Ways and Means (6 page)

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A SURE Sign of poverty among the sometimes well-to-do is the half-bottle of gin, and that is all that Basil’s wife, Elizabeth, could find in the cupboard. There was not very much in it. Now supposing, she said to herself; I have a small one now — just a very small one — will there be enough when Basil comes home with Nicholas and Petula? Even on the most conservative estimate of their requirements, it was obvious that there would not. ‘Requirements’, by the way, is the right word. Basil was, of course, entitled to ‘require’ in his own home while Nicholas and his wife, Petula, who had the flat next door, lived on what was almost a communal basis with Basil and Elizabeth. They shared pretty well everything together, money, food, clothes, ideas, happiness, disappointments, and, at the moment, poverty. Elizabeth sighed and helped herself, and, as a small one would leave too little in any event, she took a large one. They will understand, she said to herself; they will have to. She was a lovely creature and could obtain almost anything from anyone who did not know her well and from some who did. She combined the languorous beauty of a South American film star with an almost perpetually puzzled look. ‘It is all so difficult,’ she seemed to say. ‘Won’t you help me?’ If any man could resist her face and figure — and, if he was normal, this was not easy — the little frown would usually finish him. Basil and Elizabeth in their poorer times owed quite a number of good dinners from wealthy strangers to this little frown. To do them justice, they did not particularly care for dinners of this kind — or, more accurately, they liked the dinners all right, but preferred their own company. However, one must eat, they consoled themselves. And drink, sighed Elizabeth, as she took another one. The absence of inverted commas from Elizabeth’s thoughts is not accidental. She said very little out loud either to herself or other people. It was her expression which answered you, sometimes accompanied by a low, drawling murmur. So very different from Petula, who was pretty, inclined to be pert, and who talked incessantly. Basil and Nicholas rarely listened to her, but she did not mind. She prattled on gaily, very occasionally slowing down the pace as if to say: ‘Now, this is important; you must listen to this.’ The change in tempo often had the desired effect.

I wonder, thought Elizabeth, if Petula has any left. I’ll go and see. She had the key to their flat and went to look. While she was there, Basil came back with Nicholas and Petula. As usual, Petula was talking.

‘The first was a fault, at least Nicholas called “Fault”. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t absolutely certain if it was a fault. You know it’s sometimes awfully difficult to see on the Browns’ court. Anyway, after Nicholas had called “Fault”—’

‘Petula,’ said Nicholas, pleasantly, ‘could you pipe down for just a moment?’

‘Darling,’ said Petula, ‘I’m so sorry. I won’t say another word for five minutes — or do I mean five seconds? It’s funny what an awful long time even a second is, while a minute, if you really stop and count it, seems like hours. I remember once . . .’

‘Oh, Petula,’ said Nicholas.

‘How would it be if you bought me one of those things they used to put on a scold’s mouth? I remember seeing a picture in a book in that hotel we were staying at — now where was it — wasn’t it in the Lake District — ?’

‘Don’t start talking about hotels,’ said Basil. ‘I’m beginning to think we shall never see the inside of one again — except the sort which has up in large letters outside “FOR GENTLEMEN ONLY”, and spells “accommodation” with one m. Hell, there’s hardly any gin left. Elizabeth,’ he called. She returned from her fruitless search a few minutes later.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nicholas. ‘We had the last drop yesterday.’

‘Now,’ said Basil firmly, ‘we’ve got to do something. I’m tired of this. Not enough to eat, not enough to drink, no theatres, hardly a cinema, no holidays, no riding, no golf. Yes, I know,’ he added to Elizabeth, who, without saying a word, indicated that ‘you have us.’ ‘But you can’t live on caviare.’ Elizabeth gave him a look which, five years before, would have made up for the shortage of gin.

‘I quite agree with you, old man,’ said Nicholas. ‘Things are getting out of hand. We’d better make an appreciation.’

