‘Cleared up?’
‘Mrs Garwood’s been in.’
‘Who is Mrs Garwood?’ Honeyball said wildly. ‘Good God, who is Mrs Garwood?’
‘She’s the housekeeper. Now, I wonder what she’s done with it. She takes things into the kitchen sometimes.’
Mr Honeyball looked at her. He had a terrible desire to raise his voice. Lavinia would be up there waiting. ‘It must be found,’ he said.
‘Sometimes she puts things in the hall,’ Miss Naylor said. ‘Not the main hall, the little hall at the front entrance. I’d ask her, but I don’t know where she’ll be. I’ve known her take things up to the Principal’s office; not often, mind. Perhaps we’d better look in the hall first.’
Lavinia was surprised to find that Mr Honeyball was not awaiting her in the bedroom. She wondered briefly if he could have lost his way, but this seemed unlikely, in view of the simplicity of the route. Perhaps, she thought, he had stopped on the way for some reason of his own. The toilet perhaps. To occupy the time while she waited, she slowly and languorously undressed. When she was naked she applied Mon Trépas, fairly liberally to various of her zones. Then she put on her black silk nightie. Still no Mr Honeyball. She went to the door, opened it, and looked out down the passage. No sign of life along there. However, as she was about to withdraw her head, she heard a series of slight metallic sounds from the bathroom. She walked quietly along the passage and stood outside the bathroom listening. The door was ajar. She heard a sort of scraping sound, difficult to identify. Then from within a baritone voice was suddenly raised in song:
One alone to be be my own
One alone to share my caresses …
Lavinia’s face broke into a smile. She pushed the door open further and looked in. ‘Hurry up, darling,’ she said. The singing stopped abruptly. Mr Honeyball was not at the wash basin, as she had expected. He was standing with feet apart on the edge of the bath, reaching up to something on the wall. She could see his reaching arm, but head and torso were concealed by the immersion heater. As she watched, the arm was slowly lowered. Suddenly Lavinia remembered the dripping tap. Mr Honeyball must have noted it on his way along to her room, and chivalrously stopped, to do what he could in the way of quick repairs. Mistimed, she thought, but a generous gesture. ‘Oh, you darling man,’ she said. ‘Don’t bother with that now.’
A sort of coughing noise came from behind the heater. ‘What did you say?’ Lavinia took three short steps across the bathroom floor. ‘How sweet of you,’ she said. Mr Honeyball’s crotch was just about at eye-level and in an impulse of affection Lavinia raised her right hand and gave it a gentle congratulatory squeeze. ‘Come on down from there,’ she was saying, but already in that second of contact, she had experienced a flashing intimation of wrongness, of some dreadful mistake too late to remedy, a realization derived from incongruities only half-registered at the time now suddenly coalescing – the strangeness of Mr Honeyball’s singing voice, the absence of polish on his shoes, of crease in the navy-blue trousers. Her sense of having blundered badly was at once confirmed, even as she snatched her hand away, by the convulsive jerk the figure had given at her touch, the desperate slipping of his feet on the edge of the bath.
Appalled, Lavinia stepped back and saw a total stranger, a person in a cloth cap, come sliding into view, clinging to the front of the immersion heater. She watched him scrabble briefly for a hold on its smooth convex surface, then fall with a terrible crash on to the bathroom floor, where he groaned, writhed briefly, then lay still.
‘I really am most terribly sorry,’ Lavinia said, bending over him in great distress. ‘I took you for someone else.’
But Mr Adams was only partially conscious, and quite unable to make any reply.
There was no sign of the brief-case in the hall. It took them a while to find Mrs Garwood, who was Hoovering on the other side of the building. She remembered finding the brief-case, yes. She had put it in the lost property cupboard.
‘Where is that?’ Honeyball shouted.
‘What?’
‘Would you mind switching off that machine for a moment?’ The muscles behind Honeyball’s fragile knee-caps were quivering. ‘Where is the lost property cupboard?’ he repeated, more quietly.
‘In her room.’ Mrs Garwood pointed at Miss Naylor. ‘Where I puts all the lost property,’ she added.
‘So it has been in your room all the time?’ Honeyball said, turning white-faced to confront Miss Naylor.
