The Naive and Sentimental Lover by John le Carré Page B

lovely gorgeous lover,” Shamus whispered at last, still staring into the night.
    â€œI don’t follow you,” said Cassidy.
    â€œAh, fuck it. Helen! Hey, Helen!”
    Seizing the lower folds of his black jacket he darted bat-like in wide zigzags over the lawn until they reached the portico.
    â€œHelen!” he shouted as he burst into the drawing room. “Get this! A most fantastic incredible epoch-making thing has happened! We are redeemed. Butch Cassidy has fallen in love with us. We’re his first married couple! ”
    Â 
    Helen was kneeling at the fireside, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight, and she had the air of someone who had taken a decision in their absence.
    â€œHe didn’t get frostbite either,” Shamus added, as if that were the other part of his good news. “I looked.”
    â€œShamus,” Helen said, into the fire. “I think Mr. Cassidy should go now.”
    â€œBalls. Cassidy’s far too pissed to drive a Bentley. Think of the publicity.”
    â€œLet him go, Shamus,” Helen said.
    â€œTell her,” he said to Cassidy, still breathing heavily from his run. “Tell her what you told me. Out there, when we were having a pee. Helen, he doesn’t want to go, do you, lover? You want to stay and play, I know you do! And he is Flaherty. I know he is, I love him, Helen, honest!”
    â€œI don’t want to hear,” said Helen.
    â€œTell her! It’s nothing filthy, honest to God, Helen. It’s Cassidy’s Good Housekeeping testimonial. You tell her, go on! ”
    Sweat had formed on his brow and his face was red from the exertion of the run.
    â€œNothing more nor less than a papal blessing,” he insisted, still breathing heavily. “Cassidy admires us. Cassidy is deeply moved. You and me are the backbone of his Empire. The flowers of bloody England. Virginal roses. Beaux sabreurs. Buchanbabies. He’s Flaherty, Helen, and he’s come to buy Paradise. It’s true! Tell her, for Christ’s sake Cassidy, get your cock out of your mouth and tell her!”
    Seizing Cassidy by the shoulder he forced him roughly to the centre of the room. “Tell her what you’ll do with the house when you’ve bought it!”
    â€œGoodbye Cassidy,” Helen said quickly. “Drive carefully.”
    â€œTell her!” Shamus insisted through harsh breaths. “Tell her what you’ll do with the house! Damn it man, you came to buy it didn’t you?”
    Acutely embarrassed—not to say menaced—by the vehemence of Shamus’ demand, Cassidy endeavoured to recall the main lines of his thesis.
    â€œAll right,” he began. “If I buy the house I promise to, well, try and keep it in your style. Fit for a great English family with a past.... To honour it. I’d try to do with it whatever you would have done if you’d had the money. . . .”
    The silence was absolute save for the long rasps of Shamus’ breathing. Even the water dripping from the ceiling fell soundlessly into its enamel pan. Helen’s eyes were still lowered. Cassidy saw only the golden outline of the firelight on her cheek and the one quick movement of her shoulders as she rose, went swiftly to her husband, and buried her head in his breast.
    â€œPlease,” she whispered. “Please.”
    â€œThat was beautiful, lover,” Shamus assured him with a bright diagonal nod of his head. “Really beautifully put. I’ll tell you another thing. The maharajah is a fan of the great James Joyce. He quoted a whole chunk to me out there, you want to hear him.”
    â€œThat was you,” Cassidy protested. “That wasn’t me, that was you.”
    â€œAnd he heard mermaids singing, Helen, and he knows the English poets back to front—”
    â€œShamus,” Helen pleaded. “Shamus.”
    â€œCassidy, listen. I’ve got a great idea. Spend the weekend with us!