(and cunningly propelled the children towards a cache of Mars Bars left by Mr Cavendish); but during that same period the only people to receive such treatment without a prior understanding were a couple from Atlanta—and not just because they had given the shop a lot of business through the mail, nor yet because it had been their long-cherished aim to see the surroundings in which their umbrellas were made and to shake hands with the craftsmen mainly responsible, but much more because, indeed entirely because, they had declared it their intention to start a fan club which would celebrate the history of the company…Mr Cavendish envisaged no vast financial gain arising from such an enterprise but he had a weakness for engaging eccentricities; it was for this image of a fan club that he had broken his rule.
Roger, to a small extent, quite often broke it. He did so for anybody elderly, pregnant or distressed who asked him for the toilet—or, more frequently, the bathroom. (“If you must appoint yourself the patron saint of bladders and bowels,” Alan Cavendish had said, “although it is not my intention, you understand, to encourage the use of either of those words in this establishment, nor either of those functions they are unhappily associated with, then you must warn these geriatrics before any of them attempt the descent that it will be pointless their trying to sue us if they fall”—the narrow, twisting staircase was certainly a structure which had to be negotiated with care—“and you must go ahead of them so that if they do fall it’s you they fall upon. And if they do fall,” he had added, with a certain gloomy relish, “I hope they’re heavy. Very heavy indeed.”) Roger didn’t actually enjoy conducting customers to the lavatory. The lavatory itself was always spotlessly clean but the room in which it was housed looked almost prehistoric, while the passageway outside the door could easily have led into the catacombs; it made all too feasible the story of the ghost—albeit a benevolent ghost—supposed to haunt the premises. With a mention of Uncle Henry, indeed, during the brief journey to the lavatory, did Roger seek to distract from the bare brick walls and from the impression, perhaps more than the reality, of dust and filth and cobwebs.
Uncle Henry’s namesake had no connection to the family. Henry Maynard had been taken on partly because of the bias Mr Cavendish felt in favour of things eccentric; his belief that people who were characters blended well with the whole anachronistic flavour of the place. Though even Mr Cavendish admitted that—in this one instance—he might conceivably have made a mistake.
Henry was a man of about sixty, balding, portly, always smartly dressed. His blue pinstripes looked as though he pressed them every night; he wore a fresh buttonhole daily—picked by his loving and obviously green-fingered wife from the boxes on their Neasdon balcony—and his black shoes were never once unshone: if the weather was in any way inclement he brought them in a carrier bag. But the self-importance of the man, thought Roger; the sheer stupidity of him! And this intolerance was clearly mutual. Almost from Henry’s first week at work he had been making snide remarks about Roger—Mr Cavendish had privately told Roger to ignore them, they could only be a form of jealousy. If Roger committed any sort of infringement, if for instance he was a few minutes late returning from his lunch or from a tea-break, Henry would remark on it in a loud voice; ostensibly to be humorous or even comradely, in reality to make sure that the manager, up at his desk in the gallery, was fully aware of the fact.
There were three incidents concerning Henry that had particularly remained with Roger, out of a host of similar occurrences. When Alan Cavendish’s wife had made one of her rare visits to the shop and Henry had been introduced to her he had said afterwards to Mr Cavendish: “ Very charming,
Roger, to a small extent, quite often broke it. He did so for anybody elderly, pregnant or distressed who asked him for the toilet—or, more frequently, the bathroom. (“If you must appoint yourself the patron saint of bladders and bowels,” Alan Cavendish had said, “although it is not my intention, you understand, to encourage the use of either of those words in this establishment, nor either of those functions they are unhappily associated with, then you must warn these geriatrics before any of them attempt the descent that it will be pointless their trying to sue us if they fall”—the narrow, twisting staircase was certainly a structure which had to be negotiated with care—“and you must go ahead of them so that if they do fall it’s you they fall upon. And if they do fall,” he had added, with a certain gloomy relish, “I hope they’re heavy. Very heavy indeed.”) Roger didn’t actually enjoy conducting customers to the lavatory. The lavatory itself was always spotlessly clean but the room in which it was housed looked almost prehistoric, while the passageway outside the door could easily have led into the catacombs; it made all too feasible the story of the ghost—albeit a benevolent ghost—supposed to haunt the premises. With a mention of Uncle Henry, indeed, during the brief journey to the lavatory, did Roger seek to distract from the bare brick walls and from the impression, perhaps more than the reality, of dust and filth and cobwebs.
Uncle Henry’s namesake had no connection to the family. Henry Maynard had been taken on partly because of the bias Mr Cavendish felt in favour of things eccentric; his belief that people who were characters blended well with the whole anachronistic flavour of the place. Though even Mr Cavendish admitted that—in this one instance—he might conceivably have made a mistake.
Henry was a man of about sixty, balding, portly, always smartly dressed. His blue pinstripes looked as though he pressed them every night; he wore a fresh buttonhole daily—picked by his loving and obviously green-fingered wife from the boxes on their Neasdon balcony—and his black shoes were never once unshone: if the weather was in any way inclement he brought them in a carrier bag. But the self-importance of the man, thought Roger; the sheer stupidity of him! And this intolerance was clearly mutual. Almost from Henry’s first week at work he had been making snide remarks about Roger—Mr Cavendish had privately told Roger to ignore them, they could only be a form of jealousy. If Roger committed any sort of infringement, if for instance he was a few minutes late returning from his lunch or from a tea-break, Henry would remark on it in a loud voice; ostensibly to be humorous or even comradely, in reality to make sure that the manager, up at his desk in the gallery, was fully aware of the fact.
There were three incidents concerning Henry that had particularly remained with Roger, out of a host of similar occurrences. When Alan Cavendish’s wife had made one of her rare visits to the shop and Henry had been introduced to her he had said afterwards to Mr Cavendish: “ Very charming,
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