Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (36 page)

HIS HOLINESS COMMANDS

‘So, am I to understand,’ said the building society manager, ‘that all of you wish to have an interest in this house purchase?’

Mr Disvan smiled at him indulgently. ‘Yes, I believe you’ve grasped it, Mr Dwyer. That’s exactly what we wish.’

The manager surveyed the dozen Binscomites crammed into his cheerless little office.

‘It’s rather... unusual,’ he said. Then, seeing Disvan’s look of disapproval, added swiftly, ‘but by no means impossible!’

‘We’re very glad you should take that attitude, Mr Dwyer. As you so rightly say, the gist of it is that we’ll all be registered as part owners on the deeds. Mr Jarman here, who’s an estate agent, has arranged the purchase from the executors and Mr Medici, who’s a solicitor, has drawn up the necessary documentation. All we need now is a mortgage—which is where you come in.’

‘Well...’ said the troubled Dwyer, pressured into a pace of action he wasn’t used to, ‘there shouldn’t be any problem about that... as such.’

‘Good,’ said Disvan decisively. ‘Then there’s no reason we can’t arrive at a date of completion within the week.’

‘Ah... but...’

‘Excellent. Everyone else was dubious about you and your building society, Mr Dwyer, but I told them, “I knew his father and his grandfather, and they were the sort of men who got things done. He’s a chip off that old block.” And you’ve proved me right, haven’t you, Mr Dwyer?’

‘Well... times were a little different...’

Mr Disvan held up his hand to stem the torrent of timidity.

‘Please don’t say another word, Mr Dwyer. We’re already delighted with the level of service you’ve provided; we couldn’t possibly ask for anything more. I’m minded to write a letter of commendation to your area manager.’

‘Oh well, thank you.’

Dwyer was visibly ransacking his mind, searching for something to dam or at least slow the tide of events. He finally found suitable ground for a last stand.

‘There is, of course, the question of a satisfactory survey...’

Mr Disvan beckoned me forward and I placed two independent survey reports on the manager’s desk.

‘And this,’ I said, adding to the paper pile as I spoke, ‘is the local authority search document, courtesy of the Borough Council planning department whose chief officer, Mr Poulson, is here today. This is the account and sort code number for the vendor’s bank. You can telegraphically transfer the money through any day this week—they’ll be expecting you. And this is Medici’s card, so you can liaise with him—if need be.’

‘Ah…’ said Mr Dwyer.

I was enjoying all this, savouring the contrast with the tortuous, stress-filled memories of my own property purchases. Judging by the smiles on the faces of the landlord, Doctor Bani-Sadr, Mr Patel, Mr Bretwalda,
et al.
, they were thinking along the same lines.

‘Right, that’s settled that,’ said Mr Disvan, rising and preparing to leave what had somehow become his office. ‘Any problems, Mr Dwyer—not that there will be any—you know where to contact me.’

Dwyer nodded without raising his eyes from the documents strewn in front of him. We all departed and adjourned
en masse
to the Argyll where Lottie the landlady had been holding the fort.

‘Did you really know that man’s father and grandfather?’ I asked.

‘I did. The grandfather was also a “property agent”, as they were then called. I bought my house through him.’

‘Is that so? Remarkable.’

‘Remarkable wasn’t the word I used at the time,’ growled Disvan. ‘He was just as much of an old woman as his grandson.’

‘Oh... well, if you thought that, why didn’t we go to another building society? There are plenty in Goldenford.’

Mr Disvan, and a number of others who were in earshot, looked shocked.

‘Because, Mr Oakley, he’s local, while they are strangers who we don’t know from Adam. You go into just any old building society and the manager might be from... well, London!’

For the sake of peace, I went along with the tribal madness and agreed that that would never do.

*  *  *

The genesis of the episode described above was composed in an evening at the Argyll some time before.

Mr Wessner had entered the bar and joined our company. He stared morosely at his drink for a little while and then announced—to no one in particular—‘That’s torn it!’

I should say, to begin with, that Mr Wessner, though an accepted member of the Binscombe inner circle, was an irritable and fractious man, given to ‘one-liners’ and bubble-bursting. He could, and usually would, provide a cynical interpretation on everything, from welcomed birth to timely grave—and all points in-between. He was, as far as I know, the only person in Binscombe with the complete works of Machiavelli on his bookshelves.

It was not unusual, therefore, for him to display signs of upset which needn’t unduly concern us.

‘What’s torn it, Wessy?’ asked Doctor Bani-Sadr, in order to humour him.

Mr Wessner took a deep breath before answering.

‘I have, I’m afraid.’

‘Torn what, though?’ said Mr Bretwalda. ‘Come on man, spit it out!’

‘
It!
’ repeated Wessner, windmilling his arms to encompass the entirety of the universe. ‘Everything!’

Up to that moment, Mr Disvan had been engrossed in studying his vast copy of the Koran but, on hearing Wessner say this, he started to pay close heed.

The landlord, leaning over the bar and half paying attention to our conversation, also picked up on this point.

