Ways and Means

by Henry Cecil

  A few days after the Derby, the quartet were sitting unhappily in the grill room of an expensive hotel just managing to get through a little caviare and champagne. Suddenly Nicholas put his glass down.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘I wonder why it’s never occurred to us before.’

  They all took a quick drink and waited. ‘Finish that stuff up first,’ he said. ‘I want your undivided attention.’

  The caviare immediately began to taste a little better; they raised the champagne to their lips in a perceptibly more cheerful manner.

  ‘Now,’ said Nicholas.

  Immediately a waiter came to clear the plates, preparatory to serving the next course.

  ‘Don’t interrupt us for the next ten minutes, please,’ said Basil.

  ‘But the chicken pancake is just made,’ exclaimed the waiter. ‘If it is left it will — ‘Unmake it,’ said Basil. ‘Put it in the pig bucket, or much the same thing, serve it to those gentlemen over there — but go away, please. Well, Nicholas?’

  ‘Now don’t jump down my throat at once. It’s a very simple suggestion.’

  ‘All the best plans are simple.’

  ‘Well, it’s just this. We’ve got more money than we know what to do with. Why not do some good with it?’

  No one spoke. Then Basil drank some more champagne. He still said nothing. Eventually Petula could stand the silence no longer.

  ‘Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?’ she said. ‘I thought you were tired of it.’

  ‘Good to other people,’ explained Nicholas gently.

  ‘Oh,’ said Petula.

  Elizabeth assumed her puzzled look to such an extent that nearly all the men who could see her wanted to kiss it and make it better.

  ‘Good?’ said Basil. ‘It’s an idea. I must think.’

  He remained thinking for fully a minute.

  Then, ‘It’s worth trying,’ he said. ‘Not at all a bad notion. Had you anything particular in mind?’

  ‘I hadn’t, as a matter of fact. It only came to me a short time ago. I was getting a flower for Petula. The girl I got it from was so pretty that I gave her a pound. It was the look she gave me that started me off. We’re used to over-tipping, of course. But the normal look on head-waiters’ faces when you give them twice as much as anyone else and ten times as much as the service they’ve rendered you is worth has never much attracted me. There’s pleasure in it, to be sure, but mixed up with so much oiliness, sycophancy, and contempt that I prefer the man who takes it as though I’d undertipped him. But this girl, she just looked at me and smiled — such a lovely open happy smile —’

  ‘Look here,’ said Petula. ‘Who were you doing good to?’

  ‘No need to be jealous,’ went on Nicholas. ‘I didn’t even get her address.’

  ‘You know where to find her.’

  ‘Let him get on, Petula,’ said Basil. ‘He hasn’t finished yet.’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ said Petula.

  ‘She looked so intensely happy and pleased that I really got a kick out of it. D’you know, in a flash I visualized the wicked landlord about to turn her and her aged mother into the street —’

  ‘A pound wouldn’t go far,’ interrupted Basil; ‘and, anyway, there aren’t any wicked landlords any more. They aren’t allowed to be. All the new fairy stories will start the other way round: there once was a wicked tenant who never paid the rent to his poor old landlord who had nothing else to live on. One day a stranger came to the tenant and said: “Kind sir, will you give me ninepence for fourpence?” “Like hell,” said the tenant. “Hop it.” Then the stranger went to the old landlord who had only ninepence left to live on and asked him the same question. “Give you ninepence for fourpence?” repeated the old landlord. “I’ve been doing nothing else for years. I might as well.”

  ‘Well — I thought a pound wouldn’t go far either, so I made it a flyer. And then she —’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ said Petula. ‘No, I’m sure it’s perfectly all right and above board, but I just prefer not to know.’

  ‘Petula,’ said Basil, ‘you must keep quiet. You know perfectly well that if Nicholas is ever guilty of the slightest impropriety — and I’m sure he isn’t — he does it most discreetly and lies to you like a trooper if you suspect anything. Go on, Nicholas.’

