Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  ‘How substantial?’

  ‘Sub-stant-ial.’

  ‘Done.’

  They shook hands on the deal.

  ‘What are you going to call it?’ asked Reggie with unfeigned interest.

  ‘The social centre, you mean? How about the “Reggie Suntan Memorial Hall”?’

  ‘Memorial? I’m not dead yet!’

  ‘You will be one day.’

  ‘True. Fair enough then, Mr D—to business. What have I got to do?’

  ‘Exactly as I say. Preferably with understanding.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Right then, Reginald. Tell me, what are the motivations of the fascistic mind?’

  Reggie seemed to have already marshalled his thoughts on the subject. ‘Violent hatred?’

  ‘In part, in part. But direct your mind to the idealistic sort of fascist, the one who joins the movement early on and eventually gets liquidated by the more bestial latecomers. Consider the sort of person who might, for instance, volunteer for the Blue Division.’

  Reggie mused before answering. ‘A tendency to militarism and simple solutions,’ he said slowly, thinking as he went along. ‘Paranoid fears about social minorities. Deep-rooted concern about racial purity... Am I getting warm?’

  ‘Warmish. Carry on a little bit more.’

  ‘A dislike of the Jews, contempt for democracy, suppressed jealousy of sexual license… Ah, I’ve got it. You’re going to say that I’ve got to appear to mend my ways and then he’ll leave me alone. Perhaps if I wear a black shirt and a wedding ring for a while, then...’

  Mr Disvan shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, Reginald, but no. It wouldn’t work. Repentance and forgiveness play small parts in fascist ideology. He’d redouble his vigilance if you seemed to reform. There’d always be the fear, you see, of you backsliding once he was gone. That way, you’d never ever be rid of him.’

  ‘All right then, that’s a non-runner. But come on, Mr D—do I have to keep thinking about Nazis? If I’m paying out eighty grand, you should be telling me what angle I’m missing.’

  ‘What you’re missing, Reginald, is the concept of order. The regard for authority and hierarchy. The relish for the smack of firm government.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, the crux of it is that, like Marxism, fascism is basically a conformist faith. On the way to power, it may be obliged to be rebellious—revolutionary, even—but in their heart of hearts, the faithful long for the guidance provided by proper authority.’

  ‘Very enlightening, I’m sure,’ said Reggie, ‘but what does it mean in practical terms?’

  ‘What it means,’ replied Disvan leaning back, supremely relaxed, a scone poised for delivery, ‘is that you should call the law in.’

  Reggie Suntan gasped and then choked.

  At first, Mr Disvan seemed unaware of having caused any upset. He calmly finished his scone while Reggie went red, then pale and then back to angry scarlet again as his mind tossed the white hot concept from one metaphorical palm to another. Eventually, however, it did appear to dawn on Disvan that our companion was in some distress.

  Kindly as ever, he rushed to ‘assist.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Reginald,’ he said blithely, ‘I will take a cheque.’

  * * *

  ‘And another thing, Boakley,’ said Reggie, punching his finger at me, ‘the way I see it is this: the government—any government—only want to know us when they’ve got a war to fight. So sod ‘em, I say. The individual doesn’t owe the state a thing. It’s just an oppressive apparatus set up to perpetuate existing inequalities of power. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘In terms of personal relations, mind you, I believe in do as you would be done by.’

  ‘Oh yes, certainly.’

  ‘In conjunction with do as you’re done by—with interest.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Once he’d received his cheque, Mr Disvan had moved to a separate table to write out a full set of instructions for Reggie to follow. In the meanwhile, I was ‘enjoying’ a trip back to the fifteenth century, or earlier, courtesy of a monologue on the Reggie Suntan philosophy of life. To my relief, when I’d just agreed on the benefits to society of the duelling and vendetta systems, Disvan at last returned.

  ‘There you are, Reginald,’ he said, brandishing a menu whose reverse was covered in closely spaced notes. ‘Peace in your time—and in your villa.’

  Reggie seemed to have complete faith in Mr Disvan’s unseen suggestions, and to regard the matter as all but solved.

