He was evidently given the engaged signal for his first call, because he dialled the operator, then exclaimed:
“Listen, my dear! I’ve been given engaged for Klaxon 0001. Well, that’s absurd, because Ronnie never gets up till eleven. What? Try again, though, actually, I’d much rather talk to you. Yes, much rather!”
“That you, Ronnie? What! Left. When? Heavens! I really am terribly sorry to bother you, but has a laundry basket turned up? The name is Mervyn Maitland. It hasn’t! Well, look here, be an angel—telephone me when it arrives, will you? You will! That’s really co-operative of you. Thank awfully. Oh, of course! You want the number.”
Then followed several calls to various laundries. As Mervyn had lived in all parts of London—had sent linen from each address and, as laundries were delivering only monthly, the situation was complicated.
After the tenth call, he replaced the receiver, then lit another cigarette.
“Hopeless, Max! I’ll be arrested for indecency. The only time I had any satisfaction was when I lived near a laundry. It was on a cash-and-carry basis, and every fortnight I handed in a squalid parcel to the permanent wave behind the counter.”
“You brought a laundry basket with you.”
“So I did! Thank heaven you reminded me! It’s not mine. It belongs to a girl called Edna Dell. She must be a jolly little creature. All her things are chic.”
He dialled a number.
“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Laundry? Listen! You’ve a customer called Edna Dell. I’ve got her laundry by mistake. No, I don’t remember where I was living at the time. I get around quite a lot. Would it help if I tell you what the basket contains? There are six pairs of very chic—— Oh, it wouldn’t help. You’d rather have my name and number.”
He replaced the receiver, sighed deeply, then dialled again.
“Is that Mrs. Green of the paper shop? Good! Remember me—Mervyn Maitland? What? Didn’t I pay it? I’ll send you a postal order for seven and six. Take a message for Barnaby Bartleby, will you? Thanks so much. Say I haven’t forgotten the fiver—and tell him I took the towels and soap by mistake. The spam was mine. I gave him two razor blades for it. One unused. Got that? Splendid! And will you also tell him that Rhoda is on the rampage—and that Fanny’s no good. He’ll know what I mean. It really is kind of you.”
Pause.
“That’s settled the urgent ones. I am glad to say there is a stalemate on the mother front—and only patrol activity in the domestic salient.”
He went on to explain that he had informed his wife, Ella, that he was leaving her. He reminded her that their wedding had been arranged by his sadistic mother because she—Ella—was the right type and had money. The democracies were fighting for Freedom—and he proposed to be free.
“I shall miss my youngest daughter, Drina. Only sixteen. Most attractive. My temperament. She has as many moods as there are colours in an Indian shawl. She’ll have an interesting life. I told you that one daughter married to get away from Ella—and another joined the Wrens for the same reason. Before the war, we were a happy English home—with the three girls living in a state of armed neutrality with their fond mama.”
After this domestic review, Mervyn rose and began to dress, putting on the thickest things and, finally, a pair of enormous overshoes.
“Now!” he exclaimed briskly. What about introducing me to the neighbours?”
“The neighbours! I don’t know any one in the block—except Mrs. Jordan, who lives opposite, but she’s away and has let the flat to friends.”
“I suppose you avoid people because you don’t want a lot of questions about Carol?”
“Partly.”
“D’you know it’s a week ago to-day since I ran into you near the Café Royal? You looked like a terrified ghost. Well, I’ll have a glance at the larder, then I’ll make myself known to the neighbours.”
A moment later he called from the kitchen:
“D’you want this lard?”
“No. It’s been there since D Day.”
“What about these tins of sardines?”
“I loathe sardines.”
“So do I. They’re cousins to pilchards, once removed.”
Pause.
“Is this cheese or soap?”
“If it’s in the larder, it’s cheese.”
“It’s in the larder, but it looks a slippery customer to me.”
He returned, carrying a string bag, containing the lard, several tins of sardines, and the cheese.
“What on earth are you going to do with that stuff?”
“Exhibit it to the neighbours—with a view to barter. Nowadays, you must know every one—try everything—and dispel alarm and despondency.”
He looked at me with a queer expression in the pale blue eyes under their bushy brows, then added:
“People like me. They regard me as daft, but not dangerous. That’s a half-truth, of course, and they don’t know which half is operative. But that’s by the way. I’ll return shortly and report progress.”
He came back in about an hour with a notebook in his left hand—a thin volume sticking out of his overcoat pocket—and a bulging string bag.
“What in heavens’ name have you been up to?”
“Charming people, Max. Really delightful. I went first to the flat opposite. Mrs. Dalrymple. Such a decorative woman! I told her I was living with you and that I was off to the shops. Could I do anything for her? Such an unpleasant day! She asked me in and gave me some excellent coffee.”
Pause.
“Then I discovered that she has a perverse passion for sardines. So I bartered four tins against a dozen eggs. She gets barrels of eggs from the country. I threw in the the lard—to balance the coffee. I am now going to get the fish she’s ordered over the telephone.”
He opened the notebook.
“Here you are! Fish, as ordered, for Mrs. Dalrymple. Also cods’ heads for the cat, if any. That’s wrong! It should read: ‘Cods’ heads, if any, for the cat.’ There certainly is a cat. I saw it. A subtle somnolent creature, with amber eyes.”
Pause.
“Then I went to the first floor and pressed the bell at number 5. Destiny guided me to number 5. The door was opened by a wraith-like figure, in a wizard’s gown, with a mane of wind-blown hair. Mr. Carshalton. And Mr. Carshalton was having a tot of rum—and reading the Book of Revelation.”
Another pause.
“The English are, of course, the most eccentric race in the whole world. Their famous reserve is an attempt to hide that fact. Well, the cultured Mr. Carshalton is quite convinced that he has the authentic key to the symbolism of the Book of Revelation. He gave me this copy to study. He also gave me a tot of rum. I then traded two tins of sardines for a first-rate home-made cake, bristling with sultanas, sent to him by his sister, who lives in the country and runs a beaver farm—also a clinic for boys who have been expelled from our more eminent public schools.”
He produced the notebook again, then read:
“Call at the Eureka Wine Shop and ask if Mr. Carshalton’s rum has come. Say it’s urgent.”
Mervyn tightened his muffler, then announced:
“I shall be back in about half an hour—always assuming that I do not collect a V 2 cn route.”
In two days Mervyn knew every tenant in the block—all the shop assistants in the vicinity—and was in intricate relations with every one of them. To go out with Mervyn was a social event, because he spoke to all and sundry in a manner which implied that they had long been acquainted and, even more extraordinary, every one of them accepted him on that basis. He revealed intimate facts about himself with a nonchalance which suggested total detachment from the trials, tribulations and temptations that assault an immortal spirit on its pilgrimage through a world of illusion. He was especially popular with women and seemed to possess imaginative insight into the domestic difficulties which surrounded them like a barbed-wire entanglement.