Fowlers End (19 page)

“Oh, yes, Mr. Baldwin. My name’s Cruikback— spelled with a
u
and an
i,
of course. How d’you do? ... I say, I don’t suppose it’s possible, Laverock, to get a drink in this hell-hole at this Godforsaken hour, is it? Is there some sort of bottle you keep for visiting royalty, and so forth?”

One always felt called upon to cut a dash in the presence of Cruikback, so that I was embarrassed and could only say, “The pubs are shut, I’m afraid, old thing.”

“Then don’t give it a second thought, Laverock!” cried Cruikback, with manly magnanimity.

But Copper Baldwin said, “I got a drop o’gin, if you don’t mind gin, sir.”

“Mind
it? I adore it!” Cruikback’s eyes sparkled again. Copper Baldwin got his tool bag and took out half a bottle of gin. In the cashier’s box there was a twopenny tumbler in which Mrs. Edwards used to keep her teeth during the day. He rinsed this in the ladies’ lavatory and poured Cruikback a heavy drink. To me he offered the bottle, saying, “Have a go.”

And at this, inexplicably, my feelings were hurt. I went next door to the cafe, bought a threepenny ginger beer, and walked away with the bottle and the glass before Costas could stop me. Then I accepted Copper Baldwin’s gin, which I discreetly diluted. Cruikback downed his at a gulp. I could not help saying, “I hope Mrs. Edwards took her teeth out of that glass before you knocked that back, old thing.” And I explained, half hoping for some nauseous reaction— because there came into my mind a memory of a playing field ten long years ago:

... I had spent my last pennies on a bottle of some gassy yellow stuff called Lime-O, of which I had taken my first voluptuous mouthful, when Cruikback appeared in a
straw boater and a blazer. “Let’s have a sip of that,” he said. “... Oh, you’ve been sucking at it, have you? Got a clean handkerchief?” I had and was proud of it. Cruikback wiped the neck of the bottle with it most scrupulously before he drank. He returned me the bottle, empty. “All gas,” he said. “Muck up your stomach. Keep away from it, young thingummy. It rots the constitution.” He judiciously examined the handkerchief, then pocketed it, saying, “I’ll let you have this back properly laundered.” But he never did.

Now, looking at me gravely, he said, “Oh, but that’s perfectly all right, you know. Glass can’t carry germs, and alcohol, of course, is a disinfectant. Internal and external. There’s a distinct statistical correlation between the use of alcohol in surgery and certain kinds of infection. Look up your Decker. Read your—but what am I going to do about this confounded car of mine?” He appealed, now, to Copper Baldwin. “You’ve got the savvy, the common savvy,” he said.

To my disgust, Copper Baldwin seemed flattered by this. “Ring nearest garage and get you a tow,” he said briskly.

“Right you are!” cried Cruikback. “Only I’ve been in the wilds all day. Cash me a check, and let’s get going.”

“Can’t, I’m afraid,” I said, wishing that I were more pleased with his company. But as Cruikback went on and on drinking us up I felt as I had felt that afternoon when the Lime-O disappeared, and my handkerchief after it. And Copper Baldwin’s attitude distressed me. Now, purged of character, he was the Acting Unpaid Lance-Corporal sucking up to his immediate superior, for the sake of a stripe of tape.

“Let’s have another bit of that gin,” said Cruikback, “and give the matter thought. Oh, but I say—look here, a man’s credit’s good, surely?”

“Not rahnd Fowlers End,” said Copper Baldwin.

“No, naturally not,” said Cruikback, with some irritation. Stranger here. I mean, with you, Laverock. I’m good for a quid or two, I suppose, until tomorrow or the day after?”

Before I could reply, Copper Baldwin came bustling in to save me embarrassment: “There’s a couple o’ quid in the petty cash, I think, Mr. Laverock. I’ll get it.” Then he darted into the cashier’s box and sank out of sight on his haunches. He came out a few seconds later and gave me two crumpled pound notes, which I passed to Cruikback, who handled them and said, ‘They’re horribly warm and clammy, aren’t they though?” He yawned. “Well, never mind. Thanks, anyway, young Laverock. Oh, Lord! Look. It’s hellishly late, and I’ve got to be back on the job by half-past six. It occurs to me: is it
worth
getting up to town and back again tonight? To say nothing, of course, of the delay mucking about with garages and what not? Could you give me a chair or something to sit on, Laverock? I don’t need a great deal of sleep, of course.”

I could only say, “Take my bed, Cruikbac
k, old thing.”

