A Conspiracy of Friends (15 page)

O
N THE DAY
when Caroline lied to James and consequently lost his friendship, Berthea Snark travelled across the country by train to Cheltenham, where she planned to spend a few days in the company of her brother, Terence Moongrove. She did this about once a month now, having come to the conclusion that Terence, who was a mystic engaged in a long and fruitless journey of self-discovery, might take it upon himself to do something even more foolish than that which he had done so far. And that was a fair
number of things, she reflected, as the train made its way across Oxfordshire. There had been the dreadful incident when Terence had attempted to recharge the battery of his Morris Traveller car—directly from the mains. That had resulted in a near-death experience, and several nasty burns and bruises. Then there had been the worrying episode of those two fraudsters who had almost got away with persuading Terence to make over his valuable Queen Anne house to a bogus meditation centre that they had cooked up. That had required quick footwork on her part, and the assistance, of course, of Lennie Marchbanks, Terence’s mechanic, who had been a firm and reliable ally to Berthea in her task of protecting Terence from himself.

Terence required watching, and Berthea had decided that a monthly visit of at least a few days’ duration was now necessary to ensure that nothing too drastic happened. She had to be discreet, though: Terence did not respond well to direct intervention; he was sensitive to direction on her part, and readily accused her of being bossy. It was understandable enough, of course—not because she was bossy, but because childhood roles are rarely abandoned when siblings reach maturity, and indeed a great deal of Berthea’s professional time as a psychotherapist was spent in dealing with the consequences of imbalances and pathology in those vital early relationships. Earlier that same week she had taken on a new patient who had consulted her because she felt unable to make any decision without telephoning her sister in Newcastle to ask for advice.

“I know I should be able to stand on my own two feet,” this patient had said. “But the problem is, if I try to take the decision myself I spend hours, yes, hours, thinking about it, and I tend to avoid deciding one way or the other.”

Berthea had asked what sort of decisions required to be made by this committee of two.

“Oh, just about everything. When I go to the shops, I need to consult Lizzie about what to buy. Even if I see that there are no eggs in the fridge, I have to ask her whether she thinks it’s a good idea to get eggs today or tomorrow.”

“Even when you know that you’re going to need them today?”

“Even then.”

Berthea made a note. “When you were children, was she the one who told you what to do?”

“Of course.” There was a pause. “Well, at least I think so. Perhaps I should ask her. Do you mind if I ask her about that and tell you next time?”

That answer required a rather longer note.

It was different with her and Terence. She had certainly been the one in charge of their games as children; she had invariably been the leader and Terence had followed. But that did not mean that he still accepted these arrangements: the underlying dynamics might be the same, but the problem itself was different. Terence now felt inclined to do the opposite of what Berthea suggested because, unlike her patient, he resented Berthea’s leadership. This, however, did not compromise any theory of the persistence of childhood relationships: if anything, it underlined the phenomenon. So Berthea, conscious of what was going on in Terence’s mind, knew that in order to secure his compliance, she merely had to suggest the opposite of what she wanted. Or so it had seemed until recently, when Terence appeared to develop some insight into her strategy and started to do exactly what she suggested, knowing that this was what she did
not
want. So if she advised him to do B rather than A, he would follow her suggestion to do B because he twigged that A was what she actually wanted him to do. He subsequently made the calculation that Berthea might realise that he had tumbled to her device, and therefore when she proposed that he do
B rather than A … Here he had faltered, uncertain what to do if she knew that he knew. Should he go back to doing the opposite? Would that work?

There were currently two Terence-related issues preying on Berthea’s mind. The first of these was his car—the Porsche that Lennie Marchbanks had reluctantly obtained for him from Monty Bismarck; it was a constant worry, even if Terence tended to drive it at not much more than twenty-five miles per hour. There was still the potential to go much faster should he ever decide to put his foot down hard on the accelerator; and Terence was so uncoordinated, in spite of all that sacred dance, that his foot could conceivably go down without his intending it.

That was one worry. The other was India, and the references that Terence had recently made to the possibility of visiting an ashram he had read about in one of his New Age magazines. Berthea had gently pointed out the complexity of visiting India, the need to have inoculations and to avoid the monsoon season.