  ‘I knew that I could count on you, Mr Disvan,’ he said with a gratitude that might even have been genuine. ‘I should have come to you in the first place.’

  The whole scene was so touching, and Reggie’s transparent relief so infectious, that we were soon all smiling at each other. Even the bodyguards dredged up a chilly smirk from their memory banks.

  ‘Well, Reginald,’ said Disvan, entering into the spirit of things, ‘you know that you’ll always be assured of a welcome in Binscombe, and whatever help we can give you.’

  Reggie nodded his head in recognition of this cheering fact and leaned forward to take the menu card which held, we all implicitly believed, the solution to his problems.

  Disvan very pointedly held it away from Reggie’s grasp. The atmosphere of bonhomie died an instant death.

  ‘I’ll post this on to you in Spain,’ said Disvan, ‘when the cheque clears.’

  * * *

  ‘And Reginald concludes his letter,’ said Mr Disvan to the assembled meeting, ‘by ensuring us of his continued support. He hopes, in fact, to send a personal representative to the foundation stone laying ceremony next month and only regrets that business commitments prohibit his own attendance.’

  I’d read about the gun running incident and subsequent man-hunt that formed Reggie Suntan’s ‘business commitments’ but none of the Binscomites in the audience showed any signs of making a similar connection.

  Mr Disvan set Reggie’s letter down on the table and, in his capacity as Chairman of the Binscombe Social Centre Steering Committee, began to accept questions from the floor. While the resultant arguments about licensing, opening times and other fascinating topics raged back and forth and occupied Disvan’s attention, I took the opportunity to read Reggie’s communication in full.

  The rest of the committee began weighing in in Disvan’s support and our steward, Mr Bretwalda, commenced ejecting the rowdier elements. In the uproar, no one appeared to notice their Acting Treasurer (myself) withdraw from proceedings.

  The meeting in the upper room had largely emptied the bar of the Argyll and I had no difficulty in finding a secluded corner seat. There was a pleasant fire going nearby and, after the cacophony upstairs, it all seemed very peaceful. In these calmer surroundings I read the letter and thereby arrived at understanding.

  Reggie Suntan’s handwriting was confident and flowing, but his style a little less so. He used the finest, most expensive fountain pen on the market to express his thoughts (I knew because he said so) but, for all the affectations of wealth, the authentic Reggie shone through.

  Dear Mr D,

  I did what you said. It worked a treat. The Judge couldn’t see why I wanted an eviction order against a man he knew was dead but muchas pesatas sweeten the way, as the saying goes.

  I set all the documents out on a table, as per instructions—the eviction order next to the bill of sale for the villa. Alongside them was a letter to one of my banks authorising an over the top contribution to the Falange Party funds—the ‘ex gratia consideration’ as you put it.

  Once that was all set up, I called in a couple of shady ladies, lit up a spliff, had a mega scotch and waited for matey to arrive. He didn’t keep me hanging about as you can imagine.

  After I’d shooed the girls out, but before he could set about me, I told him what you said. My oath, you should have seen his face! It was almost worth all that money. He
shimmied over to the documents and read one, then another, back and forth for ages. I could hear his teeth grinding from forty years and hundreds of miles away!

  ‘I may be a rootless, bolshevist degenerate,’ I said, ‘but the law is the law—so out you go!’

  And he did—with a very ill grace admittedly. At the end he sort of went into a spin, like one of those gyroscopes I used to have as a kid, round and round, faster and faster, cursing me all the time. There was a final blast of cold wind, straight off the Russian steppes, that nearly knocked me over and when I looked up again he was gone.

  By the way, you were right about his lot being sticklers for formality. When I looked later, I found out he’d countersigned his sister’s signature on the bill of sale. Funny thing about it is that the writing sort of wavers before your eyes and the place around the document is always a bit cold somehow. So—I thought, waste not, want not—I’ve stuck it in the corner where we keep the beer supplies. A free fridge, courtesy of El Killjoy (deceased)!. (Photocopy enclosed.)

  That’s all, hope you are well,

  Kissy, kissy!

