‘And then this house. You can see for yourself it is like a pig-sty. I slave sixteen hours a day to keep it clean. No good. Might as well not attempt it. Maclintick isn’t interested in whether his house is clean or not. What I say is, why can’t we go and live in Putney? Where I want to live is never considered, of course. Maclintick likes Pimlico, so Pimlico it has to be. The place gives me the pip. Well, don’t you agree yourself? Even if we move, it has to be somewhere else in Pimlico, and the packing up is more trouble than it is worth. I should like a bit of garden. Can’t have that here. Not even a window-box. Of course Maclintick hates the sight of a flower.’

I quoted St John Clarke’s opinion that the beauty of flowers is enhanced by metropolitan surroundings. Mrs Maclintick did not reply. Her attention had been distracted by Carolo who had begun to pile his sheets of music together and stow them away in a portfolio.

‘Come and have a drink with us, Carolo, before you go,’ she said, with greater warmth than she had shown until that moment. ‘Maclintick will get some more beer. We could all do with another drop. Here is the jug, Maclintick. Don’t take all the cheese, Moreland. Leave a little for the rest of us.’

Maclintick did not look specially pleased at this suggestion of Carolo joining us at the table, but he too welcomed the idea of more beer, immediately picking up the chipped jug and once more setting off with it to the pub. A chair was drawn up for Carolo, who accepted the invitation with no more than mumbled, ungracious agreement; to which he added the statement that he would not be able to stay long. I had not set eyes on him since that night in the Mortimer. Carolo looked just the same: pale; unromantic; black wavy hair a shade longer and greasier than before. Mrs Maclintick gave him a glance that was almost affectionate.

‘Have you got to go out tonight, Carolo?’ she said. ‘There is a little mutton left.’

Carolo shook his head, looking wearily at the residue of the joint, the remains of which were not specially tempting. He seemed in a thoughtful mood, but, when Maclintick reappeared with the jug and poured him out a glass, he drank a deep draught of the beer with apparent gratification. After wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he spoke in his harsh, North Country voice.

‘How have you been, Moreland?’ he asked.

‘Much as usual,’ said Moreland. ‘And you?’

‘Pretty middling. How’s Matilda?’

‘Having a baby,’ said Moreland flushing; and, as if he referred to speak no more for the moment about that particular subject, went on: ‘You know, in that book I was reading upstairs, Chabrier says that the Spanish fleas have their own national song – a three-four tune in F major that Berlioz introduces into the Damnation of Faust.’

‘The Spanish fleas must be having a splendid time nowadays,’ said Maclintick, ‘biting both sides indiscriminately.’

‘The International Brigade could certainly make a tasty dish,’ said Moreland, ‘not to mention the German and Italian “volunteers”. As a matter of fact the fleas probably prefer the Germans. More blonds.’

‘I hope to God Franco doesn’t win,’ said Mrs Maclintick, as if that possibility had at this moment just struck her.

‘Who do you want to win?’ said Maclintick gruffly. ‘The Communists?’

Up till then Maclintick had been on the whole in a better temper than usual. The arrival at the table of Carolo had unsettled him. He now showed signs of wanting to pick a quarrel with someone. His wife was clearly the easiest person present with whom to come into conflict. Biting and sucking noisily at his pipe he glared at her. It looked as if the Spanish war might be a matter of controversy of some standing between them; a source of contention as a married couple, rather than a political difference. Maclintick’s views on politics could never be foretold. Violent, changeable, unorthodox, he tended to dislike the Left as much as the Right. He had spoken very bitterly.

‘I would rather have the Communists than the Fascists,’ said Mrs Maclintick, compressing her lips.

‘Only because you think it is the done thing to be on the Left,’ said Maclintick, with an enraging smile. ‘There isn’t a middle-brow in the country who isn’t expressing the same sentiment. They should try a little practical Communism and see how they like it. You are no exception, I assure you.’

He removed his pipe from his mouth and swallowed hard. Moreland was obviously becoming uneasy at the turn things were taking. He began kicking his foot against the side of his chair.

‘I am Pinkish myself,’ he said laughing.

‘And you want the Communists?’ asked Maclintick.

‘Not necessarily.’

‘And Marxist music?’

‘I long to hear some.’

‘Shostakovich, Russia’s only reputable post-Revolution composer, not allowed to have his opera performed because the dictatorship of the proletariat finds that work musically decadent, bourgeois, formalist?’

‘I’m not defending the Soviet regime,’ said Moreland, still laughing. ‘I’m all for Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District – my favourite title. Wasn’t there a period in the Middle Ages when the Pope forbade certain chords under pain of excommunication? All I said – apropos of the war in Spain – I am Pinkish. No more, no less.’

This attempt to lighten the tension was not very successful. Maclintick leaned down and tapped his pipe against his heel. Mrs Maclintick, though silent, was white with anger.

‘What about Toscanini?’ she demanded suddenly.

‘What about him?’ said Maclintick.

‘The Fascists slapped his face.’

‘Well?’

‘I suppose you approve of that.’

‘I don’t like the Fascists any more than you do,’ said Maclintick. ‘You know that perfecdy well. It was me that Blackshirt insisted on taking to the police station in Florence, not you. You tried to truckle to him.’

’Anyway,’ said Mrs Maclintick, ‘I want the Government in Spain to win – not the Communists.’

‘How are you going to arrange that, if they do defeat Franco? As it is, the extremists have taken over on the side of “the Government”, as you call it. How are you going to arrange that the nice, liberal ones come out on top?’

‘What do you know about it?’ said his wife, speaking now with real hatred. ‘What do you know about politics?’

‘More than you.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Doubt it, then.’

There was a moment during the pause that followed this exchange of opinion when I thought she might pick up one of the battered table knives and stick it into him. All this time, Carolo had remained absolutely silent, as if unaware that anything unusual was going on round him, unaware of Spain, unaware of civil war there, unaware of Communists, unaware of Fascists, his expression registering no more than its accustomed air of endurance of the triviality of those who inhabited the world in which he unhappily found himself. Now he finished the beer, wiped his mouth again with the pocket handkerchief, and rose from the table.

‘Got to remove myself,’ he said in his North Country burr.

‘What time will you be back?’ asked Maclintick.

‘Don’t know.’

‘I suppose someone will have to let you in.’

‘Suppose they will.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ burst out Mrs Maclintick. ‘I’ll let him in, you fool. What does it matter to you? You never open a door for anyone, not even your precious friends. It’s me that does all the drudgery in this house. You never do a hand’s turn, except sitting upstairs messing about with a lot of stuff that is really out of your reach – that you are not quite up to ‘

By this time everyone was standing up.

‘I think probably Nick and I ought to be going too,’ said Moreland, the extent of his own discomposure making him sound more formal than usual. ‘I’ve got to get up earlv tomorrow… go and see Madlda… one thing and another…’

He succeeded in suggesting no more than the fact that the Maclinticks’ house had become unbearable to him. Maclintick showed no sign of surprise at this sudden truncation of our visit, although he smiled to himself rather grimly.