Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

‘Yes, my lady,’ said Mrs Ruddle; and vanished with unexpected docility.

‘If I know anything about Kirk,’ said Peter, ‘they’ll adjourn the inquest, so it shouldn’t take very long.’

‘No. I’m glad John Perkins has been so prompt-we shan’t get such a crowd of reporters and people.’

‘Shall you mind the reporters very much?’

‘Not nearly as much as you will. Don’t be so tragic about it, Peter. Make up your mind that the joke’s on us, this time.’

‘It’s that, right enough. Helen’s going to make a grand cockadoodle over this.’

‘Well, let her. She doesn’t look as though she got much fun out of life, poor woman. After all, she can’t alter the facts. I mean, here I am, you know, pouring out tea for you ~ from a chipped spout, admittedly-but I’m here.’

‘I don’t suppose she envies you that job. I’m not exactly Helen’s cup of tea.’

‘She’d never enjoy any tea-she’d always be thinking about the chips.’

‘Helen doesn’t allow chips.’

‘No-she’d insist on silver-even if the pot was empty.

Have some more tea. I can’t help its dribbling into the saucer. It’s the sign of a generous nature, or an overflowing heart, or something.’

Peter accepted the tea and drank it in silence. He was still dissatisfied with himself. It was as though he had invited the woman of his choice to sit down with him at the feast of life, only to discover that his table had not been reserved for him. Men, in these mortifying circumstances, commonly find fault with the waiter, grumble at the food and irritably reject every effort to restore pleasantness to the occasion. From the worst exhibitions of injured self-conceit, his good manners were sufficient to restrain him. but the mere fact that he knew himself to be in fault made it all the more difficult for him to recover spontaneity. Harriet watched his inner conflict sympathetically. If both of them had been ten years younger, the situation would have resolved itself in a row, tears and reconciling embraces; but for them, that path was plainly marked, no exit. There was no help for it; he must get out of his sulks as best he could. Having inflicted her own savage moods upon him for a good five years, she

‘ was in no position to feel aggrieved; compared with herself, indeed, he was making a pretty good showing.

He pushed the tea-things aside and lit cigarettes for both of them. Then, rubbing fretfully upon the old sore, he said:

‘You show commendable patience with my bad temper.’

‘Is that what you call it? I’ve seen tempers in comparison with which you’d call that a burst of heavenly harmony.’

‘Whatever it is, you are trying to natter me out of it.’

‘Not at all.’ (Very well, he was asking for it; better use shock tactics and carry the place by assault.) ‘I’m only trying to tell you, in the nicest possible manner, that, provided I were with you, I shouldn’t greatly mind being deaf, dumb, halt, blind and imbecile, afflicted with shingles and whooping-cough, in an open boat without clothes or food, with a thunderstorm coming on. But you’re being painfully stupid about it.’

‘Oh, my dear!’ he said, desperately, and with a very red face, ‘what the devil am I to say to that? Except that I shouldn’t mind anything either. Only I can’t help feeling that it’s I that have somehow been idiot enough to launch the infernal boat, call up the storm, strip you naked, jettison the cargo, strike you lame and senseless and infect you with whooping-cough and-what was the other thing?’

‘Shingles,’ said Harriet, drily; ‘and it isn’t infectious.’

‘Crushed again.’ His eyes danced, and all of a sudden her heart seemed to turn right over. ‘O ye gods! render me worthy of this noble wife. All the same, I have a strong suspicion that I am being managed. I should resent it very much, if I were not full of buttered toast and sentiment-two things which, as you may have noticed, tend to go together. And that reminds me-hadn’t we better get the car out and run over to Broxford for dinner? There’s sure to be some sort of pub there, and a little fresh air may help to blow the bats out of my belfry.’

“That’s rather a good idea. And can’t we take Bunter? I don’t believe he’s had anything to eat for years.’

‘Still harping on my Bunter! I myself have suffered many things for love, very like this. You may have Bunter, but I draw the line at a partie carree. Mrs Ruddle shall not come tonight I observe the Round Table rule-to love one only and to cleave to her. One at a time, I mean, of course. I will not pretend that I have never been linked up before, but I absolutely refuse to be coupled in parallel’

‘Mrs Ruddle can go home to bake her pies. I’ll just finish my letter and then we can post it in Broxford.’

But Bunter respectfully requested to be omitted from the party-unless, of course, his lordship required his services. He would prefer, if permitted, to utilise the leisure so kindly placed at his disposal in a visit to the Crown. He should be interested to make the acquaintance of some of the local inhabitants, and, as for his supper, Mr Puffett had been so good as to hint that there was pot luck waiting for him at his house whenever he might care to step in and partake of it.

‘Which means,’ said Peter, interpreting the decision to Harriet, ‘that Bunter wants to get a side-line through the local gossip on the late Noakes and all his household. In addition, he would like to establish diplomatic relations with the publican, the coal-merchant, the man who grows the best vegetables, the farmer who happens to have cut down a tree and can oblige with logs, the butcher who hangs his meat longest, the village carpenter and the man who does a job about the drains. You’ll have to put up with me. Nothing is ever gained by diverting Bunter from his own mysterious ends.’

The bar of the Crown was remarkably full when Bunter made his way in. No doubt the unobtrusive presence of the late Mr Noakes behind a locked door lent a special body to the mild and bitter. At the entrance of the stranger, the voices, which had been busy, fell silent, and glances, at first directed to the door, were swiftly averted and screened behind lifted tankards. This was fully in accordance with etiquette. Bunter saluted the company with a polite ‘Good evening’, and asked for a pint of old ale and a packet of Players. Mr Gudgeon, the landlord, fulfilled the order with a dignified leisure, observing, as he changed a ten-shilling note, that the day had been fine. Bunter assented to this proposition, saying further that the country air was agreeable after town. Mr Gudgeon remarked that a-many London gentleman had been known to say the same thing, and inquired whether this was his customer’s first visit to that part of the country. Bunter said that though he had frequently passed through the district he had never stayed there before, and that Paggleham seemed to be a pretty spot. He also volunteered the information that he was Kentish by birth. Mr Gudgeon said. Indeed? they grew hops there, he believed.

Bunter admitted that this was so. A very stout man with one eye intervened at this point to say that his wife’s cousin lived in Kent and that it was all ‘ops where he was. Bunter said there were hops where his mother lived; he himself knew little about hops, having been brought up in London from the age of five. A thin man with a lugubrious countenance said he supposed that there gallon of beer he’d had off Mr Gudgeon last June came from Kent. This appeared to be a reference to some standing jest, for the bar laughed appreciatively, and much chaff was bandied about, till the thin man closed the discussion by saying, ‘All right, Jim; call it ‘ops if it makes you feel any better.’