Ways and Means (2 page)

‘Come along now, Merridew, you’re out. Come on, man. Quick march.’

‘You’re not commanding your rotten platoon now,’ said Basil.

For a moment the General looked as though he, might collapse. His military training prevented him from even thinking of striking Basil, and yet his natural desire to do so was strong. The consequent tug-of-war inside him was a considerable strain. However, after a few seconds, he regained control of himself.

‘If you do not leave the wicket immediately, everyone else will leave the field,’ he said with dignity.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Basil, ‘have it your own way. And as for you,’ he shouted to Nicholas, ‘I’ll see you when we get home.’

‘Very well, Uncle,’ said Nicholas meekly. Basil hurried from the pitch, followed more slowly by the General. As he neared the spectators they remained as tense as those in the field had been while the General had been walking to the wicket. He went past the spectators straight to the scorer, took the score book from in front of him, ripped the sheets out and tore them into small pieces. He then removed his pads, flung them to the ground and left the cricket field. It was quite a minute or two before people could start talking again.

‘Come on,’ said the General. ‘Next man in.’

Mrs Stroud was not at the match. When news of the scene was reported to her all she said was: ‘It’s too bad, just because no one likes the man. I don’t believe half of it.’

Five minutes later she got in her car and drove over to Basil’s house. She found him in his shirt-sleeves gardening.

‘I hope you don’t mind my coming over,’ she began.

‘Come in, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you. What about a drink?’

And they had several.

That night Nicholas, carrying a small suitcase, arrived at the Vicarage. The Vicar opened the door and at once saw the suitcase and Nicholas’s forlorn appearance.

‘I think I know what you’re going to say,’ he said gently. ‘The answer is: yes, of course. Stay here, my dear boy, as long as you like.’

For a moment Nicholas looked as though he were going to cry. Then he took the Vicar by the hand.

‘I can only say “Thank you”,’ he said.

‘It’s nothing,’ said the Vicar. ‘It will be company for me and I shall be delighted. Now don’t bother to explain anything. Come along and I’ll show you your room. Mary,’ and he called for the housekeeper.

It is hardly necessary to say that from that moment Basil was completely ostracized, except by Nicholas, who went across to see him from time to time, and by Mrs Stroud. Nicholas explained to the Vicar that Basil was his mother’s brother, that he had always been a difficult person and that only she really understood and could manage him.

‘Shortly before she died,’ he told the Vicar, ‘she asked me to promise to look after him. What could I say but yes? Of course, if he gets married that’ll be different, and I’m bound to say — I don’t know if you think it’s wrong of me — I’ve some hopes of Mrs Stroud.’

‘Well,’ said the Vicar after a little reflection, ‘I think she’s quite capable of looking after herself. If she decides to marry your uncle, she’ll know what she’s about. I’m by no means sure that your uncle will, though. She’s a very good woman, Mrs Stroud, no doubt, but, if ever anyone had determination, she has it. No — on the whole — if it comes off it may be for everyone’s benefit — certainly for yours, my dear boy. You’re very good to him. You must have had a very difficult time.’

‘Oh — well, you know,’ said Nicholas, ‘I’ve managed.’

After this, life went on much as usual, though from time to time reference was made to the cricket match when there was a shortage of other things to talk about. Nicholas became part of the life round Tapworth Magna, and no one but he and Mrs Stroud spoke to Basil.

One day Mrs Thwaites called on the Vicar.

‘I’m very sorry to trouble you, sir,’ she said.

‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Thwaites. What can I do for you? Sit down.’

‘I’m very worried, sir.’

‘Well, tell me all about it. Take your time; there’s no hurry,’ and the Vicar looked at his watch.

‘It’s about that Mr Merridew, sir,’ began Mrs Thwaites.

‘Oh — has he been troubling you in some way?’

