Читать книгу Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 12

On the following day Bobby received a letter of quite a different nature:

It’s all fixed, old boy, (wrote Badger in an illiterate scrawl which reflected no credit on the expensive public school which had educated him). Actually got five cars yesterday for fifteen pounds the lot – an Austin, two Morrises and a couple of Rovers. At the moment they won’t actually go, but we can tinker them up sufficiently, I think. Dash it all, a car’s a car, after all. So long as it takes the purchaser home without breaking down, that’s all they can expect. I thought of opening up Monday week and am relying on you, so don’t let me down, will you, old boy? I must say old Aunt Carrie was a sport. I once broke the window of an old boy next door to her who’d been rude to her about her cats and she never got over it. Sent me a fiver every Christmas – and now this.

We’re bound to succeed. The thing’s a dead cert. I mean, a car’s a car after all. You can pick ’em up for nothing. Put a lick of paint on and that’s all the ordinary fool notices. The thing will go with a Bang. Now don’t forget. Monday week. I’m relying on you.

Yours ever,

Badger.

Bobby informed his father that he would be going up to town on Monday week to take up a job. The description of the job did not rouse the Vicar to anything like enthusiasm. He had, it may be pointed out, come across Badger Beadon in the past. He merely treated Bobby to a long lecture on the advisability of not making himself liable for anything. Not an authority on financial or business matters, his advice was technically vague, but its meaning unmistakable.

On the Wednesday of that week Bobby received another letter. It was addressed in a foreign slanting handwriting. Its contents were somewhat surprising to the young man.

It was from the firm of Henriquez and Dallo in Buenos Aires and, to put it concisely, it offered Bobby a job in the firm with a salary of a thousand a year.

For the first minute or two the young man thought he must be dreaming. A thousand a year. He reread the letter more carefully. There was mention of an ex-Naval man being preferred. A suggestion that Bobby’s name had been put forward by someone (someone not named). That acceptance must be immediate, and that Bobby must be prepared to start for Buenos Aires within a week.

‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Bobby, giving vent to his feelings in a somewhat unfortunate manner.

‘Bobby!’

‘Sorry, Dad. Forgot you were there.’

Mr Jones cleared his throat.

‘I should like to point out to you –’

Bobby felt that this process – usually a long one – must at all costs be avoided. He achieved this course by a simple statement:

‘Someone’s offered me a thousand a year.’

The Vicar remained open-mouthed, unable for the moment to make any comment.

‘That’s put him off his drive all right,’ thought Bobby with satisfaction.

‘My dear Bobby, did I understand you to say that someone had offered you a thousand a year? A thousand?’

‘Holed it in one, Dad,’ said Bobby.

‘It’s impossible,’ said the Vicar.

Bobby was not hurt by this frank incredulity. His estimate of his own monetary value differed little from that of his father.

‘They must be complete mutts,’ he agreed heartily.

‘Who – er – are these people?’

Bobby handed him the letter. The Vicar, fumbling for his pince-nez, peered at it suspiciously. Finally he perused it twice.

‘Most remarkable,’ he said at last. ‘Most remarkable.’

‘Lunatics,’ said Bobby.

‘Ah! my boy,’ said the Vicar. ‘It is after all, a great thing to be in Englishman. Honesty. That’s what we stand for. The Navy has carried that ideal all over the world. An Englishman’s world! This South American firm realizes the value of a young man whose integrity will be unshaken and of whose fidelity his employers will be assured. You can always depend on an Englishman to play the game –’

‘And keep a straight bat,’ said Bobby.

The Vicar looked at his son doubtfully. The phrase, an excellent one, had actually been on the tip of his tongue, but there was something in Bobby’s tone that struck him as not quite sincere.

The young man, however, appeared to be perfectly serious.

‘All the same, Dad,’ he said, ‘why me?’

‘What do you mean – why you?’

‘There are a lot of Englishmen in England,’ said Bobby. ‘Hearty fellows, full of cricketing qualities. Why pick on me?’

