The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry Read Free Page B

haven’t met him, have I?”
    “I can’t remember the last time he came to see me. Must be at least six months ago. He did say he’d be over here very soon.”
    Roy and Ivy, as was their habit, got up to go to their respective bedrooms for an afternoon nap. This was an established routine now, decided on by Ivy, who said that if they were in each other’s pockets every hour of the day, no engagement could stand up to it, let alone that of two old codgers imprisoned in Springfields.
    • • •
    AFTER A PLEASANT session in the pub, Gus felt more cheerful and walked home briskly, with Whippy trotting beside him. He had almost made it to his cottage, when his neighbour’s door opened and a figure appeared.
    “Gus! Missed you this morning! Are you up for home-cooked plaice and chips this evening?”
    It was Miriam Blake, who had grown up in the village and since Gus’s arrival had conducted a brave campaign based on the saying that the route to a man’s heart was through his stomach. In spite of many rebuffs, she still hoped to lead him by the hand to a life of bliss in holy matrimony. And if not that, since Gus was divorced and had vowed never to marry again, then she would be perfectly happy to live with him in unholy sin.
    “Thanks, Miriam. Very kind, but I have a prior engagement.”
    “Not at Tawny Wings, I hope,” she said, pouting. “You know she’s the squire’s fancy woman? Shouldn’t have thought you’d want secondhand goods.”
    Gus forebore to point out that he himself was not exactly a shining example of purity and innocence, and said apologetically that he was free tomorrow evening, if the fish would keep.
    Mollified, Miriam agreed, and said that she had just made a pot of good strong tea, and wouldn’t he like a cup?
    Never gives up, Gus said to himself sadly, and nodded. “That would be very nice. Thank you, Miriam. I’ll just put Whippy indoors, and then I’ll be round.”
    “Don’t be long,” she called merrily, as he disappeared through his front door. “Jam tarts fresh from the oven!”

F our

    STEVEN WRIGHT—STEVE to his friends, of whom there were not many—pulled up his car with a spray of gravel in front of his pleasant, pebble-dashed house in the posh suburb of Thornwell. He had had a frustrating day at the office, where he worked as chief departmental manager in a large furniture emporium on the town’s new trading estate.
    Trade was slow, partly because of the dire economic situation in the country, and partly because, as he knew, it takes a long time for shoppers to change their habits and try new suppliers. His wife saw his grim expression, and quickly handed him a large gin and tonic to match her own. This ritual had developed over the years, and Wendy Wright had come to need support when her quick-tempered husband returned from work, anxious to make her as unhappy as he was.
    He was not unattractive, with clear blue eyes and thick gingery hair, which he kept bristly short, not making any attempt to conceal the grey streaks beginning to appear.
    “Distinguished-looking, darling,” Wendy had said one morning, as he brushed fiercely, showing no mercy to his tingling scalp.
    “Naturally,” he had replied, and for once waved a cheery good-bye as he set off in his car.
    This evening they were due to have dinner with friends, and Steven made it quite clear that he would rather stay at home. “They’re your friends, not mine,” he said grumpily. “Tell them I’m sick. A bug going round the office. Something like that.”
    “What happened today to put you in a more than usually black mood?” Wendy was a gin or two ahead of him, and spoke with Dutch courage.
    Steven sighed and collapsed into one of his top-of-the-range armchairs. “Uncle Roy happened,” he said. “You’ll never guess what his call was about.”
    “Tell me.”
    “Asked me to be his best man at his wedding in May.”
    There was a long silence. “You’re joking,” Wendy said.
    He shook his head.