at school,” said Amy.
“Oh. Excellent . Sorry about the scenes of married bliss. Didn’t see you there, ha-ha. You’ll want to be off.”
“No. I don’t want to go.” She looked at Nick in his plastic dog collar. “Amy, I don’t know what to do.”
“Pray you’re not pregnant,” said Amy, also behaving as if the two of them were alone. “Try prayers. Go ahead with earlier plans.”
“Someone will tell him. You know they will. You know Hong Kong.”
“Oh, probably. If so, I suppose that’ll be it. But I wonder? He doesn’t sound the ordinary old blimp, your future husband.”
“What is all this?”
“It is something, Nick,” said Mrs. Baxter, “that I don’t think we should be listening to. You are making us eavesdroppers, Amy.”
“I’ve more to do than stand here dropping eaves,” said Nick. “I’m teaching a Moral Sciences seminar in twenty minutes.”
Amy and Elisabeth continued to stand in silence and it was (surprisingly) Amy who began to cry.
“You’re—oh, if you knew how I envy you, Bets! You’re so innocent . You’re going to be so ghastly soon. All this will be an uneasy memory when you’re opening bazaars around the Temple church in the Strand, and organising book groups for barristers’ wives. You’ll metamorphose into a perfect specimen of twentieth-century uxorial devotion. You’ll have this one guilty secret and you’ll never forgive me for knowing.”
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on,” said Nick.
“You and I, Bets, will be the last generation to take seriously the concept of matrimonial fidelity. Wait until this lot gets cracking with sex and sin in the—what?—in the sixties.”
“How do you know?” said Elisabeth.
“I know.”
“Are you happy about it, Amy?”
“I am bloody, bloody unhappy about it. Have a child at your peril, Bets. It will hurt you to hell.”
One of the children then began to cry for its dinner and slap, bang went Amy with the rice pot.
“Nick—take Betty now . Bets, see you at the altar? Right?”
Mrs. Baxter began to sing “When I survey the wondrous Cross” as she unwrapped the wet child, who at once spread out its wet legs and went thankfully to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A t last there was a message for Elisabeth Macintosh when she returned to the Old Colony Hotel. She was called over to the reception desk and an official-looking letter was put into her hands. The envelope came from Edward’s London Chambers and it chilled her. Her name was typewritten. So, it was all over.
She took it upstairs—the bedroom still untouched, the two beds a mess, but she found a red light flashing by the telephone. Which first? Face the one you fear.
She opened the letter and inside, in Edward’s beautiful, clear script, read, I have wonderful news. Ross will bring you to the Old Repulse Bay Hotel tonight to celebrate it. I have not had a minute—literally, I mean it—to telephone or write. You will soon see why. I love and long for you, Edward .
She contemplated the message light for a while and then rang down to reception. While they dialled up the message, she sat with the blunt heavy block of the black receiver in her hand. At length, after much clicking, a voice, a recording from somewhere: This is Mr. Albert Ross, consulting solicitor to Mr. Edward Feathers QC. I am to call for a Miss Elisabeth Macintosh this evening to take her to dinner with Mr. Feathers and his team. The dress code will be formal. Six o’clock .
Who is this pompous ass? The famous Loss the Demon Dwarf? So, we shall meet. I’m not going to like him. I’m being played with by all of them. I’ve half a mind . . .
And “dress code formal’! What in hell? I’ve no money and nothing clean and Edward must—should—know it. As if he did!
She went to the waste-paper basket and fished out the dress.
No. I couldn’t. I can never wear it again. It feels cold and wet. I can hardly bear to touch it. (But she held it to her face.)
I
“Oh. Excellent . Sorry about the scenes of married bliss. Didn’t see you there, ha-ha. You’ll want to be off.”
“No. I don’t want to go.” She looked at Nick in his plastic dog collar. “Amy, I don’t know what to do.”
“Pray you’re not pregnant,” said Amy, also behaving as if the two of them were alone. “Try prayers. Go ahead with earlier plans.”
“Someone will tell him. You know they will. You know Hong Kong.”
“Oh, probably. If so, I suppose that’ll be it. But I wonder? He doesn’t sound the ordinary old blimp, your future husband.”
“What is all this?”
“It is something, Nick,” said Mrs. Baxter, “that I don’t think we should be listening to. You are making us eavesdroppers, Amy.”
“I’ve more to do than stand here dropping eaves,” said Nick. “I’m teaching a Moral Sciences seminar in twenty minutes.”
Amy and Elisabeth continued to stand in silence and it was (surprisingly) Amy who began to cry.
“You’re—oh, if you knew how I envy you, Bets! You’re so innocent . You’re going to be so ghastly soon. All this will be an uneasy memory when you’re opening bazaars around the Temple church in the Strand, and organising book groups for barristers’ wives. You’ll metamorphose into a perfect specimen of twentieth-century uxorial devotion. You’ll have this one guilty secret and you’ll never forgive me for knowing.”
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on,” said Nick.
“You and I, Bets, will be the last generation to take seriously the concept of matrimonial fidelity. Wait until this lot gets cracking with sex and sin in the—what?—in the sixties.”
“How do you know?” said Elisabeth.
“I know.”
“Are you happy about it, Amy?”
“I am bloody, bloody unhappy about it. Have a child at your peril, Bets. It will hurt you to hell.”
One of the children then began to cry for its dinner and slap, bang went Amy with the rice pot.
“Nick—take Betty now . Bets, see you at the altar? Right?”
Mrs. Baxter began to sing “When I survey the wondrous Cross” as she unwrapped the wet child, who at once spread out its wet legs and went thankfully to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A t last there was a message for Elisabeth Macintosh when she returned to the Old Colony Hotel. She was called over to the reception desk and an official-looking letter was put into her hands. The envelope came from Edward’s London Chambers and it chilled her. Her name was typewritten. So, it was all over.
She took it upstairs—the bedroom still untouched, the two beds a mess, but she found a red light flashing by the telephone. Which first? Face the one you fear.
She opened the letter and inside, in Edward’s beautiful, clear script, read, I have wonderful news. Ross will bring you to the Old Repulse Bay Hotel tonight to celebrate it. I have not had a minute—literally, I mean it—to telephone or write. You will soon see why. I love and long for you, Edward .
She contemplated the message light for a while and then rang down to reception. While they dialled up the message, she sat with the blunt heavy block of the black receiver in her hand. At length, after much clicking, a voice, a recording from somewhere: This is Mr. Albert Ross, consulting solicitor to Mr. Edward Feathers QC. I am to call for a Miss Elisabeth Macintosh this evening to take her to dinner with Mr. Feathers and his team. The dress code will be formal. Six o’clock .
Who is this pompous ass? The famous Loss the Demon Dwarf? So, we shall meet. I’m not going to like him. I’m being played with by all of them. I’ve half a mind . . .
And “dress code formal’! What in hell? I’ve no money and nothing clean and Edward must—should—know it. As if he did!
She went to the waste-paper basket and fished out the dress.
No. I couldn’t. I can never wear it again. It feels cold and wet. I can hardly bear to touch it. (But she held it to her face.)
I
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