A Spy in the Family

by Alec Waugh

  ‘She was.’

  ‘Staying in the same hotel?’

  ‘I gather so.’

  ‘She would be.’

  ‘Tell me about her; tell me about them.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. You know about his golf. He was a blue at Oxford. He played in the Walker Cup team. She’s a schoolmistress. She’s not in the same class that he is but she’s very good. They’ve been playing in this tournament for five years. They’ve won it the last twice.’

  ‘Is there anything between them?’

  ‘Everything, I’d imagine, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Why don’t they get married?’

  ‘That’s rather tragic. She married when she was very young, a perfectly appalling man, a bully of the worst kind—at least that’s the story and probably it’s true. She could have got a divorce from him under any reasonable conditions, but he, unfortunately, is a Catholic and he swears that he will fight to the last inch any action that she may bring. She doesn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a pause. ‘It’ll be amusing to have a party, the four of us, this weekend.’

  ‘It certainly will.’

  ‘Darling, I’m missing you,’ he said.

  ‘I, you.’

  There was a pause. Then he said something that made her heart beat faster. ‘It’s funny. It wasn’t like this a year ago. But now I feel incomplete without you.’

  Next morning, soon after ten o’clock, Myra took the children to the swimming pool. ‘Take an hour off,’ she said to Olga.

  ‘You can spare me?’

  ‘I’ve got to learn how I can spare you. Au pair girls aren’t going to last forever.’

  Mrs. Bennett was at the pool. She waved at Myra, then came across to join her.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ said Myra. ‘I thought bathing was supposed to put your eye out.’

  Mrs. Bennett shook her head. ‘There are so many myths about that kind of thing. I’ve heard cricketers say, you probably have too, that they’ve never seen the ball so large as on the mornings when they’ve had to hold their eyelids up with matchsticks.’

  ‘So you’re prepared to swim.’

  ‘But not to take dry martinis before lunch.’

  They laughed together. Myra had scarcely noticed her the day before. Gerald Armitage had done all the talking. Now she was seeing Heather Bennett as a person in her own rights. She wasn’t ‘just a schoolmarm’. Myra looked at her more closely. She was a definitely attractive object, yet at the same time she had an unawakened look. What had her husband been like?

  ‘I’m coming out to see your match this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you. Wish us well. We’ll need it.’ Mrs. Bennett paused. ‘How well do you know Gerald?’

  ‘Not at all. Last evening was the first time I’d met him. I’m astonished that he should have known who I was.’

  ‘Do you know much about him?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t read the sports page.’

  ‘You don’t know what his problem is?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I rang my husband up last night to ask.’

  ‘And what did he say it was?’

  ‘You.’

  They stared at each other. Then they burst out laughing. It seemed extraordinary to Myra that they, two complete strangers, should be talking together in this way, laughing in this way. I do like her, Myra thought. I feel in tune with her.

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ said Heather Bennett. ‘I’m not his problem. It’s his mother.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, she’s a sweet dear person, but she’s got him in her clutches. She’s the sun he circles around. He’s the spoiled child who was always nice to look at, who was always petted at children’s parties, who won all the prizes at his schools, who brought them home to mother, his tasselled caps, his ribboned coats, all home to mother. You think that kind of boy is effeminate; oh no, not at all. Could anything be more virile, more masculine than Gerald Armitage? Yet all the emotional side of his nature is concentrated on his mother. And because of that he has never made a real mark for himself.’

  ‘But surely his golf, his agency for this wine firm …’

  ‘Oh no, no, no, those are just appendages. They aren’t a career. He’s got a brother, Ernest. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘I haven’t, no.’

