Fowlers End

by Gerald Kersh

  I said, “I beg your pardon, but isn’t your name Cruikback?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, in his old frank way. “And upon my word, aren’t you young Laverock? What the devil are you doing in this hole?”

  “Well, what are you?” I asked.

  Who was it that wrote of “the pathos of distance”? There is a profundity in this abstruse expression—which means nothing more than that distance lends enchantment. (How the poor poets must wrack their brains to design new dresses for old cliches!) If I had been called upon, ten minutes earlier, to describe Jack Cruikback, I would have called back into memory a man about seven feet tall, muscled like a water buffalo, and altogether enviable—cool, ruthless, indomitable, good at mathematics—a giant, a gentleman, and a scholar. But now I saw before me someone miraculously shrunk to a miserable five feet ten—he couldn’t have grown much since that last cricket match—a good two inches shorter than I, and slender rather than lean. The f holes in his face were more pronounced, and so was the bridge of his nose. He still parted his black hair the same way, though; but the big, slightly curved cuif on the right-hand side of his head somehow conveyed the impression of an ebonite chin rest. Much as I hate the overdone metaphor, he had an air of having overstrung himself; and for the first time I noticed that he had prominent little ears, like pegs. But his fingers were still long and sinewy, with prominent veins, such as we used to regard as proof of manhood, and he wore the same carnelian signet ring that he had flaunted at school: the seal engraved with half-obliterated heads of stags and lions and bears and pigs-in-triplicate, with bars and bends and crowns galore. It was whispered, when I was in the Fifth Form, that he was a lineal descendant of Richard Crookback, otherwise known as King Richard III, and therefore entitled to the throne of England. Only, Cruikback’s illustrious ancestor, he said, was ousted by the murderous machinations of a certain Harry Tidder—offspring of a flighty French floosie named Katherine and a penniless Welsh squire, who had the nerve to call himself Tudor.... And so, he would say, his father had come down to being a mere builder.

  At this (how vividly it all came back!) a nervous man in the Sixth Form suddenly went into a species of hysterics and said, “That’s nothing. My name is Cohen, and I don’t mind telling you that if a Cohen had had a crooked back he jolly well wouldn’t have been allowed to serve at the altar!” Cruikback said loftily, “You haven’t got the common savvy to understand, execrable Jew!” They fought it out with fists. By some system of bobbing and weaving, ducking and feinting, crouching and jabbing, Cohen bloodied our hero’s nose and knocked him down. Cruikback explained, later, that in the first place he had been brought up to fight with the long straight left like a gentleman, and that in the second place his foot had slipped on the dry, polished grass in Lower Meadow, where the fight came off. And we all believed him—he was wonderfully plausible, in his didactic way—he had as many “of courses” as a society columnist. It was Cohen who slunk away, while Cruikback flaunted his reddened handkerchief like a pennant; and when, having had his bleeding stanched by a key put down his back, he offered his long, aristocratic hand and said with all the condescension in the world, “Now then, Cohen, you’ve had your lesson. Take your medicine like a soldier, and let bygones be bygones,” and poor Cohen shook that hand, we all cheered although Cohen was unmarked.

  But still I felt young and worshipful in his presence, foolishly tongue-tied, so that Copper Baldwin answered for me: “Mr. Laverock is the boss ‘ere, mister.”

  Cruikback gave him a long, cold, blue-gray stare; slightly bloodshot, astounded, incredulous. Then, completely ignoring Copper Baldwin, he said to me, “What? Who, me? What am I doing here? Doing where, old thing? Don’t even know where I am!—” this, with a gush of confidence, free and easy, man-to-man—“What an enormous great fellow you’ve grown into! Lord, but it all seems about five hundred years ago, though, doesn’t it? In point of actual fact, Laverock, where is this? ... Fowlers End, you say? Oh, God! Now I am in for it! I live near St. John’s Wood, and my blasted car has gone squiffy, and I don’t seem to see anything like a garage round here.... Lord, Laverock, what a long time it’s been! Remember the time I thrashed that Jew-boy down in Long Meadow? But you were in the Lower Fifth then—”

  “Where’s this car o’yourn?” asked Copper Baldwin.

  “If you can call it a car,” said Cruikback to me. “I left it a mile or so down the road, between here and Ullage.”

  “What on earth were you doing there?” I asked.

