The doctor frowned. “You tried to charge it, your sister said. Was the charger faulty?”
Terence looked away. “Perhaps,” he said.
“You have to be terribly careful with these things,” said the doctor.
“Oh, I am, doctor. I’m very careful. But … Well, thank you so much for bringing me back from the other side.”
The doctor smiled. “That’s what we’re here for. We try to keep people from … going to the other side before their time.” He laughed. “I suppose that’s our job.”
Terence looked thoughtful. “It was very peaceful over there,” he said. “It was exactly the way I had seen it described.”
The doctor looked at his watch and excused himself while a nurse helped Terence out of bed and took him to a small compartment where his clothes had been stored. Shortly afterwards, Berthea appeared and accompanied Terence to the car park, where a taxi was waiting for them. In less than fifteen minutes they were on the driveway of Terence’s house. There, in the open garage, was the Morris Traveller, with the fatal cable leading away from it. While Terence went into the house, Berthea coiled the cable away. The incident had thrown the fuse switch and everything was quite safe, but she handled the cable with evident distaste: this, after all, was the instrument of her brother’s near demise. He really was useless, poor Terence; imagine connecting the mains directly to the battery! What could he have been thinking? And would she ever be able to leave him now without worrying that he would do something really stupid?
She sighed. She could not take Terence back to London—there was not enough room in the house, unless she gave up her study, and it would be impossible having him mooching around, going on about sacred dance and such matters. There were plenty of soidisant visionaries in London, of course, and he would doubtless fall in with others who shared his interest in Bulgarian mystics and the like, but she had her own life to lead and she just could not look after her brother too. No, Terence would have to stay in Cheltenham.
As she walked up to the front door, an idea occurred to her. If she could get to know some of Terence’s friends—the sacred dance crowd—then perhaps she would be able to find somebody who would agree to keep an eye on him. There were women in the sacred dance group, no doubt, and one of these might be taken aside, woman to woman, and asked to help see that he came to no harm. England was full of helpful women, Berthea was convinced: there were legions of them, all anxious to help in some way and many of them feeling quite frustrated that there were not quite enough men—for demographic reasons—in need of their help. One of these women would be the solution and, with any luck, it might even turn into a romance. That would be the best possible outcome—to get Terence settled with a suitable woman who would look after him and make sure that he did not try to do anything unwise with electricity.
Berthea sighed. It was something of a pipe dream. What woman in her right mind would take on somebody like Terence? What would be the point? He had no conversation to speak of, other than sentimental memories of things that no woman would be remotely interested in. He read nothing of any consequence, apart from peculiar tomes from small, mystically minded publishing houses, and even then he rapidly forgot both the titles and the contents of these books. He could not cook; he was inclined to asthma; and if sacred dance required any deftness of foot, then Terence would almost certainly be no good at it. And when it came to the romantic side of things—oh, dear, poor Terence with his square glasses and his untidy hair and his cardigans that always had buttons missing …
But she could try; it was the least she could do.
“Terence,” Berthea said as she came into the dining room, “I’ve decided to extend my stay a little, if I may.”
Terence, who had seated himself at the small bureau, where he was going through mail, seemed pleased. “You’re always welcome, Berthy. We could sort out some of those old photographs together. There are Daddy’s pictures of Malta—all those photies—and maybe we could even stick them in an album.”
Berthea nodded. She could think of nothing worse than going through the several boxes of old photographs of Malta that she knew Terence had in the attic, but he was her brother and she had to do something. “I thought that I might also come along to one of your sacred dance meetings,” she said. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
Terence looked up from his letters. He beamed. “But that’s wonderful, Berthy. You’d be very, very welcome. You know that. And I could give you one of Peter Deunov’s books to read first. You could then see what the objectives are, and understand.”
“That would be very nice.”
“Good.” He pushed the mail to the side of his desk. “And you know what, Berthy? You know what? I’ve decided to do something about my car.”
Berthea looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Oh yes?”
