I hadn’t seen Pa Squiffington since I buried him in the sand at Whortleton. Though I’d often thought of the old boy while looking for the racing news in the paper and spotting the item headed ‘City Notes’, which generally says something like, ‘There was much calling for money in Lombard Street today.’ There goes poor old Pa Squiffington, I told myself, up and down the gutter hollering at the open windows, buttonholing chaps in top-hats, trying to touch the copper directing the traffic, ending up on the doorstep with his bowler hung out hopefully.
I gathered Squiffingtons Bank wasn’t one of the common sort with a counter downstairs, where they take the cash from all comers. According to Squiffy, who’d often prowled the corridors optimistically, they never handled the vulgar stuff at all. Financial wizards – if it was a nice morning and they’d holed all their putts on Saturday – simply told their secretaries to send it round a million. And if Pa Squiffington never saw it being unpacked, Squiffy certainly didn’t see it at all. His father was one of those lean athletic executives, whose idea of a rip-roaring evening, I remembered from Whortleton, was a game of chess and a chocolate biscuit with his Horlicks.
‘You know the old man wanted me to be a doctor,’ Squiffy went on, absently cutting another piece of cake, ‘The great-grandad who founded the bank – that’s the one over the fireplace with the face like the underdone steak with side-whiskers – was the son of a doctor in Canada, who got no end of a name stalking about in blizzards patching up people eaten by bears. I was obviously a frightful duffer at business – you remember at school I could never work out what those tedious chaps A, B, and C owed each other after those rather shifty deals in compound interest. But for some reason the medical schools didn’t agree with the old man, so he packed me off to Canada for a year or two. When I came back he announced that I should be a scientist, science being all the thing.’
‘They’re even teaching it these days at Eton.’
‘I think Dad already saw me stepping up for the Nobel Prize,’ Squiffy went on. ‘But of course one has to make a start somewhere, and after going round a few universities I was finally enrolled up at Mireborough – oddly enough, just after the old man had donated a new boathouse. They were pretty tough towards me at Mireborough, with their northern independence and all that,’ he added morosely. ‘Even after the old man had donated a new library – he rather fancies himself as a pocket Rockefeller, you know. And as he’d recently donated a new chemistry laboratory I really can’t see why they made such a fuss just because I burnt the old one down.’
Squiffy sprawled in his chair.
‘It was the practical exam, and I don’t know what went wrong, quite. They shouldn’t set such damn fool questions, I suppose. The Fire Brigade had hardly cleared up before they told me it would be cheaper for the University all round if I left. Luckily, the old man had just set off for Karachi, but I had to find a job – he never donates anything to me, of course. A bit tricky it was, too, as I wasn’t even a BSc (Mire.). Luckily, a fellow in my year tipped me for one in the middle of Dorset.’
‘Not meddling with the Government’s atoms?’ I asked nervously, feeling that next time Squiffy blew anything up he’d do it properly.
‘Actually, I’m a stinks beak in a prepper,’ he confessed. ‘A miserable hole it is, too. The Head’s got the outlook of an undertaker with an overdraft – charges for test-tubes and chemicals, and probably for use of force of gravity as well. But that’s only half the trouble.’
He paused, and having finished all the cake started on his nails.
‘You see, Grim – Good lord, is that the time? Squiffy jumped up. ‘I’ll miss my train, and there’ll be the most almighty row if I’m late. What do you think of that fellow Beauchamp?’ he added, bolting for the door. ‘In my opinion he’s a bit of a stinker.’
‘Yes, he’s a hit of a stinker in my opinion, too.’
‘Not at all the sort of fellow I’d like to see Lucy fixed up with,’ Squiffy continued, disappearing.
‘Not at all the sort of fellow I’d like to see her fixed up with, either,’ I agreed.
Though why, I asked, finding myself alone among the remains of the tea and the gladioli, should I worry what fellow Lucy got herself fixed up with? I didn’t care a rap if she was a very, very close friend of every male performer in Shaftesbury Avenue and Bertram Mills’ Circus. I was, I told myself, no more concerned with the affair than if I were watching Basil canoodling with his leading lady beyond the footlights. I swallowed the last of my tea and left. After all, I was perfectly happily engaged, to quite the nicest girl in the world.
