Chapter 6

 

'But where were you, Jeremy?' Eloquentia Baden-Flogg was very unhappy. Eloquentia by name, Eloquentia by nature. 'Thomas had a dicky tummy and he threw up! There was nobody there to help me. I told you we should have made Ginny cancel her holiday. I need help with the children. There are simply too many of them.' Jeremy made all the right noises.

'But darling, Lala was having an episode. Poor Teddy was at his wits end. Look, I've brought croissants.' He waved the bag at her like a flag of truce, but Eloquentia was not for surrendering.

'That's all very well, Jeremy, but what about us? What about poor, poor Tommy poo? There was sick on the rug.' Eloquentia looked so distressed as she uttered the word 'sick', that Jeremy tried to put his arms around her. She pushed him away saying, 'I'm not finished,' and nor had she. 'It's a bit much to expect me to put up with your disappearing acts. It's bad enough that you live a double life in London. I know you have your obligations to Queen and country, but for the love of God, this is supposed to be a family holiday.'

On she droned. Jeremy knew he ought to feel guilty, and gave her a reasonable, guilty, hang dog look. But deep inside, he knew he could weather the storm. His was a hard heart. Everything on the surface was for effect. Sure, he cared, but did not see that as a reason to stop doing exactly what he wanted. Eloquentia had rather hobbled herself by having so many children. She had seen the prize, an MP's wife and the lifestyle and status it brought, and of course she really did love him. Now she was stuck with it. As long as he was not found out. Being a secret bastard was one thing, a public one another.

Just then the victim, a pasty faced nine-year old child with the hollowed eyes of dehydration caused by a mild gastro, interrupted Eloquentia's diatribe by ambling up in his pyjamas.

'Hello daddy,' he said. 'I've been sick.'

'I know, mummy told me, poor Thomas, I'm sorry daddy wasn't there.' He lent down and wrapped the child up in his arms, muttering there, there, and daddy loves you. The effect upon Eloquentia was to pacify her tongue, because unlike Jeremy, her heart was soft.

She had not always been so kind. The children had softened her. She was devoted to them and was lucky to have the time and money to indulge them. Before them, before she had met and quickly married Jeremy Baden-Flogg, she had been one of those trustafarians friendly with the local C of E vicar, a hanger on of a gay clergy and lay mafia like circle of friends. She took drugs and cheated on her boyfriends, and patronised everyone she came into contact with, believing, knowing, that on a Sunday morning, down on their knees, or singing their tiny hearts out, Heaven would await them no matter what they had done.

She had formed a very close friendship with the Reverend Martin Mickleby, a priest whose meteoric rise in the church had been curtailed by a scandal. At a young age he had found himself in the prestigious role of chaplain at an Oxbridge college. After only two years and a string of young lovers he had a fling with the wrong young man. The gentleman in question had clearly not understood the rules of the game and, in an era when chains of prejudice were finally falling from the arms of gay people, he decided that having discovered who and what he was, he would renounce all notions of shame and hypocrisy of being simply who and what he was, a man who loved other men. He did not care to know who heard about it.

His father, an immensely powerful and vicious homophobe, a Queensbury for our times, had other ideas. He threatened a campaign of public vilification of the college the likes of which it had seldom seen and, of course, the college's foremost instincts, like all such institutions, were for self-preservation; the vicar had to go.

So it was, that Reverend Mickleby, freed from the oppression of subterfuge, went Jesus-like to live, if not exactly among the poor, then among the peculiar mix of north London immigrant families and their descendants, the tough, white working-class English and Irish pie and mash brigade, and their cheek by jowl mediarati cousins, who were slowly pricing the former out of the city.

Still, he was high church, and the Jamaican mothers and vexed gay Christians, the devout good time girls like Eloquentia, loved him and his robes and his swinging ball of incense and chrism, his upwardly rolling eyes, his sense of the theatrical. Though they knew what he was, and accepted him as such, honouring that greatest of Christian virtues, to love one’s neighbour as one’s self, he still managed to raise eyebrows by parading a girl of a 19-year-old boy refugee from Chechnya one Easter, dedicating the bulk of the service to wax lyrical about his new-found love and the tragic loss of his former to AIDS.

Little did Eloquentia know that her own Jeremy was one among many to have been touched by Reverend Mickleby's magic stick, but that he, unlike the priest, had, a) never had the bravery to go public and, b) knew that it would hobble his rise to a position of power. Meanwhile, in La Belle France, the rest of the children, like a stream of Beatrix Potter characters, streamed around their gangling father, and Eloquentia was almost prepared to forgive him. Almost.

