The Valley of Bones - Anthony Powell [58]
‘Di, Di, in her collar and tie …’
I had not set eyes on Umfraville since that occasion, but he seemed determined that we were the oldest of friends. I tried to recall what I knew of him: service in the earlier war with the Foot Guards, I could not remember which; some considerable reputation as gentleman-rider; four wives. Like many men who have enjoyed a career of more than usual dissipation, he had come to look notably distinguished in middle years, figure slim, eyes bright, face brown with Kenya sun. This bronzed skin, well brushed greying hair emphasised the blue of his eyes, which glistened like Peter Templer’s, as Sergeant Pendry’s had done before his disasters. I could not recall whether or not Umfraville’s moustache was an addition. If so, it scarcely altered him at all. His face, in repose, possessed that look of innate sadness which often marks the features of those habituated to the boundless unreliability of horses. I asked him how he was employed in the army.
‘On the staff of London District, old boy.’
He spoke with an exaggerated dignity, squaring his chest and coming to attention. Frederica, who was handing round drinks, now joined us. Once more she began to laugh helplessly.
‘Dicky’s got a very grand job,’ she said, ‘haven’t you?’
She slipped her arm through Umfraville’s. This was unheard-of licence for Frederica, something to be regarded as indicating decay of all the moral and social standards she had defended so long.
‘It’s certainly one of the bigger stations,’ Umfraville agreed modestly.
‘Of course it is, darling.’
‘And should lead to promotion,’ he said.
‘Without doubt.’
‘Collecting the tickets perhaps.’
‘Dicky is an RTO,’ said Frederica.
She was quite unable to control her laughter, which seemed not so much attributable to the thought of Umfraville being a Railway Transport Officer, as to the sheer delight she took in him for himself.
‘He’s got a cosy little office at one of those North London stations,’ she said. ‘I can never remember which, but I’ve visited him there. I say, Dicky, we’d better tell Nick, hadn’t we?’
‘About us?’
‘Yes.’
‘The fact is,’ said Umfraville speaking slowly and with gravity, ‘the fact is Frederica and I are engaged.’
Isobel came through the door at that moment, so the impact of this unexpected piece of news was to some extent lessened by other considerations immediately presenting themselves. Then and there, no more was said than a few routine congratulations, with further gigglings from Frederica. Isobel looked pale, though pretty well. I had not seen her for months, it seemed years. We went off to a corner together.
‘How have you been?’
‘All right. There was a false alarm about ten days ago, but it didn’t get far enough to inform you.’
‘And you’re feeling all right?’
‘Most of the time – but rather longing for the little brute to appear.’
We talked for a while.
‘Who is the character on the floor playing bricks with the children and Priscilla?’
‘He’s called Odo Stevens. He’s on the course and brought me over in his car. Come and meet him.’
We went across the room. Stevens got to his feet and shook hands.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I must go. Otherwise Aunt Doris will be upset something’s happened to me.’
‘Don’t rush off, Mr Stevens,’ said Priscilla, still prone on the carpet, ‘hullo, Nick, I’ve only had a wave from you so far. How are you?’
Frederica joined us.
‘Another drink,’ she said.
‘No, thank you, really,’ said Stevens, ‘I must be moving on.’
He turned to say goodbye to Priscilla.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘you’ll lose your brooch, if you’re not careful.’
She looked down. The brooch hung from its pin. It was a little mandoline in silver-gilt, ornamented with musical symbols on either side, early Victorian keepsake in style, pretty, though of no special value. Priscilla