Bland Beginning (26 page)

Ruth Cleverly lay in a hot bath and thought about John Basingstoke, his disorderly dark hair and his long, lean and awkward body, and his mixture of shyness and sophistication. He believes I’m terribly practical, but he’s wrong, she thought. She looked at her monkey-face in a mirror without much affection, and stuck out her tongue. Well, she thought, at least that looks pink and healthy. She began to wash herself all over with a sponge.

The thing is, she said to herself, shall I marry him? For they had gone to a cinema on Friday night, to see a film made by Charles Chaplin, called
A Woman of Paris
, with a new actor named Adolphe Menjou; and then they had eaten dinner together (a dinner, incidentally, which he had lacked money to pay for), and between the entrée and the joint he had asked her to marry him. It was when he had said that he was unable to pay for dinner that she had asked what they would live on.

“If you’re in love with me that doesn’t matter.”

“You’re quite sure that
you’re
in love with
me
.”

“Oh yes. I couldn’t be mistaken. That was why I went to the cemetery this afternoon, although I didn’t know it at the time.”

“Why don’t you get a job?” she asked, and he stared at her.

“I write books,” he said with a kind of offended dignity.

“I didn’t ask how you’d keep me in cigarettes. You forget I worked for your publisher until today. I know how many copies your poems sold. And, anyway, I haven’t noticed you writing any books in the last few days.” She leant across the table and took his lean hand in her stubby one. “I’m sick of living from hand to mouth, John. It’s all right when you’re twenty, but later on it’s no fun. And what should we do but live from hand to mouth?”

“In a year or two –”

“And what should we do for that year or two? I can look after myself, but I don’t want to have to look after you as well in the interests of high art.”

Then he looked hurt, and was upset. They split the cost of the dinner.

Ruth Cleverly splashed the bath water violently. Why did I have to put it just that way, she thought, a way that was certain to upset him? Why couldn’t I do it tactfully? She got out of the bath, enveloped herself in an enormous towel and dried herself with quick, impatient rubs. And above all, she thought as she finished drying herself,
am
I going to marry him, anyway? Because, appearances to the contrary, I’m not a practical person?

During the course of this mental soliloquy she had not once thought about his scar.

Basingstoke missed the last train to Barnsfield on Friday night, and stayed with his young friend. Bland, whose passion for personal neatness was mixed with an amiable tolerance of the disorderly habits of others, made up a bed for him on the floor of his dungeon out of an old sleeping bag, a pillow and a blanket. Although it was after midnight when Basingstoke arrived, he saw that a light was shining through his friend’s skylight, and Bland told him that he had just returned from a lecture on “The Psychology of the Criminal”, given by an American penologist visiting this country. Basingstoke, who felt tired and discouraged after dinner with Ruth, quickly went to sleep in the sleeping bag. He woke to the smell of frying bacon, and saw that the table was laid with a gay check cloth for breakfast. Bland’s face was flushed as he turned from the gas stove.

“You had an air of abstraction from earthly things last night. I hope you’re prepared to eat a light snack this morning.”

The light snack was quantities of scrambled eggs and bacon, with hot toast and a great deal of milky coffee. “You live awfully well,” Basingstoke said, his mouth half full. “Bacon and eggs for stray visitors. I can’t think how you do it on your salary.”

“These things are a matter of organisation. I earn two pounds ten shillings a week. My rent is ten and sixpence – which perhaps explains why I live in this curious room. I smoke and drink very little, not because I have any prejudice against tobacco or alcohol, but simply because such things are bound to be luxuries for me. If I ever become involved with a woman, I shall make sure that she doesn’t want to eat at the Ritz.” He shrugged his shoulders. “With such tastes, it’s possible for me to provide bacon and eggs – not for stray visitors, but for my friends.”

“And are you happy, living like that?”

“Really now, don’t let us become involved in metaphysics. Which of us is happy? And what is happiness? What song did the sirens sing?” When Bland smiled he looked no more than sixteen years old. “Am I right in deducing that you have fallen in love with someone who demands the Ritz?”

“Not altogether.” Basingstoke told the story of his proposal. “It’s no use laughing at me. I’m perfectly serious.”

“She doesn’t mind about your scar?”

“She says she doesn’t.”

“Then why not do what she says, and get yourself a job?”

“Do you mean sitting in an office all day and adding up rows of figures? I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to be tied to anything that affects my freedom,” he said rather pompously.

“I had the impression you were interested in the Rawlings girl.”

“Good Lord, no. She’s good-looking, but hasn’t a brain in her head.” Basingstoke sat picking his teeth. “It would be nice to get hold of some money. You still believe you know who’s responsible for all this?”

“Yes.’’

