Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 47

  I conceded there might be certain difficulties involved.

  ‘You jest not, dear boy. Within a year, we’d be back at war. The masses just couldn’t cope with the knowledge.’

  Enlightenment was slowly dawning on me—unwelcome as that of a dreaded examination day.

  ‘So.’ I said slowly, ‘you and your specially trained men swoop down on any...’

  ‘ “Overlap phenomena”, we call them,’ said Mr X helpfully.

  ‘…and dispose of the evidence and frighten any witnesses into silence,’ I concluded.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he agreed smilingly. ‘Although you’ve used highly valued terms throughout. We happen to see ourselves as acting for the greater good. If the world were to know nothing in history was ever really settled; that there was a parallel-worlds court of appeal for history’s judgements, there’d be no more peace for anyone.’

  Something about his certainty, his smugness, rankled. He was also right, of course, which only made it worse.

  ‘What about a spot of glasnost?’ I asked in a state of some agitation. ‘What about democracy?’

  ‘What indeed?’ Mr X replied, my obviously undergraduate level ideals bouncing harmlessly off his carapace of cynicism.

  ‘But, in turn, Mr Oakley,’ said Mr Disvan, poking his nose in as devil’s advocate, ‘what about race relations?’

  ‘Indeed,’ echoed Mr X. ‘Why, only this year, my department has dealt with overlap phenomena relating to a Welsh dominated Britain and a Chinese world empire. Dynamite stuff if it should get out.’

  ‘We can’t afford to have race riots in this world about oppression in another, can we?’ asked Disvan reasonably.

  Mr X nodded his wholehearted acceptance of the statement.

  ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘the World War Two overlaps are by far the most common. We think it’s the closest parallel world to our own, if concepts of distance have any meaning in the context.’

  ‘You know,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘I’ve often wondered about that. There do seem to be a lot more planes in the sky sometimes than just our traffic could account for.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said X, ‘whole squadrons of overlaps on occasion. We try to shoot them down over the sea if we can.’

  ‘The Luftwaffe ones, you mean,’ I said.

  Mr X looked slightly (but only slightly) abashed.

  ‘We tried capturing and rehabilitating our chaps, but it didn’t work. They tended not to like it here. You know: disco music and keg lager and all the other regressions of modern life. In addition, there was always a danger they’d escape their permanent resettlement camp and, well, talk. All things considered, we reckoned it kinder just to make a clean sweep of friend and foe alike.’

  ‘But... that’s... awful!’ I protested.

  ‘Think of it as form of reprisal if you prefer,’ smiled Mr X, his old confident self again. ‘After all, we have to put up with their bombers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ said X cryptically, ‘not all those “gas explosions” and arson attacks you hear about are actually that, you know.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was seriously nonplussed. The information inflow was too fast and intolerable.

  ‘And we lose some of our people over to them,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Lots of missing planes every year—and they don’t get sent back to us. I suspect it’s them who’ve got Glenn Miller—and I was always rather partial to his music.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr Disvan, as if he was discussing the price of sliced bread. ‘Me too.’

  Mr X looked pleased to hear it.

  ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘in one respect, it seems uncharitable to begrudge them his post 1944 compositions. All the signs are that fifty years of total war have pitched them into rapid decline in every field, even armaments. We’ve found mere youths in rag uniforms, armed with flintlocks and carving knives. Perhaps a bit of decent big-band music soothes the pain of rapid descent into savagery. Who can say?’

  ‘And,’ I said (or trilled), ‘who can say your whole operation isn’t just a terrible murderous mistake? How do you know that releasing this information wouldn’t make people grateful for what they’ve got, make them aware of the fragility of history, make them nurture the ties of peace that have been made!’

  Mr X and Mr Disvan looked at me in wonder, gave complimentary hollow laughs, and left it at that.

  ‘And funnily enough,’ said X, blithely continuing on, through and over my contribution, ‘it always seems to be worst at Christmas time. We’ve had half a dozen call-outs in the last month alone.’