“And you have to get a visa,” she said. “And that’s terribly complicated. You should see the forms, Terence—very complicated. Hardly worth bothering, I would have thought.”

“I won’t need a visa,” he said.

“Yes, you will. Everybody needs a visa. The Indians are very strict about that.”

Terence shook his head. “No. I think they let you in as long as your karma’s good. They’ll assess that at the airport.”

Berthea had stared at her brother. Where did one begin with somebody like Terence? And, more importantly, where did one end?

T
HE LOW-SLUNG
P
ORSCHE
was waiting for Berthea as she emerged from Cheltenham station. She waved: dear Terence, what a great effort it cost him to be punctual—with all his metaphysical concerns—but he had managed it, bless him! And now that he had this car, the eventful journeys in the Morris Traveller, during which they had more than once run out of petrol between the station and the house, were a thing of the past.

As she approached the Porsche, the driver’s door opened and a figure stepped out to greet her. It was not Terence Moongrove, but his
garagiste
, Lennie Marchbanks, who smiled warmly at Berthea, his ill-fitting false teeth projecting slightly as he did so. She remembered those teeth—how could she forget them?—as she had briefly kept them in her coat pocket when Lennie had gamely played the part of the Green Man in her elaborate plan to save Terence from the New Age fraudsters. The knowledge that one has had the false teeth of another in one’s pocket lends a strange intimacy to a relationship, Berthea mused.

Lennie stepped forward to help with her bag.

“Not much luggage,” he said as he took the well-packed grip Berthea was carrying. “You should see Mrs. Marchbanks when she goes off for a day or two to her mother in Bristol. You need a camel to carry everything.”

“People have different requirements, Mr. Marchbanks,” said Berthea. She had only met Lennie’s wife once, but felt that she must defend the travelling habits of her sex in the face of this rather old-fashioned comment. “I’m sure that your wife packs only what she needs.”

“I’m not,” said Lennie cheerfully. “She takes half her wardrobe,
so she does. I see her packing. She just empties whole drawers into the suitcase.”

They got into the car. It was very badly designed for getting in and out of, thought Berthea, at least for people like her. But then she realised that Porsches were not for people like her in the first place but for rather younger, lither people—the sort of people who wore sunglasses when it was not strictly necessary. The unnecessary wearing of sunglasses, of course, was a sure sign of neurosis, as her training analyst had told her years ago. This belief had been confirmed by her own experience.

“I must ask you to remove your sunglasses during analysis,” she had said to one patient. He had done so, and she had seen the anxiety in his eyes as his protection against the world was laid aside. She had felt momentarily guilty, and assured him that it was for his own benefit. “We cannot shelter during this process,” she explained. “The whole point of analysis is to see behind that which stands between us and the social world.”

The patient had looked at her reproachfully. “I need them,” he said. “Like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks.”

Lennie turned the key in the ignition. “Lovely sound, this motor,” he said. “You hear that, Dr. Snark? Gorgeous sound.” He looked at her and smiled. “I’ve come to collect you because I had the car in the garage for its service. Your brother phoned and said I might as well pick you up since I was going to be bringing the car back to his place. So here I am.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Marchbanks,” said Berthea. “My brother, as you know, is not quite as other men. I’d be very worried about him if I didn’t know that you were keeping an eye on him.”

“You’re quite welcome, Dr. Snark,” said Lennie. “I do my best, and I’m fond of Terence, you know. He’s got some unusual ideas in that head of his, but nowt so queer as folk, as they used to say. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“People are very strange,” agreed Berthea. “But it’s certainly true, I think, that some are stranger than others. My dear brother possibly belongs in this latter category.”

“Could be,” said Lennie, as he changed gear. “Listen to that gearbox. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. You have to hand it to the Germans: they make a very fine gearbox.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Berthea. “And I’m perfectly happy to give them the credit for it.”

There was silence for a few moments. Then Lennie said, “Actually, Dr. Snark, there’s something that’s giving me cause for concern. Your brother’s got a little scheme brewing.”

Berthea’s heart sank. “Tell me,” she sighed. “It’s best that I should know.”

