The Love Department

by William Trevor

  ‘I’ve got a house to sell,’ James said the next morning, standing in the office of an estate agent.

  ‘Sir,’ said a man in tweeds. ‘And where would that be?’

  James told him, and the man, who was, he said, new in the area, added that he didn’t know the place and suggested that they drive out together to take a look at it.

  ‘My father died,’ said James in the car, ‘having lived there alone, with a daily woman coming in, and a resident nurse. He had been an invalid.’

  ‘Sorry to hear all that, sir,’ said the estate agent, waving at a prospective client. ‘Elderly, sir?’

  ‘Eighty-one this month. He and my mother ran a market garden there in their time. That makes this more difficult, I think. The whole place is something of a shambles.’

  ‘I have an aged dad myself,’ remarked the estate agent thoughtfully. ‘Gives us the hell of a time.’

  ‘I mean,’ said James, ‘we couldn’t try and sell it as a market garden. Nothing like that. Everything’s far gone.’

  ‘Not to worry, sir,’ said the estate agent, but when they arrived at the house he gave a whistle and kept his lips pursed for some time afterwards.

  ‘I thought an auction of the furniture,’ said James. ‘Wouldn’t that be best? And then just sell the rest as best you can.’ He led the way around the rooms, and the estate agent wagged his head knowingly. From time to time he heaved his shoulders and sighed. He said eventually:

  ‘You know, sir, it would pay you to tart this old property up a piece.’ He dug his heel into a rotting board in the dining-room and twisted it about, powdering the surface of the wood. ‘Fix up that kind of thing, put in a bit of heating and an Aga cooker, slap on a coat or two of paint.’

  ‘No,’ said James. ‘I don’t at all want that. I want it taken off my hands. I know it’s large and inconvenient, but surely some institution would have a use for it?’

  ‘It’s large, sir, yes, but then not large enough to take an institution. A country club, maybe.’

  ‘I thought a prep school. Or an asylum.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir,’ said the estate agent, and vouchsafed no explanation beyond the statement that though large in one way the house was small in others.

  ‘I’ll have the clothes carted off,’ said James. ‘I’ll have that done before I return to London.’

  ‘Personal effects. If you would, sir.’

  ‘And leave everything else with you. Ask whatever price you think suitable, and release me as soon as possible of the liability.’

  The estate agent drove away after a brief discussion of details, and James was left with his father’s clothes, sorting them out and tying them into bundles. When he had finished, he lit a fire in the room that had been his father’s study and sat down beside it with bundles of letters and papers, most of which he burnt.

  In London, speaking to Septimus Tuam, Eve said that she should be with her husband. ‘I should be with him now,’ she said. ‘There’ll be a lot to do.’

  ‘How could you?’ murmured Septimus Tuam. ‘You’ve got these kiddies to see to. You’ve got to go on as always, driving them off to school and preparing food for meals. I know a mother’s drill, dear.’

  Eve did not understand why she had fallen in love with Septimus Tuam as she had so clearly understood her love for James. More than ten years ago James had courted her in a conventional way, in a way that was agreeable to understand. He had stood beside her, a handsome man, and made a fuss of her; Septimus Tuam seemed still to trail absurdity. Septimus Tuam was a figure of fun almost, with his soft corduroy suit and peculiar speech. Septimus Tuam seemed to have a dimension missing – yet that, Eve felt, must in fairness be an impression gained because she didn’t know him very well. She felt absurd herself when she was with him. She had felt that in Crannoc Avenue when she had stood with the orange-coloured duster, unable to move it; she had felt it when he had spoken about his uncle Lord Marchingpass. He had seemed like someone who might be in a circus, and he made her feel as though she belonged there too.

  Eve tried to glimpse a future, but it came to her only in bits and pieces. She saw Septimus Tuam playing with a coloured ball, throwing it from one of her children to the other, as though employed to perform that task. She saw herself with him, without her children, in a country that appeared to be of the Middle East. Recognizing all the silliness in it, she beheld a romantic scene: a quiet wedding, attended by a handful of friendly Arabs, and a celebration at which the local food was consumed in quantity. ‘Bless your heart, my love,’ Septimus Tuam was saying in this scene, wearing a grey hat. He had some journalistic job; he was engaged upon sending reports back to England on some political upheaval.

