Matthew present (how could I have forgotten?), Philip present and Frances hanging about Tom Kellory. This thickset youth, fresh-faced, mop-headed was arguing with Matthew his father who was entirely at home, body and mind complete. Infuriating, really; just because he'd met his son.
"Your kind of socialism won't stand up to the 1950's I can tell you. You're not scientific enough," said Tom.
"There's no need to shout your head off," Matthew said pleasantly. "I don't have a kind of socialism. All I said was, to repeat an old cliché, that British socialism is founded more on Methodism than Marxism." Politics. Boring.
"Ugh!" said Frances, taking Tom's arm, tossing her gold-brown hair and pulling a mature grimace. "Face it! Certainly that's the job. It's exactly what's got to be changed," Frances insisted.
Frances looked as if she was going to be brilliant with Matthew once more. Philip's presence had obviously increased Fran's creed-uttering on the flirting potentiality. Isn't life absolutely full of sexual interest? Such abundant and challenging sexual interest? Constance sighed with nervous delight.
"It's all right for your feelings," Tom, attacking, red in the face, "you know, doing it, the Welfare State, for example, because it's painful and Christian and good for you. But a real socialist state isn't just a perfectly natural extension of the great British Constitution ..."
"Well, if it's not going to be that, even in your mind, you may as well ditch the idea..." said Matthew. "It won't work either way."
"Anyone would think silence was a dirty word..."
"That's no way to speak to your father, Tom. I don't mind your views but your tone of voice leaves a lot to be desired..." Molly Absecond who rather agreed with Tom's stand was not mollified by Tom's radiant smile. She was tired. She was preceded into the room by the new evening lady, Mrs. Laver, bearing a fresh tray of bottles and glasses.
"Science is a misunderstood word. Like a good many of the words you use." Matthew filled his pipe, glancing sideways to see in passing why he should give Constance so much food for thought. He paused a moment with the lighted match, surprised by her smile. "Um," he said, "You get a word, capitalism, science, appeasement, you release it from all its contexts and complexities, you kill it, and you use the corpse to drive yourself witless..." he laughed.
"Besides which, Tom's theories are always two or three steps behind whatever's happening," Frances added fondly. Tom smiled.
Politics bored Constance, but Frances and Tom interested her enormously. As she understood it, the North Koreans had over-run the South Koreans last Saturday, and Frances wanted them to stay: `no interference with the aspirations of nationhood' (whatever business it was of hers). Tom wanted the North Koreans out at once; and the South to over-run the North. Frances is a socialist. Tom is a democrat. They had hotly announced that to each other in her hearing recently. Thereafter there had seemed more reason than usual for them to quarrel. Up to this moment, they had been for two or three days very unfriendly indeed about their differences. Now here was Tom talking about `real socialist states' and challenging his father, and here was Frances ogling Tom, humouring Matthew and ignoring Philip. Constance gave them up.
Sarah, because the music was lying there, started to play, very quietly, Scarlatti, on the sitting-room piano, and Philip had joined her there.
Aunt Molly had invited Patricia Raleigh Kenys to come, if she cared, to meet the family and enjoy Matthew's company at Golden Square Gardens for half an hour. Matthew's car had gone to pick her up. Bottles had been opened. Constance was drinking champagne. Delicious on such a hot evening. It, or something, was lending Matthew (no effort now required on her part) that acute sexual interest, with which her imagination always so flatteringly provided him but only in his absence. She had high hopes that Mrs. Kenys would be undisposed to turn up.
But on the whole, Constance's old passion for Matthew seemed slightly boring to her in the presence of Philip's dark red head bent to Sarah's silvery beige, Sarah's mind intently elsewhere reading the music. Matthew, if duller in Philip's presence, seemed human once more. He was indeed, awfully nice. In fact, said a Presence, the masculinity of Tom and Matthew was enhanced, was it not, in Philip's masculine company? Curious, agreed Constance. Delicious. For what the heat and the last of the acacia blossom promised, in the gathering shadows of the evening, was the future again. Enough men to go round.
"Chamberlain..." Tom said, and off they went again. Constance was now sitting on the arm of Matthew's chair. His hands were smooth and not fat, like Tom's. Not a bad tie. Constance felt just the tip of it, and a bit further up for a real feel. Silk. She watched his mouth while he was speaking. He moved over a little away from her to get a better view of Tom. Nobody in their right senses could possibly like Tom Kellory better than his father, who smelt nicer and looked more like the male of the species in all circumstances. Constance was half-tempted to lean her arm against Matthew's shoulder.
She wished Sarah would stop playing, especially that gay and sad tune.
One of the few things Constance remembered about her father was his playing the piano when her mother was out of the house. Toy Town Parade and Happy Days Are Here Again and short twiddly things like the Scarlatti, to amuse them. She had heard him described as having once been a `useful pianist' who had `faded'. Apparently, there could not be two pianists in one house.
"Effort of thought indeed!" Tom shouted emphatically so that Constance jumped. "It all comes to you through some divine law of pragmatism by osmosis. Thought indeed. All we need is our old inarticulate political traditions and no troublesome straight words, appeasement and such, to remind us of our past..."
"Your words aren't straight, Tom. They're bent crooked and double under the weight of the system they have to carry for you. They're starving. Thinking is something you cannot possibly use them for..."
"Not the thinking you mean! You mean amateur thinking, vain-glorious thinking, a sort of passing remarks on the day, a sort of a...of a...of a...total inability to f...focus a precise image of yourself or anyone or anything else, inability to name things as they are..." Tom became a proper little madman.
"That's a damn curious way to talk. Amateur thinking. You prefer professional, ready-made, thinking, propaganda, advertising, and pornography perhaps? Your own lousy jargon? The sort that collapses as soon as you examine its strong stout clichés, its tiny little vocabulary of fully-paid-up words?"
Constance turned to Philip and Sarah at the piano. "You should take up music," Philip said masterfully. "You've always been much above average."
"I have taken up music," Sarah said. "Aah, Philip, be yourself."
"No. Seriously, I mean."
"Seriously. I'm serious now. I'm playing seriously."
"Yes. I believe you are."
"I'm seriously playing at St. Botolph's Church Hall tomorrow evening. Want to come? You'll be the only one of my friends if you do."
"Why's that?"
"It's just that St. Botolph's Church Hall is not a serious enough place for some people."
Constance thought about that, it was undoubtedly true.
"Come the revolution", Tom said to his father, "You'll find you'll be the first one up against the wall."
"Tom! You're so angry. I don't understand one word of your meaning any more..." Tom was angry but indulged in rhetoric. Frances, recognising only the anger, was earnest and quiet when she said this, as if to understand Tom's meaning was the highest aim in her high world. She really was very beautiful with a look of blue-eyed unselfconscious concern shining out of her, her fine brown arms and dark gold hair set off by the blue linen dress. Constance could feel the truth and weight of Frances's presence. She looked round for Philip. Frances had not failed to understand Tom; she had become contemptuous of his temper. Or was it nervous? Frances had unexpectedly nervous feelings about certain things. Much attention now focused upon her. She was stunning. Stunningly; it was a way Frances had. Confronting, controlling somehow, Tom's anger, out of her own purest fear of violence. Not that way.
Ah well, it was all disagreeable and none of her business.
Frances looked round to find Philip.
