Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [85]
Norah was not prepared to be saddled with an admiration for Murtlock.
‘I wasn’t keen on Fiona’s last lot of friends. I’ve been saying for ages she’s hung about much too long doing that sort of thing. If she wants to get married, I’m glad it’s an American. It will give her the chance of a new kind of life, if she goes to live there. Somebody said you knew him, Nick?’
‘Yes, I know him.’
There was no point in trying to explain Gwinnett to Norah. In any case, given the most favourable circumstances, I was not sure I could explain him to anyone, including myself. The attempt was not demanded, because we were joined by Umfraville, carrying his rubber-tipped stick in one hand, a very full glass of champagne in the other. As prelude to an impersonation of some sort, he raised the glass.
‘Here’s to the wings of love,
May they never lose a feather,
Till your little shoes, and my big boots,
Stand outside the door together.’
Hugo held up a hand.
‘We don’t want a scandal, Dicky, after all these years as brothers-in-law.’
Before Umfraville could further elaborate whatever form of comic turn contemplated, his own attention was taken up by a grey-haired lady touching his arm.
‘Hullo, Dicky.’
Umfraville clearly possessed not the least idea who was accosting him. The lady, smartly dressed, though by no means young, might at the same time have been ten years short of Umfraville’s age. She was tall, pale, distinguished in appearance, very sad.
‘I’m Flavia.’
‘Flavia.’
Carefully balancing his stick and champagne, Umfraville embraced her.
‘How horrid of you not to recognize me.’
Umfraville swept that aside.
‘Flavia, this is an altogether unexpected delight. Does your presence at our nephew’s wedding mean that you and I are now related – in consequence of the marriage of these young people? How much I hope that, Flavia.’
The grey-haired lady – Stringham’s sister – laughed a rather tinkly laugh.
‘Dicky, you haven’t changed at all.’
Flavia Wisebite – it was to be assumed she still bore the name of her American second husband, Harrison Wisebite (like Veronica Tolland’s first, alcoholic, long departed) – laughed again tremulously. Her own affiliations with Umfraville dated back to infinitely distant days; Kenya, the Happy Valley, surroundings where, according to Umfraville himself – he had emphasized with a certain complacency his own caddishness in revealing the information – he had been the first to seduce her. That possibility was more credible than Umfraville’s follow-up, that he (rather than the reprehensible Cosmo Flitton, married to Flavia not long after) could be true father of Flavia’s daughter, Pamela. Pamela Flitton, it might be thought, carried all the marks of being Cosmo Flitton’s daughter. Age had done little or nothing to impair Umfraville’s capacities for routine banter, if he happened to be in the right mood. He continued to press the possibility of a remote family tie emerging from the Cutts/Akworth union that would connect Flavia Wisebite with himself.
‘Bride or bridegroom? Come on, Flavia. I want to be able to introduce you as my little cousin.’
‘No good, Dicky. I’m not a blood relation. I’m Clare Akworth’s godmother. Her mother’s a dear friend of mine. We live in cottages almost next door to each other, practically in walking distance of Stourwater.’
Flavia Wisebite began to narrate her past history to Umfraville in her rapid trembling voice; how nervous diseases had prostrated her, she had been in and out of hospital, was now cured. In spite of that assurance she still seemed in a highly nervous state. Umfraville, less tough in certain respects than in his younger days, was beginning to look rather upset himself at all this. No doubt he felt sorry for Flavia, but had reached a time of life when, if he came to a wedding, he hoped not to be harassed by having poured into his ears the troubles of a former mistress. His face became quite drawn as he listened. I should have been willing to escape myself, scarcely knowing