“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 favour 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 restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre 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 nor 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 Tony up 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 smelt very new — walls, sheets, curtains — and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron.
That evening 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 lovely.”
“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 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 (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large croÑte of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particular fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxingday evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went around 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 particularly attached. “How difficult it is for us,” he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen 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 the 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.