by Tom Sharpe
'As a matter of fact it's one of Eva's maternity gowns,' he said when Braintree enquired. 'In its time it has doubled as a wigwam, the interior sheet of a kingsize sleeping-bag, and the canopy of the camping loo. I rescued it from the mountain of clothing Eva's inflicting on her equatorial village.'
'I wondered what they were on about in there. Is this some sort of Oxfam exercise?'
'You're out of date. Eva's into Alternative Oxfam. Personal Assistance for Primitive People. Appropriately PAPP for short. You adopt some tribe in Africa or New Guinea and then load them with overcoats which would be unsuitably hot on a windy day in February here, write letters to the local witchdoctor asking his advice about herbal cures for chilblains, or better still frostbite, and generally twin Willington Road and the Ipford Brigade of the Anti-Male Chauvinist League with a cannibal community who go in for female circumcision with a rusty flint.'
'I didn't know you could circumcise females and anyway a rusty flint is out' said Braintree.
'So are clitorises in Maranga,' said Wilt. 'I've tried to tell Eva but you know what she is. The noble savage is the latest vogue and it's nature worship run riot. If the Nyes had their way they'd import cobras to keep down rats in central London.'
'He was on about human faeces as a substitute for Growmore when I passed through. The man's an anal fanatic.'
'Religious,' said Wilt, 'I swear they sing Nearer My Turd to Thee before taking herbal communion at the compost heap every Sunday morning.'
'On a more personal note,' said Braintree, 'just exactly what is the matter with you?'
'I'd prefer not to discuss it,' said Wilt.
'All right, but why the...er...maternity drag?
'Because it has none of the inconvenience of trousers,' said Wilt. 'There are depths of suffering you have yet to plumb. I use the word advisedly.'
'What, suffering?'
'Plumb,' said Wilt. 'If it hadn't been for all that beer we drank the other night I wouldn't be in this awful condition.'
'I notice you're not drinking your usual foul home-brewed lager.'
'I am not drinking anything in large quantities. In fact I am rationing myself to a thimble every four hours in the hope that I can sweat it out instead of peeing razor blades.'
Braintree smiled. 'Then there is some truth in the rumour,' he said.
'I don't know about the rumour,' said Wilt, 'but there's certainly truth in the description. Razor blades is exact.'
'Well, you'll be interested to hear that the gossip-mongers are thinking of awarding a medal to the croc that took the bit between its teeth. That's the version that's going the rounds.'
'Let it,' said Wilt. 'Nothing could be further from the truth.'
'Christ, you haven't got syphilis or something ghastly like that, have you?'
'Unfortunately not. I understand the modern treatment for syphilis is relatively painless. My condition isn't. And I've had all the fucking treatment I can stand. There are a number of people in this town I could cheerfully murder.'
'Oh dear,' said Braintree, 'things do sound grim.'
'They are,' said Wilt. 'They reached their nadir of grimness at four o'clock this morning when that little bitch Emmeline climbed into bed and stepped on my septic tank. It's bad enough being a human hose pipe but to be awakened in the dead hours of the night to find yourself peeing backwards is an experience that throws a new and terrible light on the human condition. Have you ever had a non-euphemistically wet dream in reverse?'
'Certainly not,' said Braintree with a shudder.
'Well I have,' said Wilt. 'And I can tell you that it destroys what few paternal feelings a father has. If I hadn't been in convulsions I'd have been charged with quadricide by now. Instead I have added volumes to Emmeline's vile vocabulary and Miss Mueller must be under the impression that English sex life is sado-masochistic in the extreme. God alone knows what she thought of the din we made last night.'
'And how is our Inspiration these days? Still musing?' asked Braintree.
'Evasive. Distinctly evasive. Mind you in my present condition I try not to be too conspicuous myself.'
'If you will go around in Eva's maternity gowns I can't say I'm surprised. It's enough to make anyone wonder.'
'Well, I'm puzzled too,' said Wilt. 'I can't make the woman out. Do you know she has a succession of disgustingly rich young men traipsing through the house?'
