‘Don’t you?’ repeated the Administrator, but to no effect. ‘So putting the two things together,’ he resumed in the absence of any response, ‘the lack of space in the safe, and the prohibitive cost of insurance, we really had no choice but to send your money to Headquarters for safe-keeping.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Miss Budd.
‘Oh, that really doesn’t matter,’ said the Administrator. ‘At any rate for your purposes,’ he added. ‘Of course, we’ll get the money back for you and deliver it to you. We don’t want to put you as our client to any trouble. But you see, not only is Headquarters in a better area where there is less crime, but they are equipped there for this kind of situation. They have a much bigger and better safe. A safer safe, if you like.’
His laugh was more like a cough.
‘So when can I have my money?’ asked Miss Budd.
‘Soon, very soon, Miss Budd. I’ve already contacted Headquarters about it, and they’ve given a positive response. They’re fully aware of the situation. Your money should be here any day now.’
‘When can I have it, then?’ she asked.
‘I’ve just said, Miss Budd, as soon as it arrives, as soon as it arrives.’ Really, did she think that anyone was trying to do her out of her money, a paltry sum, after all, in the wider scheme of things? Perhaps she was still so paranoid that she should never have been released from hospital.
‘When will that be?’ asked Miss Budd.
‘A few days, a few days. And now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Budd, I have a hospital to run.’
Miss Budd came back three days later. The Personal Assistant made a great show of looking through the Administrator’s diary before announcing that, as she did not have an appointment, he was not expecting her.
‘But I have a window of opportunity next Tuesday,’ she said. ‘It’s very short, I’m afraid, just ten minutes, but that should do, shouldn’t it? I mean, you haven’t got much to discuss, have you?’ A small explosion of air, almost like a laugh, emerged from her mouth. ‘And don’t be late, otherwise he won’t have time to see you.’
From then on Miss Budd began to haunt the hospital. She became like a ghostly, flitting presence, never quite present, never quite absent, appearing suddenly at the Personal Assistant’s door, sometimes several times a day. It began to get on the Personal Assistant’s nerves. She who had an almost religious reverence for the authority of the Administrator nevertheless plucked up the courage one day to tell him that he had to do something about Miss Budd because she – the Personal Assistant – couldn’t stand the constant dumb reproach of that woman much longer. And yet she had the impression that the Administrator, so tall, so capable, so efficient, was actually trying to avoid meeting Miss Budd. Once, for example, he burst out of his office and rushed past her without saying anything at all to her, though he must surely have seen her. Another time, when he could hardly have passed her without pushing her out of the way, he pretended that he was glad that he had met her.
‘Ah, Miss Budd,’ he said expansively, his hand extended to shake hers. ‘Good to see you, good to see you.’
Miss Budd, who had no social graces, did not shake the proffered hand, only looked at it, and he returned it to his side.
‘What can I do for you this morning?’ he asked sunnily.
‘Only I’ve come for my money,’ said Miss Budd.
‘Oh!’ said the Administrator, as if his memory had just been jogged. ‘Of course you have, of course you have.’
‘Can I have it now?’ asked Miss Budd.
‘Ah,’ said the Administrator, dragging out the word to increase its meaning and delay a little. ‘There’s been a slight hitch, I’m afraid. You see, the Treasurer didn’t want to keep so much cash on the premises, even though it was perfectly safe. A matter of principle, really. So the money was paid into a bank account.’
‘Only I been waiting long enough,’ said Miss Budd.
‘Of course you have, we all agree,’ said the Administrator. ‘And I sympathise, I honestly really do. The problem, however, is that the person who paid the money into the bank, whoever it was (and I promise you that I’ll try to find out who it was) paid it into the wrong account. Instead of paying it into the General Purposes – petty cash is what you’ll know it by – he or she (I mustn’t say these days that it was probably a she) paid it into the Capital Expenditure account. Of course, you know what that means.’
Miss Budd gave no sign of it.