The Vicar was a devout and kindly man and a good Christian, but he had to repress a very definite feeling in him which seemed to say; ‘Let’s hope he has. Then we’ll have a chance to get rid of him.’ Side by side with this feeling was curiosity as to how Basil could have been troubling Mrs Thwaites. She was a highly respectable widow and, what was perhaps even more important, elderly and quite unattractive. Attributing everything that was bad to Basil — as the Vicar might have been prepared to do — he could not credit (or debit) him with designs against Mrs Thwaites.

‘It’s his bill, sir. He owes me over £30 and I can’t get him to pay. I know I oughtn’t to mention it, sir, but I’m so worried. I’ve got the rent to find and the shop doesn’t give me more than a living. Everyone pays me except him, and I’m sure I don’t—’ But Mrs Thwaites could say no more and started to sob.

‘There, there,’ said the Vicar. ‘You were quite right to tell me. I’ll see that something’s done about it. Meantime, you’re not to worry. I can lend you the money quite easily till Mr Merridew pays. I’ll go and see him about it.’ The Vicar did not add that it would be a pleasure.

‘You’re too good, sir,’ said Mrs Thwaites, ‘but I really can’t take the money from you, sir. It’s Mr Merridew who owes it.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Thwaites. It’ll just be a loan until he pays. Then you can give it me back.’

‘And suppose he doesn’t pay, sir?’

‘Oh — I’m sure he will. I’ll see him myself. If that’s no good, there are ways and means of making a man pay — but I’m sure we shan’t have to use the law. Now wait a moment while I get my cheque-book.’

Shortly afterwards, Mrs Thwaites left the Vicarage in a much happier frame of mind, while the Vicar put on his hat in an unusually determined manner and went straight to see Basil. He was in and opened the door. He looked blankly at the Vicar.

‘Subscription or something?’ he said. ‘If so, the answer’s no.’

‘May I come in for a moment?’ asked the Vicar. He was still on the doorstep.

‘I suppose so,’ said Basil; ‘but I’m reading a very interesting book.’

He led the way into the sitting-room, adding as he did so: ‘There are no parsons in it.’

The Vicar ignored this remark and said: ‘I expect you’re surprised to see me.’

‘Surprised, yes. Pleased, no.’

‘I am no more pleased at having to call on you, but I feel it my duty.’

‘Which are you today — a light to guide or a rod to check the erring?’

‘Mr Merridew, I repeat that it is no pleasure to me to come to this house now that your nephew has left it.’

‘Well — what comes in can go out. You know the way.’

‘I shall say what I must and then I shall go.’

‘I hope that it will be shorter than your normal sermon — but I don’t imagine lack of an audience will deter you.’

‘I shall keep my temper, sir,’ said the Vicar, rising from his chair, ‘because I think you must suffer from some disease of the mind which makes you intolerable to other human beings. You should really be an object of pity.’

‘I hope you’re not going to cry.’

‘Your insults are of the schoolboy variety and I propose to ignore them.’

‘If there is a point in your visit — which I’m beginning to doubt — I’m getting a feeling that you just can’t wait till Sunday to preach at someone. Well, I’ve had quite enough of it, thank you. Go and preach to some of the cattle. They can’t answer back.’

‘I’ve come to see you about Mrs Thwaites’s bill.’

‘Indeed? And what, pray, have you to do with Mrs Thwaites’s bill? Have you gone into partnership with her or something? Or perhaps she’s going to take up residence at the Vicarage. Really, Vicar, you’re a sly devil. No one would have guessed it.’

‘Mrs Thwaites is a woman of small means,’ began the Vicar.

‘But you have enough for two — or more if necessary — though I hardly think that is a likely event —’

‘And,’ went on the Vicar more loudly, ‘she cannot afford to be without her money. You owe her over £30. When are you going to pay her? It’s outrageous keeping the poor woman out of it. She’s at her wits’ end.’

‘Since when, Vicar, have you converted yourself into a debt-collecting agency? And what, may I ask, is your commission? The usual ten per cent or a little more, having regard to the quality of the service? With apologies for using the word “service”,’ he added.