12
‘I’m afraid I didn’t bring your woolly slippers,’ I apologized to Miles, back in my Chelsea fiat. ‘Connie didn’t seem able to lay hands on them.’
My cousin was out when I’d returned earlier from calling on his distraught missus, a note under the milk merely saying, ‘Unexpectedly summoned to St Swithin’s. Shall be back this evening. I like to dine about seven, and. please remember I am allergic to chicken or kidneys.’
‘Woolly slippers? I don’t think I shall be wanting my woolly slippers after all,’ said Miles.
I edged beside him on the divan. I felt I hadn’t been much help to Squiffy over tea, and now I wondered how to bring the pair of ruffled love-birds together over supper. Connie was one of the best, I reflected. A charming and devoted girl, though perhaps with latent tendencies to nestle up to young men. And even old Miles wasn’t a bad chap at heart, despite his distressing habit of regarding me as something found under the table after one of those Babylonian orgies.
‘Now look here, Miles, old lad–’ I started.
I’d already decided only half his domestic trouble came from the idiot going about like a dietetic Hitler. All married couples get browned off with each other from time to time, with no ill-effects beyond a few slammed doors and a kick or two at the dog, but when they’ve got a starvation-level blood sugar as well they’re likely to suffer more acute symptoms.
‘Miles, old man, talking as chap to chap–’ I tried again.
I paused. The difficulty was finding the right treatment. Marital disharmonies turn up twice a day in general practice, disguised as anything from mania to myopia. But our British medical schools, though jolly hot on such solid stuff as fractures and ruptures, don’t leave you better trained for handling them except by advising the husband to take up golf and the wife to interest herself in local politics.
‘The dinner jacket might have been useful, though,’ was all Miles said, coughing a bit.
I was surprised to notice him smoking one of my cigarettes.
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you with a fag in your mouth since the night you celebrated your Mastership at Oxford by letting down the Junior Dean’s bicycle tyres,’ I told him.
‘And it won’t be the last,’ returned Miles calmly. He gave me a leer, brought short by his coughing a bit more. ‘How about an – ah – quick snort?’
I stared at him. ‘But you never drink except at Christmas.’
‘I do now. I definitely feel like an – er – swift noggin. Eh?’
I shrugged my shoulders. Remembering that I was the chap’s host whatever, I produced the remains of the Scotch from under the kitchen sink.
‘Here’s cheers, down the hatch, bottoms up, lovely grub, and the best of British luck,’ said Miles.
‘Look here,’ I asked, when he’d finished spluttering. ‘Are you feeling quite all right? I mean, the mental strain of the past few days–’
‘I feel,’ explained Miles briefly. ‘like a man reborn. I have passed the day examining my soul,’ he informed me, ‘For years I have lived a life of austerity and respectability as a model husband. What boots it to a heartless female like Connie? She has forced me to leave her and become a grass widower. So I intend to damn well behave like a grass widower. How about another – ah – doch and doris for the road?’
‘I should take it easy,’ I advised, pouring him a small one. ‘For a ch
ap who’s just been reborn you’ve got past the weaning stage pretty smartly.’
‘Tonight–’ Miles gave a wink. ‘Tonight we shall go out and – um – pick up some crumpet. Yes, definitely! We shall hit the town and grab ourselves a bit of snicket. What the devil are you laughing about?’ he demanded crossly.
‘Sorry, old lad’ I apologized. ‘It’s just that you strike me like Mrs Grundy doing a strip tease.’
‘Strip tease, that’s the ticket!’ exclaimed Miles at once. ‘I’ve always wanted to see some. I never got a chance when I was on the Morality Commission. The Bishop always pinched the strip tease.’
‘My dear old Miles,’ I protested, not much caring to share the tiles that night with my cousin. ‘Don’t you think you could postpone your descent to the underworld until tomorrow? I’ve just got in from a very exhausting journey.’
‘Cheltenham isn’t far.’
