Wine of Honour

by Barbara Beauchamp

  “Well, Brian has certainly picked a beauty,” she said, casually.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Gurney sniffed, “she’s not a patch on you at that age, Daphne.”

  Daphne could have murdered her mother then. Sir James Gurney said:

  “That’s a thoroughbred, or I’m mistaken.”

  Daphne tittered:

  “It’s the girl he’s married, not the horse, Father.”

  Sir James started, as if he’d not meant to speak.

  “I know my dear. I was just thinking aloud. The girl’s lovely too. Brian will be all right.”

  “But we know nothing about her, James.” Lady Gurney sounded like a bad gramophone record. Daphne felt explosive.

  “God, you make me sick. What’s it matter if you don’t know her? She’s Brian’s wife, not yours. He’s the one who’s got her for better or for worse. Personally I think she looks grand, but you’ve got to damn her before you even see her because you’re so beastly possessive. You can’t bear to think that anyone else in the world has any private life of their own. Everything’s got to be to your pattern or it’s wrong. God Almighty, I’d rather be dead than behave that way to Ian.” She suddenly ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Sir James Gurney looked across at his wife.

  “It’s because of Kurt being killed,” he said slowly.

  “Yes, it’s probably that. Poor Daphne.” Lady Gurney spoke wearily. “I think I’ll go and lie down for a while, James, I’ve got rather a headache.”

  * * * *

  “You mark my words, Mrs. O’Leary, someone’s going to have a thick head tomorrow.” Mrs. Thrush, clad in a spotless white apron which hid all but her wrinkled lisle stockings and worn shoes, stood in Mary Cross’s kitchen tasting a Manhattan cocktail in a teacup.

  When Mary had re-opened the Mecklenburgh Square flat for Michael’s return to civilian life, Mrs. Thrush had taken on her old job of ‘doing’ for them. Today, for Michael Cross’s party, she had invited her neighbour, Mrs. O’Leary, to come and give a hand with the preparations and the ladies’ coats.

  Mrs. O’Leary held a teacup of Dry Martini in a hand which had become ingrained with the dirt of twenty years’ cleaning in Government offices.

  “I’ve never seen drink served in a bread bin and a fish kettle before, Mrs. T.,” she said disapprovingly.

  Mrs. Thrush surveyed the domestic articles in question as they stood, packed round with blocks of ice, in a zinc wash-tub, and she felt very superior to Mrs. O’Leary who, after all, was only a sort of a civil servant. Working as she had for the intellectuals in Bloomsbury all her life, Mrs. Thrush felt she knew more of life than Madge O’Leary could ever hope to learn.

  “You’d be surprised, Mrs. O’Leary, at the things I’ve seen drink served in before now. You wait till we get them white table-cloths swathed round that tub and you won’t be able to tell what them drinks are in. And they’ll be hidden beneath the table. Never does to let people see just how much you’ve got or they go and drink it all up at the beginning. I tell you, you have to keep your wits about you at a cocktail party and ration it out fair; and half-way through, you start putting the ice in to weaken things down—nobody notices what they’re drinking by then and a lot have probably had more than’s good for them.”

  “What beats me, Mrs. T., is where all the drink came from. All those bottles of whisky and gin and that French-sounding stuff—you wouldn’t ever think there’d been a war and was still a shortage.” Mrs. O’Leary was a little jealous of Mrs. Thrush’s inside knowledge of cocktail parties, so she spoke in deprecating tones.

  “Ah, my lady’s been collecting it for a long time now, and Mr. Michael seems able to smell it a mile away. Come home with a bottle of Scotch last week and said they were practically giving it away at an off-licence in Fleet Street. I don’t think; but he’s got a way with him and he and his mum are old customers round here.” Mrs. Thrush drained her teacup with relish. “How’s yours, Mrs. O’Leary; all right?”

  Mrs. O’Leary tilted up her cup and then wiped her mouth on a corner of her apron.

  “Bit on the sour side, Mrs. T. Personally I prefer a drop of port type.”

  Mary Cross came into the kitchen. She was wearing very old tweeds and the ash was about to drop off the end of her cigarette.

  “You should have used the glasses, Mrs. Thrush; cocktails in teacups must taste horrible. Let’s all try one again in glasses. I like the whisky basis kind.” She began to fill three glasses with a soup ladle.