  “Oh,” said Cruikback, “I’m a surveyor now, you know.”

  “And what the ‘ell is there to survey round Ullage?” asked Copper Baldwin.

  Cruikback did not look at him—he winced at him— and said, “Oh things go on, you know. They expand, Laverock, you know. I suppose you know that the working classes have bred beyond all statistical correlation? Or don’t you? You always were a literary kind of bloke. Well—but I’m not here to tell tales out of school. Had the surprise of my life when I saw you here.”

  “Statistical correlation to what?” asked Copper Baldwin.

  “You’ll understand what I mean, Laverock,” said Cruikback. “Statistics of overcrowding, and all the evils that go with it—such as incest, you know—are correlated with overpopulation in a given area. London wasn’t built to house ten million, you know....” When Cruikback started to talk like this, he had what they call a “silver tongue”—he could make something new and warm and personal out of the deadliest truism, or make a remark about the weather sound like a new advance in meteorology. Our doddering old headmaster, a Doctor of Divinity, had more than once voiced a hope that Cruikback might go into the Church, or Parliament—he imparted such a warmth, such a resonance, such an air of newness to the twaddling platitude. “... You must know, Laverock, old thing, that no city was originally built to house ten million? Let alone your heavy industry? And here, don’t you see, is where your statistical correlation comes in—I mean, of course, the statistical correlation between your expanding city population, plus your expanding heavy industry, plus, of course, rising land values in your outlying suburbs. Well, that’s what I’m out here for, of course.”

  “Depending on that city’s economic value,” said Copper Baldwin.

  “That’s right!” cried Cruikback, as if Copper Baldwin had let fall a veritable trip hammer of ratiocination, hitting some knotty problem in just the right spot and breaking it open; his eyes sparkled as if they were reflecting newly bared veins of pure bright thought. “Perfectly right. These things work, of course, in a ratio.... I beg your pardon, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?” “Baldwin.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Baldwin. My name’s Cruikback— spelled with a u and an i, of course. How d’you do? ... I say, I don’t suppose it’s possible, Laverock, to get a drink in this hell-hole at this Godforsaken hour, is it? Is there some sort of bottle you keep for visiting royalty, and so forth?”

  One always felt called upon to cut a dash in the presence of Cruikback, so that I was embarrassed and could only say, “The pubs are shut, I’m afraid, old thing.”

  “Then don’t give it a second thought, Laverock!” cried Cruikback, with manly magnanimity.

  But Copper Baldwin said, “I got a drop o’gin, if you don’t mind gin, sir.”

  “Mind it? I adore it!” Cruikback’s eyes sparkled again. Copper Baldwin got his tool bag and took out half a bottle of gin. In the cashier’s box there was a twopenny tumbler in which Mrs. Edwards used to keep her teeth during the day. He rinsed this in the ladies’ lavatory and poured Cruikback a heavy drink. To me he offered the bottle, saying, “Have a go.”

  And at this, inexplicably, my feelings were hurt. I went next door to the cafe, bought a threepenny ginger beer, and walked away with the bottle and the glass before Costas could stop me. Then I accepted Copper Baldwin’s gin, which I discreetly diluted. Cruikback downed his at a gulp. I could not help saying, “I hope Mrs. Edwards took her teeth out of that glass before you knocked that bac
k, old thing.” And I explained, half hoping for some nauseous reaction— because there came into my mind a memory of a playing field ten long years ago:

  ... I had spent my last pennies on a bottle of some gassy yellow stuff called Lime-O, of which I had taken my first voluptuous mouthful, when Cruikback appeared in a straw boater and a blazer. “Let’s have a sip of that,” he said. “... Oh, you’ve been sucking at it, have you? Got a clean handkerchief?” I had and was proud of it. Cruikback wiped the neck of the bottle with it most scrupulously before he drank. He returned me the bottle, empty. “All gas,” he said. “Muck up your stomach. Keep away from it, young thingummy. It rots the constitution.” He judiciously examined the handkerchief, then pocketed it, saying, “I’ll let you have this back properly laundered.” But he never did.

  Now, looking at me gravely, he said, “Oh, but that’s perfectly all right, you know. Glass can’t carry germs, and alcohol, of course, is a disinfectant. Internal and external. There’s a distinct statistical correlation between the use of alcohol in surgery and certain kinds of infection. Look up your Decker. Read your—but what am I going to do about this confounded car of mine?” He appealed, now, to Copper Baldwin. “You’ve got the savvy, the common savvy,” he said.

