He gave the infirm woman a dexterous shove further into Hedda’s path, and was thereby enabled to gain the more secure shelter of an able-bodied waiter. ‘Get it away from her,’ he said.
The waiter – perhaps surprisingly – did just as he was told; he stepped up to the panting Hedda and took the carving-knife from her hand. He was joined by a woman who looked as if she might preside over a cloak-room, and who appeared to have a professional line in soothing noises for occasions like this. Near the door, another waiter was restraining a junior colleague, who had rashly thought to rush outside and shout for the police. Several guests were calling frigidly for their bills. And a flabby man, who was certainly the manager, was approaching Cheel with a forbidding but at the same time wary expression. Cheel took the initiative at once.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said, politely but with a touch of hauteur . ‘Fact is, it’s weeks since my wife had one of these turns, and I thought lunch out might buck her up. But it hasn’t answered, as you see. Have them call a cab, please. My car’s not due back for half an hour. Send me a bill, of course, for any damage. Lord Basset. Two esses, one tee. Send it to me at the House of Lords.’
The manager gave a nod to the waiter near the door, and Cheel was heartened to hear a taxi being whistled up. At the same time he became aware that one of the guests – clearly a motor-salesman superior in the hierarchy to the two who had been drinking at the bar – had thrust himself forward in grossly vulgar curiosity. Cheel turned to him.
‘See you’re a physician,’ he murmured. ‘Professional interest, eh? Distressing thing. Sporadic delusions, you know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Fantasies of petty sexual assault, and so on. Her time of life, you know.’ He turned to Hedda – who, he was delighted to see, was now reduced to weeping quietly. ‘That’s right, Ianthe?’ he said more loudly. ‘Your time of life, eh? Cheer up, old girl. No harm done.’
He moved confidently towards the door. The first waiter and the cloak-room woman continued to flank Hedda, urging and assisting her forward. The manager, hovering in front, spoke for the first time.
‘We are most extremely sorry,’ he said in a loud voice, and plainly for the benefit of any of his patrons who cared to listen. ‘Extremely sorry, my lord, that her ladyship has been taken ill.’ He made Cheel a low bow, and at the same time gave him a glance of extreme malevolence. It was obvious that he had no more belief in this disastrous guest as Lord Basset (with however many tees and esses) than he had in him as the Grand Cham of Tartary. ‘Get out,’ he hissed in Cheel’s ear. ‘Try that once again and I’ll have you put where you belong. Inside, see?’ He made another low bow. ‘Good afternoon, my lady. A happier occasion, I hope. Old and valued clients. Most distressed.’ He waved imperiously to a waiter to open the door.
They were on the pavement. Cheel’s satisfaction in his conduct of the episode was only slightly marred by the realization that (as so frequently happened) his moral character had been shockingly aspersed. It was the manager’s notion that the affair had been no more than a low put-up job, contrived between this revolting woman and himself in the interest of getting away with a free meal. Cheel glanced with distaste at Hedda – and it struck him that there was no time to lose. At any moment she might recover her accustomed nervous tone and take another swipe at him. Hastily he assisted in shoving her through the open door of the taxi – and then closed it on her with a bang.
‘Where to, sir?’ The driver, seeing that there was to be only one passenger, was leaning inquiringly out of his little glass compartment.
‘Holloway Gaol,’ Cheel hissed in his ear. ‘Main entrance.’ He pressed a pound note into the man’s hand and stood back. Watching the taxi drive off, he handed the
The waiter – perhaps surprisingly – did just as he was told; he stepped up to the panting Hedda and took the carving-knife from her hand. He was joined by a woman who looked as if she might preside over a cloak-room, and who appeared to have a professional line in soothing noises for occasions like this. Near the door, another waiter was restraining a junior colleague, who had rashly thought to rush outside and shout for the police. Several guests were calling frigidly for their bills. And a flabby man, who was certainly the manager, was approaching Cheel with a forbidding but at the same time wary expression. Cheel took the initiative at once.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said, politely but with a touch of hauteur . ‘Fact is, it’s weeks since my wife had one of these turns, and I thought lunch out might buck her up. But it hasn’t answered, as you see. Have them call a cab, please. My car’s not due back for half an hour. Send me a bill, of course, for any damage. Lord Basset. Two esses, one tee. Send it to me at the House of Lords.’
The manager gave a nod to the waiter near the door, and Cheel was heartened to hear a taxi being whistled up. At the same time he became aware that one of the guests – clearly a motor-salesman superior in the hierarchy to the two who had been drinking at the bar – had thrust himself forward in grossly vulgar curiosity. Cheel turned to him.
‘See you’re a physician,’ he murmured. ‘Professional interest, eh? Distressing thing. Sporadic delusions, you know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Fantasies of petty sexual assault, and so on. Her time of life, you know.’ He turned to Hedda – who, he was delighted to see, was now reduced to weeping quietly. ‘That’s right, Ianthe?’ he said more loudly. ‘Your time of life, eh? Cheer up, old girl. No harm done.’
He moved confidently towards the door. The first waiter and the cloak-room woman continued to flank Hedda, urging and assisting her forward. The manager, hovering in front, spoke for the first time.
‘We are most extremely sorry,’ he said in a loud voice, and plainly for the benefit of any of his patrons who cared to listen. ‘Extremely sorry, my lord, that her ladyship has been taken ill.’ He made Cheel a low bow, and at the same time gave him a glance of extreme malevolence. It was obvious that he had no more belief in this disastrous guest as Lord Basset (with however many tees and esses) than he had in him as the Grand Cham of Tartary. ‘Get out,’ he hissed in Cheel’s ear. ‘Try that once again and I’ll have you put where you belong. Inside, see?’ He made another low bow. ‘Good afternoon, my lady. A happier occasion, I hope. Old and valued clients. Most distressed.’ He waved imperiously to a waiter to open the door.
They were on the pavement. Cheel’s satisfaction in his conduct of the episode was only slightly marred by the realization that (as so frequently happened) his moral character had been shockingly aspersed. It was the manager’s notion that the affair had been no more than a low put-up job, contrived between this revolting woman and himself in the interest of getting away with a free meal. Cheel glanced with distaste at Hedda – and it struck him that there was no time to lose. At any moment she might recover her accustomed nervous tone and take another swipe at him. Hastily he assisted in shoving her through the open door of the taxi – and then closed it on her with a bang.
‘Where to, sir?’ The driver, seeing that there was to be only one passenger, was leaning inquiringly out of his little glass compartment.
‘Holloway Gaol,’ Cheel hissed in his ear. ‘Main entrance.’ He pressed a pound note into the man’s hand and stood back. Watching the taxi drive off, he handed the
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