“I can’t get that damned man hanging up in the kitchen out of my mind.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bland said, and added as the other looked at him: “I can’t get him out of my mind either. The Inspector’s been cautious. There’s nothing in these papers beyond the bare official statement that Jacobs was found hanged on his own premises, and that it’s probably suicide.”

Basingstoke read the papers, while Bland dressed with his customary care. When the two young men went out Bland stopped by the pillar-box, and took a long and bulky envelope from his pocket. “In case of accidents,” he said, and dropped it in.

Inspector Wrax sat at his desk staring at the photostat of a document which he had received that morning. It was what he had expected, and now that he had it the warmth faded from the Inspector’s eyes, and left them lustreless as pebbles. He sat meditating at the desk, chewing savagely the end of a pencil. The telephone rang, and he heard Sergeant Thynne’s squeaky voice.

“I think we’re on to something, sir. You know the milkman?”

The Inspector bit through his pencil, and spat it out. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“I mean, sir, you know there was some milk left outside Jacobs’ house? We’ve got hold of the milkman, and he says when he was delivering he noticed a man coming out. That was about eight o’clock, and he didn’t get a proper sight of the chap because he wore a trilby hat and had a scarf wrapped round his face – as if he had a bad tooth, see. Now, we’ve traced him further. He took a ticket from Blackheath up to Charing Cross – ticket-collector remembers a man with a scarf who didn’t speak very clearly.”

“Any identification? Short or tall, dark or fair?”

The Sergeant coughed. “The milkman said he was a bit above medium height, and the ticket-collector thought he was short. But we’re still trying to pick him up from Charing Cross.”

“What about Cobb’s house? Still nobody who saw anyone leave there?”

“Not yet, sir. But we’re still trying.”

“Yes,” said the Inspector. “Go on trying.” He put down the telephone, and said aloud, to the wall, “But the case is closed.”

The extreme lack of confidence with which Edward Rawlings handled a car was perhaps partly responsible for the falling-off in his practice, for some of his patients may have felt that one so inept with a mechanical object might be no more skilful with stethoscope and hammer. He regarded his car rather as an animal that had a life of its own, quite independent of the attempts made by its driver to control it. Nevertheless, he recognised that the use of clutch and steering wheel had, in an unaccountable way, their effect on the animal’s conduct, and was very careful not to let them get out of control. His top speed on a good, straight road, with nothing in sight, was twenty miles an hour, and he slowed down on turning corners so that the car almost stopped. He earned the reward of such care in a puncture when they were ten miles from Millingham, and he mended it slowly and with a great deal of fuss. It was a hot afternoon, and by the time Edward had finished he was red and sweating. “This kind of thing is bad for my heart,” he said as he got back in the car.

“Speaking of hearts, what about that missing stuff. Did you find out anything more about it?”

Edward looked embarrassed. “As a matter of fact, I did. It was all mother’s fault. She
will
come into the dispensary to ask what I want for lunch – really a most disconcerting habit. I questioned her closely, and she agreed that in the course of such a conversation she had seen me take a bottle
out
of the poison cupboard and put it on the shelf, and take a bottle
off
the shelf and put it in the poison cupboard. Do I make myself clear?” He looked solemnly at his sister.

“Perfectly. And don’t you remember anything about it?”

“Nothing whatever. Isn’t that an appalling thing?”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Vicky unfeelingly. “If you don’t go a little faster, the car behind will ram us, and then you probably won’t remember anything at all.” Edward pressed the accelerator a little, and shuddered sympathetically as the car leapt forward.

When they reached Uncle Jack’s house half an hour later, Mrs Holroyd opened the door. “Mr Rawlings has gone,” she said, and they stared at her. “He said I was to give you this note.” She hesitated between them, and gave it to Vicky. Edward stood with his lips pursed in disapproval, while she tore it open. The note said, in Uncle Jack’s dashing hand:

“Dear Vicky – and Edward too, if you come – I promised you a surprise. Come down to the green and see what it is. Meant to take you down myself, but had to rush off.

“Delighted to see you both. Edward – please don’t give me a depressing view of my health.

“Your loving uncle.”

“Whatever is Mr Rawlings doing at the village green?” Vicky asked, and the woman looked at her pityingly.

“He’s gone to the cricket.”

“Cricket,” Vicky said with disgust when the door was closed. “I don’t want to see cricket.”

“I knew all this would be a complete waste of time.” Edward stood kicking the car wheel despondently, in a way that made her feel perversely annoyed.

“Now that we’re here we may as well go down to the green and see what his surprise is,” she said sharply, and climbed into the car again. As they drove towards the village, her mind moved into fanciful thoughts of Uncle Jack making a will in her favour.
Vicky, my little girl, you are the only one amongst us who is fitted to carry on the torch lighted by your grandfather. At my death this house will be yours, with all that’s in it. See that within these walls the flame of art is kept burning.
What alterations would have to be made to the house? She was brooding on them when the car jolted to a stop and Edward said, “Here we are.”

