Ways and Means Page 2

  Courses open to me. I can shout, ‘come along, Merridew,’ or words to that effect. I can walk out to him and tell him to leave the wicket. I can send someone who can get to him faster than I can to give him the message. If necessary, everyone will have to leave the field.

  Courses open to Merridew. He can stay where he is. He can do what I tell him.

  Plan. I shall go out to him myself and tell him to come in. If he refuses, I shall invite the captain of the other side to take his men off the field.

  Meanwhile Nicholas remained almost motionless with his hand in the air. Basil remained at the wicket. Everyone else on the field stood as though his photograph were being taken. It was like a ‘still’ from a motion picture or a tableau, broken only by the slow movement of the General across the grass. At last he reached the wicket where Basil was and the silence was broken.

  ‘Come along now, Merridew, you’re out. Come on, man. Quick march.’

  ‘You’re not commanding your rotten platoon now,’ said Basil.

  For a moment the General looked as though he, might collapse. His military training prevented him from even thinking of striking Basil, and yet his natural desire to do so was strong. The consequent tug-of-war inside him was a considerable strain. However, after a few seconds, he regained control of himself.

  ‘If you do not leave the wicket immediately, everyone else will leave the field,’ he said with dignity.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Basil, ‘have it your own way. And as for you,’ he shouted to Nicholas, ‘I’ll see you when we get home.’

  ‘Very well, Uncle,’ said Nicholas meekly. Basil hurried from the pitch, followed more slowly by the General. As he neared the spectators they remained as tense as those in the field had been while the General had been walking to the wicket. He went past the spectators straight to the scorer, took the score book from in front of him, ripped the sheets out and tore them into small pieces. He then removed his pads, flung them to the ground and left the cricket field. It was quite a minute or two before people could start talking again.

  ‘Come on,’ said the General. ‘Next man in.’

  Mrs Stroud was not at the match. When news of the scene was reported to her all she said was: ‘It’s too bad, just because no one likes the man. I don’t believe half of it.’

  Five minutes later she got in her car and drove over to Basil’s house. She found him in his shirt-sleeves gardening.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming over,’ she began.

  ‘Come in, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you. What about a drink?’

  And they had several.

  That night Nicholas, carrying a small suitcase, arrived at the Vicarage. The Vicar opened the door and at once saw the suitcase and Nicholas’s forlorn appearance.

  ‘I think I know what you’re going to say,’ he said gently. ‘The answer is: yes, of course. Stay here, my dear boy, as long as you like.’

  For a moment Nicholas looked as though he were going to cry. Then he took the Vicar by the hand.

  ‘I can only say “Thank you”,’ he said.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said the Vicar. ‘It will be company for me and I shall be delighted. Now don’t bother to explain anything. Come along and I’ll show you your room. Mary,’ and he called for the housekeeper.

  It is hardly necessary to say that from that moment Basil was completely ostracized, except by Nicholas, who went across to see him from time to time, and by Mrs Stroud. Nicholas explained to the Vicar that Basil was his mother’s brother, that he had always been a difficult person and that only she really understood and could manage him.

  ‘Shortly before she died,’ he told the Vicar, ‘she asked me to promise to look after him. What could I say but yes? Of course, if he gets married that’ll be different, and I’m bound to say — I don’t know if you think it’s wrong of me — I’ve some hopes of Mrs Stroud.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Vicar after a little reflection, ‘I think she’s quite capable of looking after herself. If she decides to marry your uncle, she’ll know what she’s about. I’m by no means sure that your uncle will, though. She’s a very good woman, Mrs Stroud, no doubt, but, if ever anyone had determination, she has it. No — on the whole — if it comes off it may be for everyone’s benefit — certainly for yours, my dear boy. You’re very good to him. You must have had a very difficult time.’

  ‘Oh — well, you know,’ said Nicholas, ‘I’ve managed.’

  After this, life went on much as usual, though from time to time reference was made to the cricket match when there was a shortage of other things to talk about. Nicholas became part of the life round Tapworth Magna, and no one but he and Mrs Stroud spoke to Basil.

