Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

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?’

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.

Mr Gawber bought a pound of chocolates. It was a habit. He excused himself and fell into that queue as soon as he arrived, and then he tucked them under his arm, and picking up the tickets at the box office — a slight thrill seeing his name importantly lettered on the envelope — led Hood to the seats. They were down front, so near to the footlights they could hear the mutters of stage-hands behind the curtain pushing furniture into position. Then Mr Gawber sat with the box of Black Magic on his lap, wearing an expression of extreme anxiety, as if he expected the place to catch fire at any moment; or a bombing? Public places had become terrorists’ targets. He hugged the box and stared at the curtain. It was more than discomfort — it was a rapture of fear on his face so keen it could have been mistaken for joy.

‘Looks like a full house,’ said Hood, and saw Mr Gawber’s grasp tighten on the chocolates. Allowing the old man to escort him, Hood had experienced a son’s cosy serenity. Mr Gawber had acted with polite conviction, almost gallantry, steering Hood down the Aldwych, occasionally warning him about pick-pockets, and apologizing in advance for the play he promised would be appalling. But Mr Gawber had said little else. His guidance was unobtrusive — paternal nods that were helpful and mild and with a hint of pride. He was like the father who remains silent because so much is understood; and Hood was relieved that no brightness was demanded of him. He had been unwilling to go to the play, but he had nothing better to do, and Mr Gawber had shyly insisted: ‘I’d consider it a great favour.’ Now, seated in the theatre under a sky of lights and paint he felt he had stumbled into an anonymous pause, outside time, like a formal reverie which would leave him empty. He expected nothing of the play but for it to end.