Breakfast at Midnight

by Fiona MacFarlane

CHAPTER TWELVE

  Unsolicited Advice

  That night Michael Brearly spent another restless night in his bed. His anxiety about his coming marriage to Agnes Wentworth kept him awake all night, and into the early hours of the morning. By three o’clock he had abandoned any efforts to sleep, and stole downstairs to get himself a bacon sandwich and a drink. For an hour or more he pondered his fate, until he eventually fell asleep at the breakfast table. Several hours later he was roused from his slumber by the sound of his brother’s voice.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ George began in a playfully accusing tone, ‘what do we have here?’ He picked up the bottle of whisky that was on the table, along with a plate of crumbs and an upturned glass. ‘I don’t know about you, but this looks suspiciously like a bottle of whisky to me. Drinking it straight are you? Not even diluting it with soda water? Mmm? Well, my boozy man, what do you have to say for yourself?’

  Michael groaned and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. ‘God in heaven! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be asleep?’

  George chuckled to himself. ‘By Jove, you must have had a rough night of it! You’re completely disorientated. It’s morning, sleepy head. Time to rise and shine, unless you’re still fuddled, in which case I recommend you go back to bed.’

  Michael propped his aching head up with both hands. ‘What rot! I had one glass. One small glass only.’

  ‘I believe you, big brother, but thousands wouldn’t. Anyway,’ George said more seriously, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Is that so?’ George queried, seating himself on the breakfast table. ‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’ Michael made no reply. ‘In a stew are we? Although if you’re worried about Agnes, I completely understand.’ He began picking at something between his teeth. ‘I bet you were surprised to see her yesterday,’ George said, removing his finger from his mouth.

  ‘No, not at all. I knew she was coming home earlier, but she hadn’t informed me of the date.’

  ‘Well I wished I had been forewarned. I nearly had multiple seizures when I saw her. It was insufferable.’

  Michael lifted himself up from the table. ‘George,’ he warned. ‘Don’t start this now.’

  ‘Start what? I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Now look here. I know the two of you don’t exactly get along, but I trust you’ll make every effort to be civil to her while she’s here.’ Met by an un-nerving silence, Michael gave George a probing look. ‘George?’

  ‘It’s not too late you know. You don’t have to go ahead with this if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,’ Michael said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Good God! What right do you have?’

  ‘She’s not the right woman for you,’ George declared with unusual solemnity. ‘You’re making an awfully grave mistake.’

  Michael’s face began to colour with anger, but despite the intensity of his emotion, he remained admirably calm. ‘Whether you like it or not, I will marry Agnes Wentworth in February, next year. Nothing you say or do will ever change my mind.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I’ll keep trying.’

  ‘Oh, no you won’t,’ Michael said, rising to his feet. ‘I won’t let you ruin my chance at happiness. God, anyone would think that you’re trying to sabotage my wedding.’

  ‘What an outrageous thing to say! I wouldn’t dream of doing that. Although if the truth be told—’

  ‘Look,’ said Michael, returning his chair noisily to the table, ‘I’m just not in the mood for this sort of conversation at this time in the morning. I appreciate your concerns, but I don’t understand you. I also think it’s rather sad that after all this time you should still harbour ill feelings towards Agnes, when, to the best of my knowledge, she has done nothing to you.’ His voice began to modulate. ‘You haven’t even seen her in years. How do you know that she hasn’t changed since then? People change, George.’

  As Michael reflected on these words, he became aware that his brother was dressed in full tennis costume. It made him conscious of the time. ‘Good God,’ he said, looking frantically about the room for a clock. He soon discovered that it was nine o’clock. ‘B-loody hell!’ he cried. ‘Look at the time! They’ll be here any minute now and nothing’s been prepared.’

  George remained unmoved at the table. ‘It’s all right, Michael. There’s no need to be quite so fractious. I took the liberty of organising things when you were in your drunken slumber. Everything has been done, except for your clothes of course. You’d better hurry up and get dressed. As fetching as you look in those pyjamas, they don’t show you to your best advantage.’

  Michael looked at George in a state of pleasant disbelief. ‘Thank you,’ he said sincerely.

  ‘Oh stop it. You’re making me blush.’

  Michael returned his brother’s smile and darted upstairs to his room to get changed. Finding an outfit to wear for tennis was easy enough, but finding appropriate shoes was less so. After a few minutes of searching, he settled for his everyday boots. He felt sure nobody would notice. Once he was dressed he raced downstairs to the dining room, where his recently arrived guests had assembled. After the greetings had been exchanged the party sat themselves down at the table. As they were unravelling their table napkins George abruptly opened the conversation.