  ‘She just looked at me and said, “It must be great fun being able to make people happy so simply.” ’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I treated it all very lightly. I just said “How d’you know it’s simple? It might have been my last flyer and I might be just about to throw myself in the Thames.” ’

  ‘ “That’s quite simple, too,” she said. “That’s the great thing about life. You can always get rid of it if you don’t like it. But I’m sure it isn’t that in your case. I can see by your face that you’re kind. You just love making people happy.” “I’m glad I’ve made you happy,” I said—’

  ‘Don’t you think I might have something to eat?’ said Petula. ‘I should find the tale of Nicholas and the beautiful flower girl easier to stomach if I could get my teeth into something — preferably some raw meat.’

  ‘It’s all over,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s all there is to it. But it really did give me such a thrill to see that girl’s face — it lighted up so — it —’

  ‘All right,’ said Basil. ‘We’ve got your point. You needn’t elaborate for Petula’s benefit. She’s been keeping up with us this time.’

  ‘A bit ahead, I should say,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Well,’ said Basil, ‘admittedly it’s a novel idea, but personally I’m all in favour of something new. Mark you, we may just make fools of ourselves and, when it comes to it, we may not like it at all. Everyone isn’t like Nicholas’s flower girl — and she probably didn’t need any help whatsoever. However, I think that the best thing will be if we try it out gradually, then if it seems to work, we can go in for it in a big way. I’ll make a recce tomorrow. I’ll call at the Vicarage and give the old boy £2,000 for something and see what it feels like. That’ll be a fair test. I’m not impugning Nicholas’s good faith, but the flower girl wasn’t. D’you all agree?’

  The proposal was carried and next morning Basil found out the name of the Vicar, telephoned him, and made an appointment for the following day.

  The Reverend Matthew Pudsey had not always been a parson. He had been in business, a solicitor, and a schoolmaster. Each time, however, he had failed because, to make a success, he would have had to have done things quite alien to his nature. In business he insisted on reading all the official forms he had to sign before signing them, and he refused to sign any statement which was not wholly accurate or to make any promise which he had not some reasonable expectation of being able to fulfil. His business associates soon tired of this. ‘We’ll go bust if you spend all your time like that,’ they said. ‘Everyone signs these things. There’s nothing to it. The Ministry doesn’t expect you to keep your word.’

  ‘Then the Ministry shouldn’t ask me to sign,’ he would say. Sometimes he altered a form so as to make his declaration accurate. No Government department can tolerate this. Either you sign the printed form unaltered or you don’t get the licence, they said. But it wouldn’t be true, he would say. Never mind, they would reply, we quite understand. Well, I don’t, he would say.

  As a solicitor, he was not much better. Law had seemed to him an admirable profession and suitable to his logical mind. Indeed, when in business he had more than once been told that he should be a ruddy lawyer. But he found the distinction between knowledge that your client is in the wrong and a firm belief to the same effect too nice a one.

  ‘It’s not for you to try the man,’ said one of his partners. ‘That’s for the Judge. You may be wrong.’

  ‘I dare say you’re right,’ he replied, ‘but it requires a person with a rather tougher conscience than mine to appear for someone who I’m quite sure is in the wrong and who gives eve
ry indication to me of being a thorough-paced liar; just because he tells me, with an oily grin, that he is in the right and can prove it by the evidence of some poisonous-looking reptiles whom he calls his independent witnesses.’

  So he gave up the law for teaching. This at first suited him better. But there he found not his conscience, but his intelligence, outraged.

  ‘It is perfectly ridiculous to try to cram all this into the boys in one term,’ he said to one headmaster.

  ‘I know,’ said the headmaster, ‘but it can be done and it’s necessary for the exams.’

  ‘The exams should be changed, then. They’ll forget most of it in the following term.’

  ‘No doubt you’re right,’ said the headmaster with a sigh, ‘and I don’t pretend I haven’t said and thought the same things as you. But it’s no good. If you want to get on you must fall into line.’