“Yes,” said Terence. “I’m going to get rid of it. I shall phone Mr. Marchbanks immediately and ask him to find me a new one.”
61. A Suitable Car
LENNIE MARCHBANKS, patient garagiste to Terence Moongrove and the proprietor of Marchbanks Motors, drove round in his truck and parked before the stranded Morris Traveller. Terence, who had seen the truck coming up the drive, went out to meet him, while Berthea watched discreetly from an upstairs window.
“So what’s the trouble now, Mr. Moongrove?” asked Lennie. “Old Morris not starting? I put petrol in for you, remember? Should go now.”
“I’ve decided to sell it,” said Terence. “That’s why I asked you to come out, Mr. Marchbanks. I want to get rid of it and get a new car.”
Lennie stared at him in frank disbelief. “You want to sell the Morris? Did I hear you correctly, Mr. Moongrove?”
“You heard perfectly correctly, Mr. Marchbanks. I think the time has come.”
Lennie whistled. “Well, I’ve been saying that for a good long while, you know. But you always said you were fond of the old bus and didn’t see the need. Remember, Mr. Moongrove?”
“That’s as may be, Mr. Marchbanks. But things move on. I’ve moved on now and need a new car, I think.”
Lennie moved round to the front of the car. “Bonnet’s open, I see,” he said. “You been fiddling around with the engine, Mr. Moongrove?”
Terence looked shifty. “The battery wasn’t working properly. I decided to charge it.”
Lennie peered into the engine compartment. “Oh yes?” He reached in and touched something, and then wiped his hand on his overalls. “Battery looks as if it’s been a little bit stressed, Mr. Moongrove. Your charger all right? Can I take a look at it?”
Terence cleared his throat. “I didn’t exactly use a charger,” he said. “Perhaps …”
Lennie stared at him. “You didn’t use a charger? You …” He glanced around the garage and saw the cable lying coiled on the floor where Berthea had placed it. “You connected it directly to the mains, Mr. Moongrove? Is that right?”
“Possibly,” said Terence.
Lennie’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something; then it closed again.
“So I wondered whether you would like to buy the car off me,” Terence went on. “What do you think it’s worth?”
Lennie had now regained his composure. “What’s it worth? Well, that’s a difficult question, Mr. Moongrove. There are people who like these old cars and do them up. We might find somebody like that. But, you see, if you connected the battery to the mains, then the whole electric system will have been live, I suppose, and these wires … you know? Well, maybe you don’t know. But a car’s wires are like its nerves, you see, and if your nerves get a big jolt like that, then …”
Terence frowned impatiently. Mr. Marchbanks had a tendency to become rather too technical, he felt. “Well, perhaps you could tow it away, Mr. Marchbanks. And then we can talk about a new one. Get what you can for the Morris. A hundred pounds, maybe. I really don’t mind very much.”
Lennie nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “And what sort of car would you like in i
ts place, Mr. Moongrove?”
“I thought something greyish-green,” said Terence. “The same colour as this.”
Lennie stared at him. “A greyish-green car, you say?”
Terence confirmed this. “And not very big, please. I don’t want a large car. Two seats would be quite sufficient, I think.”
Lennie inclined his head. He was thinking. “A two-seater? That sounds rather … How should I put it, Mr. Moongrove? A bit sporty, perhaps?”
Terence laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind something sporty, Mr. Marchbanks. I’m not exactly Toad of Toad Hall, you know. But a nice little sports car would be fine.” He paused. “What would the AA think?”
Lennie answered quickly. “I think they’d be very happy to hear that you’d bought a new car.”
Terence patted the bodywork of the Morris. “This has been a very fine car, Mr. Marchbanks. It represents British engineering at its finest, don’t you think?”
Lennie also gave the Morris a pat. “Some may say that. Of course things have come on a bit since then, but they were grand little cars—no doubt about that.”
Terence looked thoughtful. “Have you seen the car that Alfie Bismarck’s son drives? You know, the son who runs their racehorses? Have you seen his car?”