‘Very well, sir,’ said the Vicar. ‘I had hoped that it would not be necessary to say this, but unless this money is paid within three days, solicitors will be instructed to County Court you.’

‘Demanding money with menaces, eh? D’you think the Bishop would approve? I had an idea that you could go to prison for quite a long time for that. How awkward it would be for you having to stand to attention for the prison chaplain a good deal your junior, I expect. Let me see — how does it go? — oh, yes:

‘I’d lay down my head

On a hard wooden bed,

And undignified work I’d endure it,

I’d put up with the meals,

But rectorial heels

Will never go click for a curate.’

‘This is monstrous. Good day to you, sir,’ said the Vicar, and walked out of the room and the house. Never had the Vicar felt as he felt that day. But he was a man of action, and within a very short time of the interview he had repeated the whole story to the General, the doctor, the Gaspards, Colonel Murphy, who was the Chief Constable of Poppleton, and several others. They all agreed that a solicitor should at once be instructed on behalf of Mrs Thwaites to sue Basil in the Poppleton County Court. The General undertook to call on Mr Buckram, the best-known of the Poppleton solicitors.

‘Oh, but I must write and demand the money by letter first,’ said Mr Buckram, after he had been talking to the General for some minutes.

‘Dammit, sir, why?’ asked the General. ‘You don’t write letters to the enemy before firing at him.’

‘Ah, but you sometimes ask him to surrender, don’t you? It’s quite possible that a letter from me will do the trick. That’ll save time and money. Besides, my firm has its reputation to think of. There is, of course, nothing illegal in issuing a summons without first demanding the money by letter, but it’s unusual and I don’t like it. Now, you leave it to me, Sir Bragge, and I think you’ll find we soon have Mrs Thwaites’s money — unless, of course, he’s insolvent. But I expect he’s just one of these slow payers. A letter from me will shake his ideas up a bit, as our sergeant-major used to say.’

A few days later Basil received a letter from Mr Buckram demanding the sum of £35 9s. 6d. It should have been £34 18s. 9d., but a slight mistake had been made somewhere, as occasionally happens in the offices of even the most careful solicitor. By return Basil replied:

I do not owe your client £35 9s. 6d., and what I do owe her will be paid in my own time. If your client or her reverend and military and medicinal and other friends want to spend money on litigation, by all means sue.

yours faithfully,

Basil Merridew

‘What a very unpleasant person,’ commented Mr Buckram, after he had read the letter a second time, and he instructed his clerk to issue a default summons for £35 7s. 3d. for goods sold and delivered, ‘particulars of which,’ stated the summons, ‘have already been delivered.’ They had not been so delivered and the correct sum of £34 18s. 9d. was not simply for goods sold and delivered, but included money paid out on Basil’s behalf by Mrs Thwaites for car hire, and also some charges for laundry work. The amount for goods sold and delivered should have been £20 3s. 4d. However, Mr Buckram, like some other solicitors, assumed that it was all for goods sold and delivered. That’s what most of his clients sued for, and so Mrs Thwaites had to do the same.

The case came on some months later, and it was surprising how many of the residents round Tapworth Magna managed to find time to be present. Mr Buckram represented Mrs Thwaites and Basil appeared for himself. The Judge was Judge Strachan.

‘Thwaites v. Merridew,’ eventually called the Clerk, and Mr Buckram rose.

‘May it please your Honour,’ he began, but the Judge interrupted.

‘Just one moment, please, Mr Buckram,’ he said. ‘The Defendant’s name seems familiar to me. I think I know him.’

By this time Basil was standing in the witness box. The Judge looked at him. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘Have either of you any objection to my trying this case?’

‘None at all, your Honour,’ beamed Mr Buckram.

‘And you?’ queried the Judge to Basil.

‘Is there any reason why I should have any objection?’ asked Basil innocently.

‘That is for you to say,’ said the Judge rather tartly.

‘I should be delighted for your Honour to try what there is of the case,’ replied Basil.