'That accounts for the Aston-Martin,' said Braintree. 'I wondered who had inherited a fortune.'
'Yes, but it doesn't account for the wig.'
'What wig?'
'The car belongs to some Casanova from Mexico. He wears a walrus moustache, Chanel Number something or other, and worst of all a wig. I have observed it closely through the binoculars. He takes it off when he gets up there.'
Wilt handed Braintree the binoculars and indicated the attic flat.
'I can't see anything. The Venetian blinds are down,' said Braintree after a minute's observation.
'Well I can tell you he does wear a wig and I'd like to know why.'
'Probably because he's bald. That's the usual reason.'
'Which is precisely why I ask the question. Lothario Zapata isn't. He has a perfectly good head of hair, and yet when he gets up to the flat he takes his wig off.'
'What sort of wig?'
'Oh, a black shaggy thing,' said Wilt. 'Underneath he's blond. You've got to admit it's peculiar.'
'Why don't you ask your Irmgard? Could be she has a penchant for blond young men with wigs.'
But Wilt shook his head. 'In the first place because she leaves the house before I'm up and relatively about, and secondly because my sense of self-preservation tells me that anything in the way of sexual stimulation could have the most dire and possibly irreversible consequences. No, I prefer to speculate from afar.'
'Very wise,' said Braintree. 'I hate to think what Eva would do if she found you knew you were passionately in love with the au pair.'
'If what she has done for lesser reasons is anything to go by so do I,' said Wilt and left it at that.
'Any message for the Tech?' asked Braintree.
'Yes,' said Wilt, 'just tell them that I'll be back in circulation...Christ, what a word...when it's safe for me to sit down without back-firing.'
'I doubt if they'll understand what you mean.'
'I don't expect them to. I have emerged from this ordeal with the firm conviction that the last thing anyone will believe is the truth. It is far safer to lie in this vile world. Just say I am suffering from a virus. Nobody knows what a virus is but it covers a multitude of ailments.'
Braintree went back to the house leaving Wilt thinking dark thoughts about the truth. In a godless, credulous, violent and random world it was the only touchstone he had ever possessed and the only weapon. But like all his weapons it was double-edged and, from recent experience, served as much to harm him as to enlighten others. It was something best kept to oneself, a personal truth, probably meaningless in the long run but at least providing a moral self-sufficiency more effective than Eva's practical attempts to the same end in the garden. Having reached that conclusion and condemned Eva's world concern and PAPP, Wilt turned these findings on their head and accused himself of a quietism and passivity in the face of an underfed and deprived world. Eva's actions might not be more than sops to a liberal conscience but for all that they helped to sustain conscience and set an example to the quads which his own apathy denied. Somewhere there had to be a golden mean between charity beginning at home and improving the lot of starving millions. Wilt was damned if he knew where that mean was. It certainly wasn't to be found in doctrinaire shits like Bilger. Even John and Bertha Nye were trying to make a better world, not destroy a bad one. And what was he, Henry Wilt, doing? Nothing. Or rather, turning into a beer-swilling, self-pitying Peeping Tom without a worthwhile achievement to his credit. As if to prove that he had at least the courage of his garb, Wilt left the summerhouse and walked back to the house in full view of the conservatory,
only to discover that the meeting had ended and Eva was putting the quads to bed.
When she came downstairs she found Wilt sitting at the kitchen table stringing runner beans.
'Wonders never cease,' she said. After all these years you're actually helping in the kitchen. You're not feeling ill or something?'
'I wasn't,' said Wilt, 'but now you mention it...'
'Don't go. There's something I want to discuss with you.'
'What?' said Wilt, stopping in the doorway.
'Upstairs,' said Eva, raising her eyes to the ceiling meaningfully.
'Upstairs?'
'You know what,' said Eva, increasing the circumspection.
'I don't,' said Wilt. 'At least I don't think I do, and if your tone of voice means anything, I don't want to. If you suppose for one moment I'm mechanically capable of...'
'I don't mean us. I mean them.'
'Them?'
'Miss Mueller and her friends.'
