Summer Moonshine (3 page)

'Oh, Buck!'

'It's no use saying, "Oh, Buck!"'

'Not greasy.'

'Greasy,' insisted Sir Buckstone firmly.

'Why don't you try to look on yourself as a sort of jolly innkeeper? You know – shirt sleeves and joviality. Entrance number in Act One just after the Opening Chorus of Villagers.'

'Because I'm not a jolly innkeeper,' said Sir Buckstone, who was quite clear-eyed about his status. 'I wish you would marry a rich man, Jane.'

'Where are they all? What's become of the old-fashioned millionaire who used to buy girls with his gold? There's Mr Chinnery, of course. But hasn't he still got the one he bought last?'

'Ever considered this young Vanringham?'

'Oh, I'm not Tubby's type. He likes them tall and willowy. Besides, where did you get the idea that Tubby's a millionaire? All he's got is what his stepmother allows him, and I don't think she likes me.'

'Good God, Jane! What makes you think that?'

'Intuition.'

'You must make her like you,' said Sir Buckstone earnestly. 'You must cultivate the woman assiduously. Do you realize that she is the only person on earth who might conceivably buy this ghastly house? Miss Whittaker tells me she's on the
ocean now, so she will be coming here in the next few days, I imagine. Make yourself pleasant to her. Spare no effort. Heavens! Just to think of somebody taking this monstrosity off our hands!'

'Tubby told me he believed the deal would go through.'

'He did?'

'He said the Princess admires Walsingford Hall.'

'She once told me she thought it cute.'

'Well, there you are.'

'But she's an erratic woman. Liable to change her mind at any moment.'

'I don't believe a taste for glazed salmon-coloured bricks can ever be eradicated. If it's there, it's there.'

'Well, let us hope for the best.'

'That's the spirit.'

'And now, I suppose, you ought to be off,' said Sir Buckstone. 'I've got to go and see your mother. A rather strange thing has occurred. Miss Whittaker tells me that a telephone message has arrived from her brother.'

'Miss Whittaker's brother?'

'Your mother's brother.'

'But mother hasn't got a brother.'

'Exactly. That is why I feel it's so odd that he should be ringing up on the telephone. I put that point to Miss Whittaker, but she stuck to her story. It's all most peculiar, and I shall be glad to get to the bottom of it.'

'I wish I could come too. But I want to catch Busby before lunch. That's psychology, Buck. Some people would say wait till he's mellowed with food, but I think publishers are like pythons. They hate to be disturbed while they are digesting. I prefer to deal with a snappy, alert Busby.'

'Get back as early as you can.'

'I will. I want to go down to the houseboat and see how Mr Peake is getting on.'

'Is that the name of the fellow who's taken the
Mignonette
?'

'Yes. Adrian Peake. I met him when I was at the Willoughbys' that week-end.'

'Nice chap?'

'Charming.'

'Then we'd better have him up here as soon as possible. It's about time,' said Sir Buckstone, thinking of Mr Chinnery Mr Waugh-Bonner, Colonel Tanner and others, 'that I saw someone charming. I'll send Miss Whittaker down with a note. But you can't go and see the fellow today. I want you here, the instant you get back, to soothe old Chinnery. A full afternoon's work it will be.'

'Oh, Buck! Must I?'

'Certainly you must. It was your own suggestion. You said you would prattle to him. Play clock golf with him, too, and ask him to tell you all about his wives and waffles. Otherwise, I shall have him on my neck till bedtime. Extraordinarily pertinacious that man is. Like a horsefly.'

'What a pity you ever bit his ear.'

'A great pity. But no good regretting it now. What's done is done. "The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit—"'

'Yes, I know. I was given that to write out a hundred times at school too.'

'" – shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it,"' said Sir Buckstone, who was a hard man to stop. 'The thing about it all that I find so bitter is that the fellow hasn't the slightest earthly need for the money. He must
have millions. No ordinary purse could stand the drain of what he pays out to ex-wives.'

'Not to mention ex-waffles, I expect. All right, I'll soothe him.'

'Good girl,' said Sir Buckstone paternally. Then he was struck by another thought. 'I say, Jane, this brother of your mother's. When he shows up, I'll have to ask him to stay, won't I?'

'Of course.'

'For an indefinite visit.'

'Yes.'

