Complete Short Stories (35 page)

‘You really have a job, Gregorio? Love indeed works miracles!’

‘Oh, not much of a job; hardly, indeed,
one to boast about, or even mention in polite society. But it has certain possibilities.’

‘Black market, I presume?’

‘No, no: my future father-in-law, Don Mariano Colom y Bonapart, is so highly connected that he would never think of damaging his reputation by putting me into any dubious business.’

‘No? I suppose that the fortune he made a few years ago, smuggling penicillin from Tangier to
our hospitals – so-called penicillin that required an act of faith to make it work – has now been decently invested in those fantastic tourist novelties? He must be prospering.’

‘Well, of course, nobody ever proved that he smuggled penicillin – a most charitable business, by the way – still less that it was ineffective when properly used. I have no doubt but that the doctors themselves adulterated
their supplies to make them go further. At any rate, the case against him has been officially dropped… Oh, yes, the novelties you mention are doing well enough, especially among conducted groups of Germans – best of all, the diverting little dog that cocks its leg. Don Mariano is now considering more austere lines for the English; he has consulted an
English judge who is here on holiday.’

‘But
your job, Gregorio?’

‘Forgive me, Cristóbal; I am ashamed. It is with one of the Ministries – too boring and distasteful to discuss.’

‘Yet it carries its traditional perquisites?’

‘Of course! Would Don Mariano have arranged it for me otherwise?’

‘You seem a trifle gloomy, Gregorio. Will you drink a nipkin of brandy?’

‘I don’t drink, for the present. Don Mariano would not favour an alcoholic
son-in-law. It will have to be an orangeade, I fear.’

‘Why not a Coca-Cola? I’ll fetch you one from our electric refrigerator.’

‘So you own a refrigerator, Cristóbal?’

‘Thanks be to the Virgin! We are not among those who cool their butter in a pail let down the well!’

‘It is very pleasant to hear of your increased earnings and domestic amelioration, dear Cristóbal. This refreshing Coca-Cola
is conclusive evidence of prosperity… Friends tell me that you gave a grand party the other day at the Hotel Nacional?’

‘Ah, I wish you had been there! How the champagne corks popped! It was to celebrate the christening of our son.’

‘That must have cost you a capital!’

‘It did, and Aina’s parents contributed not a single peseta of all the five thousand. I can speak freely to you – Aina is away
at the moment, being fitted for an evening dress. By the bye, she still thinks very highly of you.’

To judge from the tightening of Doña Aina’s lips, Cristóbal would pay for this remark as soon as Gregorio left. But she continued in hiding, though I could see that the sun’s glare was bothering her. I quietly opened my french-windows, went out and, with a polite smile, handed her a pair of sun-glasses
through the railing. Doña Aina looked startled at this unexpected loan, but gratefully slipped them on.

Gregorio was saying: ‘Your wife’s opinion flatters me. And you could hardly expect much help from those Mau-Mau simpletons, her parents. They have suffered several financial reverses of late, or so I hear from my lawyers: particularly their need to compensate the former tenants of that new
apartment-house. What an unfortunate investment it proved!’

‘You are altogether right!’ Cristóbal agreed. ‘Your prospective father-in-law palmed it off on my actual father-in-law only just in time. I trust Don Mariano will not be sent to jail when the Inquiry publishes its findings on the cause of the building’s collapse.’

‘Don Mariano in jail!’ laughed Gregorio. ‘What a ridiculous thought!
No, no! The Inquiry has already been closed. You see, the plans were the City Architect’s, and a City Architect is above suspicion; and if Don Dionisio Gómez, the building-contractor, economized in cement and used defective beams, how was Don Mariano to know? Don Dionisio
emigrated to Venezuela, I understand, before Aina’s father could sue him…’

‘Of course, that was a great blow to us. But, by
the mercy of God, no one perished in the disaster, except the Ibizan widow without relatives; all the other tenants were away, watching the Corpus Christi procession. As for the automobile in the garage below, which got smashed to pieces when the four apartments with their furniture fell on top of it – fortunately, that old museum-piece was Don Dionisio’s own! In the circumstances, he will hardly
dare claim compensation.’

‘I agree, my dear Cristóbal. It is, as a matter of fact, about that automobile that I have heard an amusing story. You yourself sold it to Don Dionisio in 1953, as I recall?’