  ‘Ah well,’ answered Disvan, ‘that’s easily enough explained. I should imagine that if all the alternative worlds are going to interact at all, they’ll draw near during the one season of the year common to all.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ mused X, framing the theory up high in the sky and then perusing it. ‘The universality of celebration re the Nativity as a convergency nexus. That’s a most interesting supposition. I must tell our time-quantum mechanics back at base. The padre will love it.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ I said, still hot under the moral collar and gesturing furiously, ‘how do you justify killing this young British pilot, shooting him down on Christmas Eve—Christmas Eve of all nights!’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr X, all apologies for being obliged to correct me, ‘it wasn’t me actually. Our department has a special squadron on call for such purposes—Harriers, operating out of the secret Armageddon bunker at Dunsfold—and you shouldn’t know about that, ho ho.’

  I wasn’t impressed by the novice stab at humour.

  ‘You know exactly what I damn well mean!’ I shouted.

  At long last, Mr X put his brain out of contentless-eloquence gear and paused for genuine thought.

  ‘Listen to this,’ whispered Mr Disvan in my ear. ‘This’ll be good. Really cold-hearted and worldly-wise—very educational.’

  ‘I should initially say,’ said X at last, ‘that technically the aforementioned young pilot was a deserter (albeit unintentionally) and I needn’t remind you of the penalty for that in wartime. Granted, our portion of the war ended in 1945 but I would tentatively argue a de jure transference of jurisdiction from the parallel Britain still fighting in 1990. However...’ (he had noted my jaw descending chestwards), ‘I would moderate my department’s stance insofar as to guarantee he will nevertheless be given a full RAF funeral—with honours, lowered colours, shots over the grave and all the accoutrements, gravestone inscription problems notwithstanding. After all,’ he said, swelling with modest pride, ‘it’s their civilisation that’s falling. We’re not barbarians, you know.’

  At that precise moment, the great cosmic scriptwriter saw fit to send a solitary plane slowly overhead. All three of us watched its lights pass by and wondered—in every sense—whether it was one of ours, or one of theirs.

  I COULD A TALE UNFOLD

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘I don’t approve of that. No good can come of it.’

  For all that, he carried on into the auctioneer’s hall and secured a front row seat.

  ‘‘It’s a disused church,’ I explained to him. ‘Properly deconsecrated, I should imagine. So it doesn’t matter if the auctioneer uses the old high altar as his table. We won’t get struck down.’

  Disvan disengaged his attention from the catalogue.

  ‘I dare say not, Mr Oakley’ he replied, regarding me with mild disapproval. ‘But it’s never wise to mistreat the genius loci.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The spirit of the place; its soul, if you like. The classical civilisations used to set up shrines to particularly obvious ones—you know, the kind of spot that seems to have a personality of its own. That’s not done any more, of course. Well, not openly at least, but the places remain just the same. It’s like with churches—and mosques and synagogues too, I should imagine—a lot of thought and feeling gets concentrated in them. You can’t just wipe it out and use the place for something else. The atmosphere has
to be allowed to fade away in its own good time.’

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  ‘And I don’t think it’s safe to subvert that sort of thing. It was just a thought that occurred to me. I only mention it in passing. Don’t let it spoil your day.’

  There wasn’t much chance of that, as my expectations of enjoyment were pretty cautious. It was indeed a sad comment on the state of play in my bachelor existence that I’d agreed to accompany Mr Disvan to the auction in Goldenford in the first place. The toy-box of life ought to have held better Saturday morning diversions than that.

  However, his offer was kindly meant and I didn’t like to refuse. It would fill a couple of empty hours between breakfast and the customary lunchtime visit to the Argyll—which often merged fuzzily into the evening visit and then sleep. That only left Sunday to deal with before the decisions about what to do with time were taken out of my hands for another working week.