  ‘You’re lucky. He’s so worthy, and so dreary. He’s in insurance. He’s doing well. He’s going to do better. He’s got a highly suitable wife with money; they’ve got two children. He went to Westminster. The boys will go to Rugby. One step up all the time. He won’t get knighted but he’ll get an O.B.E. for public services, whatever that may mean. He’s three years older than Gerald. He’s desperately jealous of him, because Gerald’s popular and good-looking, because he’s in the public eye, because he’s his mother’s favourite; he’s jealous of him, but he disapproves of him. He’s always reading Gerald lectures. He insists that everyone should have a real career, should contribute to the prosperity of the state; you know the kind of thing. He dismisses Gerald as a playboy. He prophesies the most dire future for him. He says that within a few years he’ll have stopped winning tournaments; within a year or two after that he’ll have ceased to be of any publicity value to his wine firm. Then he’ll be in a mess and Ernest gloats over the prospect. He believes that when that day comes Gerald, who’s sat so lightly in the saddle for so long, will have to come with cap in hand and ask him for a job, for any job. How Ernest is going to enjoy that moment. What a lecture he will read poor Gerald. “I told you so,” he’ll say. And explain how impossible it is to find a job for an untrained man of forty. He may even quote Kipling at him. That poem “Back to the Army Again”—“The man of four and twenty who ‘asn’t learned of a trade, Beside reserve agin ‘im ‘ad better never been made.” But I don’t mind betting that Ernest will have a job waiting for him; he’s got it all planned out. It won’t be a bad job either, but it will be one that will humiliate Gerald. It will be one that will remind Gerald at every moment of the day that his brother is his superior, that he owes his very existence to that brother. That’ll be the turn of the screw and with a vengeance.’

  Her eyes shone and her face was flushed. She looked almost beautiful. Certainly most appealing. Poor thing, thought Myra, she must really love him. She wanted to cherish and console her.

  ‘And the worst thing about it all,’ Heather was going on, ‘is that Ernest is dead right. Gerald is a playboy. He’s on a dead-end road. In ten years’ time he will be finished. And the wine firm will want a younger man in the public eye to advertise their wines.’

  ‘Hasn’t he saved any money?’

  ‘I doubt it. And he hasn’t been paid all that much. He doesn’t get actual money, but the equivalent of money; travel expenses, first-class tickets on the plane, suites in hotels, a well-stocked cocktail cabinet. But that isn’t the same as money in a bank.’

  ‘His mother will leave him something, I suppose.’

  ‘Something. All she has, presumably. But I don’t suppose it’s much. Part of what she has is a pension probably, and the income that takes care of an elderly widow doesn’t go very far with a man of forty who has been used to living it up for twenty years. Not after death-duties have cut the capital. It’s not a pretty prospect, and the trouble is that Gerald is beginning to realise that Ernest is dead right. You heard how he was talking last night.’

  ‘I didn’t get all the implications of what he was saying. I was meeting him for the first time, remember.’

  ‘How did he strike you?’

  ‘He’s very good-looking and attractive.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. How did all that talk about being off his game strike you?’

  ‘I’m not an athlete, but I’d have thought that one should always start a game believing one was going to win.’

  ‘Exactly. One should be nervous when one stands on the first tee. If one isn’t taut, one takes one’s
play casually. You’ve got to be on edge before you start; then you can relax into a deep, calm concentration. But one thing you have to be and that’s self-confident. You’ve got to believe that you are going to win, that you can win, that you’re better than the other man. I had an uncomfortable feeling about Gerald yesterday. I felt that he’d like to lose.’

  ‘Oh, surely not.’

  ‘Oh, surely yes.’

  ‘How did he play yesterday?’

  ‘Not really badly; he wasn’t himself for a while. He had a bad patch at the turn, but he pulled himself together.’

  ‘Then why are you worrying?’

  ‘Because I think he was almost sorry that he did pull back, that he let the competitive instinct take control. He’d as soon have lost.’

  ‘I can’t think why you should say that.’

  ‘Because he knows he’s on a road that has no turning. He’s past the point of no return. He knows what’s waiting for him. He wants to get there as soon as possible, to know the worst, to get it over quickly. He foresees how bad it will be.’ She paused. ‘I can see his point. But I’m not going to encourage him. Nothing’s lost until the battle’s over.’

