One Damn Thing After Another by Nicolas Freeling Page B

more,” said Arthur sensibly, and went down to the cellar for a bottle of bulls’ blood. One was in need of a transfusion, he said.
    Arlette was looking desolately at the television. There was some governmental propaganda going on about Industrial Accidents. We must have Fewer: illustrated by white-faced woman being told that her man has just had an unhappy meeting with an overhead crane in the factory. She turned this off.
    â€œSociologically speaking, they should be asking for more, not less. Help get their unemployment figures down. There’ll be the President, shortly. Ask him about – oh, take Vietnamesedrowning by the boatload. Again sociologically, you’d point out that it’s perhaps less painful and certainly quicker than dying in heaps by starvation, which is the fate of a great many more. But what he’ll say is Waw, we must sawtainly have a committee about this next month. He’ll deliver a peroration abawt this pawblem. And with any luck at all, they’ll all be dead by then.”
    Arlette was brightening, whether at the Davidson patter or the bulls’ blood didn’t matter much.
    He had bought, most extravagantly, a saddle of lamb. As he remarked, very forsytean. They didn’t know how to cook it nor how to cut it, but doubtless it was a pretext for a lot of excellent claret. He did know how to cook it and how to cut it, but was no claret-lover. What did this prove?
    He continued in this vein until she was herself again.
    The washing-up was done. Peace reigned. Or a sort of comfortable content, which served the same purpose. Arthur installed himself with pomp in his chair, and started to clean a pipe, with a nice book –
The History of Anti-Semitism
by Monsieur Poliakoff, a majestic affair – to hand. Arlette read her Spanish newspaper, being a believer in Mr Maugham’s dictum that this is the way to learn foreign languages. There was a sotto voce mutter when she did this. The French mouth does not adapt easily to other pronunciations. It wasn’t that bothersome jota since many, many years ago she had had to learn Dutch, and the notorious Dutch g is just the same, but saying Baja de Vizcaya rapidly to oneself creates, thought Arthur, a comfortable small noise something between a cat and an open fire. The doorbell rang. Truedog barked in a purple indignation. Arlette did not look up, but consoled him with her free hand until the noise subsided into someone saying Baja de Vizcaya in a loud angry manner.
    â€œWho on earth can that be this time of night?” said Arthur experimentally. Arlette still didn’t look up. He shuffled off like a burdened donkey. He explained, afterwards, his shameful weakness by the double handicap of an empty pipe found in his hand, which he’d stuck in his mouth to get rid of it; and having one sock on and one slipper: the other slipper havinggot stuck somehow under the chair. The reality was that Miss Buckenburg, disclosed being charming on the doorstep, was under his guard in a flash.
    â€œA Peace offering,” she said in her nicest voice. “Because I pestered you.” She was carrying a large expensive bunch of flowers and a bottle of expensive malt whisky in a box with coats of arms and repoussé silver lettering in cute Celtic script. What was I supposed to do? asked Arthur plaintively. Tear it out of her tenacious little paws and slam the door in her face? This was indeed odtaa …
    â€œYou don’t give up easily, do you?” said Arlette, kicking truedog in the ribs. Dog hated Miss Buckenburg, if possible even more than she did.
    â€œWell, I thought, you see, that to make up for all this stupidity we could do you a really nice little interview.” From her bananabag she produced a little pocket recorder, all ready. Arlette looked at the flowers, which were really very pretty. At the whisky, which Arthur was eyeing appreciatively with a face exactly like Captain Haddock. No beard,