'Oh, them,' said Wilt and sat down again. 'What about them?'
'You must have heard,' said Eva.
'Heard what?' said Wilt.
'Oh, you know. You're just being difficult.'
'Lord,' said Wilt, 'we're back in Winnie-The-Pooh language. If you mean has it dawned on my semi-consciousness that they occasionally copulate, why don't you say so?'
'It's the children I'm thinking of,' said Eva. 'I'm not sure it's good for them to live in an environment where there's so much of what you just said going on.'
'If it didn't they wouldn't be here at all. And anyway your primitive penfriends are great ones for a bit of icketyboo, to use an expression that will suitably baffle Josephine. She usually comes straight out with '
'Henry,' said Eva warningly.
'Well she does. Frequently. I heard her only yesterday tell Penelope to go '
'I don't want to hear,' said Eva.
'I didn't either, come to that,' said Wilt, 'but the fact remains that the younger generation mature rather more rapidly in words and deeds than we did. When I was ten I still thought fuck was something father did with a hammer when he hit his thumb instead of the nail. Now it's common parlance at four...'
'Never mind that,' said Eva. 'Your father's language left much to be desired.'
'At least in my father's case it was his language. In your old man it was the whole person. I've often wondered how your mother could bring herself...'
'Henry Wilt, you'll leave my family out of this. I want to know what you think we should do about Miss Mueller.'
'Why ask me? You invited her to come and live here. You didn't consult me. And I certainly didn't want the damned woman. Now that she's turned out to be some sort of international sex fiend, according to you, who's likely to infect the children with premature nymphomania, I get dragged in...'
'All I want is your advice,' said Eva.
'Then here it is,' said Wilt. 'Tell her to get the hell out.'
'But that's the difficulty. She's given a month's rent in advance. I haven't put it in the bank yet, but still...'
'Well, give it back to her for Christ's sake. If you don't want the bag give her the boot.'
'It seems so inhospitable really,' said Eva. 'I mean she's foreign and far from home.'
'Not far enough from my home,' said Wilt, 'and all her boyfriends seem to be Croesus Juniors. She can shack up with them or stay at Claridges. My advice is to give her money back and bung her out.' And Wilt went through to the living-room and sat in front of the television until supper was ready.
In the kitchen Eva made up her mind. Mavis Mottram had been wrong again. Henry wasn't in the least interested in Miss Mueller and she could give the money to PAPP. So there was no need to ask the lodger to leave. Perhaps if she just suggested that things could be heard through the ceiling or... Anyway it was nice to know Henry hadn't been up to anything nasty. Which only went to show that she shouldn't listen to what Mavis had to say. Henry was a good husband in spite of his funny ways. It was a happy Eva who called Wilt to his supper that evening.
Chapter 10
It was a surprisingly happy Wilt who left Dr Scally's surgery the following Wednesday. After an initial bout of jocularity about Wilt's injuries the removal of the bandages and the pipeline had proceeded comparatively painlessly.
'Absolutely no need for all this in my opinion,' said the doctor, 'but those young fellows up at the hospital like to make a thorough job of things while they're about it.'
A remark that almost persuaded Wilt to lodge an official complaint with the Health Ombudsman. Dr Scally was against it
'Think of the scandal, my dear fellow, and strictly speaking they were within their rights. If you will go round saying you've been poisoned...'
It was a persuasive argument and with the doctor's promise that he'd soon be as right as rain again provided he didn't overdo things with his missus, Wilt emerged into the street feeling, if not on top of the world, at least half-way up it. The sun was shining on autumnal leaves, small boys were collecting conkers underneath the chestnuts in the park, and Dr Scally had given him a doctor's certificate keeping him away from the Tech for another week. Wilt strolled into town, spent an hour browsing in the second-hand bookshop, and was about to go home when he remembered he had to deposit Miss Mueller's advance in the bank. Wilt turned bankwards and felt even better. His brief infatuation for her had evaporated. Irmgard was just another silly foreign student with more money than sense, a taste for expensive cars and young men of every nationality.
