Evelyn Waugh: A Handful Of Dust

“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 apologized 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.