Millingham Green was not unbeautiful at any time, and was looking its best on this fine afternoon of May. The green itself was large and triangular, and it was ornamented by two marquees, each with a flag fluttering above it. A good deal of bunting was strung about for no obvious reason. Deck chairs were placed round the marquees, and on another side of the ground were several benches on which old men were sitting, many of them smoking pipes. A dozen cars were parked at intervals round the green and perhaps a hundred and fifty people were watching the men who performed a complicated ritual in the middle of it.

“Rather pretty, isn’t it?” Edward said, but Vicky did not hear him. She was gazing with parted lips at the scene before her, a scene as intricate and carefully designed as a ballet. The bowler stepped up and as he did so some of the men walked forward. Smoothly his arm swung over and the little ball was projected into the air. It thudded gently against the bat and rolled towards one of the walking men, who gravely picked it up, looked at it, and returned it to the bowler. The bowler walked back, ran forward and again his arm swung over smoothly. The whole thing had, Vicky felt (although she would not have phrased her feeling in quite those words) the repetitive and incantatory quality of all primitive art; and it had also the small novelty and variation of such art, for as she watched, the batsman swished violently at the little ball, it rested in the thick gloves of the sinister crouching figure behind him and several of the flannelled men bayed like dogs to the blue sky. The swisher stood hesitantly for a moment, a brave man prepared to meet his fate. Then he turned on his heel and strode away, as a figure in a white coat lifted a finger. On the benches there were murmurs, shaking of old heads and knocking of almost equally old pipes.

“Pleasant enough here,” Edward said grudgingly.

“It’s
wonderful
,” said Vicky. It will be remembered that she had never watched a cricket match before. “Why, there’s Uncle Jack,” she cried, standing up in the car. Two or three people on the green turned round to smile at her benevolently and on the field a red-cheeked figure, silk scarf tied loosely round neck, waved a friendly hand. The new batsman was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore a cap of many colours. He had no immediate chance to show his abilities, for over had been called and Uncle Jack himself took the ball at the other end. It was apparent from the way in which he gripped the ball in his hand, trotted up to the wicket from somewhere behind the umpire, and tossed it into the air, that he was a bowler of much guile. The batsman, a fierce-looking little man, hit him with a cross-bat for two and then went down on one knee and mowed the next ball round to leg for four. Uncle Jack frowned ferociously and tossed the next ball even higher into the air. The batsman pranced down the pitch with his head in the air and missed the ball completely. Again the dogs bayed to the sky and the fierce little man ran towards the marquee, swinging his bat cheerfully.

“Eight wickets down,” Edward said. He pointed to a wooden board on which a boy was hanging three rows of numbers. They read 110 – 8 – 15. Vicky stared at it, and asked what it meant. “It means that the side batting has scored a hundred and ten runs for eight wickets, and that the last man out made fifteen.” Edward looked at his sister with his eyes screwed up. “You seem very interested. I thought you didn’t like cricket.”

“
This
kind of cricket is quite enchanting,” Vicky said, making an unspoken reservation about all the other kinds she had not seen.

Still with his eyes screwed up, staring out at the green, her brother said, “I understand now why you were so keen to come down.”

“Why?”

“There’s Shelton out in the middle.”

“
Anthony
.” She realised suddenly the identity of the tall and strangely familiar figure in the many-coloured cap. She realised also, with a rush of relief, the reason for Anthony’s reluctance to tell her where he was going that afternoon. “If only I’d known,” she murmured to herself. She felt like singing.

The other batsman had scraped a single, and now Anthony faced Uncle Jack. He made his block hole carefully and stood comfortably, erect and graceful, waiting to receive the ball. Uncle Jack trotted up behind the umpire and tossed the ball into the air. It looked remarkably innocuous, almost a full toss, but Anthony was not to be tempted. He played back in an academic manner, left elbow high in air; but he must somehow have left some space between his bat and his pads, for the ball crept gently through it and removed one bail. Vicky put a hand to her mouth as he walked out. “Oh. Does that mean he’s finished?”

“Yes; he’s out, I’m afraid. Here’s that chap Basingstoke. What the devil’s he doing here?”

