A Handful of Dust

by Evelyn Waugh

“Tony, I’ve found a flat.”

  “Well, you’d better lose it again, quick.”

  “All right. I’ll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile try not to brood about it.”

  “I shan’t give it another thought.”

  “What’s a flat, daddy?”

  *

  Brenda wore pajamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup.

  “I suppose all this means that you’re going to start again about your flat?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “You haven’t signed any papers yet, have you?”

  “Oh no.” Brenda shook her head emphatically.

  “Then no great harm’s done.” Tony began to fill his pipe.

  Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. “Listen, you haven’t been brooding?”

  “No.”

  “Because, you see, when you say ‘flat’ you’re thinking of something quite different to me. You mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining rooms and drawing rooms and servants’ bathrooms… don’t you, Tony?”

  “More or less.”

  “Exactly. Now I mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know—”

  “Who?”

  “Just a woman—has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d’you think of that?”

  “I see.”

  “Now this is how I look at it. What’s three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You’re always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can’t stay often with Marjorie because it’s hell for her having me, and anyway she’s got that dog, and you’re always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping, ‘Why didn’t you stay the night,’ you say, ‘instead of killing yourself?’ Time and again you say it. I’m sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I’ll give up Mr. Cruttwell. How’s that?”

  “D’you really want this thing?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, I’ll have to see. We might manage it, but it’ll mean putting off the improvements down here.”

  “I don’t really deserve it,” she said, clinching the matter. “I’ve been carrying on anyhow this week.”

  *

  Brenda’s stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the color of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs. Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair—there was not room for more. Mrs. Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a “suggestion.” Mrs. Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense.

  Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. “I’m sorry to be pompous,” she said one morning, “but I just don’t want your Mr. Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie.”

  “Oh well, the flat won’t be long now.”

  “And I shall go on saying that I think you’re making a ridiculous mistake.”

  “It’s just that you don’t like Mr. Beaver.”

  “It isn’t only that. I think it’s hard cheese on Tony.”

  “Oh, Tony’s all right.”

  “And if there’s a row—”

  “There won’t be a row.”

  “You never know. If there is, I don’t want Allan to think I’ve been helping to arrange things.”

  “I wasn’t so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley.”

  “There was never much in that,” said Marjorie.

  But with the exception of her sister’s, opinion was greatly in favor of Brenda’s adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meager romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips.

  Mrs. Beaver made no bones about her delight. “Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he’s always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but that isn’t the same thing. I’ve felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He’s got a very affectionate nature, but he’s so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear… to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He’s very shy and reserved even to me. I’ll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much.”

  And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. “How on earth has he got away with it?” they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Brat’s, they made room for him at the bar and said, “Well old boy, how about one?”

  *

  Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelled very new—walls, sheets, curtains—and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron.

  That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. “I’m talking from the flat.”

  “Oh, ah.”

  “Darling, do try to sound interested. It’s very exciting for me.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there’s just a rush of air and that’s all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won’t pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night… but it’s love
ly.”

  “You don’t say so.”

  “Tony, you must be nice about it. It’s all so exciting—front door and a latch key and all… And someone sent me a lot of flowers today—so many that there’s hardly room for them and I’ve had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn’t you, was it?”

  “Yes… as a matter of fact.”

  “Darling, I did so hope it was… how like you.”

  “Three minutes please.”

  “Must stop now.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Almost at once. Goodnight, my sweet.”

  “What a lot of talk,” said Beaver.

  All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.

  “Wasn’t it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?”

  “I’m not awfully fond of Tony.”

  “Don’t let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn’t like you at all.”

  “Doesn’t he? Why not?”

  “No one does except me. You must get that clear… it’s very odd that I should.”

  *

  Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda’s mother, Tony’s Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (checks for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large croûte of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing Day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.

  “How difficult it is for us,” he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woolen gloves, “to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,” said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, “we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant…” And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr. Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony’s guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. “The ravening tiger and the exotic camel” had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games.

  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, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines.

  Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, “I can’t complain, 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 neighboring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returne
d 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 seems 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.

  Three

  Hard Cheese on Tony

  I

  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.”