The secretary put up one hand to her nape and felt at her back hair. ‘Well, we can have a look,’ she said. ‘No harm in having a look.’
At this moment, from somewhere above them, there came a loud crashing sound.
‘What was that, do you think?’ Miss Naylor said to Mrs Garwood.
‘It sounded like it came from Mr Cuthbertson’s side,’ Mrs Garwood said.
‘Never mind that now,’ Honeyball said. ‘My brief-case – ’
‘It’ll be that plumber,’ Miss Naylor said. ‘Throwing things about. They’ve got no respect for anything.’
‘They don’t care, do they?’ agreed Mrs Garwood.
‘My brief-case,’ Honeyball said again, reduced by now almost to pleading.
More time was lost in returning to Miss Naylor’s office.
However, they found the brief-case there, in the cupboard, and with it once more in his possession, Mr Honeyball though a slight feeling of nausea persisted, felt confidence returning. He said goodbye with no great cordiality to Miss Naylor, and stood for some moments at the front door clutching his brief-case to him. In the stress of searching for it, he had lost count of time and had no idea how many minutes had elapsed since he had parted from Lavinia in the garden. Could he get round to the side of the house, he wondered, begin again, so to speak, at the green door? Perhaps he would be seen going along the front of the house. And could he get into the garden again without going past Miss Naylor’s office – a proceeding which would seem strange? He simply did not know the house and grounds well enough to make a proper plan.
It was the arrival of the ambulance that finally decided him to leave. It came down the drive in a swift white rush, and hissed to a halt on the gravel of the forecourt. Two white-clothed men got out and began taking a stretcher from the back. Mr Honeyball made a last attempt to get the thing in perspective. Leaving thus unceremoniously would be a clear dereliction of duty, so much was undeniable. It might to some extent prejudice the prospect of a rent-free office on the premises. On the other hand, if there had been an accident of some kind, people would soon be milling around, the privacy necessary for his encounter with Lavinia would in any case be sacrificed. An ambulance could arguably be considered in the light of deus ex machina, something unforeseen, uncontrollable, altering the whole situation, and as it were dissolving previous contracts …
Mr Honeyball began to walk briskly across the forecourt away from the house.
‘Where’s the accident, mate?’ one of the ambulance men said to him as he passed.
‘I have no idea,’ Mr Honeyball said, and he walked away down the drive.
‘Mr Jabi Assuan Lavent,’ Cuthbertson called in clear tones. ‘Bachelor of Arts with first-class honours.’ A dark-complexioned man rose from the second row and made his way to the steps at the side of the platform. There was scattered clapping from the ranks of the students, aided by the gowned staff on the platform. Smilingly, Cuthbertson watched as Mr Lavent mounted the steps towards him. ‘I admit you,’ he said, extending his hand, ‘in the name of the authority vested in me.’ He shook hands with the new graduate, and handed over the first parchment from his pile. With utmost gravity Mr Lavent returned to his place. There was another burst of clapping.
‘Mr Juan Allargon Rodrigues,’ Cuthbertson called. The method of distribution had not varied for several years now. He always had the names typed out in order of presentation on separate cards, since the elaborate Gothic script of the degree certificate was extremely difficult to decipher. All he ha
d to do was read out the name and hand over the scroll – these had all been arranged in order by Miss Naylor.
‘I admit you in the name of the authority vested in me,’ Cuthbertson said, shaking hands with the enormous shaggy Venezuelan who had appeared in answer to his call. The solemnity of the ritual was already taking hold on him. His own sonorous voice, pronouncing the historic formula of admission, the periodic bursts of applause, the vivid colour and perfect regularity of the Union Jack covering the table before him, all contributed to give him a sense of being the instrument of some higher purpose.
‘Mr Tien Sieu,’ he called. ‘Bachelor or Arts with first-class honours.’ A diminutive figure in the front row stood up, but made no move to approach the platform.
‘Come forward,’ Cuthbertson called encouragingly, but the slight, yellow-faced person still made no move, merely stood there at attention. Cuthbertson turned and conferred briefly with Bishop. A faint buzz of comment came from the assembled students.
‘What is the matter with him, do you think?’ Cuthbertson said anxiously.