Basingstoke had with him Ruth Cleverly and a friend whose name, when he was introduced, turned out to be Bland. Vicky was too much upset by the sight of the small boy putting up on the wooden board figures that read 111 – 9 – 0 to pay much attention to these newcomers. When her attention wandered from the cricket, however, she saw that Basingstoke looked more cheerful than usual, and that his young friend, who was dressed with clerkly neatness and tidiness, allowed his impersonal blue eyes to rest on her for a little longer than seemed necessary. She noticed also that Ruth Cleverly was looking much smarter than usual, in a blue silk dress. They had come down, it seemed, to have tea with Uncle Jack and he had told them (what he had kept from Vicky) that a cricket match would be part of the entertainment. Edward greeted them all with a kind of suspicious gloom, and while they stood round the car talking the last batsman had his stumps knocked out of the ground. The umpires removed the bails and the figures walked slowly off the field in the direction of the marquee. Presently Uncle Jack came briskly over to them, followed by a young man recognised by Vicky (although she had not seen him for two or three years) as his son Philip. Uncle Jack was looking very pleased with himself.

“Something like a day, isn’t it?” he chuckled. “Something like a day. How are you, Edward? Not looking too well – trust a doctor not to be able to prescribe for himself. And you, my dear.” He kissed Vicky heartily on the cheek. “Told you I’d have a surprise for you, didn’t I? Surprise for your young man, too – didn’t tell him I’d asked you to come over. Doesn’t know you’re here yet. Did you see me bowl him out, eh?” He turned to the others. “Miss Cleverly, delighted to see you, very much delighted. Allow an old man the privilege.” He kissed her on the cheek. “And you, young Sherlock, how are you? Brought your assistant with you, I see.”

“As a matter of fact, he
is
interested in that affair, but I’m really
his
assistant,” Basingstoke said in his rich voice. The glance that Uncle Jack gave them from under his thick brows was remarkably keen, but he made no comment. Instead, he gestured towards the young man by his side. “Want you to meet my son Philip. Come down specially to score all the runs, now that I’ve got them out.” He gave a dig to Vicky. “Unless your young man gets
him
out.”

“Uncle Jack, why is Anthony playing against you?” Uncle Jack wiped his brow with a handkerchief and looked rather angry.

“Lent him to the other side, my dear. Long job to explain. Should really be playing for us.”

“But he doesn’t belong to your village.”

Uncle Jack snorted.

Philip Rawlings said hastily, “I say, shouldn’t we go and have some tea?”

“Of course, of course,” said his father. “Arranged the tea interval now. Then young Phil will just knock off those runs and you’ll all come up to the house and have a drink.” He took Vicky’s arm as they walked towards the marquee. “Haven’t had a chance to speak to your young man alone yet. Just had time to tell him he was playing for Sellingham. Understand you don’t approve of this game.”

“I love it,” she said enthusiastically.

“Oh.” Uncle Jack was rather disconcerted. “Good for you. His father’s here,” he added as an afterthought.

Inside the marquee plates of bread and butter, jam, watercress, radishes, scones, buns and cakes were laid on long tables at which the players sat. There were smaller tables for visitors, and Uncle Jack steered them to one of these, said “Back in a few minutes; help yourselves,” and disappeared. Two people were sitting at the table already and Vicky, when she sat down, saw that one of them was Mr Shelton and the other Michael Blackburn. Mr Shelton’s brown face creased into a smile as he saw Vicky. She sat down next to him.

“What a pleasant surprise for us. I thought you were very much opposed to cricket.”

“Not
village
cricket, because it
looks
so lovely,” she said rather desperately.

“My dear – um – Vicky, I am delighted to know that so profound an exponent of the modern idea in most things should tolerate an old-fashioned sport upon the village green. I fear that Anthony did not altogether distinguish himself with the bat. Will you have some watercress?”

She champed watercress, listened abstractedly to the conversation around her, and watched Anthony’s fair head bobbing sideways at the other table.

“You know Miss Rawlings, I believe,” Mr Shelton was saying to Blackburn. “She and Anthony are to be married very soon.” Blackburn’s head was bent over his plate as Vicky turned round, quite startled. Mr Shelton gave her a prodigious wink.
Playing for England
, she thought, and her thoughts wandered away from the noisy marquee to another scene, an important match at Lord’s – was that the name of the place? She sat at the end of a long table, pouring tea for cricketers and their wives, Englishmen and Australians. Another cup, Mr Hobbs? What were the names of the others? There was another man whose name sounded like a chopper – was it Hatchcliff? Hobbs and Hatchcliff and Gollogan, and the Australians Collins and Birdseed, but who else? Mrs Shelton, certainly, should know their names. Immersed in this reverie, she choked on a piece of watercress. Tears came to her eyes, and when she had wiped them away Anthony was standing beside her, looking godlike and boyish at once.

“Vicky! What are you doing here?”

Dabbing at her eyes, she said, “Uncle Jack asked me to come.”

“Vicky,” Mr Shelton said with a gentle cough, “approves of village cricket. In time, perhaps, she may be won to sympathy with more august aspects of the game.”