The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [217]
“He was. But he can’t expect us to listen to all that rot.”
“What did he mean about Ambrose’s ‘silence’? Never knew a fellow who talked so much.”
“All a lot of rot. Where to now?”
“Come to think of it, my mother lives upstairs. We might see if she’s at home.”
They rose to the floor where Margot Metroland had lived ever since the destruction of Pastmaster House. The door on the corridor was not locked. As they stood in the little vestibule loud, low-bred voices came to them.
“She seems to have a party.”
Peter opened the door of the sitting room. It was in darkness save for the ghastly light of a television set. Margot crouched over it, her old taut face livid in the reflection.
“Can we come in?”
“Who are you? What d’you want? I can’t see you.”
Peter turned on the light at the door.
“Don’t do that. Oh, it’s you Peter. And Basil.”
“We’ve been dining downstairs.”
“Well, I’m sorry; I’m busy, as you can see. Turn the light out and come and sit down if you want to, but don’t disturb me.”
“We’d better go.”
“Yes. Come and see me when I’m not so busy.”
Outside Peter said: “She’s always looking at that thing nowadays. It’s a great pleasure to her.”
“Where to now?”
“I thought of dropping in at Bellamy’s.”
“I’ll go home. I left Angela on her own. Barbara’s at a party of Robin Trumpington’s.”
“Well, good-night.”
“I say, those places where they starve you,—you know what I mean—do they do any good?”
“Molly swears by one.”
“She’s not fat and red.”
“No. She goes to those starving places.”
“Well, good-night.”
Peter turned east, Basil north, into the mild, misty October night. The streets at this hour were empty. Basil stumped across Piccadilly and up through Mayfair, where Angela’s house was almost the sole survivor of the private houses of his youth. How many doors had been closed against him then that were now open to all comers as shops and offices!
The lights were on. He left his hat and coat on a marble table and began the ascent to the drawing-room floor, pausing on the half-landing to recuperate.
“Oh, Pobble, you toeless wonder. You always turn up just when you’re wanted.”
Florid he might be, but there were compensations. It was not thus that Basil had often been greeted in limber youth. Two arms embraced his neck and drew him down, an agile figure inclined over the protuberance of his starched shirt, a cheek was pressed to his and teeth tenderly nibbled the lobe of his ear.
“Babs, I thought you were at a party. Why on earth are you dressed like that?”
His daughter wore very tight, very short trousers, slippers and a thin jersey. He disengaged himself and slapped her loudly on the behind.
“Sadist. It’s that sort of party. It’s a ‘happening.’
“You speak in riddles, child.”
“It’s a new sort of party the Americans have invented. Nothing is arranged beforehand. Things just happen. Tonight they cut off a girl’s clothes with nail scissors and then painted her green. She had a mask on so I don’t know who it was. She might just be someone hired. Then what happened was Robin ran out of drink so we’ve all gone scouring for it. Mummy’s in bed and doesn’t know where Old Nudge keeps the key and we can’t wake him up.”
“You and your mother have been into Nudge’s bedroom?”
“Me and Charles. He’s the chap I’m scouring with. He’s downstairs now trying to pick the lock. I think Nudge must be sedated, he just rolled over snoring when we shook him.”
At the foot of the staircase a door led to the servants’ quarters. It opened and someone very strange appeared with an armful of bottles. Basil saw below him a slender youth, perhaps a man of twenty-one, who had a mop of dishevelled black hair and a meagre black fringe of beard and whiskers; formidable, contemptuous blue eyes above grey pouches; a proud, rather childish mouth. He wore a pleated white silk shirt, open at the neck, flannel trousers, a green cummerbund and sandals. The appearance, though grotesque, was not specifically plebeian and when he spoke his