'And,' said Sir Buckstone, making his point, 'I don't suppose I can very well charge him anything, dash it. Crawling in, upsetting my home life, swigging my port – and not so much as five pounds a week out of it. Hell!' said Sir Buckstone, with old-fashioned English hospitality.

Jane said that he must not be a Shylock. Sir Buckstone replied that it was impossible for a man situated as he was not to be a Shylock and that, anyway, Shylock's was a character which he had come greatly to admire. He then moved heavily toward the house; and Jane, going to the stables, started up her Widgeon Seven for the drive to London and Mr Busby.

M
R Mortimer Busby
, the enterprising publisher with whom the Society of Authors has for so many years waged a spirited but always fruitless warfare, leaned forward to his desk telephone and took off the receiver.

The movement caused him to wince and utter a stifled yelp, for his skin was sensitive this morning to sudden movements. The brilliance of the weather had led him on the previous day to stay away from the office, and like Mr Billing, of Walsingford Hall, to indulge in a sun bath. But, unlike Mr Billing, who always cannily smeared himself with oil, he had adopted no precautions against blisters and was suffering the consequences.

'Send Mr Vanringham to me,' he said.

The Outer Office replied that Mr Vanringham had not yet returned.

'Eh?' said Mr Busby dangerously. He did not approve of his employees wandering from the fold during business hours.

'Returned? Where's he gone?'

'If you remember, sir,' the Outer Office reminded him, 'you left instructions that Mr Vanringham was to go to Waterloo this morning to see Miss Gray off on the boat train.'

Mr Busby's severity softened. He recalled now that Miss Gwenda Gray, star author on his list, was sailing for
America today to add one more to the long roll of English lecturers who have done so much to keep the depression going in that unfortunate country; and that Joe Vanringham, in his capacity of odd-job man and hey-you to the firm, had been dispatched to the train with fruit and flowers.

'All right,' he said. 'Send him in when he comes back.'

He had hardly replaced the receiver when the telephone rang again. More cautiously this time, he stretched out a hand to it.

'Hullo?'

'Hello, chief.'

'Who's that?'

'Vanringham, chief.'

'Don't call me "chief".'

'Okay, chief. Well, here I am at St Pancras.'

Mr Busby quivered from the top of his round head to the soles of his number ten shoes.

'What in the name of—What on earth are you doing at St Pancras?'

'Waiting for Miss Gray. You told me to see her off to Scotland this morning.'

A slight bubbling noise was all that Mr Busby was able to achieve for some moments. Then he recovered speech.

'You infernal idiot! America! She's going to America.'

'America? Are you sure?'

'Of all the—'

There came from the other end of the wire the sound of a remorsefully clicked tongue.

'You're absolutely right. It all comes back to me. It was America.'

'The boat train leaves from Waterloo.'

'By golly, you're right again. That explains why she hasn't shown up. But why did you tell me St Pancras?'

'I did not tell you St Pancras. I said Waterloo. Waterloo!'

Then that's how I came to get confused. I don't know if you are aware of it, but when you say "Waterloo", it sounds just like "St Pancras". Some slight defect of speech, no doubt, which a good elocution teacher could soon put right. Well, what I called up to ask was, shall I eat the fruit?'

'Listen,' said Mr Busby, in a strangled voice. Miss Gray was a novelist who sold her steady twenty thousand copies a year and was inclined, if proper attention was not paid to her, to become touchy. 'There may be just time. Get in a taxi—'

An odious chuckle floated over the wire.

'Cheer up, chief. I've only been indulging in a little persiflage. You know how you come over all whimsy sometimes. I'm at Waterloo, all right, and everything has gone like a breeze. I gave her the fruit and flowers, and she was tickled to death. The train has just pulled out, and the last I saw of her, she was leaning out of the window, sucking an orange and crying, "God bless Mr Busby!"'

Mr Busby hung up the receiver. His face was a pretty purple, and his lips moved soundlessly. He was telling himself for the hundredth time that this was the end and that today he really would strike the name of Vanringham from his pay roll. But for the hundredth time there came to him the disconcerting thought that he would have to seek far to find another slave as good at his job as Joe.