  “Not for me, thank you, Mum.” Mrs. O’Leary put a large hand over a small glass. Mrs. Cross gave her a shrewd glance.

  “I think I’ve got a wee drop of port left. What about that?” she asked.

  “Oh well, I don’t mind if I do, thanking you.”

  Mrs. O’Leary decided that she was going to enjoy working this evening for Mrs. Thrush’s lady.

  Mrs. Thrush beamed on everyone.

  “Well, here’s to Mr. Michael’s party,” she said.

  “And may it learn us never to give another,” Mary Cross responded. “I’m worn out already. The eats look lovely, Mrs. Thrush—those delicious cheese straws, I’ve been nibbling at them ever since you put them out.”

  “Mrs. O’Leary made those,” Mrs. Thrush said magnanimously.

  “How clever of you, Mrs. O’Leary; mine always go mushy; perhaps you’ll let me into the secret one day.”

  “It’s ever so easy, really.” Mrs. O’Leary bridled and sipped her port.

  Mrs. Thrush was wrapping a white table-cloth round the zinc wash-tub. Mary Cross said:

  “Don’t go trying to move that on your own, Mrs. Thrush. Wait until Mr. Michael comes in. What time did he say he’d be back?”

  “Not later than five, he said, but Mrs. O’Leary and I can manage easily.”

  “No you won’t. I’m not going to have any casualties before the party starts. I’ve got to have you to preside over the drinks and Mrs. O’Leary to deal with the women’s coats. We’re going to use my bedroom for the ladies’ cloaks and Mr. Michael’s for the gents, if they have any.”

  Mrs. Thrush was convulsed with loud laughter.

  “Oh, Mrs. Cross, the things you say!” she gurgled.

  Mary, who was unaware of anything but the longing for a hot bath, failed to see the Thrush humour.

  “I think I’d better go and clean myself up now, Mrs. Thrush; I feel we’re all set for zero hour, thanks to you and Mrs. O’Leary.”

  When she had gone, Mrs. O’Leary said:

  “Ever so like a man in all those clothes, isn’t she?”

  Mrs. Thrush scoffed.

  “Not her. She’s as soft-hearted as you make ’em. Took my Alfie and Bertha down to her place in the country all the time the blitz was on. Wanted me to go too, and bring the old man. ‘You can bunk down in the dining-room,’ she said, but we said, no. Fancy us in the country. Why, it strangles me to go as far as Hampstead Heath.”

  “You’re right, Mrs. T. I went out to Hertfordshire for a couple of weeks with the two youngest and it nearly killed me hearing them screaming for fish and chips and something Christian to eat out of a tin. We came back double quick, I can tell you.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. O’Leary. Come on, let’s get the glasses laid out.”

  Mrs. O’Leary was impressed with the living-room, particularly with the size of it now that the furniture had been tucked back into corners. She approved less of the pictures, which struck her as being arty-farty. Whoever wanted to see a drawing of a lot of cabbages on a table? When she looked again, they didn’t look like cabbages and she wondered if the wee drop of port had gone to her head. Mrs. Thrush said:

  “Posh, isn’t it?”

  “So so. Bit awkward to live in. Too empty like.”

  At five o’clock Michael Cross came in. He had an enormous bunch of tulips which he proceeded to arrange in the vases his mother had left empty.

  “Hello, Mrs. Thrush. Drunk again?”

  “None of y
our nonsense, Mr. Michael. Mocking’s catching and you’re the one who’s likely to have a thick head tomorrow, not me.”

  “I hope we both do, Mrs. T. Damn it, if we can’t get stinking at our own party, where can we? Now where’s all this famous drink been concealed, in the bath tub?”

  “No, Mr. Michael; your Mum’s in the bath tub and the drink’s in the kitchen. She said wait till you came back before moving it in here.”

  In the kitchen, he was introduced to Mrs. O’Leary, and between them they moved the drink into the sitting-room.

  “Now for a spot of secret drinking, Mrs. T.” He began to fill three glasses.

  “Not for me, sir.” Mrs. O’Leary said primly.

  “Oh, come on, keep your strength up, you know.”

  “No, sir, really, sir; I’ve had some, and a drop of port.”

