“Ah my lords and esquires. Do permit me as chairman to suggest blaming it all on the author. Or is there one who wrote the wretched silly book in the first place.”
“Binky no one’s getting blame, except me. Only I’m going to deny it.”
“Ah Schultz once more, you rekindle in me my admiration for the forthright human spirit embodied in you.”
“That’s right Binky. I’m never again pleading guilty to anything to be clapped in jail.”
His Lordship scribbling out a cheque. Handing it across to Schultz whose trembling fingers held the watermark up to the light.
“Ah Schultz, you’re wondering if it will bounce, are you.”
“No your Lordship. I’m wondering about just one little magic word Nectarine. Written at the bottom of this little piece of paper. Which can mean so much in the saving of my entire life.”
Schultz and Binky striding at this strange precise time of two p.m. when little is happening along Piccadilly. The rear taken up by a newly jaunty confident Padio O’Kelly. This rotund faced gent met in Curzon Street. Following Schultz and Binky into this Byzantine interior. Domed ceiling, deep rose pillars. A table with newspapers and elegant chairs.
“Holy christ what a bank.”
“Yes Schultz long patronized by his R.G. One may sit there reading while they, the chaps go fuss about his Lordship’s little business. Rather nice. I keep a modest little account here myself. The concierge there when requested keeps out awful people who might have been following one. Note how quickly he enquired of your Mr. O’Kelly‘s business.”
The teller stacking notes, pushing them out to Binky who laid them in the attaché case. The threesome hurriedly heading back to the office of Sperm Productions.”
“Come on gang. Let’s go. Fight. Fight.”
“Do shut up Schultz. This costly business is bad enough without your thinking you’re in the middle of an American football game.”
His Lordship sitting like a paymaster behind the chairman’s desk. The sun shining on the stacks and Stacks of bank notes. Rebecca, Schultz and Padio, heading out in relays, buying batches of tickets at the box office and booking agencies. Schultz as the last pounds had gone, standing looking at his Lordship in his shirt sleeves.
“And Schultz now what is on that scheming mind of yours.”
“Your Lordship you have turned into a fucking gem. Jesus you son of a bitch, you really are a fucking fighter once you fight. Christ it went just like a military operation. You even caught that bastard barrow boy trying to screw us out of three hundred quid. God bless the aristocracy. I take everything back I ever thought against them.”
“I’m sure Schultz, the aristocracy will be extremely pleased to hear that.”
Binky at the door. Peeking in on tiptoe. Tapping his finger tips together. A pink carnation in his buttonhole.
“Ah what a nice calm little scene. And Schultz, I’ve come to collect you my dear, Tobias with my car is waiting.”
“And you Binky, where the fuck were you, why didn’t you help us.”
“Dear me, I must keep up standards Schultz. The Chairman of this charming firm must not ever be seen doing the dirty. And looking at my watch Schultz, soon time now for our little seance with my fortune teller, we shall be late if you don’t join me immediately. I shouldn’t like to, as my old uncle did Schultz, who horrified by the imperfection in one of his gilt ormolu sixteenth century clocks which was four minutes slow, took his afternoon walking stick to it.”
The hallway ministrations of Rebecca as she brushed the back of Binky’s black cape. Straightening his tie, refixing his carnation and handing him his brolly and bowler. Jesus it’s fucking pleasant for a change to see that women can be a help sometimes. At least that girl is making steady progress into Binky’s life. And I wish her every bit of luck, with all the odds against her. A girl you could depend on if your ass got permanently smashed.
Sun behind clouds. Darkening grey sky. Drops of rain sparkling on the limousine as Schultz and Binky motored in the direction of deepest Mayfair. Binky frowningly listening, now stuck in a Brewer Street traffic jam, to Schultz’s latest recriminations against womankind.
“You really should Schultz try homosexuality. It would I’m sure keep you from these awful complications in your life. O dear, London citizens do, don’t they, get in such a tizzy for taxis when it rains, jamming up the roadway. And making an awful nuisance of themselves.”
“Hey Binky why the fuck don’t you or your Lordship try a little poofta life.”
“Ah Schultz my tastes have already taken me in other directions. And his Royal Grace has a rather strong but I think ill founded antipathy towards queers. I do think they supremely and much annoyed him as a beautiful young man. Indeed when he played cricket for the university side there were a whole section of them collected chanting and cheering each time his Royal Grace knocked it for six. Lord Nec tarine is supreme, is what they shouted as a matter of fact. Some of the more blatantly cheeky devils even held up signs. We love Basil. The legend Lord Nectarine is a homosexual was chalked up on many a college wall. The latter alas done by my own hand. I rather enjoyed to see his expression of annoyance as we strolled the college quads together.”
Stopping and alighting on this Mayfair pavement. Black railings along by these red brick town houses. Binky waited till his car had departed. Walking a few paces and turning through a gate. Out into a little spot of greenery. Crossing this tiny park and stepping over the street and turning the corner into a cul de sac.
“You see Schultz one must be discreet about certain locations in one’s life.”
Schultz following Binky in a door. Up three flights of stairs to a cozy sumptuous flat. Through a hall into a large room with fur covered sofas, pillows piled everywhere. Curtains drawn on the windows. Smell of incense.
“Ah now Schultz we’re a little late but now do beseat yourself comfortably.”
Binky pressing a button. The wall at one end of this large drawing room parting in sliding doors, revealing a small proscenium stage.
“Holy shit, Binky.”
“Now Schultz, never mind holy shit. You did in your anti blood sports letter neglect to say that foxes are part of a national heritage and not the preserve of a minority. Of course as a foxhunting man myself. One would naturally reply that do anti blood sport bods also claim so in respect of the earthworms in their gardens. Please, Schultz, don’t stand up like a sore thumb, sit down. One would think you’d never been in a theatre before. Try over there on a nice chinchilla sofa. Tea will presently be served by nanny. And shortly the show will begin.”
Schultz sitting down. Binky tinkering at a camera on a tripod. A smiling grey haired uniformed elderly lady entering with tea. As she exited, a buzzer sounding. Lights of room dimming. And a splash of illumination on stage. Sound of a Viennese waltz. The scenery, a thatched country cottage. Clouds passing overhead and smoke coming from the chimney. A field of clover in the foreground. Two masked young ladies in pinafores carrying milk buckets entering on stage. Gamboling playfully back and forth. Raising a spot of dust. Schultz sneezing into one of his silk handkerchiefs. The young ladies putting down their pails and slowly tantalisingly undressing each other. Till they fell naked to the floor, writhing in passionate ecstasy. Schultz sneezing again. Binky abandoning his tea cup and saucer. Standing at a tripod clicking a camera. Frowning as he manoeuvred to get the more difficult shots. Schultz at the final curtain standing to applaud.
“Jesus christ Binky, bravo what a show.”
“Of course for the sake of frolicsome jollies, one is at certain miserable times an occasional pervert, Schultz. That is not to say that one’s life is a shambles of debauchery. And it gives some of our lazier London girls something to do in the afternoons. Had I known Schultz that you were as deeply interested as you are in viewing the female in rapture. I should have invited you long before.”