As she watched them fluttering around, so innocent, even her seventeen-year-old daughter, Jemima, who, if she was anything like Eloquentia at the same age, had a mind like a sewer, but kept it well hidden, still presenting a child-like aura.

Finally, as he stood and towered above his children, Eloquentia accepted his lop sided smile with one of her own. It was early, and Jeremy went into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on to boil. They usually had tea in the mornings, but while on holiday in France they liked to be French in their habits. Unlike the Sutherland-Smyths, the Baden-Floggs were up to date with all things technological. Jeremy's position, and ambition, necessitated having a handle on these things, and all of the children apart from five-year old Septimus had their own smart phones.

'I think we're going to swing it, you know, Ellie.' He always called her Ellie. She did not like it.

'My name's not Ellie. That's something you'd call an elephant,' she said. 'Swing what?' she asked.

'You know, the vote.'

'Oh, that. Do you really think it's a good idea?'

'Yes, well, Jake thinks that if it goes through, we'll make a killing in the emerging economies markets.'

'But is it good for the country?'

'What's good for us is good for the country, dear.' Eloquentia, though, was not so sure. Sure, they had pots of money. But what about reputation? It would not do to become persona non grata among her many, admittedly, leftie friends.

'Look, you needn't worry about that. For the last forty years everything that's ever gone wrong has been blamed on Europe. At the same time, our beloved countrymen have been spoon-fed a diet of relentless xenophobia, not that in many cases it needed much feeding. You mark my words; they'll vote out first chance they get.'

'Oh Jeremy, of course.'

'It means we'll be minted.' Eloquentia wrung her hands in a brief burst of societal anxiety. There was a part of her which hankered after piety. Not so much for a fear of hellfire, or anything quite so ridiculous as that, more of being liked by those that she liked. Of being good for good’s sake.

Jeremy, when all was said and done, truly believed that what was good for Jeremy, was good for everyone. He was on first names terms with the relevant editors and journalists of the rightwing press and belonged to that clique of Etonian and Oxbridge gangsters born to rule the world. They would, though, if word ever got out about his predilections, hang him out to dry. Baden had learned to live with hypocrisy a long time ago. What was bad for the conscience - oil, coal, war - was good for money. Money meant everything to men like Baden. That, and of course, sex, which in his mind, was equal to power.

'Well, you're only here a few days. You'll have no time for us while that blasted referendum is going on. No more disappearing acts. I'm sorry Lala is unwell but that's what nurses are for. Besides, she's got Teddy and that African with her all the time. I don't see what help you are to them.'

'I told you, Teddy looked like he was cracking up. And as for Don Don, he's a very kind soul but I think he finds the illness intimidating.'

'I would too. Don't you think it's a very strange arrangement, you know, the three of them?' Jeremy knew exactly what she meant but ignored the question. Committing one way or another on the merits and demerits of another's private life was a question he could well do without. 'Anyway, we're going to see the Camerons today. Did you know that they have more children than us? Eight to be precise. '’Cept theirs is a mixed bag, you know, divorces and what-not. Oh, and one of them is disabled.' Jeremy did not know and did not really care. He had met them once, and thought that Cameron was a handsome enough man, if too old and experienced for his purposes. Frankly, he and Arabella were artists of the modern, pointless variety and not to his taste. 'They have a lovely house near St Ferme. We'll go for tea. Arabella's dad's one of Teddy's old chums.'

'Yes, I think you mentioned it before.'

Jeremy yawned. Arabella Cameron was part of Eloquentia's past life: Oxford High School and mild juvenile delinquency. He knew there was likely not a lot to be gained from a couple of failing artists and, most likely, appalling liberals. He caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror. He turned his face a little, so that it showed his best side, and ran a hand across his hair to flatten it.

'I've never known anyone so vain,' Eloquentia said.

'I'm not vain.'

'Not much. Look at you. You can't pass a reflective surface without a quick glance.' Jeremy just laughed. Isn't that dear Eloquentia, why you married me?

'Come on then kids, we're going to visit Arabella.'

'Oh goody! Yahoo!' came the rousing cries of excitement.

'I feel sick,' said Thomas.

