‘Phew!’ Berthea exclaimed, as she replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. ‘You wouldn’t imagine that it would take quite so long to arrange something so insignificant as a change of appointment.’
‘Poor dears,’ said Terence. ‘They do so need to talk. All those horrid worries and doubts bottled up inside! They must be bursting to tell you all about it.’
‘There’s a time and place for that,’ said Berthea briskly.
‘Mind you, Berthy,’ Terence went on, ‘I can understand why the poor souls want to talk to you. You’re such a good listener, you really are. And you aren’t bossy at all. Not really.’
Berthea looked at him with surprise. ‘Who said I was bossy?’
Terence spoke sheepishly. ‘Well, I’m afraid I have a teeny confession to make,’ he said. ‘I called you bossy when I was talking to Mr Marchbanks. I said that you were bossy and you stuck your long nose into my business. And I’m terribly sorry that I said it. It was the electricity, I think. I really don’t think that way.’
Berthea looked at him reproachfully. She had saved his life by her prompt action and in return he had called her bossy. Well, if she had not stuck her long nose into his business - and her nose was not long at all, she told herself - then Terence would be no more. He should remember that, perhaps.
‘I know,’ said Terence, holding up a hand, ‘you must think me utterly beastly for saying something like that. I really am sorry, Berthy. But at least I’ve got it off my chest now and I can see the forgiveness in your eyes. It’s like a great light, you know, from where I’m sitting. It’s like the Great Lighthouse of Alexandria - a beam of forgiveness piercing the encircling gloom.’
Berthea looked at her brother. If anybody’s nose was long, she thought, it’s his. But there was no point in saying it; one of the things she knew, both as an analyst and as a person, was that remarks about the nose of another would never be anything but the cause of misunderstanding or annoyance. The only thing anybody ever wanted to hear about their nose was that it was a very fine and attractive one; that was the only acceptable thing to say. You could not say to somebody, ‘Your nose is average,’ or ‘Nobody will notice your nose.’ You had to be positive.
‘Well, at least you’ve told me,’ she said. ‘And you’re right, I don’t think you were yourself for a little while after the accident.’ She paused. ‘But how are you feeling now?’
‘I feel extremely well,’ said Terence. ‘Quite optimistic, in fact, especially since I made my decision to replace the Morris.’
‘Good,’ said Berthea. ‘Well, I shall stay, if I may, for another couple of weeks, just to make sure everything’s settled. Sometimes accidents like that can leave one feeling a bit vulnerable for a while. I’ll stay until you’re absolutely sure that you’ve recovered from the experience. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ said Terence. ‘We can go to sacred dance together, and do those photies I mentioned - the ones that Daddy took in Malta.’
‘Maybe,’ said Berthea quickly. ‘I was also hoping to get some of my book done - the biography of Oedipus that I mentioned. I’ve got as far as his schooldays at Uppingham. I don’t have much information about that part of his life, but I’m hoping that I’ll hear from people who spent more time with him than I did in those days. I’ve written to one or two of his contemporaries and I’ve already had a couple of replies.’
‘Oh,’ said Terence. ‘From his school friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did they say?’
Berthea looked evasive. ‘Nothing very much, I’m afraid. In fact, now that you ask, they weren’t very helpful. One of them wrote and asked for Oedipus’s address because he had something to discuss with him. I didn’t like the letter and so I didn’t send Oedipus’s address. I didn’t fancy the way that the handwriting became shakier and shakier as the letter progressed - as if the writer were under acute emotional stress.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Terence. ‘Perhaps the writer was a lunatic. Did he write in green ink, by any chance?’
‘What’s the significance of green ink?’
Terence nonchalantly waved a hand in the air. ‘It’s well known,’ he said. ‘Lunatics choose to write in green ink. Everybody knows that.’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Berthea. ‘To begin with, the term lunatic is frightfully old-fashioned.’
‘Nutters, then,’ said Terence.
‘Even worse,’ said Berthea. ‘Differently rationaled is the term, you know.’
