Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

They drove into Tynecastle. The streets were crowded, reflecting a certain movement and unrest which seemed to gratify Barras. At the Central Hotel the head porter opened the door of the car with a kind of flourish head porters reserve for expensive cars. Barras nodded to the hotel porter. The porter saluted Barras.

They went into the lounge, which was crowded and rather restless like the streets. Many of the men were in uniform. Barras let his eye rest upon the men in uniform with approval.

Then Hetty signalled them gaily from a corner of the lounge, a good corner by the fireplace, and Alan her brother stood up as Barras and Arthur came over. The first thing Barras said was:

“Where is your father?”

Alan smiled. He looked very well in his second lieutenant’s uniform and very light-hearted because he was already a few drinks to the good.

“Father’s got the old complaint. A touch of the jaundice, Sent his regrets.”

Barras looked put out, his face fell.

A distinct silence followed; but Barras quickly recovered himself. He smiled vaguely at Hetty. In a moment the four of them went in to dinner.

In the restaurant Barras picked up his napkin and let his eyes go round the room, which was filled with people and gaiety. Most of the gayest people were in khaki. He said:

“This is very pleasant. I’ve had a certain amount of strain lately. I’m glad to have some recreation for a change.”

“You’re glad it’s all settled,” Alan said, looking at Barras rather knowingly.

Barras said shortly:

“Yes.”

“They’re just a lot of twisters,” Alan went on. “They’d twist you if they got the chance. I know that Heddon, he’s a swine. He’s paid to be a swine, but he is a natural-born swine as well!”

“Alan!” Hetty protested, with her little pout.

“I know, Hetty, I know ,” Alan said airily. “I’ve had to do with men. You’ve got to get them down or else they’ll get you down. It’s self-preservation.”

Covertly, Arthur looked at his father. Something of the old frozen expression was back on Barras’s face. He seemed trying to adapt himself to a new outlook. With a definite attempt to turn the conversation he said:

“You leave on Monday, Alan?”

“That’s right.”

“And glad to get into it, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” Alan agreed loudly. “It’s a regular lark.” The wine waiter came over. Barras took the red-covered list and meditated over it. Yet he was not so much debating with the wine list as debating with himself. But at length he took a decision.

“I think we ought to have a little celebration. After all this is an occasion.” He ordered champagne and the waiter bowed himself away.

Hetty looked pleased. She had always been slightly in awe of Barras, his formality and aloof dignity had somehow intimidated her. But to-night he was surprising, with his sudden exciting hospitality. She smiled at him, the sweetest, respectful smile.

“This is nice,” she murmured. She fingered her beads with one hand and the stem of her full wine-glass with the other. She turned to Arthur: “Don’t you think Alan suits his uniform beautifully?”

Arthur forced a smile:

“Alan would look well in anything.”

“Oh, no, but seriously, Arthur, don’t you think the uniform sets him off?”

Arthur said with stiff lips:

“Yes.”

“It’s the very devil answering salutes,” Alan remarked complacently. “Wait till you get into the Women’s Emergency Corps, Hetty, you’ll know all about it.”

Hetty took another tiny sip of her champagne. She reflected, her pretty head atilt.

“You’d look simply gorgeous in uniform yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur went absolutely cold inside. He said:

“I don’t see myself in uniform, somehow.”

“You’re slim you see, Arthur, you’ve really got a good figure for a Sam Browne. And your colouring, too. You’d be marvellous in khaki.”

They all looked at Arthur. Alan said:

“It’s a fact, Arthur. You’d have knocked ’em good and proper. You ought to have been coming out with me.”

For no reason that he could determine, Arthur felt himself trembling. His nerves were overstrung, he saw the whole evening as abnormal and abominable. Why was his father here, sitting in this crowded hotel drinking champagne, sanctioning Alan Todd’s patriotic bluster, so restless and unlike himself?

“D’you hear, Arthur?” Alan said. “You and I ought to be in the show together.”

Arthur compelled himself to speak. He struggled to speak lightly.

“I expect the show will get on without me, Alan. I’m not very keen on it to tell you the truth.”

“Oh, Arthur!” Hetty said, disappointed. Because she regarded Arthur as her own property she liked him always to show up well, to shine, as she phrased it. And this last remark of Arthur’s was not a very shining one. She screwed up her vivacious little face, fascinating and disapproving. “That’s a ridiculous way to talk, Arthur. Why, anyone that didn’t know you would imagine you were scared.”

“Nonsense, Hetty,” Barras said indulgently. “Arthur just hasn’t had time to think it out. One of these days you may see him making a dash for the nearest recruiting office.”

“Oh, I know!” Hetty said, warmly casting down those ingenuous eyes, a little sorry for having spoken.

Arthur said nothing. He sat with his eyes on his plate. He refused champagne. He refused dessert. He let the others talk on without him.

An orchestra struck up at the far end of the room where there was a clear space of floor waxed and ready for dancing. The orchestra played “God save the King” very loudly, and everyone stood up with a loud clatter of chairs and there was loud and prolonged cheering at the end, then the orchestra began not so loudly to play dance music. They always had dancing at the Central on Saturday nights.

Hetty smiled across at Arthur: they were both good dancers, they loved dancing together. Hetty had often been told what a charming couple she and Arthur made when dancing together. She waited for him to ask her to dance. But he sat there with his eyes glumly fixed on his plate, and he did not ask Hetty.

His moodiness became quite obvious at last and Alan, always ready to oblige, leaned across to Hetty.

“Care to take the old war-horse for a walk, Hetty?”

Hetty smiled with more than her usual vivacity. Alan was a bad dancer, a heavy dancer, he did not like dancing, and it was not the least pleasure for Hetty to dance with him. But Hetty pretended that she was pleased; she got up, and she and Alan danced together.

While they were dancing Barras said:

“She is a nice little thing, Hetty. So modest and yet so full of spirits.” He spoke pleasantly, more restfully; since his dinner and the champagne he seemed more quiescent.

Arthur did not answer; out of the corner of his eye he watched Hetty and Alan dancing and he tried hard to overcome his incomprehensible mood.

When Hetty and Alan came back, he did, for politeness’ sake, ask her to dance. He asked her stiffly, still chilled and hurt inside. It was wonderful dancing with Hetty, she was soft in his arms and the perfume that was herself seemed to flow into him with every movement of her body, yet because it was so wonderful he swore perversely he would dance this one dance and no more.

Afterwards Hetty sat beating time to the music with her neat slippered foot, until at last she could bear it no longer. With that fetching expression of vivacious distress:

“Is nobody going to dance tonight?”

Arthur said quickly:

“I’m tired.”

There was a silence. Suddenly Barras said:

“If I were any use to you, Hetty, I’m at your disposal. But I’m afraid I don’t know any of these new steps.”