Читать книгу Work Suspended and Other Stories - Evelyn Waugh - Страница 11

Table of Contents

Later that evening he dined with Beckthorpe, and, as he dined, he grew more despondent.

‘To-morrow this time I shall be at sea,’ he said, twiddling his empty port glass.

‘Cheer up, old boy,’ said Beckthorpe.

Hector filled his glass and gazed with growing distaste round the reeking dining-room of Beckthorpe’s club. The last awful member had left the room and they were alone with the cold buffet.

‘I say, you know, I’ve been trying to work it out. It was in three years you said the crop was bound to be right, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right, old boy.’

‘Well, I’ve been through the sum and it seems to me that it might be eighty-one years before it comes right.’

‘No, no, old boy, three or nine, or at the most twenty-seven.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite.’

‘Good ... you know it’s awful leaving Milly behind. Suppose it is eighty-one years before the crop succeeds. It’s the devil of a time to expect a girl to wait. Some other blighter might turn up, if you see what I mean.’

‘In the Middle Ages they used to use girdles of chastity.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve been thinking of them. But they sound damned uncomfortable. I doubt if Milly would wear one even if I knew where to find it.’

‘Tell you what, old boy. You ought to give her something.’

‘Hell, I’m always giving her things. She either breaks them or loses them or forgets where she got them.’

‘You must give her something she will always have by her, something that will last.’

‘Eighty-one years?’

‘Well, say twenty-seven. Something to remind her of you.’

‘I could give her a photograph—but I might change a bit in twenty-seven years.’

‘No, no, that would be most unsuitable. A photograph wouldn’t do at all. I know what I’d give her. I’d give her a dog.’

‘Dog?’

‘A healthy puppy that was over distemper and looked like living a long time. She might even call it Hector.’

‘Would that be a good thing, Beckthorpe?’

‘Best possible, old boy.’

So next morning, before catching the boat train, Hector hurried to one of the mammoth stores of London and was shown the livestock department. ‘I want a puppy.’

‘Yes, sir. Any particular sort?’

‘One that will live a long time. Eighty-one years, or twenty-seven at the least.’

The man looked doubtful. ‘We have some fine healthy puppies, of course,’ he admitted, ‘but none of them carry a guarantee. Now if it was longevity you wanted, might I recommend a tortoise? They live to an extraordinary age and are very safe in traffic.’

‘No, it must be a pup.’

‘Or a parrot?’

‘No, no, a pup. I would prefer one named Hector.’

They walked together past monkeys and kittens and cockatoos to the dog department, which, even at this early hour, had attracted a small congregation of rapt worshippers. There were puppies of all varieties in wire-fronted kennels, ears cocked, tails wagging, noisily soliciting attention. Rather wildly, Hector selected a poodle and, as the salesman disappeared to fetch him his change, he leant down for a moment’s intense communion with the beast of his choice. He gazed deep into the sharp little face, avoided a sudden snap and said with profound solemnity:

‘You are to look after Milly, Hector. See that she doesn’t marry anyone until I get back.’

And the pup Hector waved his plume of tail.