  “Tell you what, then, there’s a bottle of Guinness somewhere around. We’ll put it in the kitchen and you can refresh yourself during the fray. Now, let’s try these poisons.” He drank a glass of each cocktail and then grinned at Mrs. Thrush. “Mother certainly knows how to put a kick in them. As far as I’m concerned, Mrs. T., you can sell out on the gin but keep the whisky for me! I’ll be seeing you.” He went off to wash and change out of the old jacket and flannels he was wearing.

  Mrs. O’Leary said:

  “Bit of a spiv, isn’t he?”

  “What, Mr. Michael?”

  “That’s right. Great big shoulders and that curly hair; wearing a ring and all.”

  “That’s him in uniform.” Mrs. Thrush pointed out a photograph above a bookcase. “Air gunner he was, been on all the big raids over Germany. Nearly broke his Mum’s heart when he joined up, her having lost her husband in the first war and all. And she’s lucky to have got him home safe; he was missing for three months, but she kept her chin up.”

  From her bedroom, Mary Cross called out to her son:

  “I thought I’d wear my black suit, Michael.”

  A muffled voice came back from the bathroom.

  “You’ll be the belle of the ball. God, what made us think of giving a party like this.” He came into the corridor, still drying his face and neck.

  “How could we know everyone would accept, Michael?”

  “Even the country bumpkins from Kirton. Still, I’m glad they’re coming.”

  “I don’t know half of your friends by sight.”

  “Never mind, they all know each other. That’s the main thing. Don’t flap, Mother.”

  “I’m not flapping, but hurry up and dress, darling, or you’ll be late. After all, it is your party.”

  “My party? I like that, you scheming woman.”

  At five past six the first guests arrived and after that the bell never seemed to stop ringing. By half past six it was clear that the party was going to be a success, if noise and overcrowding were the measures of a good cocktail party. ‘Which apparently they are,’ thought Mary Cross, shaking hands with a strange young man wearing a green tie. She saw that he had a drink and then handed him over to an equally blah and unknown young woman. It was wonderful the way you could put people together like a jigsaw puzzle, without any conscious thought.

  Michael’s publisher had ensconced himself on a sofa and refused to be moved round the room. He’d said he was here for pleasure and not business, but he was keeping a weather eye on a couple of reviewers talking to a blonde in the corner. Mary thought: ‘I must do something about him,’ and she searched the room for a suitable introduction. Angela Worthing—of course; she wasn’t talking to anyone in particular and, at least, she didn’t write, so Michael’s publisher wouldn’t have to put up his defences. Mary swooped and Angela found herself on the sofa talking to a portly gentleman with shrewd eyes.

  Mary surveyed the room again. Everything was under control. People had soon learned to circulate up to the bar when they wanted another drink. In a corner, an actor friend of Michael’s was holding court. It was interesting to notice the way his glance seemed to cast hypnotic threads on those of the guests he considered worthy of his attention and to watch the way they were drawn into the intimate circle.

  And then she saw the Gurneys, hovering uncomfortably by the bar with Peter who had obviously staked a claim on that particular square yard of the floor. She went towards them quickly.

  “How nice of you to come all this way,” she pecked at Lady Gurney’s cheek and noticed the lines drawn like fine smocking on her face, making her look like the very oldest kind of apple.

  “Mary, how well you arrange this sort of party,” Lady Gurney peeked round the room curiously.

  “Awful, isn’t it, but Michael and I felt we had to do something to celebrate the book and announce the fact that we were both still in circulation in spite of a war. Agnes, I feel most guilty about you; I saw the announcement of Brian’s wedding in The Times and I’ve never written to him or you. That’s what being in London does to one. But Michael rang up and asked Brian to bring his wife with him tonight.”

  “It was a very quiet wedding, Mary; they didn’t want a big show.” Lady Gurney could not admit to Mary Cross—understanding as she was—that she had not yet met her new daughter-in-law and that she had no idea Brian and Serena would be here tonight. The announcement in The Times had been Sir James’s idea after a rather abortive exchange of letters between Kirton and London.

  Peter said:

  “Didn’t know Brian would be here. Nice to see him again. Can’t I get you a drink, Mrs. Cross?”

  “A Manhattan, thank you, Peter, and one for your mother and father. Heavens, I must leave you—there are a lot of strange faces arriving.”

  Lady Gurney said:

  “This must have cost a lot, James. Peter, I don’t want another drink and I don’t think you should have one yet.”

  Michael Cross came up to them.