A considerable proportion of Mr Busby's clients were women who paid for the publication of their books and were apt, when their bills came in, to call at the office in a rather emotional spirit. Whatever Joe's faults, he had a magic touch with these. They
were as wax in his hands. So Mortimer Busby, groaning inwardly, forced himself to suffer him. He did not like Joe. He resented his sardonic smile and that look of his of amused astonishment, as if he could never get used to the idea that anything like Mr Busby was sharing the same planet with him. And he objected to the things he said. But he did approve of that amazing way he had of intercepting raging female novelists, paying them a couple of compliments, telling them a couple of funny stories and sending them away beaming and giggling, all animosity forgotten.

He endeavoured to restore his composure by plunging himself into his work, and, after a quarter of an hour, was beginning to feel reasonably tranquil once more, when there was a breezy smack on the door, which only one member of his office force would have had the effrontery to deliver, and Joe Vanringham ambled in.

'You sent for me, chief?' he cried heartily. 'Well, here I am. Old Faithful reporting for duty. What can I do for you?'

There was a certain family resemblance between the brothers Vanringham, and if anyone had seen Joe and Tubby together, he might have guessed that they were related, but this resemblance was a purely superficial one. There was between them the fundamental difference which exists between a tough cat which has had to fend for itself among the alleys and ash-cans of the world and its softer kinsman who has for long been the well-nourished pet in a good home. Tubby was sleek, Joe lean and hard. He had that indefinable air which comes to young men who have had to make their way up from a ten-dollar start.

Mr Busby eyed him sourly, for the memory of that telephone conversation still rankled. The Busbys did not lightly forget. He
found, moreover, in his young assistant's manner this morning a more than ordinarily offensive exuberance. Always lacking in reverence and possessed of a strong bias toward freshness, Joe Vanringham seemed to him today rather less reverent and slightly fresher than usual. The word 'effervescent' was one which would have covered his deportment.

There's a woman in the waiting-room, come about a bill,' he said. 'Go and attend to her.'

Joe nodded sympathetically.

'I get you, chief. The old, old story, eh?'

'What do you mean, the old, old story?'

'Well, it's happened before, hasn't it? But don't you worry. I'm in rare shape this morning. I could tackle ten women, come about ten bills. Leave it to me.'

'Look out!' cried Mr Busby.

Joe lowered the hand with which he had been about to administer a reassuring pat to his employer's shoulder, and looked at him with a mild surprise.

'Eh?'

'I'm all skinned.'

'Somebody skinned
you
?'

'Shoulders. Sun bathing.'

'Oh, I see. You should have used oil, chief.'

'I know I should have used oil. And how many times have I told you not to call me "chief"?'

'But I must employ some little term of respect on these occasions when you give me audience. Boss? Magnate? Do you like "magnate"? Or how about "tycoon"?'

'You just call me "sir".'

'"Sir"? Yes, that's good. That's neat. Snappy. Slips off the tongue. How did you come to think of that?'

Mr Busby flushed. He was wondering, as he had so often wondered before, whether even the admirable service which this young man rendered him in his capacity of watchdog was sufficient compensation for this sort of thing. The words 'You're fired!' trembled on his lips, but he choked them down.

'Go and attend to that woman,' he said.

'In one moment,' said Joe. 'First, I have a more painful task to perform.'

He moved to the cupboard under the bookshelf and began to rummage in it.

'What the devil are you doing?'

'Looking for your smelling salts. I'm afraid,' said Joe, returning and regarding his employer with a compassionate eye, 'there is a nasty jolt coming to you, tycoon, and I think we should have restoratives handy. Did you read the papers this morning?'

'What are you talking about?'

'I repeat: Did you read the papers this morning?'

Mr Busby said that he had seen
The Times.
Joe winced.

'A low rag,' he said. 'But even
The Times
had to admit that the thing had got over.'

'Eh?'

'My play. It opened last night.'

'Have you written a play?'

'And in what manner! A socko! It has everything.'

'Oh?'

'"Oh?" is not much of a comment. However, let it go. Yes, the old masterpiece opened last night and smacked London right in the eyeball. Extraordinary scenes. Fair women and brave men tied up in convulsions. Even the stage hands laughing, while thousands cheered. A big, vital production. Shall I read you the notices?'

A sudden suspicion came to Mr Busby.

'When did you write this play?'

