‘Mister Gawber, please.’
The girl looked up from her magazine. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll have to take a seat.’
‘I’ll stand.’ He saw the girl return to her magazine. Then he said, ‘You can tell him I’m here.’
‘There’s someone ahead of you.’
‘I don’t see anyone, sweetheart.’
‘He’s got an appointment. He’s not here yet.’ Now the girl was not reading, but simply holding her elbows out and flipping pages to avoid facing another question.
‘I wish you’d do something. I’m in a hurry.’
‘I’m doing everything I can.’ She didn’t look up. ‘This is a busy office. Appointments only. That’s the rule.’ She turned the pages quickly and shook her head. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
An elderly man in a dark blue messenger’s uniform came through the outer door. He stopped at the desk and made a swift reflex with his heels.
‘That packet’s from Mister Thornquist,’ said the girl crossly. ‘It was supposed to be delivered an hour ago to the City. By hand.’
‘Sorry,’ said the man. ‘I was doing the post.’
‘The post doesn’t take two hours, Monty.’
‘Parcels,’ said the man. ‘They wanted weighing.’
‘Listen, Monty, that packet’s been sitting there —’
‘Back up,’ said Hood striding over to the girl. She was startled. He said, ‘Why are you talking to him that way?’
‘I’m sorry but —’
‘Cut it out. Don’t use that tone with him.’
The man stared.
Hood said, ‘Don’t let her talk to you that way.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the man. ‘I was just going to say that myself.’
Hood turned again to the girl. ‘If I catch you giving him any lip I’ll come back here and slap your ass.’
He walked past her to the office door.
The girl stood up. ‘You don’t have an appointment.’
‘Move over, sister,’ said Hood with such fury the girl sat down and twisted her magazine in both hands.
Hood marched through the office of typists quickly, saw a glassed-in cubicle in which Mr Gawber was working at a desk, and headed for it. He knocked and went in.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Gawber rising, trying to remember the name.
‘Valentine Hood.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘I never forget a face. I should be royalty or a tax inspector or a politician. Cursed with total recall! Lower Sydenham — about six weeks ago — and your friend.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘It’s gone — what was his name? But his face is there, oh his face is there!’
‘He wasn’t a friend of mine,’ said Hood.
‘Of course not. Nasty piece of work, wasn’t he?’ Mr Gawber made passes with his hands. ‘Now do have a seat — what can I do for you?’
Hood said, ‘You told me that if I ever had a financial problem I should come to you —’
Mr Gawber listened with apprehension. He took a pencil and holding it like a cricket bat said, ‘I’d like to interrupt you before you go any further. I might have given you the wrong impression. We’re mainly a firm of accountants, which means we don’t handle loans or mortgages. Some people think — and I don’t blame them one bit — that we’re bankers.’ He batted with the pencil. ‘Chap was in here last week, sitting where you are now. Tradesman, I imagine. Awfully nice chap. Wanted some cash. Had to tell him he’d got the wrong end of the stick. Bowled!’ Mr Gawber studied the pencil he had been batting with. ‘He was terribly creased. There are so many misconceptions about this business.’
‘I didn’t come for a loan,’ said Hood.
‘I’m so glad you said that.’
‘Mine’s more a question of procedure, about directing funds. I’m sure an accountant should have the answer.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘I’d like your advice on transferring money to another person’s account without that person knowing where it came from.’
Mr Gawber leaned forward, as if he hadn’t quite heard the proposal. He had heard, but a detail bothered him: when a man said ‘person’ he always meant a woman.
‘I owe this person some money,’ Hood went on, ‘and the person will be offended if I just hand it over — pride, I suppose. The only solution is to transfer it. From an unknown source, as they say.’
‘How much is outstanding?’
‘A lot, I’m afraid. But I’d like to transfer it in instalments, a certain amount every week.’
‘Does this, um, person have a bank account?’
‘Yes,’ said Hood.
‘Then it’s really quite simple,’ said Gawber. ‘I don’t know how they handle these things in your country, but here — apart from Coutts, lovely old firm — banks don’t specify the source of funds on the statements anymore. The money comes in, it’s credited and that’s the end of it. There might be a deposit notice, though — a chit through the post. Your name might appear on that.’
‘Or yours.’
‘If we acted for you.’
‘It would simplify things,’ said Hood.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘Now if you give me the name of the young lady’s bank and the account number —’
‘I didn’t say it was a young lady.’
‘Of course you didn’t!’ Mr Gawber blushed and he rubbed his eyes in embarrassment. ‘Why did I think that? I’m terribly sorry — you must forgive me.’
Hood smiled. ‘No problem. It’s a young lady, all right. Here’s her cheque. The account number’s on the bottom.’ He unfolded the cheque he had torn from a book in Lorna’s handbag.
‘Weech,’ said Mr Gawber, examining the cheque. ‘That rings a bell. I’m good on faces, but so bad on names. Should I know her?’
‘No,’ said Hood, and attempted to distract Mr Gawber with the details of his own account.
Mr Gawber wrote on a pad. He said, ‘Very odd. I hope you don’t think I always go canvassing for new accounts in the public houses of Lower Sydenham. That was my first time in the area. A little mix-up. But I told you, didn’t I? It started with a crossed-line on that telephone. Had another one this morning. But what an extraordinary day that was. I suppose you’ve forgotten all about it.’
Hood said, ‘I’d better be going.’
But Mr Gawber didn’t want him to go. Hood was more than a witness to that day; and now he recalled the other fellow, a tough rowdy man whose every word had alarmed him. Hood had not been afraid — he had stood between them and given Mr Gawber a kind of protection. He was tired now. That night’s sleep lost. Norah was paying for her disruption, but he needed someone, a little company. Alone, depressed, he would think only of the catastrophe. He said, to stall Hood, ‘No, you’re absolutely right.’
‘I’m off,’ said Hood.
‘No, I couldn’t agree more,’ said Mr Gawber. He doodled on his pad. ‘We’ll have to tighten our belts, like everyone else.’
Hood rose and backed to the door of the cubicle. He said, ‘I’ll write you a letter to make it official.’
‘You’re not going so soon?’
‘I’m wasting your time.’
‘Not at all — I’m enjoying our little talk,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘Have a cup of tea. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything stronger.’ Tea: he remembered. ‘I say, Mr Hood, do you have any plans for this evening?’
11
Like filing into church, but the wrong one. Mr Gawber felt very tired and wayward, and he paused with Hood in front of the theatre deliberately to anger himself. The critics’ praise was displayed like gospel verses on a Baptist motto-board, calling doubtful people in: I LAUGHED TILL I CRIED — THAT RARITY, A SHEER DELIGHT — RELIEF FROM THESE DARK TIMES — I BEG YOU TO SEE IT! — THE SADDER MOMENTS ALSO RING TRUE — IT DESERVES TO RUN AND RUN — A SHATTERING ACHIEVEMENT — I DIDN’T WANT IT TO END! He knew there was even an organ inside, flanked by boxes that might have held choristers. The lobby had all the carpets and brass of a presbytery, and there glassy-eyed people smoked, chattering excitedly, searching faces for friends, a commotion of tenative greeting. Clerical-looking ushers in dark uniforms stood at attention, tearing tickets near the doors to the stalls. The people passed by them, entered the theatre — a stupendous hollow temple trimmed with pagan gilt — and dropped their stubs: an attitude of sombreness that was almost stately. Churchgoing for them, too, but they were reverential.