Ways and Means (13 page)

‘It is perfectly ridiculous to try to cram all this into the boys in one term,’ he said to one headmaster.

‘I know,’ said the headmaster, ‘but it can be done and it’s necessary for the exams.’

‘The exams should be changed, then. They’ll forget most of it in the following term.’

‘No doubt you’re right,’ said the headmaster with a sigh, ‘and I don’t pretend I haven’t said and thought the same things as you. But it’s no good. If you want to get on you must fall into line.’

‘Permission, then, to fall out, please, sir,’ said Mr Pudsey. So he became a parson. And that really was his métier. It may be wondered why he had not become one from the start. The reason was quite simple. He had hoped that he could take into worldly affairs his strong beliefs and principles. He did not wish to be labelled a man of God by reason of his profession. He would have been very happy if, as a solicitor, he had been known as a man of God. Like all those who believe in God he did not think His presence was confined to a place of worship, and in the same way he hoped that, as an ordinary man wearing no dog-collar, he might have been able to carry on some ordinary calling without interference with his beliefs and principles. But it could not be done, and so, once ordained, he threw himself wholeheartedly into his new work. He loved it. He loved people, the good and the bad alike — often the bad the more, as they gave him more scope. He was never impatient; neither with hypocrites nor liars. But he tried to remove the veil, curtain, or brick wall by means of which some people keep themselves in ignorance of their faults. The process was sometimes a painful one for the patient, but he persevered, and only administered an anaesthetic in cases where it was essential.

It was, then, on this formidable character that Basil called in accordance with his appointment.

‘I don’t think we’ve met before,’ said the parson.

‘I have seen you about,’ said Basil.

‘Ah, then you are one of my parishioners?’

‘I’m afraid we’re not regular churchgoers.’

‘Ah, then you have been sometimes?’

Basil began to realize quickly that, if some parsons lack intelligence, this one certainly didn’t.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Total abstainers, eh?’ said the parson. ‘Not on principle, I hope.’

Basil decided to put up a fight. He enjoyed one, and it was a long time since the last.

‘For lack of it, I fear.’

When you are really going to attack in argument you run with your opponent until the right moment occurs.

‘And you’d like some help? I’m delighted.’

He, looked at Basil’s bald patch and greying hair.

‘It’s never too late, you know.’

‘That’s good news,’ said Basil, still running with the hare.

‘Now tell me,’ said the parson, ‘if you’ll forgive an intimate question on such an early acquaintanceship, would you describe yourself as a thoroughly unprincipled man? Don’t be alarmed at the nature of the question. We have several in our parish — very nice fellows, most of them. As a matter of fact, one of them is coming to tea this afternoon. No — I’m wrong, it’s tomorrow. He comes out this afternoon.’

‘Comes out?’ said Basil. He knew quite well what was meant, but felt that he should ask.

‘Prison, you know. Let me see, it was six months this time. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been inside, but don’t hesitate to say so if you have. We have no distinctions here.’

‘No. I haven’t — yet.’

‘Good,’ said the parson. ‘Good. I wonder how many people could say today that they had never been to prison — and never deserved to. You couldn’t, I suppose?’

‘Mr Pudsey,’ said Basil, who began to find running with the hare somewhat irksome. ‘I enjoy your frankness. But don’t you ever find that people whom you’ve never met before and who, incidentally, have come to try to be of some service to you, object to being asked how many crimes they have committed?’

‘Not how many,’ replied the parson. ‘Just whether any. I gather from the form of your questions that the answer in your case is, yes. Capital. I don’t often have such frank admissions on a first meeting. We should get on well together. And now, I believe, you wanted to render some small service to the Church.’

‘I didn’t say small.’

‘And what service from a puny, miserable mortal — I am not referring to you personally, you know, just to human beings in general — and what service from a mere man could be other than small? If you were burnt at the stake it would be a trifle to give your Creator in return for the manifold benefits He has given you.’

‘It would not surprise me,’ said Basil, ‘if all sorts of comic things were done in this unusual household, but I don’t imagine burning at the stake is one of them.’

‘Indeed, no. I hope I am a kindly man. I feel well disposed towards all — even towards rich and thoughtless men who assume that wealth is a substitute for conscience. I try to help them, Mr . . . er Mr . . .?’