  “Now, no family parties. Lady Gurney I want you to meet a great friend of mine, Richard Fleming. He was a Warco with the 14th Army. . . .” Michael skilfully engineered Lady Gurney to the opposite end of the room.

  Sir James Gurney, left with his eldest son, felt embarrassed.

  “Things going all right, Peter?”

  “Not too bad.” Peter managed to scoop a filled glass of Martini from under Mrs. Thrush’s disapproving glance.

  “Haven’t seen Angela Worthing. I understand she’s here. We miss her at Kirton, you know.” Sir James considered he’d used great tact.

  “She’s on the sofa there, talking to some bastard in a blue suit.” Peter’s speech was becoming blurred.

  By the mantelpiece, Laura Watson perspired like a gentlewoman in her new dress. Helen Townsend had recommended Harrods, but Mr. Watson had a cold, so Laura had only got as far as Beatties in Dimstone. She carried on a pointless conversation with a man with a beard, but her mind was full of the other people in the room. Michael Cross was good-looking as a god in that grey suit.

  “Won’t you have another drink?” The beard waggled expectantly in the region of her midriff. It seemed that she was doomed to the companionship of short men. He drove through the crowd with their empty glasses like a centre forward making for goal.

  Brian and his wife had arrived. Laura cast curious eyes at Serena. She wore an almond-coloured blouse and a black flounced skirt which only the very young and slim could wear. It was perfect with that red hair. Laura felt quite impersonal about Brian’s wife. She accepted her beauty as a compliment to Kirton, but at the same time she remembered the special occasions in the mess, when the background had been khaki. How nice women had looked in their uniforms. You could keep your hair above your collar and still look glamorous. In the mess you all spoke the same language, here you had to adjust yourself to unaccustomed speech all the time. The beard reappeared with full glasses.

  A reviewer had got pinioned on a divan by a female novelist. Mary Cross found her son and said:

  “Michael, can you rescue Mr. Faulkner?”

  “I’ll find something young and gorgeous to do it.
”

  The female novelist was a little drunk. She leaned over the reviewer and gasped.

  “Mr. Faulkner, you remember my last book? You remember what you said about it? I think I’ll forgive you, but I’d like to say one thing, just one thing. You recollect the passage about the young man—after the bit about his predilections—well, you pointed out that no young man would have behaved in that way. Let me tell you you’re wrong. I know. . . . I was writing from personal experience . . . Mr. Faulkner could do with another drink, couldn’t you? But, please, after that I want to tell you about my young man.”

  Michael intervened:

  “I’d like you to meet Miss Jane Fergusson, disguised as a civilian at the moment, but really a major in the A.T.S. on leave from Berlin.”

  The reviewer revived and rose to greet Jane Fergusson. Michael felt that he had been very unselfish: Jane was his own particular cup of tea at the moment. He swept the female novelist over to Lady Gurney who seemed to be unoccupied.

  The party was swinging along. Brian Gurney said to his wife:

  “Sorry, Serena, that was a rotten way to introduce you to my parents.”

  “That’s all right, darling. I know a lot more about you than you think I do.”

  He looked at her and the sight was remarkably satisfying.

  “Let’s go and talk to Laura Watson.” He had caught sight of Helen and Gyp in a corner. Later on he would introduce Serena.

  The intense female novelist was saying to Lady Gurney:

  “To realize that one has made one human being happy in life is sufficient reward for existing, don’t you agree?”

  Lady Gurney hadn’t the faintest idea, but she was too polite to say so. She was watching her daughter Daphne whose cigarette was being lit by a tall, dark man whom Lady Gurney didn’t care for the look of. She wished Daphne’s black dress was less skimped, it revealed her shape so much, and she had too much make-up on. It cheapens her, she thought, and was horrified at thinking such things about her own flesh and blood. Her glance searched out Brian and Serena. Too young and too pretty and far too self-confident! Brian should have married someone sensible and nearer his own age—someone like Laura Watson, but, of course, not Laura Watson. Now she could see Peter lolling on the arm of the sofa where Angela Worthing sat. Lady Gurney could have cried with irritation—the way that woman had come up and said good evening as though there were nothing between her and Peter. It was indecent, brazen. Suddenly it occurred to her that this was the first time for nearly a year that she and James and the three children had all been under the same roof, and the bitterness of it being in someone else’s house, and not at the Manor, made her feel tearful again.