“Don’t be such a confounded young ass!” he said severely. Take your bed? What the hell do you take me for? No, there
is
a limit! What bed, anyway?”

“I have a room over the cafe next door,” I said. “You can have it for a few hours if you like.”

Cruikback was astonished. “No! You aren’t going to tell me you actually
live
in this hole? But you always were a strange little fellow, weren’t you? Look, Baldwin, do you mind terribly if I take just another wee sip?”

“Carry on, sir.”

“Gordon’s Dry,” said Cruikback, scrutinizing the label. “I’ll return it with interest, of course.... So you live here, do you, Laverock? Over a cafe, too. Poor old fellow, you must have a hell of a time with cockroaches, of course?
Black beetles and what not? Bugs and all that? Smell of stale cooking, et cetera, et cetera? Poor old Laverock! I wouldn’t deprive you of your bed for anything in the world. However—”

He took another “sip”—I counted five distinct up-and-down movements of his Adam’s apple—until I said, “Leave another man a bit, old thing.”

Cruikback wagged an admonitory finger at me.
“Not
to be a drunkard! But you always were a little guzzle-gut, you know, young Laverock. Many’s the time I’ve stopped you making yourself ill with all sorts of bottled stuff. Oh, well, look here—if you really want me to, I think I
will
have a nap over this cafe of yours, Laverock. What?”

“What about the jam-jar, sir?” asked Copper Baldwin. “I mean, the car.”

“Oh, that. It can wait till morning. Nobody’s likely to pinch it, and it belongs to the company, anyway, and is insured for more than it’s worth, you can bet your life, of course. Personally, I’m too whacked to do anything more— exhausted.”

“How about your instruments?” I asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“Surveying instruments—theodolites, or whatever you call them—and what not,” I said.

“Oh, oh those,” said Cruikback. “Come, now, young Laverock—you don’t imagine I’d leave my instruments in an unattended car in these parts, do you? They’re locked away, of course.” He sniffed. “I think I’m catching a beastly cold. I say, Laverock, do you happen to have a clean handkerchief on you?”

He could see that I had: it was sticking out of my breast pocket in a neat triangle. “Oh, good show,” he said, without waiting for a reply, and snatched it away. “Of course, I’ll let you have it back properly laundered. Share
and share alike was always our unofficial motto, Baldwin; at Snellgrove, of course. Eh, Laverock?”

I said, “I noticed the ‘share and share,’ but I can’t say I saw the ‘alike.’“ The gin was biting. “As I remember, it was: big boy eat little boy; strong boy bully weak boy; and dog eat dog, Cruikback.”

He replied,
“Whatever
you do, don’t get the wrong attitude, Laverock! What was our real motto?
‘Per Ardua ad Astra,’
wasn’t it? Meaning what? ‘By Toil to the Stars.’ Now it has been worked out by statistical correlation that if everybody shared alike, the world would be bankrupt in less than seventy-two hours. Whereas, on the other hand, I ask you—see for yourself, Laverock, see for yourself!—the more
ardua
they put into the thing, the less they see of the
astra.
Eh?”

“So help me,” I said to Copper Baldwin, “the man’s been listening to Sam—”

Copper Baldwin said, “Shush! Let ‘im talk.”

“There must be integration,” said Cruikback.

“That’s right,” said Copper Baldwin. “I mean to say, it’s a law o’ nature, ain’t it, sir?”

“Yes.
‘All for One and One for All’
is romantic. Good enough for the Three Musketeers,” said Cruikback. “Work it out in its statistical correlation, and what have you got?” He was at a loss for words, so he cantered off in another direction: “The code of the racketeer is what you have there, old thing. And while the code of share and share alike is a
bloody
good thing to cut your milk teeth on, Laverock, the end result is what we call—”

“Fascism and the corporate state?” I said.

“Communism,” said Copper Baldwin.

“What we call
Anarchy!”
cried Cruikback, clapping us both on the shoulder. “I’m glad you agree. Now let’s take
‘PerArdua ad Astra.’
‘By Toil to the Stars?’ Bight. But by
whose
toil, eh? And to what stars?”

He made a rhetorical pause, of which I took advantage to say, “Define, Cruikback,
define!”

“Say I have a washerwoman,” he began.

“Say you haven’t,” said I, with a hard look at my handkerchief, which he was waving.

Unabashed, Cruikback said, “Not a bad point, old fellow. Not a bad point at all. Thanks, old thing. Let’s put it
your
way. I’m quite agreeable: say I
haven’t
got a washerwoman. Hypothetically, of course.”