“Monty Bismarck’s car? You talking about Monty Bismarck?”
“Yes. I must say that I thought it was rather nice. Nice and small.” Terence paused. “Do you think you could get me one of those, Mr. Marchbanks?”
Lennie moved away from the Morris and stared into Terence’s eyes. “That’s a Porsche, Mr. Moongrove. Alfie Bismarck’s son drives a Porsche.”
“Is that what it’s called? Well, I thought it was very nice. I like small cars, you see.”
“Nice?” echoed Lennie. “Oh, it’s nice all right, Mr. Moongrove. A Porsche is a very nice car altogether. But it’s very fast, you know.”
“I wouldn’t have to drive it fast, though, would I?”
Lennie made a face. “No, you wouldn’t have to. But you’d have to be very careful, you know. If you put your foot down hard, you’d take off.”
“But I’d never put my foot down hard,” said Terence. “You know me. I don’t drive very fast.”
“That’s true.”
“So can you get me one, Mr. Marchbanks? It doesn’t matter if it’s a little bit expensive—I’ve got plenty of money, you know.”
“I’m not sure I’d recommend it, Mr. Moongrove. Perhaps you should talk to your sister about it?”
It was the wrong tactic, and Terence pursed his lips in determination. “No,” he snapped. “I shall not talk to my sister about it. Cars are things for men, Mr. Marchbanks. We men can make up our own minds about these things without bossy women coming and poking their long noses into our cars. My car is not a matter for my sister at all.”
Lennie shrugged. He was very reluctant to acquire a Porsche for Terence, but could he stop him? And if he did not do this for him, then somebody else—some unscrupulous person—would sell him some dreadful Porsche that had been driven to death and would just prove a headache for everybody: for him, for Terence and for the AA.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll get you a Porsche, Mr. Moongrove. But only if you promise to drive it very, very carefully.”
“Thank you,” said Terence. “And you must promise not to tell my sister until the new car is safely in the garage. She can be very bossy, you know.”
Lennie nodded. He knew.
62. Eddie Shows His True Colours
MARCIA CAME ROUND to the wine shop shortly after two on Monday afternoon. It was a good time to call, as the midday rush, when people took advantage of their lunch break to do a bit of shopping, was over. If Marcia was in the area—as she often was—she would call and share a cup of tea and an apple with William in the back office. In the days of Paul—before his sudden defection to Oddbins—he would be left in charge while William chatted to Marcia. Now, of course, it was Jenny who took over, even though it was her first day in the shop and everything was very new to her.
“She’s doing remarkably well,” said William, gesturing in the direction of the till, where his new assistant was attending to a smiling customer. “Her first day, but it’s very much a case of being to the manner born. A natural.”
Marcia looked through the open door of the office and took a thoughtful bite of her apple. She had been prepared to dislike Jenny on the grounds—and they were perfectly adequate ones, she thought—that she was a younger woman and she was now working in close proximity to William. But the welcome she had received from Jenny when she had come into the shop had been a warm one and clearly quite genuine, and that had taken the edge off her hostility. Then there was the matter of her own rather stronger position. For Marcia had that morning moved at least some of her possessions into Corduroy Mansions and was officially living in William’s flat. From such heights of advantage, the threat posed by other women, even young and attractive women like Jenny, was perhaps not so acute. She could afford to be generous.
Looking back on it, she marvelled at the smoothness with which the whole move had been accomplished. William had shown little resistance, a passivity that she attributed to his utter weariness of Eddie’s perverse refusal to move out. When, on Sunday morning, she had telephoned William and been told that Eddie had not come home the previous night, she had decided to take decisive action.
“Right. We go ahead.”
William had hesitated. “I’m not sure that—”
But Marcia had pressed on. “I’ll come round,” she said. “I’ll finish what we started yesterday. I’ll clear his room and dump his clothes in the hall.”