  To my disgust, Copper Baldwin seemed flattered by this. “Ring nearest garage and get you a tow,” he said briskly.

  “Right you are!” cried Cruikback. “Only I’ve been in the wilds all day. Cash me a check, and let’s get going.”

  “Can’t, I’m afraid,” I said, wishing that I were more pleased with his company. But as Cruikback went on and on drinking us up I felt as I had felt that afternoon when the Lime-O disappeared, and my handkerchief after it. And Copper Baldwin’s attitude distressed me. Now, purged of character, he was the Acting Unpaid Lance-Corporal sucking up to his immediate superior, for the sake of a stripe of tape.

  “Let’s have another bit of that gin,” said Cruikback, “and give the matter thought. Oh, but I say—look here, a man’s credit’s good, surely?”

  “Not rahnd Fowlers End,” said Copper Baldwin.

  “No, naturally not,” said Cruikback, with some irritation. Stranger here. I mean, with you, Laverock. I’m good for a quid or two, I suppose, until tomorrow or the day after?”

  Before I could reply, Copper Baldwin came bustling in to save me embarrassment: “There’s a couple o’ quid in the petty cash, I think, Mr. Laverock. I’ll get it.” Then he darted into the cashier’s box and sank out of sight on his haunches. He came out a few seconds later and gave me two crumpled pound notes, which I passed to Cruikback, who handled them and said, ‘They’re horribly warm and clammy, aren’t they though?” He yawned. “Well, never mind. Thanks, anyway, young Laverock. Oh, Lord! Look. It’s hellishly late, and I’ve got to be back on the job by half-past six. It occurs to me: is it worth getting up to town and back again tonight? To say nothing, of course, of the delay mucking about with garages and what not? Could you give me a chair or something to sit on, Laverock? I don’t need a great deal of sleep, of course.”

  I could only say, “Take my bed, Cruikback, old thing.”

  “Don’t be such a confounded young ass!” he said severely. Take your bed? What the hell do you take me for? No, there is a limit! What bed, anyway?”

  “I have a room over the cafe next door,” I said. “You can have it for a few hours if you like.”

  Cruikback was astonished. “No! You aren’t going to tell me you actually live in this hole? But you always were a strange little fellow, weren’t you? Look, Baldwin, do you mind terribly if I take just another wee sip?”

  “Carry on, sir.”

  “Gordon’s Dry,” said Cruikback, scrutinizing the label. “I’ll return it with interest, of course.... So you live here, do you, Laverock? Over a cafe, too. Poor old fellow, you must have a hell of a time with cockroaches, of course? Black beetles and what not? Bugs and all that? Smell of stale cooking, et cetera, et cetera? Poor old Laverock! I wouldn’t deprive you of your bed for anything in the world. However—”

  He took another “sip”—I counted five distinct up-and-down movements of his Adam’s apple—until I said, “Leave another man a bit, old thing.”

  Cruikback wagged an admonitory finger at me. “Not to be a drunkard! But you always were a little guzzle-gut, you know, young Laverock. Many’s the time I’ve stopped you making yourself ill with all sorts of bottled stuff. Oh, well, look here—if you really want me to, I think I will have a nap over this cafe of yours, Laverock. What?”

  “What about the jam-jar, sir?” asked Copper Baldwin. “I mean, the car.”

  “Oh, that. It can wait till morning. Nobody’s likely to pinch it, and it belongs to the company, anyway, and is insured for more than it’s worth, you can bet your life, of course. Personally, I’m too whacked to do anything more— exhausted.”

  “How about your instruments?” I asked.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Surveying instruments—theodolites, or whatever you call them—and what not,” I said.

  “Oh, oh those,” said Cruikback. “Come, now, young Laverock—you don’t imagine I’d leave my instruments in an unattended car in these parts, do you? They’re locked away, of course.” He sniffed. “I think I’m catching a beastly cold. I say, Laverock, do you happen to have a clean handkerchief on you?”

  He could see that I had: it was sticking out of my breast pocket in a neat triangle. “Oh, good show,” he said, without waiting for a reply, and snatched it away. “Of course, I’ll let you have it back properly laundered. Share and share alike was always our unofficial motto, Baldwin; at Snellgrove, of course. Eh, Laverock?”

