A Handful Of Dust

One

“How's the old boy taking it?”

“Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast,” said Brenda. “I'm afraid he minds a lot.”

“Well you wouldn't like it if he didn't,” said Polly to console her.

“No, I suppose not.”

“I shall stick by you whatever happens,” said Jenny Abdul Akbar.

“Oh everything is going quite smoothly now,” said Brenda. “There was a certain amount of gêne with relatives.”

Tony had been living with Jock for the last three weeks. Mrs. Rattery had gone to California and he was grateful for company. They dined together most evenings. They had given up going to Brat's; so had Beaver; they were afraid of meeting each other. Instead they went to Brown's where Beaver was not a member. Beaver was continually with Brenda nowadays, at one of half a dozen houses.

Mrs. Beaver did not like the turn things had taken; her workmen had been sent back from Hetton with their job unfinished.

In the first week Tony had had several distasteful interviews. Allan had attempted to act as peacemaker. “You just wait a few weeks,” he had said. “Brenda will come back. She'll soon get sick of Beaver.”

“But I don't want her back.”

“I know just how you feel, but it doesn't do to be medieval about it. If Brenda hadn't been upset at John's death this need never have come to a crisis. Why last year Marjorie was going everywhere with that ass Robin Beaseley. She was mad about him at the time but I pretended not to notice and it all blew over. If I were you I should refuse to recognize that anything has happened.”

Marjorie had said, “Of course Brenda doesn't love Beaver. How could she? … And if she thinks she does at the moment, I think it's your duty to prevent her making a fool of herself. You must refuse to be divorced — anyway until she has found someone more reasonable.”

Lady St. Cloud had said, “Brenda has been very, very foolish. She always was an excitable girl, but I am sure there was never anything wrong, quite sure. That wouldn't be like Brenda at all. I haven't met Mr. Beaver and I do not wish to. I understand he is unsuitable in every way. Brenda would never want to marry anyone like that. I will tell you exactly how it happened, Tony. Brenda must have felt a tiny bit neglected — people often do at that stage of marriage. I have known countless cases — and it was naturally flattering to her to find a young man to beg and carry for her. That's all it was, nothing wrong. And then the terrible shock of little John's accident unsettled her and she didn't know what she was saying or writing. You'll both laugh over this little fracas in years to come.”

Tony had not set eyes on Brenda since the afternoon of the funeral. Once he spoke to her over the telephone.

It was during the second week when he was feeling most lonely and bewildered by various counsels. Allan had been with him urging a reconciliation. “I've been talking to Brenda,” he had said. “She's sick of Beaver already. The one thing she wants is to go back to Hetton and settle down with you again.”

While Allan was there, Tony resolutely refused to listen but later the words, and the picture they evoked, would not leave his mind. So he rang her up and she answered him calmly and gravely.

“Brenda, this is Tony.”

“Hullo, Tony, what is it?”

“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.”

So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon.

Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home. Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake.

Two

There was a general rendezvous at the first class booking office. The detectives were the first, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such.

There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely.

Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.

“This is going to be hell,” said Tony.

It was ten minutes before Milly came. She emerged from the gloom with a porter in front carrying her suitcase and a child dragging back on her arm behind her. Milly's wardrobe consisted mainly of evening dresses, for during the day she usually spent her time sitting before a gas-fire in her dressing gown. She made an insignificant and rather respectable appearance. “Sorry if I'm late,” she said. “Winnie here couldn't find her shoes. I brought her along too. I knew you wouldn't really mind. She travels on a half ticket.”

Winnie was a plain child with large gold-rimmed spectacles. When she spoke she revealed that two of her front teeth were missing.

“I hope you don't imagine she's coming with us.”

“Yes, that's the idea,” said Milly. “She won't be any trouble — she's got her puzzle.”

Tony bent down to speak to the little girl. “Listen,” he said. “You don't want to come to a nasty big hotel. You go with this kind gentleman here. He'll take you to a shop and let you choose the biggest doll you can find and then he'll drive you back in his motor to your home. You'll like that, won't you?”

“No,” said Winnie. “I want to go to the seaside. I won't go with that man. I don't want a doll. I want to go to the seaside with my mummy.”

Several people besides the detectives were beginning to take notice of the oddly assorted group.

“Oh God!” said Tony, “I suppose she's got to come.” The detectives followed at a distance down the platform. Tony settled his companions in a pullman car. “Look,” said Milly, “we're travelling first class. Isn't that fun? We can have tea.”

