Fowlers End (28 page)

Copper Baldwin said, “Where’s your tactics? I got hard hands.”

Not without enthusiasm, I added, “I get it—stimulate a rough-house when Yudenow is around and let him have it in the dark.”

“That’s the style!” cried Copper Baldwin. “You distract attention and leave the rest to me. But touching the matter of lead pipes...”

“I’m told that a woolen stocking full of wet pebbles is not at all a bad thing.”

“I ‘ave often contemplated a swift kick up the arse in the generator room,” said Copper Baldwin, “or maybe an extra tablespoonful of copper sulphate in a Greenburger? Somebody else might get it, it’s true, but it wouldn’t be you or me—and the scandal would cost ‘im plenty, which would be a fate worse than death for that stinker. Yes. Why swing? Better yet—let’s cost the bastard. What say?”

“Cost him what? Cost him how?” I asked.

“You’ve got me there, cocko. If we burned ‘is bloody show down, Yudenow would be only too delighted. It’s insured to the hilt. It’s insured; ‘is wife is insured; ‘is car is insured; ‘e’s insured. Kill the sod: you’ll be doing ‘im a favor. ‘E’s worth more dead than alive, the cowson bastard. But I want ‘im punished. There’s no use arguing, that man’s got to suffer. Brute force and ignorance will get us nowhere. But what will? Get us anywhere, I mean. Can’t we get ‘im into trouble?”

I said, “Come now, Copper, there is always the question of integrity. Besides, I’ll bet you anything you like that Yudenow could get you into more trouble than you could get him into.”

“You’re not far wrong there. The bastard would spend a pound to trace a farthing, just out of spite. Better think it over, son.”

And then Cruikback turned up again in his Daimler. It was a limousine of 1911, such as only a gentleman would have dared to ride in, and the back of it was packed with those three-legged instruments that surveyors use, together with maps and particolored sticks, and tape measures the smallest of which was bigger than a Camembert cheese. He stamped into the vestibule in his huge cleated boots, shaking himself like a retriever, about eleven o’clock one night. I have never seen a muddier man. He was miry as a boar but the whiteness of his teeth looked elegant and cheerful in his
dirty face. He was wearing the same old breeches but had slung about his shoulders a great pair of binoculars in a new leather case and had on a deerstalker cap.

“I stopped off,” he said, “for a leak. Do you mind terribly, old thing, if I use your wee-wee place? ... Ah, there, Mr. Baldwin! Gordon’s Dry, wasn’t it? Hadn’t forgotten, you know—” and he took a sealed bottle out of his pocket and put it into Copper Baldwin’s hands. Then he dashed into the nearest lavatory. It irritated me to see the joy with which Copper Baldwin received him, and I was doubly irritated when Cruikback came out with a dripping face, shaking water off his fingertips and saying, “No, really, young Laverock, that towel is unusable. Lend me a handkerchief or something, will you?”

Copper Baldwin offered him a red bandanna, upon which he dried himself, muttering, “I hope the dye doesn’t come off. I mean, I hope this is a vegetable dye. I suppose you know that aniline is a coal-tar product, and there’s one hell of a statistical correlation? I’ll return this, of course, washed. What say we have a little bit of a drinkie?”

Copper Baldwin was already busy with his pocketknife at the capsule of the bottle. But now Cruikback took on a melancholy air, while he pocketed the handkerchief.

“A word with you, young Laverock,” he said. “A matter of some seriousness.” So I took him into the empty hall, and we sat side by side in two eightpenny seats.

Having borrowed a cigarette, Cruikback said, “Charming fellow that Baldwin.”

“One of the best-read men I’ve ever met,” I said.

“Uneducated, necessarily,” said Cruikback.

“And what the hell do you mean by that?” I demanded, with some heat.

With his customary air of condescension, Cruikback said, “Old thing, you haven’t got the correlation. You and I are educated—you’ll grant me that? But Baldwin has merely been subjected to academic exposure. Couldn’t hold a candle. I suppose you know, of course, that given a thumb a chimpanzee can do it? No, common savvy and blood: these you can’t deny. Anthropology.... But look here, old thing— I’m in a hole. Did I mention that I was married?”

I said, “I forget, Cruikback. All I know is you made my name mud—or something—that last time you came, and I’ll be damned if you sleep in my room tonight. Cruikback, do you appreciate that you actually shat?”

