Buried for Pleasure

‘I can manage that all right,’ said Fen. ‘Who else is there?’

‘There’s the Sanford Morvel crowd, mostly shopkeepers. The small-trader-is-the-backbone-of-national-prosperity will do for them, only you’ll have to remember that agriculture’s the backbone of national prosperity, too.’

‘And everything else.’

‘Everything else that goes on in this constituency,’ Captain Watkyn amended. ‘Then there’s Peek. Peek’s not going to be too easy. Peek, between ourselves, is one of the most ruddy awful places I’ve ever come across in my life. The only thing I can think of that’s likely to appeal to Peek is a sort of general prospect of getting something for nothing.’

Fen felt whatever principles he had slipping finally and irretrievably into limbo before Captain Watkyn’s determined and far-reaching doctrines of expediency.

‘Is that the lot?’ he asked weakly.

‘There are still the professional people, upper middle class and so forth. Not many of them, but they tend to vote.’

‘And what tale do I spin them?’

Captain Watkyn seemed hurt.

‘Look here, old boy, don’t you go getting any wrong ideas about me. I know as well as you do what a grand thing democracy is. But the way I look at it is this. You’re obviously the sort of clever, high-minded chap who ought to be in Parliament. Very well, then. But how are you going to get there? Answer: you’ve got to be elected.

‘Now, these Sanford people don’t know you as well as I do,’ Captain Watkyn pursued, with a confidence which their quarter-hour acquaintance did not seem to Fen entirely to justify, ‘and since they’re mostly chronic imbeciles they’re quite likely to elect some scoundrelly nitwit who’ll help send the country to the dogs. Therefore, they’ve got to be jollied along a bit – for their own good, d’you see?’

‘As Plato remarked.’

‘As whatsit remarked, yes. Once you’re elected, then your principles and so forth come into play. See what I mean?’

Fen, on the point of drawing attention to the well-known fact that means determine ends, came abruptly to the conclusion that the moment was inopportune and subsided again.

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ he said reservedly.

‘Then we’re all set,’ said Captain Watkyn. ‘Now, today’s Saturday. My idea is to concentrate all your meetings as close to Polling Day as possible. This afternoon, of course, there’s the nomination business in Sanford Morvel. Then tomorrow evening I’ve arranged for you to hold a kick-off meeting there after church hours. On Monday morning you’re going hunting—’

‘I’m what?’

‘Hunting, old boy. Cubbing, actually. There’s a very keen hunt in these parts. Get you a lot of votes if you turn up.’

‘But I’ve never hunted in my life,’ said Fen. His knowledge of the subject was derived almost exclusively from Surtees and the Irish Resident Magistrate.

‘That’s all right,’ said Captain Watkyn easily. ‘You can ride, can’t you?’

‘In a way.’

‘Then don’t worry, old boy. I’ll be there to give you moral support. And I can easily get the loan of a couple of quiet nags.’

‘No,’ said Fen.

‘If you went,’ Captain Watkyn urged, ‘it’d give you a lot of pull with a certain sort of people, because neither of the other candidates will be there. The Conservative man can’t ride, and the Labour man daren’t, for fear of offending The New Statesman… Just think it over.’

‘No.’

Unlike Oxford, Captain Watkyn had no time to waste on lost causes. ‘All right, then,’ he said regretfully, ‘we’ll cut that out… Now, let’s see. Most of the rest of the week you’ll have to spend touring about to God-awful places like Peek, and talking at street corners. But, of course, we’ll hold a slap-up final meeting on the evening before Polling Day.’

‘That sounds satisfactory,’ Fen agreed. ‘And are there any people who are going to canvass for me?’

‘Well, not yet,’ said Captain Watkyn. ‘There aren’t actually any such people yet. Matter of fact, I tried to rope in the chaps who are nominating you, but they turned a bit nasty. Still, I shall find someone, never fear.’

‘And have I got a loudspeaker van?’

‘Well, yes. It doesn’t work very well, because it’s rather an old one, but there’s an electrician johnny in Sanford Morvel trying to fix it up.’

‘And a car?’

‘I’ve seen to that, too,’ said Captain Watkyn. ‘We’ll pick it up after the nomination.’

‘And do we need a committee room? I dare say I could get a room here if necessary.’

