good enough. It was a bit washed out. But never mind,’ he subsided to a mere fortissimo, ‘something else will turn up. Always does. How are you getting on with the new man, by the way? Barrington?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve hardly come into contact with him –except for his memos. He seems to be suffering from AIDS.’
‘What?’
‘Accumulative Inter-office Document Syndrome.’
‘You’re going to hate him,’ Tufty promised in a confidential roar. ‘He’s dry, old dear, dry – no essential juices at all. You couldn’t get an intimate sample out of him with a hundred foot bore. In fact, hundred foot bore just about sums him up.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘I meet him at dinners all over the place. He’s one of Nature’s club men. A great Joiner. Belongs to just about everything – golf, cricket, rifles. All the backslappers too: Buffaloes, Rotary, Order of the Honourable Chipmunks –you name it.’
‘I’d sooner not,’ said Slider mildly.
‘Mind you,’ Tufty bellowed reasonably, ‘I’ve nothing against that kind of thing in theory. If a man wants to spend his weekends in the Function Room of the Runnymede Sheraton, lifting his trouser leg and swearing eternal loyalty to the Grand High Ferret of the Chasuble, that’s his business. But when it gets in the way of his profession, that’s another matter.’
‘So Barrington’s a Mason, is he?’
‘I never said a thing, old love. All that panic about Masons is pure paranoia anyway! I don’t believe for a minute that they sacrifice newborn babies and drink the blood in bizarre secret rituals. But a man can’t be too careful who his friends are. Need I say more?’
‘Well, yes, actually, you do,’ Slider said, mystified; but it was no use.
‘Said too much already! Anyway, I’ll send you the full report on the shop as soon as I can find a typist who can spell “immediate”. Cheerio, old mate! We must have a drink sometime.’
Atherton put his head round the door. ‘I’m off, Guv, unless you need me for anything else.’
‘No overtime for you?’
‘Not tonight. I’m cooking dinner for Polish. Three-mushroom terrine, noisettes of lamb with walnuts and gooseberries, and dark and white chocolate mousse.’
‘That should do it,’ Slider agreed. ‘For a dinner like that you could have me on the sofa.’
‘When does Joanna come back?’ Atherton followed the thought rather than the words.
‘Tomorrow. It’s been a long two weeks.’
‘Longer for her, I should think, doing the whole of North America in a fortnight.’
‘Be in early tomorrow.’
‘I will. Goodnight.’ The head withdrew.
‘Make notes!’ Slider called after it.
*
When he got home, the place was deserted. In some ways it was how he liked it best, though even at its best it never really felt like home. In the spotless kitchen he found a note pinned against the refrigerator door by a magnetic strawberry:
Cold meat and salad in the fridge. Please ring Mr Styles about the bath tap if you’re not going to do it.
Whatever happened to welcome home darling? he wondered. He opened the fridge and looked in. The salad was laid out on a plate with clingfilm over it: lettuce, green pepper, cucumber, tomato and cold lamb. He’d never liked cold lamb. He shut the fridge and wandered into the living-room.
Irene had been moving the furniture round again. He hated to come home and find things changed, but Joanna said it was a secondary sex characteristic, all men were like that. Something to do with the primitive territorial instinct: you couldn’t properly scent-mark things if they moved around from day to day.
He smiled at the memory of her telling him that (in The Bell and Crown at Strand-on-the-Green, it had been, ploughman’s and a pint of Fullers, watching and wondering at the cormorants diving for fish in the Thames: the last time he had seen her before she went away) and approached Irene’s latest proud acquisition. Her desire to have a conservatory
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve hardly come into contact with him –except for his memos. He seems to be suffering from AIDS.’
‘What?’
‘Accumulative Inter-office Document Syndrome.’
‘You’re going to hate him,’ Tufty promised in a confidential roar. ‘He’s dry, old dear, dry – no essential juices at all. You couldn’t get an intimate sample out of him with a hundred foot bore. In fact, hundred foot bore just about sums him up.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘I meet him at dinners all over the place. He’s one of Nature’s club men. A great Joiner. Belongs to just about everything – golf, cricket, rifles. All the backslappers too: Buffaloes, Rotary, Order of the Honourable Chipmunks –you name it.’
‘I’d sooner not,’ said Slider mildly.
‘Mind you,’ Tufty bellowed reasonably, ‘I’ve nothing against that kind of thing in theory. If a man wants to spend his weekends in the Function Room of the Runnymede Sheraton, lifting his trouser leg and swearing eternal loyalty to the Grand High Ferret of the Chasuble, that’s his business. But when it gets in the way of his profession, that’s another matter.’
‘So Barrington’s a Mason, is he?’
‘I never said a thing, old love. All that panic about Masons is pure paranoia anyway! I don’t believe for a minute that they sacrifice newborn babies and drink the blood in bizarre secret rituals. But a man can’t be too careful who his friends are. Need I say more?’
‘Well, yes, actually, you do,’ Slider said, mystified; but it was no use.
‘Said too much already! Anyway, I’ll send you the full report on the shop as soon as I can find a typist who can spell “immediate”. Cheerio, old mate! We must have a drink sometime.’
Atherton put his head round the door. ‘I’m off, Guv, unless you need me for anything else.’
‘No overtime for you?’
‘Not tonight. I’m cooking dinner for Polish. Three-mushroom terrine, noisettes of lamb with walnuts and gooseberries, and dark and white chocolate mousse.’
‘That should do it,’ Slider agreed. ‘For a dinner like that you could have me on the sofa.’
‘When does Joanna come back?’ Atherton followed the thought rather than the words.
‘Tomorrow. It’s been a long two weeks.’
‘Longer for her, I should think, doing the whole of North America in a fortnight.’
‘Be in early tomorrow.’
‘I will. Goodnight.’ The head withdrew.
‘Make notes!’ Slider called after it.
*
When he got home, the place was deserted. In some ways it was how he liked it best, though even at its best it never really felt like home. In the spotless kitchen he found a note pinned against the refrigerator door by a magnetic strawberry:
Cold meat and salad in the fridge. Please ring Mr Styles about the bath tap if you’re not going to do it.
Whatever happened to welcome home darling? he wondered. He opened the fridge and looked in. The salad was laid out on a plate with clingfilm over it: lettuce, green pepper, cucumber, tomato and cold lamb. He’d never liked cold lamb. He shut the fridge and wandered into the living-room.
Irene had been moving the furniture round again. He hated to come home and find things changed, but Joanna said it was a secondary sex characteristic, all men were like that. Something to do with the primitive territorial instinct: you couldn’t properly scent-mark things if they moved around from day to day.
He smiled at the memory of her telling him that (in The Bell and Crown at Strand-on-the-Green, it had been, ploughman’s and a pint of Fullers, watching and wondering at the cormorants diving for fish in the Thames: the last time he had seen her before she went away) and approached Irene’s latest proud acquisition. Her desire to have a conservatory
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