‘It may prove difficult to get to the root of it,’ Bishop muttered. ‘His English is weak, to say the least.’
‘Will you please step forward and receive your degree,’ Cuthbertson said, aiding his meaning by beckoning with the card he was holding. Mr Sieu said something in reply, but his words were completely unintelligible.
‘What did he say?’ Cuthbertson looked round at his black-gowned staff. He felt the situation slipping out of his control. Was this some kind of demonstration? Little throbs of panic, like twinges of pain, began to assail him. ‘Mr Sieu,’ he called again. ‘Will you please – ’
At this moment there was another disturbance. Mr Rodrigues, who had been looking closely at his own certificate, now also stood up. ‘No, no, no,’ he said loudly. Cuthbertson goggled at him, clutching at the front of the table for support.
Mr Sieu spoke again, still standing to attention.
‘What does he say?’ Cuthbertson appealed to the students sitting nearby, but they all shook their heads or looked down at their feet. A student on the other side of the room, similar in general appearance to Mr Sieu, stood up and there was an exchange of words in some high-pitched, wavering tongue.
‘Excuse please,’ this second student said. ‘He say, not Bachelor of Art, Bachelor of Science.’
‘Science?’ Cuthbertson’s feelings of panic increased. He looked down at the certificate, forcing himself to focus on its ornate medieval script. After some moments he saw that it was not made out to Sieu at all, but to a person named Hacaoglu.
‘The papers are in the wrong order,’ he said aside to Bishop. He looked at the next one, hoping this would be Sieu’s, only to find that it was not a certificate at all, but what seemed part of an essay. ‘Good God, what is this?’ he said. ‘… sophism to anger me,’ he read, ‘so much Rather than putting it henceforth and to clarify my opinion that the action of committing divorce is neither caused by a woman nor does it affects the church or government. Acts of prostitution, barrenness, quarrels, and impecunious depressments …’
He looked up dazed from this to see Rodrigues starting to walk towards the platform, waving his certificate rather menacingly over his head. ‘No, no, no,’ the Venezuelan shouted. ‘Is not my name.’
Mr Lavent was frowning and shaking his head over his certificate. ‘Agriculture,’ he was saying to those nearest him. ‘What means agriculture?’
‘Couldn’t you collect them in and start again?’ Bishop whispered.
Cuthbertson raised hands to his head. Certificates fell from his nerveless grasp and scattered over the table and floor. Members of staff went down on hands and knees to pick them up. Rodrigues had begun to climb the steps to the platform. The strains of ‘Sheep May Safely Graze’ once more filled the hall. Bishop, with what he himself felt to be commendable presence of mind, had put the record on again.
At this moment two white-coated figures, closely followed by Miss Naylor, entered the hall and after a brief hesitation began to make their way up towards the platform. They did not go round to the steps, however, as their way was blocked by the enormous Rodrigues waving his certificate. Instead they took up positions immediately below the platform. Miss Naylor, standing between them, spoke upwards from here to Cuthbertson, who was obliged by the general hubbub to crouch slightly and crane his head forward in order to make out what she was saying.
‘What?’ shouted Cuthbertson, looking down at Miss Naylor and at the white coated figures flanking her. ‘Accident? What accident?’
Binks, creeping on hands and knees about the platform, had meanwhile picked up a hand-written sheet of paper. ‘What on earth is this?’ he said to Bishop, who was beside him. He read a few words, with Bishop looking over his shoulder, ‘As it has been to my personal intrepidity, divorce is, and is to be one of the most delusive actions in the political phenomena … Acts of prostitution, barrenness, quarrels and impecunious depressments …’
‘I say,’ Binks said, ‘I’ve heard that before. It is part of Mafferty’s essay. One of his students, I mean.’
‘Are you sure?’ Bishop stood up suddenly, and looked round the platform, but Mafferty was nowhere to be seen.
‘I don’t know anything about an accident,’ Cuthbertson shouted. He leaned over, looking at the three upturned faces. The white-coated person on the left was speaking, his mouth was moving, but the noise in the hall, and the continuing strains of Bach, drowned the words.
