The Serpent's Sting by Robert Gott Page B

Peter.’
    â€˜No, I see that. I just wanted to tell you that what happened on Friday night is for the best. I was perhaps labouring under the misapprehension that you might have been feeling bad about revealing the truth about Fulton.’
    I was about to reassure him that I wasn’t indifferent to the consequences of my faux pas , when Brian, with the poor timing that is his special gift, shouted from the back door that tea and cake were ready in the kitchen. Peter Gilbert retrieved a shirt from the back of a garden chair and put it on. The moment had passed when I felt I could apologise for my blunder. It would sound now like a rushed, insincere afterthought. I’d do it later that day. While I was thinking this, Peter Gilbert moved past me. Before he entered the house, he turned and said, ‘You’re a hard man to like, Will Power. You really are.’

    I was sufficiently unsettled by what Peter Gilbert had said to want to avoid small talk over tea and cake. I decided instead that I’d walk into town and take advantage of Sunday lunch in the Menzies Hotel dining room. With a regular income, although its permanence was uncertain, I shouted myself to the full, three-shilling option. The room was very crowded and noisy, and the male diners were still mainly American servicemen, despite most of their number having been moved to Queensland. I sat alone and repulsed the advances of two women who thought I might like company, and by extension that I might like to pay for their drinks. I assumed that they’d been emboldened by the regular success they no doubt enjoyed when making similar offers to American officers. As I ate a passable beef consommé (which hadn’t been clarified as well as it ought to have been — perhaps it was the difficulty in getting egg whites), I thought about my conversation with Peter Gilbert. I felt embarrassed by my childish peevishness, but acknowledged in my own defence that my poor feelings about Gilbert had their roots in my childhood. In that light, they were perfectly explicable. By the time I’d finished an excellent rabbit terrine, I’d reassured myself that I had nothing to apologise for — unless I bore some responsibility for being an unwelcome disruption to the smooth running of my mother’s and Peter Gilbert’s affair.
    I paid the bill and took a tram home. Mother and Peter Gilbert had gone out. Brian was in the front room listening to some dreadful serial on the wireless. He turned it off when I came in.
    â€˜Peter said that you and he had a chat.’
    â€˜Like most conversations I’ve had with Peter Gilbert, it was something of a curate’s egg.’
    â€˜It hurts Mother’s feelings, you know, the way you conscientiously refuse to accept Peter.’
    â€˜Yes, and of course the fault is all on my side. It’s possible, you know, that Mother has one or two failings of her own. I’m sure you find it difficult to believe that she has character flaws, but perhaps you haven’t been on the receiving end of them for most of your life.’
    â€˜We’ve all got flaws, Will.’
    â€˜Yes, but we excuse them in people we like by calling them character traits.’
    Brian surprised me with a conciliatory non sequitur .
    â€˜I’m coming to see Mother Goose again, now that you’ve settled into the part.’
    â€˜I’ll get you a ticket.’
    â€˜All right. That can be your Christmas present to me.’
    I then produced my own non sequitur .
    â€˜How much are they paying you, Brian?’
    â€˜How much is who paying me?’
    â€˜Why are you maintaining the pretence that you’re not working for Intelligence? I watched you walk out of Victoria Barracks just a couple of weeks ago, and you had the air of a man who’d signed on the dotted line.’
    He stood up and managed to control any exasperation he might have been feeling.
    â€˜I’ll say it again, Will. I