  ‘I am a seventh child,’ her lover said. ‘I am the runt of that family.’ He spoke, it seemed to Eve, with that grey linen hat lazily upon his head, leaning over a typewriter that was gritty with desert sand. And it seemed, almost, to be as part of the wedding ceremony that he had offered the information that he was the seventh child and the runt of his family. She closed her eyes, and the friendly Arabs danced.

  ‘I nearly died,’ said Septimus Tuam, ‘as a matter of fact. My mother had reached the end of her tether.’

  Eve sat up and blew her nose. She smiled, and Septimus Tuam said:

  ‘I should have dropped dead from my mother’s womb: I should have been the subject of a little funeral. I might have lived two hours.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, please don’t say all that –’

  ‘Visualize this coffin, eight inches long. Fairies could carry it.’

  ‘It’s not a time to think of coffins.’

  ‘I was an unwanted child. An error of judgement.’

  Eve shook her head, but Septimus Tuam nodded his.

  ‘My brothers and sisters threw tins and boxes at me. I was struck all over the head. The dog took exception to me. I invaded the dog’s domain.’

  ‘Well, you are wanted now.’

  He spoke of love. He said that love, in its way, made the world go round. He repeated phrases he had heard on the wireless or had read in picture magazines. He said he loved Eve Bolsover; he said he didn’t know how he had ever existed without her.

  ‘I’ve been a bad lad,’ said Septimus Tuam, ‘I’ve been a bad lad in my time, with lots of ladies. I’ve led them up the garden path. I’ve done a naughty thing or two.’

  Eve closed her eyes. Everyone, she said, had done a naughty thing or two.

  ‘I don’t mind admitting it,’ said Septimus Tuam. ‘I am making a confession, as I would make it direct to the Maker. I know what there is to know: I have never loved till I came to love you.’

  Eve said she loved him in turn. She talked for a while about James, confessing that she felt particularly guilty, since she, as much as he, was responsible for the decay in their marriage. ‘We were on parallel lines,’ she said, ‘and you know what happens with those.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Septimus Tuam, thinking of something else altogether, of a character called Creeko, actually, whose adventures he was currently reading about in a serial story. Creeko, as far as Septimus Tuam could see, was destined to burn to death, since he had taken up a precarious position on the roof of a wooden building that ravaging Redskins had lit with an oil flare.

  ‘Poor James,’ said Eve.

  Septimus Tuam nodded his head.

  ‘I love you,’ said Eve.

  ‘My dear, of course you do,’ said Septimus Tuam. ‘Why ever shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Poor James,’ said Eve again.

  Lake wondered which of the eight men to approach, and decided in the end to take his tale to Mr Linderfoot, because he imagined that in conversation with Mr Linderfoot he might kill two birds with one stone. He reckoned that it was now only a matter of time before Bolsover was totally discredited, and as soon as that happened there would arise at once the problem of what to do about Brownie. He wished to hasten the discrediting of Bolsover and the dispatch of Brownie to other pastures, leaving him with a straigh
t run to Bolsover’s position and a starlet.

  Mr Linderfoot took the wrapping off a Rennies tablet and slipped the medicine on to his tongue. He said:

  ‘By all means have a word with me, Lake. Have two or three, Lake.’ He laughed and Lake laughed.

  ‘Confidential, Mr Linderfoot. A confidential matter.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Mr Linderfoot. ‘Make it as confidential as you wish. Sit down, old friend. Take the weight off your dogs.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I tell you what, Lake, I wish I was your age. There’s some talent in the building these days, eh? Grrr!’

  ‘Grrr, sir,’ said Lake.

  ‘I suppose a bachelor like yourself would be getting it from a different source every night? I can just see you, old friend, moving into action.’