It was at this moment, crouching forward in an unnatural posture, straining to hear, aware of the chaos around him, Degree Day in ruins, his staff scuttling about on hands and knees, that Cuthbertson felt that violent impulse towards freedom and destruction rise again within him, stronger than ever before, taking the form now of terrible mirth, an overmastering urge to break into laughter. This for a moment longer he fought against, unable, however, to prevent a smile from appearing on his face as he gazed down at the trio below him.
‘Accident?’ he said. ‘Good Lord, no.’
‘Excuse me, Donald,’ Bishop said behind him, ‘I think we’ve found the culprit.’
Smiling broadly, Cuthbertson moved away from this voice, a little way along the platform, then jumped down. Taking no further notice of the ambulance men, he strode to the exit. Outside the door he met his wife, who looked, not agitated exactly – she never looked that – but somewhat flushed.
‘Where are the ambulance men?’ Lavinia said.
At this the demon mirth climbed with remarkable agility up into Cuthbertson’s throat and forced his mouth open. For one moment more, open-mouthed, he regarded his wife’s face; then loud, irrepressible sound broke from him. This laughter took the form of four notes, the first three regularly spaced and at more or less the same pitch, the fourth coming after a slight pause and on a high sustained crowing note.
‘Inside,’ he spluttered. ‘They’ve got a stretcher.’ It was all the words he could manage. Crowing with laughter he went rapidly off down the corridor.
Lavinia looked after him for a moment in astonishment. Then she began making her way through the crowd towards the white-coated persons at the far end of the hall. Some familiar music was playing. She had a glimpse of black-gowned figures moving about on the platform apparently in search of something. Mr Bishop and an enormous indignant-looking man were engaged in some sort of altercation at the top of the steps.
Reaching the ambulance men, she explained the situation to them in a few terse words and led the way out of the hall again, upstairs to the bathroom. Mr Adams had recovered consciousness by this time. He was sitting morosely on the floor with his back against the bath. In spite of all that had happened to him he was still wearing his cap, though it had been twisted a little to one side. He objected at first to getting on to the stretcher, but then the crafty thought of compensation came into his mind. He began to groan and grimace, making the most of his injuries.
‘Never mind,’ Lavinia said, setting his ca
p straight.
‘It’ll be a hospitable job, this will,’ Mr Adams said. ‘What you done constitutes an assault.’
‘You are suffering, in your humble way, from the wounds of love,’ Lavinia said. ‘Let that be your consolation. Handle him carefully,’ she said to the ambulance men. ‘I won’t come down with you, if you don’t mind.’
‘What did she mean?’ the foremost ambulance man said, as they were going along the passage with Mr Adams on the stretcher. ‘What did she mean about the wounds of love?’
‘This place is a bordello,’ Mr Adams said, recumbent on the stretcher.
‘Come again?’
Mr Adams sighed. No education. That was what was holding the people back. ‘A high class knocking-shop,’ he said. ‘To you.’
‘Well,’ said the foremost ambulance man, who had not taken much to Mr Adams, ‘you have had a knocking about in there, by the look of it.’
‘Catering,’ Mr Adams said, ‘for a wealthy, foreign clientele.’
‘What were you doing there then, having a go?’ They were going down the stairs now, and the foremost ambulance man turned to wink at his mate behind.
‘I was called in to a job,’ Mr Adams said with dignity. ‘I was standing on the edge of the bath to get at the mains tap when she come in and caught hold of my privates. “Come on down from there,” she said. Well, with the shock like, I lost my footing. That nymphomaniac what you just saw, pretending to be all concerned. I couldn’t do nothing to defend myself, see, being engaged with the pipes.’
The foremost ambulance man started to laugh suddenly. He laughed so violently that he set his foot wrong on the stairs, and this made him lose his balance. To save himself from falling, he dropped his end of the stretcher and Mr Adams went rolling down to the bottom of the stairs. He was unconscious again when they got to him.
8
It took Bishop some time to restore order in the hall. Finally, however, the certificates were all distributed, though much less formally than had been intended, and the students dispersed, followed by the staff. Bishop was left alone on the platform, looking down at the empty rows of seats. After all that planning and preparation, he thought. The Chief would be heartbroken. He had put a good face on it, of course, adopted a smiling manner, but underneath he would be feeling it deeply. Bishop knew that.
The Big Day Page 15