  One day Mrs Thwaites called on the Vicar.

  ‘I’m very sorry to trouble you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Thwaites. What can I do for you? Sit down.’

  ‘I’m very worried, sir.’

  ‘Well, tell me all about it. Take your time; there’s no hurry,’ and the Vicar looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s about that Mr Merridew, sir,’ began Mrs Thwaites.

  ‘Oh — has he been troubling you in some way?’

  The Vicar was a devout and kindly man and a good Christian, but he had to repress a very definite feeling in him which seemed to say; ‘Let’s hope he has. Then we’ll have a chance to get rid of him.’ Side by side with this feeling was curiosity as to how Basil could have been troubling Mrs Thwaites. She was a highly respectable widow and, what was perhaps even more important, elderly and quite unattractive. Attributing everything that was bad to Basil — as the Vicar might have been prepared to do — he could not credit (or debit) him with designs against Mrs Thwaites.

  ‘It’s his bill, sir. He owes me over £30 and I can’t get him to pay. I know I oughtn’t to mention it, sir, but I’m so worried. I’ve got the rent to find and the shop doesn’t give me more than a living. Everyone pays me except him, and I’m sure I don’t—’ But Mrs Thwaites could say no more and started to sob.

  ‘There, there,’ said the Vicar. ‘You were quite right to tell me. I’ll see that something’s done about it. Meantime, you’re not to worry. I can lend you the money quite easily till Mr Merridew pays. I’ll go and see him about it.’ The Vicar did not add that it would be a pleasure.

  ‘You’re too good, sir,’ said Mrs Thwaites, ‘but I really can’t take the money from you, sir. It’s Mr Merridew who owes it.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Thwaites. It’ll just be a loan until he pays. Then you can give it me back.’

  ‘And suppose he doesn’t pay, sir?’

  ‘Oh — I’m sure he will. I’ll see him myself. If that’s no good, there are ways and means of making a man pay — but I’m sure we shan’t have to use the law. Now wait a moment while I get my cheque-book.’

  Shortly afterwards, Mrs Thwaites left the Vicarage in a much happier frame of mind, while the Vicar put on his hat in an unusually determined manner and went straight to see Basil. He was in and opened the door. He looked blankly at the Vicar.

  ‘Subscription or something?’ he said. ‘If so, the answer’s no.’

  ‘May I come in for a moment?’ asked the Vicar. He was still on the doorstep.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Basil; ‘but I’m reading a very interesting book.’

  He led the way into the sitting-room, adding as he did so: ‘There are no parsons in it.’

  The Vicar ignored this remark and said: ‘I expect you’re surprised to see me.’

  ‘Surprised, yes. Pleased, no.’

  ‘I am no more pleased at having to call on you, but I feel it my duty.’

  ‘Which are you today — a light to guide or a rod to check the erring?’

  ‘Mr Merridew, I repeat that it is no pleasure to me to come to this house now that your nephew has left it.’

  ‘Well — what comes in can go out. You know the way.’

  ‘I shall say what I must and then I shall go.�
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  ‘I hope that it will be shorter than your normal sermon — but I don’t imagine lack of an audience will deter you.’

  ‘I shall keep my temper, sir,’ said the Vicar, rising from his chair, ‘because I think you must suffer from some disease of the mind which makes you intolerable to other human beings. You should really be an object of pity.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to cry.’

  ‘Your insults are of the schoolboy variety and I propose to ignore them.’

  ‘If there is a point in your visit — which I’m beginning to doubt — I’m getting a feeling that you just can’t wait till Sunday to preach at someone. Well, I’ve had quite enough of it, thank you. Go and preach to some of the cattle. They can’t answer back.’

  ‘I’ve come to see you about Mrs Thwaites’s bill.’

  ‘Indeed? And what, pray, have you to do with Mrs Thwaites’s bill? Have you gone into partnership with her or something? Or perhaps she’s going to take up residence at the Vicarage. Really, Vicar, you’re a sly devil. No one would have guessed it.’

  ‘Mrs Thwaites is a woman of small means,’ began the Vicar.