  ‘Permission, then, to fall out, please, sir,’ said Mr Pudsey. So he became a parson. And that really was his métier. It may be wondered why he had not become one from the start. The reason was quite simple. He had hoped that he could take into worldly affairs his strong beliefs and principles. He did not wish to be labelled a man of God by reason of his profession. He would have been very happy if, as a solicitor, he had been known as a man of God. Like all those who believe in God he did not think His presence was confined to a place of worship, and in the same way he hoped that, as an ordinary man wearing no dog-collar, he might have been able to carry on some ordinary calling without interference with his beliefs and principles. But it could not be done, and so, once ordained, he threw himself wholeheartedly into his new work. He loved it. He loved people, the good and the bad alike — often the bad the more, as they gave him more scope. He was never impatient; neither with hypocrites nor liars. But he tried to remove the veil, curtain, or brick wall by means of which some people keep themselves in ignorance of their faults. The process was sometimes a painful one for the patient, but he persevered, and only administered an anaesthetic in cases where it was essential.

  It was, then, on this formidable character that Basil called in accordance with his appointment.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met before,’ said the parson.

  ‘I have seen you about,’ said Basil.

  ‘Ah, then you are one of my parishioners?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not regular churchgoers.’

  ‘Ah, then you have been sometimes?’

  Basil began to realize quickly that, if some parsons lack intelligence, this one certainly didn’t.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Total abstainers, eh?’ said the parson. ‘Not on principle, I hope.’

  Basil decided to put up a fight. He enjoyed one, and it was a long time since the last.

  ‘For lack of it, I fear.’

  When you are really going to attack in argument you run with your opponent until the right moment occurs.

  ‘And you’d like some help? I’m delighted.’

  He, looked at Basil’s bald patch and greying hair.

  ‘It’s never too late, you know.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Basil, still running with the hare.

  ‘Now tell me,’ said the parson, ‘if you’ll forgive an intimate question on such an early acquaintanceship, would you describe yourself as a thoroughly unprincipled man? Don’t be alarmed at the nature of the question. We have several in our parish — very nice fellows, most of them. As a matter of fact, one of them is coming to tea this afternoon. No — I’m wrong, it’s tomorrow. He comes out this afternoon.’

  ‘Comes out?’ said Basil. He knew quite well what was meant, but felt that he should ask.

  ‘Prison, you know. Let me see, it was six months this time. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been inside, but don’t hesitate to say so if you have. We have no distinctions here.’

  ‘No. I haven’t — yet.’

  ‘Good,’ said the parson. ‘Good. I wonder how many people could say today that they had never been to prison — and never deserved to. You couldn’t, I suppose?’

  ‘Mr Pudsey,’ said Basil, who began to find running with the hare somewhat irksome. ‘I enjoy your frankness. But don’t you ever find that people whom you’ve never met before and who, incidentally, have come to try to be of some service to you, object to being asked how many crimes they have committed?’

  ‘Not how many,’ replied the parson. ‘Just whether any. I gather from the form of your questions that the answer in your case is, yes. Capital. I don’t often have such frank admissions on a first meeting. We should get on well together. And now, I believe, you wanted to render some small service to the Church.’

  ‘I didn’t say small.’

  ‘And what service from a puny, miserable mortal — I am not referring to you personally, you know, just to human beings in general — and what service from a mere man could be other than small? If you were burnt at the stake it would be a trifle to give your Creator in return for the manifold benefits He has given you.’

  ‘It would not surprise me,’ said Basil, ‘if all sorts of comic things were done in this unusual household, but I don’t imagine burning at the stake is one of them.’

  ‘Indeed, no. I hope I am a kindly man. I feel well disposed towards all — even towards rich and thoughtless men who assume that wealth is a substitute for conscience. I try to help them, Mr . . . er Mr . . .?’

  ‘Have you forgotten my name so soon? It is Merridew.’