With all the irony I could put into my voice, I said, “That you haven’t got a washerwoman goes without saying, let’s say. Skip the hypothesis and come down to the ‘of course.’”

“I’m afraid you’re getting over my head,” said my old hero. “You’d better get some sleep. Sleep it off, old man, and take a good dose of salts the very
minyute
you wake up. Pump ship and dredge off the bilge. Preferably in hot water, naturally, you know. Piping, of course. And by the bye, where
is
this famous bed of yours?”

“Next door,” I said.

“Then lead me to it. Meanwhile think things over. D’you take me, Laverock? Nothing’ll lead a man closer to nowhere than an uncorrelated muddle without integration— better get that straight from the start, young Laverock. Take me?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking ab
out,” I said.

Cruikback said, with agonized patience, “Naturally not, not now; not right at this minute. Sleep on it. I’m just about used up. Where was it you said your bed was?”

Reluctant to let go a point, I persisted: “Washerwomen aside—say you haven’t got a handkerchief?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite get the drift,” said Cruikback. “But do, please, cut out the metaphysics and get
some rest, my dear Laverock! I absolutely must be out of here by six. Call me. You will, of course, won’t you?”

“And what kind of a car is it?” asked Copper Baldwin. “Yours, I mean, sir.”

Cruikback stared at him. “A Daimler, of course,” he
said.

“Right,” said Copper Baldwin. “But remember, you ain’t supposed to kip over the Greek’s. Mr. Laverock is a gentleman in a very important position, sir.”

“I quite understand,” said Cruikback. “See he gets some rest, and don’t let him drink too much. Is that quite clear? Very well then. A Daimler Saloon—got that? Now beddy-bye.”

“Take my key, Copper, and see the gentleman to bed,” I said. “Only keep it discreet. You understand, Cruikback, my position?”

“It’s okay,” said Copper Baldwin. “The gaff is shut for the night and the Greeks ‘ave gone to Uncle Ned.”

“He means to bed,” I said to Cruikback, disliking the apologetic tone of my voice.

“To Bopeep on their rolling billows,” said Copper Baldwin, with a certain relish. “Where their loaves o’bread repose.”

“I mustn’t be called a
minute
later than a quarter to six,” said Cruikback. Struck as by an afterthought, he added, “I’m grateful to you, you know, of course. Naturally, I’ll prove it. Oh, don’t imagine I mean with dirty money— nothing of the sort. Only I might make millionaires of you two.
Verb sap.
You can rest in peace tonight, Laverock; old Cruikback is looking after you, as per usual. Pleasant dreams!”

“What do you mean, ‘millionaires,’ for God’s sake?” I asked.

Cool as a half-commission man, confident as a young fellow whose father is a broker who comes home
redolent of B-and-B and Corona-Coronas, Cruikback said, “Of course, you know I’ve taken your hospitality, Laverock?”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” I said.

“Pardon me, young Laverock. You too, Baldwin. I’ll be as silly as I choose. I confess I don’t quite like your attitude, Laverock. But if I say I can put you in the way of making a million—verb
sap!
Oh, very well, say I exaggerate: call it four hundred thousand, and not a million. All right? Then I mean it, you know. Laverock, have I ever broken my word? Look me in the eyes and call me a liar.”

“Of course you aren’t, old thing,” I said, in a dribble of sentiment.

“You wait and see,” said he darkly. “As it happens, I am in possession of information.”

“All correct, sir. Come on now,” said Copper Baldwin, and then he saw Cruikback to bed—to my bed.

When Copper Baldwin returned, I said, “Look, Copper, you can’t go lending people two pounds out of the petty cash that I’m responsible for.”

“I know I can’t,” he said. “Because Smallpox sees to it that there’s never more than three ‘alf crowns in the petty cash; and that under lock ‘n key. I loaned the gentleman that couple o’ nicker out o’ my own pocket.”

“But you handed the money to me, and I handed it to him,” I said, very agitated. “Therefore, I’m responsible for it to you!”

“Think no more of it,” said Copper Baldwin. “It was out of my
own
pocket. All warm and clammy. Take it easy, cocko.”

I would have argued the point, only the deliveryman threw a case of film cans into the vestibule at that moment. It missed my foot by about two inches. In one of my rare— perhaps all too rare—bursts of temper, I picked up the box of returns and threw it right back at him, shouting, “Damn
your eyes! Henceforward bring this stuff in like a civilized human being!”