‘No?’ said the Administrator, surprised. ‘Well, money that is in the General Purposes account, only up to a certain amount of course, but two thousand pounds is well within those limits, can be withdrawn on the signature of only one responsible signatory, but cheques drawn on the Capital Expenditure account have to be countersigned by the Treasurer himself who, I’m afraid, Miss Budd, is off work sick – or it may be at a conference, I’m not absolutely sure. I think it has something to do with his bowels, though.’
‘So when can I have my money? asked Miss Budd.
‘As soon as the Treasurer returns to work,’ said the Administrator. ‘And that won’t be long now. I know him of old: wild horses wouldn’t normally keep him off work.’
Two weeks passed and Miss Budd returned to the hospital. The Personal Assistant was all smiles.
‘I think the Administrator’s got good news for you,’ she said. ‘I won’t spoil it for you by telling you what it is.’
She called the Administrator on the intercom.
‘Miss Budd’s here to see you,’ she said.
‘I’ll be out in a moment,’ came the reply.
After a few minutes, the door burst open and the Administrator almost hurled himself out. He, too, was smiling broadly.
‘Good news, Miss Budd, good news. We have your money now. Would you like to step into my office?’
The Administrator ushered Miss Budd once more into the room in which the award ceremony was to take place.
‘First, Miss Budd, I’d like to thank you for your patience and understanding.’
‘You got my money, then?’ asked Miss Budd.
‘Of course, of course,’ said the Administrator. ‘You didn’t think we’d run off with it, did you?’ He laughed at the idea. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.
‘Could you come in here for a moment and act as a witness?’ he asked the Personal Assistant.
The Personal Assistant entered and nodded a smile of recognition at Miss Budd.
‘And now, Miss Budd, here is your money.’
The Administrator handed Miss Budd a slip of paper. It was a cheque.
Miss Budd looked from the Administrator to the Personal Assistant and back again.
‘But where’s my money?’ she asked.
The Administrator, who had been expecting some sign of pleasure if not of gratitude, for the whole business had involved him in a lot of extra work (which he hardly needed, especially at this time of the year), was slightly irritated.
‘That is your money, Miss Budd, that is your money. It’s a cheque.’
‘But I brought more than two thousand pound when I come in here,’ she said.
‘So you did, Miss Budd, so you did. We all agree. No one knows it better than I. I’ve been dealing with the consequences for weeks now. But that piece of paper you have in your hand, that cheque, Miss Budd, is for more than two thousand pounds. You’re rich again!’
He laughed. Miss Budd looked blankly at the slip of paper.
‘Two thousand, three hundred and fifty pounds,’ said the Administrator. ‘Exactly what you brought it, less fifteen pounds administration fee – a very poor hourly rate, let me tell you.’ He laughed, and so did the Personal Assistant. Then he resumed. ‘The Treasurer thought, and I must say that I agree with him, that it would be unsafe for a woman of your age to walking the streets with so much cash in her possession. That’s why we’re returning your money in the form of a cheque. It’s so much safer.’
Then he changed his tone. He became bru
sque and businesslike.
‘And now if you’ll just sign this receipt. I’m afraid we’re in a rush as usual.’
He pointed to another slip of paper on his desk.
‘What do I do with it?’ asked Miss Budd, holding up the cheque.
‘Really, Miss Budd,’ you can’t expect me to tell you how to spend or invest your money. It’s yours, after all, to do what you like with.’
He guided her firmly in the direction of the slip of paper on his desk and put a pen in her hand.
‘Sign here,’ he said, and Miss Budd, still unused to writing, made a spidery mark on the paper.
‘Just as well we’ve got a witness,’ said the Administrator, smiling. The Personal Assistant came forward to add her signature to the piece of paper.
The Administrator let out his breath with relief, as after an ordeal.
‘It’s over now, Miss Budd,’ he said. ‘All’s well that ends well, as I always say.’ Now he guided her towards the door.
