The Naive and Sentimental Lover by John le Carré Page B

understand.”
    â€œWork on it, lover, you will.”
    â€œI meant to tell you actually,” Cassidy said carelessly, with an attempt at movement. “I’ve got a house in Switzerland, a chalet. Quite modest but surprisingly comfortable for two. Place called Sainte-Angèle. It’s empty most of the year. If you like tense slopes you might try that one some time.”
    No laughter.
    â€œI just mean, if you ever want a place to work, to get away from it all, I’d be delighted to lend it to you for nothing. Take Helen.”
    â€œOr a substitute,” Shamus suggested. “Lover.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou should have been angry with me. For barging in on that call and fucking it up. That was very rude.”
    â€œShould I?”
    â€œYou should have hit me, lover. I mean I rely on discipline. I believe in it. That’s what the fucking bourgeoisie is for: to inhibit rude sodders like me.”
    Cassidy laughed awkwardly. “You’re too strong for us,” he said. Feeling in his pocket for small change, he made to open the door.
    â€œHey, lover.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œEver killed anyone?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNot even physically?”
    â€œI don’t understand,” said Cassidy.
    â€œI’ll bet the bosscow does,” said Shamus. “Hey, lover.”
    â€œWell?” Testily, as becomes a tired man with a crippled son.
    Shamus flung out his arms. “Give us a cuddle, lover. I’m starving. ”
    â€œI’ve got to pay for the call,” said Cassidy.
    Arms still outstretched, Shamus remained in the open doorway staring at Cassidy in astonishment while he completed his transactions at the bar; until, without waiting for the promised embrace, he swung away into the grimy crowd.
    â€œAll right you lousy filthy stinking hayseeds,” he yelled. “Button your smocks, Butch Cassidy’s in town!”
    â€œTime,” the landlord said quickly. “And I mean it.”
    Â 
    After the pub, the taxi. From Bath or Bristol? No matter. They had missed the last train so Shamus ordered a radio cab in his Italian accent while they all squashed into the telephone booth. Shamus sat in the front so that he could talk to the driver, who was an old man and rather tickled to be driving drunken gentry. Quite soon the radio caught Shamus’ fancy.
    â€œListen to her,” he urges them, turning up the volume.
    They all concentrate.
    â€œCome in Peter One . . . Control calling . . . Peter Two . . . party of four at the station, no luggage, they’ll sit three up at the back. Party waiting now, Peter Three. Come in Peter One, Control calling . . .”
    To Cassidy she sounds as bossy and inexpert and strident and periodic as any other female announcer, but Shamus is entranced.
    â€œShe’s not your daughter is she?” he asks the driver reverently.
    â€œNot likely. She’s fifty in the shade.”
    â€œShe’s terrific,” says Shamus. “That lady is in the first position. Believe me.”
    â€œShe really is,” Cassidy agrees, about to doze off. Helen’s head has fallen on to his shoulder and she has threaded her fingers through his hand and he is very pleased to agree to anything when suddenly they hear Shamus talking into the microphone in his Italian voice.
    â€œI want-a you,” he is whispering fervently. “ I love-a you and I want-a you. I-a long for you. Is she dark?” he asks the driver.
    â€œDarkish.”
    â€œCome to bed with me,” Shamus breathes back at the microphone. “Fuck me.”
    â€œHere, steady,” says the driver. On a tense slope, they all wait for the reply.
    â€œShe’s calling the police,” says Cassidy.
    â€œShe’s packing her bags,” says Helen.
    â€œWhat a woman,” says Shamus.
    In a tone of incipient hysteria, the radio speaks. “Peter One . . . Peter One . . . who is that?”
    â€œNot Peter