“It’s that Monty Bismarck,” Lennie went on, frowning as he spoke. “He’s got no business getting Mr. Moongrove all excited. I had a word with his dad, you know, Alfie Bismarck, but he said that Monty was a grown-up and he couldn’t really tell him what to do any more. He said that he’d tried but it hadn’t worked.”

Berthea remained tight-lipped as the mechanic continued.

“It’s to do with a car,” said Lennie.

Berthea was relieved. At least that was manageable, and could presumably be dealt with by Lennie Marchbanks. Was Terence planning to get a newer Porsche, perhaps? Well, that was not exactly the end of the world: he had survived this one, and would probably drive the next one in much the same way.

“That doesn’t sound too ominous,” she said. “You can manage a new car, can’t you, Mr. Marchbanks?”

Lennie shook his head. “He’s keeping this. He’s not getting rid of it.”

“Well?”

“He’s getting another one, Dr. Snark. That’s the problem. Monty
has managed to persuade your brother to invest in a syndicate to buy a vintage racing car.”

“With a view to selling it on? Does he know what he’s doing?”

Lennie’s false teeth made a strange clicking sound. “Oh, Monty Bismarck knows what he’s doing all right. The syndicate consists of himself and Mr. Moongrove—that’s all. Monty’s putting in two hundred quid, and Mr. Moongrove’s putting in one hundred thousand.”

Berthea looked out of the window. Terence had been left well provided for by their father and there was no shortage of money, but one hundred thousand pounds … For a car—and a secondhand one at that!

“It’s a Frazer Nash,” Lennie continued. “Lovely machine, actually, and I’d buy it like a shot myself if I had the cash. The 1932 model, and those aren’t two a penny, I can assure you. But it is a racing car, you know, and … Well, Monty intends to race it.”

Berthea shrugged. “Well, I suppose those old cars don’t go too fast. And it will be on a racetrack, I take it.”

“They can get going,” said Lennie. “It’s not Formula One stuff, but they go fast enough with the wind behind them.”

“Well, I suppose there are more dangerous sports.”

“Yes, there are,” conceded Lennie. “But the point is this: Monty’s agreed to have Mr. Moongrove as his co-driver. There are lots of these old car races that are for two-driver cars. So your brother’s actually taking up motor racing, Dr. Snark. That’s the problem.”

T
ERENCE
M
OONGROVE CARRIED
his sister’s bag upstairs. “You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve put you in your usual room, Berthy,” he said. “I had a friend staying last week. He loved the view from that window, you know, the one that Uncle Edgar painted when he unearthed that old watercolour set in the attic.”

“Oh yes,” said Berthea. “I remember the painting. What a pity he had absolutely no talent. Quite devoid of it, in fact. Poor Uncle Edgar.”

Terence admonished her. “Naughty!” he said, nonetheless allowing himself a smile. “Be careful what you say about Uncle Edgar, Berthy. I believe his spirit is still here somewhere. He’s very close to us. Even now, as we speak.”

Berthea crossed the room to open the window, in case Uncle Edgar might wish to get out. There was a curious, rather sweet smell in the room; the smell, she thought, of an exotic, over-scented pot pourri. Was Uncle Edgar
wearing something
? Or
smoking
it perhaps?

“You’ve seen him?” she asked her brother. “Do you have any evidence?”

Terence put the bag down on the end of the bed. “Oh, you may mock, Berthy,” he said. “You and your reductionist, materialist outlook: the reason you never see anything is that your eyes are closed to things that clearly exist on another dimension. You are one-dimensional, Berthy, that’s what you are.”

Berthea sighed; with her generous figure, she would have loved to be more one-dimensional. “Where exactly is Uncle Edgar?” she asked. “And when precisely did you see him?”

“I’ve seen him twice over the last six months,” said Terence,
using a matter-of-fact tone, of the sort one might use to describe the spotting of a friend on the street. “I saw him outside the kitchen window one evening, looking in at me from the garden. I waved to him and he—or his spirit—waved back. Then he dematerialised and I didn’t see him again until I caught a glimpse of him cleaning his teeth in the downstairs bathroom. I spoke to him on that occasion but he did not reply. Spirits rarely do.”