‘You’ve had enough, Wessy,’ he said in a reasonably kind way; ‘no more for you tonight.’

Mr Wessner was outraged.

‘This is my first one today!’ he shouted. ‘I’m as sober as a... no, more sober than a judge!  I’ll prove it—look at my hand.’

He held his palm out, palm down, for our perusal. We politely observed that it was shaking wildly, as usual.

Mr Wessner started to feel that he was being baited and the nanosecond fuse of his temper began to burn. We recognised the signs of him arming himself with words from his vocabulary of vitriol.

Happily, Mr Disvan intervened and at least postponed the explosion.

‘When you say you’ve “torn it”,’ he said, sweeping the air with his gaze to mimic Wessner’s gesture, ‘would you care to expand on that?’

‘Not really,’ answered Mr Wessner. ‘Not after I’ve been laughed at.’

‘Not even if I absolutely insist?’ said Disvan in a neutral tone that admirably expressed menace without the crudity of threats.

We hadn’t realised that this was a matter of any import. Mr Disvan clearly thought otherwise. Everyone sat up and looked at Mr Wessner.

‘On reflection,’ he said slowly, in a dignified rearguard action, ‘perhaps I do owe you all an explanation. But, if I’m going to do that, you’d best come to my house. There’s something there I want you to look into.’

*  *  *

The ‘it’ that Mr Wessner had torn, we found hanging in mid-air in his kitchen. The half dozen of us who’d accepted his invitation, stared at the small, jagged rend in the fabric of creation and wondered what to say.

It looked like a window made by a hasty workman, but the similarity ended there. A window requires some form of support and offers a perspective between two proximate areas. The ‘it’, however, simply hung in position, entirely unaided, and the view it provided was most definitely not of Mr Wessner’s kitchen.

For a start, it seemed to be quite dark beyond the ‘window’, whereas the kitchen was flooded with electric light. Where we would have expected to see the top of the fridge-freezer and a dust-covered spice rack, there was a vista of what looked like a wall, in another room altogether.

Mr Disvan crossed the room and stood on tip-toe, his fingers clutching the bottom edge of the tear, in order to peer in. He looked left and right, tested the strength of the ‘frame’ with his hands and, at long last, passed judgement by saying, ‘Hmmmm...’

We awaited something a little more illuminating, but it showed no signs of arriving. Predictably, and not unreasonably, Mr Wessner’s patience broke first.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what’s in there, for God’s sake?’

Mr Disvan looked hurt, sensitive as ever to breaches of the third commandment.

‘There’s no need to lose your temper,’ he said. ‘I should imagine that’s what started all this.’ He waved his hand to indicate the ‘window’. ‘Anyway, do you mean to say you haven’t looked in there yourself?’

Mr Wessner looked abashed.

‘Well, no... I was so surprised when it happened, I thought I’d better go and get some advice first.’

To avoid injuring our friend’s delicate sensitivities, we all tried to look stony faced and inscrutable. For all his occasionally violent tongue, Mr Wessner was not known for a ‘derring-do’ attitude to life and he was painfully aware of it. The effect of our thoughtfulness was, of course, to increase his embarrassment

‘What did you want me to do,’ he said in the silence that followed, ‘crawl straight through?’

‘Of course not, of course not,’ said Disvan in an effort to placate. ‘I’m sure you acted for the best. Now, why don’t you lead us into the living room and explain it all to us over a drink?’

Mr Wessner’s response was sphinx-like.

‘Drink? he said. ‘Drink! It’s drink that’s responsible for this. If I’d had enough drink, none of this would have happened!’

*  *  *

Seated (drinkless) on the various randomly acquired bits of furniture in the ‘living room’, we waited for Mr Wessner to explain the riddle.

‘It had been a really hard day at the town hall,’ he started, by way of introduction.

‘Ha!’ laughed the landlord, before Disvan hushed him to silence.

‘It
had
,’ Wessner insisted. ‘Some of my memos had gone astray in the internal post, the borough treasurer was in a funny mood—you know how it is...’

We didn’t, but let it pass.

‘So, all in all, when I got home, having been rained on all the way, I was feeling pretty fractious. What should I find on the doormat but a lot of bills waiting for me. Not only that, but there was a letter demanding money with menaces.’

‘Really?’ said Mr Patel, his interest aroused. ‘Did you tell the police?’

Mr Wessner furrowed his brow.

‘What for? It was from my ex-wife’s solicitors, and the police are in league with them. Anyway, that was nearly the last straw—or so it seemed then. “I need a drink,” I thought, and went into the kitchen to fetch one. It was then I remembered that I should have gone shopping in the lunch hour but hadn’t had the time, what with the memos and everything. Needless to say, restocking the drinks cabinet had been item number one on the shopping list and now, to quote a phrase, the cupboard was bare.

‘Never mind,’ I thought, ‘chin up; there’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge that you’ve been saving, on the off-chance you’ll ever have something to celebrate again. Splash out and salvage the day with that.