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.
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 1 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
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, schoolgirlish hand with wide spaces between the lines.
Brenda showed it to Marjorie who was still at Hetton. ``I can't complain,'' she said. ``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.