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Authors: Evelyn Waugh

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BOOK: A handful of dust
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since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr. Last about it." She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal. "Darling," she said. "You must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too," "Now you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. Far more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now, listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty today you are not to ride tomorrow." "Tomorrow's Sunday." "Well next day, then." "But you said 'tomorrow.' It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep him. You wouldn't like that would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides he's usually abroad." "He'd give him to some other little boy. Anyway that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right about riding on Monday, isn't it? You did say 'tomorrow.' " "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well today. We jumped a big post and rails. She refused to first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable, electric radiator, but with little success. Even today, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilised extremes of which solitary diners are in danger-absorbing gluttony or an irregular regimen of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food 'joker.' "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. I would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go over to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say 'no' to going in to the 'movies.' " "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. Arriving 3. 18 so looking forward visit. Beaver. And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not, wait till you see him." "What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?" I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Brat's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and six-penny lunch... Anyway he can go into Sir Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again-the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies tonight and tomorrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony being there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult for she would have caught his eye and her manner as châtelaine would have collapsed. And Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the French windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologised for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon." "Yes, I know." "Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant.. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a weekend to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr. Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." Later in the nursery, while he was having supper, John said: "I think Mr. Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes... "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny. That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver-going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Further down the passage Beaver examined his room with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The ink pot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picturedrome where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?" "Certainly. Got everything you want?" "Yes thanks. Goodnight." "Goodnight." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon attracted his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle. When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walls garden; he visited the hot houses and picked himself a button-hole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practises of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it. For this reason his heart sank when, emerging from his study into the great hall at quarter to eleven, he met Beaver already dressed and prepared to be entertained; it was only a momentary vexation, however, for while he wished him good morning he noticed that his guest had an A. B. C. in his hands and was clearly looking out a train. "I hope you slept all right?" "Beautifully," said Beaver, though his wan expression did not confirm the word. "I'm so glad. I always sleep well here myself. I say I don't like the look of that train guide. I hope you weren't thinking of leaving us yet?" "Alas, I've got to get up tonight I'm afraid." "Too bad. I've hardly seen you. The trains aren't very good on Sundays. The best leaves at five-forty-five and gets up about nine. It stops a lot and there's no restaurant car." "That'll do fine." "Sure you can't stay

BOOK: A handful of dust
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