Terence raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever you say. Anyway, I’m jolly glad that you’re going to stay, because I really appreciate you, Berthy. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that, but I really do appreciate you. So you can stay as long as you like - and we can even go on some trips in my new car. How would you like that?’
‘That would be fine, Terence,’ Berthea said. ‘But listen, what sort of car will it be?’
Terence’s brow knit with concentration. ‘I think . . . I think it’s something beginning with a P. Yes, I’m pretty sure of it. I can’t remember the exact name though. Mr Marchbanks is going to get me one - he’s promised.’
‘A Peugeot,’ said Berthea. ‘That’ll be very suitable, Terence.’
‘Yes, I believe it’s a Peugeot. Are they good cars? It’s the sort that Monty Bismarck drives.’
‘I don’t know Monty Bismarck,’ said Berthea. ‘But I wouldn’t be surprised if he drives a Peugeot.’ Monty Bismarck drew up in his Peugeot. Yes, that sounded very appropriate.
She rubbed her hands in satisfaction. Two weeks in the country, away from the demands of her patients and the noise and crush of London, was exactly what she needed. And yes, she would like to go for drives with Terence in his Peugeot, out along the rural roads that led through little valleys, deep into England, into the country that everybody took for granted but which was so beautiful, and fragile, and threatened.
76. Lennie Marchbanks Calls
It was at three o’clock in the afternoon that the doorbell rang. Berthea was sitting in the small morning room at the back of the house - the sunny side - reading a rather slow-moving autobiography when she heard the bell. She laid the book on the table with some relief and decided, at that moment, that she would pick it up again only to replace it on the shelf in her brother’s study. Terence’s house was replete with books but very few of them were to her taste. She had seized on the autobiography - which was by a minor literary figure of the nineteen-thirties - hoping that the claim on the back cover would prove true. ‘A gripping account of a life of passionate involvement,’ the publisher enthused, ‘a life lived to the full in turbulent and trying times.’
The book, unfortunately, failed to live up to this promise. After eighty pages, the author had done nothing more exciting than contemplate going to Spain to visit a friend who was cooking for the Republican forces. However, he had developed a heavy cold and had cancelled his passage on grounds of ill health. That was the high point of a narrative that was otherwise mostly concerned with the minutiae of a very modest existence, that of an assistant editor of a literary magazine. Names were bandied about, of course, but it seemed that the author had never had any conversations with the well-known writers of the day, although MacNeice wrote to him once and he spoke to Spender on the telephone when the poet called the magazine office. The call, however, had been a mistake. Spender had been given the wrong number and had really wanted to speak to somebody else. Nonetheless, he had commented on the weather before hanging up, and the author had made a note of the exact words he used, observing that the sentence in question was undeniably an iambic pentameter.
‘That’s a frightfully exciting book,’ Terence had said when he saw his sister reading it. ‘I must say they had a jolly lively time, those writers of the thirties. I wouldn’t have minded being alive then.’
Berthea looked doubtful. ‘Nothing much seems to have happened so far,’ she said. ‘He’s just got to Oxford and had a letter from a friend in Florence.’
&nbs
p; ‘Jolly exciting,’ said Terence. ‘I remember that bit - I think. Does he write back?’
Berthea ran an eye down the page she was reading. ‘He doesn’t say.’
‘Well, I bet he did,’ said Terence. ‘They were good correspondents in those days, always writing letters to one another, full of interesting observations on the world. You wait until you get to the bit where he’s turned down for the Navy during the war and goes to teach in Bristol.’
And now, of course, she would never get to that part, since she was abandoning the book altogether. How narcissistic these people were, she thought as she went to answer the doorbell. How special they thought themselves to be. Whereas in reality they led rather uneventful lives - much like everybody else. Nothing really remarkable happened to most of us, she thought; we grew up, we got a job, we fell in love - if we were lucky - and then we went into decline and eventually disappeared. And at the end of the day, what did we achieve? Well, perhaps it was an achievement just to get through life without any conspicuous disasters. If we did that, then we were pulling off at least something.