‘Exactly; and very glad I was to rid myself of it, at so good a price, too. Not only were the brakes and the steering defective, but someone warned me just in time that, under the new income-tax
system, possession of an automobile would be regarded as evidence of affluence. I acted at once…’

‘That was smart! But, Cristóbal, what about your other signs of affluence – the 5000-peseta christening party, that electric refrigerator, this vacuum cleaner, your honoured wife’s evening dresses, the English baby-carriage in the hall, the financial help you are known to give your father-in-law?
Don’t you realize that these must inevitably catch the attention of Señor Chupasangre, the Chief Inspector?’

‘Aina and I laugh at him. We pass for poor folk; I am careful to keep no automobile.’

‘But Cristóbal, you do!’

‘
I
keep an automobile? What joke is this?’

‘I mean the one which got crushed by the deciduous apartments.’

‘Idiot, I sold that to Don Dionisio four years ago!’

Gregorio said
slowly and clearly: ‘Yes, you sold it, but Don Dionisio never registered that change of ownership at the Town Hall; consequently it remains in your name. As I see it, you are liable for income-tax during the whole of 1954, 1955, 1956 and 1957, at a high rate that is almost certain to be discussed between you and Señor Chupasangre.’

‘The insect! How did you discover this trick?’

‘I happened to
consult the register at the Town Hall in the course of my business.’

‘But, Gregorio, that is nonsense! The automobile has been Don Dionisio’s, not mine, since 1953!’

‘In the eyes of the Law it is still yours, pardon me. And Don Dionisio is not here to tell them otherwise.’

‘Pooh!’ blustered Cristóbal. ‘Who says that I am liable to income-tax? I can show Señor Chupasangre my business accounts
– the more pessimistic official ones, naturally – to prove that I do not qualify. If he asks me, I shall swear that the refrigerator and the vacuum cleaner were
wedding presents, and that the English baby-carriage has been lent us by my sister. As for the party and Aina’s evening dresses…’

‘Do you take Señor Chupasangre and his colleagues for fools?’

‘Why not?’

But Doña Aina had already scented
danger. I saw her involuntarily clap a hand over her own mouth, since she could not clap it over her husband’s.

Gregorio protested: ‘Cristóbal, dear friend, as I have been trying to tell you throughout this pleasant conversation, Aina is no longer anything to me, except your faithful wife and the mother of your little son; yet I owe to myself, and to my Ministry, the performance of a sacred duty.
For, granted that I may be the fool you call me, this new job of mine…’

‘Gregorio! What are you saying, man?’

‘… this new job, however distasteful it may be at times, carries with it (as you suggested) certain traditional perquisites. By your leave, I shall call again officially tomorrow. Meanwhile, my best regards to your distinguished wife! Tell her how enchanted I am that she still remembers
my name.’

The door slammed. Gregorio’s footsteps could be heard retreating unhurriedly down the stairs.

In the mirror, I saw Doña Aina stoop to pick up a sizeable pot of pink geraniums. Would she drop it,
¡catacrok!,
on Gregorio’s head as he emerged into the street?

But I should have known that this would not be Doña Aina’s way. Instead, she flung wide open the french-window of her own apartment
and stood for a moment with one foot advanced, the flower-pot poised low on her right palm, the left hand raised as though in a Falangist salute.

‘Animal! Imbecile!’ she cried, and let fly at Cristóbal with all her strength.

I stuffed a finger into each ear to drown the crash.

‘W
HO THE DEUCE
put this foul French thing on my surgery table?’

Bella Nightingale took the crumpled magazine from him and studied the photographs over her breakfast plate. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she giggled, delightedly. ‘Aren’t they
horrors?’

‘I didn’t ask for your aesthetic criticism,’ Dr Nightingale snapped. ‘I just wanted to know how that foul thing got on my surgery table. It certainly
wasn’t there last night, and Nurse Parker hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘Even if Nurse Parker
had
arrived, darling, you surely don’t think she’d have given you so highly unsuitable a present? I know she adores you, but I can’t see her risking her professional reputation by trying to get your mind working along lines like these… Oh, Harry,
do
look at this anatomical monstrosity of a female – and taken
from such a queer angle, too!’

Dr Nightingale snatched the magazine back. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Bella, get a grip on yourself and answer my question!’

