The Naive and Sentimental Lover by John le Carré Page A

labour for building the changing rooms.”
    Silence.
    â€œThey really have risen to it in a big way.” But Sandra has not. Sandra has been cut off. Sandra has gone deaf; her mother has switched me through to an extension.
    â€œSandra?”
    In the bar, the jukebox is playing a low tune. In the earpiece, a well-bred dog is barking. Sandra has several dogs, all are large and classically entitled. Encouraged by this sign of life, Cassidy himself rallies.
    â€œThey actually showed me a drawing, heart . . . well one like, you know. Off the peg, of course, but well great, really. Just right for kids. A fun bridge.”
    â€œShut up Mummy,” says Sandra. “Sorry it was Mummy, fussing about the dogs.”
    â€œSandra, aren’t you pleased?”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œThe bridge. The playing field. For God’s sake . . . Hullo?? ”
    â€œDon’t shout.”
    â€œAre you still speaking?” the operator enquires.
    â€œ Did Hugo see the specialist? ” Cassidy demands suddenly, selecting in his anger a contentious point.
    A rustle in the earpiece. Her impatience sigh, unlike her sigh of frustration, is not so sharp. The impatience sigh begins with a liquid click in the roof of the mouth and is followed by a decision not to breathe, like a hunger strike, in fact, but done on air, not food.
    â€œJust because a man can afford rooms in Harley Street,” she begins, speaking off-key but with large emphasis for the sake of the untutored, “just because there are people around prepared to pay twenty guineas in order not to stand in a queue, it does not mean that a specialist is any better than a perfectly ordinary decent doctor who doesn’t care about money.”
    â€œSo you haven’t taken him?” Cassidy says. The witness has condemned herself out of her own mouth.
    â€œPieces of eight,” says Shamus.
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    He was standing in the doorway wearing a brown peaked cap and carrying a mynah bird on one finger. He had tucked one leg under his black coat and was pretending to be Long John Silver while he supported himself against the lintel.
    â€œPieces of eight, pieces of eight,” he said, talking to the bird.
    â€œTime,” the landlord shouted from the bar, and rang a ship’s bell, dong, dong.
    â€œGoodnight,” said Cassidy, into the telephone.
    â€œIs that all you’re going to say?” Sandra demanded. “I’d have thought it was hardly worth ringing up.”
    â€œGoodnight and thank you, ” said Shamus, taking the receiver from him and speaking in his Italian accent. “’Ullo, ’ullo, ’ullo?”
    Cassidy recovered the receiver but the line was dead. He put it back on its cradle.
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    â€œHullo, Shamus,” he said at last, smiling. “Have a pint.”
    They were still in the back room. The sounds of revelry came from all sides, but the back room was quiet all the same; an adding machine and several wholesale boxes of sweets lay on the baize-covered table.
    â€œWas that the bosscow?” Shamus asked.
    â€œThe what? ”
    â€œYour wife. Bosscow. Queen of the herd.”
    â€œOh I see. Well, just checking up,” said Cassidy. “Can’t have her going out with the lodger, eh?”
    The noise in the bar became suddenly deafening, but neither raised his voice.
    â€œWhat’s the trouble?”
    The mynah was also watching Cassidy. Its feathers were almost lost against the black of Shamus’ jacket, but its eyes were jet bright.
    â€œIt’s my little boy,” said Cassidy. “Hugo. He broke his leg in a skiing accident. The bone won’t seem to mend.”
    â€œPoor little bugger,” said Shamus not moving.
    â€œAnyway, the specialists are looking after him.”
    â€œSure it’s not your leg?” Shamus asked.
    In the saloon, someone was playing the piano, a whole tune straight the way through.
    â€œI don’t quite