‘Well, we haven’t got a committee, have we, old boy? No, I think we’ll dispense with that for the time being. No point in burdening ourselves with unnecessary expenses – the law only allows us a certain amount of money to play about with, you know… Now, is there anything else, I wonder?’

‘What are the other candidates like?’

‘Oh, they’re not much,’ said Captain Watkyn with contempt. ‘The Conservative – chap called Strode – is a farm-labourer who’s been to night classes. And Wither, the Labour man, is a big industrial magnate from somewhere up north. They’ve been chosen that way to try and make an appeal to the sort of people who aren’t normally expected to vote for their Parties. Of course, it won’t make the slightest difference in the end, but it gives Party H.Q. the illusion of being-up-to-the-minute.’

‘Do you think I’ve got a chance of getting in?’ Fen asked.

‘Not a doubt of it, old boy,’ said Captain Waytkn heartily. ‘Think success: talk success. That’s my motto, and always will be.’

Fen eyed him rather coldly. ‘But apart from sales talk, I mean.’

Captain Watkyn’s cheerfulness abated slightly.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘In the normal way, to be quite candid, I should say you hadn’t got a chance in a million. But politics are funny. They’re like racing. Hundred-to-one outsiders romp home and leave all the experts gaping. So you needn’t despair,’ said Captain Watkyn, resuming his more specious manner. ‘No need for despair at all. Now, I tell you what: we’ll drive into Sanford Morvel for lunch, and then there’ll be the nomination business, and after that you can come back here to’ – he gestured vaguely – ‘to prepare your mind and so forth… How about one for the road?’

Chapter Seven

So they had one for the road and, after Captain Watkyn had ascertained that Fen was provided with the cheque for his deposit, left the inn. Captain Watkyn’s car proved to be a rather old Bugatti sports model, and in it they set off for Sanford Morvel. The journey was without incident except when Captain Watkyn stopped beside a seedy-looking man who was shuffling along the road, gave him two pound notes, murmured: ‘Assyrian Lancer, Newmarket, 3.30,’ and drove on again. ‘Damn silly names these horses have,’ he observed to Fen.

Sanford Morvel looked as if it were trying to be a gracious, peaceful country town and failing very badly. Its main street was wide but vacant-seeming; its Town Hall was old but ugly; its shops and pubs and houses had uniformly succeeded in missing the great periods of English domestic architecture; its church was squat and sullen. Fen and Captain Watkyn lunched on ill-cooked meat and tepid vegetables at the ‘White Lion’, a pretentious but comfortless hotel in the Market Square. Afterwards they went to the Town Hall, where the deposit and nomination papers were given with due form to the Sheriff, and where Fen shook hands with Strode and Wither, neither of whom (since the occasion was not a public one) evinced much cordiality to him or to each other.

Following this ceremony, Fen was introduced by Captain Watkyn to the car he was to use, a lumbering old Morris no longer capable of doing more than twenty miles an hour. In it, having received a promise that Captain Watkyn would collect him in time for the meeting tomorrow night, he drove languidly back to Sanford Angelorum.

On the way he stopped the car in order to look at Sanford Hall. It was a large building, of the eighteenth century apparently, set well back from the road in extensive grounds and partly screened by trees. The sun shone brilliantly; the vista was quiet and unpeopled. Fen left the car, found an entrance to the grounds of the Hall and, undeterred by considerations of trespass, went through it.

Crossing a small coppice of beeches, he came on a curious scene.

By the side of a small stream, about thirty yards off, Diana stood talking to the young man in shabby tweeds with whom Fen had seen her earlier in the day, and whom in default of other evidence he identified as Lord Sanford. It was impossible to tell what the conversation was about, but it did not seem to be a particularly amicable one. Diana was gesticulating vehemently; her eyes flashed, and her mouth, when she spoke, was twisted at the corners with indignation. The young man seemed less angry than harassed; evidently he was on the defensive. Their voices came to Fen’s ears, through the hot summer air, in weak spasms of uninflected sound.

But it was not the apparent quarrel which chiefly interested him. It was the presence among the beech trees of a watcher other than himself.