Two years previously Basil and Nicholas, posing as uncle and nephew, had set out together, without their wives, to make their fortunes and, it must be conceded, that they had not done at all badly out of Tapworth Magna. Elizabeth and Petula had been a little against their husbands going away for so long, and Basil himself; who had worked out the idea of ‘The Disagreeable Man’, had considered the risk of leaving the lovely Elizabeth. Their circumstances were such, however, that they could not afford to be too particular, and the idea seemed such a good one that they had all decided to take a chance on it. Their reunion after the reduction of Tapworth Magna was a very happy one. Basil described Mrs Stroud to Elizabeth in terms which made her very happy. Elizabeth described no one to Basil. Petula and Nicholas discussed their respective tennis parties, and Petula talked so much that Nicholas did not seem to get a chance to mention Barbara Newton — not a reasonable chance, anyway. But the champagne had long been drunk, some of the trinkets, with which Basil and Nicholas loved to adorn their wives after a successful adventure, had already found their way back to the places from which they came or very similar places, and the £10,000, which seemed so large when it arrived from Mr Buckram, had shrunk to an almost unbelievable extent. The danger — which so far they had usually managed to avoid — the danger of having to earn an honest living by hard work started to appear horribly close. The almost empty half bottle of gin was a very real warning.

To do Basil and Nicholas justice, it would not have been particularly easy for them to find an ordinary job. Admittedly, they did not like work, but, apart from purely manual labour, of which they had no experience, there was little employment for which they were suited. They could each have advertised at the end of the 1939—45 War that they were ex-majors with administrative ability and that they sought interesting and remunerative posts. They did not, however, waste their money. They were not prepared to hawk round vacuum-cleaners. During the war Basil had somehow or other collected a D.S.O. and Nicholas an M.C., and this, added to their public school education and the other attributes already mentioned, made them virtually unemployable. Brains they had, as their first exploit since the war showed, but that was very nearly all they had — besides, of course, their wives.

‘Well, there’s no doubt about our object,’ said Basil. ‘We can skip that. Considerations. Well, between us, I should say we have about £500 all told —’

‘And some pawn-tickets,’ put in Nicholas.

‘Don’t remind me,’ said Petula. She had enjoyed her fur coat while it lasted.

‘Our rent is paid for the next quarter. We have nothing more to sell. Now, courses open. We can try to get a job.’

‘Hopeless.’

‘Right. That’s out. We can steal.’

‘Too difficult and too dangerous. Too much risk for too little.’

‘That’s out.’

‘We can borrow.’

‘Only from each other. So that’s out.’

‘We can send our wives to work.’

‘Really!’ said Petula.

What, me? looked Elizabeth.

‘What can they do?’

‘We ought to be able to make use of them. Elizabeth is beautiful, Petula is pretty, both have legs which in some professions would be worth quite a lot of money.’

‘That’s coarse,’ said Petula. ‘Don’t.’

Mine
are
rather lovely, looked Elizabeth.

‘Humph,’ said Basil, ‘we
ought
to be able to do something with them. As a matter of fact, I’ve been toying with an idea for the last day or two. It’ll take a bit of time, though. Wait a moment.’

The others watched him. Even Petula was quiet. She was trying to remember how much it would cost to get back the fur coat.

‘The Sunday papers,’ said Basil after a little. ‘Did you see Mrs Blarney’s life story the other day? I bet they paid her a bit for that. And she was ugly as sin.’

‘I don’t follow,’ said Nicholas.

‘A beautiful woman with a story can sell it.’

‘Do you know any stories about me?’ said Elizabeth.

‘No — but we can make one.’

‘How?’

‘That’s the trouble. It’ll take a bit of time.’

‘Tell us.’

‘Well, you know that divorce cases can’t normally be reported.’

Oh, not a divorce, please, looked Elizabeth.

‘Of course not, silly. Not even a pretence of one. But other people’s domestic affairs still get the best publicity. Look at the space given to a fruity breach of promise action.’

‘Well?’

‘Well now, although the Press can’t report divorce cases, they can report enticement actions, and if one or other or both of you girls were involved in one, they jolly well would.’

‘I see light,’ said Nicholas. ‘Who’s to seduce whom?’

‘The word is “entice”, not “seduce”. Now, enticement actions are not looked on with favour by the Courts because in the ordinary husband and wife case the Divorce Court is available, and judges and juries no doubt think that the only reason for bringing an enticement action instead of a divorce case is to get publicity. In other words, legal blackmail. But if someone takes away someone else’s wife without seducing her, then there’d be no ground for a divorce case — not for three years, anyway — but there would be ground for an enticement action.’

