s a dear old pussycat underneath that fierce exterior. Aren’t you, dear?”
“What am I?”
“A darling old pussycat.”
“Well, really!” Lady Antonia bridled; Chivers flinched, as if expecting a beating. “You are the most vexin’ young man I have ever encountered. How your poor Ma-mah copes I shall never know.” But there was color even in her carved-wax face, and something approaching a smile hovering around the corner of her mouth.
Frankie lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “Mad as a hatter, of course, with simply the most alarming political views. Got herself in with a group that calls itself the British Fascists. Ridiculous load of old bollocks, darling, they hate the wogs and the yids and the queers and the Bolshies, but nonetheless I hoped for a touch before we get very much further down the line. One has creditors popping out all over the place, and a few quid from the old bat would help no end.”
The little girls started jumping up and down, the youngest—who was seated in Frankie’s lap—landing rather heavily, which shut him up for a moment.
“Daddy!” they cried. “Daddy! Daddy!”
And there he was, Mr. Andrews, the serious, neat young father, with a face like thunder. He pushed the children away.
“For God’s sake, Christina, can’t you control them?”
His wife gathered the girls to her, and looked puzzled and hurt. What was he so angry about? I wondered about his mysterious liaison with Rhys, and my suspicions concerning their transactions in the lavatory. He certainly looked like a man with a guilty conscience. I stood, to allow him to sit with his family, just as
“The minute we arrive in town I shall telephone Sir Ronald, whom I have known since he was in velveteen breeches, and demand an explanation. One is not accustomed to this kind of inconvenience, and if people like one do not use their influence to stem the tide of socialism that is ruining our country then we might as well start taking our orders directly from Moscow. Chivers! Make a note of that! I shall tell Sir Ronald in person, those very words. Orders directly from Moscow, girl! Come along! What is the matter with you?”
Chivers struggled with a notebook and pencil, her cheeks pink and shiny with drink, her brow knitted.
“Oh, dear old Ronnie, it seems a shame to bother him,” said Frankie, who seemed to be on familiar terms not only with the dowager and the chairman of the railway company, but also with most of the titled heads of Europe, at least if one were to believe his chatter. “He was so sweet to Mummy last year, after that business with Daddy and the Argentine chorus girl.”
“Well!” The dowager looked simultaneously shocked and eager. “So it was true, then.”
“Absolutely, my dear Lady Antonia. Every damn word of it.”
“How shockin’.”
“Yes, but you know Daddy. He was ever thus.”
“Ah yes, indeed he was. Your father was always a scapegrace.”
“And dear Ronnie… Well, of course, he’s always been sweet on Mummy, would have married her himself given half a chance, and a jolly good match it would have been too.”
“That’s no way to speak of your parents, young man,” said Lady Antonia—but she had a twinkle in her eye.
“I have every respect for my father, of course. At least, I have every respect for his wallet.”
“Your father is a very fine man indeed. He is distantly connected to the Stuart line.”
“As he never tires of telling me.”
“And thus may have a legitimate claim to the throne of England, should it ever become vacant.”
“You don’t say!” Frankie giggled. “Imagine! I could be a princess!”
“Well, really!”
Lady Antonia looked disgusted, and took a big sip of martini, almost dipping the tip of her beaklike nose in her drink. Frankie rolled his eyes and turned to us.
“You know, she’s really not as bad as she seems, old Antonia. She looks like a harridan, but she’s a dear old pussycat underneath that fierce exterior. Aren’t you, dear?”
“What am I?”
“A darling old pussycat.”
“Well, really!” Lady Antonia bridled; Chivers flinched, as if expecting a beating. “You are the most vexin’ young man I have ever encountered. How your poor Ma-mah copes I shall never know.” But there was color even in her carved-wax face, and something approaching a smile hovering around the corner of her mouth.
Frankie lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “Mad as a hatter, of course, with simply the most alarming political views. Got herself in with a group that calls itself the British Fascists. Ridiculous load of old bollocks, darling, they hate the wogs and the yids and the queers and the Bolshies, but nonetheless I hoped for a touch before we get very much further down the line. One has creditors popping out all over the place, and a few quid from the old bat would help no end.”
The little girls started jumping up and down, the youngest—who was seated in Frankie’s lap—landing rather heavily, which shut him up for a moment.
“Daddy!” they cried. “Daddy! Daddy!”
And there he was, Mr. Andrews, the serious, neat young father, with a face like thunder. He pushed the children away.
“For God’s sake, Christina, can’t you control them?”
His wife gathered the girls to her, and looked puzzled and hurt. What was he so angry about? I wondered about his mysterious liaison with Rhys, and my suspicions concerning their transactions in the lavatory. He certainly looked like a man with a guilty conscience. I stood, to allow him to sit with his family, just as
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