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Authors: Michael Innes
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grand as the one in which Honeybath had himself been driven here. Executive-type cars, a car-salesman would have said.
Mr X, of course, couldn’t survey this transformed scene. But it was obvious that he had been aware of each vehicle as it drove up. He was distracted, and so was Honeybath. Honeybath suddenly got a high-light grotesquely wrong. It was most confoundedly annoying.
‘Is there a board meeting?’ Mr X asked.
Honeybath was startled. It wasn’t an expression which Mon Empereur could conceivably use of a council of war at which the Marshals of France gathered themselves deferentially around him. Moreover, Mr X’s voice had been a new voice. And it was evident that it alerted Peach at once.
‘He’s got it wrong, hasn’t he?’ Peach had jumped up and advanced upon Mr X in a disagreeable way. ‘He’d better quit that line, had he not?’
‘Sit down, sir.’ Mr X’s pallid countenance had amazingly taken on a faint flush. ‘Do you think I’m going to be spoken to in that way by a damned jumped-up clerk? Behave yourself, or a week’s wages will he the end of the matter. And you can whistle for the ghost of a reference from me. You’ll be tramping the streets on public assistance, or whatever the nonsense is called, within a month.’
Honeybath would have relished this odd metamorphosis but for the fact that there was something brutal about it. Here was Mr X, for a change, in some character he had once really owned, and it didn’t suggest itself as at all estimable.
‘Now, come to your senses,’ Mr X said. He hesitated for a moment, almost as if dimly aware of the curious character of these words from his lips. ‘And answer me,’ he continued hectoringly. ‘Is it a board meeting?’
‘And what if it is?’ Peach showed signs of losing grip of the situation. ‘What has it got to do with you, you old lunatic? A pretty figure you’d cut at a high-level thing like that. Belt up, do you hear?’
‘Take me to it at once.’ Mr X was struggling, feebly and distressingly, in his chair. His voice had risen a pitch – as, indeed, Peach’s had done. ‘I’ll have you know I know my rights in this place. I’ll have you up before the Governor. I’ll let no bloody screw–’
Quite suddenly, Mr X collapsed. He slumped, and a faint froth of spittle appeared on his lips. Honeybath was horrified – partly, perhaps, for the selfish reason that he didn’t want to find himself painting a corpse. And he saw that Peach, having recovered himself, was about to wheel his employer, patient, captive – impossible to define the relationship – from the room.
‘One moment,’ Honeybath said peremptorily. ‘Just what does this mean? Why is he talking about a Governor? What does he mean by a bloody screw? I insist–’
‘Only another of his fancies, Mr Honeybath. Another of the poor old gentleman’s imaginary lives, you might say. And a very distressing one – a very distressing one, indeed. Particularly embarrassing for the relations, sir – the family always having been so highly respectable, and lucky enough to keep clear of anything of the kind. I have very strict instructions about when it happens, Mr Honeybath. Immediate rest and quiet is what Mr X must have on these occasions. So you’ll be good enough to let me pass at once. I dare say he may be sufficiently recovered to continue the sittings this afternoon. Wonderfully resilient he is, isn’t he?’ Again this last question was addressed directly – but scarcely in an affectionate tone – to Mr X. Mr X, however, was not in a condition to offer an opinion on the matter. He appeared to be in some sort of coma. And Peach wheeled him out.
Honeybath returned to his room. He was thoroughly upset himself, and ventured on a stiff whisky earlier in the day than usual. This might have been expected a little to lull his senses, but, in fact the effect was rather to the contrary. At least his hearing seemed to become oddly acute. Normally the
Mr X, of course, couldn’t survey this transformed scene. But it was obvious that he had been aware of each vehicle as it drove up. He was distracted, and so was Honeybath. Honeybath suddenly got a high-light grotesquely wrong. It was most confoundedly annoying.
‘Is there a board meeting?’ Mr X asked.
Honeybath was startled. It wasn’t an expression which Mon Empereur could conceivably use of a council of war at which the Marshals of France gathered themselves deferentially around him. Moreover, Mr X’s voice had been a new voice. And it was evident that it alerted Peach at once.
‘He’s got it wrong, hasn’t he?’ Peach had jumped up and advanced upon Mr X in a disagreeable way. ‘He’d better quit that line, had he not?’
‘Sit down, sir.’ Mr X’s pallid countenance had amazingly taken on a faint flush. ‘Do you think I’m going to be spoken to in that way by a damned jumped-up clerk? Behave yourself, or a week’s wages will he the end of the matter. And you can whistle for the ghost of a reference from me. You’ll be tramping the streets on public assistance, or whatever the nonsense is called, within a month.’
Honeybath would have relished this odd metamorphosis but for the fact that there was something brutal about it. Here was Mr X, for a change, in some character he had once really owned, and it didn’t suggest itself as at all estimable.
‘Now, come to your senses,’ Mr X said. He hesitated for a moment, almost as if dimly aware of the curious character of these words from his lips. ‘And answer me,’ he continued hectoringly. ‘Is it a board meeting?’
‘And what if it is?’ Peach showed signs of losing grip of the situation. ‘What has it got to do with you, you old lunatic? A pretty figure you’d cut at a high-level thing like that. Belt up, do you hear?’
‘Take me to it at once.’ Mr X was struggling, feebly and distressingly, in his chair. His voice had risen a pitch – as, indeed, Peach’s had done. ‘I’ll have you know I know my rights in this place. I’ll have you up before the Governor. I’ll let no bloody screw–’
Quite suddenly, Mr X collapsed. He slumped, and a faint froth of spittle appeared on his lips. Honeybath was horrified – partly, perhaps, for the selfish reason that he didn’t want to find himself painting a corpse. And he saw that Peach, having recovered himself, was about to wheel his employer, patient, captive – impossible to define the relationship – from the room.
‘One moment,’ Honeybath said peremptorily. ‘Just what does this mean? Why is he talking about a Governor? What does he mean by a bloody screw? I insist–’
‘Only another of his fancies, Mr Honeybath. Another of the poor old gentleman’s imaginary lives, you might say. And a very distressing one – a very distressing one, indeed. Particularly embarrassing for the relations, sir – the family always having been so highly respectable, and lucky enough to keep clear of anything of the kind. I have very strict instructions about when it happens, Mr Honeybath. Immediate rest and quiet is what Mr X must have on these occasions. So you’ll be good enough to let me pass at once. I dare say he may be sufficiently recovered to continue the sittings this afternoon. Wonderfully resilient he is, isn’t he?’ Again this last question was addressed directly – but scarcely in an affectionate tone – to Mr X. Mr X, however, was not in a condition to offer an opinion on the matter. He appeared to be in some sort of coma. And Peach wheeled him out.
Honeybath returned to his room. He was thoroughly upset himself, and ventured on a stiff whisky earlier in the day than usual. This might have been expected a little to lull his senses, but, in fact the effect was rather to the contrary. At least his hearing seemed to become oddly acute. Normally the
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