“Can I have an ice?”

“I don't expect they've got an ice. But you can have some nice tea.”

“But I want an ice.”

“You shall have an ice when you get to Brighton. Now be a good girl and play with your puzzle or mother won't take you to the seaside again.”

“The Awful Child of popular fiction,” said Jock as he left Tony.

Winnie sustained the part throughout the journey to Brighton. She was not inventive but she knew the classic routine thoroughly, even to such commonplace but alarming devices as breathing heavily, grunting and complaining of nausea.

Room at the hotel had been engaged for Tony by the solicitors. It was therefore a surprise to the reception clerk when Winnie arrived. “We have reserved in your name double and single communicating rooms, bathroom and sitting room,” he said. “We did not understand you were bringing your daughter. Will you require a further room?”

“Oh Winnie can come in with me,” said Milly.

The two detectives who were standing nearby at the counter, exchanged glances of disapproval.

Tony wrote Mr. and Mrs. Last in the Visitors' Book. “And daughter,” said the clerk with his finger on the place.

Tony hesitated. “She is my niece,” he said, and inscribed her name on another line, as Miss Smith.

The detective, registering below, remarked to his colleague, “He got out of that all right. Quite smart. But I don't like the look of this case. Most irregular. Sets a nasty, respectable note bringing a kid into it. We've got the firm to consider. It doesn't do them any good to get mixed up with the King's Proctor.”

“How about a quick one?” said his colleague indifferently.

Upstairs, Winnie said, “Where's the sea?”

“Just there across the street.”

“I want to go and see it.”

“But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it tomorrow.”

“I want to see it tonight.”

“You take her to see it now,” said Tony.

“Sure you won't be lonely?”

“Quite sure.”

“We won't be long.”

“That's all right. You let her see it properly.”

Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. “Good evening,” he said.

They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. “Good evening,” said the senior detective. “Nasty, raw evening.”

“Have a drink.”

Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, “Don't mind if I do.”

“Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely.”

They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the bar man. “Mr. Last, sir, this is all wrong,” said the senior detective. “You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office.”

“Best respects,” said the junior detective.

“This is Mr. James, my colleague,” said the senior detective. “My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work.”

“So am I,” said Tony.

“A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job,” said Blenkinsop, “very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints.”

“Tell me,” said Tony. “Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?”

“It is not.”

“I thought it couldn't be.”

“Since you ask me, Mr. Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and I are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be? I don't like it, Mr. Last, and that's the truth.”

“You can't feel more strongly about it than I do.”

“Fond of kids myself,” said James, who was new to this kind of work. “How about one with us.”

“Tell me,” said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. “You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?”

“It's easier in the summer,” said Blenkinsop, “the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes.”

Milly and her child were in the sitting room when Tony came up.

“I've ordered an ice,” said Milly.

“Quite right.”

“I want late dinner. I want late dinner.”

“No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here.” Tony returned to the bar. “Mr. James,” he said. “Did I understand you to say you were fond of children?”

“Yes, in their right place.”

“You wouldn't I suppose consider dining tonight with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness.”

“Oh no, sir, hardly that.”

“You would not find me ungrateful.”

“Well, sir, I don't like to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties.”

He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. “Quite out of the question, sir.”

When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. “Our trouble is always the same — to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter.”

Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices and the slight depression induced by them, persuaded Winnie to go to bed.

“How are we going to sleep?” asked Milly.

“Oh, just as you like.”

“Just as you like.”

“Well perhaps Winnie would be happier with you … she'll have to go into the other room tomorrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course.”

So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner.

A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrists, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new mad thing brought to his notice could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. “Charming,” he said, “perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?”

Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.

“Cheer up,” said Milly. “You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk.”

“Sorry, am I being a bore?”

“I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?” In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside.

“Yids,” explained Milly superfluously. “Still it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while.”

One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. “Take `em up and get `em unpacked and quick about it,” he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall.

“Oh for Christ's sake,” she said.

Milly and the young man greeted each other. “This is Dan,” she said.

“Well, well, well,” said Dan, “what next.”

“Do I get a drink?” said Dan's girl.

“Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we de trop?”

They went together into the glittering lounge. “I'm cold like hell,” said Baby.

Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus fours, and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. “We'll soon warm you up,” he said.

“This place stinks of yids,” said Baby.