“I thought that was all explained,” he said stiffly. “It must have been bad gin. Laverock, for God’s sake, what
are
you? Are you a Valetudinarian, or what are you? I know you were always a crank, you know, but sometimes I don’t know whether to make head or tail of you! You might pay a little more attention. I told you just now that I was in a hole, didn’t I? I mean, I’m married, and I’ve had a boy—or rather, my wife has. Now look here, young Laverock, man to man, I’ve got to get the poor little fellow out of pawn. Man to man, man—what would you do in such a case? Trouble with what the doctors c
all the prepuce—grew
together, had to be circumcized like a bloody pawnbroker— and until I pay the bloody bill I can’t get the kid out. Can you pause to imagine that? I don’t believe you met his mother—my wife, I mean, of course. No family, I’m afraid, but a sweet gel. Now you know, Laverock, that a gentleman knows when to swallow his pride. Unfortunately, my wife doesn’t. Her father is absolutely lousy with the stuff, but she’d got (it’s her only fault) a sort of proletarian pride and absolutely refuses to raise the wind. I went to the old gentleman and told him I’d had the boy circumcized, but
he was not impressed.”

I said, “This is too bad.”

“Now you and I, young Laverock, are Old Valetudinarians—men of education, such as it is, not subjected to academic exposure. I suppose you know, of course, that there is not merely a statistical correlation but a
justifiable
correlation of statistics between supply and demand? Incidentally, I ought to tell you that my wife is a Braddock. Then consider my position. Old thing, I hate to talk to you like this ...”

I said, “Now look here, Cruikback, you know I’m broke or I wouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t think you take me, young Laverock. I’m not on the cadge, you know; I’m trying to put a fortune in your hands. What do you think I’m surveying round Ullage?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said.

“Heard of the A.A.A.A.?” he asked.

“Why, that would be the Anglo-American Automobile Associates,” I said.

“Right you are,” said Cruikback. “And I’ll give you the low-down, young Laverock. I suppose you know about the Ford Works that are going up at Dagenham? The Ford Works is making the town, I dare say you know. Dagenham used to be a stinking village in the swamp. Ford’s made a rich suburb of it, with a branch line running out. And in, too,
upon my honor! They cut roads, they electrified lines, and the value of real estate in Dagenham went up several hundred per cent, and is going up still. Why? The hoi-polloi have got to live on top of the job. Hence, lots, streets, buildings. Projects, Laverock, projects! Now who is Ford’s greatest competitor in Europe?” “A.A.A.A.?” I suggested.

“Right for once, young Laverock. Good show. What’s going to happen is this: A.A.A.A. is buying land round Ullage for an enormous factory, and I’m doing the surveying. Now wait a minute, young Laverock—consider the implications, correlative and statistical! First of all, speaking purely mechanically, the railway absolutely must run a line out to Ullage—I mean, a passenger line, because now it becomes a Place. The land there automatically increases in value. Correct me if I’m wrong, of course. Village becomes town. Where there’s a town, there’s got to be a High Street, or something of t
he sort, with shops and things. Well?”

I said, “Don’t be silly.”

“Acinema, even,” he continued, with that old enthusiasm which had carried us all away a hundred years ago. “Simply hold the land, if you like, and let A.A.A.A. buy off you. Statistics prove that industry runs to a standstill without labor. Upon my word of honor, it’s proved! A.A.A.A. pays well. Pay the working classes well, Laverock, and what’s the first thing they do? Buy a bedroom suite and a piano. This I can give you on the best authority. And a pair of glasses, a haircut, drugs, et cetera. I speak to you as a Valetudinarian, Laverock. How many times did I beat you until the blood ran down
? Buy a piece of Ullage. The factory site I can’t offer, of course, but I can arrange it for you to get a nice piece of land northwest of the High Street for eight hundred pounds that is bound to be worth twelve thousand in eighteen months. I have documents to prove it. Only
I want two hundred pounds for myself, to get my boy out of pawn. What do you say? As a Valetudinarian give me a plain yes or an honest no. Speak up, young Laverock, speak up!”

“Oh, Copper!” I shouted; and Baldwin, who had been eavesdropping on the whole conversation, came in with a rigid face, carrying the bottle and three glasses.

He served us as a butler serves his masters—in discreet measure. Then he served himself as a butler serves himself—three and a half fingers deep. “I say, look here, Cruikback, old thing,” I said, “do you mind frightfully if we leave you the bottle for a few minutes, because I want a word with Mr. Baldwin?”

He said, “Oh, very well. I don’t suppose you could manage to switch on a film or something, could you?”

“We got some magic-lantern slides,” said Copper Baldwin. And so we had—left over from goodness knows when—of
The Pilgrim’s Progress.
With these and the gin, Cruikback seemed to be comfortable. For my part I was glad to get Copper Baldwin up into the projection room, where I could tell him word for word all that Cruikback had said to me.