'Out of office hours, I assure you. Abandon all hope, my Busby, that by claiming that it was written in your time, you can ease yourself in on the proceeds. And I wouldn't have put it past you,' said Joe with frank admiration. 'I've always maintained, and I always shall maintain, that you stand alone. Those contracts of yours! I always picture the author, having signed on the dotted line, leaping back as a couple of sub-clauses in black masks suddenly jump out of a jungle of "whereases" and "hereinafters" and start ganging on him with knuckledusters. But this time, as I say, no hope, buzzard.'

Mr Busby said that he did not want any of Joe's impertinence, and criticized in particular his mode of address. Joe explained that in calling Mr Busby 'buzzard' he had merely been endeavouring to create a pleasant, genial, informal atmosphere.

'For this morning,' he said, 'I am the little friend of all the world. I have had no sleep, but I love everybody. I am walking on air with my hat on the side of my head, and a child could play with me. Do let me read you the notices.'

Mr Busby betrayed no interest in the notices. The compassionate look in Joe's eyes deepened.

'They affect you,' he said. 'They affect you vitally. That is why I wanted the smelling salts. You see, owing to the stupendous success of this colossal play, unhappy Busby, I have decided to leave you. . . . Brace up, man! Put your head between your legs, and the faint feeling will pass off. . . . Yes, Busby, my poor dear old chap, we are about to part. I have been happy here. I shall be sorry to tear myself away, but we must part. I am too rich to work.'

Mr Busby grunted. Oddly enough, considering that the latter had never seen him, he did rather resemble the picture Tubby had drawn of him. He was noticeably porcine, and grunting came easily to him.

'If you leave now, you forfeit half a month's salary.'

'Tchah! Feed it to the birds.'

Mr Busby grunted again.

'It's a success, is it?'

'Haven't you been listening?'

'You can't go by a first night.'

'You can by one like that.'

'Notices don't mean a thing.'

'These do.'

'The heat'll kill it,' said Mr Busby, struggling to be optimistic. 'Crazy, opening in August.'

'Not at all. An August opening gives you a flying start. And the heat won't kill it, because the libraries have made a ten weeks' deal.'

Mr Busby gave up. Optimism cannot live in conditions like these. He made the only possible point left to him.

'Your next one will be a flop, and a year from now you'll be running back here with your tail between your legs. And you'll find your place filled.'

'If the place of a man like me can ever be filled. I wouldn't count on it,' said Joe dubiously. 'But you haven't heard the notices yet. I think I had better just skim through them for you. Let me see. "Sparkling satire." –
Daily Mail.
"Mordant and satirical." –
Daily Telegraph.
"Trenchant satire." –
Morning Post.
"Somewhat—" Oh, no, that's
The Times.
You won't want to hear that one. Well, you see what I mean about leaving you.
A man who can elicit eulogies like those can hardly be expected to go on working for a crook publisher.'

'A what?' said Mr Busby, starting.

'Book publisher. Fellow who publishes books. He owes a duty to his public. But I mustn't stand here talking to you all the morning. I've got to go and see that lurking female of yours. The last little service I shall be able to do for you. My swan song. And then I must go and buy the evening papers. I suppose they will all strike much the same note. One grows a little weary of this incessant praise. It makes one feel like some Oriental monarch when the court poet is in good voice.'

'What did
The Times
say?' asked Mr Busby.

'Never mind what
The Times
said,' replied Joe austerely. 'Suffice it that its office boy took entirely the wrong tone. Let me tell you rather about the scenes of unrestrained enthusiasm at the end of the second act.'

Mr Busby said that he did not wish to be told about the scenes of unrestrained enthusiasm at the end of the second act.

'You would prefer to hear about the furore at the final curtain?'

'Nor that, either,' said Mr Busby. Joe sighed.

A strange mentality, yours,' he said. 'Personally, I cannot imagine a more delightful way of passing a summer morning than to sit and listen to the whole story over and over again. Still, please yourself. Just so long as you have grasped the salient point, that I am leaving you, I will go. Good-bye, Busby. God bless and keep you, and when the Society of Authors jumps out at you from behind a bush, may you always have your fingers crossed.'

With a kindly smile, he turned and left the presence. He would have preferred to make straight for the street, where
voices were now calling the midday editions of the evening papers, but the word of a Vanringham was his bond. Mindful of his promise to Mr Busby, he directed his steps to the waiting-room, and arriving at its glass door and looking in, paused spellbound.