by Gerald Kersh
“What about your friend, Dick Trew?”
“What, Trew? Oh no, not Trewie, Louie dear! He likes his little joke, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that to me.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” asked Louisa. “Isn’t he always sending people faked-up telegrams, and ringing people up in the middle of the night? Didn’t you tell me once about how he rang up a doctor at three o’clock in the morning and said that he was to go at once to somebody-or-other’s house on a matter of life and death? Well, I didn’t think that was a bit funny. I thought it was a cruel, nasty trick. Anybody who’d do a thing like that would do anything, to anybody.”
“But, Louie dear, how could it be Trew? I mean, he borrowed money off me on the strength of it. I spent pounds on him over the week-end. It’d be – why, it’d be getting money under false pretences – it’d be stealing!”
“Of course it would, Ted, but I dare say he’d think it was all the funnier for that. I know his kind.”
Middleton, who had been toying nervously with his spoon, clenched his fist so violently that the spoon bent almost double. “I’ll find out,” he said, in a whisper, “and if Trew did that to me, I swear to God I’ll murder the swine. I will, Louie – I will!” He was almost physically sick with anger and pain.
Louisa said: “The thing is, first of all, to make up our minds what we’re going to do now.”
“There isn’t anything to do. We’ve got nothing to sell, nothing to pawn . . . Nothing!”
“Perhaps the bank would let you pay the money off.”
“Some hopes. Even if they did, they’d make inquiries about me at the office, and I’d be out anyway. I haven’t banked any money ever – I’ve only drawn out what there was after Mother died. No, I tell you, Louie dear, we’re in the soup.”
“There’s one thing I could do,” said Louisa. “That man Mr. Duck is a nice sort of man. I could go along to him and tell him the whole story, and promise faithfully that we’d pay him off at so much a week. You know, I think he might let us do that, Ted. I’ll run along now and ask him not to pay that cheque in, and tell him the whole truth. Let’s do that. I’ll do it – it’ll be better, coming from me. What do you say?”
“It might work,” said Middleton, dubiously.
“Well, you run along to the office, and I’ll go and talk to Mr. Duck, and we’ll meet at one o’clock.”
“The office!” said Middleton. “The office! The office! What the devil am I to say?”
“Don’t say anything. Play for a bit of time. Say you’re waiting for news, or something.”
“There’s nothing else for it,” said Middleton, with a flash of that feverish cheerfulness which sometimes animates frightened men in condemned cells when they learn that the last appeal has been rejected, and catch the calculating eye of a grim man in dark clothes who is looking them over through the grille and calculating the length of the drop. “We’ll meet at one o’clock sharp in Sweetings, and I’ll be damned if we don’t eat a steak. I’ve got over five pounds left. The last supper, eh?”
“I think you’d better give me the five pounds, Teddykins. I could give it to Mr. Duck. It would show willing.”
“Oh. All right. I’ll meet you just outside Sweetings, then, at one o’clock.”
So they parted, and Middleton dragged himself to the office. He got there at half-past ten. He had been too excited to eat breakfast. The coffee squelched and gurgled in his nervous stomach as he pushed open the door and walked in. His desk was piled high with unopened letters. “Where do you think you’ve been?” asked the chief clerk of the mail order department.
“I’m a little late, I’m afraid,” said Middleton.
“A little late! Do you realise it’s twenty-three minutes to eleven?”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is, Middleton. And the boss has been asking for you since half-past nine. He’s asked for you three times. He said you were to go to his office the minute you came in,” said the chief clerk, shaking his head.
“Oh. Tell me, was he . . . did he . . . how did he . . . ?”
“He’s in a rotten temper, I can tell you, Middleton. He’s been biting everybody’s head off. He nearly gave young Oakley the sack for turning up in flannel trousers. I tell you, liver’s twopence a pound this morning. Better think up something good by way of an excuse, I warn you, or I’m afraid you’re in for it.”
“Is my hair straight?”
“It’ll do. But you’ve got rings under your eyes, you know; you look as if you’ve been having a pretty thick week-end. Well, better go in and get it over. I’ll be sorry to lose you, Middleton – I’m not at all sure that Mr. Woolley can take over your job. It all falls on me. Let me know the worst.”
