Reginald Hill - An April Shroud

'But now I am old and I am ill. I have little appetite for food or women. My children have grown up and gone their ways. Or died. I no longer care to travel by car. And civilization is dying where it began.

'So you might say that in a fashion not untypically American you have come too bloody late.'

He paused. No one spoke. The envelope remained in Flower's outstretched hand. The American's expression never deviated from respectful admiration, and the expressions of the others varied from amusement via distaste and indifference to Bonnie's evident anxiety.

'Bravo.'

It was Bertie who broke the silence, uttering the word with overstressed irony.

'Shut it, Bertie,' said Mavis warningly.

Bergmann shrugged, a massive Central European bewildered shrug which crumbled his streamlined New York facade as an earth tremor might destroy a sky-scraper. Flower seemed to take a cue and relaxed in his chair dropping his hand to the table. The old man's arm shot out as the envelope moved and he pulled it rudely from Flower's grasp.

'However,' he said, very Churchillian, 'I will not refuse your gift, late though it is. For I recall that I never did get a hat like Roy Campbell's. But now I shall. And I shall wear it slightly askew as I walk through the village in the hope that the tedious inmates will shun me as a man unbalanced and in the even vainer hope that this reputation might somehow distress my neglectful friends and ungrateful descendants. Bonnie, my glass is empty.'

After that somehow a party began. The BBC man tried for a while to get his intimate interview but in the end recognized that his efforts were losing him ground in the drinks race and set about catching up. The feature writer, aptly named Butt, was well in the lead, though Bergmann would have been neck and neck if his new flamboyancy of gesture had not been joined by a matching volubility of speech. Flower on the other hand was a recidivist and his speech got lower and slower and more and more slurred till he sounded like a second-rate English mimic doing James Stewart. Nikki had stopped clicking and was gurgling merrily through glass after nauseating glass of port and brandy. Even Arkwright, the tape-recorder man, found time from his task of preventing others resting their glasses and persons on his equipment to down mouthfuls from a half-pint glass of gin.

Nor were the residents of Lake House far behind and Dalziel, ever a pragmatist, put all care for the past or the future out of his mind and set to with a will.

After a while for a relatively small gathering the noise became deafening. He found himself next to Fielding who was still holding the envelope tight to his chest as though fearing it would be taken from him. His words to Dalziel seemed to confirm this impression.

'It will be all right, you assure me of that?' he cried in what was relatively a whisper.

Dalziel nodded wisely, winked and turned away in search of Bonnie. Behind him the conversation between Fielding and the Americans resumed.

'I don't care for Updike. Overwrought, overblown and overpraised,' cried Bergmann.

'Yeah,' drawled Flower. 'Updike's a shit.'

Bonnie was in the window bay being leaned over confidentially by Butt who seemed to fancy himself as the great poke as well as the great soak, but Dalziel's rescue mission was hindered by Penitent who grasped him by the arm, peered closely into his face and said something like, 'What are you doing after the show?'

'What?' bellowed Dalziel.

'Haven't we met somewhere before?'

His voice had the controlled flatness with which ambitious public school men in the BBC attempted to conceal their origins.

'I doubt it,' said Dalziel.

Someone grasped his other arm and he felt a surge of panic as if at any moment blows might be hurled at his unprotected gut.

It was Bertie. There was no physical danger but he was bent on being nasty.

'Enjoying yourself, Dalziel?' he asked. 'Enjoying your free booze, are you? And your bed and breakfast? Pity you'll have to be leaving us.'

'What's up, sonny?' snarled Dalziel. 'You putting me out?'

'No, no. It's just that once your car's ready, you'll be on your way, won't you? Well, I rang the garage after lunch and they say they've got it and it'll be ready for you in the morning. At a pinch, you could go tonight. Not that we want to lose you, of course.'

'Mensa!' said Penitent.

'What?'

'That's where we met, I think. Mensa.'

Ensa, thought Dalziel. He thinks I'm a sort of performer. Which I am.

'Not likely,' he bellowed. 'Nearest I got was seeing Tommy Handley at Catterick when I was in the MPs.'

'I'll say cheerio now in case we miss each other in the morning,' said Bertie. Dalziel shook his arm free and succeeded in slopping some of his drink over the youth's shirt which was some consolation for not being able to punch his fat, smiling mouth.

'MPs,' said Penitent, puzzled. 'Did Handley have something in the Eden administration?'

Dalziel smiled at him uncomprehendingly.

'You work at it, lad,' he said in a sympathetic voice. 'You can end up having as many "O" levels as Jimmy Young.'

'Charley!' He heard Bonnie's voice cut clearly through the din. 'We need some more booze. Pop along to the store and bring up a couple of bottles of everything, there's a love. Oh, and while you're down there, tell Mrs Greave I'd like a word. I suppose everyone will want to be fed eventually.'

She seemed quite unperturbed by the prospect. Dalziel recalled that his own wife had required five days' notice if he was bringing a mate round for a glass of beer.

There was a click in his ear and he thought that Nikki must have started up again but when he looked it was Uniff.

'One not enough?' he asked, nodding towards the green tunic which he now spotted alongside Louisa by the door.

'Her?' said Uniff scornfully. 'She's one of the creative accident mob. You shoot enough film, something's bound to be OK.'

'While you use your genius?'

'Right,' grinned Uniff. 'Besides I'm not so rich. Like big John Wayne says, you gotta make every shot count.'

'How's your picture going?' asked Dalziel.

'Up and down, you know how it is, man. You want to see it sometime?'

'If you want to show it,' said Dalziel.

'Why not? Hell, there's got to come a time for every artist when he exposes himself to the average bum in the street.'

'You try exposing yourself to me,' said Dalziel, 'you'll make a pretty picture yourself.'

Uniff laughed heartily.

'I like you, Andy baby,' he said. 'Christ, man, how do you stick it in here with this load of phoneys?'

His gesture seemed pretty well all-inclusive.

'Are they phoneys?' asked Dalziel.

'Can't you tell?'

'I don't know what the real thing looks like, so it's a bit hard,' said Dalziel.

Nor could he see any reason why anyone should want to pretend to be what he saw around him. In particular, you'd have to be bloody revolting to make it worthwhile pretending to be a conceited, blubber-lipped, purple- cheeked, perfumed ponce in a corrugated suit.

'Andrew,' said Bonnie. 'Have you met Eric Butt?'

His pleasure at hearing her use his Christian name almost overcame his distaste for Butt. The journalist smiled briefly at him and returned his attention to Bonnie.

'Next time you're in town,' he said, 'give me a ring. We can lunch together. Fellow I know has just taken over a little French place in Hampstead. Not for the hoi polloi, you know, but you'd love it.'

'How sweet,' said Bonnie. 'I was thinking of taking all the children up next week. Perhaps we could meet there. Would Tuesday suit you?'

Butt emptied his glass and came up smiling.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Better to ring. I'm off to Brazil tomorrow and I'll be there over a week. It's a great thing, did you read about it? There was a bit in the Observer supplement last week. I'm doing a piece on the Brazilian football team and they've agreed for me to stay and train with them. It's a bit unique, actually. The Brazilian Ambassador fixed it, likes my stuff, felt I would do a good job. I wouldn't miss it for worlds. Ever been to Brazil, darling?'