Nonsense!
I saw it in his eyes. He's thinking what a nice match you'd make. Nice cuddly little wifey.
Sorme noticed with surprise that she had coloured. He stood up, saying: Excuse me.
It's upstairs, Nunne said, second on the left.
The hall and stairs were carpeted with blue pile that made his footsteps noiseless.
There were two prints of paintings by Munch on the stairs. In the warmth and haze of the alcohol, it seemed one of the most charming houses he had been in.
He switched on a light, and found himself in a small bedroom, containing a single bed. There was a large framed photograph of a blonde girl on the dressing-table. He peered at it with interest, then kissed his lips at it. He backed out of the door and went into the bathroom. A lineful of damp clothes hung across it; he had to duck under them to reach the lavatory. He murmured softly: I should seduce her and come and live here.
Perfect conditions for working.
He washed his hands at the basin, humming quietly.
When he turned away, he walked immediately into a wet towel. He wiped his face on his hand, and reached up to touch a blue nylon waist slip. Water dripped down his sleeve. He swore under his breath, smiling.
When he came into the sitting-room again, Nunne said:
I think we'd better go, Gerard. Gertrude wants to go to bed.
Of course.
Are you going to finish your whisky?
I don't think I will. I've had rather a lot.
I didn't think you were. So I've finished it for you.
She said, laughing: You really are disgraceful, Austin. I don't know how you manage to drive that car. Do be careful.
Tush! Did you ever know me to have an accident?
It's a miracle! she said.
Nunne heaved himself to his feet. He seized her and planted a kiss on her forehead. Sorme regarded her, smiling. He would have liked to do the same. Nunne said: Goodnight, dear aunt. Lock the doors now. Make sure old Brother Barrel-belly's not under the bed.
She turned to Sorme:
You will come again, won't you? You can find your way here.
I'm not so sure that I can, he said, smiling.
I'll give you the address.
She tore a sheet of headed notepaper from a pad in the bureau and scribbled on it.
He slipped it into his back pocket.
Goodbye. Do make Austin drive carefully.
Sorme shook her hand; her grip was as firm as a man's.
She called from the front doorstep:
Keep to the right of the drive. There's a pool of water there.
Nunne's torch wavered erratically over the ground. Sorme kept close to him to avoid stumbling. As they emerged into the street, Nunne said:
She likes you, dear boy. I got a little lecture on corrupting you. I think she wants you for her Bible class.
Not for her literary evenings?
Oh, perhaps. I don't know. I should think from her questions…
His voice trailed off. He opened the car door, and collapsed into the driving seat.
Ouf! That's better… Well, where now? It's only ten past ten. We've still time for another drink. Or you could come back to my place and have a couple.
No! Really, it's quite impossible. I must get back. Any other night but this.
Ah yes. You've got to move in the morning. How will you do it?
Take a taxi.
Would you like me to pop over and help you?
No, no. Don't bother.
Nunne lit a cigarette, and tossed the match out of the window. His headlights suddenly lit up the road. The car surged forward jerkily, then stalled. He said:
Sod it. Left the bloody hand-brake on.
Sorme said: Look, drop me on the Edgware Road, and I'll get a bus home. Or better still, drop me off at Hampstead underground.
No, no. I'll take you home. You're not letting Gertrude's comments on my driving worry you, are you?
No…
Good. I'm a perfectly safe driver, even when I can't see for scotch.
What about your other car…?
Oh, that wasn't my fault… Somebody built a wall in the middle of the road.
Didn't they nab you for drunken driving?
Fortunately I wasn't drunk. That was the trouble. Morning after. I felt like hell.
Nunne's driving seemed neither better nor worse for the drink. He turned off the engine and allowed the car to freewheel down the hill to Golders Green, singing mournfully:
Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles…
Sorme said: Was your aunt ever married?
She's not my aunt.
Was she ever married?
No. Gertrude is a most mysterious case. No one knows all the facts. She had a father.
A what?
A father. You know some people have got a mother who won't let them off the dog lead? Well, she had a father.
Why should that stop her from marrying?
How should I know, dear boy? Use your imagination. If it's as lurid as mine, you can think up all sorts of reasons.
Sorme suppressed the comments that rose to his lips. Nunne was not the person to make them to. Nunne startled him suddenly by saying:
Anyway, I doubt whether she'd be any good in bed.
Sorme glanced at him. The cigarette was hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. He said:
No, I dare say you're right.
It began to rain again. He sat there listening to the steady click of the windscreen wipers, then said suddenly:
By the way, who's that delicious blonde girl in the photograph?
Which photograph?
I walked into a bedroom while I was looking for the lavatory. The first on the right. There was a photo of a lovely little blonde on the table.
Oh, that'd be Caroline. Her niece. I haven't met her. Why?
All delicious little blondes interest me.
You are a cow, aren't you? Always on the lookout for sex.
Sorme laughed. They were passing Hendon aerodrome. To change the subject, he said:
By the way, did you say you fly a plane?
Yes. Got one down at a place near Leatherhead. You must come over for a weekend. I'll take you for a trip.
Your own?
My father's actually. He never uses it.
Turn left here, please. It's by that next lamp-post.
The car stopped with a jerk; this time Sorme had braced himself for it. He said:
Well, I owe you quite a lot for this evening.
