by Evelyn Waugh
They saw it all: the shuttered drawing room, like a school speech-hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony’s succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections—enamel, ivories, seals, snuff boxes, china, ormolu, cloisonné; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony’s ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, “The So-and-sos have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place,” and Tony would say, “Yes, I’ve seen it but I think mine is the earlier.” Eventually they came back to the smoking room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda.
She was stitching away at the petit point, hunched in an armchair. “Well,” she asked, without looking up from her needlework, “what did you think of it?”
“Magnificent.”
“You don’t have to say that to me, you know.”
“Well, a lot of the things are very fine.”
“Yes, the things are all right I suppose.”
“But don’t you like the house?”
“Me? I detest it… at least I don’t mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn’t all, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I’d die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He’s crazy about the place… It’s funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold our house—and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know… I suppose we’re lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn’t for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it’s cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket… I shouldn’t feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house—like my home for instance… but of course Tony’s been brought up here and sees it all differently…”
*
Tony joined them for tea. “I don’t want to seem inhospitable, but if you’re going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready.”
“That’s all right. I’ve persuaded him to stay on till tomorrow.”
“If you’re sure you don’t…”
“Splendid. I am glad. It’s beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train.”
When John came in he said, “I thought Mr. Beaver was going.”
“Not till tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
*
After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross word. Beaver said “I’ve thought of something,” and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played “Analogies” about their friends and finally about each other.
They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10.
“Do let me know when you come to London.”
“I may be up this week.”
Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda’s heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.
“Well, that’s the last of him. You were superb, darling. I’m sure he’s gone back thinking that you’re mad about him.”
“Oh, he wasn’t too awful.”
“No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house.”
*
Mrs. Beaver was eating her yogurt when Beaver reached home. “Who was there?”
“No one.”
“No one? My poor boy.”
“They weren’t expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She’s very charming. He scarcely spoke.”
“I wish I saw her sometimes.”
“She talked of taking a flat in London.”
“Did she?” The conversion of stables and garages was an important part of Mrs. Beaver’s business. “What does she want?”
“Something quite simple. Two rooms and a bath. But it’s all quite vague. She hasn’t said anything to Tony yet.”
“I am sure I shall be able to find her something.”
II
If Brenda had to go to London for a day’s shopping, hair-cutting, or bone-setting (a recreation she particularly enjoyed), she went on Wednesday, because the tickets on that day were half the usual price. She left at eight in the morning and got home soon after ten at night. She traveled third class and the carriages were often full, because other wives on the line took advantage of the cheap fare. She usually spent the day with her younger sister Marjorie, who was married to the prospective Conservative candidate for a South London constituency of strong Labor sympathies. She was more solid than Brenda. The newspapers used always to refer to them as “the lovely Rex sisters.” Marjorie and Allan were hard up and popular; they could not afford a baby; they lived in a little house in the neighborhood of Portman Square, very convenient for Paddington Station. They had a Pekingese dog named Djinn.
Brenda had come on impulse, leaving the butler to ring up and tell Marjorie of her arrival. She emerged from the train, after two hours and a quarter in a carriage crowded five a side, looking as fresh and fragile as if she had that moment left a circle of masseuses, chiropodists, manicurists and coiffeuses in a hotel suite. It was an aptitude she had, never to look half finished; when she was really exhausted, as she often was on her return to Hetton after these days in London, she went completely to pieces quite suddenly and became a waif; then she would sit over the fire with a cup of bread and milk, hardly alive, until Tony took her up to bed.
Marjorie had her hat on and was sitting at her writing table puzzling over her check book and a sheaf of bills.
“Darling, what does the country do to you? You look like a thousand pounds. Where did you get that suit?”
“I don’t know. Some shop.”
“What’s the news at Hetton?”
“All the same. Tony madly feudal. John Andrew cursing like a stable boy.”
“And you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m all right.”
“Who’s been to stay?”
“No one. We had a friend of Tony’s called Mr. Beaver last weekend.”
“John Beaver?… How very odd. I shouldn’t have thought he was at all Tony’s ticket.”
“He wasn’t… What’s he like?”
“I hardly know him. I see him at Margot’s sometimes. He’s a great one for going everywhere.”
“I thought he was rather pathetic.”
“Oh, he’s pathetic all right. D’you fancy him?”
“Heavens, no.”
They took Djinn for a walk in the Park. He was a very unrepaying dog who never looked about him and had to be dragged along by his harness; they took him to Watt’s Physical Energy; when loosed he stood perfectly still, gazing moodily at the asphalt until they turned towards home; only once did he show any sign of emotion, when he snapped at a small child who attempted to stroke him; later he got lost and was found a few yards away, sitting under a chair and staring at a shred of waste paper. He was quite colorless, with pink nose and lips and pink circles of bald flesh round his eyes. “I don’t believe he has a spark of human feeling,” said Marjorie.
They talked about Mr. Cruttwell, their bone-setter, and Marjorie’s new treatment. “He’s never done that to me,” said Brenda enviousl
y; presently, “What do you suppose is Mr. Beaver’s sex life?”
“I shouldn’t know. Pretty dim, I imagine… You do fancy him?”
“Oh well,” said Brenda, “I don’t see such a lot of young men…”
They left the dog at home and did some shopping—towels for the nursery, pickled peaches, a clock for one of the lodge-keepers who was celebrating his sixtieth year of service at Hetton, a pot of Morecambe Bay shrimps as a surprise for Tony; they made an appointment with Mr. Cruttwell for that afternoon. They talked about Polly Cockpurse’s party. “Do come up for it. It’s certain to be amusing.”
“I might… if I can find someone to take me. Tony doesn’t like her… I can’t go to parties alone at my age.”