'Now, chin up, Tommy, I'm sure we'll find something for you to do there. You don't want to be left all on your own, do you?'

'No, mother.'

'Good.' The children scrambled noisily for the car, a large, hired volkswagon transporter, with just enough seats for the nine of them.

 

***

 

Arabella and Jude Cameron's house, Les Saules Pleureurs, nestled in a valley below the village and abbey of St Ferme. The couple had done as much to disappear from their old life as is possible, particularly Arabella. She had nothing to do with those modern forms of communication: Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn etc, unlike Jude, who, though he still sold more through his Paris and now neighbouring agent, Angel Tournamine, saw that online success was the future of everything, and tried, if in a very amateur way, self-promoting his artwork.

The truth was though, neither of them were any good at that. They were creative types who spent long hours thinking about turning vague abstracts into solid form - a difficult enough thing to do most of the time - now made twice as difficult because the internet had, during the last twenty odd years, unleashed every creative juice gurgling in humanity's collective consciousness.

Everywhere was awash with it. Art so bad it made you sick. Music so awful it was used as riot control. Books so terrible that they proved the Christopher Hitchens dictum that: “Everyone has a book in them and that, in most cases, is where it should stay.” People famous for nothing more than emptying the vacuous contents of their heads to screen and therefore ‘keeping it, whatever ‘it’ might be, real’.

What chance then, for the classically trained fine art student, or the painter with real talent and ideas? This was no-one else's problem. Arabella had finally had enough and, after buying a flat in Bordeaux, decided that they would have to rent Les Saules to the holidaying public in order to keep financially afloat.

The crunching of tires on gravel and low murmur of children announced the arrival of the Baden-Floggs into the Cameron enclave. The Camerons came out to greet them, Araballa’s smile wide and sincere, Jude’s appearing only on the outside of his face. He had an idea of what to expect.

'Arabella! mwah, mwah!' cried Eloquentia, a breathless little sound accompanying each kissed cheek.

'Eloquentia, you look so well!' Jeremy stood stiffly with a fixed half smile, similar to Jude’s faux sign of cheer, except whereas on some people his grin might pass for charm, on him looked like he was apologising for having just deliberately kicked a beloved pet. Jude caught it - he was right - but the subtle semaphore went over Arabella's head. She was, after all, from their world. A world of Kensington flats and country houses, while Jude, to men like Jeremy Baden-Flogg, could only ever be a parvenu.

'Hello, Jude,' intoned Jeremy anyway, offering a limp hand as if to a star-struck old bag at the Conservative Club. The rows of children - Arabella's and Eloquentia's progeny - stood facing each other across the family divide. Hands grasping elbows across the midriff, on hips, or at the sides, knuckles twitching between fists and a handshake. Two tribes about to go to war. While Arabella shooed the grown-ups along with the smallest infants inside for a glass of rosè, the older children got to know each other.

'I say, where do you live?' Jennifer asked the younger Jemima.

'Oh, in Dorset.'

'It's lovely there. We've been on holiday near Durdle Dor. It's fantastic.'

The peace making with these was easy enough, and the better mannered among the gang flocked to their camp and example. Some of them, however, led by Lionel and Elizabeth, were determined irregulars. Elizabeth, never one to be outdone in the macho stakes by a mere boy, saw Thomas looking wretched and said,

'You look like a shit!' which caused laughter, even from his own side (Thomas was an habitually insufferable little shit) and made him storm off into the kitchen after his mother.

'Mummy! I feel sick!' cried the poor boy. He was not having a good day. Boys and girls, each the little apples of their parents' eyes, how they shock with their ingratitude, as if they had never asked to be born.

Inside the old maison de maitre, Jeremy was enjoying the decor in spite of himself. Not that he would deign to say so. It was evident that the Camerons had a good deal more taste than he did: original 1st Empire commodes and vase stands, earlier armoires, Louis XV and XVI furniture, and English furniture from the same period were in abundance. That and that the walls were covered with artworks. Some, obscure. Some, the Camerons' own. One or two - he thought he saw a Russell pastel work - serious works in the old tradition. Everywhere throughout the house were things to be gazed at, handled, sat on, slightly in awe of their age and condition. Perhaps there was a point to these bumbling outsiders after all.

