by Ruth Edwards
‘Glastonbury doesn’t have to go to Broadmoor,’ said Milton.
‘And I can stop being a waiter,’ said Amiss. There was another silence.
‘Mauleverer and Gooseneck are going to take charge of the club,’ said Amiss.
‘Two jailbirds?’ said Pooley.
‘Reformed. They might turn it into a good club again.’
‘It’s not going to happen,’ said Milton, ‘Its ethos is not going to fit the 1990s, I fear.’
‘You’re probably right. But they’re game to try, and they’re both extremely bright.’
‘What are you going to do now, Robert?’
‘Serve out my week’s notice. Gooseneck is distraught that I’m leaving, but he’ll have Sunil to console him. Then, poverty notwithstanding, I’m going to visit Rachel: I’m tired of loneliness and celibacy. Additionally, she pointed out cheerfully that in Delhi I’ll probably see enough violence and death to put ffeatherstonehaugh’s in perspective.’
‘Haven’t you got something rude from Lord Rochester to do that for us now?’ asked Milton.
Amiss beamed. ‘I thought you’d never ask. I’ve nothing relevant, but I do have a verse I learned the other day that I found diverting. The trouble is that Ellis probably won’t like it. It’s a bit close to home.’
‘I’m not a fan of Rochester,’ said Pooley. ‘You two will say it’s because I’m a prude. But don’t let me stop you.’
‘This is perfectly clean. But you still won’t like it.
‘How wise is nature, when she does dispense
A large estate to cover want of sense.
The Man’s a fool, ’tis true, but that’s no matter.
For He’s a mighty wit with those that flatter.’
‘If it was flattery I was after,’ said Pooley stiffly, ‘I’d hardly associate with you. I think that’s really rather cheap.’
‘Aha! He’s got the answer to that as well. “Fools censure wit, as old men rail at sin.”’
‘They’d have been a lot better off in ffeatherstonehaugh’s had they been railing at sin rather than committing it.’
‘Ellis, why don’t you become a fucking lay preacher?’
‘Like your hero, Inspector Romford,’ added Milton.
Pooley looked at him in horror. ‘You don’t mean I sound like him, do you? But he’s…’
‘A self-righteous wanker,’ said Milton.
Pooley looked at Amiss in supplication.
‘Sorry, Ellis. He’s right. You need to watch it.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Pooley rose, took the whisky bottle, refilled all three glasses and sat down again. ‘I can take a hint. Bring on the dancing girls.’
They clinked their glasses.
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