‘I love you, Petal, you know that,’ he said. ‘Such bad opinions almost give me a hard-on.’ He grabbed her, but she got free and pushed him onto the bed which, if it hadn’t been built on boxes, would have collapsed.
‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ she said, ‘and make your visitors some tea. I’m sure they’ve paid for it a hundred times over or they wouldn’t be here.’
‘We’ve got no tea,’ he said.
‘No tea?’
‘Nor sugar.’
‘We’ll have coffee,’ I told him.
‘We’re out of that, as well.’
‘What about cocoa?’
‘I don’t buy it.’
‘What about a glass of ale?’
‘If there was ale in the house there wouldn’t be any. I’d have drunk it all.’
‘Do you think you could spare us a cup of water?’
‘That’s different. Why didn’t you say so? Just go on down the lane to the farm. There’s plenty there. Tell him I sent you. He’ll give you all the water you want. He’s very generous, old Jack. A real good sort. Man of the people. Salt of the earth. He’ll give you a cup of water.’
‘I’ll settle for a double whisky, on second thoughts.’
‘Are you joking? People bring whisky here. They take a sip, and leave most of it.’ He laughed. ‘There’s nothing in the place. We’ve got to go shopping sometime, Pet.’
June went ahead, leading us to the kitchen. ‘Take no notice of him. He wouldn’t give you a hair from his nose. I’ll make you some tea.’
She lifted the lid of the Rayburn and set a kettle on. The place was rough, but adequate. There was even a stool to sit on. Dismal sniffed at the bread bin, more out of curiosity, I hoped, than hunger. Clegg stood by the door, waiting for the word to sit down, while Wayland took a stool as far from the stove as he could get because of the heat. I was near the window with Delphick who, following my gaze, saw the back of the Rolls-Royce. He stopped smiling when he saw me looking at him. ‘Nice car,’ he said.
‘You had a ride in it, remember?’
‘And how.’
‘It’s not mine.’
June came to look. ‘So you’re still working for Claud? How is the savage old bastard?’
‘Prospering.’
She took the cigarette out of her mouth. A tooth to one side was darker than the rest. ‘Why did you come here?’
‘I was in the area. Claud’s got a place called Spleen Manor not far away. I always wanted to see Delphick’s house. He told me it was a cowshed.’
Delphick laughed. ‘You know why? If all my patrons in London saw how nice it was when they came up they’d never leave.’
‘It’s bloody opulent,’ I said. ‘I don’t begrudge you, but how did you do it?’
June poured the tea. ‘I’ll tell you. First, an aunt died and left him a few thousand pounds. That was eight years ago. Our canny Delphick doesn’t tell anybody, least of all me, in case I ask him for a bob or two to buy Beryl some socks. He picks this place up for a song. Then every little scrubber he inveigled here did something to the place. And every little groupie spent what money she had, and brought something to beautify it. When he’d fucked ’em silly and bled ’em dry he booted ’em out. A gushing middle-aged admirer put in a damp course. Another had a carpet laid — then got laid on it. A third improved the bathroom. Then he severs diplomatic relations with them all.’
He sugared his tea, and put the bowl back in the cupboard. June took it out and passed it round. ‘Can you blame me, though?’ he said. ‘It’s a reflection on how society treats its poets. If I got proper payment for my work I’d earn as much as a barrister. If only I was a novelist! I’d shamble around all day in my dressing gown, sit on the lawn in the sun, do a sentence now and again, and call for my housekeeper to bring me a drink, or serve tea which would include delicious little paper-thin cucumber sandwiches. I’d ask her to dish up some lunch of chips and venison whenever I felt like it. A novelist has it easy compared to a poet. I wish I could be a successful novelist.’
‘Is there any cake with the tea?’ I wasn’t hungry, but wanted to do him a favour by giving him a chance to be hospitable.
He turned sharply, as if worms were eating his guts. ‘Gritcake? Linseed cake? A cake of salt? I think we ate the last for breakfast, didn’t we, Pet?’
She brought a tin of biscuits from the cupboard.
‘Have you ever written a novel?’ I asked.
He wiped a tear from his eye when Wayland took two biscuits. I threw one to Dismal. ‘I’m trying,’ he said, ‘but not under my own name. A firm called Pulp Books wants me to write one.’
I trembled for the good name of English literature. ‘Not Sidney Blood?’
Sheep bleated from the hillside. ‘They’re paying me two hundred pounds. I’m halfway through. It’s only sex and violence, but that’s all the people want, whether they live in Gateshead or Hampstead. June’s helping me, aren’t you, Pet?’
She sat down, and stroked his greasy oil-cloth hair. ‘I always was good copy.’
‘I never knew it was so easy to write novels. I’ll do another if they want me to. Gets cold in winter.’
I’d noticed plenty of dead wood between the trees on my way down the lane. ‘Why don’t you get some in during the summer?’
‘Me? You must be joking. If you want to come up from your soft life in London and do it, you’re welcome. I’ll give you sessions on oriental religion and the craft of poetry in the evening — if you aren’t too tired after spending all day in muddy boots pushing a wheelbarrow. But I don’t suppose anybody like you, with your short-back-and-sides, would be interested in that kind of profound edification, would you?’ He sneered. ‘No, Philistines like you would leave me to do my own rough work, and ruin my hands so’s I couldn’t write poetry anymore. I’m not going out in the wind to cut logs. It’s bad for my hands. Not long ago I had to lift some bricks to fix the wall — didn’t I, Pet? — because the sheep had been getting into my garden. When I’d put the last brick on I thought of a poem, but I could hardly write it down because my hands shook so much. I couldn’t hold the pencil.’
His lips trembled as if he was about to cry. He put his empty cup on the saucer.
‘Just shut up,’ June said to me. ‘You’re upsetting him.’
Delphick put his face against her shoulder. ‘Are they going soon?’
‘In a bit, Pet.’
I didn’t think I’d even arrived. Doggerel Bank seemed the ideal hideout. Neither Moggerhanger, nor Chief Inspector Lanthorn’s police force, nor even the Green Toe Gang would ever find us. ‘I don’t care how much you blubber, you inhospitable bastard, but we’re staying. It’s important that we hole up for a day or two, but before you have a fit, let me inform you that the car’s full of provisions. We spent sixty quid on booze and grub in a supermarket on the way. I’m not so unrealistic as to imagine that a greedy bastard like you would put us up for fuck-all.’
He smiled. ‘Why didn’t you say so? We can have a party. How much booze have you got?’
‘Bottles and bottles.’
‘And meat?’
‘A couple of legs of mutton, sausages, pork, ham, bacon, and veal pies. We’d better start bringing it in,’ I said to Clegg and Wayland.