“I've been talking to Allan. He's just told me about your change of mind.”
“I'm not sure I know what you mean.”
“That you want to leave Beaver and come back to Hetton.”
“Did Allan say that?”
“Yes, isn't it true?”
“I'm afraid it's not. Allan is an interfering ass. I had him here this afternoon. He told me that you didn't want a divorce but that you were willing to let me stay on alone in London and do as I liked provided there was no public scandal. It seemed a good idea and I was going to ring you up about it. But I suppose that's just his diplomacy too. Anyway I'm afraid there's no prospect of my coming back to Hetton just at present.”
“Oh I see. I didn't think it was likely … I just rang you up.”
“That's all right. How are you, Tony?”
“All right, thanks.”
“Good, so am I. Goodbye.”
That was all he had heard of her. Both avoided places where there was a likelihood of their meeting.
It was thought convenient that Brenda should appear as the plaintiff. Tony did not employ the family solicitors in the matter but another, less reputable firm who specialized in divorce. He had steeled himself to expect a certain professional gusto, even levity, but found them instead disposed to melancholy and suspicion.
“I gather Lady Brenda is being far from discreet. It is quite likely that the King's Proctor may intervene … Moreover there is the question of money. You understand that by the present arrangement since she is the innocent and injured party she will be entitled to claim substantial alimony from the courts.”
“Oh that's all right,” said Tony. “I've been into all that with her brother-in-law and have decided to make a settlement of five hundred a year. She has four hundred of her own and I understand Mr. Beaver has something.”
“It's a pity we can't put it in writing,” said the solicitor, “but that might constitute Conspiracy.”
“Lady Brenda's word is quite good enough,” said Tony. “We like to protect our clients against even the most remote contingencies,” said the lawyer with an air of piety, for he had not had Tony's opportunities to contract the habit of loving and trusting Brenda.
The fourth week-end after Brenda's departure from Hetton was fixed for Tony's infidelity. A suite was engaged at a seaside hotel (“We always send our clients there. The servants are well accustomed to giving evidence”) and private detectives were notified. “It only remains to select a partner,” said the solicitor; no hint of naughtiness lightened his gloom. “We have on occasions been instrumental in accommodating our clients but there have been frequent complaints, so we find it best to leave the choice to them. Lately we had a particularly delicate case involving a man of very rigid morality and a certain diffidence. In the end his own wife consented to go with him and supply the evidence. She wore a red wig. It was quite successful.”
“I don't think that would do in this case.”
“No. Exactly. I was merely quoting it as a matter of interest.”
“I expect I shall be able to find someone,” said Tony.
“I have no doubt of it,” said the solicitor, bowing politely.
But when he came to discuss the question later with Jock, it did not seem so easy. “It's not a thing one can ask every girl to do,” he said, “whichever way you put it. If you say it is merely a legal form it is rather insulting, and if you suggest going the whole hog it's rather fresh — suddenly, I mean, if you've never paid any particular attention to her before and don't propose to carry on with it afterwards … Of course there's always old Sybil.”
But even Sybil refused. “I'd do it like a shot any other time,” she said, “but just at the moment it wouldn't suit my book. There's a certain person who might hear about it and take it wrong … There's an awfully pretty girl called Jenny Abdul Akbar. I wonder if you've met her.”
“Yes, I've met her.”
“Well won't she do?”
“No.”
“Oh dear, I don't know who to suggest.”
“We'd better go and study the market at the Sixty-four,” said Jock.
They dined at Jock's house. Lately they had found it a little gloomy at Brown's for people tended to avoid anyone they knew to be unhappy. Though they drank a magnum of champagne they could not recapture the light-hearted mood in which they had last visited Sink Street. And then Tony said, “Is it any good going there yet?”
“We may as well try. After all we aren't going there for enjoyment.”
“No, indeed.”
The doors were open at 64 Sink Street and the band was playing to an empty ballroom. The waiters were eating at a little table in the corner. Two or three girls were clustered round the Jack-Pot machine losing shillings hard and complaining about the cold. They ordered a bottle of the Montmorency Wine Company's brandy and sat down to wait.
“Any of those do?” asked Jock.
“I don't much care.”
“Better get someone you like. You've got to put in a lot of time with her.”
Presently Milly and Babs came downstairs.
“How are the postman's hats?” said Milly.
They could not recognize the allusion.
“You are the two boys who were here last month, aren't you?”
“Yes. I'm afraid we were rather tight.”
“You don't say?” It was very seldom that Milly and Babs met anyone who was quite sober during their business hours.
“Well come and sit down. How are you both?”
“I think I'm starting a cold,” said Babs. “I feel awful. Why can't they heat this hole, the mean hounds?”
Milly was more cheerful and swayed in her chair to the music. “Care to dance?” she said, and she and Tony began to shuffle across the empty floor.
“My friend is looking for a lady to take to the seaside,” said Jock.
“What, this weather? That'll be a nice treat for a lonely girl.” Babs sniffed into a little ball of handkerchief.
“It's for a divorce.”
“Oh, I see. Well, why doesn't he take Milly? She doesn't catch cold easy. Besides she knows how to behave at a hotel. Lots of the girls here are all right to have a lark with in town but you have to have a lady for a divorce.”
“D'you often get asked to do that?”
“Now and then. It's a nice rest — but it means so much talking and the gentlemen will always go on so about their wives.”
While they were dancing Tony came straight to business. “I suppose you wouldn't care to come away for the week-end?” he asked.
“Shouldn't mind,” said Milly. “Where?”
“I thought of Brighton.”
“Oh … Is it for a divorce?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn't mind if I brought my little girl with us? She wouldn't be any trouble.”
“Yes.”
“You mean you wouldn't mind?”
“I mean I should mind.”
“Oh … You wouldn't think I had a little girl of eight, would you?”
“No.”
“She's called Winnie. I was only sixteen when I had her. I was the youngest of the family and our stepfather wouldn't leave any of us girls alone. That's why I have to work for a living. She lives with a lady at Finchley. Twenty-eight bob a week it costs me, not counting her clothes. She does like the seaside.”
“No,” said Tony. “I'm sorry but it would be quite impossible. We'll get a lovely present for you to take back to her.”
“All right … One gentleman gave her a fairy bicycle for Christmas. She fell off and cut her knee … When do we start?”
“Would you like to go by train or car?”
“Oh train. Winnie's sick if she goes in a car.”
“Winnie's not coming.”
“No, but let's go by train anyway.”