business’ near Victoria involved a few rounds of surreptitious tiddlywinks.
However, such speculation was cut short for I had something else to think about: the weather. It had started to rain. Clinker gave a tut of exasperation, stopped in his tracks and began struggling to put on his raincoat. With the box grasped in one hand, he was having difficulties. The rain was suddenly pounding the pavement and I leaped to assist.
‘Here, give me the box, sir … and I tell you what, if you stand under this portico I’ll run on and get the car. Shan’t be a second!’ And not waiting for a reply I rushed round the corner clutching the precious package.
I scrambled into the Singer, wrenched open the glove box, and with frantic fumbling switched the two objects. I had just done this when a thought struck me – ‘God almighty! I’ve forgotten the damned eye!’ The original pig’s emerald orb had worked loose, hence our visit to the restorer. Its fake counterpart, to be eventually returned to Claude, would have to show similar damage! I looked around wildly for some gouging instrument. None came to sight or mind. Rain poured, sweat oozed. And then suddenly I remembered – under the dashboard, Pa’s Swiss army knife! He had foisted it upon me just before the final hospital sojourn, and cluttered with other problems and impedimenta, I had left it there long since forgotten … I took the pig, seized the knife, and attacked the eye. Then executing a sprawling three-point turn, swung the car round and headed back to the sheltering Clinker.
‘Most thoughtful, Oughterard. Thank you,’ he exclaimed, stuffing himself into the passenger seat. ‘Can’t stand this erratic weather, you never know what to expect.’
I grunted sympathetically and passed him the bogus pig. ‘You’d better hang on to this, sir. Claude Blenkinsop would take a dim view if anything happened to it!’ And I laughed wryly.
‘Hmm,’ he replied, ‘Claude Blenkinsop is an old woman – always has been. And why he has to live in an apartment without a lift I cannot imagine. As to this pig, can’t see what all the fuss is about. I’ve seen more riveting things in Woolworths!’
We drove briskly until my passenger pointed out that we were fast approaching Paddington Station. ‘Rather disorientated, aren’t we, Oughterard?’ he observed. ‘I think you will find Victoria approximately a mile south from here.’
In the face of interesting gestures from cab drivers, I managed to turn the car and join the cortège moving in the opposite direction. It was the rush hour, and reaching Victoria a frustrating business; but we eventually got there, and to my surprise had little difficulty in finding the jeweller’s, which was tucked away in a corner behind Westminster Cathedral.
Making a rather laboured joke about entering upon popish precincts, Clinker levered himself out of the car, and clutching the pig box disappeared into the shop. It would, I suppose, have been courteous to offer to go in myself; but my companion had seemed perfectly happy to complete the mission. And in any case, I reflected, the less I was seen to have anything to do with things the better!
Five minutes later the bishop returned to the car and in imperious tones directed me to the Vauxhall Bridge Road. About halfway down he suddenly said, ‘All right, you can stop here now, Oughterard. I’ll walk the rest of the way. The – ah – office is only just round the corner.’ And barely waiting for me to draw up, he was out on the pavement muttering thanks and buttoning his mackintosh; and then with a vague wave in my direction started to walk purposefully towards one of the side streets. As he went he turned up his coat-collar and pulled from his pocket a sort of crumpled black fedora. He crammed it on, and looking like a squat Mafioso, quickened his stride and disappeared out of sight.
I was about to start the engine when, glancing in the mirror, I saw a car draw up a few
However, such speculation was cut short for I had something else to think about: the weather. It had started to rain. Clinker gave a tut of exasperation, stopped in his tracks and began struggling to put on his raincoat. With the box grasped in one hand, he was having difficulties. The rain was suddenly pounding the pavement and I leaped to assist.
‘Here, give me the box, sir … and I tell you what, if you stand under this portico I’ll run on and get the car. Shan’t be a second!’ And not waiting for a reply I rushed round the corner clutching the precious package.
I scrambled into the Singer, wrenched open the glove box, and with frantic fumbling switched the two objects. I had just done this when a thought struck me – ‘God almighty! I’ve forgotten the damned eye!’ The original pig’s emerald orb had worked loose, hence our visit to the restorer. Its fake counterpart, to be eventually returned to Claude, would have to show similar damage! I looked around wildly for some gouging instrument. None came to sight or mind. Rain poured, sweat oozed. And then suddenly I remembered – under the dashboard, Pa’s Swiss army knife! He had foisted it upon me just before the final hospital sojourn, and cluttered with other problems and impedimenta, I had left it there long since forgotten … I took the pig, seized the knife, and attacked the eye. Then executing a sprawling three-point turn, swung the car round and headed back to the sheltering Clinker.
‘Most thoughtful, Oughterard. Thank you,’ he exclaimed, stuffing himself into the passenger seat. ‘Can’t stand this erratic weather, you never know what to expect.’
I grunted sympathetically and passed him the bogus pig. ‘You’d better hang on to this, sir. Claude Blenkinsop would take a dim view if anything happened to it!’ And I laughed wryly.
‘Hmm,’ he replied, ‘Claude Blenkinsop is an old woman – always has been. And why he has to live in an apartment without a lift I cannot imagine. As to this pig, can’t see what all the fuss is about. I’ve seen more riveting things in Woolworths!’
We drove briskly until my passenger pointed out that we were fast approaching Paddington Station. ‘Rather disorientated, aren’t we, Oughterard?’ he observed. ‘I think you will find Victoria approximately a mile south from here.’
In the face of interesting gestures from cab drivers, I managed to turn the car and join the cortège moving in the opposite direction. It was the rush hour, and reaching Victoria a frustrating business; but we eventually got there, and to my surprise had little difficulty in finding the jeweller’s, which was tucked away in a corner behind Westminster Cathedral.
Making a rather laboured joke about entering upon popish precincts, Clinker levered himself out of the car, and clutching the pig box disappeared into the shop. It would, I suppose, have been courteous to offer to go in myself; but my companion had seemed perfectly happy to complete the mission. And in any case, I reflected, the less I was seen to have anything to do with things the better!
Five minutes later the bishop returned to the car and in imperious tones directed me to the Vauxhall Bridge Road. About halfway down he suddenly said, ‘All right, you can stop here now, Oughterard. I’ll walk the rest of the way. The – ah – office is only just round the corner.’ And barely waiting for me to draw up, he was out on the pavement muttering thanks and buttoning his mackintosh; and then with a vague wave in my direction started to walk purposefully towards one of the side streets. As he went he turned up his coat-collar and pulled from his pocket a sort of crumpled black fedora. He crammed it on, and looking like a squat Mafioso, quickened his stride and disappeared out of sight.
I was about to start the engine when, glancing in the mirror, I saw a car draw up a few
Similar Books
