by James Anson
"Hope so," said Michael. "There are odd tales about him. The usual rubbish. I'd better get these dishes done."
Robert looked after him. Think I'll poke around a bit, see what I can find, he thought.
The next morning Michael packed his few things while Robert ate his breakfast.
"That's the lot then. I've cut some wood for the range, the doctor will look in later today. Anything else you'd like done?"
"No. Thanks for your help," said Robert.
The telephone rang and he went over to answer it. "Oh, it's you, Halliwell. Can't we discuss it on the phone? Well, it will have to be next week, I've gone and crocked up my leg, can't move at all at the moment. No, I wouldn't be able to drive the car - doctor's orders."
Michael grinned as Robert went on lying valiantly, but Robert finally gave in and agreed, under duress, to go up to London the following weekend.
"Damn, damn, damn," said Robert as he put the telephone receiver down. "Though maybe with a bit of luck there'll be a rail strike or something. I hate going up to London."
Michael grinned. "Rob, you're a sod. Well, I'm off. See you around."
Robert settled back at his table and began to make notes.
Chapter Three
A week later Mr Halliwell looked across his desk and sighed. "You will not consider attending the literary luncheon at Foyle's?"
"I will not," said Robert. "Better things to do with my time than sit listening to a bunch of bloody egotists telling me how good their last book was."
"Of course," said Mr Halliwell. "Now if I proposed an appearance by you on one of the better television book programmes - would that be more acceptable?"
"It would not," said Robert. "Not that," he added amiably, "I wouldn't like to shred that bloody poet ..."
"Ahem," said Mr Halliwell. "We'll leave the question of the luncheon for the moment then." He ignored Robert's glare. "This is the cover the Art Department are proposing for the book."
Robert looked at it and emitted a four-lettered word.
"I was afraid you would say that," said Mr Halliwell. "I imagine you'd like less naked flesh and more attention to the text?"
"Definitely," said Robert. "And tell 'em from me I've seen better art on lavatory walls!"
"Leg's bad again, is it?" asked Mr Halliwell, noticing Robert shifting in his chair.
"It's a shit, thank you. Anything else?"
"Well, here's the blurb for the inside; nothing offensive in that. They would like a short biographical piece - if you are agreeable?"
"Forget it," said Robert.
"There is a rumour going about that you're a vicar's daughter writing under a pen name," remarked Mr Halliwell.
"The Brontës ride again, eh?" said Robert. "Good. Might sell more copies."
"Here's a cheque from the American sales. They're improving - despite your visit," said Mr Halliwell. He disliked being rung in the early hours of the morning to soothe the ruffled feelings of irate American publishers.
In passing the cheque to Robert he dislodged a pile of artwork. Robert found himself confronted with a passionate clinch which almost seared the eyeballs.
"What the hell's that for?" he asked. "New edition of the Kama Sutra?"
"No. 'Tropical Nights'. Maisie Dalrymple's latest. It almost lives up to the cover, too.
She's a wonderful businesswoman - no trouble with her publicity."
"Her writing gives me heartburn," said Robert. "I've met her, haven't I?"
"Her books keep the firm afloat," said Mr Halliwell, "and enable them to publish the less well-selling authors like yourself."
"My problem is that I appeal to the thinking reader," said Robert. "And there's too damn few of 'em! Remember her now, a big woman. She threw a glass of champagne over me at that damned literary lunch you conned me into going to. Cheap stuff it was too. Made sure there was a photographer nearby, I noticed!"
"It was free," said Mr Halliwell. "And it was entirely your own fault, asking her where she parked her truck and making an observation about her male companion."
"I'd forgotten him." Robert grinned reminiscently.
"Well unless you wish to meet Maisie again we'd better terminate this meeting. I'm expecting her very shortly," said Mr Halliwell.
Robert agreed he didn't and left the office; he still had several hours to wait for his train and debated going for a meal. Then he heard his name being called and turned.
"Hello, Mike! What brought you out of the stables?"
