The End of the Party

Peter Morton woke with a start to face the first light. Rain tapped against

the glass. It was January the fifth.

He looked across a table on which a night-light had guttered into a pool of

water, at the other bed. Francis Morton was still asleep, and Peter lay down

again with his eyes on his brother. It amused him to imagine it was himself

whom he watched, the same hair, the same eyes, the same lips and line of

cheek. But the thought palled, and the mind went back to the fact which

lent the day importance. It was the fifth of January. He could hardly believe

a year had passed since Mrs Henne-Falcon had given her last children's

party.

Francis turned suddenly upon his back and threw an arm across his face,

blocking his mouth. Peter's heart began to beat fast, not with pleasure now

but with uneasiness. He sat up and called across the table, "Wake up."

Francis's shoulders shook and he waved a clenched fist in the air, but his

eyes remained closed. To Peter Morton the whole room seemed to darken,

and he had the impression of a great bird swooping. He cried again, "Wake

up," and once more there was silver light and the touch of rain on the

windows.

Francis rubbed his eyes. "Did you call out?"' he asked.

"You are having a bad dream," Peter said. Already experience had taught

him how far their minds reflected each other. But he was the elder, by a

matter of minutes, and that brief extra interval of light, while his brother

still struggled in pain and darkness, had given him self-reliance and an

instinct of protection towards the other who was afraid of so many things.

"I dreamed that I was dead," Francis said.

"What was it like?"' Peter asked.

"I can't remember," Francis said.

"You dreamed of a big bird."

"Did I?"

The two lay silent in bed facing each other, the same green eyes, the same

nose tilting at the tip, the same firm lips, and the same premature

modelling of the chin. The fifth of January, Peter thought again, his mind

drifting idly from the image of cakes to the prizes which might be won.

Egg-and-spoon races, spearing apples in basins of water, blind man's buff.

"I don't want to go," Francis said suddenly. "I suppose Joyce will be there

… Mabel Warren." Hateful to him, the thought of a party shared with those

two. They were older than he. Joyce was eleven and Mabel Warren

thirteen. The long pigtails swung superciliously to a masculine stride. Their

sex humiliated him, as they watched him fumble with his egg, from under

lowered scornful lids. And last year … he turned his face away from Peter,

his cheeks scarlet.

"What's the matter?"' Peter asked.

"Oh, nothing. I don't think I'm well. I've got a cold. I oughtn't to go to the

party."

Peter was puzzled. "But Francis, is it a bad cold?"

"It will be a bad cold if I go to the party. Perhaps I shall die."

"Then you mustn't go," Peter said, prepared to solve all difficulties with one

plain sentence, and Francis let his nerves relax, ready to leave everything

to Peter. But though he was grateful he did not turn his face towards his

brother. His cheeks still bore the badge of a shameful memory, of the

game of hide and seek last year in the darkened house, and of how he had

screamed when Mabel Warren put her hand suddenly upon his arm. He had

not heard her coming. Girls were like that. Their shoes never squeaked. No

boards whined under the tread. They slunk like cats on padded claws.

When the nurse came in with hot water Francis lay tranquil leaving

everything to Peter. Peter said, "Nurse, Francis has got a cold."

The tall starched woman laid the towels across the cans and said, without

turning, "The washing won't be back till tomorrow. You must lend him

some of your handkerchiefs."