  ‘Ah, yes — I shouldn’t have forgotten it. Quite a public man really. If I remember rightly you had some most unfortunate publicity — I’m sure you found it most painful — over an enticement action you felt compelled to bring. Most distressing, I’m sure. And then my cousin at Tapworth Magna — he’s the Vicar there — told me you stayed there for a short time. Your stamp collection hasn’t turned up, I suppose? They do occasionally. It would be a long shot, but I’d ask one or two of my parishioners if they knew anything about it. Such strange coincidences do occur.’

  This was quite wrong. The hare was apparently snapping at the hound and getting in several quite painful bites.

  ‘Mr Pudsey,’ said Basil, ‘funnily enough, I, like you, am a patient man, and I have a great respect for your calling.’

  ‘Not bred of familiarity, I gather.’

  ‘But in point of fact I haven’t come to discuss my own private failings with you. It occurred to me that there might be some Church undertaking especially in need of funds to which I could subscribe. You are right in thinking that I am a man of means. You will forgive me if I don’t discuss with you the nature of my conscience. The position is this: I am a full member of your Church and I am willing to subscribe — quite substantially too — to any one or more of your funds, if you would like me to do so. If you do not, you have only to say so, and I will then ascertain whether your Bishop has any such funds which are in need of my assistance. I will at the same time inquire from him whether he approves of the clergy in his diocese going out of their way to insult their parishioners without the slightest provocation.’

  The hound was nipping back.

  ‘Capital,’ said Mr Pudsey. ‘Even for a patient man, you have shown great tolerance. Such men are rare. Most would have walked out. Offerings from such as you will most certainly be acceptable, and the larger the better. You are most kind. Incidentally, pray don’t think I’m trying to divert your generosity from any of the Bishop’s funds. And by all means report this conversation to him. He would be most interested to know that I had met you. We have discussed you several times.’

  Basil thought quickly and decided not to ask for details of these discussions. Instead, he got out his cheque-book.

  ‘A business man, I see,’ said Mr Pudsey. ‘I was one myself once. We have a lot in common, I see — except, I hope, our bank balances. Now — would it be impertinent to inquire how much you propose to offer?’

  ‘I had thought of £2.000.’

  ‘That indeed is most generous. I acc
ept it gladly. It will ease several burdens. Oh no, I was not referring to any light ones on your conscience. If you could go to £2,500, we could complete all the repairs we have in hand.’

  Basil hesitated, but he made out the cheque for £2,500.

  ‘That is indeed most kind,’ said the parson. ‘I hope now that we have met I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at one of our services. My sermons are quite short — and never directed at an individual. Do try and come, if you have the time — I realize, of course, that it must be difficult for such a successful man to find it. But think it over. So very glad to have met you, Mr Merridew. You see, I haven’t forgotten the name this time.’

  Basil left and was soon back at his flat, reporting the result of his visit.

  ‘Not only did he call me all the names under the sun, but, having done so and after I’d threatened to report him to his Bishop, he pushed me up from £2,000 to £2,500. It was a lousy idea of yours, Nicholas. Perhaps I’d better go and see your flower-seller to make up.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Basil, ‘perhaps it isn’t worth it. But as for doing good being the answer — I feel like robbing an offertory box at the moment.’

  ‘I don’t know, old boy,’ said Nicholas. ‘I quite understand how you feel about it. I should have felt the same, but one swallow doesn’t make a summer. I vote we have another try. After all, we’re getting nowhere as it is. Bored to tears. The Vicar didn’t bore you, anyway. You must admit that.’

  ‘You’re right there. At first, when he started on me, I thought it would be rather fun. But I found I was getting considerably more than I was giving. He knows too much about us. D’you know, his cousin was the chap at Tapworth. That was a nasty one. Then he’d read all about the enticement case. I dare say he’s added it all up. I thought I’d better pay and get out. I tell you, I cut a pretty poor figure. I bet he’ll tell old Maitland Temperley all about it. He’ll love it. However, you’re quite right, Nicholas, really. We’ve got to try something — but no more vicars, thank you. How about advertising? We’d get a lot of crooks and cranks, but we might find something amusing.’