Middleton’s turbulent stomach reminded him, now, of those dry-cleaning machines in which a whirling glass drum tosses sodden rags up and down and around in some pungent, frothy liquid that grows darker and dirtier second by second. The secretary told him that he was to go in. The general manager was standing by the window.
“Good morning, Middleton,” he said.
“Good morning, Wood,” said Middleton.
Trying to still his noisy inside by brute force, he pressed his right hand over his breast-bone and struck himself in the small of the back with his left, so that he fell unconsciously into a Napoleonic attitude. Then the enormity of what he had said struck him with such force that he hiccupped loudly; and having hiccupped, tried to smile and said: “I’m sorry, I forgot; Mr. Mawson, sir . . . Only you did tell me to call you Wood on Sunday night.”
Now Mr. Mawson saw in Middleton’s attitude a badly overacted timidity; the ironically exaggerated diffidence of a man who can afford to be insolent if he chooses; and he was afraid: “Sit down, Middleton,” he said, quietly. “I thought we had agreed, tacitly, that . . . in short, the office is the office, and, to put it in a nutshell, one’s private affairs outside the office are, well, another thing.”
“Slip of the tongue,” said Middleton.
“Of course. Do sit down, Middleton. Ah . . . how is your charming wife?”
“Very well, thank you. How’s yours?” said Middleton; it was all he could think of to say, and having said it his tongue went loosely stammering on: “A, a very nice lady, Mr. Mawson, sir. We met – I mean I saw Mrs. Mawson that day when I took the liberty of asking you if it would be convenient to . . .” Then he hiccupped again.
Then Mr. Mawson, getting hold of his courage, spoke with quiet desperation: “Look here, Middleton, I’m sure I can talk to you as man to man. I believe you understood me, the other evening, when – quite unnecessarily in your case, I’m sure – I mentioned the need for discretion.”
“Oh yes,” said Middleton.
“I feel I can speak to you as a friend; and equal. You are a man of the world, now, and I know that you’ll understand. Rules are rules, of course, and must not be broken. I entirely approve of rules. It is quite impossible, to, to, ah, organise a great company without strict rules, my dear Middleton. If you reflect, you will see that this must be so. But circumstances alter cases and in your altered circumstances you’ll understand that it is occasionally permissible for a person of proven integrity – for a man thoroughly tried in his various responsibilities, to, well, relax just a little, on exceptional occasions, in private. Strictly in private! I feel that you understand me, Middleton.”
Middleton nodded. Mr. Mawson went on:
“Now there are all kinds of reasons why our little meeting should remain, as it were, a State secret. It was all perfectly innocent, of course. Still, as a married man you’ll understand that the ladies, bless them, are quick to jump to conclusions.”
He waited for a reply. Middleton came with a start out of a daze and said: “All right, Wood – I beg your pardon – I mean, yes, Mr. Mawson.”
“You will have your little joke, I see,” said Mr. Mawson, with a sickly laugh. “I want you to understand, by the way, that my relations with that young lady are absolutely innocen
t, Middleton.”
“Peach Blossom?”
“Ssh! Yes. I know that I can rely on you, Middleton. You always impressed me as thoroughly reliable. It is a little secret between us men, eh?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Good. Now let us come to more important matters. I take it that you have spent the morning arranging your affairs, eh?”
“Well, in a way, yes.”
“What a lucky young man you are, Middleton. Seventy-six thousand pounds was the sum you mentioned, I think?”
“Well, that’s what it said in the letter,” said Middleton.
“Everything in order?”
“Well . . . no, I wouldn’t say in order,” said Middleton, “no, not quite in order just yet.”
“No, of course, these things take a little time. But I’m glad to see that you are keeping a level head and taking your good fortune so soberly. Nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand, finding themselves gentlemen of property overnight, would lose their balance completely, Middleton. This only serves to increase my already high regard for your character in general, Middleton. Ah . . . a little innocent celebration, of course, a little discreet celebration, is perfectly in order for men, ah, like ourselves who are in a position to afford it, and who can be relied upon to hold our peace in order not to set a bad example . . .”