‘Very well, then,’ said the Judge. ‘No, wait a moment,’ he added, as he saw Mr Buckram about to begin, and he wrote down in his notebook: ‘I state that I know the Deft. No objection by either side.’

‘Yes, Mr Buckram,’ he said when he had finished.

‘May it please your Honour, this is a claim for £35 1s. 8d. for —’

‘My copy says £35 7s. 3d.,’ interrupted the Judge.

‘Oh — I beg your Honour’s pardon,’ said Mr Buckram. ‘Will your Honour forgive me for a moment?’ and Mr Buckram started to talk to his clerk about the figures, while the Judge waited patiently. After a minute or two, Mr Buckram returned, not perhaps to the attack, but to a tentative reconnaissance.

‘I’m afraid, your Honour, there is a slight confusion with the figures. I don’t know whether the Defendant is prepared to admit —’ And he waited hopefully.

‘Mr Buckram,’ said the judge a little sternly, ‘the Defendant is appearing in person. I don’t think he ought to be called upon to make any admissions at this stage.’

‘Oh — of course not, your Honour. I shouldn’t have suggested such a thing. I was just wondering whether —’ And he paused again, not quite so hopefully. There was silence for a moment or two in Court. As nothing was said, Basil put in:

‘Mr Buckram was wondering — or was it wandering, your Honour?’

‘Be quiet, sir,’ said the Judge, in angry tones. ‘Behave yourself, and take your hands out of your pockets.’

‘They aren’t in my pockets, your Honour. They are actually hanging down by the sides of my trousers. If your Honour will tell me where you would prefer me to put them, I will willingly carry out your Honour’s order — if I can reach.’

‘Mr Merridew, you are fined £10 for contempt of Court. If you make one further insolent remark, I shall send you to prison.’

‘Your Honour,’ said Basil, getting out his pocket-book and starting to count out ten £1 notes.

‘Not now,’ intervened the Judge. ‘Afterwards.’

‘I’m sorry, your Honour,’ said Basil. ‘I assure your Honour that I do not intend any disrespect to the Court and I certainly do not want to be sent to prison, but your Honour mistakenly thought my hands were in my pockets and, to avoid offending your Honour again, I do most respectfully seek direction from your Honour as to where to put my hands.’

‘Stand up and behave yourself,’ said the judge, ‘and let’s have no more nonsense. Yes, Mr Buckram?’

‘May it please your Honour, I think I will wait until the witness is in the box before I state the exact amount of this claim. I may have to ask your Honour for an amendment of the Particulars of Claim. I find that apparently, owing to an oversight —’

‘One moment, Mr Buckram. Let me see the defence. “I do not owe the Plaintiff £35 7s. 3d.” Humph, not very informative, Mr Merridew. How much do you owe?’

‘£34 18s. 9d., your Honour.’

‘Is that good enough for you, Mr Buckram?’

Greatly relieved, Mr Buckram said: ‘Oh yes — certainly, your Honour.’

‘How can you pay?’

‘In one month.’

‘What do you say, Mr Buckram?’

Mr Buckram was so pleased at not having to go into the figures again that he at once said: ‘Oh, yes, your Honour; that is quite satisfactory.’

‘Very well, then. Judgement for the Plaintiff for £34 18s. 9d. With costs, I suppose?’

‘If your Honour pleases,’ said Mr Buckram.

‘Who gets the costs?’ asked Basil.

‘The Plaintiff,’ said the Judge.

‘Well, if your Honour so directs, of course I shall have to pay, but it does seem to me that I’ve proved Mr Buckram’s case for him. Your Honour will remember we left him wondering.’

‘Judgement for the Plaintiff for £34 18s. 9d. with costs payable in one month. Call the next case,’ said the Judge.

‘Can I give you the £10 now?’ asked Basil.

‘You will pay that in the office.’

‘Very good, your Honour.’ Basil left the Court, ignoring the eyes that followed him as he went.