‘Mrs Jelkes came early today – I don’t suppose you noticed – because she’s got a funeral at eleven o’clock. She dusted your surgery after first doing out the spare room. That oafish nephew of yours left it in a fearful mess the other morning when
he scrambled back to Camp. My theory is that Mrs Jelkes found the passion parade under his pillow and thought she ought to warn you what sort of a lad he really is.’

Dr Nightingale’s anger passed. ‘Oh, well,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose that must be the explanation. It’s her way of saying: “Don’t invite Master Nicholas here again, or I’ll get another job and tell the neighbours why.” A pity! I hate
sacrificing Nicholas to Mrs Jelkes’s non-conformist conscience; but she’s irreplaceable, I’m afraid. Or, at least, she’s in a position to make herself so by blackmailing us. It’ll be a bit awkward when Nicholas comes for another flying visit; I’ll have to send him off and explain why he’s no longer
persona grata
.’

‘It’s his own stupid fault. I’m sorry for young soldiers as a rule, but your Nicholas
is a lazy, careless young dog, and you know it.’

‘Do I? I’m relieved, at any rate, to know that he’s a healthy heterosexual – one never can tell these days, especially when they write verse. Now, please burn it in the stove.’

‘Can’t. Mrs Jelkes is in the kitchen, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of sniffing contempt at me.’

‘Well, then hide it somewhere until she goes.’

The door-bell
rang loudly and insistently.

‘Road accident, by the noise,’ said Dr Nightingale.

He was right. A lorry-driver with a gashed head and a dangling arm stood on the porch, supported by his mate.

As Dr Nightingale beckoned the pair in, the lorry-driver’s mate fainted dead away across the threshold. ‘He could never stand the sight of blood,’ said the lorry-driver scornfully, ‘this silly mucker couldn’t!’

Nurse Parker had not yet appeared, so Bella Nightingale gulped down her coffee, shoved the magazine among a pile of weeklies stacked on the radio, and hurried into action by her husband’s side.

In the middle of the confusion Nurse Parker’s aunt rang up. She was grieved to say that Nurse Parker couldn’t come that morning. Her bus had been run smack into by a lorry, and she was back in bed. ‘No,
no bones broken, praise the Lord! Only shock.’

It was lunch-time before the air cleared. Bella had taken Nurse Parker’s place and, besides the familiar Saturday patients, a stream of walking wounded came in from the Summer Camp – sardine-tin cuts, infected midge-bites, and badly grazed knees.

‘Where’s that French thing, Bella?’

‘I shoved it in among the magazines.’

‘Oh, you did, did you?…
Well,
now
we’re in the soup right up to our necks!’

‘Oh Lord, you don’t mean that the Reverend Mrs Vicar… ?’

‘I darned well do mean it. I happened to see her through my window, tripping down the garden path with the whole stack of magazines under her arm. Had you forgotten Mrs Jelkes’s orders to hand them over to her on the last Saturday of every month?’

Bella laughed hysterically and then
began to cry. ‘Darling, we’re socially ruined, and it’s all my stupid fault! Mrs Vicar can’t fail to go through the pile and when she comes across Nicholas’s Parisian popsies, God, how the teacups will rattle and the kettle hiss in this frightful village! Mrs Jelkes has a far stricter code of honour than Mrs Vicar. She won’t breathe a word unless Nicholas comes to stay here again. But Mrs Vicar…’

‘You must rush across and get the thing back. Explain that an important paper got mixed up with the magazines.’

‘She’d insist on finding it for me. No, our only hope is that she’ll bang the whole lot along to the Cottage Hospital unread. Let’s cross our fingers… Once it gets to the Hospital, we’re safe. The Lady Almoner will
find it and carry it home as a cosy reminder of her dead past. According
to Dr MacGillicuddy, she was a photographer’s model herself once, and not for face and ankles only.’

‘
That
old hag? It must have been a long time ago; and I wouldn’t trust her an inch, anyhow.’

‘Harry… about your French thing…’

‘Don’t call it
my
French thing! Any new developments?’

‘None. I’ve met Mrs Vicar several times since Saturday, and her manner is absolutely unchanged…’

‘That’s really
very odd. You see… Well, I knew MacGillicuddy was a sportsman; so I rang him up at once at the Hospital, told him the story in confidence, and asked would he please see that the magazines got sent to his office, unsorted, the moment they arrived – not to the Lady Almoner. And it wasn’t there, he swears.’