As we talked, I realized that to Irene it seemed as strange, as exciting, as different, a slice of existence as Martin had found hers.
She had drunk more than her share of the wine. She broke out: ‘Of course, you two had a better time than I had.’
‘It has its disadvantages,’ said Martin.
‘You hadn’t got everyone sitting on your head. Whenever I did anything I wanted to, my poor old father used to say: “Irene, remember you’re a Brunskill.” Well, that would have been pretty destroying even if the Brunskills had been specially grand. I thought it was too grim altogether when they sent me to school, and the only girl who’d heard the wonderful name thought we were Norwegians.’
I told her of my acquaintance, Lord Boscastle, whose formula of social dismissal was ‘Who is he? I’m afraid I don’t know the fellow.’ She gave her yelp of laughter.
‘That’s what I should get,’ she said. ‘And it’s much more dismaying if you’ve been taught that you may be poverty-stricken but that you are slightly superior.’
In fact, as I discovered later, she was overdoing it, partly because she had a vein of inverted snobbery and was exaggerating her misfortunes in front of us. Her father was living on his pension from the Indian Army, but some of the Brunskills could have been called county. In secret, Irene kept up her interest in the gradations of smartness among her smart friends.
She went on drinking, but, as we sat round the fire for our coffee, she took hold of herself and began questioning me about my plans. Was I going abroad that Easter vacation? When could she and Martin see me again? Wouldn’t I meet them in London? Wouldn’t I join them for a May Week ball?
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ I said.
‘Do come. Wouldn’t you like being seen with me?’
‘My wife isn’t fit to dance just now,’ I said.
‘Bring someone else.’
It was obvious that Martin had not told her of my wife’s condition. She lived alone in London, and saw no one except me; increasingly those visits were hard to bear.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘You don’t want to dance with me. You’re quite right, I’m not much good.’
‘It must be seven or eight years since I went to a ball,’ I reflected. ‘Good Lord, time goes too fast.’
I had said it casually, platitudinously, but a line came between Irene’s brows and her voice sharpened.
‘That’s near the bone,’ she said.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I hate the thought of time.’
Quickly Martin smiled at her and was changing the subject, but she insisted.
‘Time’s winged chariot,’ she said and looked at me. ‘Do you like the thought of it?’
Soon she cheered up, and decided it was time to leave Martin and me together. She made some excuse; she might as well have invited us to discuss her.
I said goodbye to her in the little passage outside my gyp-cupboard, between the room door and the oak.
‘I’m afraid I’ve been horribly boring and talked too much,’ she said, as she pressed my hand.
I passed it off
‘I always talk too much when I’m nervous.’ She opened the outer door. Still she could not leave it alone; she glanced back over her shoulder, and called to me: ‘I’m very nervous today, Lewis. Believe me, I am.’
She was begging me not to speak against her. As I turned back into the room a gust of wind crashed the door shut behind me. The smoke had cleared from the fireplace, the coal was cherry-red in the iron wicker of the grate. Across the hearth Martin’s face was swept smooth in the unfluctuating glow.
He gave me a smile with his mouth tight and pulled down at one corner; it was a cagey, observant smile that he often wore, and which, together with his open expression and acute eyes, made his mood difficult to read.
His face was a young man’s, but one that would not alter much until he was old; the skin would not take lines easily, except round the eyes; he was fair, and the hair curled, crisp and thick, close to his skull. He was shorter than I was, and not more than an inch or two taller than Irene, but his shoulders, neck and wrists were strong.
Without speaking, I sat down opposite to him, then I said: ‘Well?’
‘Well?’ he replied.
His smile had not changed. His tone was easy. It would have been hard to tell how painfully he cared that I should approve of her; but I knew it.
Our sympathy had always been close, and was growing closer as we grew older. Between us there was a bond of trust. But much of our communication was unspoken, and it was rare for us to be direct with each other, especially about our deeper feelings.
It was partly that, like many men who appear spontaneous at a first meeting, we each had a vein of reserve. I sometimes broke loose from mine, but Martin’s seemed to be part of his nature, as though he would never cease making elaborate plans to hide his secrets, to over-insure against the chances of life. I was watching him develop into a cautious, subtle and far-sighted man.
It was partly that reserve which kept us from being direct with each other; but much more it was the special restraint and delicacy which is often found in brothers’ love.
‘I think she’s attractive,’ I said, ‘and distinctly good company.’
‘Yes, isn’t she?’ said Martin.
Already we were fencing.
‘Does she have a job of some kind?’
‘I believe she’s been someone’s secretary.’
‘Does that give her enough to hive on, in London?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Martin, with an appearance of elaborate reflection, ‘that she shares a flat with another young woman.’
‘She must find it pretty hard to keep going,’ I said.
Martin agreed. ‘I suppose it’s genuinely difficult for them to make a living, isn’t it?’
He was capable of stonewalling indefinitely. Trying another line, I asked whether he had decided anything about his own future. His research grant ran out by the summer, and, if there were no war (our habitual phrase that year), he would have to find a job. He would get a decent one, but, we both knew by this time, there were three or four contemporaries ahead of him, who would take the plums. His research was sound, so Walter Luke said, who supervised him: but Luke added that, judged by high standards, he was turning out good but not quite good enough.
I was more disappointed than I wanted Martin to see, for I had invested much hope in him, including hopes of my own that had been frustrated. His expectations, however, seemed to be humbler than mine. He was ready to come to terms with his talents, to be sorry they were not greater, but to make the best of them. If he believed that he might surprise us all, he hid it. He accepted Luke’s opinion as just. That afternoon he thought the likelihood was that he would get a post in a provincial university.
‘If you thought of marrying,’ I said, ‘you couldn’t very well manage on that.’
‘I suppose it has been done,’ he replied.
Then I asked: ‘As a matter of fact, are you intending to marry her?’
There was a pause.
‘It’s not completely out of the question,’ he said.
His tone stayed even, but just for an instant his open, attentive expression broke, and I saw his eyes flash. They were dark blue, hard, transparently bright, of a kind common in our family. As they met mine, I knew in my heart that his resolve was formed. Yet I could not help arguing against it. My temper was fraying; as I tried not to sound clucking and protective, I could hear with dislike the urge in my own voice.
‘I must say,’ I broke out, ‘that I think it would be very unwise.’
‘I wondered if you would feel that,’ said Martin.