wanted none of that nonsense. I told her I’d treat her to an abortion, but I wouldn’t pay for a child. One child was quite enough – you. That abortion of Liza’s cost me a lot in those days when it wasn’t strictly legal, and it was no fault of mine when things went wrong and she knew she could never have another. I suppose she felt a bit desperate and remembered the Captain. He had been very
convincingly
kind. He can be pretty convincing, especially when he’s lying.’
‘Weren’t you jealous?’
‘Jealous of poor Liza. Not on your life. Let me see that letter again.’
He read the letter more carefully than he had the first time. ‘What the hell does he mean about the mules? He’s not the type to take up farming.’
‘I think … Of course I’m not sure … when I was a child he used to tell me about Drake – seizing the mule trains carrying gold across Panama.’
‘Panama … gold trains … you don’t really think …?’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose there are any gold trains now. It’s just the way of saying … well …’
‘Well what?’
‘I think he thinks …’ It seemed to me that one ‘think’ almost immediately gave birth to another ‘think’. ‘Thinks’ were breeding like rabbits – or that other word ‘wonder’.
My father asked, ‘And what is it you think?’
‘I think he believes that he’s about to make a lot of money.’
‘I doubt if the Captain will ever do that. But to return to the cheque …’
‘You think’ (think again) ‘that I should cash it? If she dies.’
‘I wouldn’t wait till then. You can look after the money better than poor Liza. But be careful. He’s the sort of man who might prove dangerous. I don’t know why I say that. A sort of instinct. And the way he handled that boy in the Underground. Underground. He’s an Underground type himself.’
‘All the same …’
‘You’ve lived with the Captain long enough. Would
he
hesitate to cash a good cheque which might be stopped if there was any delay?’ I pondered the point and thought the Devil had reason on his side.
As I left the club I asked him, ‘Will you be visiting Liza?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it would do me no good and it certainly wouldn’t do her any.’
(3)
I cashed the cheque after some trouble (I think they must have telephoned Panama and seven hours’ difference in time can’t have helped). I had a certain sense of guilt but one which was small enough to fade quickly after I paid my father his fifty pounds. I even treated myself on the strength of my new wealth to smoked salmon and a dry Bordeaux at a Soho restaurant which I couldn’t normally have afforded, but all the same I found that I didn’t enjoy my solitary meal as much as I had hoped. It was not because of the money; I believe it was the realization that I hadn’t even yet written to the Captain to tell him that Liza was ill, probably dying.
Soon after this little celebration of mine another letter arrived marked Express. It was delivered just as I was sitting down to my breakfast of toast and tea, and I neither ate nor drank until I had read it twice over.
‘My dearest Liza, perhaps after all you shouldn’t come out here yet. There are difficulties – troubles – and I don’t want you to feel any sort of unease. I hope that you’ve cashed the cheque that I sent because I can’t send any more to you for the moment because of these difficulties. I’ll be writing to you again as soon as I can and it won’t be very long, I swear. Tell Jim not to worry either. The mules are on the way all right, but there are a few pot-holes on the route. Unexpected and sometimes deep pot-holes. I wish to God this wasn’t such a business kind of letter, when all I want to write is how much I miss you. I miss you every hour of the day. But, Liza, it won’t be long now, I’m sure it won’t be long. Your Captain.’ And then there was the inevitable postscript: ‘Before you go to bed give me a thought.’ He had
convincingly
kind. He can be pretty convincing, especially when he’s lying.’
‘Weren’t you jealous?’
‘Jealous of poor Liza. Not on your life. Let me see that letter again.’
He read the letter more carefully than he had the first time. ‘What the hell does he mean about the mules? He’s not the type to take up farming.’
‘I think … Of course I’m not sure … when I was a child he used to tell me about Drake – seizing the mule trains carrying gold across Panama.’
‘Panama … gold trains … you don’t really think …?’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose there are any gold trains now. It’s just the way of saying … well …’
‘Well what?’
‘I think he thinks …’ It seemed to me that one ‘think’ almost immediately gave birth to another ‘think’. ‘Thinks’ were breeding like rabbits – or that other word ‘wonder’.
My father asked, ‘And what is it you think?’
‘I think he believes that he’s about to make a lot of money.’
‘I doubt if the Captain will ever do that. But to return to the cheque …’
‘You think’ (think again) ‘that I should cash it? If she dies.’
‘I wouldn’t wait till then. You can look after the money better than poor Liza. But be careful. He’s the sort of man who might prove dangerous. I don’t know why I say that. A sort of instinct. And the way he handled that boy in the Underground. Underground. He’s an Underground type himself.’
‘All the same …’
‘You’ve lived with the Captain long enough. Would
he
hesitate to cash a good cheque which might be stopped if there was any delay?’ I pondered the point and thought the Devil had reason on his side.
As I left the club I asked him, ‘Will you be visiting Liza?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it would do me no good and it certainly wouldn’t do her any.’
(3)
I cashed the cheque after some trouble (I think they must have telephoned Panama and seven hours’ difference in time can’t have helped). I had a certain sense of guilt but one which was small enough to fade quickly after I paid my father his fifty pounds. I even treated myself on the strength of my new wealth to smoked salmon and a dry Bordeaux at a Soho restaurant which I couldn’t normally have afforded, but all the same I found that I didn’t enjoy my solitary meal as much as I had hoped. It was not because of the money; I believe it was the realization that I hadn’t even yet written to the Captain to tell him that Liza was ill, probably dying.
Soon after this little celebration of mine another letter arrived marked Express. It was delivered just as I was sitting down to my breakfast of toast and tea, and I neither ate nor drank until I had read it twice over.
‘My dearest Liza, perhaps after all you shouldn’t come out here yet. There are difficulties – troubles – and I don’t want you to feel any sort of unease. I hope that you’ve cashed the cheque that I sent because I can’t send any more to you for the moment because of these difficulties. I’ll be writing to you again as soon as I can and it won’t be very long, I swear. Tell Jim not to worry either. The mules are on the way all right, but there are a few pot-holes on the route. Unexpected and sometimes deep pot-holes. I wish to God this wasn’t such a business kind of letter, when all I want to write is how much I miss you. I miss you every hour of the day. But, Liza, it won’t be long now, I’m sure it won’t be long. Your Captain.’ And then there was the inevitable postscript: ‘Before you go to bed give me a thought.’ He had
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