“I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?” said Tony.

“Like hell,” said Baby.

“You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold,” Dan explained.

“Who wouldn't be in your lousy car?”

They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. “He's a very nice boy,” she said, “and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away.”

“His girl didn't seem to like us much.”

“Oh, she was cold.”

Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. “That's a pretty girl in the corner.”

“I wonder you don't go and join her, dear,” said Milly testily.

“Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?”

“Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?”

“That's an interesting type — the dark woman dancing.”

“I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it.”

Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world, to express interest in women, other than the one you were with.

They drank champagne. So, Tony noticed with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining room. “Look here,” he said, “if you two aren't doing anything special why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything.”

“Oh do let's,” said Milly.

Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue.

So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party of twenty or thirty people, all more or less like Dan. Dan's friend was most hospitable. When he was not fiddling with the wireless, which gave trouble off and on throughout the evening, he was sauntering among his guests refilling their glasses. “This stuff's all right,” he said, showing the label, “it won't hurt you. It's the right stuff.”

They had a lot of the right stuff.

Quite often Dan's friend noticed that Tony seemed to be out of the party. Then he would come across and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. “I'm so glad Dan brought you,” he would say. “Hope you're getting all you want. Delighted to see you. Come again when there isn't a crowd and see over the place. Interested in roses?”

“Yes, I like them very much.”

“Come when the roses are out. You'd like that if you're interested in roses. Damn that radio, it's going wonky again.”

Tony wondered whether he was as amiable when people he did not know were brought over unexpectedly to Hetton.

At one stage in the evening he found himself sitting on a sofa with Dan. “Nice kid Milly,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I'll tell you a thing I've noticed about her. She attracts quite a different type from the other girls. People like you and me.”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn't think she had a daughter of eight, would you.”

“No, it's very surprising.”

“I didn't know for ages. Then I was taking her to Dieppe for the week-end and she wanted to bring the child along too. Of course that put the kybosh on it, but I've always liked Milly just the same. You can trust her to behave anywhere.” He said this with a sour glance towards Baby who was full of the right stuff and showing it. It was after three before the party broke up. Dan's friend renewed his invitation to come again when the roses were out. “I doubt if you'll find a better show of roses anywhere in the south of England,” he said.

Dan drove them back to the hotel. Baby sat beside him in front, disposed to be quarrelsome. “Where were you?” she kept asking. “Never saw you all the evening. Where did you get to? Where were you hiding? I call it a lousy way to take a girl out.”

Tony and Milly sat at the back. From habit and exhaustion she put her head on his shoulder and her hand in his. When they reached their rooms, however, she said, “Go quietly. We don't want to wake Winnie.”

For an hour or so Tony lay in the warm little bedroom, reviewing over and over again the incidents of the last three months; then he too fell asleep.

He was awakened by Winnie. “Mother's still asleep,” she said.

Tony looked at his watch. “So I should think,” he said. It was quarter past seven. “Go back to bed.”

“No, I'm dressed. Let's go out.”

She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, filling the room with glacial morning light. “It's hardly raining at all,” she said.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to go on the pier.”

“It won't be open yet.”

“Well I want to go down to the sea. Come on.”

Tony knew that he would not get to sleep again that morning. “All right. You go and wait while I dress.”

“I'll wait here. Mother snores so.”

Twenty minutes later they went downstairs into the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. “Oh come on,” said Winnie.

They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. “Why don't you bathe?” asked Winnie.

“Far too cold.”

“But they're bathing. I want to.”

“You must ask your mother.”

“I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“Well why don't you? Bet you can't.”

“All right. I can't.”

“Then why did you say you could. Fibber.”

They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. “Now I'm all wet,” she said.

“Better come back and change.”

“It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast.”

The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and, himself, smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. “We missed you last night,” he said.

“We went to a party.”

“You shouldn't have done that — not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?”

“Yes, in the dining room with Winnie.”

“But, Mr. Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants.”

“Well, I didn't like to wake Milly.”

“She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr. Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more.”

“All right,” said Tony. “I'll have breakfast again.”

“In bed mind.”

“In bed.” And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. “She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier.”

“Milly,” said Tony firmly. “Milly.”

“Oh,” she said. “What time is it?”

“We've got to have breakfast.”

“Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little.”

“You have had breakfast,” said Winnie.

“Come on,” said Tony. “Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for.”