Mr. Mawson went on and on, looking slyly out of the corners of his eyes. Good Lord, the old hypocrite is frightened to death of me! thought Middleton. “Hold my peace,” indeed! “Hold my peace” . . . and then from out of some black cloud in his overcast mind there came a blinding flash of beautiful wit – a pun so perfect that Middleton had to give it voice, if the heavens fell. He said: “It’s all right for a fellow to hold his piece in a night club, as long as he holds his peace in the City,” and startled himself into a nervous giggle.
Now Mr. Mawson was convinced that this man was dangerous – an arrogant, jumped-up, newly-rich clerk who hated him and could – probably would – let fall certain words that might blast him. He said: “Ha-ha-ha – ha-ha-ha! – very neatly put. But tell me, what are your plans? It will hardly be worth your while to stay with us, now, surely?”
He said this hopefully, but Middleton replied: “I don’t know, Mr. Mawson. I don’t want to leave the firm. I’m not cut out to be a gentleman of leisure. I’d hoped . . . well, yes, I’d kind of hoped to go on as I was going on before I got that letter.”
“A young man with a fortune could travel, and see the world.”
“There’s plenty of time,” said Middleton.
“Yes, that’s the right attitude, that’s the right attitude! Well, Middleton, if you think of staying with us, I am pretty sure that I can put you in the way of something more suitable to your changed circumstances. You might think this over, Middleton. I have a letter here from Lord Herring, who has, I may say, a certain confidence in my judgment. We propose to establish an office in Sydney, Australia. Lord Herring has asked me to nominate a candidate for the post of manager of the Sydney branch. I instantly thought of you, Middleton, in that connection. I noticed, in the letter you were so good as to let me read, that your poor uncle was an Australian. It is a position of trust, of course, and of some responsibility, so that your being a man of substance would militate strongly in your favour. Your record in the office being what it is I have not the slightest doubt that if you were agreeable I could positively promise you our Sydney office. What do you think, Middleton?”
Middleton did not think: he uttered a curious exclamation – Huk! – and shook his head incredulously. Mr. Mawson continued: “The climate, I am told, is excellent. The city is bright and gay, Middleton, so that there is no lack of . . . of discreet enjoyment. The salary starts at £650 a year, plus bonuses. The business would be exclusively mail order, to begin with. It seems to me that this position is cut and dried for you, Middleton. There is a career in it. We must expand, expand, Middleton. In two years, three years, five years, the manager of the Sydney office, if he is attentive to his business – which I know you are – he should draw fifteen hundred pounds a year, or more. Would you like to try it? If so, I can definitely promise it, for Lord Herring wants a London man out there (our Australian cousins speak in a sort of London accent, as you must know) and has entrusted me with the selection. What do you say?”
“Well . . . Why, thank you very much, sir . . . yes!” said Middleton.
Mr. Mawson shook him by the hand, and said: “Excellent! I’ll write a letter to Manchester this very minute. I dare say you’ll have many matters to attend to. Take any time you need. Have you any suggestions as to who might be eligible to fill your place in the office here?”
“Mr. Woolley?” said Middleton, at random.
“An excellent idea. Now I’ll write to his Lordship, and you run along. Ah, what opportunities open themselves before you, Middleton!”
“I shall do my best,” said Middleton, “and I’m very grateful.”
“Not at all, not at all. Let us arrange to have a bite to eat together soon, eh?”
Middleton went blindly back to his desk, cursing his fate. He had always thought of Australia as a sun-baked land soaked in the exotic. If Louisa failed to keep back the cheque he had given to Jack Duck, he was out in the dusty street. He had forgotten what it felt like to be rich: he wanted nothing but the Australian office. Seeing his face the chief clerk said: “Sorry, old fellow. Got the boot?”
“Not yet,” said Middleton. He wanted to say that he was the new manager of the Sydney office at a salary of £650 a year plus bonuses and etceteras; but he said nothing more. He could not work, so he went out to drink tea, and everybody said: “Poor old Middleton has got the bullet . . . poor old Middleton has got the sack . . . poor old Middleton, it’s a pity . . .”