It was Lennie Marchbanks at the door. She had met him once or twice before and rather liked him; mechanics struck her as being such easy, agreeable people. And, she noticed, as a psychotherapist, one never had a mechanic for a patient. Why was that? Were they invariably balanced people, free of the neuroses that afflicted non-mechanically-minded others?
Lennie smiled at Berthea. She noticed that he had false teeth and that they were not a very natural colour, being rather too white; ill-fitting, too.
‘Is your brother in?’ asked Lennie.
Berthea went to fetch Terence, who had been taking an afternoon nap in his room upstairs.
‘That electricity has done me no good at all,’ he said as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s got all my ions going in the wrong direction. I can tell, you know. I need to be re-polarised.’
The mention of Lennie Marchbanks seemed to cheer him up though, and he was very talkative as they made their way downstairs. ‘I suspect he’s found me that new car,’ said Terence. ‘If he has, then we could go for a spin later on. That is, if you’d like to. I don’t believe in forcing people to do things they don’t want to, you know. There’s far too much coercion in the world today. They should just leave us to get on with our lives rather than telling us to do all sorts of things. Have you seen those signs, Berthy? Those signs on the road? They have big messages in lights telling you to put on your safety belt and do this and do that and not do the other thing. It’s really very, very cross-making. These government people sit there in their offices and think up things they can tell us to do. Did you see that they actually issued a code of practice on how to look after your cat? What a cheek.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Berthea.
‘And there’s another thing . . .’ Terence continued. But he did not finish because they had arrived in the front hall, where Lennie was waiting.
‘Afternoon, Mr Moongrove,’ said the mechanic. ‘I hope that you’re fully recovered.’
Terence nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Marchbanks. I expect I shall be fine - in due course.’ He looked past the mechanic through the open front door. ‘You haven’t . . .’
‘Yes, I have. Your new car. Or, rather, one that I reckon you might like. You can take a look at it and see what you think.’
Terence rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘One of those small cars we talked about?’
Lennie nodded. ‘The very one.’ He glanced anxiously at Berthea as he spoke.
‘It’s all right,’ Terence reassured him. ‘My sister knows about this car and gives it her blessing.’
77. Terence Moongrove, Porsche Owner
Berthea had no real interest in cars and left Terence and Lennie to get on with their transaction while she returned to the morning room. There could be no question of taking up the autobiography again, so she picked up the newspaper and began to tackle the crossword. 1 across: He conquers all? A nubile tram. This old clue required only a moment’s thought. Tamburlaine! Of course. And 1 down? This for two and two for this (3 letters). Well really! Who did they imagine would be doing these crosswords - children?
Outside, Lennie led Terence to the garage, where he had parked the Porsche.
‘I took you at your word,’ the mechanic said. ‘At first I thought you were joking. But then I realised that you really did want one of these jobs. So I had a word with our mutual friend. Not a fancy price. Good motor. Nice and clean.’
‘Our mutual friend?’
Lennie chuckled. ‘Yes. Monty Bismarck. As it happens, he was ready for a new model and he’ll be happy for you to take this one off his hands - through me, of course.’
Terence stood before the Porsche. He reached down and touched the bodywork, gently, with a single finger, as if to confirm the car’s existence.
‘So this is the car I’ve seen Monty Bismarck driving,’ he said. ‘The very car. Isn’t it lovely, Mr Marchbanks?’
‘It’s a nice motor all right, Mr Moongrove. I wouldn’t have thought of you as driving one of these, you know, but where there’s life there’s hope, I suppose . . .’
Terence laughed. ‘I could cut a bit of a figure in this, couldn’t I?’ He moved round to the side of the car. ‘And I see there are two seats. One for me and one for my sister.’
Lennie reached forward to open the driver’s door. ‘Exactly. And you might even find that other women would fancy getting into that passenger seat.’ He turned and winked at Terence.
Terence looked surprised. ‘What do you mean, Mr Marchbanks? Two women wouldn’t fit in there. Berthy’s quite large, and I don’t think she’d want another woman to sit on her lap.’
The mechanic looked at him conspiratorially. ‘Truth is, Mr Moongrove, women like these cars. A Porsche does something for a woman. I was thinking of . . . well, other women. You know. Hey?’