  I said, “I noticed the ‘share and share,’ but I can’t say I saw the ‘alike.’“ The gin was biting. “As I remember, it was: big boy eat little boy; strong boy bully weak boy; and dog eat dog, Cruikback.”

  He replied, “Whatever you do, don’t get the wrong attitude, Laverock! What was our real motto? ‘Per Ardua ad Astra,’ wasn’t it? Meaning what? ‘By Toil to the Stars.’ Now it has been worked out by statistical correlation that if everybody shared alike, the world would be bankrupt in less than seventy-two hours. Whereas, on the other hand, I ask you—see for yourself, Laverock, see for yourself!—the more ardua they put into the thing, the less they see of the astra. Eh?”

  “So help me,” I said to Copper Baldwin, “the man’s been listening to Sam—”

  Copper Baldwin said, “Shush! Let ‘im talk.”

  “There must be integration,” said Cruikback.

  “That’s right,” said Copper Baldwin. “I mean to say, it’s a law o’ nature, ain’t it, sir?”

  “Yes. ‘All for One and One for All’ is romantic. Good enough for the Three Musketeers,” said Cruikback. “Work it out in its statistical correlation, and what have you got?” He was at a loss for words, so he cantered off in another direction: “The code of the racketeer is what you have there, old thing. And while the code of share and share alike is a bloody good thing to cut your milk teeth on, Laverock, the end result is what we call—”

  “Fascism and the corporate state?” I said.

  “Communism,” said Copper Baldwin.

  “What we call Anarchy!” cried Cruikback, clapping us both on the shoulder. “I’m glad you agree. Now let’s take ‘PerArdua ad Astra.’ ‘By Toil to the Stars?’ Bight. But by whose toil, eh? And to what stars?”

  He made a rhetorical pause, of which I took advantage to say, “Define, Cruikback, define!”

  “Say I have a washerwoman,” he began.

  “Say you haven’t,” said I, with a hard look at my handkerchief, which he was waving.

  Unabashed, Cruikback said, “Not a bad point, old fellow. Not a bad point at all. Thanks, old thing. Let’s put it your way. I’m quite agreeable: say I haven’t got a washerwoman. Hypothetically, of course.”

  With all the irony I could put into my voice, I said, “That you haven’t got a washerwoman goes without saying, let’s say
. Skip the hypothesis and come down to the ‘of course.’”

  “I’m afraid you’re getting over my head,” said my old hero. “You’d better get some sleep. Sleep it off, old man, and take a good dose of salts the very minyute you wake up. Pump ship and dredge off the bilge. Preferably in hot water, naturally, you know. Piping, of course. And by the bye, where is this famous bed of yours?”

  “Next door,” I said.

  “Then lead me to it. Meanwhile think things over. D’you take me, Laverock? Nothing’ll lead a man closer to nowhere than an uncorrelated muddle without integration— better get that straight from the start, young Laverock. Take me?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I said.

  Cruikback said, with agonized patience, “Naturally not, not now; not right at this minute. Sleep on it. I’m just about used up. Where was it you said your bed was?”

  Reluctant to let go a point, I persisted: “Washerwomen aside—say you haven’t got a handkerchief?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite get the drift,” said Cruikback. “But do, please, cut out the metaphysics and get some rest, my dear Laverock! I absolutely must be out of here by six. Call me. You will, of course, won’t you?”

  “And what kind of a car is it?” asked Copper Baldwin. “Yours, I mean, sir.”

  Cruikback stared at him. “A Daimler, of course,” he said.

  “Right,” said Copper Baldwin. “But remember, you ain’t supposed to kip over the Greek’s. Mr. Laverock is a gentleman in a very important position, sir.”

  “I quite understand,” said Cruikback. “See he gets some rest, and don’t let him drink too much. Is that quite clear? Very well then. A Daimler Saloon—got that? Now beddy-bye.”

  “Take my key, Copper, and see the gentleman to bed,” I said. “Only keep it discreet. You understand, Cruikback, my position?”

  “It’s okay,” said Copper Baldwin. “The gaff is shut for the night and the Greeks ‘ave gone to Uncle Ned.”

  “He means to bed,” I said to Cruikback, disliking the apologetic tone of my voice.