These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind; quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, “Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,” but the uneasiness persisted and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one from Thursday until Monday.
She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. Darling Brenda, he wrote.Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was sweet of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends you her love. We shall be leaving tomorrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold.
It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it.
He wrote a large, schoolgirlish hand with wide spaces between the lines.
Brenda showed it to Marjorie who was still at Hetton. “I can't complain,” she said. “He's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present.”
Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.
“Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them.”
“No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks.”
They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all.
On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.
“I'll tell you something very odd,” he said. “Who do you think is here?”
“Who?”
“Our old friend Beaver.”
“Why's that odd particularly?”
“Oh I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent Angela a telegram as he did to us?”
“I daresay.”
Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, “All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How?”
“Well, my mother let it to her, you know.”
Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. “You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known.”
“No, darling, that's why.”
Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, “I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know.”
Brenda never started the subject of the half finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked.
On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, “I've made a New Year resolution.”
“Anything to do with spending more time at home?”
“Oh no, quite the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something.”
“Not bone setters again. I thought that was over.”
“No, something like economics. You see I've been thinking. I don't really do anything at all at present. It's absurd to pretend I'm any use to John, the house runs itself. It seemed to me time I took to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things — you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go, Don't you think it's rather a good idea?”
“It's one better than the bone setters,” Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began.
CHAPTER THREE
Hard Cheese on Tony
One
IT is not uncommon at Brat's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternately taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Brat's half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily.
It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.
“Anyone here?”
“Very quiet tonight, sir. Mr. Last is in the dining room.” Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of hire. He was half way through dinner and three quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. “Hullo,” he said. “Chucked? Come and join me.”
It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.
“Been chucked?” asked Tony again.
“Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out.”
“Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing.”
They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.
“Just come up for the night,” said Tony. “Staying here.”
“You've got a flat now haven't you?”