Jude was as suspicious of Baden-Flogg as the latter was of him. He knew the politics Baden stood for. They ran in counter to everything that he believed: pro-modern art, pro-prison reform, pro-socialist democracy, anti-death penalty, anti-racist. Literally everything that a man like Baden-Flogg was for. Jude Cameron, like the Sutherland-Smyths but for entirely different reasons, simply did not and never would understand how a British public could elect such a man. Then again, it did not take a deep search of his London Irish upbringing to remember that these people were always in the majority. It did not bode well for the forthcoming referendum. Nevertheless, they both had good manners, and, like pupils of Tacitus, neither spoke on delicate subjects while keeping to their own counsel.

For Arabella and Eloquentia it was less complicated. Eloquentia was closer in many respects to Jude and Arabella's world view. She and Arabella were devotedly apolitical, preferring to ignore it as much as they could. Eloquentia had to tolerate the streams of invective which surrounded her husband. Though he was a sophisticated inveigler of peoples' support - his smooth old Etonian mannerisms, his bespectacled, Huntsman suit wearing demeanour, his affable poison, which were always a winner - many of the fellow travellers he needed to ally himself with, were socially unacceptable in his upper middle-class world. He had stood beside many pub demagogues. Men of limited intelligence who, by dint of hammering home the same phrase ad nauseum, and cringeworthy 'man of the people' common voices, were popular among the many gluggers of distorted news stories now in limitless supply around the world.

Yes, they ignored it, for what else could they do? They knew the danger, but like so many people in the pages of history books long gone by, they could only stare at it, paralysed, uncomprehending, unable to quite believe it was happening, until it was too late.

'Is this one of yours?' said Eloquentia, giving Thomas a hug and looking up at a triptych of two-dimensional paintings which had geometric designs scratched into a ply-wood base. Above each, a painted pane of glass was fixed, giving the abstract designs depth, and the feeling that one was looking into a carefully thought-out alternative world.

'Yes, do you like it?'

'Are they for sale?'

'Some are. Here, let’s have a look round my studio and see if there's anything else.'

'I want that one,' Eloquentia said, pointing to the middle panel in what was clearly a series.'

'It's a series, I can't break them up. Besides, I'm very fond of them.'

'I'll give you double what they usually go for and I'll take them all.' Arabella's heart nearly skipped a beat.

'Ok! I'm not that fond of them,' she said, giggling nervously, 'I'm not going to go all out Mark Rothko. Can't afford to!' They carried on a friendly banter while returning to the kitchen, where Jeremy and Jude stood polarised at opposite ends of the long wooden table, a bottle of Provençal rosè wine standing between them like a referee, giving off a curious, orange glow.

Next door, in front of a television, watching cartoons and chuckling to herself, a clearly very disabled little girl sat in a wheelchair. Jude had introduced Jeremy to her, bending down next to her and saying softly, 'This is Jeremy.' The child looked at Jeremy and smiled. Jude waited for the response. Baden stood there stiffly, unsmiling. It was though he was genuinely caught without anything to say. When he did smile and say hello to the little girl, who could not care less what it was that he said, only that it sounded kind, he managed a weak squeak. Jude watched the performance very carefully. He was used to this. After that, there was not much more they could say to each other, so they just stood in the kitchen, waiting for the women to relieve them from their interminable in camera caritatis.

'How are you two getting along?' said Eloquentia.

'Oh, fine, thanks,' said Jeremy and Jude at the same time.

'Sorry, forgot to pour,' said Jude. Jeremy watched him pouring the wine into the four glasses standing on the table. Yes, he had seen enough to know that while Arabella was clearly from a similar caste, perhaps, in fact, from a higher one, Jude represented nothing more than those dullards he had to deal with from time to time. They were only good to be used, and if not that, then for nothing. And as for Jude he now knew what he had long suspected about Jeremy Baden-Flogg. All that talk, blaming the poor for being poor, and for foreigners spoiling people’s lives, revealed a nasty little contraction of the soul in a woman or man, one caused by shutting themselves off in a Blakean cave.

'We'll see you at Teddy and Lala's sometime. Jeremy stayed over there last night. Teddy was at his wits end apparently.'

A likely story thought Arabella. 'Oh, poor thing,' she said.

Once the Baden-Floggs had gone, Arabella and Jude exuded a sigh. Both felt slightly dirty.

As Jeremy drove the hired transporter along the drive away from the Camerons’ house, Eloquentia and the children, except for Thomas, who sat sullen with fixed facial misery apparent, waved enthusiastically goodbye.

'Well, what did you think?' said Eloquentia.

'Awful man.'