‘Have you forgotten my name so soon? It is Merridew.’

‘Ah, yes — I shouldn’t have forgotten it. Quite a public man really. If I remember rightly you had some most unfortunate publicity — I’m sure you found it most painful — over an enticement action you felt compelled to bring. Most distressing, I’m sure. And then my cousin at Tapworth Magna — he’s the Vicar there — told me you stayed there for a short time. Your stamp collection hasn’t turned up, I suppose? They do occasionally. It would be a long shot, but I’d ask one or two of my parishioners if they knew anything about it. Such strange coincidences do occur.’

This was quite wrong. The hare was apparently snapping at the hound and getting in several quite painful bites.

‘Mr Pudsey,’ said Basil, ‘funnily enough, I, like you, am a patient man, and I have a great respect for your calling.’

‘Not bred of familiarity, I gather.’

‘But in point of fact I haven’t come to discuss my own private failings with you. It occurred to me that there might be some Church undertaking especially in need of funds to which I could subscribe. You are right in thinking that I am a man of means. You will forgive me if I don’t discuss with you the nature of my conscience. The position is this: I am a full member of your Church and I am willing to subscribe — quite substantially too — to any one or more of your funds, if you would like me to do so. If you do not, you have only to say so, and I will then ascertain whether your Bishop has any such funds which are in need of my assistance. I will at the same time inquire from him whether he approves of the clergy in his diocese going out of their way to insult their parishioners without the slightest provocation.’

The hound was nipping back.

‘Capital,’ said Mr Pudsey. ‘Even for a patient man, you have shown great tolerance. Such men are rare. Most would have walked out. Offerings from such as you will most certainly be acceptable, and the larger the better. You are most kind. Incidentally, pray don’t think I’m trying to divert your generosity from any of the Bishop’s funds. And by all means report this conversation to him. He would be most interested to know that I had met you. We have discussed you several times.’

Basil thought quickly and decided not to ask for details of these discussions. Instead, he got out his cheque-book.

‘A business man, I see,’ said Mr Pudsey. ‘I was one myself once. We have a lot in common, I see — except, I hope, our bank balances. Now — would it be impertinent to inquire how much you propose to offer?’

‘I had thought of £2.000.’

‘That indeed is most generous. I accept it gladly. It will ease several burdens. Oh no, I was not referring to any light ones on your conscience. If you could go to £2,500, we could complete all the repairs we have in hand.’

Basil hesitated, but he made out the cheque for £2,500.

‘That is indeed most kind,’ said the parson. ‘I hope now that we have met I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at one of our services. My sermons are quite short — and never directed at an individual. Do try and come, if you have the time — I realize, of course, that it must be difficult for such a successful man to find it. But think it over. So very glad to have met you, Mr Merridew. You see, I haven’t forgotten the name this time.’

Basil left and was soon back at his flat, reporting the result of his visit.

‘Not only did he call me all the names under the sun, but, having done so and after I’d threatened to report him to his Bishop, he pushed me up from £2,000 to £2,500. It was a lousy idea of yours, Nicholas. Perhaps I’d better go and see your flower-seller to make up.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Oh, well,’ said Basil, ‘perhaps it isn’t worth it. But as for doing good being the answer — I feel like robbing an offertory box at the moment.’

‘I don’t know, old boy,’ said Nicholas. ‘I quite understand how you feel about it. I should have felt the same, but one swallow doesn’t make a summer. I vote we have another try. After all, we’re getting nowhere as it is. Bored to tears. The Vicar didn’t bore you, anyway. You must admit that.’

‘You’re right there. At first, when he started on me, I thought it would be rather fun. But I found I was getting considerably more than I was giving. He knows too much about us. D’you know, his cousin was the chap at Tapworth. That was a nasty one. Then he’d read all about the enticement case. I dare say he’s added it all up. I thought I’d better pay and get out. I tell you, I cut a pretty poor figure. I bet he’ll tell old Maitland Temperley all about it. He’ll love it. However, you’re quite right, Nicholas, really. We’ve got to try something — but no more vicars, thank you. How about advertising? We’d get a lot of crooks and cranks, but we might find something amusing.’

‘Deserving people never ask.’