The next day the case was reported in the local newspaper, with the result that several tradesmen in Poppleton, to whom Basil also owed money, rushed round to Mr Buckram and instructed him to issue summonses. In view of the reply to his letter on behalf of Mrs Thwaites, Mr Buckram was prepared to issue the summonses without sending a preliminary demand. In consequence, within ten days of the trial Basil received a number of summonses for amounts which totalled altogether some £80 to £90. The news soon spread round the neighbourhood that Basil was up to his eyes in debt and nearly everyone was delighted. Even the Vicar, who realized that Mrs Thwaites might never obtain her money and might therefore be unable to repay his loan, was in no way disquieted. After his interview with Basil, he contemplated his bankruptcy with some satisfaction. Mrs Stroud alone was on Basil’s side. She went over to see him one day. ‘People don’t like you,’ she said, ‘and so I expect what I’ve heard is gross exaggeration, but, if I can be of any help, do please let me. I know it’s impertinent of me to suggest it, but I could easily lend you some money if you’d like. I do hope you don’t mind my mentioning it.’

‘How very sweet of you,’ he said. ‘But I shouldn’t dream of borrowing anything from you or anyone else. I shall stand on my own feet. Don’t you worry. But it is kind of you.’

‘Well, if you ever change your mind, the offer will still be open.’

‘I’m very touched,’ said Basil, ‘and I won’t forget, but it won’t be necessary.’

About a month later, Basil again appeared in Court before Judge Strachan. He had paid nothing to Mrs Thwaites and he applied for a further month in which to pay her.

‘Your Honour,’ he said, ‘when I said I could pay in a month I had not had all these summonses. Altogether I’ve got to find about £150, including the costs. In addition, I’ve just had to pay some insurance premiums. May I have one more month to pay? I really will square everything up by then.’

‘What do you say, Mr Buckram?’ asked the Judge.

Mr Buckram was now representing all the creditors, but only Mrs Thwaites so far had obtained a judgement. Acting for her only, he would have refused to consent, but it was to his other clients’ interest that he should consent.

‘Will your Honour forgive me a moment?’ he said, and turned to consult Colonel Murphy, who was the only representative of Mrs Thwaites’s supporters present.

‘Would you mind if I agreed? It’s only one month.’

Colonel Murphy consented and Basil obtained a further month’s respite.

‘I shall not grant any further time, Mr Merridew,’ warned the Judge.

‘It will not be necessary, your Honour,’ said Basil.

However, the month went on and nothing was paid. The other summonses were due to be heard at the next Court, which was to be held on the last day given to him for payment of Mrs Thwaites’s claim. The day in question arrived. Basil had still paid nothing. Colonel Murphy stepped across from the Police Station to see what happened in the other cases. Each one was duly called, but there was no answer to Basil’s name.

‘Your Honour,’ said Mr Buckram, ‘I am not altogether surprised at the Defendant’s absence. He has not even paid the sum for which your Honour gave judgement two months ago in favour of a client of mine.’

‘I remember the case,’ said the Judge. ‘If my recollection is right, he promised faithfully to pay by today and said that no further time would be necessary.’

‘That is so, your Honour.’

‘Humph,’ said the Judge. ‘Well, he still has until half past three.’

‘I am not very hopeful, your Honour.’

‘Nor am I, Mr Buckram, but stranger things have happened. You’d better prove each of your cases.’

Mr Buckram managed to do so, and the Judge ordered the amounts to be paid forthwith. This meant that theoretically execution could be levied on Basil’s goods immediately by the bailiff of the Court. In practice it may take anything up to a week before the bailiff is able to attend to any particular case. Half past three arrived, the Court office closed, and there was still no payment by Basil.

‘I wonder if he’s run away,’ said Colonel Murphy to the General as he reported the news on the telephone.

‘I doubt if he could have moved all his things without our hearing of it. Anyway, we shall soon see. The bailiff will be there next week.’

But Basil did not run away, and about six o’clock on the day when all the judgements were given against him he telephoned Mrs Stroud.