"International, of course," said Michael, surprised. "I have tickets for two good seats, Ashley's too young, Amy's still got her leg up. Glad I met you."
"Mike, I'm not going to any horse show, especially with you! Can't stand 'em."
Michael's face fell: he looked like a child being told there was no Santa Claus.
Robert, against his better judgement, melted.
"All right then, but if I miss my train ..." he threatened.
Michael beamed with pleasure.
Several hours later Robert had to admit he was enjoying himself, listening to his companion's libellous comments on the riders, 'Godzilla with spurs' being his comment on one. Robert had disagreed on the grounds Godzilla had more charm.
Never remember being this young myself, he thought wryly, watching Michael.
"You'll be sick if you eat any more peanuts," he found himself saying indulgently.
Then, "Bloody hell, I've missed my train!"
Michael was unconcerned. "You can stay at our hotel. They'll fit you in. Then I can take you round in the morning, introduce you to people and their horses."
"That will be nice," said Robert shortly.
"That's the end," said Michael sadly. "Come on, hotel isn't far."
Robert was relieved to find the small hotel seemed clean and respectable even if it was crammed to the gunnels with horsy types, all of whom hailed Michael with enthusiasm. With the aid of some positively indecent charm from Michael they had a camp-bed moved into his room, every other room being taken.
"You can have mine with your bad leg," said Michael. "Now let's go and have a couple of drinks with the lads."
"It's after hours," said Robert.
"Is it? Forget it - I will," said Michael.
'The lads' were congregated in the small lounge with a tiny bar; from the crates also stacked there Robert guessed extra supplies had been brought in. The smell of the stables hung over all.
"This place caters for our sort," yelled Michael over the din. "Paddy!"
A large Irish thug bounded over. "Saw you in the crowd, Mike. What do you think of Joe's new horse?" He looked at Robert curiously. "How's Amy?"
"Still got her leg in plaster," said Michael. They moved away, talking horses.
Robert got himself a cider and went into a corner, composing a short article on 'Does too much contact with a saddle damage the brain?' before he was accosted.
"Good heavens, it's March, isn't it?"
He was about to make his usual response of, 'Well, yes, it was when I got up this morning,' when he recognised a police colleague - mounted, of course. "Yes, sir."
"Thought you didn't care for horses?"
"I don't. Came with Faulkner there - he had a ticket going spare. Then I missed my train."
Michael came over to them with a couple of whiskies. "Here, Rob. 'Lo, Geoff, you having anything?"
"Nothing now, thank you. Have to leave shortly. March tells me he came with you."
"Yes, went out with the Hunt last month, lives in my village now."
"Good. Always wondered where you'd gone, March. Could have stayed on, you know. Clerical job, of course."
"I would have been climbing the walls in six months," said Robert. "Do all right with my books and pension. Excuse me, I have to find the bog."
"That way," said Michael, pointing. He watched Robert limp away. "Leg's bothering him," he remarked.
"Yes. It's a pity - he was a good officer: had a commendation for the action he was injured in. Bad m
arriage too; he was devoted to their child. When he was killed there was nothing to keep them together. Hope life is better for him now. Suppose I'd better be off. See you at Ballsbridge then, Faulkner?"
"Probably," he said. "Good night."
Robert looked at himself in the small mirror. Might as well take yourself off to bed: only ruin everyone else's night if you stay down here growling, he told himself.
Michael was leaning on the small bar looking tired when he went back into the lounge.
"Mike, I'm packing it in now; going to take a pill. Leg's giving me gyp. I should be asleep when you come up." He looked about him; the party seemed to be warming up. "If you ever do, that is."
Michael, coming up later, found Robert fast asleep and made his unsteady way to the bathroom. When Robert awoke, the sun was streaming in, and Michael was holding onto the bed- post for support.
"Bathroom's free," he intoned with an effort.
"You look bloody awful," said Robert.
"Don't raise your voice," whispered Michael. "Feel it - didn't drink much either: just a couple of jars with the team. They're good lads. Surprised the singing didn't wake you - or the coffee table collapsing."