‘So you mean,’ said Nicholas, who was never very far behind once the seed was sown — ‘that one of us takes away the other’s wife, that we have an enticement action, full of fruity incidents and that then our wives sell their life stories to the papers.’

‘And we too, I dare say,’ said Basil. ‘We can’t make a fortune, but, if we play our cards well, we should do quite decently out of it. Of course, we’ll have to find the legal expenses, which’ll be quite a bit, and we’ll have to live until the case is over, but I reckon we can just about do that on what we’ve got. We’ll have to go carefully, though. Now, what d’you all say?’ They talked it over at length and the more they did so the better it seemed.

We’ve got to make it really alive,’ said Basil. ‘When we give evidence we’ve got to know our facts, and we’ll have to have some genuine independent evidence as well.’

‘So we’ll have to go through all the motions, you mean,’ said Nicholas.

‘Exactly. My case will be that you, my oldest friend, have deliberately set out to steal my wife from me, with the result that eventually she leaves me and goes to live with you and Petula. Your case will be that I’m a brute of a husband who’s driven my wife away. Petula will stand up for you. We must act all the scenes, even the ones between ourselves.’

‘How lucky,’ said Nicholas, ‘that you’re not going to allege misconduct between me and Elizabeth.’

‘Yes,’ said Basil. ‘And don’t either of you forget it.’

Elizabeth looked, how could you? And Petula said: ‘You can rely on me.’

So they voted for the plan and went into it in great detail. It was like making the scenario for a play. Basil and Nicholas were both quite right in insisting that they should play their parts in full throughout. Giving evidence of things which haven’t happened is a very difficult task indeed. If, however, you actually have done the things of which you are speaking, it is comparatively easy, even if, as in the present case, it was all (as between the main actors) only part of a play.

A week later Mr Brian Mallet, a young solicitor who had not long been admitted, received a new client, Mr Basil Merridew. Clients were so scarce for Mr Mallet that he did not even dare to keep Mr Merridew waiting in case he went away. It was not due to any lack of ability that Mr Mallet had few clients, but simply to inexperience and the lack of enough influential friends. He would have been wiser to have taken a position as managing clerk for a year or two, but he was of a very independent mind, he hated receiving orders, and he liked to be on his own. Basil had chosen him out of the
Law List
, as one of the most recently admitted solicitors practising by himself.

‘Mr Basil Merridew, sir,’ announced the shorthand-typist-cashier-managing-clerk-and-office-boy.

‘Please come in and sit down, sir,’ said Mr Mallet. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Thank you. I’m in a bad way. May I smoke, please?’

‘Of course. Please have one of mine. What is the trouble?’

‘Terrible. I don’t find it easy to talk about.’

‘I quite understand. Please take your time.’

‘Are you a married man, if you’ll forgive me asking?’ said Basil.

‘Not yet.’

‘Then you won’t be able to understand. I hope you never will.’

Mr Mallet looked sympathetic. ‘I’m terribly sorry. Try to tell me about it. Your wife has left you for another man?’

Basil looked surprised. ‘That’s very quick of you.’

‘It’s my job. How long has it been going on?’

‘I can’t say exactly. I wouldn’t have believed it possible. It’s my oldest friend who’s done it, damn him — but I’ll get her back yet.’

‘Then you’ve not come for a divorce?’

‘Not if I can help it. Anyway, there are no grounds — none that I can prove at the moment.’

‘Where is your wife now?’

‘She’s gone to live in his flat.’

‘Grounds enough for divorce, I should say, if you want it.’

‘His wife is there too.’

‘Oh, I see. That does make a difference. Please tell me all about it from the start.’

Half an hour later Mr Mallet, in Basil’s presence, dictated the following letter to Nicholas:

Dear Sir, I have been consulted by my client Mr Basil Merridew in regard to his domestic affairs. My client informs me that as a direct and intended result of your behaviour his wife has left him and gone to stay with you and your wife. Our client is devoted to his wife and is desperately anxious for her to return. I am, therefore, to request you to ask Mrs Merridew to go home at once. Her husband is waiting anxiously for her and prepared to forget the past if she will only come back. It is for this reason that I say no more about your conduct in this affair or about the consequences which will follow if Mrs Merridew does not return within four days.