The two sisters were a little shy as they came downstairs, but Beaver was perfectly at his ease. He looked very elegant and rather more than his age.
“Oh, he’s not so bad, your Mr. Beaver,” Marjorie’s look seemed to say, “not by any means,” and he, seeing the two women together, who were both beautiful, though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine.
“Mrs. Jimmy Deane’s very upset that she couldn’t get you for tonight. I didn’t give away what you were doing.”
“Give her my love,” said Beaver. “Anyway we’ll all meet at Polly’s.”
“I must go, we’re dining at nine.”
“Stay a bit,” said Brenda. “She’s sure to be late.”
Now that it was inevitable, she did not want to be left alone with Beaver.
“No, I must go. Enjoy yourselves, bless you both.” She felt as though she were the elder sister, seeing Brenda timid and expectant at the beginning of an adventure.
They were awkward when Marjorie left, for in the week that they had been apart, each had, in thought, grown more intimate with the other than any actual occurrence warranted. Had Beaver been more experienced, he might have crossed to where Brenda was sitting on the arm of a chair, and made love to her at once; and probably he would have got away with it. Instead he remarked in an easy manner, “I suppose we ought to be going too.”
“Yes, where?”
“I thought Espinosa’s.”
“Yes, lovely. Only listen. I want you to understand right away that it’s my dinner.”
“Of course not… nothing of the sort.”
“Yes it is. I’m a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I’m going to pay.”
Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door.
But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, “Does she expect me to pounce?” So, as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said, “Please, Brenda,” but she turned away and looked out of the window, shaking her head several times quickly. Then, her eyes still fixed on the window, she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant.
Beaver was thoroughly puzzled.
Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one’s conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. “You choose. Very little for me, but it must only have starch, no protein.”
The bill at Espinosa’s was, as a rule, roughly the same whatever one ate, but Brenda would not know this, so, since it was now understood that she was paying, Beaver felt constrained from ordering anything that looked obviously expensive. However, she insisted on champagne, and later a ballon of liqueur brandy for him. “You can’t think how exciting it is for me to take a young man out. I’ve never done it before.”
They stayed at Espinosa’s until it was time to go to the party, dancing once or twice, but most of the time sitting at the table, talking. Their interest in each other had so far outdistanced their knowledge that there was a great deal to say.
Presently Beaver said, “I’m sorry I was an ass in the taxi just now.”
“Eh?”
He changed it and said, “Did you mind when I tried to kiss you just now?”
“Me? No, not particularly.”
“Then why wouldn’t you let me?”
“Oh dear, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
“How d’you mean?”
“You mustn’t ever ask questions like that. Will you try and remember?”
Then he was sulky. “You talk to me as if I was an undergraduate having his first walk out.”
“Oh, is this a walk out?”
“Not as far as I am concerned.”
There was a pause in which Brenda said, “I am not sure it hasn’t been a mistake, taking you out to dinner. Let’s ask for the bill and go to Polly’s.”
But they took ten minutes to bring the bill, and in that time Beaver and Brenda had to say something, so he said he was sorry.
“You’ve got to learn to be nicer,” she said soberly. “I don’t believe you’d find it impossible.” When the bill eventually came, she said, “How much do I tip him?” and Beaver showed her. “Are you sure that’s enough? I should have given twice as much.”
“It’s exactly right,” said Beaver, feeling older again, just as Brenda had meant him to feel.
When they sat in the taxi Beaver knew at once that Brenda wished him to make love to her. But he decided it was time she took the lead. So he sat at a distance from her and commented on an old house that was being demolished to make way for a block of flats.
“Shut up,” said Brenda. “Come here.”
When he had kissed her, she rubbed against his cheek in the way she had.
*
Polly’s party was exactly what she wished it to be, an accurate replica of all the best parties she had been to in the last year; the same band, the same supper, and, above all, the same guests. Hers was not the ambition to create a sensation, to have the party talked about in months to come for any unusual feature, to hunt out shy celebrities or introduce exotic strangers. She wanted a perfectly straight, smart party and she had got it. Practically everyone she asked had come. If there were other, more remote worlds upon which she did not impinge, Polly did not know about them. These were the people she was after, and here they were. And looking round on her guests, with Lord Cockpurse, who was for the evening loyally putting in one of his rare appearances, at her side, she was able to congratulate herself that there were very few people present whom she did not want. In other years people had taken her hospitality more casually and brought on with them anyone with whom they happened to have been dining. This year, without any conscious effort on her part, there had been more formality. Those who wanted to bring friends had rung up in the morning and asked whether they might do so, and on the whole they had been cautious of even so much presumption. People who, only eighteen months before, would have pretended to be ignorant of her existence, were now crowding up her stairs. She had got herself in line with the other married women of her world.
