by Evelyn Waugh
Mrs. Rattery said, “I’d rather like some whiskey.”
*
Jock had not seen Brenda’s flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs. Beaver deplored the space wasted by the staircase well and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs. Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was ten past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda’s who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda’s opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone.
“Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?”
“I am. Is she a friend of yours?”
“Oh, such a friend,” said Princess Abdul Akbar.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?”
“I think she’s bound to be at Lady Cockpurse’s. I’m just going there myself. Can I give her any message?”
“I had better come and see her.”
“Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside.”
The Princess’s single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatints, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of colored wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The princess sat at the looking glass, Jock behind her on the divan.
“What’s your name?” she asked over her shoulder. He told her. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the weekend before last… such a quaint old place.”
“I’d better tell you. There’s been a frightful accident there this morning.”
Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. “Quick,” she whispered, “Tell me. I can’t bear it. Is it death?”
Jock nodded. “Their little boy… kicked by a horse.”
“Little Jimmy.”
“John.”
“John… dead. It’s too horrible.”
“It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
“Oh yes,” said Jenny. “It was. It was my fault. I ought never to have gone there… a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow… if only it was I that was dead… I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess… that brave little life snuffed out.”
“I say you know, really, I shouldn’t take that line about it.”
“It isn’t the first time it’s happened… always, anywhere, I am hunted down… without remorse. O God,” said Jenny Abdul Akbar. “What have I done to deserve it?”
She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, “Well I must go along to Polly’s and see Brenda.”
“Wait a minute and I’ll come too.” She had brightened a little when she emerged. “Have you got a car here,” she asked, “or shall I ring up a taxi?”
*
After tea Mr. Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs. Rattery’s instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whiskey and ginger ale. Mrs. Rattery had resumed her patience. “Bad interview?” she asked without looking up.
“Awful.” He drank the whiskey quickly and poured out some more.
“Bring me one too, will you?”
Tony said, “I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful… after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion.”
“Some like it,” said Mrs. Rattery.
“Of course,” Tony began, after a pause, “when you haven’t got children yourself—”
“I’ve got two sons,” said Mrs. Rattery.
“Have you? I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize… we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me.”
“That’s all right. People are always surprised. I don’t see them often. They’re at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They’re getting quite big. One’s going to be good looking, I think. His father is.”
“Quarter past six,” said Tony. “He’s bound to have told her by now.”
*
There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse’s, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucauld-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs. Northcote. Mrs. Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs. Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. “What a time she is taking over Daisy.”
“She is very thorough,” said Polly, “and it tickles rather.”
Presently Daisy emerged. “What was she like?” they asked.
“I mustn’t tell or it spoils it all,” said Daisy.
They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda’s turn now. She went next door to Mrs. Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs. Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen.
Next door they said, “Where’s her Mr. Beaver today?”
“He’s flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She’s been worrying all day thinking he’s had an accident.”
“It’s all very touching, isn’t it? Though I can’t see his point myself…”
“You must never do anything on Thursdays,” said Mrs. Northcote.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities.”
“Isn’t there anything about love?”
“I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers.”
“Yes, go on some more about that…”
Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. “Where’s Brenda?” she said. “I thought she’d be here.”
“Mrs. Northcote’s doing her now.”
“Jock Menzies wants to see her. He’s downstairs.”
“Darling Jock… Why on earth didn’t you bring him up?”
“No, it’s something terribly important. He’s got to see Brenda alone.”
“My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won’t be long now. We can�
�t disturb them. It would upset Mrs. Northcote.”
Jenny told them her news.
On the other side of the door, Brenda’s leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. “Four men dominate your fate,” Mrs. Northcote was saying, “one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him.”
“Dear me,” said Brenda. “How very exciting. Who can they be?”
“One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious.”
“I bet that’s my Mr. Beaver, bless him.”
Downstairs Jock sat waiting in the small front room where Polly’s guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six.
Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe, and joined the ladies. “Most enjoyable,” she pronounced. “Why, how odd you all look.”
“Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs.”
“Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn’t anything awful, is it?”
“You better go and see him.”
Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends’ faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting.
“What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I’m scared. It’s nothing awful, is it?”
