The kindly ones by Anthony Powell Page A

once for Edith. We are going to be dreadfully late.’
    My mother was greatly given to stating matters openly. In this particular case, she was probably well aware that Albert himself would not be slow to reveal his future plans to the rest of the household. No very grave risk was therefore run in telling me the secret. At the same time, such news would never have been disclosed by my father, a confirmed maker of mysteries, who disliked imparting information of any but a didactic kind. If forced to offer an expose of any given situation, he was always in favour of presenting the substance of what he had to say in terms more or less oracular. Nothing in life – such was his view – must ever be thought of as easy of access. There is something to be said for that approach. Certainly few enough things in life are easy. On the other hand, human affairs can become even additionally clouded with obscurity if the most complicated forms of definition are always deliberately sought. My father really hated clarity. This was a habit of mind that sometimes led him into trouble with others, when, unable to appreciate his delight in complicated metaphor and ironic allusion, they had not the faintest idea what he was talking about. It was, therefore, by the merest chance that I was immediately put in possession of the information that Albert was leaving. I should never have learnt that so early if my father had been at home. We went off to church, my mother, Edith and I. The morning service took about an hour. We arrived home just as my father drove up in the car on his return from barracks. Edith disappeared towards the day-nursery.
    ‘It’s happened,’ said my mother.
    ‘What?’
    My father’s face immediately became very grave.
    ‘Albert.’
    ‘Going?’
    ‘Getting married at last.’
    ‘Oh, lord.’
    ‘We thought it was coming, didn’t we?’
    ‘Oh, lord, how awful.’
    ‘We’ll get someone else.’
    ‘Never another cook like Albert.’
    ‘We may find someone quite good.’
    ‘They won’t live up here.’
    ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find somebody. I’ll start on Monday.’
    ‘I knew this was going to happen.’
    ‘We both did.’
    ‘That doesn’t help.’
    ‘Never mind.’
    ‘But today, of all days, oh, lord.’
    Their reception of the news showed my parents were already to some extent prepared for this blow to fall, anyway accepted, more or less philosophically, that Albert’s withdrawal into married life was bound to come sooner or later. Nevertheless, it was a disturbing state of affairs: the termination of a long and close relationship. No more was said at that moment because – a very rare occurrence – the telegraph-boy pedalled up on his bicycle. My parents were still standing on the doorstep.
    ‘Name of Jenkins?’
    My father took the telegram with an air of authority. His face had lightened a little now that he was resigned to Albert’s departure, but the features became overcast again as he tore open the envelope, as if the news it brought must inevitably be bad.
    ‘Who can it be?’ said my mother, no less disturbed.
    My father studied the message. He went suddenly red with annoyance.
    ‘Wait a moment,’ he said to the boy, in a voice of command.
    My mother followed him into the hall. I hung about in the background.
    ‘For goodness’ sake say what’s happened,’ begged my mother, in an agony of fearing the worst.
    My father read aloud the words, his voice shaking with irritation:
    ‘ Can you house me Sunday night talk business arrive tea-time Giles .’
    He held the telegram away from him as if fear of some awful taint threatened him by its contact. There was a long pause. Disturbing situations were certainly arising.
    ‘Really too bad of him,’ said my mother at last.
    ‘Damn Giles.’
    ‘Inconsiderate, too, to leave it so late.’
    ‘He can’t come.’
    ‘We must think it over.’
    ‘There is no time. I won’t have him.’
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘It’s sent from