As they started to go up, Brenda said, “You’re not to leave me, please. I’m not going to know anybody,” and Beaver again saw himself as the dominant male.
They went straight through to the band and began dancing, not talking much except to greet other couples whom they knew. They danced for half an hour and then she said, “All right, I’ll give you a rest. Only don’t let me get left.”
She danced with Jock Grant-Menzies and two or three old friends and did not see Beaver again until she came on him alone in the bar. He had been there a long time, talking sometimes to the couples who came in and out, but always ending up alone. He was not enjoying the evening and he told himself rather resentfully that it was because of Brenda; if he had come there in a large party it would have been different.
Brenda saw he was out of temper and said, “Time for supper.”
It was early, and the tables were mostly empty except for earnest couples sitting alone. There was a large round table between the windows, with no one at it; they sat there.
“I don’t propose to move for a long time, d’you mind?” She wanted to make him feel important again, so she asked him about the other people in the room.
Presently their table filled up. These were Brenda’s old friends, among whom she used to live when she came out and in the first two years of her marriage, before Tony’s father died; men in the early thirties, married women of her own age, none of whom knew Beaver or liked him. It was by far the gayest table in the room. Brenda thought “How my poor young man must b
e hating this”; it did not occur to her that, from Beaver’s point of view, these old friends of hers were quite the most desirable people at the party, and that he was delighted to be seen at their table. “Are you dying of it?” she whispered.
“No, indeed, never happier.”
“Well, I am. Let’s go and dance.”
But the band was taking a rest and there was no one in the ballroom except the earnest couples who had migrated there away from the crowd and were sitting huddled in solitude round the walls, lost in conversation. “Oh dear,” said Brenda, “now we’re done. We can’t go back to the table… it almost looks as though we should have to go home.”
“It’s not two.”
“That’s late for me. Look here, don’t you come. Stay and enjoy yourself.”
“Of course I’ll come,” said Beaver.
It was a cold, clear night. Brenda shivered and he put his arm round her in the taxi. They did not say much.
“There already?”
They sat for a few seconds without moving. Then Brenda slipped free and Beaver got out.
“I am afraid I can’t ask you in for a drink. You see it isn’t my house and I shouldn’t know where to find anything.”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, goodnight, my dear. Thank you a thousand times for looking after me. I’m afraid I rather bitched your evening.”
“No, of course not,” said Beaver.
“Will you ring me in the morning… promise?” She touched her hand to her lips and then turned to the key hole.
Beaver hesitated a minute whether he should go back to the party, but decided not to. He was near home, and everyone at Polly’s would have settled down by now; so he gave his address in Sussex Gardens, and went up to bed.
Just as he was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda’s voice.
“Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly’s. Is the telephone not by your bed?”
“No, it’s on the ground floor.”
“Oh dear, then it wasn’t a very good idea to ring up, was it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What is it?”
“Just to say ‘goodnight.’ ”
“Oh, I see, well—goodnight.”
“And you’ll ring me in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Early, before you’ve made any plans.”
“Yes.”
“Then goodnight, bless you.”
Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed.
*
“… going away in the middle of the party.”
“I can’t tell you how innocent it was. He didn’t even come in.”
“No one is going to know that.”
“And he was furious when I rang him up.”
“What does he think of you?”
“Simply can’t make me out at all… terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits.”
“Are you going to go on with it?”
“I shouldn’t know.” The telephone rang. “Perhaps that’s him.”
But it was not.
Brenda had come into Marjorie’s room and they were having breakfast in bed. Marjorie was more than ever like an elder sister that morning. “But really, Brenda, he’s such a dreary young man.”
“I know it all. He’s second rate and a snob and, I should think, as cold as a fish, but I happen to have a fancy for him, that’s all… besides I’m not sure he’s altogether awful… he’s got that odious mother whom he adores… and he’s always been very poor. I don’t think he’s had a fair deal. I heard all about it last night. He got engaged once but they couldn’t get married because of money and since then he’s never had a proper affair with anyone decent… he’s got to be taught a whole lot of things. That’s part of his attraction.”
“Oh dear, I see you’re very serious.”
The telephone rang.
“Perhaps that’s him.”
But a familiar voice rang out from the instrument so that Brenda too could hear it, “Good morning, darling, what’s the dirt today?”
“Oh, Polly, what a good party last night.”