  ‘He’s lucky to have you.’

  ‘And he’s going to go on having me for quite a little. You heard what he said about my having to get another partner for this tournament. He said it was as important for me in the eyes of my school directors to go on winning as it was for him. But that’s sheer nonsense. It was important for me at the start when I was being taken on, to be someone capable of winning a tournament such as this. That gave me a status. But to be a games mistress you don’t need to be in the public eye. You only have to prove that you are good enough to teach because you yourself once played in a high bracket. My position is quite different from Gerald’s. But even if we lose this afternoon—and we may well do so—I’m not going to let him resign next year. He’s going to enter with me again, and I’m going to shame him into putting up a first-class show. He’s got me on his hands for quite a time.’

  Once again her eyes were flashing and her cheeks were flushed. Once again there swept over Myra a protective need to comfort her. They were sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling their toes in the water. Heather’s hand lay on the side. Myra put her hand over it, pressing it, in sympathy. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all right. If we want anything strongly enough, we always get it.’

  It was a warm, almost a hot afternoon, but a breeze was blowing from the sea. It was an ideal day for golf, but it was also a day on which you needed to play good golf. The slightest hook or pull would be taken by the breeze. Heather had advised Myra to wait at the fourth green. It was a one-shot hole. ‘You’ll see us coming up the third fairway to the green; you can watch us putting out. You’ll have a good view of our shots from the fourth tee. Then if you like, you can trail along with us.’

  Myra had borrowed a pair of field glasses. The third fairway was protected by a line of sand dunes. It was a doglegged hole that provided a high test both of skill and judgment. It was not difficult to carry the dunes, but if you took the cautious line, you could not hope to reach the green with your second. From the left of the fairway the green lay open for a two- or three-iron shot; the easier the approach for the second, the riskier the shot from the tee. ‘It’s an exciting hole to watch,’ Heather had told Myra. ‘You see the balls come over, and you wonder which is whose. Then the players arrive and you know.’

  The Armitage-Bennett match was due to start at half past three. They should be driving off from the third tee by four. Myra was at her vantage point on the hillock that backed the fourth green at the quarter to. She wanted to get the atmosphere of the day and match. She settled herself comfortably in a hollow of sand and grass. She savoured the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the breeze. The sea was calm, with a few white horses in the middle distance. Across the bay were the cliffs and spires and bungalows of Ramsgate. What a lovely country England was on one of these rare fine days; and how the English took advantage of these days with their sailing boats and picnic baskets. She watched what must be the foursome immediately ahead of Heather’s take their course up the fairway. How light their tread was on the springy turf; how picturesque they looked in their bright pullovers and trousers; how they were relishing this lambent weather. Yet the English took the rough with the smooth; they would be trudging up that fairway with equal zest in four months’ time on a rainswept December morning, with waterproof coats and trousers and wide, bright golf umbrellas.

  The foursome ahead had now reached the green. Another minute and there would be two white balls on the greensward. Ah, here was the first; she lost it against the sky, but caught it against the ochre brown of the dunes; for a moment she could not tell where it would land. Then she saw it, white against the green, a long way over to the left. Whoever had had the honour at that tee looked likely to retain it at the fourth. There was a brief pause. Then the second ball came over. It was a good deal further to the right. Who had taken the easier line at the third hole? The man usually played the first hole. Gerald would have played that shot from the tee. Had he the honour? Had he lost the last hole, and was playing now for safety, making certain of his five, letting his opponent make a slip? She waited anxiously. Ah, there was Heather, in those same dark green trousers and that canary yellow pullover. Which way was she going, to the right or to the left? There seemed a moment of confusion, of consultation. One caddy had been sent ahead to mark the stroke. There couldn’t be any doubt. No, of course; there couldn’t be any doubt. Yes, it was Heather turning to the left. Gerald had had the honour. He had taken the dangerous line and the hole stood open.