‘No, I suppose it isn’t,’ I admitted. ‘Anyway, if you hit the night-spots someone’s bound to recognize you. These places are always full of the very last people you expect to meet. And if it ever got back to St Swithin’s–’
‘I’ve thought of that.’ Miles drew a large pair of dark glasses from his pocket. ‘With these I shall be totally unrecognizable. See? I believe it is how all the film stars disguise themselves when attending their haunts of vice.’
Actually, he just looked like Miles in sunglasses, but I said, ‘Oh, all right. If you really want to paint the town red, I suppose I’d better come along to see you keep your brush clean.’
‘By the way,’ ended Miles, stubbing out his cigarette, ‘where does one find a bookie? I have an overwhelming desire to place a flutter on a horse.’
I suppose I should have realized from the start that Miles’ inhibitions were snapping like old elastic bands. Particularly once he put on his dark glasses, and for some reason he imagined that because he could hardly see anything through them nobody could see him at all.
‘Take me to a pub,’ he demanded. ‘I have always wanted to go to a pub.’
‘Anything to oblige, old lad.’
I felt we could do no better than my local, one of those clean and cosy little pubs you’re sometimes lucky enough to come across in London, which give the impression of the landlord providing drinks for passers-by in his front parlour. It was patronized by such solid citizens as policemen, postmen, and commissionaires, and run by a very decent middle-aged couple, an ex-Guardsman and his wife with arthritis, who always extended me a warm welcome and sometimes credit as well,
‘Good evening, Mrs Hildenborough,’ I greeted the landlady across the bar,
‘Good evening, Doctor. Quite a stranger.’
‘I’ve been visiting relatives in Cheltenham. Two pints, please.’
Miles leant over the counter. ‘Good evening, duckie,’ he said, almost catching her jumper with his glasses.
Mrs Hildenhorough looked rather surprised, but returned politely, ‘Good evening. Is that all right for your blind friend?’ she added, putting the pint carefully near Miles’ elbow.
‘I call the meeting to order,’ announced Miles.
‘You what, old lad?’
‘I’ll pay. Isn’t that what you say?’
‘You mean you’re in the chair.’
‘That’s it. Dear me,’ he announced, feeling in his pocket. ‘My wallet. It’s in my other jacket, up in your flat.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I told him, having no intention of paying the fare as well as conducting the tour. ‘It won’t take a minute. Don’t drink my pint as well.’
I soon found Miles’ wallet, but I ran into the old dear who cleans the stairs leading from the converted horses’ dining-room, who wanted her usual chat about her kidneys. By the time I’d dispensed professional advice I was rather worried that my cousin might be feeling embarrassed in his strange surroundings.
As it happened, I reached the pub just as he sailed through the door on to the pavement, followed by Mr Hildenborough wiping his hands.
‘I don’t want to see you inside my house again, you nasty piece of work,’ shouted the landlord. ‘And that goes for you, too, Dr Grimsdyke. If that’s the sort of company you mix with, I don’t want any of it under my roof,.’
‘Here, I say.’ I stared blankly as Miles picked himself up. ‘But what on earth happened, Mr Hildenborough? Did he spit in someone’s beer, or something?’
‘He insulted Mrs Hildenborough,’ announced the landlord. ‘That’s what. He’s lucky I didn’t bash his face in. Now clear off the pair of you, before I call the police.’
‘But we haven’t paid for our beer–’ I exclaimed.
‘Keep your immoral earnings to yourself,’ snapped Mr Hildenborough, slamming the pub door.
‘What the devil have you been up to, Miles?’ I demanded.
‘This is real low life, isn’t it?’ He dusted his trousers, not seeming at all disconcerted. ‘That man is what you call a “bouncer”, I believe? A pity I was bounced just as I was starting to enjoy myself. Naturally, I wasn’t serious in my proposition to the barmaid. I suppose I didn’t offer her enough.’
‘You didn’t offer – ? Good lord, old lad! You don’t mean you suggested to Mrs Hildenborough – ?’
‘That sort of thing is always on the cards with barmaids, isn’t it? I gave her a little pinch as she turned to pour some spirits, and the bouncer appeared. Where shall we go now? How about the strip tease? I particularly want to visit that theatre near Piccadilly, called the Waterwheel.’
