Guy Renton

by Alec Waugh

  The fact that the club was already three-quarters full was an indication that it was not fashionable. Fashionable people would not get the afterthought of a night club till two o’clock when a private dance was ending, or the extension night at one of the big restaurants had closed. It was mostly men who were coming here, from Old Boys’ and Masonic dinners, interspersed with an occasional theatre party who had already dined and did not want to stay out late. Most of the men were middle-aged.

  “It’s their one night out a month,” Guy said, “They want to make the most of it. It’s the job of the girls to see that they keep ordering wine till the place closes.”

  “But don’t the girls . . .?” She paused interrogatively; shy of using a technical word incorrectly. He shook his head.

  “Not very often. They tell the men they can’t leave till the place is closed, that they’re under contract to the management. By the time the place does close, the men are half asleep and glad to be packed off to their wives. That kind of man is very easy game for them. The kind that’s coming in here now, well that’s another matter.”

  The two men to whom he had called her attention were youngish, under thirty. They were tall, athletic-looking, muscular: they were wearing dinner jackets. They looked completely sober. They had probably done a theatre, had supper somewhere quiet, possibly in Soho, and had felt the need for gaiety. They stood in the doorway, looking round them in search of an empty table. The taller of them caught Guy’s eye, stared at him, then turned, touched his companion’s arm; there was a moment’s consultation, then they came across together. The shorter one looked familiar, but it was the taller who held out his hand. “Guy Renton, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought it was. I played against you once or twice, for Richmond. Eric Masterman.”

  “Of course.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t have forgotten. Though it’s easier for me to remember you. I never tackled you the way you brought me down that time at the Old Athletic ground. You remember Tucker, don’t you—Rosslyn Park?”

  “Why, yes.”

  In point of fact though Tucker’s face was in a way familiar he did not remember either. He had played against so many people during his six years of first-class football. They would probably remember him because he was an international and ‘news’ but he could not be expected to recall the rank and file of his opponents. Football wasn’t like cricket, where you saw each member of the opposing eleven as an individual with whom you gossiped during the lunch and tea interval. In football you played not against fifteen individuals but a side. Moreover they were both quite a little younger than himself.

  “Whenever I hear your name mentioned,” Masterman was saying, “and I may say that it’s pretty often, I always remember that tackle of yours in the first three minutes of the Wales match in ‘twenty-one. The way you brought that wing forward down; shook him for the whole game. I’m not sure that tackle didn’t win the match.”

  Guy laughed. He remembered the tackle well. It may have shaken that ‘winger’, no doubt it had, but it had made his own shoulder ache right through the week.

  “You didn’t see that match, did you, Tucker?” Masterman was continuing. “No, I thought you didn’t. I’ll always say that the first ten minutes of that match when we ran up those twelve points were the most dazzling I’ve ever seen. That drop of Davies, the way he feinted first one way, then the other, had the whole field motionless, then dropped his goal.”

  It had been Guy’s first international; every minute of the first quarter of an hour was etched clean upon his memory: so many matches blurred into a haze, but he would never forget the excitement and pride of trotting out into that immense arena in his white shirt with the red rose above his heart. It was good to be reminded of those days.

  “Why not sit down and have a drink?” he said.

  “No, no, you’re a party. We’d be butting in.”

  “Not at all. These girls will be grateful for a change of partner. What’ll you drink, champagne or whisky?”

  “Champagne for me. What about you, Tucker?”

  “Mine’s whisky.” The glasses were filled and raised. Tucker asked Margery to dance. Masterman was full of reminiscences. He had watched every international at Twickenham in which Guy had played: “Do you remember that first minute try of Leo Price’s?”

  “That was my last international.”

  “Was it? Why so it was. What happened? Why did you drop out?”

  “In the best way, without being dropped. I caught a chill the following week: couldn’t shake it off, then during the summer I twisted my knee at tennis. I couldn’t have risked it in an international. It was different in a club game, where nothing’s at stake. Oddly enough that knee never did let me down, I could have played for two more seasons.”

  Even so he was glad that it had happened that way. He had been spared the experience of playing in an international one Saturday feeling vaguely that he was not up to form, reading no reference to himself in the Sunday papers, then seeing on the Monday the list of the players for the next match and his name not in it. He had been spared that.

  “What do you think was the most exciting moment in your football career?” he was being asked. He hesitated: he thought of matches at school, matches at Oxford, his nine internationals. He had perhaps felt no thrill comparable with that of getting his house cap at school, the first step to prefectship. But for the excitement of an actual game, he doubted if anything had equalled that first college trial after the war at Oxford.

  It was six years since he had played and he had put on weight. He did not know whether he had lost his speed: he did not know whether two wounds, one in his hip, with more than one dose of trench fever and a whiff of gas, had not taken their toll to an extent which he had not realized under the run-of-the-mill demands of trench routine. He was anxious as he trotted towards the half-way line, watching over his shoulder, to follow the kick-off.