  ‘Well, I must say,’ he began cheerily, ‘that everyone is looking awfully healthy this morning. And I’m pleased to see that everyone is wearing white for our tennis match.’ Looking about the table, however, he noticed that Michael was dressed in a navy blue double-breasted reefer jacket and Charlotte was wearing a dowdy, heliotrope coloured tea gown. ‘Well, nearly everybody,’ he added. ‘Why the reefer, Michael? We’re playing tennis, not going yachting. And as for you, Charlotte, why are you wearing that purple get up? Breaking with tradition are you? Are you keen to start a new trend?’

  ‘No indeed, Mr Brearly. I’m not playing.’

  ‘Not playing?’ George repeated with a scowl. ‘Oh, I see. And what may I ask will you be doing while we’re playing? Scoring? Retrieving the balls perhaps? I know they’re not very glamorous duties, but it would be awfully appreciated.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Charlotte replied, looking very put out. ‘I shall be sitting the game out, like Mama.’

  For some time only the sounds of tinkling cutlery and people eating punctuated the strained silence. Having an aversion to peace and quiet, George looked desperately to each person at the table and tried to think of something to say. He firstly looked towards Frances, but given that her mouth was filled with toast, he simply smiled at her instead. Once she returned his smile he transferred his gaze to Agnes. She was sipping tea from her cup and was doing her best it, seemed, to ignore him. George sighed and looked towards his brother. Michael had just dropped his napkin on the floor, and as he pulled his chair out to retrieve it, George noticed his brother’s boots.

  ‘By Jove, Michael!’ he exclaimed, ‘what’s up with those shoes?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Michael answered, returning the napkin to his lap.

  ‘You’re not going to wear those are you?’ When Michael nodded, George added, ‘but they’re not very sporty are they? Or should I say very fashionable.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, George,’ Michael responded, ‘I thought we were going to play a game of tennis, not model the latest fashions.’ He began lathering butter onto his bread. ‘I am wearing these shoes during the game, and if that shocks or disgusts you, well so be it.’

  An irritated George leant over the table and greedily helped himself to three pieces of toast. ‘So,’ George resumed, with a mouthful of bread, ‘who will be the tennis champion amongst us this morning?’ He was greeted with a resounding silence. ‘Agnes? Will it be you?’ George watched Agnes with evident amusement.

  ‘No,’ she responded coldly. ‘I don’t think so.’ She raised her cup of tea once more to her delicate red lips. ‘I don’t play tennis to win,’ she declared ove
r the rim of her cup. ‘I play for the pleasure of it.’

  George simply stared. ‘Of course you do,’ he muttered. ‘Of course you do.’ He sat further back in his chair and arrogantly placed his hands behind his head. From the corner of his eyes he noticed that Frances was smirking. ‘And what about you, Miss Norwood? Do you play tennis for the pleasure of it, or do you play to win?’ He looked at her hopefully.

  ‘I play to win,’ Frances answered.

  ‘That’s the attitude to have!’ George replied, thumping his fist down on the table, an action that caused the cutlery to jump, and some of Louisa’s tea to splash onto the tablecloth.

  ‘George!’ Louisa cried. ‘Look what you have done!’ She dabbed her napkin furiously at the tablecloth.

  ‘At last, someone who shares my philosophy on sport,’ George said, completely ignoring Louisa. ‘Sport isn’t sport unless there is some degree of aggression, risk and competitiveness in it.’

  ‘And what about sportsmanship?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘Sportsmanship?’ George echoed. ‘Oh, no! I think it’s awfully over-rated.’

  Agnes looked displeased. ‘Are you saying that on a sporting arena, whether it’s tennis or cricket, that aggression should take precedence over fair play and gentlemanly conduct?’

  ‘Yep,’ he acknowledged in an equable voice. ‘That sounds pretty much the case.’

  ‘And what do you think about this, Michael?’ Agnes inquired, watching her fiancé shrewdly. ‘Do you think that one should always play by the rules?’

  ‘Always,’ Michael avowed. ‘I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.’

  ‘Aw, what nonsense!’ George retaliated. ‘How can you accept the concepts of wrong and right so unquestioningly? If everyone played by the rules all the time, what a miserable existence it would be. We would all know where we stood, but we’d all be miserable just the same.’

  Michael narrowed his eyes at his brother. Why did he get the feeling that this conversation was about something other than tennis?

  ‘Regardless of how we choose to play the game,’ Michael cut in quickly, ‘tennis will begin after breakfast. Hopefully we can discuss the Christmas arrangements after the match.’

  But no-one answered him. The tension from the last conversation was still palpable, and not trusting themselves to speak amidst such an atmosphere, they silently finished their breakfast.