'Bestguess, sir.'
There was a long pause.
The St Matthew's Tie straightened himself to allow a little blood to flow down from his head.
'If you're right, Reeve, Odysseus will make his way Greekwards in the next few days too.'
'With Telemachus, do you think?'
Another long pause was followed by the sound of a folder being dropped on a desk.
The St Matthew's Tie stooped to do up another shoe-lace.
'Well, nothing to keep me in England now that Botham seems to have lost us the blasted Ashes. I'll fly over the moment anything develops.'
'Cricket not going too well then, sir?'
'The man's a bloody disgrace. He couldn't captain a paraplegic netball team.'
'Will you be around for initialling appropriation orders later in the afternoon, sir?'
'Well, young Reeve, after a brief luncherising and half an hour's memorandorising Cabinet, I'll be at Lord's.'
'Right, sir.'
'So if you want me to signatorise anything, send Simon Hesketh-Harvey round, he's a member. Now I must go and lavatorise. And while I'm away for God's sake try and learn to speak English.'
The St Matthew's Tie hurried along the corridor to his office. He heard the door of 3.4.CabCom opening. A voice hailed him.
'Ho there, young Hesketh-H!'
The St Matthew's Tie turned. A Bennett, Tovey and Steele Suit was standing in the corridor.
'Morning, sir.'
'Snap.'
They looked at each other's neck-ties with a smile.
'You may have to change that for the good old orange and yellow this pip emma,' said the Bennet, Tovey and Steele.
'Sir?'
'If you're a good boy, Reeve will send you over to me at Lord's this afternoon to watch the final death throes.'
'Good-o,' said the St Matthew's Tie. 'I shall enjoy that, sir.'
'Right. Oh, by the way– '
'Sir?'
'Prioritise. Ever come across that one?'
'Ugh!' said the St Matthew's Tie. 'Langley?'
'No, that arse Reeve, of course. Last week it was 'having a meet-up with', God knows what new linguistic macedoine he's going to serve up next.'
'One shudders to think, sir.'
'All right then, Simon, off you pop.'
Eight
I
'I have taken much care in packing,' said Trefusis as he pushed shut the boot of the Wolseley. 'A tin of barley- sugar for you, Castrol GTX for the car, figgy oatcakes for me.'
'Figgy oatcakes?'
'Oatcakes are very healthy. Hotels, restaurants, cafes, they all take their toll. Salzburg is not kind to the figure. At my age travel broadens the behind. A stearopygous Trefusis is an unhappy Trefusis. The buns and tortes of Austria are whoreson binders of your whoreson stool. But a figgy oatcake laughs at constipation and favours rectal carcinoma with a haughty stare. In the grammar of health, while cream may hasten the full stop, porridge will ease the colon.'
'Oh, ah,' said Adrian. 'And curry creates the dash, I suppose.'
'Oh, I like that. Very good. 'Curry creates the dash.' Yes, indeed. Most. . . most. . . er, what is the word?'
'Amusing?'
'No . . . it'll come to me.'
The interior of the car smelt of Merton Park thrillers, Bakelite headsets and the Clothes Ration. It only needed the profile of Edgar Wallace or the voice of Edgar Lustgarten to sweep Adrian and Trefusis, with bells ringing, into a raincoat and Horlicks Britain of glistening pavements, trilbied police inspectors and poplin shirts. So familiar was the odour, so complete the vision it evoked as they swung with a whine of gears out of the college gates and onto the Trumpington Road, that Adrian could almost believe in reincarnation. He had never smelt that precise smell before,
