The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(138)
‘Tried? Jock, have you been fighting?’
‘Nah. I caught his fist and sort of squeezed till he said it was all a mistake and the landlord told him I didn’t mean no harm, but when I asked what it meant they got nasty again so I left it alone and bought another round and there was no hard feelings except I think they kicked the Guernsey man up the bum when they got him outside. Funny you don’t know what crappo means, I’ve heard you talk French lovely.’
‘Crapaud!’ I cried.
‘Yeah, that’s it. Crappo.’
‘It’s a French word; it means a toad.’
‘A toad, eh?’
‘Yes. And you say the Jerseys don’t like it?’
‘They ’ate it. They reckon it’s a diabolical liberty.’
‘And “diabolical” may be a better word than you think.’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind. Where’s that sandwich?’
‘Coming. Oh, one other thing I nearly forgot. When I was going on about this raper bloke having a sword painted on his belly, one or two of them sort of nudged each other and the old geezer who’s coming to do the garden had a bit of a chuckle too. I didn’t ask, I could see they weren’t going to let on. Private joke, I reckon. Or p’raps it means something dirty.’
‘Perhaps both. I think I detect the distant clash of phallic cymbals.’
‘Eh?’
‘Yes. Ah, the sandwich. How delicious. I shall take it to bed with me. Good night, Jock.’
‘Goo’ night, Mr Charlie.’
I know I meant to go and say good night to Johanna, for I realize how much these little civilities mean to the frailer sex, but I dare say I forgot. Even men aren’t perfect.
5
Yea, he is strong, thou say’st,
A mystery many-faced,
The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee;
The blind night sees him, death
Shrinks beaten at his breath,
And his right hand is heavy on the sea:
We know he hath made us, and is king;
We know not if he care for anything.
To Victor Hugo
Nothing really happened the following day except that, in the morning, my liver and I could by no means seem to get along together. I drank Milk of Magnesia, Alka-Seltzer and Eno’s Fruit Salts, in that order, until my stomach was a mere cave of the winds and the waters, but to no avail.
‘You need a drink, Mr Charlie,’ said Jock, with rough compassion.
‘Do you really think that might help?’
‘Bloody sure it would.’
I had one, just to please Jock and, do you know, he was perfectly right. He knows, you see.
Nothing really had happened in the newspapers that day, either, except that some Arabs had murdered some Jews, some Jews had retaliated on some Arabs, some Indians had perfected an atomic bomb for dropping on Pakistanis and various assorted Irishmen had murdered each other in unpleasant ways. You really have to hand it to God, you know, he has terrific staying-power. Jehovah against Mohammed, Brahma against Allah, Catholic against Protestant: religion really keeps the fun going, doesn’t it. If God didn’t exist the professional soldiers would have to invent him, wouldn’t they?
Nothing nearly so warlike had happened in Jersey, except that an old lady had found a neighbour lifting potatoes which he had inadvertently planted in land which had since been adjudged hers, so she had raised the ancient Clameur de Haro, which dates back to Rollo, the first Norman Lord of the Island. What you have to do to raise the Clameur is to collect a witness or two, drop on your knees and shout ‘Haro! Haro! Haro! A l’aide, mon prince! On me fait tort!’ Whereupon the wrongdoer has to stop whatever wrong he is doing and the whole situation freezes until it can be sorted out at a high level. You have to be pretty sure of yourself to raise the Clameur, they take it seriously in Jersey and, even if you are technically in the right, you can find yourself ‘amerced’ for a good round fine if you have been wasting the court’s time on spite or trivialities – or if your plea doesn’t fit the conditions for proper clamouring.
Nothing happened chez Mortdecai, either, except that the new gardener appeared. His name may well have been something like Henri Le Pieton Gastineau, but his native wood-notes wild were blemished by a complete absence of teeth and, even when he took them out of his pocket and burnished them on the seat of his trousers before popping them into his mouth, it was hard to achieve a real communion of souls. What I did establish was that he wanted ‘quat’ louis les sept heures’ which my razor-like brain converted into 57 pence per hour – a fair rate if he happened to be capable of toil. As it turned out he was a positive dynamo. ‘Flash’, our tame slug, tried playing head-gardener and bullying him, but got nowhere: he then played his last card and offered his notice – which to his intense chagrin we accepted.
Nothing was new except that it was the First of May, which was Pinch-Bum Day when I was at my dame-school but is now known as Labour Day, when portly, well-paid Trades Union officials persuade lean, ill-paid Trades Union dues-payers to march about the streets saying ‘hooray’ for excellent reasons of their own. They carry beautiful woven banners each of which would keep a starving docker’s wife in Bingo cards for a week. But I digress.