"Glad I missed it," said Robert. "Tell me, how do you fancy going to a literary luncheon?"
Michael nodded brightly, then winced.
Get my own back, thought Robert, his resolve hardening after he had to step over sleeping bodies apparently kipping down in the lounge on his way to breakfast.
Several gentlemen of rumpled military aspect were there, sporting what the books call 'a delightful brogue'. Robert viewed them all with instant suspicion.
They were well into their breakfast, Michael having revived at the sight of a plate of food, when an older, uniformed man joined them with a muttered apology to Robert.
"Faulkner, I'm wondering if you could work out with the horses this morning. Several of the lads ... well, they're not up to it at the moment and Himself will not be pleased when he finds out. And he'll enjoy a chat with you."
"Oh ... yes," said Michael, looking at him. "Might as well. I need the exercise and Robert will enjoy seeing the horses. We'll be over."
Robert opened his mouth to say he wouldn't be, then relented. Thinks he's giving me a treat, he thought. It won't hurt to miss my next train.
It turned out to be 'a grand morning', as everyone kept saying. The commandant in charge, with a limp as bad as Robert's, was a fan of his books, so they spent a peaceful morning in the sun chatting while Robert nursed a large glass of good Irish whiskey, admiring the well turned-out horses.
"My brother in the Garda reads your books too," Commandant O'Hare was saying.
"I'm looking forward to having more time to read when I retire at the end of the year."
"It doesn't work that way," said Robert. "Always need more time. Mike’s enjoying himself."
"Yes, it's good to see him fit again: we didn't think he'd make it this last time."
"He told me he served in the Middle East - with the U.N.?" said Robert.
"Yes, that's right. With Faulkner having dual nationality it's difficult; he can't serve up on the Border. You'll understand about that?"
"Yes," said Robert, going back to his drink.
After an excellent lunch, courtesy of the Irish Army, they caught the train home, British Rail doing its best as usual to make the journey memorable in terms of discomfort.
"You would think," said Michael, "that after making us change three times, they would have something better to offer at the buffet than warm Pepsi ..."
"I thought you were signing the pledge this morning," said Robert.
"Only in the first frightful moments. You've gone quiet. Leg bothering you?"
"No," said Robert shortly. "Just having a think. Read your paper."
"'Found between two barmaids'," read Michael. "Lucky man, it never happens to me."
"Shut up," said Robert. "According to village gossip it happens to you all the time! Wish you'd get a better class of paper."
"It's got you in it," said Michael.
"Hell, where?" said Robert, leaning over.
"Right here, after the piece about Lady Penelope Thwaite's rubber underwear. 'Well-known reclusive writer' - doesn't sound quite right that - 'may be at one of Foyle's celebrated literary luncheons.' It says you've been seen with a well-known Society lady."
"Doesn't say who, does it?" asked Robert with mild interest. "Bloody Halliwell. What are you doing next Tuesday?" he added.
Michael looked vague. "Seeing a man about a horse, I think."
"No, you're not. Get your suit pressed and come up to the Dorchester with me: free food and booze, lousy company."
"I do like a party," said Michael cheerfully. Robert glared out of the train window.
When he got home Robert rang Mr Halliwell to express his displeasure, then announced that he would be going to the luncheon, and that he would be bringing a chum.
"Not another writer, I hope?" said Mr Halliwell. "The afternoon will be difficult enough as it is."
"No, my neighbour," said Robert. "Doubt if he can sign his name."
He duly collected Michael on the big day, surprised to see how spruce he could look.
"My best suit still smells of horse," said Michael. "Wow, a Merc ... Can we go through the village so they can see it?"
"Shut up, Mike. I know Amy drives one."
"Yes, she won it in a raffle," said Michael. "You nearly went in the hedge then."
"Just tell me the quickest way to the motorway," said Robert.
Robert gave a sigh of relief as they drove up to the Dorchester. He always hated driving in London. After instructing the garage man in the correct care of his car they made their way into the hotel.