  Lake smiled enormously. He said:

  ‘Mr Bolsover, sir, is a sickish man. We’ve been noticing, Mr Linderfoot, those of us who work close to him, and we decided it best to come into the open and pass on the information. For the sake of the company and its trading, sir.’

  ‘When I was your age, Lake, I was out every night of my life. I used to know a girl by the name of Sandra Flynn. By gum, she could put it away. She worked for a solicitor down Epping way.’

  Lake smiled and murmured. Mr Linderfoot said:

  ‘There was another, I remember, who kept a confectionery kiosk. I was buying a bar of Crunchie off her one day and she gave me the green light. “Close up that stall,” I said, “and come out for a spin.” I was away, I said to myself. And so I was, Lake.’

  ‘I was saying about Mr Bolsover, sir. He’s a sick man, Mr Linderfoot.’

  ‘The wife is a fine-looking piece of goods.’

  ‘I’ve never met Mrs Bolsover.’

  ‘Five foot five inches, good bones and skin, attractive hair. There was another woman in the Bolsovers’ house. A Mrs Hoop who threw herself all over me, you know. I was being helpful in an emergency and up comes this creature with her green light going, as keen as a copper.’

  ‘You were in Mr Bolsover’s house, sir?’

  ‘A few of us were: Clinger, the Captain and myself, with what wives we could muster.’ Mr Linderfoot paused, thinking back. He shook his head and said, ‘There’s some, Lake, who wouldn’t understand a passing attachment of any kind at all. “She was on to me like a leech,” I was obliged to report when a few members of the board were discussing the incident afterwards. “I couldn’t get rid of the girl,” I put it to them, when the gospel truth was I was giving as good as I got. “Come out to the kitchen,” I said, “till we see what it’s like there.” You mightn’t believe it, old friend, but there’s some in our organization who could be stuffy over a thing like that. Our Mr Clinger, for example, doesn’t know one end of a woman from the other.’

  ‘You had a pleasant evening at the Bolsovers’ house, Mr Linderfoot?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so at all, actually. More like a shambles. Clinger behaved badly, arguing like a street vendor and bringing a tropical animal into the house.’

  Lake, who had feared that Bolsover had improved his position by inviting his seniors to his house, was relieved to hear that the occasion had not been successful. He said:

  ‘Mr Bolsover could do with a break, sir. I was wondering about compassionate leave, sir. Miss Brown has noticed the same. The way things are at the moment it’s only a question of time.’

  ‘Who’s Miss Brown?’

  ‘Mr Bolsover’s young secretary. The Welsh girl, sir, with the glasses.’

  ‘Welsh, eh?’

  ‘Miss Brown hails from Llanberis, sir.’

  ‘Does she, by Jove?’

  ‘Mr Bolsover’s under an intolerable strain, sir. You understand, Mr Linderfoot, that Miss Brown and I are particularly devoted to Mr Bolsover? We would lay down our lives for Mr Bolsover, sir. We have come to know him, sir.’

  ‘Llanberis, eh?’

  ‘Miss Brown came to me, sir, feeling it was her duty. “Excuse me, Mr Lake,” she said, and then paused, sir, as I did just now before relating the matter to you. She stood by my desk, sir, and said this was a delicate thing and highly confidential.’

  ‘You’ve got her with child, have you? We can’t have that, old friend. There are new ways, Lake.’

  ‘I have not done any such thing, Mr Linderfoot. I’m not that sort of person, sir. “What’s on your mind, Miss Brown?” I said, speaking in an informal way.’

  ‘You are puzzling me greatly, old friend.’

  ‘All I am saying, sir, is that Mr Bolsover is not well. Everyone who works near him has noticed it. “It’s his memory,” said Miss Brown, “his memory’s failing him all over the place.” Apparently, he stuffs the company’s letters into his pockets and throws them into the river in the lunch-hour. “What can we do to help him?” I questioned Miss Brown. “How can we help?” “If we can, we must,” cried Miss Brown. “That poor man.” ’

  ‘Quite right of Miss Brown,’ said Mr Linderfoot, wondering what all this was about. He found himself staring at Lake’s head and thinking it odd that Lake should have no hair at his age. He wondered if he had ever had hair, but did not like to ask him.