  ‘What is it you’re after in particular?’ I asked, more for want of something to say rather than genuine curiosity. For all its denudement of the sacred, the auction hall bore a strong resemblance to my school chapel. Long buried associations, part revulsion, part misery, were reviving and I required distraction.

  ‘Item twelve,’ replied Disvan, indicating a place in the catalogue.

  ‘“Assortment antique shrunken heads”,’ I read. ‘“Papuan, South American and one full size Maori (tattooed). Will split.”’

  ‘That’s a reference to the lot, not the heads, Mr Oakley,’ explained Disvan helpfully. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I was obviously wearing my distaste too transparently.

  ‘Heads?’ I said. ‘What on earth?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not for me, Mr Oakley. I haven’t got the room. No, I intend them as a present.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. You see, year after year, I get an invite to Edward’s Christmas sherry party up at county police headquarters. You know Edward the police inspector, don’t you?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Well, this year I thought I’d repay the hospitality and take him a little something.’

  ‘Something very little in fact.’

  ‘As you say. I thought a couple might go well with the Japanese general’s head in his study.’

  ‘His war souvenir, you mean? So that story’s true?’

  ‘Absolutely—did all the pickling himself.’

  I nodded sadly and paused before soldiering on.

  ‘Mr Disvan, do you really think that’s the sort of thing you should encourage?’

  Disvan smiled brightly back.

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Oakley. I maintain an agnostic attitude in such matters. At the time, our side were glad enough when he killed the general. Morals are time- and space-relative...’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Except that “never argue with policemen and lunatics” seems a maxim applicable to all ages and places. And besides, there are subtle tides in local affairs to be considered. When was the last time we had trouble getting a bar extension for the Argyll?’

  He had a point there. I’d always thought the landlord was pushing his luck with the sheer number of them.

  In due course, Mr Disvan purchased the vile objects of his desire. Faith in the normality of my sense of taste was restored by the paucity of competition for them.

  ‘I think I’ve secured a bargain,’ he whispered to me, ‘and it’s nice to think of them going to a good, appreciative home. They didn’t lose their heads entirely in vain.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. They’ll be bringing some pleasure into the world and who of us could say more than that?’

  ‘Mr Disvan, I’m sure if only they’d known that, a few seconds before the fatal blow, they’d have died content.’

  Disvan gave me a puzzled look. He had a blind spot about sarcasm, even when it was, like this, as heavy as a neutron star.

  ‘Actually, I rather doubt that, Mr Oakley,’ he said gently, not wishing to appear contrary.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ I said, anxious to explain, ‘I was being...’

  But he wasn’t listening and carried on regardless. ‘I think I’ll pop and pay for my purchase,’ he said. ‘There’s a tea stall out there, would you like a cup?’

  ‘Er, yes, why not.’

  ‘Fine. Bide here, I’ll be back soon. Be good.’

  That was a meaningless injunction if ever there was one. I wasn’t presented with any alternative to virtue as, sitting alone, I watched lot succeed lot. Disvan’s purchase aside, it was a pretty prosaic collection, the product of lonely deaths and subsequent house clearances. Those attending were mostly ‘pricewises’ in search of useful stuff for their nests, rather than speculators in the obscure.

  Like an Argos catalogue, animated for my benefit, kitchen units, cutlery sets and book cases came and went with bemusing rapidity and I settled into an amiable drowse. One or twice my imagination was lazily stirred by some oddity and I roused myself to wonder how did that assegai or shark’s jaw or whatever, come to rest in our little corner of the world. I didn’t trouble my imagination too long, though, and in Mr Disvan’s absence such objects either didn’t sell or went for a pittance.

  Thus reminded of his existence, I looked round for said gentleman but he was nowhere in sight. Then, just as I was about to go in search of him (and refreshment), something in the auctioneer’s voice, perhaps just the slightest change in fluency or tone, caught my attention and I sat down again.

  ‘Lot 36,’ he said. ‘A fine oak desk, five foot by two and a half. Six drawers with brass attachments. Some markings and stains...’