‘Probably your late commanding officer may have recommended you.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s true,’ said Bobby doubtfully. ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway, since I can’t take the job.’

‘Can’t take it? My dear boy, what do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m fixed up, you see. With Badger.’

‘Badger? Badger Beadon. Nonsense, my dear Bobby. This is serious.’

‘It’s a bit hard, I own,’ said Bobby with a sigh.

‘Any childish arrangement you have made with young Beadon cannot count for a moment.’

‘It counts with me.’

‘Young Beadon is completely irresponsible. He has already, I understand, been a source of considerable trouble and expense to his parents.’

‘He’s not had much luck. Badger’s so infernally trusting.’

‘Luck – luck! I should say that young man had never done a hand’s turn in his life.’

‘Nonsense, Dad. Why, he used to get up at five in the morning to feed those beastly chickens. It wasn’t his fault they all got the roop or the croup, or whatever it was.’

‘I have never approved of this garage project. Mere folly. You must give it up.’

‘Can’t sir. I’ve promised. I can’t let old Badger down. He’s counting on me.’

The discussion proceeded. The Vicar, biased by his views on the subject of Badger, was quite unable to regard any promise made to that young man as binding. He looked on Bobby as obstinate and determined at all costs to lead an idle life in company with one of the worse possible companions. Bobby, on the other hand, stolidly repeated without originality that he ‘couldn’t let old Badger down’.

The Vicar finally left the room in anger and Bobby then and there sat down to write to the firm of Henriquez and Dallo, refusing their offer.

He sighed as he did so. He was letting a chance go here which was never likely to occur again. But he saw no alternative.

Later, on the links, he put the problem to Frankie. She listened attentively.

‘You’d have had to go to South America?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you have liked that?’

‘Yes, why not?’

Frankie sighed.

‘Anyway,’ she said with decision. ‘I think you did quite right.’

‘About Badger, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘I couldn’t let the old bird down, could I?’

‘No, but be careful the old bird, as you call him, doesn’t let you in.’

‘Oh! I shall be careful. Anyway, I shall be all right. I haven’t got any assets.’

‘That must be rather fun,’ said Frankie.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why. It just sounded rather nice and free and irresponsible. I suppose, though, when I come to think of it, that I haven’t got any assets much, either. I mean, Father gives me an allowance and I’ve got lots of houses to live in and clothes and maids and some hideous family jewels and a good deal of credits at shops; but that’s all the family really. It’s not me.’

‘No, but all the same –’ Bobby paused.

‘Oh, it’s quite different, I know.’

‘Yes,’ said Bobby. ‘It’s quite different.’

He felt suddenly very depressed.

They walked in silence to the next tee.

‘I’m going to town tomorrow,’ said Frankie, as Bobby teed up his ball.

‘Tomorrow? Oh – and I was going to suggest you should come for a picnic.’

‘I’d have liked to. However, it’s arranged. You see, Father’s got the gout again.’

‘You ought to stay and minister to him,’ said Bobby.

‘He doesn’t like being ministered to. It annoys him frightfully. He likes the second footman best. He’s sympathetic and doesn’t mind having things thrown at him and being called a damned fool.’

Bobby topped his drive and it trickled into the bunker.

‘Hard lines,’ said Frankie and drove a nice straight ball that sailed over it.

‘By the way,’ she remarked. ‘We might do something together in London. You’ll be up soon?’

‘On Monday. But – well – it’s no good, is it?’

‘What do you mean – no good?’

‘Well, I mean I shall be working as a mechanic most of the time. I mean –’

‘Even then,’ said Frankie, ‘I suppose you’re just as capable of coming to a cocktail party and getting tight as any other of my friends.’

Bobby merely shook his head.

‘I’ll give a beer and sausage party if you prefer it,’ said Frankie encouragingly.

