England and in Malta. The Mallindaines lived for a long time in Malta.’
‘It sounds most interesting,’ said Letizia.
‘It is most interesting,’ said Hubert Mallindaine, and the words brought once more to mind his two aunts having passed the window on Lady Day. ‘It sounds most interesting,’ said the vicar who stood looking straight out from the bow-window with his hands in the pockets of his summer-grey clergyman’s suit, rocking to and fro from his heels to his toes, while his mother sat sewing in the window-seat. The aunts had passed, without hats, which was strange for ladies in Hubert’s childhood; their hair, moreover, was cut short, straight, grey and untidy. They were walking hand in hand, and his mother had finished explaining to the vicar that her sisters-in-law were convinced ‘Mallindaine’ was a corruption of ‘maligne Diane’. ‘Which is Old French,’ his mother said. The aunts had not cared to turn their heads towards them as they passed the window. ‘…on their way to Hampstead Heath; they do it every Lady Day,’ his mother said, still intent on her embroidery. ‘They light a bonfire and offer up prayers to the goddess Diana, and I expect there are other rites. They could be had up. Very eccentric. My poor husband could do nothing with them.’
‘It sounds most interesting,’ said the vicar.
‘I dare say it is most interesting,’ said his mother, ‘but it’s embarrassing for me, because of the boy.’
‘Have they means?’ said the vicar, gazing out on the sunny Hampstead pavement.
Hubert had a few letters referring to these aunts and their special eccentricity. He had come across the letters some yean ago, in Paris, while sorting the first batch of his papers for his memoirs. From that moment he had cultivated the fact of these long-neglected aunts, one of whom had died in the meantime, allowing their fantasy to grow upon him. It may be that in those days he had felt a premonition, even before he had any outward sign, of Maggie’s ultimate defection. Those were the years when he still had full control of Maggie’s mind and it was he who convinced her to acquire the houses at Nemi ‘where Diana, my ancestress, got laid by my ancestor the Roman Emperor’. It wasn’t every woman whose escort and protector could make such claims. Submissively and carelessly Maggie had acquired two of the houses at Nemi and had the third built to Hubert’s special stipulations; in the meantime she started an affair with a fine-looking young man who was a plain-clothes policeman and part-time actor, the very scourge of those other young men preferred by Hubert. She handed over the fretful details of the purchase of land and buildings at Nemi and had telephoned to Hubert from Rome in that special jargon used by people who at that time woke and took breakfast, as it might be, in Monte Carlo, flew to Venice for a special dinner, Milan next evening for the opera, Portugal for a game of golf and Gstaad for the week-end. ‘J’ai compris—toute à Nemi—un avocat…called Dante de Lafoucauld, yes, really.—What do you mean, “my policeman lover”, Hubert? Il était gendarme, c’est vrai mais, mais.…Well, darling, he’s handsome. I have to sleep with someone, je dois—ma vie.…Va bene, va bene, Hubert, ma cosa vuoi, tu? I tuoi ragazzi.…I don’t say a word about your boys, do I? Hubert, after all these years pensando che siamo sempre d’accordo.…Look, I have to go.…My maid has the luggage.…’ Maggie always travelled with her maid and now, for a short while, until the affair of course ended, with her policeman.
Hubert’s aunts, in the meantime, grew in the grace of his imagination. They sprouted ancestors before them, springing from nowhere into the ever more present past, until Hubert had a genealogy behind him. He started corresponding with the surviving aunt who in her poverty and dotage was greatly consoled by Hubert’s complicity in her life-long belief. He had brought
‘It sounds most interesting,’ said Letizia.
‘It is most interesting,’ said Hubert Mallindaine, and the words brought once more to mind his two aunts having passed the window on Lady Day. ‘It sounds most interesting,’ said the vicar who stood looking straight out from the bow-window with his hands in the pockets of his summer-grey clergyman’s suit, rocking to and fro from his heels to his toes, while his mother sat sewing in the window-seat. The aunts had passed, without hats, which was strange for ladies in Hubert’s childhood; their hair, moreover, was cut short, straight, grey and untidy. They were walking hand in hand, and his mother had finished explaining to the vicar that her sisters-in-law were convinced ‘Mallindaine’ was a corruption of ‘maligne Diane’. ‘Which is Old French,’ his mother said. The aunts had not cared to turn their heads towards them as they passed the window. ‘…on their way to Hampstead Heath; they do it every Lady Day,’ his mother said, still intent on her embroidery. ‘They light a bonfire and offer up prayers to the goddess Diana, and I expect there are other rites. They could be had up. Very eccentric. My poor husband could do nothing with them.’
‘It sounds most interesting,’ said the vicar.
‘I dare say it is most interesting,’ said his mother, ‘but it’s embarrassing for me, because of the boy.’
‘Have they means?’ said the vicar, gazing out on the sunny Hampstead pavement.
Hubert had a few letters referring to these aunts and their special eccentricity. He had come across the letters some yean ago, in Paris, while sorting the first batch of his papers for his memoirs. From that moment he had cultivated the fact of these long-neglected aunts, one of whom had died in the meantime, allowing their fantasy to grow upon him. It may be that in those days he had felt a premonition, even before he had any outward sign, of Maggie’s ultimate defection. Those were the years when he still had full control of Maggie’s mind and it was he who convinced her to acquire the houses at Nemi ‘where Diana, my ancestress, got laid by my ancestor the Roman Emperor’. It wasn’t every woman whose escort and protector could make such claims. Submissively and carelessly Maggie had acquired two of the houses at Nemi and had the third built to Hubert’s special stipulations; in the meantime she started an affair with a fine-looking young man who was a plain-clothes policeman and part-time actor, the very scourge of those other young men preferred by Hubert. She handed over the fretful details of the purchase of land and buildings at Nemi and had telephoned to Hubert from Rome in that special jargon used by people who at that time woke and took breakfast, as it might be, in Monte Carlo, flew to Venice for a special dinner, Milan next evening for the opera, Portugal for a game of golf and Gstaad for the week-end. ‘J’ai compris—toute à Nemi—un avocat…called Dante de Lafoucauld, yes, really.—What do you mean, “my policeman lover”, Hubert? Il était gendarme, c’est vrai mais, mais.…Well, darling, he’s handsome. I have to sleep with someone, je dois—ma vie.…Va bene, va bene, Hubert, ma cosa vuoi, tu? I tuoi ragazzi.…I don’t say a word about your boys, do I? Hubert, after all these years pensando che siamo sempre d’accordo.…Look, I have to go.…My maid has the luggage.…’ Maggie always travelled with her maid and now, for a short while, until the affair of course ended, with her policeman.
Hubert’s aunts, in the meantime, grew in the grace of his imagination. They sprouted ancestors before them, springing from nowhere into the ever more present past, until Hubert had a genealogy behind him. He started corresponding with the surviving aunt who in her poverty and dotage was greatly consoled by Hubert’s complicity in her life-long belief. He had brought
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