Milly sat up in bed. “O.K.,” she said. “Winnie darling, give mother her jacket off the chair.” She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job however unattractive it might seem. “But it's early.”

Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing gown. “You are greedy,” said Winnie, “eating two breakfasts.” “When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting room for quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like.”

“Can I bathe?”

“Yes certainly, if you're quiet now.”

Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing gown tight round his throat. “Does that look all right?”

“Love's young dream,” said Milly.

“All right then. I'll ring the bell.”

When the tray had been brought Tony got out of bed and put on his things. “So much for my infidelity,” he said. “It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as `intimacy.' ”

“Can I bathe now?”

“Certainly.”

Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle.

“This little girl would like to bathe,” said Tony.

“No bathing for children today,” said the beach attendant.

“The very idea,” said various onlookers. “Does he want to drown the child?” “He's no business to be trusted with children.”

“Unnatural beast.”

“But I want to bathe,” said Winnie. “You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts.”

The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. “Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy.”

“Never mind,” said Tony. “We'll go on the pier.”

Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. “There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl,” they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning.

“Well,” said Brenda's solicitor. “We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term — there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind.”

“ … My marriage was an ideally happy one,” she read, “until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door. Is that necessary?”

“Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy.”

“I see,” said Brenda. “From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th. Yes, that all seems quite clear.”

Three

Lady St. Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he was occupied in desecrating some tombs. His departure, like all his movements, was leisurely. He did not take the first available boat or the second, but eventually he arrived in London on the Monday after Tony's visit to Brighton. He held a family conclave in his library consisting of his mother, Brenda, Marjorie, Allan and the solicitor; later he discussed the question fully with each of them severally; he took Beaver out to luncheon; he dined with Jock; he even called on Tony's Aunt Frances. Finally on Thursday evening he arranged to meet Tony for dinner at Brown's.

He was eight years older than Brenda; very occasionally a fugitive, indefinable likeness was detectable between him and Marjorie, but both in character and appearance he was as different from Brenda as it was possible to imagine. He was prematurely, unnaturally stout, and he carried his burden of flesh as though he were not yet used to it; as though it had been buckled on to him that morning for the first time and he were still experimenting for its better adjustment; there was an instability in his gait and in his eyes, a furtive look as though he were at any moment liable to ambush and realized that he was unfairly handicapped for flight. This impression, however, was made solely by his physical appearance; it was the deep bed of fat in which his eyes lay, which gave them this look of suspicion; the caution of his movements resulted from the exertion of keeping his balance and not from any embarrassment at his own clumsiness, for it had never occurred to him that he looked at all unusual.

Rather more than half Reggie St. Cloud's time and income was spent abroad in modest archaeological expeditions. His house in London was full of their fruit — fragmentary amphoras, corroded bronze axe-heads, little splinters of bone and charred stick, a Graeco-Roman head in marble, its features obliterated and ground smooth with time. He had written two little monographs about his work, privately printed and both dedicated to members of the royal family. When he came to London he was regular in attendance at the House of Lords; all his friends were well over forty and for some years now he had established himself as a member of their generation; few mothers still regarded him as a possible son-in-law.

“This whole business of Brenda is very unfortunate,” said Reggie St. Cloud.

Tony agreed.

“My mother is extremely upset about it, naturally. I'm upset myself. I don't mind admitting, perfectly frankly, that I think she has behaved very foolishly, foolishly and wrongly. I can quite understand your being upset about it too.”

“Yes,” said Tony.

“But all the same, making every allowance for your feelings, I do think that you are behaving rather vindictively in the matter.”

“I'm doing exactly what Brenda wanted.”

“My dear fellow, she doesn't know what she wants. I saw this chap Beaver yesterday. I didn't like him at all. Do you?”

“I hardly know him.”

“Well I can assure you I didn't like him. Now you're just throwing Brenda into his arms. That's what it amounts to, as I see it, and I call it vindictive. Of course at the moment Brenda's got the idea that she's in love with him. But it won't last. It couldn't with a chap like Beaver. She'll want to come back in a year, just you see. Allan says the same.”

“I've told Allan. I don't want her back.”

“Well, that's vindictive.”

“No, I just couldn't feel the same about her again.”

“Well, why feel the same? One has to change as one gets older. Why, ten years ago I couldn't be interested in anything later than the Sumerian age and I assure you that now I find even the Christian era full of significance.”