Feeling I’d better get Miles out of the district as soon as possible, I pushed him into a taxi and took him to one of those non-stop shows in Soho, where they have a simple little programme of a chap coming on and doing conjuring tricks, then a skinny girl appearing and taking her clothes off, then another chap doing conjuring tricks, followed by another skinny girl, and so on. But Miles seemed rather disappointed, I suppose because he saw much the same thing every week in women’s out-patients, though personally I thought the conjuring tricks were rather crafty.
‘And now,’ Miles announced in Old Compton Street, after the first skinny girl had turned up again, ‘you must take me to see the Real Thing.’
‘Real thing? What real thing?’
‘The real low life.’ He gave another of his leers and dug me in the ribs. ‘You know.’
I gave a sigh. Like tourists anywhere from Reykjavik to Rio de Janeiro, Miles believed there was some terrific low show somewhere patronized only by the natives, enough to keep anyone in memories for years and years of winter evenings. Actually, the natives are always at home watching the telly and filling up their football pools, but Miles went on insisting I took him to the Real Place in the West End.
‘It is an establishment I have never had the chance to see for the Royal Commission,’ he explained. ‘I’m afraid the others rather fobbed me off with the jails.’
After a few drinks and a bag of crisps in another pub, the simplest solution struck me as taking the idiot to a perfectly respectable night-club I knew near Berkeley Square. As this was an expensive joint, and the amount of candle-power provided in such places always varies inversely with the prices, it would be too dark for Miles to make much of it, anyway. And that wasn’t to mention the dark glasses.
In the night-club, the head waiter led us through the scrum on the dance floor to a table next to the band, Miles ordering the champagne before we’d got through the doorway. After a couple of glasses he perked up again, and started asking for the crumpet.
‘There isn’t any,’ I told him, becoming rather short. ‘You have to bring your own. The management only provide the booze and atmosphere.’
‘But there’s a lovely little piece of stuff over there.’ Miles pointed across the dance floor. ‘That little brunette, sitting all alone.’
I turned to look, but at that moment the band exploded and everybody jumped up to dance. ‘Just my type,’ said Miles, rubbing his hands. ‘Not only charming, I would say, but intelligent. How do I set ab
out it?’
‘Set about what?’
‘Why, dating her down, of course.’
‘Dating her up.’
‘That’s it. What happens to be the customary procedure?’
‘You can slip the waiter a quid and ask him to take a message,’ I told him, now thoroughly fed-up with the outing, not to mention half-asleep on my feet. ‘But I shouldn’t bother, because she’s bound to be here with some Guards officer, or lord, or something, who will only come over and do you.’
Before I could stop him, Miles grabbed a passing waiter by the coat tails and pressed a quid into his hand with the instructions, ‘Kindly inform the dark lady in glasses at the table exactly opposite that I have fallen violently in love with her.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Now you’ve done it,’ I said in alarm, glancing quickly towards the fire escape behind us. ‘She’ll probably send for the management, and that’ll make the second time you’ve been chucked out tonight.’
‘I am surprised at you, Gaston,’ returned Miles airily. ‘Quite surprised. You have no initiative, no daring. I distinctly saw the girl smile at me in a most inviting manner. Just you wait and see.’
‘Look here, Miles, this is Berkeley Square, not Buenos Aires–’
The waiter reappeared. ‘The lady says thank you, sir, and that you are her dream boy, sir.’
‘What did I tell you?’ beamed Miles. He slipped the waiter another quid. ‘Ask the lady if she will make me deliriously happy by joining our table.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘I really believe, Gaston,’ said Miles smugly, ‘that you’d no idea I had such attraction for the ladies. Believe me, that is far from the case.’
‘That was a pretty smooth pick-up, I must say,’ I admitted.
‘I have, I consider, quite a reasonable ration of what they call sex appeal. I am not particularly bad looking, and I have charming manners and plenty of not only entertaining but intelligent conversation. Were it not for my rather attractive shyness, I could make no end of conquests with the fair sex.’
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