“As you say,” he said—although I had said nothing of the sort—“it do seem like an act of Providence, don’t it? But remember your arithmetic, cocko. What’s eight hundred plus two? One thousand, by my calculations.... Hold hard, Danny boy—we’re coming to that bit about ‘Death where is thy sting, Grave where is thy victory?’ Then ‘e passed over, an’ all the trumpets sounded for ‘im on the Other Side. Gawd stone my Aunt Fanny, but if I ‘ad a trumpet I’d ‘ave a blow at it! Christ Almighty, Danno, can’t you see where this leads to?”

I said, “Putting one across Sam Yudenow?” I said.

“And getting ourselves a lovely bit o’ change, tell your mum. Only there’s a formality, pally. A matter of a
thousand nicker. I got a hundred and fifty. Would you ‘appen to ‘ave a matter of eight hundred and fifty quid on you?”

“No, but I think I could find something like it—”
I began.

“Oh, bugger! I got ‘Christian and Apollyon’ upside- bloody-down! Damn that demented tinker—only you shook me. First of all, what’s your strategy?”

“Beat Cruikback down,” I said.

“You don’t think that might be taking a mean advantage of a gentleman?” asked Copper Baldwin.

I said, “Certainly.”

“Mind you, I want to see everything in writing,” said Copper Baldwin.

“Better get this clear,” said I, while he slipped into the machine that horrid Gustave Dore picture of the ‘Trial of Faithful’while, pursing his lips, he imitated the sound of a trumpet and made a noise with his tomahawk upon the projector, managing at the same time to whisper, “Okay, cocko—when the film busts during a children’s matinee, this never fails to wow the little bastards, specially if you put it in upsy-down. Repulsive, though, at the best of times, ain’t it? ... I suppose you know, Danny boy, this could mean a modest competence? And do Sam Smallpox down? Then we f—
off. Get me? I got my papers: chips, which is the same as to say ship’s carpenter—and for a ten-pun note I can get you a legitimate set too. I’m a pal o’‘Kicking Jack.’ ‘E runs the Avocado—unlicensed for passengers, but the idear is, ‘Kicking Jack’ signs you on as one o’ the crew, and you give ‘im a twenty-pound note. Ever been to Guatemala? I don’t mind telling you, it’s a hell of a lot different from Fowlers End. You take my word for it, son. I been. Oh, those laundresses—black as ink, white as milk, an’ every one with ‘er mouth full o’ gold teeth! None o’ your brassy, mind you—sweet as hone
y. What say? Eh? Don’t believe
what they say about cheese, and rancid butter, and all that. They’re fresher than new-laid eggs. Oh, to hell with it all, Danny boy. Come on and let’s go! Are you game? ... Oh, now I got the ‘Celestial City’ arse upwards; but what’s the odds? ...”

His washed-out blue eyes grew dark with passionate reminiscence. He said, “I don’t know what it is. It may be Sam Yudenow’s Greenburgers that brings it to mind. But did you ever smell the hot breath of that jungle coming on a rotten wet breeze out of the mouth of the Rio Dolce by Puerto Barrios, and see the blacks under the naphtha flares, like in a fun fair, shouting, ‘Fruit-ah, fruit-ah, fruit-ah!’ It brings the blood to the surface, son. Okay, you’ll get eaten alive: too many insects. Somewhere or other there’s a statistical correlation—abolish insects, and where’s your na
tural balance?... Believe me, you go past Cuba in a mist. Invariably a mist, in those parts; and the Caribbean’s gray, gray-green. Unlike the Atlantic, which is dead dull gray; and the Mediterranean, which is blue. The Gulf of Mexico, though, is greeny-blue. All the same, off Cuba the flying fishes start to play. Porpoises, too. No, but I mean to say, they
play!
Make as many knots as you like, and there’s your porpoise just an arm’s length in front of you, kind o’ laughing. Susceptible to music, too, Dan—not that I’m musical myself; but I swear to Gawd, with these two eyes I seen an old shantyman calling up
the porpoises on a fiddle. It’s they what chase the flying fishes, boy, and there’s the pathos on it—the poor bloody fish is geared for escape. But he can’t escape, don’t you see, because that’s his destiny. ‘E’s got to get out o’ the water, but ‘e’s got to get back in again. It makes you think. If ‘e flies high enough, ‘e’ll land flapping on the deck of a steamer. If not, there’s the old rollicking porpoise with about five hundred teeth smiling welcome.... And beyond Cuba the banana countries that everybody runs away to, where the coppers carry nickel-plated carbines.
And don’t believe what they tell you about the laundresses. They wash themselves ten times more often than Fowlers End, so help me Jesus, and if they smell at all it’s like ripe coconuts. Oh, dear me!”