Her reproaches blunted themselves on The Dunbavin Post. “‘A distressing disturbance to the peace occurred outside Duff’s Hotel following the cricket match between Dunbavin Eleven and the visiting team from Jumping Creek on Saturday evening last. Sergeant Motherwell—’”
“I’ll put Mr Jeffrey in the room next to the bathroom,” decided Miss Bryce, as a solution to the problem. “I see we have the Dougalls coming again. Do you think they would mind if I put them in a smaller room this year? The Happy Holiday Agency made a booking for a two-bedroom and it pays to keep their clients satisfied. A deposit paid too—father and son. Miss Dougall could have her usual room of course. What do you think, Ellis?”
“‘In my twenty years as duty officer in this town, declared Sergeant Motherwell, commenting on the situation which could have got out of hand but for his timely appearance on the scene of the commotion—’”
“Ellis!” cried Miss Bryce.
“‘—never heard such violent uncontrolled language.’ Poor old Motherwell! What does it matter where you put Pukka and Memsahib? They always complain about something, anyway. Which reminds me—there was a telegram from our old friend, Sefton. You’ll find it on the desk somewhere. He’s bringing his nephew along with him this year.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? Now you’ve upset—you really are the most inconsiderate—” With a long suffering sigh which had no effect whatsoever, Miss Bryce fumbled amongst the bills, receipts and circulars and found the telegram. ‘Reserve accommodation for self and nephew, Charles Carmichael, from evening 28th February—Athol Sefton.’ As Ellis was now talking to the Duck and Dog’s solitary guest, she did not call out for his advice, but marked in two adjoining rooms on the floor plan she had drawn up. She would tell Ellis later what she thought of Mr Sefton’s impending sojourn.
The guest—a pale, unobtrusive man called Wilson—had arrived a week earlier. He was evidently not a duck-shooter for he had brought no guns with him; neither had he made any enquiries about local equipment, while he was patently nervous of the two or three water dogs Ellis kept for the use of the guests. Although afflicted with a stammer which made conversation not only embarrassing but tedious, he was no trouble and went off for long walks wearing khaki shorts, which revealed his pale bony legs and a pair of field glasses slung around his plucked chicken neck. Miss Bryce presumed that he was some sort of ornithologist, who did not like to vouchsafe the information because of the terrific effort needed to form the word.
Miss Bryce’s distraction became further diverted as her roving eye lighted on an open letter lying on the desk. It was written in bold capitals with a few dashes and twirls to make up the rest of the words. The worry lines on her face waxed as she deciphered it. Presently she turned her head sideways to call out to Ellis about it and almost rubbed noses with Wilson, who had come into the gunroom unheard.
Miss Bryce dismissed the extraordinary notion that he had been looking over her shoulder. “Why, good morning, Mr Wilson! Going out walking again? And it’s such a wet day! Good weather for ducks, as so we hope. But you have a raincoat, haven’t you?” Unlike her brother, who maliciously delighted in engaging him in conversation, she always kept to questions which required only a nod or shake of Wilson’s head. When he had gone, she turned back to the letter. “Ellis, I don’t like the sound of this young woman Jerry wants to bring home for the weekend. Who is she?”
“A m-m-model.”
“Shh, he’ll hear you. And you shouldn’t tease him like that. It’s most unkind. How would you like—it’s a pity you don’t pay more attention to your children instead of—it was an artist last time—at least she called herself an artist. I’m sure I couldn’t make head nor tail of that painting she gave you. It looked to me as though one of the dogs had got to it. Still, I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer an artist to a model. Why does Jerry get entangled with such females?”
Ellis gave a sudden guffaw. “Not that sort of model. This one’s paid to wear clothes.”
“I think it is high time you behaved as a father should and not let your children run wild.”
“Wild? Shelagh? Now, come, come!”
“Yes, Shelagh is all right, though I must say it doesn’t seem right for a girl of twenty-two to be so certain of herself and so—well, sort of unfeeling, even if she is a nurse.”
“Yes, I know,” said Ellis, yawning. “At least Jerry’s females are amusing.”
“Ellis, you are the most unnatural father. You’ve allowed those two to grow up anyhow. It is easy to see whom Jerry takes after. But Shelagh is a good girl. At least she is conscious of her duties and comes home to help at this busy time. That finishes the rooms, thank goodness.” Miss Bryce marked a room for Margot Stainsbury as far from Jerry’s as possible. “Now for the seating arrangements.”
“All this organisation has worn me out,” said Ellis. “I think I’ll go and open the bar.”
“Oh no, you don’t. You must decide what we are going to do about Mr Sefton and Major Dougall.”
“What about them?”
“We can’t have a repetition of last year. In fact, if I had my way we would send a polite letter to Mr Sefton telling him we are booked out this year. He is the most unpleasant man I have ever met—a real trouble-maker for all his grand manner. He was downright insulting to poor Major Dougall. And Mrs Dougall was telling me how he’d deliberately misled them over some investments.”
“Put Athol next to Jerry’s model,” suggested Ellis. “That will keep him occupied.”
“And have Jerry making scenes like he did over that artist creature?” she asked scornfully. “Not that it wasn’t a very good thing for him that she did get off with Mr Sefton, but—oh dear, how difficult it all is! And you’re no help, Ellis. You’re as malicious as Mr Sefton. I declare you enjoy seeing everything uncomfortable.”
“I admit I find Athol at work not unamusing.”
“No doubt you’ll still find him amusing when the other guests refuse to stay with him in the house.”
“They won’t,” he said lazily. “The drinks are too good and so is the shooting—and so is your cooking, Grace.”
She tried not to look mollified and retorted tartly, “Well, don’t blame me if your amusing Mr Sefton one day causes trouble that even you won’t find entertaining, Ellis.”
II
A cocktail party, Charles Carmichael reflected, is one of the drearier rituals of modern social and commercial life. It was no wonder that critics became either inflated with carbohydrates and self-importance or soul-cynical and dyspeptic. Charles told himself that he belonged to the latter class and smothered a corroborating belch.
The motive of the present day’s party was the launching of a first novel, and the press, book sellers and other interested representatives had been invited to eat, drink and make merry in its honour. They were always being invited to the Moonbeam Room or the Persian Room or this, that or other Room to honour something and knew what was expected of them in return.
A man from the publisher’s publicity department hovered attentively around Charles, wondering if his attention was a waste of time. Culture and Critic rarely gave good reviews to anyone or anything. Even its faintest praise was made more damnable by an inevitable sting in the tail. Intellectual smearing was Athol Sefton’s policy, and as he was proprietor, publisher and editor in chief, there was little Charles could do in return for the martinis and the canapés.
Culture and Critic was a small but influential quarterly, the main office of which was situated in Sydney. It ran a few world syndicated articles and commentaries dealing with music, art and literature, but its main concern was the local artistic scene. With the aid of a secretary, a broken-down journalist