  ‘But you have enough for two — or more if necessary — though I hardly think that is a likely event —’

  ‘And,’ went on the Vicar more loudly, ‘she cannot afford to be without her money. You owe her over £30. When are you going to pay her? It’s outrageous keeping the poor woman out of it. She’s at her wits’ end.’

  ‘Since when, Vicar, have you converted yourself into a debt-collecting agency? And what, may I ask, is your commission? The usual ten per cent or a little more, having regard to the quality of the service? With apologies for using the word “service”,’ he added.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ said the Vicar. ‘I had hoped that it would not be necessary to say this, but unless this money is paid within three days, solicitors will be instructed to County Court you.’

  ‘Demanding money with menaces, eh? D’you think the Bishop would approve? I had an idea that you could go to prison for quite a long time for that. How awkward it would be for you having to stand to attention for the prison chaplain a good deal your junior, I expect. Let me see — how does it go? — oh, yes:

  ‘I’d lay down my head

  On a hard wooden bed,

  And undignified work I’d endure it,

  I’d put up with the meals,

  But rectorial heels

  Will never go click for a curate.’

  ‘This is monstrous. Good day to you, sir,’ said the Vicar, and walked out of the room and the house. Never had the Vicar felt as he felt that day. But he was a man of action, and within a very short time of the interview he had repeated the whole story to the General, the doctor, the Gaspards, Colonel Murphy, who was the Chief Constable of Poppleton, and several others. They all agreed that a solicitor should at once be instructed on behalf of Mrs Thwaites to sue Basil in the Poppleton County Court. The General undertook to call on Mr Buckram, the best-known of the Poppleton solicitors.

  ‘Oh, but I must write and demand the money by letter first,’ said Mr Buckram, after he had been talking to the General for some minutes.

  ‘Dammit, sir, why?’ asked the General. ‘You don’t write letters to the enemy before firing at him.’

  ‘Ah, but you sometimes ask him to surrender, don’t you? It’s quite possible that a letter from me will do the trick. That’ll save time and money. Besides, my firm has its reputation to think of. There is, of course, nothing illegal in issuing a summons without first demanding the money by letter, but it’s unusual and I don’t like it. Now, you leave it to me, Sir Bragge, and I think you’ll find we soon have Mrs Thwaites’s money — unless, of course, he’s insolvent. But I expect he’s just one of these slow payers. A letter from me will shake his ideas up a bit, as our sergeant-major used to say.’

  A few days later Basil received a letter from Mr Buckram demanding the sum of £35 9s. 6d. It should have been £34 18s. 9d., but a slight mistake had been made somewhere, as occasionally happens in the offices of even the most careful solicitor. By return Basil replied:

  I do not owe your client £35 9s. 6d., and what I do owe her will be paid in my own time. If your client or her reverend and military and medicinal and other friends want to spend money on litigation, by all means sue.

  yours faithfully,

  Basil Merridew

  ‘What a very unpleasant person,’ commented Mr Buckram, after he had read the letter a second time, and he instructed his clerk to issue a default summons for £35 7s. 3d. for goods sold and delivered, ‘particulars of which,’ stated the summons, ‘have already been delivered.’ They had not been so delivered and the correct sum of £34 18s. 9d. was not simply for goods sold and delivered, but included money paid out on Basil’s behalf by Mrs Thwaites for car hire, and also some charges for laundry work. The amount for goods sold and delivered should have been £20 3s. 4d. However, Mr Buckram, like some other solicitors, assumed that it was all for goods sold and delivered. That’s what most of his clients sued for, and so Mrs Thwaites had to do the same.

  The case came on some months later, and it was surprising how many of the residents round Tapworth Magna managed to find time to be present. Mr Buckram represented Mrs Thwaites and Basil appeared for himself. The Judge was Judge Strachan.

  ‘Thwaites v. Merridew,’ eventually called the Clerk, and Mr Buckram rose.

  ‘May it please your Honour,’ he began, but the Judge interrupted.

  ‘Just one moment, please, Mr Buckram,’ he said. ‘The Defendant’s name seems familiar to me. I think I know him.’