‘I wonder if I could come and see you at once,’ he said.

‘Of course.’ Mrs Stroud was in fact going to a cocktail party at the Gaspards. Everyone would be there, but she was quite prepared to be late, or even not to go at all, to see Basil.

‘I’ve something rather particular to ask you,’ he went on. ‘Come right away. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten.’ Mrs Stroud had heard the news and assumed that he was about to ask for a loan.

‘Oh, I’m not coming to borrow anything,’ he said.

‘Whatever it is, come along at once,’ she said, and her heart leaped. Now it is quite true that Basil was very unpopular in the neighbourhood and his behaviour there generally was not that of a man whom many women would even consider as a husband. On the other hand, he was always nice to Mrs Stroud, and little did he know what she had in store for him if and when he had taken her for better and worse. She had been trying to find a new husband for years, ever since the death of her first husband, who had left her some years before he died. She had nearly succeeded several times, but the engagement had been just too long and the suitor had seen a glimpse of what his fate was likely to be. It was a perfectly simple fate — to do, and always to do, what he was told — any revolt being crushed at its inception by Mrs Stroud’s own particular methods. Why did she want a husband? She felt incomplete without one and she badly needed a man about the place. When Basil told her that he wanted to speak to her about something particular and that it wasn’t a loan, her hopes rose high. She at once sent for the sherry and salted almonds and got out some pistachio nuts — a favourite with Basil. She was already dressed and made-up for the party, but she had another go at her face. She rearranged the cushions on the sofa and then paced up and down the drawing-room, rather like a lioness waiting to be fed.

At last he came. ‘I hope it isn’t inconvenient,’ he began.

‘It’s never inconvenient,’ she said in her softest tones and with her sweetest smile. ‘Where will you sit?’

He chose the sofa and she sat next to him. ‘It’s rather difficult to say,’ he said.

This really is it, she said to herself, and conjured up visions of the future.

‘I’ve been wanting to say it for some little time, but I haven’t been able to,’ he went on.

‘I shall love to hear it, whatever it is,’ she said, and squeezed his hand.

‘Well — it’s this —’ He paused for a moment. A delicious moment — there are not so many in one’s life. She was glad he paused so that she could enjoy it to the full.

‘It’s just this,’ he repeated. ‘I wish you wouldn’t always follow me about.’

Mrs Stroud said nothing at first. She thought she must have misheard. Eventually she said: ‘What did you say?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t follow me about.’

Mrs Stroud got up. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she said, her face reddening.

‘You must know, my dear,’ Basil said quietly, ‘you’ve been following me about ever since I came here. Look at these pistachio nuts. You know how I love them,’ and he helped himself to a handful.

‘D’you know what you are saying?’ she asked. She was not giving up without being absolutely certain.

‘Yes, of course, my dear,’ he answered. ‘I say, these are jolly good.’

Get right out of my house.’

‘I’ve got to go, as a matter of fact. I must go to the police. But can’t I have a glass of sherry first?’

Mention of the police prevented her from simply repeating her order.

‘Police? Why?’

‘Oh — I’ve just had a very nasty burglary. I’m on my way to report it.’

‘Burglary? Oh — I see — how very convenient, Mr Merridew.’

‘Convenient? Damned inconvenient.’

‘For the insurance company, perhaps.’

‘I say, what an offensive remark. That’s really too bad. I certainly shall go. I never expected you to speak like that.’

Basil got up and walked out of the room. As he left, she said: ‘And don’t ever come back.’

As soon as he had left, her anger, which was still rising, had to find some outlet. ‘That bloody man,’ she said. ‘That bloody, bloody, bloody man.’ She repeated the refrain for several seconds. Then she remembered about the burglary. For the moment her mind had been on the phrase, ‘I wish you wouldn’t follow me about.’ The burglary was a tonic. She went to the glass, powdered her face, which badly needed it, and rushed out to get the car. Then she drove it at the most furious speed to the Gaspards. She almost ran into the room where the party was taking place.