‘I didn’t say deserving. I said amusing. We’ve given £2,500 for deserving people. I’m sure that parson will see it’s used properly. Actually, I’ve a sneaking respect for the man.’

‘I don’t think we ought to stress the wealth in any advertisement. Otherwise we’d want a staff like a pool promoter’s to deal with the answers. Besides, mere requests for money can’t be amusing. We want a job to do.’

‘Agreed,’ said Basil. ‘Let’s try to work out an advertisement.’

In consequence of many attempts, the following advertisement appeared in the daily Press a week later:

Bring your problems of difficulty to us. We have the means and ability to tackle most of them and if sufficiently interested we will do so at our own expense. No applications for money considered.

‘Whose idea was this?’ said Basil when they had the first batch of answers. ‘We shall need a secretary to sort these out.’

‘Elizabeth and I will choose one for you,’ said Petula.

‘How thoughtful of you, darling,’ said Nicholas. ‘Always ready to help. Talking of which, I don’t see why you and Elizabeth shouldn’t do them.’

They were right to expect crooks and cranks and, in addition, in spite of the warning in the advertisement, they had many requests for money.

‘I was wondering, old boy,’ said Nicholas, ‘what it feels like to give away £2,000.’

‘I’ve told you,’ said Basil with some feeling.

‘Ah, but it was different in your case. He tweaked your nose in the process.’

‘I hope your flower girl didn’t take the same or any similar liberty,’ said Petula.

‘No. I’m quite serious,’ said Nicholas. ‘I should like to see what it feels like. I shouldn’t mind you trying it out, if you wanted to,’ he added, turning to Petula.

‘Why should I give away £2,000?’ said Petula.

‘It might make you happy,’ said Elizabeth. ‘At least that’s what Nicholas thinks.’

‘It might make someone else happy,’ said Petula, ‘but I don’t see why it should make me happy.’

‘Then why did you agree to our trying?’

‘Oh, I agree to everything. That doesn’t include flower girls,’ she added quickly.

‘I think I might enjoy giving away £2,000,’ said Elizabeth, slowly, ‘to some really godlike young man. I wonder what he’d do.’

‘Take it.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That is all,’ said Basil firmly.

‘Oh,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I shouldn’t get much fun out of that.’

‘This all shows,’ said Basil, ‘that just giving away money — like that — isn’t any good.’

‘Except to a flower girl,’ said Petula.

‘That proves the rule,’ said Nicholas.

‘The rule is that there are no flower girls,’ said Petula.

‘What we want,’ went on Basil, ‘is a real job — something to tax our ingenuity.’

‘Well,’ said Nicholas, ‘there ought to be something in that heap.

There was. Among others there was a letter from Mr Buckram of Poppleton, acting for a number of residents in Tapworth Magna.

‘My clients,’ he wrote, ‘do not wish to make the slightest insinuation against Mr Merridew, to whom they have already paid £10,000 damages, but in view of all the circumstances and in particular the information given them by Mr Pudsey, they feel that it is only through such an organization as yours that the matter can be fully investigated. They are not prepared to throw good money after bad, but if you could see your way to undertaking an inquiry into the relationship between Mr Merridew and Mr Drewe and the mysterious burglary — all of which our clients accept as being entirely genuine and straightforward — they will be deeply obliged.’

‘That,’ said Basil, ‘could be worth at least another £10,000 except for the fact that they know too much and we don’t want it. Shall we send them back their £10,000?’

‘Why?’ said Petula.

‘Why not?’ said Nicholas.

‘You’re always against me,’ said Petula.

‘Only when you’re rude to my flower-sellers,’ said Nicholas.

‘We don’t need the money, and just in case of accidents it might be the sensible thing to do. There’d never be a prosecution if they had their money back.’

‘Mightn’t it make people suspicious of the kitchen table?’

‘They can be suspicious as long as they like. We’re now a happy united family. So we were before Nicholas pinched Elizabeth.’

‘I would never allow that kind of liberty,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Figuratively,’ said Basil.

‘Not there either,’ said Elizabeth; ‘least of all.’

‘Never mind,’ said Basil. ‘They can’t do a thing about that, but Tapworth is rather different. I suggest we let them have it back. Agreed?’