  By this time Basil was standing in the witness box. The Judge looked at him. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘Have either of you any objection to my trying this case?’

  ‘None at all, your Honour,’ beamed Mr Buckram.

  ‘And you?’ queried the Judge to Basil.

  ‘Is there any reason why I should have any objection?’ asked Basil innocently.

  ‘That is for you to say,’ said the Judge rather tartly.

  ‘I should be delighted for your Honour to try what there is of the case,’ replied Basil.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said the Judge. ‘No, wait a moment,’ he added, as he saw Mr Buckram about to begin, and he wrote down in his notebook: ‘I state that I know the Deft. No objection by either side.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Buckram,’ he said when he had finished.

  ‘May it please your Honour, this is a claim for £35 1s. 8d. for —’

  ‘My copy says £35 7s. 3d.,’ interrupted the Judge.

  ‘Oh — I beg your Honour’s pardon,’ said Mr Buckram. ‘Will your Honour forgive me for a moment?’ and Mr Buckram started to talk to his clerk about the figures, while the Judge waited patiently. After a minute or two, Mr Buckram returned, not perhaps to the attack, but to a tentative reconnaissance.

  ‘I’m afraid, your Honour, there is a slight confusion with the figures. I don’t know whether the Defendant is prepared to admit —’ And he waited hopefully.

  ‘Mr Buckram,’ said the judge a little sternly, ‘the Defendant is appearing in person. I don’t think he ought to be called upon to make any admissions at this stage.’

  ‘Oh — of course not, your Honour. I shouldn’t have suggested such a thing. I was just wondering whether —’ And he paused again, not quite so hopefully. There was silence for a moment or two in Court. As nothing was said, Basil put in:

  ‘Mr Buckram was wondering — or was it wandering, your Honour?’

  ‘Be quiet, sir,’ said the Judge, in angry tones. ‘Behave yourself, and take your hands out of your pockets.’

  ‘They aren’t in my pockets, your Honour. They are actually hanging down by the sides of my trousers. If your Honour will tell me where you would prefer me to put them, I will willingly carry out your Honour’s order — if I can reach.’

  ‘Mr Merridew, you are fined £10 for contempt of Court. If you make one further insolent remark, I shall send you to priso
n.’

  ‘Your Honour,’ said Basil, getting out his pocket-book and starting to count out ten £1 notes.

  ‘Not now,’ intervened the Judge. ‘Afterwards.’

  ‘I’m sorry, your Honour,’ said Basil. ‘I assure your Honour that I do not intend any disrespect to the Court and I certainly do not want to be sent to prison, but your Honour mistakenly thought my hands were in my pockets and, to avoid offending your Honour again, I do most respectfully seek direction from your Honour as to where to put my hands.’

  ‘Stand up and behave yourself,’ said the judge, ‘and let’s have no more nonsense. Yes, Mr Buckram?’

  ‘May it please your Honour, I think I will wait until the witness is in the box before I state the exact amount of this claim. I may have to ask your Honour for an amendment of the Particulars of Claim. I find that apparently, owing to an oversight —’

  ‘One moment, Mr Buckram. Let me see the defence. “I do not owe the Plaintiff £35 7s. 3d.” Humph, not very informative, Mr Merridew. How much do you owe?’

  ‘£34 18s. 9d., your Honour.’

  ‘Is that good enough for you, Mr Buckram?’

  Greatly relieved, Mr Buckram said: ‘Oh yes — certainly, your Honour.’

  ‘How can you pay?’

  ‘In one month.’

  ‘What do you say, Mr Buckram?’

  Mr Buckram was so pleased at not having to go into the figures again that he at once said: ‘Oh, yes, your Honour; that is quite satisfactory.’

  ‘Very well, then. Judgement for the Plaintiff for £34 18s. 9d. With costs, I suppose?’

  ‘If your Honour pleases,’ said Mr Buckram.

  ‘Who gets the costs?’ asked Basil.

  ‘The Plaintiff,’ said the Judge.

  ‘Well, if your Honour so directs, of course I shall have to pay, but it does seem to me that I’ve proved Mr Buckram’s case for him. Your Honour will remember we left him wondering.’