TO THE MANOR BORN

New Zealand Listener, Volume 32, Issue 822, 29 April 1955, Page 8

TO THE MANOR BORN

‘R. NORMANBY would "only be in town for a couple of days, and the chance to Discuss Problems and Exchange Ideas with him was too good to miss. Mr. Normanby is, of course, apart from being secretary to the British Building Board, the manager of British Building Boards. His hotel in the centre of town was one IT have always found forbidding as combining a new-world ruthlessness of lift-operators, desk-clerks and waitresses with ~an~ old-world pomposity of armchairs; smokerooms and beds. With some trepidation therefore I picked a way across the worn bouquets of the carpet and hemmed at the reception desk. "Hem," I repeated after a decent interval, But the henna-headed matron with the pencil behind her ear continued in forceful conversation with the telephone operator. "Ah, fol-de-rol,"’ I hummed over an apologetic waiting tune I usually reserve for Government offices to let them know I’m ready for attention though far from the temper that overturns a State. The telephone girl pushed some knobs into sockets for a moment while the elder lady blew puffs of smoke up into the nqereyned face of Gladys Moncrieff. "Te pom pom pom," I began to insist. The ladies fell once more into bright and callous chatter. "Ah .. .?" I tried a rising note to make it sound like the continuation of some exchange we’d already had, tapping the mahogany rather restlessly. The pendulum clock deeply pronounced the time of my appointment with the English Executive. I got flustered. "Er... Mr. Normanby..." I blurted. The henna head came round on a spring. cn

By

Augustus

"T have an appointment with a Mr. Normanby. at four-thirty." The girl began feverishly thrusting home all the plugs into all the sockets. But at that moment the lift bumped to the ground, the antique door clanked open, and a lofty, tailored, stooping, thirty-fiveish man padded rapidly towards me, large pointed shoes being pressed into the carpet from sagging knees, the whole approach resembling the soft rush of a Mediterranean wave. Five yards from me a white drooping hand was flung forward as the descent continued. He came like Leda’s boy friend, all in a white rush. "Mr., er, ah .. .?" he enquired, enveloping me in benevolence and purpose. "Yes, that’s right," He had my hand’ still nesting in the richness of his own, and his left hand was deflecting me towards the lounge. "Do you mind if we talk over tea? I hope you haven’t, had yours yet? Do you take tea at this time? Do New Zealanders, I mean?" His voice came up out of generations of Normanbys; it flowed water-cressy and willow-shaded with idle brown vowels dreaming in the depths. I was sailing, gently propelled by Mr. Normanby’s arm, punting along hotel corridors and into a hotel lounge, owning them, All in a moment I had become graceful, forceful, poised, a man as likely as not to grow a clipped moustache and command stenographers. I was lowered into a leather armchair and immediately regretted the lack of a silver cigarette case on the back of which I ‘might have tapped .a tailor-made. There was no one in the lounge, not even a waiter. Mr. Normanby without —

to keep up with -the demand," he was saying. I ili i terriod eb m is protection, equally terrified to seem to belong to him. By now two waitets, hastily clad, stood at the great man’s knee. "Oh, ah, there you are," he beamed at them. "Might we have some tea and sandwiches, please, thank you?" He took his thumb from the bell. The tea arrived, piping, mellow, loyingly set down. I wassatea loss under the vision of the kitchen staff frenziedly hacking into bread at this preposterous hour to keep the line of the Normanbys healthy and intact. He was munching away with a joyous freedom from pinching, petty good manners. He had Manner. One long flopping leg was swung over the other, he was half-slung into the cushionest angle of his chair,

either hesitation or ill-feeling pressed his thumb deep into the electric bell, chatting all the time, and under my, appalled eyes he pumped steadily, on and on, with his thumb. He seemed to be quite unaware that two baize doors now stood thronged with ‘the kitchen staff, a wooden slide had opened to reveal the recesses of the cooking area, and all the functionaries of lift, office and private bar had crept in to gaze and wonder. "... and so, of course, it’s becoming increasingly difficult, increasingly difficult

while he deliberate:y aimed at the butteriest part of his bread. And as an audience he was-a full house. "Go on, go on," he .champed delightedly, swilling away at his tea and making my _ information sound as precious as pikelets to him. "And now," he said at the end, "would you care to see something of what we've been doing in the Old Country?" "J can hardly wait." With a reluctant force, like a carelessly constructed camel rising from the sand, he. swam. through the door of the

' lounge and into the empty vestibule. + "Ahh. there was a brief-case," he suddenly.. burst like a carillon on Sunday air. He was paddling vaguely about the reception desk where the henna lady and | the telephone girl stood frozen at the edge of the blotting paper. "A brief-case?" he mentioned again in honeyed detonation, including in the enquiry the remote hall-porter and the lift-man six feet off the floor, paralysed /in his ascent. Legs scurried in all directions, lids were flung up, cubby holes were ransacked. Before me stood a door marked Manager Strictly Private. "Ah, perhaps it’s in here." He flung open the door and was wading largely about among chromium ash-stands and glass cases stuffed with little whisky samples. He pulled out drawers here and there without expectation. By now all my countrymen were huddled in desperation at the foot of the stairs. "But, no, of course, I remember where I left it. Come." And he discharged himself through the revolving "door and down the street towards the Airways Office. This place is all done out in egg-blue and tan. It is pretty well solid plastic from the Air Hostess’s nails up to the conquered globe impacted against the ceiling. It is the very’ peak of man’s ascent from serfdom, its inhabitants give off emancipation like an electric fan, they breeze, they charm, they. traverse all levels of mankind, they are society’s darling dolphins. Nobody condescends to them, nobody takes them for a ride. "Ahh, therg was a brief case!" Mr. Normanby belledgfrom the ‘street, and (continued on next page)"

(continued from previous page) ) scooping me before him he cruised sun- | nily into and around the forecourt. The echoes of his opening ‘peals still lingered among the strip lighting. From fingernai] and electric clock the plastic ran down like wax. "Oh, my people!" I pleaded inwardly. "Let me not believe this. Oh, pioneers! Oh, boys from ‘way down under .. oh, blokes!" As though in answer to my plea a stocky, cropped, reddish-faced man | shouldered out into the presence. 1} picked him at a glance: bomber boy; three-tour type if ever I saw one; one who had shared his soap ration with Group Captains. He addressed the great | man: "And where did you put this briefcase?" How I loved that joker. "AHHHRHH?" Mr. Normanby unrolled some of his surplus top structure; his head was jacked gently up towards the woeful, watching clock. His smile diminished a fraction at each corner. He inspected with mildest interest my bomber champion. "But, my dear boy!" he laughed at last, patient, explanatory, "that’s exactly what I’m asking you!" It was all over. Mr. Normanby was no mere Group Captain. He was an Umbrage of Air Marshals. He was Hastings, Agincourt, Waterloo. The cropped red head was down ferreting among the left | luggage. "N-never mind," I sobbed and ran out. I have started reading Carlyle i | considerable dismay. OE ES a a woe |