“Not so bad for the old girl, was it? I say, what about your sister and Mr. Beaver?”
“What about them?”
“How long has that been on?”
“There’s nothing doing there, Polly.”
“Don’t you tell me. They were well away last night. How’s the boy managed it? That’s what I want to know. He must have something we didn’t know about…”
“So Polly’s on to your story. She’ll be telling everyone in London at this moment.”
“How I wish there was anything to tell! The cub hasn’t even rung me up… Well, I’ll leave him in peace. If he doesn’t do anything about me, I’ll go down to Hetton this afternoon. Perhaps that’s him.” But it was only Allan from the Conservative Central Office, to say how sorry he had been not to get to the party the night before. “I hear Brenda disgraced herself,” he said.
“Goodness,” said Brenda. “People do think that young men are easily come by.”
*
“I scarcely saw you at Polly’s last night,” said Mrs. Beaver. “What became of you?”
“We went early. Brenda Last was tired.”
“She was looking lovely. I am so glad you’ve made friends with her. When are you going to see her again?”
“I said I’d ring up.”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“Oh, mumsy, what’s the use? I can’t afford to start taking about women like Brenda Last. If I ring up she’ll say, what are you doing, and I shall have to ask her to something, and it will be the same thing every day. I simply haven’t the money.”
“I know, my son. It’s very difficult for you… and you’re wonderful about money. I ought to be grateful that I haven’t a son always coming to me with debts. Still, it doesn’t do to deny yourself everything, you know. You’re getting to be an old bachelor already at twenty-five. I could see Brenda liked you, that evening she came here.”
“Oh, she likes me all right.”
“I hope she makes up her mind about that flat. They’re going like hot cakes. I shall have to look about for another suitable house to split up. You’d be surprised who’ve been taking them—quite a number of people with houses in London already… Well, I must be getting back to work. I’m away for two nights by the way. See that Chambers looks after you properly. There are some Australians Sylvia Newport discovered who want to take a house in the country, so I’m driving them round to one or two that might do for them. Where are you lunching?”
“Margot’s.”
*
By one o’clock, when they came back from taking Djinn to the Park, Beaver had not rung up. “So that’s that,” said Brenda, “I daresay I’m glad really.” She sent a telegram to Tony to expect her by the afternoon train and, in a small voice, ordered her things to be packed. “I don’t seem to have anywhere to lunch,” she said.
“Why don’t you come to Margot’s? I know she’d love it.”
“Well, ring up and ask her.”
So she met Beaver again.
He was sitting some way from her and they did not speak to each other until everyone was going. “I kept trying to get through to you this morning,” he said, “but the line was always engaged.”
“Oh come on,” said Brenda, “I’ll sock you a movie.”
Later she wired to Tony: Staying with Marjorie another day or two all love to you both.
IV
“Is mummy coming back today?”
“I hope so.”
“That monkey-woman’s party has lasted a long time. Can I come in to the station and meet her?”
“Yes, we’ll both go.”
“She hasn’t seen Thunderclap for four days. She hasn’t seen me jump the new post and rail, has she, daddy?”
She was coming by th
e 3.18. Tony and John Andrew were there early. They wandered about the station looking at things, and bought some chocolate from a slot machine. The stationmaster came out to talk to them. “Her ladyship coming back today?” He was an old friend of Tony’s.
“I’ve been expecting her every day. You know what it is when ladies get to London.”
“Sam Brace’s wife went to London and he couldn’t get her back. Had to go up and fetch her himself. And then she give him a hiding.”
Presently the train came in and Brenda emerged exquisitely from her third-class carriage. “You’ve both come. What angels you are. I don’t at all deserve it.”
“Oh mummy, have you brought the monkey-lady?”
“What does the child mean?”
“He’s got it into his head that your chum Polly has a tail.”
“Come to think of it, I shouldn’t be surprised if she had.”
Two little cases held all her luggage. The chauffeur strapped them on behind the car, and they drove to Hetton.
“What’s all the news?”
“Ben’s put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again today and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burned her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn’t finish it because the paints weren’t right and the gray carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again.”
“Nothing much has happened,” said Tony. “We’ve missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?”
“Me? Oh I’ve been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth.”
“Buying things?”
“Worse. I’ve been carrying on madly with young men and I’ve spent heaps of money and I’ve enjoyed it very much indeed. But there’s one awful thing.”
“What’s that?”
“No, I think it had better keep. It’s something you won’t like at all.”
“You’ve bought a Pekingese.”
“Worse, far worse. Only I haven’t done it yet. But I want to dreadfully.”
“Go on.”