William had been privately appalled. He had never imagined that it would come to this, that he would effectively throw his own son out of the flat, but what were the alternatives? Every attempt at discussion, every offer of help with the purchase of a flat, every hint or offer of pastures green—elsewhere—had been ignored. Had Eddie been more considerate, had he made the slightest effort to recognise that his father also lived in the flat, it might have been different. But he had not, and William had reached the reluctant conclusion that Eddie wanted him out. And once he had come to that realisation, then the only thing to do was to assert himself by acting first. Had we been cavemen, he thought, it would have been a battle with old animal jawbones or whatever it was that cavemen used to settle family disputes. And the outcome, in those days, would have been clear: he would have been lying on the floor of the cave while his son took over as the dominant male.
Eddie had returned late on Sunday afternoon.
At first there had been an ominous silence. Sitting in the living room, a newspaper on his lap, William had glanced nervously at Marcia. “He’s back,” he whispered.
Marcia raised a finger to her lips. “Wait.”
The silence ended. “What’s my stuff doing in the hall?”
Marcia indicated that there should be no reply.
“I said: What’s my stuff doing in the hall? Are you deaf, Dad?”
A few moments later, Eddie burst into the living room. The presence of Marcia took him by surprise and he stood quite still for a moment while he took in the scene. In the corner of the room, Freddie de la Hay, who had been dozing on his rug, raised his head to sniff at the air.
“Your dad and I have decided to live together,” Marcia said calmly. “So you’ll have to move out, I’m afraid.”
Eddie stared at her in blunt incomprehension. “I live here,” he said. “This is my place.”
“No, it isn’t, Eddie,” said Marcia, throwing William a discouraging glance. She would handle this. “You see, it’s normal for kids to move out … eventually. Your dad has tried and tried to help you to move on but you’ve never done anything about it. Now he’s decided that enough is enough.” She paused. “And if you look on the top of the pile of clothes in the hall there’s a piece of paper with an address. That’s a landlady who’s agreed to give you a room for two weeks while
you find somewhere yourself. Your dad has paid for that.”
Eddie, who had been glaring at Marcia, now turned to his father. “Dad …?”
“I really did try, Eddie,” said William. “Remember the flat I found for you—the one that I offered the deposit for? And the housing association place … And …” He had tried; it was true. He had tried on numerous occasions, taking Eddie to letting agents, dictating advertisements for him—advertisements that attracted offers his son had no intention of replying to—in short, doing everything that a parent could possibly do to help his son get started by himself. And it had all been to no avail, which had made him wonder whether this was his sentence in life: to be saddled indefinitely with a dependent, layabout son. Did he really have to accept that? Was that a concomitant of parenthood, an inescapable moral burden of the act of reproduction?
He looked at Eddie hopelessly, but Eddie had turned to Marcia and was pointing a finger at her. “——,” he said. “——, ——, ——!”
“It’s no good using that language, Eddie,” said William.
Marcia smiled. “I’ve heard all that before, Eddie.”
“——,” screamed Eddie. “——!”
It was at this point that Freddie de la Hay, disturbed by the human conflict he was witnessing, rose from his rug and lifted his snout in the air. “——,” he howled. “——!”
“Look,” said William reproachfully, “you’ve upset Freddie de la Hay.”
Eddie turned and stared at the dog. Then, walking swiftly across the room, he kicked him.
63. My Door Is Always Open
NOW, SITTING IN the office on Monday afternoon, Marcia and William could look back, if they wished, on that moment of truth and reflect on the efficacy of direct, unambiguous action. And it had been effective: Eddie had stormed out, taking, significantly, his sponge bag and his well-used duffel bag. The note with the address of the landlady had been torn up and thrown on the floor, but, curiously, it had been replaced with another note, this time in Eddie’s hand, saying: “Thanks a lot, Dad! After all those years, this is what I get! Anyway, when you eventually succeed in chucking that woman out of your life—and I feel really sorry for you, Dad—then get in touch with me at Stevie’s place. I’ve written the address below. My door is always open, Dad. You know that. Blood is thicker than water, Dad!”
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