For some time he spoke about some tabulae execrationum that he had lately unearthed. “Almost every grave had them,” he said, “mostly referring to the circus factions, scratched on lead. They used to be dropped in through a funnel. We had found forty-three up to date, before this wretched business happened, and I had to come back. Naturally I'm upset.”

He sat for a little eating silently. This last observation had brought the conversation back to its point of departure. He clearly had more to say on the subject and was meditating the most convenient approach. He ate in a ruthless manner, champing his food (it was his habit, often, without noticing it, to consume things that others usually left on their plates, the heads and tails of whiting, whole mouthfuls of chicken bone, peach stones and apple cores, cheese rinds and the fibrous parts of the artichoke). “Besides, you know,” he said, “it isn't as though it was all Brenda's fault.”

“I haven't been thinking particularly whose fault it is.”

“Well that's all very well but you seem rather to be taking the line of the injured husband — saying you can't feel the same again, and all that. I mean to say, it takes two to make a quarrel and I gather things had been going wrong for some time. For instance you'd been drinking a lot — have some more burgundy by the way.”

“Did Brenda say that?”

“Yes. And then you'd been going round a bit with other girls yourself. There was some woman with a Moorish name you had to stay at Hetton while Brenda was there. Well that's a bit thick you know. I'm all for people going their own way but if they do, they can't blame others, if you see what I mean.”

“Did Brenda say that?”

“Yes. Don't think I'm trying to lecture you or anything, but all I feel is that you haven't any right to be vindictive to Brenda, as things are.”

“She said I drank and was having an affair with the woman with a Moorish name.”

“Well I don't know she actually said that, but she said you'd been getting tight lately and that you were certainly interested in that girl.”

The fat young man opposite Tony ordered prunes and cream. Tony said he had finished dinner.

He had imagined during the preceding week-end that nothing could now surprise him.

“So that really explains what I want to say,” continued Reggie blandly. “It's about money. I understand that when Brenda was in a very agitated state just after the death of her child, she consented to some verbal arrangement with you about settlements.”

“Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year.”

“Well you know I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal — she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so.”

“What does she suggest instead?”

“Let's go outside and have coffee.”

When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking room, he answered, “Well I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand.”

“That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it.”

“Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Lybian desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see — ”

“But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question.”

“It's rather less than a third of your income.”

“Yes but almost every penny goes on the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half the amount a year on our personal expenses. It's all I can do to keep things going as it is.”

“I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think its extremely unreasonable of you. After all it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's more than I've ever had.”

“It would mean giving up Hetton.”

“Well I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked …”

“But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton.”

“There's a lot in what these labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England I'm afraid.”

“Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton.”

“Yes, it was mentioned I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now.”

“No. It's impossible,” said Tony.

“You're making things extremely awkward for everyone,” said Reggie. “I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude.”

“What is more I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree.”

“Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that.”

“It's inconceivable.”

“Well, said Reggie, puffing at his cigar. “There's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point on a way.”

“Yes, I see his point,” said Tony. “So what your proposal really amounts to is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda.”

“It's not how I should have put it,” said Reggie.

“Well I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you.”

“No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly.”

“I hadn't thought of that.”

“No, nor had we to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea.”

“You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position.”

“It's not how I should have put it.”

“I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up.”

“Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's tonight.”

“Brenda, this is Tony … I've just been dining with Reggie.”

“Yes, he said something about it.”

“He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?”

“Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me.”

“But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?”

“Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but …”

“And you know exactly how my money stands don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you? … hullo, are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here.”

“You know it means that?”

“Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult.”

“You do know just what you are asking?”

“Yes … I suppose so.”

“All right, that's all I wanted to know.”

“Tony, how odd you sound … don't ring off.”

He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief … there was now no armour, glittering in the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the greensward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled …

Reggie sat expanded in his chair. “Well?”

“I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first.”

“That's all right, my dear fellow.”

“I've decided exactly what's going to happen.”

“Good.”

“Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?”

“But look here, my dear fellow.”

“Goodnight. Thank you for dinner. Good luck to the excavations.”

On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Brat's Club was up for election.

“Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?” asked Polly Cockpurse.

“Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform,” said Veronica. “It's too monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it.”

“The mistake they made was in telling him first,” said Souki.

“It's so like Brenda to trust everyone,” said Jenny.

“I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly,” said Marjorie.

“Oh I don't know,” said Allan. “I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong.”