The fair-haired girl who called herself Jane Persimmons was partly hidden by one of the tree trunks, and the hand she had pressed against it was rigid, with the knuckles white. A narrow shaft of sunlight rested on her cheeks, but her eyes were in shadow and unreadable. All Fen could tell was that what she saw interested her passionately. He thought, too, that she was not deliberately eavesdropping – that like himself she had come here accidentally, and not much before him at that. But the scene, for some reason, had gripped her, and until it was finished she was incapable of moving, whether she would or no.

Now, however, Diana and the young man were moving away, up towards the house. Jane Persimmons stiffened and made a short indecisive movement as if to follow. Then she relaxed and turned slowly away.

And turning, she saw Fen.

It was easy for him to read what was in her mind. Principally, it was shame at being caught in a harmless but equivocal act; secondarily, it was a desperate resolve to try and appear natural, as though she had a right there.

She stumbled a little on a root; attempted to smile; stammered a conventional greeting; and then turned and half ran back through the coppice. More slowly, Fen followed.

Reaching the car, he found her waiting for him there, shifting her small, neat bag from hand to hand. She had decided, evidently, that the occurrence called for stronger measures than mere flight.

‘I – I wanted to see the house,’ she said. ‘It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?’

At that moment she seemed very small and friendless, and Fen was touched. He smiled with reassuring charm.

‘Delightful,’ he answered. ‘I was trespassing, too. Can I give you a lift back to the inn?’

‘N – no, thank you. I came out for a walk, and I shan’t go back yet.’

‘Then I’ll be seeing you later.’

‘Just – just a minute.’ She put out a hand to stop him. ‘I – Do you know Lord Sanford?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Oh!’ She gave a little gasping laugh. ‘Well, I hope – I hope you won’t tell him I’ve been spying on him.’

‘I shan’t tell a soul,’ Fen assured her. ‘And you must do the same for me.’

‘That’s a bargain, then,’ she said. And beneath the outward flippancy he knew that she was desperately in earnest.

‘That’s a bargain,’ he said seriously. ‘You’re sure I can’t take you anywhere?’

‘No, really, thank you.’

‘Goodbye for now, then.’

As he drove off, he saw in the driving-mirror that she stood looking after him until a bend in the road hid him from her. He wondered if he could have done more for her; she had seemed, somehow, so very much in need of help and advice. Better not offer those commodities, though, until he was asked for them…

And of one thing at least he was sure; whatever might have been her motives in watching Diana and Lord Sanford, this girl was incapable of a mean or a flagitious act.

He parked the car in the inn-yard alongside the non-doing pig, which was lying gracelessly on its side in what appeared to be a stupor. The total quietude of the inn made it clear that Mr Beaver and his family had given up for the day and gone home. And Fen, yawning copiously, decided that the most agreeable thing to do now would be to lie on his bed and fall asleep; which accordingly he did. He was slightly troubled by a recurring dream in which Mr Judd, uttering American college cries, pursued a scantily-clad Jacqueline in and out among the Doric columns of a Greek temple, but in spite of this inconclusive drama he awoke at seven in the evening considerably refreshed.

Dinner he ate alone in the room where he had breakfasted, Myra informing him that neither of the other guests was booked to appear. This room evidently adjoined the bar, for he was able to hear the perennial argument going on within a few feet of him.

‘She’m close-’auled, I tell ’ee.’

‘No, no, Fred, you’m proper mazed. See them? Them’s ’er gaff-tops’ls.’

‘Mizzen-tops’ls.’

‘Mizzen, gaff, ’tis all the bloody same.’

‘What I says is, ’er’s runnin’ before the wind.’

‘Look ’ere, see that ship at anchor, see? Now, if ’er was moored fore and aft, you wouldn’t be able to see which way the bloody wind was blowing. As ’tis, she’s facin’ out t’ards sea. An’ that means—’

‘But she is moored aft. You can see it. You can see the buoy.’

‘That’s no buoy, Fred, that’s just a drop o’ bloody paint.’

‘I’m tellin’ ’ee ’tes a buoy.’

‘Well, look ’ere now, if that brig’s close-’auled, that means…’

The meal over, Fen settled down with some beer and a detective story, becoming so engrossed that it was not until nearly closing-time that a sudden outbreak of abnormal excitement in the bar restored him to consciousness of his surroundings. Reluctantly abandoning the heroine to the suspicious circumstances in which she had foolishly contrived to entangle herself, he went to see what was happening.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.