‘Oh, look here, Frankie, what’s the good? I mean, you can’t mix your crowds. Your crowd’s a different crowd from mine.’

‘I assure you,’ said Frankie, ‘that my crowd is a very mixed one.’

‘You’re pretending not to understand.’

‘You can bring Badger if you like. There’s friendship for you.’

‘You’ve got some sort of prejudice against Badger.’

‘I daresay it’s his stammer. People who stammer always make me stammer, too.’

‘Look here, Frankie, it’s no good and you know it isn’t. It’s all right down here. There’s not much to do and I suppose I’m better than nothing. I mean you’re always awfully decent to me and all that, and I’m grateful. But I mean I know I’m just nobody – I mean –’

‘When you’ve quite finished expressing your inferiority complex,’ said Frankie coldly, ‘perhaps you’ll try getting out of the bunker with a niblick instead of a putter.’

‘Have I – oh! damn!’ He replaced the putter in his bag and took out the niblick. Frankie watched with malicious satisfaction as he hacked at the ball five times in succession. Clouds of sand rose round them.

‘Your hole,’ said Bobby, picking up the ball.

‘I think it is,’ said Frankie. ‘And that gives me the match.’

‘Shall we play the bye?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘Of course. I suppose you have.’

They walked together in silence to the clubhouse.

‘Well,’ said Frankie, holding out her hand. ‘Goodbye, my dear. It’s been too marvellous to have you to make use of while I’ve been down here. See something of you again, perhaps, when I’ve nothing better to do.’

‘Look here, Frankie –’

‘Perhaps you’ll condescend to come to my coster party. I believe you can get pearl buttons quite cheaply at Woolworth’s.’

‘Frankie –’

His words were drowned in the noise of the Bentley’s engine which Frankie had just started. She drove away with an airy wave of her hand.

‘Damn!’ said Bobby in a heartfelt tone.

Frankie, he considered, had behaved outrageously. Perhaps he hadn’t put things very tactfully, but, dash it all, what he had said was true enough.

Perhaps, though, he shouldn’t have put it into words.

The next three days seemed interminably long.

The Vicar had a sore throat which necessitated his speaking in a whisper when he spoke at all. He spoke very little and was obviously bearing his fourth son’s presence as a Christian should. Once or twice he quoted Shakespeare to the effect that a serpent’s tooth, etc.

On Saturday Bobby felt that he could bear the strain of home life no longer. He got Mrs Roberts, who, with her husband, ‘ran’ the Vicarage, to give him a packet of sandwiches, and, supplementing this with a bottle of beer which he bought in Marchbolt, he set off for a solitary picnic.

He had missed Frankie abominably these last few days. These older people were the limit … They harped on things so.

Bobby stretched himself out on a brackeny bank and debated with himself whether he should eat his lunch first and go to sleep afterwards, or sleep first and eat afterwards.

While he was cogitating, the matter was settled for him by his falling asleep without noticing it.

When he awoke it was half-past three! Bobby grinned as he thought how his father would disapprove of this way of spending a day. A good walk across country – twelve miles or so – that was the kind of thing that a healthy young man should do. It led inevitably to that famous remark: ‘And now, I think, I’ve earned my lunch.’

‘Idiotic,’ thought Bobby. ‘Why earn lunch by doing a lot of walking you don’t particularly want to do? What’s the merit in it? If you enjoy it, then it’s pure self-indulgence, and if you don’t enjoy it you’re a fool to do it.’

Whereupon he fell upon his unearned lunch and ate it with gusto. With a sigh of satisfaction he unscrewed the bottle of beer. Unusually bitter beer, but decidedly refreshing …

He lay back again, having tossed the empty beer bottle into a clump of heather.

He felt rather god-like lounging there. The world was at his feet. A phrase, but a good phrase. He could do anything – anything if he tried! Plans of great splendour and daring initiative flashed through his mind.

Then he grew sleepy again. Lethargy stole over him.

He slept …

Heavy, numbing sleep …