never marry?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Some of us can only love once.’ He looked at his cigarette for a minute and said: ‘Have you ever been shot at?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and hit too. In the arm, bloody painful. I took a knife too, once.’
‘Have you ever been married?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I’d rather not talk about it. What I’d rather talk about is a young man I want to interview called Dick Sanders.’
Goodinge murmured to me: ‘Go easy. The old gentleman will have had a few before he came in, a skinful; he often drinks all night.’
‘That’s a lie, Goodinge,’ said the old man in his even voice. ‘I’m not as deaf as you think I am. The fact is that I drink all night and all day. I drink to the eyes of a malt so clear that I’ll leave her a widow; but she’ll remarry, I’ve no doubt.’ He added: ‘Yes, I employed Dick Sanders, but not for long.’
‘Why was that?’
The colonel made a savage gesture at the table in front of him and his glass fell on the floor. ‘Because he was a spy and a thief. In the end I put a twenty-pound note where I knew he’d go looking for it, then watched and caught him with his hand in the drawer and the money in it.’
‘And what did you do about it?’
‘I had a glass of whisky in my hand and I threw it in his face, and that was the end of that.’
‘And did he go to the Mardys after that?’
‘Immediately after. I told William not to employ him, but he did so just the same.’
‘That was last year?’
‘January last year.’
‘Can you tell me any more?’
‘I could tell you lots of things,’ said the colonel. ‘I could tell you about treachery; I could tell you about people who come in here every day that stain the dead, of words that give a mouth theexpression of dishonour as it speaks them, of eyes sly as money over the lip of a pint, the pupils almond as a cat’s, you’ll find them.’
A man in a black suit went by into the other bar and Newington pointed at him and said: ‘Him! Look at him!’
‘That’s Baddeley, the estate agent,’ Goodinge muttered to me, ‘one of the main people in Thornhill, there’s a rumour he’s going to run for mayor.’
‘Nothing known?’
‘What?’ he said.
‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘it’s a police phrase.’
‘Let the colonel off,’ Goodinge whispered, ‘he’s had enough. I’ll ring for his taxi.’
The colonel said blindly to the wall: ‘Let me alone, Goodinge, it isn’t lunchtime yet.’ He said to Goodinge: ‘Be a good fellow and take me to the loo.’ Goodinge came round the bar, the colonel took his arm and they went off together.
I watched them go; but now suddenly a new voice whispered into my ear: ‘It’s very sad about the colonel; he’s not what he was, of course, old age.’
‘What used he to be?’ I said.
‘A war hero,’ he said gravely. ‘Thornhill is proud of its Colonel Newingtons.’
He had his hand on my shoulder, something I hated; I disengaged myself and turned to look at him. It was the man in the black suit that I had seen just now going into the other bar, where he could listen to us. Meanwhile time had run on and the big bar had filled up with the roar of young voices ordering beer from the staff at the other counter that had come on, asking for darts and cards – suddenly the pub was full up. I looked at this man. He was in his fifties, mostly bones inside his black suit, and gave off an odour, if you were as close up to him as I was, of a long-closed keyboard opened suddenly in an empty house. Now he smiled at me with a set of expensive false teeth, but above those his eyes didn’t smile at all; they were slaty and still, like hundreds of eyes I’ve seen in villains’ pubs in London.
He looked as if he had had all the practice on earth backing out offive-door Mercedes estate cars.
‘What’s done in youth,’ he was saying to me, feeling for my elbow, ‘can never be undone in age – that’s what my old grandparents always used
‘No,’ he said. ‘Some of us can only love once.’ He looked at his cigarette for a minute and said: ‘Have you ever been shot at?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and hit too. In the arm, bloody painful. I took a knife too, once.’
‘Have you ever been married?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I’d rather not talk about it. What I’d rather talk about is a young man I want to interview called Dick Sanders.’
Goodinge murmured to me: ‘Go easy. The old gentleman will have had a few before he came in, a skinful; he often drinks all night.’
‘That’s a lie, Goodinge,’ said the old man in his even voice. ‘I’m not as deaf as you think I am. The fact is that I drink all night and all day. I drink to the eyes of a malt so clear that I’ll leave her a widow; but she’ll remarry, I’ve no doubt.’ He added: ‘Yes, I employed Dick Sanders, but not for long.’
‘Why was that?’
The colonel made a savage gesture at the table in front of him and his glass fell on the floor. ‘Because he was a spy and a thief. In the end I put a twenty-pound note where I knew he’d go looking for it, then watched and caught him with his hand in the drawer and the money in it.’
‘And what did you do about it?’
‘I had a glass of whisky in my hand and I threw it in his face, and that was the end of that.’
‘And did he go to the Mardys after that?’
‘Immediately after. I told William not to employ him, but he did so just the same.’
‘That was last year?’
‘January last year.’
‘Can you tell me any more?’
‘I could tell you lots of things,’ said the colonel. ‘I could tell you about treachery; I could tell you about people who come in here every day that stain the dead, of words that give a mouth theexpression of dishonour as it speaks them, of eyes sly as money over the lip of a pint, the pupils almond as a cat’s, you’ll find them.’
A man in a black suit went by into the other bar and Newington pointed at him and said: ‘Him! Look at him!’
‘That’s Baddeley, the estate agent,’ Goodinge muttered to me, ‘one of the main people in Thornhill, there’s a rumour he’s going to run for mayor.’
‘Nothing known?’
‘What?’ he said.
‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘it’s a police phrase.’
‘Let the colonel off,’ Goodinge whispered, ‘he’s had enough. I’ll ring for his taxi.’
The colonel said blindly to the wall: ‘Let me alone, Goodinge, it isn’t lunchtime yet.’ He said to Goodinge: ‘Be a good fellow and take me to the loo.’ Goodinge came round the bar, the colonel took his arm and they went off together.
I watched them go; but now suddenly a new voice whispered into my ear: ‘It’s very sad about the colonel; he’s not what he was, of course, old age.’
‘What used he to be?’ I said.
‘A war hero,’ he said gravely. ‘Thornhill is proud of its Colonel Newingtons.’
He had his hand on my shoulder, something I hated; I disengaged myself and turned to look at him. It was the man in the black suit that I had seen just now going into the other bar, where he could listen to us. Meanwhile time had run on and the big bar had filled up with the roar of young voices ordering beer from the staff at the other counter that had come on, asking for darts and cards – suddenly the pub was full up. I looked at this man. He was in his fifties, mostly bones inside his black suit, and gave off an odour, if you were as close up to him as I was, of a long-closed keyboard opened suddenly in an empty house. Now he smiled at me with a set of expensive false teeth, but above those his eyes didn’t smile at all; they were slaty and still, like hundreds of eyes I’ve seen in villains’ pubs in London.
He looked as if he had had all the practice on earth backing out offive-door Mercedes estate cars.
‘What’s done in youth,’ he was saying to me, feeling for my elbow, ‘can never be undone in age – that’s what my old grandparents always used
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