Brideshead Revisited(21)

‘Well, I’m in business, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I had a cousin who was in business — you wouldn’t know him; it was before your time. I was telling Charles about him only the other night. He has been much in my mind. He came,’ my father paused to give full weight to the bizarre word — ‘a cropper.’

Jorkins giggled nervously. My father fixed him with a look of reproach.

‘You find his misfortune the subject of mirth? Or perhaps the word I used was unfamiliar; you no doubt would say that he “folded up”.’

My father was master of the situation. He had made a little fantasy for himself, that Jorkins should I be an American and throughout the evening he played a delicate one-sided parlour-game with him, explaining any peculiarly English terms that occurred in the conversation, translating pounds into dollars and courteously deferring to him with such phrases as ‘Of course, by your standards…’; ‘All this must seem very parochial to Mr Jorkins’; ‘In the vast spaces to which you are accustomed…’ so that my guest was left with the vague sense that there was a misconception somewhere as to his identity, which he never got the chance of explaining. Again and again during dinner he sought my father’s eye, thinking to read there the simple statement that this form of address was an elaborate joke, but met instead a look of such mild benignity that he was left baffled.

Once I thought my father had gone too far, when he said: ‘I am afraid that, living in London, you must sadly miss your national game.’

‘My national game?’ asked Jorkins, slow in the uptake, but scenting that here, at last, was the opportunity for clearing the matter up.

My father glanced from him to me and his expression changed from kindness to malice then back to kindness again as he turned once more to Jorkins. It was the look of a gambler who lays down fours against a full house. ‘Your national game,’ he said gently, ‘cricket,’ and he snuffled uncontrollably, shaking all over and wiping his eyes with his napkin. ‘Surely, working in the City, you find your time on the cricket-field, greatly curtailed?’

At the door of the dining-room he left us. ‘Good night, Mr Jorkins,’ he said. ‘I hope you will pay us another visit when you next “cross the herring pond”.’

‘I say, what did your governor mean by that?’ He seemed almost to think I was, American.’

‘He’s rather odd at times.’

‘I mean all that about advising me to visit Westminster Abbey. It seemed rum.’

‘Yes. I can’t quite explain.’

‘I almost thought he was pulling my leg,’ said Jorkins in puzzled tones.



My father’s counter-attack was delivered a few days later. He sought me out and said, ‘Mr Jorkins is still here?’

‘No, father, of course not. He only came to dinner.’

‘Oh, I hoped he was staying with us. Such a versatile young man. But you will be dining in?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am giving a little dinner party to diversify the rather monotonous series of your evenings at home. You think Mrs Abel is up to it? No. But our guests are not exacting. Sir Cuthbert and Lady Orme-Herrick are what might be called the nucleus. I hope for a little music afterwards. I have included in the invitations some young people for you.’

My presentiments of my father’s plan were surpassed by the actuality. As the guests assembled in the room which my father, without self-consciousness, called ‘the Gallery’, it was plain to me that they had been carefully chosen for my discomfort. The ‘young people’ were Miss Gloria Orme-Herrick a student of the cello; her fiancé, a bald young man .from the British Museum; and a monoglot Munich publisher. I saw my father snuffling at me from behind a case of ceramics as he stood with them. That evening he wore, like a chivalric badge of battle, a small red rose in his buttonhole.

Dinner was long and chosen, like the guests, in a spirit of careful mockery. It was not of Aunt Philippa’s choosing, but had been reconstructed from a much earlier period, long before he was of an age to dine downstairs. The dishes were ornamental in appearance and regularly alternated in colour between red and white. They and the wine were equally tasteless. After dinner my father led the German publisher to the piano and then, while he played, left the drawing-room to show Sir Cuthbert Orme-Herrick the Etruscan bull in the gallery.

It was a gruesome evening, and I was astonished to find, when at last the party broke up, that it was only a few minutes after eleven. My father helped himself to a glass of barley-water and said: ‘What very dull friends I have! You know, without the spur of your presence I should never have roused myself to invite them. I have been very negligent about entertaining lately. Now that you are paying me such a long visit, I will have many such evenings. You liked Miss Gloria Orme-Herrick?’

‘No.’

‘No? Was it her little moustache you objected to or her very large feet? Do you think she enjoyed herself.’

‘No.’

‘That was my impression also. I doubt if any of our guests will count this as one of their happiest evenings. That young foreigner played atrociously, I thought. Where can I have met him? And Miss Constantia Smethwick — where can I have met her? But the obligations of hospitality must be observed. As long as you are here, you shall not be dull.’