  Reggie

  PS: If he returns, I shall, of course, take the money back.

  PPS: Can’t make the Reggie Suntan Memorial Hall foundation stone thing—the English speaking world is a bit of a no-no area for me at the moment. Sorry! I’ll send Hirohito and Amy-Lou in my stead. Please make them welcome and don’t make any sudden movements.

  I looked at the photocopy sale document. The counter-signature did indeed advance and retreat before my eyes and, even in photocopied form, it was cold to the touch. I put the paper on the fire where it writhed slowly in a blue flame.

  Watching its leisurely transmutation into ashes, I did not notice the approach of Mr Disvan bearing two drinks. He coughed politely.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Disvan. Is the punch-up over?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Things got a lot more business-like after Mr Bretwalda managed to throw that Preston woman out. Where does she get the money for all that drink, that’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘I’ve been reading Reggie’s letter.’

  ‘I guessed as much when I saw it and you were missing. Burn it along with the photocopy. It’s probably a treasonable offence to be in contact with Mr Suntan at the moment.’

  I did as I was asked. The letter surrendered to the flames considerably faster than the photocopy. We watched it go and sipped our drinks in silence for a few moments while our thoughts carried us on to the next island of conversation.

  ‘It’s all a bit logical, isn’t it?’ I asked eventually. ‘Why should something supernatural act in such a rational way?’

  Mr Disvan smiled.

  ‘There’s no problem about that, Mr Oakley, as I believe I’ve said to you before. Certain events conform to a degree of internal logic. In fact, there’s a number of areas in which cause and effect are properly applicable and I don’t see anything wrong in making use of that in the few spheres where Nature allows it. It’s only when people exalt rationalism into some sort of cosmic rule that I part company with them.’

  He played his finger round the rim of his glass and stared at the fire. Black fragments of Reggie’s letter ascended the chimney, piece by piece, to begin their new life outside.

  ‘You see, Mr Oakley,’ Disvan continued, ‘a spot of law and order in the world—or beyond it—doesn’t prove much in itself. One shred of contrary evidence mustn’t blind you to the great randomness at the heart of things.’

  It was all too much to contest in that particular time and place. I let the Disvan Summa Theologia, the Binscombe Universal Theorum, or whatever it was, pass unchallenged—and unaccepted. There were other, if lesser, loose ends which might be pursued with better chance of resolution.

  ‘And another thing,’ I said, ‘to quote a Reggie Suntan type phrase: how come you get on so well with him and he with you? I thought you didn’t approve of the old stock leaving Binscombe.’

  Mr Oakley sat up straight and studied his half-empty glass. It was one of those very rare occasions when, for no clear reason, I’d struck home with a good question and made Disvan think.

  ‘Reggie,’ he said, choosing his words with painful care, ‘is an exception. Not one we’d care to encourage, but a definite exception nevertheless. I’ll give you an illustration. If I was to tell you that a direct ancestor of his was one of Cromwell’s Ironsides, would that surprise you?’

  I considered my reaction to the news.

  ‘Actually, in a funny way, that doesn’t surprise me at all—although I wouldn’t want to have to explain why.’

  ‘A good answer, Mr Oakley; very perceptive. Well, if you can take that in, try this. In the same way we didn’t mind that ancestor going off to fight the King, we don’t mind Reggie living his life—which is another sort of a fight—outside of Binscombe.’

  ‘But why not?’

  Because, Mr Oakley… there’s something special about Reggie and all his family. Not something that can be fathomed or reproduced, but something special, even so. You’re quite right when you say we don’t like the old blood leaving us but, Reggie Suntan is an exception. He’s our coloniser, our virus. You see, wherever he goes, Reggie takes Binscombe with him.’

  HIS HOLINESS COMMANDS

  ‘So, am I to understand,’ said the building society manager, ‘that all of you wish to have an interest in this house purchase?’

  Mr Disvan smiled at him indulgently. ‘Yes, I believe you’ve grasped it, Mr Dwyer. That’s exactly what we wish.’

  The manager surveyed the dozen Binscomites crammed into his cheerless little office.