In a teashop near Cheapside, Middleton prayed: Oh God, let Louie dear hold Mr. Duck off just for a month! He thought, vaguely, of going to the bank and pleading with the manager; but he had no more strength or courage, so he sat and waited for Louisa. A miserable silence seemed to have fallen on the City. Time flowed muddy and slow. Middleton waited, not daring to hope.
* * * * *
As soon as she left Middleton, Louisa hurried to the “Hero of Waterloo”.
“Not open till eleven-thirty,” said an old woman who was polishing the scratched mahogany bar.
“I don’t want to come in,” said Louisa, “I want to speak to Mr. Duck.”
“ ’E’s out. I mean, ’e’s not in. ’E went out. Won’t be back till twelve.”
“Any idea where I could find him?”
“That I don’t know. I mean, I couldn’t say. Monday morning Mr. Duck goes to the bank.”
“D’you know what bank?”
“No. The bank. ’E’ll be back by twelve, though, dear.”
Poor old Ted, him and his dreams about kites, the poor old darling, Louisa thought, sitting in their little flat and listening to the urgent tinny ticking of the alarm-clock. My poor old Ted. What wouldn’t I do to take this off his poor old mind! She remembered a story she had read about a woman who sold her hair and her teeth to get money for her child. But Louisa’s hair was ordinary brown hair cut short; and her teeth, although they were even and white, were commonplace teeth. I’d gladly sell them if anybody would buy them, though, she said, running a thumb over the smooth, clean white incisors. At a quarter to twelve she rubbed off her lipstick with a handkerchief because she wanted to appear pathetic, and went back to the “Hero of Waterloo”.
Mrs. Duck was behind the bar. Her husband, she said, with a suspicious glance, had gone to the bank, and there was no telling when Jack Duck would get home on Monday when he went to the bank.
“Could I have a lemonade?” said Louisa.
Then a man said: “Looking for me, I suppose, eh, Mrs. Middleton?” and she turned and saw the bookmaker, Joe Gutkes, accompanied by a stocky, scarred man tightly buttoned into a green-and-black dog-tooth check suit.
“Oh my goodn
ess, yes!” said Louisa, remembering Middleton’s mad bet.
“Luck o’ the game, luck ’o the game,” said Joe Gutkes to the scarred man. “Lady’s hubby put ten quid on Little Sneeze. What do you think of that, Shiv?”
Shiv laughed and said: “Better luck next time, eh, Joe?”
“I gave him fifties,” said Gutkes, “fifty to one.”
Louisa was going to say that Middleton would pay sometime, when Gutkes said: “You know me, lady – Joe Gutkes – straight as a ruler, straight as a gun. Gutkes never owes. When Joe Gutkes wins, Joe Gutkes expects to be paid. When Gutkes loses Gutkes pays. My name is Joe Gutkes. Ever heard of it? I owe your old man five hundred smackers. You was here in this bar when he laid that bet. You come to collect? Joe Gutkes pays on the nail. I’ll write you the kite on the spot,” said the bookmaker, taking out a cheque book and a thick green fountain-pen. “Wait a minute – here’s a funny thing. Look – I’ll show you something. See this? Shiv just brought it in from one of my clients. Cash cheque for twenty pounds, signed by Edward Middleton. That’ll be your husband’s cheque, Mrs. Middleton, unless my eyes deceive me. Shiv just got it off of one of my clients. Well, there’s life for you, ain’t it? To-day to me to-morrow to thee; to-day to thee to-morrow to me. Marvellous! Your husband cashes a cheque with Jack Duck for twenty pounds. Jolly old Jack Duck pays some other party with this cheque for twenty pounds. This other party gives it over again to a third party to pay for some goods. This third party gives it to me to pay off twenty pounds worth of debt. And I give it over to you, to pay twenty pounds off of my debt to you. That makes you the fifth party, so catch hold. It’s your husband’s cheque so you needn’t be afraid of it. That makes £480 I’ve got to give you.”