“I’m afraid it is. There’s been a very serious accident.”
“John?”
“Yes.”
“Dead?”
He nodded.
She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, “Tell me what happened. Why do you know about it first?”
“I’ve been down at Hetton since the weekend.”
“Hetton?”
“Don’t you remember? John was going hunting today.”
She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. “John… John Andrew… I… Oh thank God…” Then she burst into tears.
She wept helplessly, turning round in the chair and pressing her forehead against its gilt back.
Upstairs Mrs. Northcote had Souki Foucauld-Esterhazy by the foot and was saying, “There are four men dominating your fate. One is loyal and tender but has not yet disclosed his love…”
*
In the silence of Hetton, the telephone rang near the housekeeper’s room and was switched through to the library. Tony answered it.
“This is Jock speaking. I’ve just seen Brenda. She’s coming down by the seven o’clock train.”
“Is she terribly upset?”
“Yes, naturally.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s with me. I’m speaking from Polly’s.”
“Shall I talk to her?”
“Better not.”
“All right… I’ll meet that train. Are you coming too?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ve been wonderful. I don’t know what I should have done without you and Mrs. Rattery.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll see Brenda off.”
She had stopped crying and sat crouched in the chair. She did not look up while Jock telephoned. Then she said, “Yes, I’ll go by that train.”
“We ought to start. I suppose you will have to get some things from the flat.”
“My bag… upstairs. You get it. I can’t go in there again.”
She did not speak on the way to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. “There’s plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened.”
Jock told her.
“Poor little boy,” she said. “Poor little boy.”
Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. “That’s everything,” she said. “There’s still too much time.”
“Would you like anything to eat?”
“Oh no, nothing to eat.” She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. “When you first told me,” she said, “I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t say anything, did I?”
“You know what you said.”
“Yes, I know… I didn’t mean… I don’t think it’s any good trying to explain.”
Jock said, “Are you sure you’ve got everything?”
“Yes, that’s everything,” she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless.
“Well, we’d better go to the station.”
“All right. It’s early. But it doesn’t matter.”
Jock took her to the train. As it was Wednesday the carriages were full of women returning after their day’s shopping.
“Why not go first class?”
“No, no. I always go third.”
She sat in the middle of a row. The women on either side looked at her curiously wondering if she were ill.
“Don’t you want anything to read?”
“Nothing to read.”
“Or eat?”
“Or eat.”
“Then I’ll say good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels.
*
When the news became known Marjorie said to Allan, “Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr. Beaver.”
But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, “That’s the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned.”
The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Princes Risborough. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen.
Jock drove from Paddington to Brat’s. One of the men by the bar said, “Ghastly thing about Tony Last’s boy.”
“Yes, I was there.”
“No, were you? What a ghastly thing.”
Later a telephone message came: “Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club.”
“No, no, tell her I’m not here,” said Jock.
VII
The inquest was held at eleven o’clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a nearby seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had shaved off the hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr. Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to leave the room. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow.
Brenda said, “Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl.”
She did it charmingly. When everyone had gone, Tony said, “I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn’t know what to say to them.”
“What did you do all day?”
“There was the shameless blonde… we played animal snap some of the time.”
“Animal snap? Was that any good?”
“Not much… It’s odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn’t happened.”
“Poor little boy,” said Brenda.
They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda’s arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs. Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs
in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary.
A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and gray clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore.
Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. “Nothing to say, is there?”
“There’s no need to talk.”
“No. I suppose there’ll have to be a funeral.”
“Well, of course.”
“Yes; tomorrow?”
She looked into the morning room. “They’ve done quite a lot, haven’t they?”
All Brenda’s movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the center of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said “Don’t,” not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, “I’ll go and finish those letters.”
“Yes.”
“See you at luncheon.”
“Yes.”
She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her.
In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun plowland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it.
Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. “If you please, my lady, I’ve been going through John’s things. There’s this handkerchief doesn’t belong to him.”
The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin.
“I know whose it is. I’ll send it back to her.”
“Can’t think how it came to be there,” said nanny.
“Poor little boy. Poor little boy,” said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape.
*
“I was thinking about the pony, sir.”