  To his surprise he got there before the others. From the resultant line out, he caught the ball, lowered his head and butted. He made six yards before he was brought down. “I’m stronger than I was,” he thought. A loose scrum formed; as the pack wheeled, he swung out, the ball between his feet: there was a gap to the left, he kicked towards it; a three-quarter came up but he outpaced him. “I’m faster too,” he added. He wondered quite how fast. A three-quarter on his side broke clear; ordinarily as a forward he would have left it to the other three’s. But now he followed up, waiting for an inside pass; he took it and was round the back. “I’m fifty per cent better than I was,” he thought. It was heady knowledge. He flung himself into the game. Half-time came and he had kept his wind. That game had given him as big a thrill as anything that he had known upon the football field.

  It was good to talk over those old matches, hard to realize that it was only four years ago that he retired; what a vanished world. He lifted the bottle to replenish Masterman’s glass. There was only enough wine to quarter-fill it. He signalled to the waiter, but Masterman intervened. “No, really, I must cope.”

  “Of course not, it’s my party.”

  “Please: we butted in. Look at all the whisky my stablemate’s consuming. I’ve had so many grand hours watching you from the touchline, I’d be honoured to think I’d stood a drink to G. S. Renton.”

  Masterman was insistent and Guy gave way.

  “It’s only a question of signing an order, I suppose?”

  Guy nodded. “That’s how I got mine.”

  The form was signed: within two minutes a bottle that was already cold was in the ice pail.

  Tucker who had surrendered Margery to Drummond, was eyeing the dance hostesses.

  “I like the red-head.” It was the first remark that Guy had heard him make. He had an unusual accent.

  “Terrible fellow this,” said Masterman. “Can’t keep his hands off girls. Wouldn’t think so, would you, by the look of him. Quiet-looking guy. I don’t know why I bother t
o go out with him. Spend half my time sitting at a table by myself while he’s campaigning. All right, off you go.”

  Tucker rose, mouched over to his red-head. “Time I was giving some of this champagne a work out,” said Masterman. He turned to Barbara: “Spot of the light fantastic, what?”

  Renée and Roger were also on the floor. Guy was left alone. He glanced at the dance hostesses. Tucker was leaning across their table, talking to the red-head, but he did not take a seat. After a minute’s talk he went out into the passage. The music went on and on. Guy watched Pamela and Franklin. There was a touching quality of youth and hopefulness about them. It was something he had never known, that half his generation had been robbed of. They had grown up so fast, they had had the responsibilities of manhood in their ‘teens, had never had the carefree period of unreflecting action. He looked across at Margery and Drummond. Had Margery ever been like Pamela or had she always had to contend with men of his generation who had somehow missed their youth. He looked again towards the dance hostesses. Tucker was back at their table; sitting between the redhead and the Andalusian. A couple of sexagenarians, in dinner jackets with florid faces, had joined them: a waiter had been requisitioned and order forms were being signed. They had probably seen the last of Master Tucker for that evening.

  A hand fell upon Guy’s shoulder. “You can’t be left alone at your own party,” Margery was saying. He was at the table’s foot. Drummond and she sat beside him on the banquette. They were holding hands. There was a soft look in Margery’s eyes. She looked towards the dancing floor. She was watching Pamela and Franklin. “They look so young and fresh and hopeful. I really ought to follow their example and make an honest man of Michael.”

  “I can’t think why you don’t.”

  “Maybe I shall.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling her for the last six months.”

  They laughed together. “When you finally make up your minds you’ll be sure, won’t you, to let me be the first to hear,” Guy said, “then I’ll give a lovely big party for you to announce it at.”

  “Darling, what heaven that sounds. Don’t you think we’d better fix a date for it right away? Let’s decide where we’ll have it and how big to make it.”

  She was gay and laughing: as though she were back to seventeen: aglow in the reflection of her brother’s happiness. They started to plan out the party. A small dinner-party or a large cocktail party: or something that you came on to after dinner. “If it’s something after dinner, it’ll have to be elaborate, because after all. . .”

  The sentence was never finished. From the passage came the disturbance of raised voices: the clatter of heavy boots; then suddenly a loud and commanding voice was ordering: “Will you all keep your seats now, please.” Two of the musicians stopped; the pianist and the ‘cellist continued. There was a moment of cacophony; then silence.

  Five policemen were in the room. Drummond jumped up. “I’m one of the managers of this club. If there’s any way in which I can assist you——”

  A policeman smiled. “You’ve saved me a lot of trouble right away. Will you give me your name and address please. Then you can conduct me round your premises.” He raised his voice again. “Will you please keep quiet for a few minutes while I take your names; then you can go on dancing.”

  He was extremely courteous. Tucker had left the hostesses’ table and had joined the police. Masterman had left Barbara and had also joined them. There was a minute or two of consultation. Then one policeman went with Tucker to the hostesses, while Masterman with another policeman came over to Guy’s table. The waiter was brought across. The questionnaire began. “You are the host, sir, of this party?”

  “Yes, officer.”

  “Is this the first time you have been here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you obtain the whisky that is on your table?”

  “I signed a form for it.”