  Myra watched the other couple. From where the ball lay, the woman could not hope to reach the green; she would have to play short and to the left, for safety, opening the hole. There should be no doubt about their five, and there was always the chance of a putt dropping. She played her shot. It was the most that she could do; it was the best that she could do. The five was certain, unless they three-putted.

  Heather took up her stance. She had taken out a wood. How slim, how graceful, what an exquisite creature. It was only now in this modern age when women took their place in the arena that you could realise quite how exquisite they were, how smoothly the muscles flowed around and controlled the limbs. Myra held her breath. Had she ever seen anything lovelier than the harmony, the rhythm with which that club swung to and through the ball? Myra was so entranced that she did not follow the flight of the ball. She was held by the picture of Heather, with her club swung behind her back, poised, on balance, like a piece of sculpture.

  She shook herself. She looked away. Yes, there it was, landed just short of the green, trickling towards the hole. There should be no doubt of the four. There wasn’t. How much are they up, Myra thought.

  Heather had to play from the tee at the next shot. It was a one-shot hole, but a full shot, and the breeze was blowing across the course. It was not an easy shot, and the green was on a plateau. If the ball fell short, it was liable to roll down the hill.

  Heather took her stance. Please, please, Myra prayed. Heather swung. There was the click of the wood against the ball. The ball rose, soared, seemed to gather strength, then lose it. Would it reach the green, would it? … Oh, it had, but only the extreme edge; it hesitated. It lacked the strength to climb those last two inches; it wavered, then slid back into the bunker. Myra sighed. Oh, she thought, oh, oh, oh.

  Heather’s opponent took her stance. She was a brisk, forthright woman. She teed up her ball, shifted her feet, steadied herself, swung. It was an admirable shot, four inches further than Heather’s, which gave it the strength to mount the ridge and climb to the edge of the close-mown surface. It should be a three.

  Gerald took a wedge out of his bag. He took a firm grip for his feet, then swung. A rain of sand was strewn about him, but the ball lifted through the fog. It landed ten feet from the pin, and ran another couple of feet further on. A possib
le three still; it had to be a three though. Gerald’s opponent rolled his ball within three inches of the hole. Gerald struck it away. ‘O.K.,’ he said. Heather walked up behind her ball. She went down onto one knee. She walked over to the hole, knelt down again, took a line on her ball, returned to it, hesitated; stood up and walked away; then returned to her putt, stabbed at it, and missed it.

  Heather looked at Gerald. Myra could not see the expression on her face; her back was turned to her. But she could see the way Gerald smiled. It was warm, friendly and encouraging. He stepped across to her, put his arm around her shoulder, pressing it. Heather raised her head. Myra could guess now at her expression. They’re a team, she thought. They really like each other.

  Heather and Gerald separated, Gerald going to the tee, Heather to the fairway, waiting for Gerald’s drive. Myra walked across to her. ‘Bad luck,’ she said.

  Heather shook her head. ‘Bad play,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the score?’

  ‘One up. We’re one up. It’s going to be all right. Gerald’s on the top of his game. Quite different from yesterday. He’s going to pull me through, even if it’s by the scruff of my neck. I know him when he’s like this.’

  ‘The best of luck, then.’

  Myra turned away, but Heather checked her, her hand upon her elbow. ‘Don’t go away. Stay with me.’

  ‘Won’t I put you off?’

  Heather shook her head. ‘You’ll be a help. I’ll like your being there.’

  ‘I promise I won’t talk.’

  ‘Please do, I like your voice.’

  They looked backwards to the tee. They saw Gerald’s opponent swing. It was a very reasonable shot, not a very long one, but straight down the centre. Gerald took his place. He played with the minimum of effort, no trial swing. He teed up his ball, settled his feet, then swung. Heather gave a little gasp. ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ He had outdriven his opponent by thirty yards, in terms of carry, and the ball had a slight hook on it that gave it an extra run. Heather waved at him, then walked after the ball.