  ‘It’s rather... unusual,’ he said. Then, seeing Disvan’s look of disapproval, added swiftly, ‘but by no means impossible!’

  ‘We’re very glad you should take that attitude, Mr Dwyer. As you so rightly say, the gist of it is that we’ll all be registered as part owners on the deeds. Mr Jarman here, who’s an estate agent, has arranged the purchase from the executors and Mr Medici, who’s a solicitor, has drawn up the necessary documentation. All we need now is a mortgage—which is where you come in.’

  ‘Well...’ said the troubled Dwyer, pressured into a pace of action he wasn’t used to, ‘there shouldn’t be any problem about that... as such.’

  ‘Good,’ said Disvan decisively. ‘Then there’s no reason we can’t arrive at a date of completion within the week.’

  ‘Ah... but...’

  ‘Excellent. Everyone else was dubious about you and your building society, Mr Dwyer, but I told them, “I knew his father and his grandfather, and they were the sort of men who got things done. He’s a chip off that old block.” And you’ve proved me right, haven’t you, Mr Dwyer?’

  ‘Well... times were a little different...’

  Mr Disvan held up his hand to stem the torrent of timidity.

  ‘Please don’t say another word, Mr Dwyer. We’re already delighted with the level of service you’ve provided; we couldn’t possibly ask for anything more. I’m minded to write a letter of commendation to your area manager.’

  ‘Oh well, thank you.’

  Dwyer was visibly ransacking his mind, searching for something to dam or at least slow the tide of events. He finally found suitable ground for a last stand.

  ‘There is, of course, the question of a satisfactory survey...’

  Mr Disvan beckoned me forward and I placed two independent survey reports on the manager’s desk.

  ‘And this,’ I said, adding to the paper pile as I spoke, ‘is the local authority search document, courtesy of the Borough Council planning department whose chief officer, Mr Poulson, is here today. This is the account and sort code number for the vendor’s bank. You can telegraphically transfer the money through any day this week—they’ll be expecting you. And this is Medici’s card, so you can liaise with him—if need be.’

  ‘Ah…’ said Mr Dwyer.

  I was enjoying all this, savouring the contrast with the tortuous, stress-filled memories of my
own property purchases. Judging by the smiles on the faces of the landlord, Doctor Bani-Sadr, Mr Patel, Mr Bretwalda, et al., they were thinking along the same lines.

  ‘Right, that’s settled that,’ said Mr Disvan, rising and preparing to leave what had somehow become his office. ‘Any problems, Mr Dwyer—not that there will be any—you know where to contact me.’

  Dwyer nodded without raising his eyes from the documents strewn in front of him. We all departed and adjourned en masse to the Argyll where Lottie the landlady had been holding the fort.

  ‘Did you really know that man’s father and grandfather?’ I asked.

  ‘I did. The grandfather was also a “property agent”, as they were then called. I bought my house through him.’

  ‘Is that so? Remarkable.’

  ‘Remarkable wasn’t the word I used at the time,’ growled Disvan. ‘He was just as much of an old woman as his grandson.’

  ‘Oh... well, if you thought that, why didn’t we go to another building society? There are plenty in Goldenford.’

  Mr Disvan, and a number of others who were in earshot, looked shocked.

  ‘Because, Mr Oakley, he’s local, while they are strangers who we don’t know from Adam. You go into just any old building society and the manager might be from... well, London!’

  For the sake of peace, I went along with the tribal madness and agreed that that would never do.

  * * *

  The genesis of the episode described above was composed in an evening at the Argyll some time before.

  Mr Wessner had entered the bar and joined our company. He stared morosely at his drink for a little while and then announced—to no one in particular—‘That’s torn it!’

  I should say, to begin with, that Mr Wessner, though an accepted member of the Binscombe inner circle, was an irritable and fractious man, given to ‘one-liners’ and bubble-bursting. He could, and usually would, provide a cynical interpretation on everything, from welcomed birth to timely grave—and all points in-between. He was, as far as I know, the only person in Binscombe with the complete works of Machiavelli on his bookshelves.