‘Goodbye, Miss Budd. Take care now.’
Half an hour later an old woman, ill-dressed, thin and wizened, collapsed in a busy shopping street not far from the hospital.
Some people walked round her, others stood and stared, some fussed ineffectually with her prostrate body. No one noticed the slip of paper that had fluttered away from her grasp as she fell to the ground.
‘Quick,’ someone said. ‘Call an ambulance. We’ve got to get her to hospital.’
3 - The Perfick Murder
Virginia McStephen was only ten years old when she was brought by her parents to England, but she never lost her accent.
They were respectable, hard-working, god-fearing and church-going people. They wanted to better themselves and give their daughter a better chance in life. They worked hard at their ill-paid jobs and saved money, putting it towards buying a little house of their own. At church on Sundays, Mrs McStephen, who was normally very self-controlled, wept and wailed a bit, publicly proclaimed herself a terrible sinner, writhed and twisted, spoke sometimes in tongues and, by the end of the service, felt she had been washed clean by the blood of Jesus. Her Sunday clothes, despite her writhings, remained extremely neat, a joy to the eye: her broad-brimmed hat, her snow-white gloves, her blue polka-dot dress. Mr McStephen was rather less ardent in his religion than his wife, and a few times in his married life he had girlfriends, whom his wife knew about and for which she forgave him. After all, it wasn't every man who went out to work day after day, year after year, and did not altogether squander the proceeds. One must count one’s blessings and be thankful for small mercies.
Virginia did not turn out quite as Mr and Mrs McStephen (especially Mrs McStephen) had hoped, however. They wanted her to be something serious like a nurse, but at school she was more interested in lipstick and boys than in her work. Her only notion of bettering herself was to make herself more attractive to boys.
‘You’ll end up with nothing, girl,’ said her mother to her repeatedly.
Virginia, who had developed a good line in cheek, said that she wasn’t going to work for years just to buy a pokey little house like theirs.
‘You want to live in a shack, then?’ asked her mother.
No, a palace, thought Virginia, and flounced out.
Her taste in boys was bad. Solid attainments held no attraction for her. She preferred a flashing smile, a bit of a swagger and dashing words. She admired boys who did not work and yet from time to time appeared to have more money than they knew what to do with, and who bought, or at any rate brought, her things. She took it as a sign of success in life, though not in school, if a boy adorned himself with gold. An irregular existence was for her proof that a boy was a man and not a slave; not boring but good fun. A boy like that knew what life was really about.
There were many arguments about what time she came home at night. She seemed to want to be entirely nocturnal: day was for resting, night was for playing. There was therefore no time for work, and she sought none. She left school as soon as the law permitted, and she awaited her departure with impatience. The subjects in which she had excelled in her last two or three years were the application of mascara, gossip and smoking.
Her parents knew where it would all end and it did. A few months after her retirement from school, Virginia stopped going out at night and was sick in the mornings. Her mother, knowing perfectly well what it meant, asked her whether there was anything wrong, whether there was anything she wanted to tell her.
‘No,’ snapped Virginia, as though the questions were stupid.
A few days later, her mother was more direct.
‘Who’s the father?’ she asked.
‘Father?’ sneered Virginia. ‘Father of what? There ain’t no father.’
‘He’s got to marry you whoever he is,’ said her mother.
Virginia laughed derisively at the idea. Her mother did not understand. Things weren’t like that any more. Besides, she couldn’t really say who the father was; and none of the candidates for the position seemed eager to step forward and take it. Very much to the contrary.
‘Wait till I tell your father,’ said her mother.
‘What’s he gonna do about it?’ asked Virginia contemptuously.
In fact, there was nothing to be done except wait for the birth. It was Mrs McStephen, not Virginia, who made the arrangements: bought the cot and baby clothes, rang for appointments with the doctor, and so forth. Virginia had stopped vomiting and resumed her social life; she seemed hardly interested in her own near future.