And so he walked up the bank steps airily and went to the counter where he wrote out a deposit slip and handed it to the cashier. 'My wife has a special account,' he explained. 'It's a deposit account in the name of Wilt. Mrs H. Wilt. I've forgotten the number but it's for an African tribe and I think it's called...' But the cashier was clearly not listening. He was busy counting the notes and while Wilt watched he stopped several times. Finally with a brief 'Excuse me, sir,' he opened the hatch at the back of his cubicle and disappeared through it. Several customers behind Wilt moved to the next cashier, leaving him with that vague sense of unease he always felt when he had cashed a cheque and the clerk before stamping the back glanced at a list of customers who were presumably grossly overdrawn. But this time he was paying money in not taking it out, and it wasn't possible for notes to bounce.
It was. Wilt was just beginning to work up some resentment at being kept waiting when a bank messenger approached him.
'If you wouldn't mind stepping into the manager's office, sir,' he said with a slightly threatening politeness. Wilt followed him across the foyer and into the manager's office.
'Mr Wilt?' said the manager. Wilt nodded. 'Do take a seat.' Wilt sat and glared at the cashier who was standing beside the manager's desk. The notes and the deposit slip lay on the blotting pad in front of him.
'I'd be glad if you would tell me what this is all about,' said Wilt with growing alarm. Behind him the bank messenger had taken up a position by the door.
'I think we'll reserve any comment until the police arrive,' said the manager.
'What do you mean "the police arrive"?'
The manager said nothing. He stared at Wilt with a look that managed to combine sorrow and suspicion.
'Now look here,' said Wilt. 'I don't know what's going on but I demand...'
Wilt's protest died away as the manager eyed the pile of notes on the desk.
'Good Lord, you're not suggesting they're forged?'
'Not forged, Mr Wilt, but as I said before when the police arrive you'll have a chance to explain matters. I'm sure there's some perfectly reasonable explanation. Nobody for one moment suspects you...'
'Of what?' said Wilt.
But again the bank manager said nothing. Apart from the noise of traffic outside there was silence and the day which only a few minutes before had seemed full of good cheer and hope suddenly became grey and horrid. Wilt searched his mind frantically for an explanation but could think of nothing, and he was about to protest that the
y had no right to keep him there when there was a knock on the door and the bank messenger opened it cautiously. Inspector Flint, Sergeant Yates and two sinister plainclothes men entered.
'At last' said the manager. 'This is really very awkward. Mr Wilt here is an old and respected customer...'
His defence died out. Flint was staring at Wilt.
'I didn't think there could be two Wilts in the same town,' he said triumphantly. 'Now then '
But he was interrupted by the older of the two plainclothes men. 'If you don't mind, Inspector, we'll handle this,' he said with a brisk authority and almost a charm of manner that was even more alarming than the bank manager's previous coolness. He moved to the desk, picked up some of the notes and studied them. Wilt watched him with increasing concern.
'Would you mind telling us how you came by these five-pound notes, sir?' said the man. 'By the way, my name is Misterson.'
'They're a month's rent in advance from our lodger,' said Wilt. 'I came here to deposit them in my wife's PAPP account.
'Pap, sir? Pap account?' said the smooth Mr Misterson.
'It stands for Personal Assistance for Primitive People,' said Wilt. 'My wife is the treasurer of the local branch. She's adopted a tribe in Africa and...'
'I understand, Mr Wilt,' said Misterson, casting a cold eye on Inspector Flint who had just muttered 'Typical'. He sat down and hitched his chair closer to Wilt. 'You were saying that this money came from the lodger and was destined for your wife's deposit account. What sort of lodger is this?'
'Female,' said Wilt slipping into cross-examination brevity.
'And her name, sir?
'Irmgard Mueller.'
The two plainclothes men exchanged a look. Wilt followed it and said hastily, 'She's German.'
'Yes sir. And would you be able to identify her?'
'Identify her?' said Wilt. 'I'd be hard put not to. She's been living in the attic for the last month.'
'In which case if you'll kindly come to the station we'd be glad if you would look at some photographs,' said Misterson pushing back his chair.