  ‘I’ll give you £35,’ said a broken-nosed man in a plaid sheepskin jacket, standing up in his eagerness to bid.

  ‘…formerly the property of Waverley District Council,’ the auctioneer continued, giving the forward man a cool look.

  ‘I withdraw,’ said broken-nose, sinking out of sight as if down a lift shaft.

  Suddenly the bidding made the assegai sale look frantic. A profound quiet settled upon the crowd like the proverbial quiet on the waters of the first day.

  ‘Come, come,’ said the auctioneer, ‘I can vouch for the quality of this desk; an excellent piece of workmanship, the proven veteran of years of loyal local government service. Who’ll give me £40?’

  No one would—or £30, or £25. For some reason, on this one occasion, those assembled found him as convincing, and attractive, as a game show host. The sullen silence went on.

  Now, it so happened that, at that moment, a vision was presented to me. I saw an alcove in my spare bedroom/study and was convinced, beyond any doubt, that it measured five feet by two and half. It further occurred to me, like some dull revelation, that I could actually do with a desk for the odds and ends of paperwork I brought home. Maybe my presence here wasn’t a waste of time, maybe it could be justified by a useful acquisition. Perhaps there would be a point to the day. And if it should prove to be a bargain desk...

  The quiet was intimidating, but I raised my hand and heard myself shout, ‘Twenty pounds.’

  The auctioneer looked at me as if I’d taken advantage of him (or his daughter) but didn’t let that prevent his gavel flashing down.

  ‘Sold. Right then, lot 37: a dozen sets of dariole moulds in prime condition.’

  In a minute or two, Mr Disvan was back bearing two Styrofoam cups.

  ‘Sorry I was so long,’ he said, ‘but the boy at the till wouldn’t accept that Coutts Bank don’t issue cheque guarantee cards. The manager had to be fetched.’

  ‘No problem. In fact I bought something while I was waiting.’

  ‘Oh good.’

  ‘An old Waverley District Council desk, for £20.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  Like my true love’s honour, had she existed, I felt compelled to defend my desk. I may have owned it only a mere five minutes but it was part of the team now.

  ‘What d’you mean “oh dear”?’ I said. ‘Do you
mind!’

  Mr Disvan obviously didn’t. He was studying the old altar through the steam from his tea.

  ‘I told you no good would come of this,’ he said sadly.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Disvan insincerely, ‘but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get it in my car. You should have checked the auctioneers did deliveries before you bought the thing.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with Porsches,’ I said sourly, piqued by his intolerable correctness. ‘No storage capacity.’

  A slur on his car was a slur on him, and Disvan lapsed into huffy silence.

  Eventually it was me that had to make the peace, to my further disgust. I couldn’t remain there in the auctioneer’s car park, whence we’d been evicted at close of play, for ever. Sooner or later, I had to move or else ditch the desk. At the moment my thoughts tended stubbornly to the former, but it wouldn’t have taken much—those approaching rain clouds for instance—for that to change. Short of the drag of finding a hire-drive place (meaning: locate a phonebox with phone book, get change, lose temper, negotiate hire, find the establishment, sign life away and so on and on and on) I had to explicitly seek Mr Disvan’s assistance. It was the concession he’d been waiting for.

  ‘Well, I’ve got one idea,’ he said brightly. ‘Mr Jarman works in Goldenford and I believe his estate agency is open on a Saturday. He drives a Range-Rover and even “behemoth” here,’ he tapped the desk on which we were sitting, ‘will fit in that.’

  It sounded promising. Jarman, an Argyll regular, had so much indiscriminate energy that he would relish a little favour like this, however inconvenient. He would see it as a tasty morsel of a task, to fit in between the enterprise he was doubtless setting up today and the house renovation planned for tomorrow.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But knowing my luck, he’ll be out—selling two houses simultaneously whilst updating his share portfolio.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be pessimistic,’ said Mr Disvan, hopping off the desk. ‘Look for the bright side.’

  ‘I didn’t think there was one but kept quiet.