But eventually the pregnancy slowed her down, and then the baby was born. Mrs McStephen was torn between dismay and maternal feelings, the latter of which Virginia shared only intermittently. The baby was so sweet and helpless, and yet, all unknowing, had such a difficult life in front of her! Mrs McStephen didn’t really approve of the name that Virginia chose for her, Waylene, a name that was purely whimsical and made up; but the christening went ahead anyway.
‘What you gonna do now, Virginny,’ asked Mr McStephen on the way home from the christening. Mrs McStephen was wiping away tears of shame because her close friend, Mrs Lee, had been there.
Virginia announced that she had obtained a flat from the council and that she would be moving in next week.
‘You sure you can manage it, girl?’ asked her mother.
What was there to manage? What did they take her for?
‘You got any furniture?’ asked Mr McStephen.
The council had seen to that, but the baby turned out to be a problem. Virginia loved playing with her, sometimes, but she was still young and could hardly be expected to stay within the four walls of her flat all the time. Fortunately, her mother was there to look after the baby whenever necessary, which became more and more often, especially once the baby began to walk, fall over things, and put her fingers in dangerous places. Before long, the baby was spending more time at her grandmother’s, where she was more content in any case, than at her mother’s. Outwardly her grandmother was angry at the imposition, but secretly she was pleased, even though she still went out to work and Virginia never had.
Then Virginia met the love of her life. She met him at about eleven o’clock one night while standing in the queue to get into a night club. He was about ten years older than she, and on his own. He told her he had just broken up with his girlfriend because she ‘cheated on me.’ Virginia was sympathetic and said she knew just how he felt, and then he asked her to keep his place in the queue for a moment while he went and saw someone. He returned very quickly with a hibiscus flower that he put in her hair. She laughed. Tropical flowers were not easy to obtain in the city in the middle of the night in the middle of winter, so that Virginia thought he must be a clever and resourceful man.
This he confirmed when she asked him where he got it.
‘I know where you can get everything,’ he said. ‘Come on,’ he added, taking her by the hand, ‘we don’t want to stand here for ever.’
He pulled her out of the queue an
d up to its head, which was presided over by a man who looked wider than most men are tall. He was dressed only in black and had a miniature microphone descending from an ear-piece to his mouth. It was he who decided who was admitted, in what order, and who was kept out. At that time, therefore, he was the most important man in the world for quite a number of people.
‘Hi, man,’ said Virginia’s new companion.
The doorman looked at him first as if he might be some kind of buzzing insect, but then he recognised him.
‘Hi, howyadooin,’ he said, and the two men exchanged a closed fist greeting.
‘Can you do something for us, man?’ asked Virginia’s companion.
‘Sure, man,’ said the doorman. ‘You got it.’
There were a few mutters of discontent as he guided Virginia and her new companion through the club door but they were the impotent complaints of the vassals about their feudal lord. A glance from the doorman was enough to quell them.
Virginia was very impressed. It seemed that Dwayne – by now he had told her his name – really did know how to get whatever he wanted. He muscled his way to the bar and bought her a pink fizzy cocktail with some mint leaves in it, and some sugar round the edge of the glass, and Virginia thought she had landed on her feet to find such a man.
Before the night was over, they had decided to live together, at least when he wanted to. Dwayne said that he still had a place of his own that he wanted to keep; and though she never saw it, Virginia knew that it must have been true because he brought so little with him when he moved in. The rest of his stuff must obviously have been at his place. Besides, except for the first few weeks, he rarely stayed with her more than a few nights at a time, disappearing for another few nights without explanation. He had, after all, to go somewhere.
When he returned she sometimes asked him where he had been and what he had done, and he laughed and told her not to worry her pretty little head about it; if she insisted on knowing details he would grow angry and ask her whether she was the secret police or something, and threaten to leave her. This always worked; she inquired no further.
The Proper Procedure and Other Stories Page 5
