Stiff Upper Lip by Lawrence Durrell Page B

was—but you snookered the wretched girl well and truly. And what of the typists’ pool? Girls keeling over one after another as they tried to take dictation from us. What of them?’ For a moment words failed him. His face worked. Then he said in a low murderous tone, from between clenched teeth. ‘I tell you that from now on there is to be no more garlic. Sage, yes. Thyme, yes. Rosemary, marjoram, dill, cummin, yes. Emphatically yes. But garlic, no!’ And so the edict went forth and the sale of peppermints in the Naafi dropped off again.”
    Antrobus sighed sadly over these memories as he replenished our glasses. Then he said musingly: “I should say really that Garlic was the biggest Single Cross a Diplomat had to bear in the rough old times. It had to be banned, old man. Yet in a sense we were all Living A Lie, like the Americans under Prohibition; for we all secretly yearned after the stuff. (I say this in the strictest confidence. I would not wish to be quoted.) Yet it is strange that this noxious bulb should have such an allure for men. As for diplomats, it played havoc with Confidential Exchanges; and as for dancing with your Ambassadress … well. It was the quickest way to get posted. That is why I was so relieved when the Age Of Science dawned. I used to be against Science once, and for the Humanities—I freely admit it. But when at last chlorophyl came in I was instantly won over. What a boon and a blessing to dips! What an over-riding sense of relief! Many a breach was healed that day between man and man. Even Polk-Mowbray in the end allowed the salad-bowl to be lightly rubbed with a couple of heads before serving. And I don’t know whether you noticed the rather respectable little ragoût we have just been eating? Not bad for the Club, is it? But fear nothing! In my pocket lies a phial full of those little grey tablets which make human intercourse a rational, easy, unbuttoned sort of thing again. No more shrinking from pursed lips in The Office. We can hold our heads high once more! Let’s drink a final little toast to the Goddess of the F.O. shall we? I give you Chlorophyl!”

… une petite splendeur

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    Stiff Upper Lip
    As for the Fair Sex (said Antrobus), I am no expert, old boy. I’ve always steered clear. Mind you, I’ve admired through binoculars as one might admire a fine pair of antlers. Nearest I ever came to being enmeshed was in the Folies Bergères one night. Fortunately, Sidney Trampelvis was there and got me out into the night air and fanned me with his cape until my head cleared and I realized the Full Enormity of what I’d done. Without realizing it, I had proposed to a delightful little pair of antlers called Fifi and was proposing to take her back to the Embassy and force the Chaplain to gum us up together. Phew! I certainly owe Sidney a debt. We positively galloped away from the place in a horse-drawn contrivance with our opera hats crushed like puff-pastry. Sidney, who was only visiting, and who had also crossed the subliminal threshold and proposed—dear God—to a contortionist; Sidney was even paler than I. That night he dyed his hair green to escape identification and crossed over to Dover on the dusk packet—a bundle of nerves.
    But Dovebasket in love was a strange sight. His sighs echoed through the Chancery. There were sonnets and triolets and things all over the backs of the War Office despatches. The little winged youth had certainly pinked him through the spencer. Yes, it was Angela, Polk-Mowbray’s niece. I can’t think why Polk-Mowbray didn’t liquidate one or both of them. But then the Popular Verdict on him was that he needed stiffening. Yes, the stiffest thing about him was perhaps his upper lip. As for Dove-basket, I would have described him as an ensanguined poop. A spoon, my dear chap, a mere spoon. Yet love makes no distinctions. Afterwards he published a little book of his poems called