Terence frowned. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Monty Bismarck told me . . .’ Lennie checked himself. ‘Well, maybe not. Perhaps I should show you what’s what and then we can take a little test drive down the road.’
‘Oh, I’d like that,’ said Terence appreciatively, stooping to get into the low-slung car. ‘My goodness, this is not a car for very tall people. Oops! My poor old head. Do you think they build these cars for short men, Mr Marchbanks?’
Lennie thought about this. Unintentionally, Terence had displayed a real insight into the psychology of car manufacture. Who drove these very flashy, sporty cars? Short men. Yes, Terence was right. It took a tall man to drive a Morris Traveller.
Lennie showed him the instruments. ‘That’s a rev counter,’ he said. ‘You don’t want the engine to strain too much. So you keep it low.’
Terence peered at the dial. ‘I see. And this thing here?’
‘The speedometer. The one on your Morris went up to 80, I think. Which was a bit optimistic. I think that nobody ever got more than 72 miles per hour out of a Morris.’
Terence pointed. ‘This one goes up to 160, I see, Mr Marchbanks. That’s jolly fast. Do you think we might . . . ?’
‘No,’ said the mechanic firmly. ‘Listen, Mr Moongrove, I’m only going to let you have this car if you promise me - and I mean promise - that you won’t go above 50 in it. That’s it. You see that mark there? That’s 50. No more than that, please.’
Terence looked momentarily annoyed, but then nodded his assent. ‘All right. But what’s the point of being able to go 160 miles per hour if you aren’t allowed to?’
‘That’s for Germans,’ said Lennie. ‘These cars are made in Germany, you see, and they’re allowed to do whatever speed they like on their autobahns.’
‘That’s very unfair,’ said Terence, adjusting the rear-view mirror. ‘What’s the point of having a European Union if there are different rules for the Germans? Tell me, Mr Marchbanks, are there any Bulgarian cars?’
‘Not that I’ve heard of,’ said the mechanic.
‘I just wondered,’ said Tere
nce. He gave the mirror a final tweak. ‘But why don’t we set off? I can’t wait to drive this car.’
Lennie swallowed. Oh well, he thought. Here goes.
Terence turned the key in the ignition, as instructed by Lennie. Immediately there came a deep growling sound. ‘My goodness!’ he said. ‘Is there something wrong with the exhaust pipe? You know that pipe that comes out the back? When the Traveller’s exhaust pipe had a big hole in it, it made that sort of sound.’
Lennie smiled. ‘That’s what they call a low, throaty roar. People pay for that sort of thing. No, there’s no hole.’
‘Well, I must say, that will certainly warn everybody that I’m coming,’ said Terence. ‘Now, shall I put in the clutch?’
He engaged the car in gear and then, very slowly, they moved off. It was a very smooth start, and Lennie was impressed. ‘You’re doing fine, Mr Moongrove,’ he said. ‘Nice smooth start.’
Terence beamed with pleasure. ‘She handles well - even at speed.’
Lennie glanced at the speedometer. ‘Well, you’re only doing 8 miles per hour,’ he said. ‘And we’re still on the drive.’
‘Very nice,’ said Terence. ‘I really like this car, Mr Marchbanks.’
‘Good.’
‘I shall go to the bank tomorrow morning and get the money. How much will I need?’
‘Twenty-five grand,’ said Lennie. ‘Are you paying cash, Mr Moongrove?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Terence. ‘I’ve got bags of money in my current account. Bags.’
Lennie looked at him sideways. He felt a very strong temptation to ask just how much money that was. Why not? Old Moongrove had no idea about anything and would not resent a question like that. Many would, but not old Terence.
‘How much?’ Lennie asked casually.
‘In the bank?’
‘Yes.’
‘Six hundred and eighty thousand,’ said Terence. ‘Maybe a little bit more, I think.’
Lennie looked out of the passenger’s window. He was worried. He could try to protect Terence when it came to cars, but he could not look after him in other departments. Terence was clearly very liquid. Was he worldly-wise enough to know that there were plenty of people who would be very happy to help him change all that?
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