Read Online The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon by R. F. Delderfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. F. Delderfield
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can and I will!' It was as well for the new Mr. Sermon, however, that he could not see her at that precise moment, standing naked at his dressing-room door and manifestly ready to capitulate. Even so, it needed a great deal of determination to make him turn away towards the front door and it is doubtful if he would have succeeded in doing so had not the phone begun to ring, loudly and persistently, so that it sounded like the tolling of Newgate bell and conjured up a horrid vision of a crowded court, a savage-looking magistrate, a wan and bandaged Lane-Perkins standing in the witness-box and himself, manacled perhaps, in the dock opposite,
Si
with a policeman at his elbow. It was, his reflexes told him, a very improbable vision but it was stark enough to make him leap for the open, his initial impetus carrying him through the front door at a sprint and down the drive into the avenue, now empty and silent under a sickle moon. He looked back at the house as he went along under the wall and saw the lights at the big landing window and then the curtain fall into place as Sybil, now apparently watching, went to answer the phone. At the thought of what she might hear over it he broke into a shambling trot, his knapsack jolting on his shoulders, his stiff brogues punishing the corn on his little toe. Only when he reached the bus stop and boarded a 108 heading towards London did he exchange alarm for a mounting exhilaration. "By George, I've done it!" he said, almost aloud, "I've done something I've been wanting to do for years and years and years," and he sat back, easing his feet and slipping his knapsack on to his knees as a yawning conductor reached out for his fare.
"Where to?" the man asked, clamping a hand over his mouth.
Mr. Sermon had no idea but he remembered that the bus had had the word 'Vauxhall' on the front so he said: "Do you pass near Waterloo Station?"
"York Road," said the conductor and then, regarding his solitary passenger with faint interest, "Going to the country, mate?"
Mr. Sermon beamed. It was years, he reflected, since anyone had addressed him as 'mate' and he warmed towards the man.
"As far as I can get on these two feet!" he said and realising that it must sound somewhat unusual to hear Waterloo Station named as the starting-point of a walking tour, he added: "First lap by train, of course, then due West, Somerset or Devon to begin with."
The man shivered slightly for the night air was chill and a strong draught explored the bus.
"Sooner you than me, mate," he said, emphatically, "my terminus is Vauxhall Bridge Road an" then kip till nex" duty!" and he rolled the ticket and gave Mr. Sermon change.
Inside the bus it seemed extraordinarily remote and isolated, so much so that Mr. Sermon, closing his eyes and letting his fancy rove, had the impression that he was in transit between two worlds like a soul on its way to rebirth and that the lugubrious conductor was a
substitute for Pluto's ferryman or the barman in the play Outward Bound. This impression was so strong that he shuddered and then it struck him that perhaps it was not so fanciful after all for, in a sense, he was indeed being reborn and that at this very moment he was stepping out of and clear away from the drab frame of his existence. In a matter of hours, he reflected, he had shed the accumulated responsibilities of a lifetime and as yet had no new ones to replace them but simply a rough set of clothes, eleven pounds ten shillings and two books of verse as his passport to the new world.
CHAPTER TWO
Mr. Sermon Learns to Tap
and Finds It Unexpectedly Profitable
when Mr. Sermon awoke it wanted but a few minutes to broad daylight.
For the better part of this brief interval his half-conscious self wandered around inside his aching head, trying to recognise his whereabouts and relate them to a curious stiffness in his legs and the parched state of his mouth. His reconnaissance was unsuccessful. For several minutes he had not the
Si
with a policeman at his elbow. It was, his reflexes told him, a very improbable vision but it was stark enough to make him leap for the open, his initial impetus carrying him through the front door at a sprint and down the drive into the avenue, now empty and silent under a sickle moon. He looked back at the house as he went along under the wall and saw the lights at the big landing window and then the curtain fall into place as Sybil, now apparently watching, went to answer the phone. At the thought of what she might hear over it he broke into a shambling trot, his knapsack jolting on his shoulders, his stiff brogues punishing the corn on his little toe. Only when he reached the bus stop and boarded a 108 heading towards London did he exchange alarm for a mounting exhilaration. "By George, I've done it!" he said, almost aloud, "I've done something I've been wanting to do for years and years and years," and he sat back, easing his feet and slipping his knapsack on to his knees as a yawning conductor reached out for his fare.
"Where to?" the man asked, clamping a hand over his mouth.
Mr. Sermon had no idea but he remembered that the bus had had the word 'Vauxhall' on the front so he said: "Do you pass near Waterloo Station?"
"York Road," said the conductor and then, regarding his solitary passenger with faint interest, "Going to the country, mate?"
Mr. Sermon beamed. It was years, he reflected, since anyone had addressed him as 'mate' and he warmed towards the man.
"As far as I can get on these two feet!" he said and realising that it must sound somewhat unusual to hear Waterloo Station named as the starting-point of a walking tour, he added: "First lap by train, of course, then due West, Somerset or Devon to begin with."
The man shivered slightly for the night air was chill and a strong draught explored the bus.
"Sooner you than me, mate," he said, emphatically, "my terminus is Vauxhall Bridge Road an" then kip till nex" duty!" and he rolled the ticket and gave Mr. Sermon change.
Inside the bus it seemed extraordinarily remote and isolated, so much so that Mr. Sermon, closing his eyes and letting his fancy rove, had the impression that he was in transit between two worlds like a soul on its way to rebirth and that the lugubrious conductor was a
substitute for Pluto's ferryman or the barman in the play Outward Bound. This impression was so strong that he shuddered and then it struck him that perhaps it was not so fanciful after all for, in a sense, he was indeed being reborn and that at this very moment he was stepping out of and clear away from the drab frame of his existence. In a matter of hours, he reflected, he had shed the accumulated responsibilities of a lifetime and as yet had no new ones to replace them but simply a rough set of clothes, eleven pounds ten shillings and two books of verse as his passport to the new world.
CHAPTER TWO
Mr. Sermon Learns to Tap
and Finds It Unexpectedly Profitable
when Mr. Sermon awoke it wanted but a few minutes to broad daylight.
For the better part of this brief interval his half-conscious self wandered around inside his aching head, trying to recognise his whereabouts and relate them to a curious stiffness in his legs and the parched state of his mouth. His reconnaissance was unsuccessful. For several minutes he had not the
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