  “When did you sign the form, sir?”

  “When I arrived.”

  “And that would be?”

  “About half-past ten.”

  “Did you know that by law you could only obtain wines and spirits at a bottle party by giving the wine merchant with whom you deal twenty-four hours’ notice?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have your name, please, sir, and your address?”

  Guy gave his correct name. He had decided upon that during the interrogation. Drummond might need him later to give evidence on his behalf. Better to tell the truth. The constable turned now to the waiter. “You took this order for the gentleman, and you also filled an order for this gentleman beside me for a bottle of champagne?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your name please, and address.”

  The constable proceeded to document himself upon Guy’s guests. They all with the exception of Roger gave their correct names. He then moved on to the next table. The procedure was conducted with complete decorum.

  Barbara’s eyes shone. “Isn’t this thrilling. Raided in a night club. How I’ll boast over this. What’ll happen to us? Will we be had up before a judge? Will we be fined? We won’t have to go to prison, will we? Those two young men were police spies weren’t they! To think I danced with one! I suppose he’ll be bumped off one day. The underworld always gets the squealer. The News of the World will print his photograph. I’ll point it out to all my friends, ‘Believe it or not,’ I’ll say, ‘but I once danced with him.’ Look, he’s coming back here now. Do we speak to him or cut him?”

  Masterman had come back for his cigarettes. He flushed; looked awkward and embarrassed. “I left my cigarettes behind.” He was on guard against attack. He had no doubt in his time listened to some unpleasant things. He had his answers ready. Guy was not giving him that satisfaction.

  “As a matter of curiosity,” he asked, “did we ever play football against each other?”

  Masterman shook his head.

  “I never played for anything better than Richmond B.”

  “You did play for them, though.”

  “Certainly. Still do.”

  “Your name isn’t Masterman, I suppose?”

  “Of course not.”

  For a moment Guy played with the idea of reporting the matter to the Richmond secretary, whom he knew quite well. But he thought better of it. He wasn’t going to give whoever Masterman might be the opportunity of making a story out of an old international’s attempt to identify the police nark who had got his name taken for him in a raided night club. He smiled. “I must congratulate you. You were convincing in the role.”

  “That’s why they picked me for it.”

  It was said aggressively. Masterman was longing, Guy knew, to be insulted, so that he could relieve his feelings by being insulting back. It was probably a humiliating moment for him. He had been more than half sincere when he had talked about those old matches. Probably he had had a kind of hero-worship for him: Guy was not going to ease the boil of his humiliation with the lancet of abuse. The music had begun again and he turned to Renée: “Let’s dance.”

  The gaiety of the evening had, however, gone. It was late and Roger was tired. Drummond had returned from his tour of the premises looking worried. The police, he said, had put a padlock on his cellar.

  “Will they confiscate it?” Barbara asked.

  He shrugged.

  “It’s hard to tell. I suppose they’d be within their rights. I’m not supposed to have any.”

  “But surely a bottle party is a private house. Isn’t that the fiction?”

  “It may be but I’m not behaving as though it were a private house.”

  Margery too was worried. “How serious is this for you?”

  Again he shrugged.

  “I won’t say it’s the basket in which all my eggs are, I haven’t so very many eggs. But it was important.”

  Margery was worried because he was worried. Barbara, now that the drama had subsided, was res
tless with a sense of anticlimax. Only Franklin was in a party mood. He wanted to go on somewhere else. There was a place he’d heard of called The Nest. If not The Nest why not The 43: that was always fun. He was persistent, almost too persistent. But not even Pamela could be cajoled there. They finished what wine was left and filed upstairs. “We’ll meet at Philippi,” said Franklin.

  Guy believed in meeting trouble three-quarter way. Early next morning he put through a call to Mr. Duke. “Did you see my future sister-in-law before you left home?” he asked.

  “Except on holidays abroad I’ve never seen her at breakfast in my life. I shut myself up in my study with my mail, have my tea and toast brought to me and allow no one to ring me here till half-past ten. I’m a Victorian father.”

  “In that case you won’t have learnt that she’s likely to appear before a magistrate in the next few hours.”

  “She’s what?”

  Guy explained the situation. He made a funny story of it. Mr. Duke chuckled. “That’s the last place I should have expected a daughter of mine to appear, but since she’ll appear in such good company——”

  “You can guess how respectable a club it was when I tell you they were serving our new Brut champagne.”

  Later he was to regret, how bitterly, having mentioned that. But how, he was to ask himself, could he have known? It was the precise amplification, so it seemed to him, that was required to complete the joke. Mr. Duke burst out laughing.

  “That crowns it. The turn of the screw. Pamela arrested for drinking her own father’s wines. They’ll laugh over this in Boodle’s. I only hope that the club doesn’t owe us for the wine, though if they did that would make it an even better joke. That a Duke should have paid for the wine twice and then be had up before the beak for drinking it. What a story! Will you find out right away, dear boy, whether the club has paid for its wine or not? Then ring me back at once. I’m going to dine out on this for weeks. I’ve got to have the details right.”