"This looks like it," said Robert, peering into a room; it was full of people and tobacco smoke.
"Hello, Halliwell," said Robert. "Where's the bar?"
"Over there, Mr March, behind all those backs. I've put Mr Faulkner beside you at the table. Does he have any special interests?"
"Yes," said Robert, "but I don't think you'll cater for them here."
"He seems to have found someone to talk to already," said Mr Halliwell.
"He would, he's very undiscriminating," said Robert. "Now, what did you want to get me here for?"
"American publisher I want you to meet. Now Mr Danzinger refuses to have anything more to do with your books I want you to meet Mr Sheridan. He's a very good sort and has expressed an interest. Could you - for once - try and be pleasant?"
Robert sniffed. He found, however, that he and Mr Sheridan had a shared interest in something other than books and the interview closed on a much more amicable note than Mr Halliwell had hoped for, or expected.
Duty done, Robert made his way to a quiet corner with a drink and attempted to shut out the party. He noticed to his annoyance that Michael seemed to be having a good time; he was just working on a plot line when a voice impinged on his thoughts. He looked up to find Michael standing there, Maisie Dalrymple on his arm.
"Hello, March," she barked. "Your charming friend tells me you've been hiding yourself away in the country."
"He's got a big mouth," said Robert.
"You are throwing yourself away on him you know, darling," she said, patting Michael's arm. "Ah, there's my publisher, I must fly."
"Bitch," said Robert. "All she needs is a broom."
"I think she's a charming lady," said Michael. "My sister used to read her books. She thinks I'm your boyfriend," he went on.
Robert choked on his drink. "I trust you disabused her of that idea," he said.
"Actually," drawled Michael, "I was going to suggest you announce our engagement. I've been propositioned twice already this afternoon." He batted his eyelashes at Robert.
"Very funny," growled Robert. "Serve you right if I took you up on that."
"No, it wouldn't," said Michael. "I'd accept right away. Fancied you from the moment we met ... Like we were made for each othe
r."
"Idiot," said Robert. "Come on, lunch is ready. I want to get away as soon as we can after it."
"I'm enjoying myself," said Michael, aggrieved.
Robert glared at him.
The meal would have been acceptable, Robert admitted, if he hadn't had to listen to that stupid sod going on about his pet theory (Professor Lowe wrote books and had opinions with which Robert disagreed profoundly). Michael, of course, was talking cricket with animation with his neighbour.
"Well then," said Professor Lowe, "what do you think of the proposition?"
"I think," said Robert, "it's a load of ..."
At that moment Mr Halliwell rapped smartly on the table. "Ladies and gentlemen, our host would now like to say a few words."
Thankfully it was much more than a few words and Professor Lowe had to leave early, thereby depriving the newspapers from reporting 'ugly scenes at Dorchester luncheon'.
They were well on their way home when Robert realised his leg was cramping badly.
"You had much to drink, Mike?"
"No, why?"
"Leg's giving me gyp. Take over the driving, will you? Have you got a licence?"
"Of course," said Michael. "I'm qualified to drive a tank."
"Well just remember this isn't one. You pay for any damage."
Once satisfied his car was in safe hands Robert sat back and relaxed, until he said:
"You can go faster than this you know, Mike."
"Not according to the last sign we passed - and you an ex-cop."
There was a snort and a mumble, Robert settling back again.
"Almost home," said Michael, some time later. "Like to drop in my place for a drink? We'll pass there first."
"All right, I need to stretch this leg. They should put more lights on this bloody road."
Robert grunted with approval as they entered Michael's house. "Glad you've got the heating on, thought you might be the Spartan kind."
"No, I feel the cold after the Middle East - had it put in with the money from selling the other lodge to you. Still can't shift the manor, mouldy old ruin."
Robert wandered about the small room, inspecting the bookcases. "Going to have to borrow some of your books off you. Thought all you'd have would be bound copies of Horse and Hound - and Wisden, of course. This your family on the mantlepiece?"