The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(143)

‘I think,’ I said, when the noise had died down, ‘that I’d better go to Oxford.’

Sam mustered a flash of his old spirit.

‘Is this really the best time to consider completing your education, Charlie? Is the call of the cloisters suddenly so strong? What will you read – Divinity?’

‘Tush,’ I replied. ‘I shall go and see my old tutor, who knows more about witchcraft, demonology and kindred nonsense than any man living. It is perfectly clear that we have a disgusting situation here where some vile sub-human is committing outrages for ancient and nasty reasons which we do not comprehend. We cannot stamp him out until we know what he thinks he is doing, and why. I shall go to ask my old tutor. Has anyone any better suggestions?’

No one had any better suggestions.

‘My own wife,’ I went on, ‘has not yet, to my best knowledge, been ravished, so you will see that my mission is pretty disinterested. In the circumstances, and since giving hospitality to dons in Oxford comes wickedly dear, I fancy you may care to split my expenses with me.’

They made fumbling gestures in the direction of their chequebook pockets but I waved them away.

‘Payment by results,’ I said. ‘If we get any good of my trip I shall submit an expense-sheet.’

‘But what about Johanna?’ came a tragic voice from half-way up the stairs. It was Sonia: pallid, voluminously wrappered, with just a tactful hint of make-up here and there which most chaps – nice chaps – would not have noticed. We all leaped to our feet and surged about getting her chairs, cushions, foot-stools and assorted restoratives. (I made a slight restorative for myself while I was about it, for George did not seem to be on form as a host that night.)

‘What about Johanna?’ she asked again, ‘hadn’t she better stay here while you’re away so that I can protect her?’

I looked at her kindly.

‘You’re very kind,’ I said, ‘but Jock, too, is no slouch in the art of defence. They call it Martial Arts nowadays but when Jock was at Borstal it was known, quite simply, as a “flying drop-kick at the wedding-tackle”. I’d back Jock against the finest Kung-fu artist ever groomed by Mr Metro-Goldwyn. He has a gift for it, you see.’

She nodded wisely. She knows she’s not clever but she thinks I am, poor deluded bitch.

‘Yes, but d’you trust the chap?’ asked George.

This annoyed me but I decided I should give a civil answer.

‘Jock is true as steel,’ I said carefully. ‘He has been in love with Shirley Temple since he was fourteen and will not lightly change. He is no butterfly. Second, he owes me a favour or perhaps two and crooks like Jock hold that sort of thing much more sacred than honest men do. Third – and I know this sounds absurd – I am the only man that Jock is afraid of.’

Sam and George shifted uneasily in their seats, they didn’t know how to cope with rubbish like that. Sonia said:

‘Oh, I think that’s absolutely beautiful. I mean, to have a relationship like that, I mean, based on wonderful mutual um …’

I looked at her kindly again. Perhaps a little kindlier than last time. You see, we anti-feminists don’t dislike women in the least; we prize, cherish, and pity them. We are compassionate. Goodness, to think of the poor wretches having to waddle through life with all those absurd fatty appendages sticking out of them; to have all the useful part of their lives made miserable by the triple plague of constipation, menstruation and parturition; worst of all, to have to cope with these handicaps with only a kind of fuzzy half-brain – a pretty head randomly filled, like a tiddly-winks cup, with brightly-coloured scraps of rubbish – why, it wrings the very heart with pity. You know how your dog sometimes gazes anguishedly at you, its almost human eyes yearning to understand, longing to communicate? You remember how often you have felt that it was on the very brink of breaking through the barrier and joining you? I think that’s why you and I are so kind to women, bless ’em. (Moreover, you scarcely ever see them chasing cats or fouling the footpaths.)

‘Yes,’ I answered her.

Just as we were leaving, Sonia rushed out to the door, still playing the mobled queen.

‘Charlie,’ she cried, ‘will someone look after your dear little canary while you’re away?’

‘Probably,’ I said, vaguely.

‘What my old nanny used to say,’ grumbled George, ‘was that people shouldn’t have pets if they weren’t prepared to look after them properly.’

‘Just what I always say about wives,’ I answered brightly. Well, perhaps it wasn’t in the best of taste. I never signed any promises about good taste, I’d as soon join the Temperance League.

Johanna went to bed without saying good night. Jock was out, probably hitting people, he never tires of it. I didn’t worry about that, he’s careful now: people he quarrels with usually walk away – carrying their teeth in their hat. I made some telephone calls to travel-agents and old Oxford tutors then went sulkily to bed, taking with me a volume of Beatrix Potter to comfort my sad heart; it was The Tale of Mrs Tiggywinkle, it never fails to please.





7





God is buried and dead to us,

Even the spirit of earth,

Freedom; so have they said to us,

Some with mocking and mirth,