  ‘So Miss Brown said to me, “Go and see Mr Linderfoot. Mr Linderfoot will know what to do.” Miss Brown, sir, has a very high opinion of you.’

  ‘Of me, old friend?’ said Mr Linderfoot quietly. ‘Are you sure of that?’ Mr Linderfoot narrowed his eyes. He drew his lips back from his teeth. He made a sucking noise before he spoke. He said:

  ‘What else does Miss Brown say?’

  ‘She agrees with me, sir. She thinks Mr Bolsover is under an intolerable strain.’

  ‘I think I’d like to meet this Miss Brown some time.’

  I am now moving into position two, said Lake to himself. Watch this.

  ‘You would like Miss Brown, I think, sir. She has a very attractive figure. In the office she has the reputation of being a person of unawakened passion. Welsh girls are among the most passionate in these isles. I’ve heard that said.’

  ‘What’s her hair like?’

  ‘A head of curls, Mr Linderfoot. Chestnut.’

  ‘Ask her to drop by and see me,’ ordered Mr Linderfoot in a low voice, not looking at Lake, already planning to take the girl to a public house and give her a few glasses of gin no matter what she looked like. But Lake was making a sound that was unusual for him to make. It was a protesting sound, a sound that suggested that for Mr Linderfoot it was not going to be as easy as that.

  ‘If you’ll pardon me, Mr Linderfoot,’ he was saying, ‘I think you’d need to advance with a certain caution where Miss Brown is concerned. She is not a girl to be taken unawares.’

  ‘What d’you mean, old friend?’

  ‘Let me prime the situation, sir. Let me drop a hint or two into Miss Brown’s ear, explaining the advantages. Otherwise the manoeuvre might come to nothing at all. Which would be a pity, Mr Linderfoot, with so interesting a child.’

  ‘A child, is she?’

  ‘Little more,’ said Lake. ‘How about my having a word with Miss Brown while you, sir, look into the Bolsover business? Will you do that, sir, to please Miss Brown and myself? We would be happier in our minds, sir; Miss Brown would rest happier in her bed, sir.’

  ‘In her bed, eh?’ said Mr Linderfoot.

  Lake clapped his hands gently together. He began to wink one eye and grin and laugh in a nudgingly familiar manner.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ demanded Mr Linderfoot.

  ‘I was just thinking about Miss Brown, sir.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Mr Linderfoot. ‘I’ll do the thinking about Miss Brown.’

  Later that day Mr Linderfoot called a meeting of the older members of the board. He said:

  ‘I am loath to say it, but I have no option. The presence of Mr Bolsover on this board has not proved to be a satisfactory thing. I said at the time that he was too young a man, and what I am saying now is that the strain has been too great
for him. It is all very well for men of our maturity, men who have been through the mill of life and have experience to fall back on, but it’s not at all so with poor Bolsover. Bolsover, I need hardly remind you, has repeatedly arrived in this room with powder on his clothes. We do not know why it is on his clothes; we do not know where the powder comes from; we do not know what this powder is. Someone said, at first, that it was Keating’s Powder, placed there for a purpose; and then the theory was that it was lime, that Bolsover for a reason of his own was involved with a kiln. Lately, some of us have come to believe that this powder is nothing more or less than common or garden baker’s flour. So there we are. Bolsover offers no explanation in the world. He stands in his shirt and trousers, expecting us to wipe him down. On the face of it, it might seem to be a jest of some kind.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ interrupted Mr Clinger. ‘We know all this, you know.’

  ‘I am coming to my point, old friend,’ said Mr Linderfoot. ‘I have a revelation. Bear with me while I sketch in a simple background.’

  ‘It’ll take all day. He’s as slow as a snail.’

  ‘I am moving at the right speed for the purpose. I am speaking in confidence, you know.’

  ‘All proceedings in this room are confidential,’ pointed out one of the eight. ‘Have you finished, Linderfoot? Is there to be undue delay?’

  ‘I am merely saying what I have to say.’