They went out to luncheon, to a new restaurant in Albemarle Street which a friend of theirs named Daisy had recently opened. “You’re in luck,” said Marjorie, as soon as they got inside the door, “there’s your Mr. Beaver’s mother.”
She was entertaining a party of eight at a large round table in the center of the room; she was being paid to do so by Daisy, whose restaurant was not doing all she expected of it—that is to say the luncheon was free and Mrs. Beaver was getting the order, should the restaurant still be open, for its Spring redecorations. It was, transparently, a made-up party, the guests being chosen for no mutual bond—least of all affection for Mrs. Beaver or for each other—except that their names were in current use—an accessible but not wholly renegade Duke, an unmarried girl of experience, a dancer and a novelist and a scene designer, a shamefaced junior minister who had not realized what he was in for until too late, and Lady Cockpurse. “God, what a party,” said Marjorie, waving brightly to them all.
“You’re both coming to my party, darlings?” Polly Cockpurse’s strident tones rang across the restaurant. “Only don’t tell anyone about it. It’s just a very small, secret party. The house will only hold a few people—just old friends.”
“It would be wonderful to see what Polly’s real old friends were like,” said Marjorie. “She hasn’t known anyone more than five years.”
“I wish Tony could see her point.”
(Although Polly’s fortune was derived from men, her popularity was chiefly among women, who admired her clothes and bought them from her second-hand at bargain prices; her first steps to eminence had been in circles so obscure that they had made her no enemies in the world to which she aspired; some time ago she had married a good-natured Earl, whom nobody else happened to want at the time; since then she had scaled all but the highest peaks of every social mountain.)
After luncheon Mrs. Beaver came across to their table. “I must just come and speak to you, though I’m in a great hurry. It’s so long since we met and John has been telling me about a delightful weekend he had with you.”
“It was very quiet.”
“That’s just what he loves. Poor boy, he gets rushed off his feet in London. Tell me, Lady Brenda, is it true you are looking for a flat, because I think I’ve got just the place for you? It’s being done up now and will be ready well before Christmas.” She looked at her watch. “Oh dear, I must fly. You couldn’t possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it.”
“I could…” said Brenda doubtfully.
“Then do. I’ll expect you about six. I daresay you don’t know where I live?” She told her and left the table.
“What’s all this about a flat?” Marjorie asked.
“Oh just something I thought of…”
*
That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath’s table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. “Probably not, if he’s so keen on going about,” she thought, “and, anyhow, what’s the sense?…”
But he was there, in spite of two other invitations.
She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs. Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long felt need, Mrs. Beaver said.
“I’ll ask my husband and let you know.”
“You will let me know soon, won’t you, because everyone will be wanting one.”
“I’ll let you know very soon.”
When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her.
“I’m sure you want to go away.”
“No, really.”
“I’ve got lots to read.”
“I want to stay.”
“It’s very sweet of you.” Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, “I suppose you wouldn’t like to take me to Polly’s party, would you?”
Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them… if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant… three pounds at least… and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home… and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening… “I wish I could,” he said, “but I’ve promised to dine out for it.”
Brenda had observed his hesitation. “I was afraid you would have.”
“But we’ll meet there.”
“Yes, if I go.”
“I wish I could have taken you.”
“It’s quite all right… I just wondered.”
The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, “Well, I think perhaps I’ll leave you now.”
“Yes, run along. Thank you for coming.”
He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out.
“Why should he want to take me, poor boy?” she thought. “Only he might have done it better.”
*
“Barnardo case?”
Brenda nodded. “Down and out,” she said, “sunk, right under.” She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing.
“Good day?”
She nodded. “Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy’s new joint. Bone-setter. That’s all.”
“You know I wish you’d give up these day trips to London. They’re far too much for you.”
“Me? Oh, I’m all right. Wish I was dead, that’s all… and please, please, darling Tony, don’t say anything about bed, because I can’t move.”
*
Next day a telegram came from Beaver. Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free.
She replied: Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda.
Up till then they had avoided Christian names.
“You seem in wonderful spirits today,” Tony remarked.
“I feel big. I think it’s Mr. Cruttwell. He puts all one’s nerves right and one’s circulation and everything.”
III
“Where’s mummy gone?”
“London.”
“Why?”
“Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party.”
“Is she nice?”
“Mummy thinks so. I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because she looks like a monkey.”
“I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo
. Smelled like a fish too, Ben says.”
They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda’s departure. “Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?”
“Oh, nuts and things.”
“Nuts and what things?”
“Different kinds of nuts.”
For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew’s mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by.
“You mustn’t say things like that about real people,” said nanny. “Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it?”
“She’d gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she’d catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it.”
*
Brenda was staying at Marjorie’s for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister’s room. “Lovely, darling. New?”
“Fairly.”
Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was dining. (“Look here, are you absolutely sure you can’t make Allan come tonight?” “Absolutely. He’s got a meeting in Camberwell. He may not even come to Polly’s.” “Is there any man you can bring?” “Can’t think of anybody.” “Well, we shall have to be one short, that’s all. I can’t think what’s happened tonight. I rang up John Beaver but even he won’t come.”)
“You know,” said Marjorie, putting down the telephone, “you’re causing a great deal of trouble. You’ve taken London’s only spare man.”
“Oh dear, I didn’t realize…”
Beaver arrived at quarter to nine in a state of high self-approval; he had refused two invitations to dinner while dressing that evening; he had cashed a check for ten pounds at his club; he had booked a divan table at Espinosa’s. It was almost the first time in his life that he had taken anyone out to dinner, but he knew perfectly well how it was done.
“I must see your Mr. Beaver properly,” said Marjorie. “Let’s make him take off his coat and drink something.”
