Read Online Corridors of Power by C. P. Snow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. P. Snow
Tags: Corridors of Power
Ads: Link
‘he’s no good. And we can’t afford him.’
She glanced at Caro with appraising eyes, at a pretty woman twenty years younger than herself, at a pretty woman as tough as herself, at an ally.
‘I can tell you this,’ Diana added sharply, ‘Reggie Collingwood is certain that we can’t afford him.’
It ought to have been good news. After an instant, Caro frowned.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got no special use for Reggie,’ she said.
‘Listen,’ said Diana, ‘you have got to be careful. And Roger, of course. But you have got to be very careful.’
If I had not been there, she would have said more. A few minutes later we went in to lunch.
As for me, until after dinner on the Sunday night, I remained half-mystified. The hours seeped away, punctuated by meals; I might have been on an ocean crossing, wondering why I hadn’t taken an aircraft. The rain beat down, the windows streamed, the horizon was a couple of fields away; it was, in fact, singularly like being on a ship in gloomy, but not rough, weather.
I did not get a word with Roger alone. Even with Margaret, I managed to speak only in our own rooms. She was having more than her share of the philosophy of Lord Bridgewater, while in the great drawing-room of Basset, in various subsidiary drawing-rooms, in the library, I found myself occupied with Mrs Henneker.
She was nothing like so brassy as I had previously known her. When she discovered me alone in the library on Saturday afternoon, she still looked dense, but her confidence had oozed away. The curious thing was, she was outfaced. Through the misted window, we watched Diana and Caro stepping it out along the drive in mackintoshes and hoods, taking their exercise in the drenching rain.
‘The rich think they can buy anything ,’ said Mrs Henneker heavily. The mana of Diana’s wealth was too much for her, just as it might have been for my relatives or my old friends or others really poor. There was a certain irony, I thought. Mrs Henneker herself must have been worth a hundred thousand pounds or so.
Mrs Henneker did not listen to any repartee of mine. But she had a use for me. Perhaps under the provocation of the Basset opulence, her purpose had crystallized. She was going to write that biography of her husband, and I could be of minor assistance.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I’ve never done any writing, I’ve never had the time. But my friends always tell me that I write the most amusing letters. Of course, I should want a bit of help with the technique. I think the best thing would be for me to send you the first chapters when I’ve finished them. Then we can really get down to work.’
She had obsessive energy, and she was methodical. On the Sunday morning, while most of the house-party, Roger among them, went to church, cars squelching on the muddy gravel, she brought me a synopsis of her husband’s life. After the drawn-out luncheon, Diana’s neighbours staying until after tea, Mrs Henneker got hold of me again, and told me with triumph that she had already written the first two paragraphs, which she would like me to read.
When at last I got up to my dressing-room, light was streaming in from our bedroom and Margaret called out. I’d better hurry, she said. I replied that I had been with Mrs Henneker: she found my experience funnier than I did. As I pulled off my coat, she called out again: ‘Caro’s brother seems to have stirred up the dovecotes.’
She had been hearing about it after tea. At last I understood one of Cave’s obliquities the morning before. For Caro’s brother was called, not only by his family but by acquaintances, ‘Sammikins’. He was also Lord Houghton, a Tory MP, young and heterodox. Recently, Margaret and I recalled, he had published a short book on Anglo-Indian relations. Neither of us had read it, but the newspapers had splashed it about. From the reviews, it seemed to be anti-Churchill, pro-Nehru, and passionately proGandhi. It sounded a curious book for a
She glanced at Caro with appraising eyes, at a pretty woman twenty years younger than herself, at a pretty woman as tough as herself, at an ally.
‘I can tell you this,’ Diana added sharply, ‘Reggie Collingwood is certain that we can’t afford him.’
It ought to have been good news. After an instant, Caro frowned.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got no special use for Reggie,’ she said.
‘Listen,’ said Diana, ‘you have got to be careful. And Roger, of course. But you have got to be very careful.’
If I had not been there, she would have said more. A few minutes later we went in to lunch.
As for me, until after dinner on the Sunday night, I remained half-mystified. The hours seeped away, punctuated by meals; I might have been on an ocean crossing, wondering why I hadn’t taken an aircraft. The rain beat down, the windows streamed, the horizon was a couple of fields away; it was, in fact, singularly like being on a ship in gloomy, but not rough, weather.
I did not get a word with Roger alone. Even with Margaret, I managed to speak only in our own rooms. She was having more than her share of the philosophy of Lord Bridgewater, while in the great drawing-room of Basset, in various subsidiary drawing-rooms, in the library, I found myself occupied with Mrs Henneker.
She was nothing like so brassy as I had previously known her. When she discovered me alone in the library on Saturday afternoon, she still looked dense, but her confidence had oozed away. The curious thing was, she was outfaced. Through the misted window, we watched Diana and Caro stepping it out along the drive in mackintoshes and hoods, taking their exercise in the drenching rain.
‘The rich think they can buy anything ,’ said Mrs Henneker heavily. The mana of Diana’s wealth was too much for her, just as it might have been for my relatives or my old friends or others really poor. There was a certain irony, I thought. Mrs Henneker herself must have been worth a hundred thousand pounds or so.
Mrs Henneker did not listen to any repartee of mine. But she had a use for me. Perhaps under the provocation of the Basset opulence, her purpose had crystallized. She was going to write that biography of her husband, and I could be of minor assistance.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I’ve never done any writing, I’ve never had the time. But my friends always tell me that I write the most amusing letters. Of course, I should want a bit of help with the technique. I think the best thing would be for me to send you the first chapters when I’ve finished them. Then we can really get down to work.’
She had obsessive energy, and she was methodical. On the Sunday morning, while most of the house-party, Roger among them, went to church, cars squelching on the muddy gravel, she brought me a synopsis of her husband’s life. After the drawn-out luncheon, Diana’s neighbours staying until after tea, Mrs Henneker got hold of me again, and told me with triumph that she had already written the first two paragraphs, which she would like me to read.
When at last I got up to my dressing-room, light was streaming in from our bedroom and Margaret called out. I’d better hurry, she said. I replied that I had been with Mrs Henneker: she found my experience funnier than I did. As I pulled off my coat, she called out again: ‘Caro’s brother seems to have stirred up the dovecotes.’
She had been hearing about it after tea. At last I understood one of Cave’s obliquities the morning before. For Caro’s brother was called, not only by his family but by acquaintances, ‘Sammikins’. He was also Lord Houghton, a Tory MP, young and heterodox. Recently, Margaret and I recalled, he had published a short book on Anglo-Indian relations. Neither of us had read it, but the newspapers had splashed it about. From the reviews, it seemed to be anti-Churchill, pro-Nehru, and passionately proGandhi. It sounded a curious book for a
Similar Books
