“Roger is going shooting now,” said Sandy. “We had to spend three hours in a store on Jermyn Street, getting him the proper outfit.”
“An outfit?” asked the Major. “I could have lent you a pair of breeches and a jacket.”
“I got everything I needed, thanks,” said Roger. “Except a gun, of course. I was hoping I could borrow yours and Uncle Bertie’s.” The request was smoothly made. The Major set down his cup and saucer and considered his son’s placid face with equal parts curiosity and rage.
Roger betrayed no hint that he understood the effrontery of the request. It was of no more significance to him than asking to borrow some spare wellies during a rainstorm. The Major pondered how to produce a response that would be blunt enough to make an impression on Roger.
“No.”
“I’m sorry?” said Roger.
“No, you may not borrow the guns,” said the Major.
“Why ever not?” asked Roger with round eyes. The Major was about to answer when he recognized that his son was tempting him into explanations. Explaining would then simply open negotiations.
“Let’s not discuss it in front of our guest,” said the Major. “It is out of the question.” Roger stood up so quickly that he slopped tea into his saucer.
“How come you always have to undermine me?” he asked. “How come you can never just put yourself out to support me? This is my career we’re talking about.” He banged down his teacup and turned away to look into the fireplace, clenching his hands together behind his back.
“I’m sure your host has arranged some perfectly adequate extra guns,” said the Major. “Besides, as a novice, you would look ridiculous banging away with such a valuable pair. You would look absurd.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Roger. “Nice of you to be as frank as usual about my limitations.”
“I’m sure your father didn’t mean it that way,” said Sandy, looking as if she had suddenly remembered why business acquaintances were, after all, preferable to family.
“I’m just trying to keep you from looking foolish,” said the Major. “What kind of shoot is this, anyway? If it’s clay shooting, they often have just the right equipment.”
“No, actually it’s a local country thing,” said Roger. He paused as if reluctant to say more, and a horrible premonition came over the Major. He debated stuffing his fingers in his ears so he would not have to hear Roger’s next words.
“I told Roger you’d be happy for him,” said Sandy. “But he’s been concerned all week that you might feel offended that after all these years he gets an invitation instead of you.”
“I’m shooting with Lord Dagenham next week,” said Roger. “Sorry, Dad, but it just came about and I couldn’t exactly say no.”
“Of course not,” said the Major. He was stalling for time as he counted up his options. He wondered briefly whether Roger and he could get through the day without having to acknowledge each other. He then considered the advantages of saying nothing now and then acting surprised to meet Roger on the day, but dismissed the idea since Roger could not be relied upon to supply a dignified response to such a fiction.
“I wanted to ask Gertrude about adding another person, but I believe only a certain number of guns can be accommodated,” said Roger. “I thought it wasn’t polite to press them.” He blushed and the Major saw with some wonder that embarrassment about one’s relations went both up and down the generations. He was mortified at the thought of Roger waving a shotgun around, and for just an instant he saw himself explaining a dead peacock on the lawn. However, the Major accepted the futility of trying to hide his connection with Roger. He would just have to keep an eye on him.
“Oh, no need to worry about me,” said the Major finally. “My old friend Dagenham asked me some time ago to come and help him beef up the line.” He paused for greatest effect. “Said we needed some old hands to show you London chaps how it’s done.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Sandy. “I’m so glad it all worked out.” She stood up, adding, “Excuse me,” and gave the vague wave which seemed to the Major to be the universal female signal that a moment will be taken to freshen up.
“I’m looking forward to giving the old Churchills a good day’s work,” said the Major, also standing as Sandy left the room. “You should stick with me, Roger, and that way I can toss a few extra birds in your bag if you need them.” Roger, as he closed the door behind Sandy, looked sick to his stomach, and the Major felt he might have gone too far. His son had never been able to stand up to much of a ribbing.
“Actually, there’s an American chap who’s interested in buying them and I’m going to show them off as best I can,” he said.
“Are you really going to sell them?” asked Roger, looking instantly more cheerful. “That’s excellent news. Jemima was starting to get worried that you’d run off with them.”
“You’ve been talking to Jemima behind my back?”
“Oh, it’s not like that,” said Roger. “It’s more—Since the funeral, you know, we thought it might be useful to keep in touch since we both have parents to take care of. She has her mother to worry about, and I—well, you seem all right now, but then so did Uncle Bertie. You never know when I might have to jump in and take care of things.”
“I am rendered speechless with gratitude by your concern,” said the Major.
“You’re being sarcastic,” said Roger.
“You’re being mercenary,” said the Major.
“Dad, that’s not fair,” said Roger. “I’m not like Jemima.”
“Oh, really?” said the Major.
“Look, all I’m asking for is that when you sell the guns, you consider giving me a bit of a windfall you don’t even need,” continued Roger. “You have no idea how expensive it is to be a success in the city. The clothes, the restaurants, the weekend house parties—you have to invest to get ahead these days, and quite frankly it’s embarrassing just to try and keep up with Sandy.” He sat down and his shoulders slumped. For a moment he looked like a rumpled teenager.
“Perhaps you need to moderate your expectations a little,” said the Major, genuinely concerned. “Life isn’t all about flashy parties and meeting rich people.”
“That’s what they tell the people they don’t invite,” said Roger, sunk in gloom.
“I would never attend a function to which I had found it necessary to inveigle an invitation,” said the Major. As he said this, he reassured himself that he had done nothing to precipitate his own invitation. It had been, he remembered, an entirely spontaneous gesture from Lord Dagenham.
Sandy came back down the stairs and they ceased speaking. A hint of fresh cologne and lipstick brightened the air in the room and the Major made a note to open the windows more often. He worked hard at keeping the place clean and polished but perhaps, he thought, a certain stale quality was inevitable when one lived alone.
“We should be going if we want to speak to the painters before they leave,” said Sandy.
“You’re right,” said Roger.
“You told Abdul Wahid you would probably be staying here?” said the Major. Roger and Sandy traded a guarded look. The Major felt like a small boy whose parents are trying to shield him from grownup conversation.
“I did explain to him that we would need a place to stay while the cottage is under renovation,” said Roger. “He quite understood that it wouldn’t be convenient having us all here, what with the shared bathrooms and so on.”
“You are completely right,” said the Major. “As I told Abdul Wahid, you and Sandy will be much happier staying down at the pub.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Roger.
“You must ask the landlord for the blue room, my dear,” said the Major to Sandy. “It has a four-poster and, I believe, one of those whirlpool tubs of which you Americans are so fond.”
“I’m not staying at the damn pub,” said Roger, his face a picture of outrage. It was not noble, of course, to take pleasure in the discomfort of one’s own flesh and blood, but Roger had been altogether too forward and needed a firm check.
“It is true that the whirlpool tub does reverberate through the public end of the bar,” said the Major, as if pondering the subject deeply. He noticed that Sandy was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Laughter
