Bowen undressed and got into bed. It was a good bed and he soon felt too sleepy to think about Buckmaster. He thought about Barbara instead. He realised he had made up his mind that he was going to bring her abroad again next year however plain she might make it that she wanted to come. It was a pity he could never explain to her what a moving concession this was on his part. Perhaps he could work it so that Mrs. Knowles opposed the plan. What a stroke that would be, whichever way it turned out. Anyway, an end to malice for the time being. Perhaps he could dream about Barbara if he put his mind to it.
Some time later he was dreaming that Bachixa had been made Pope when something woke him up with a jump. He listened. Then he heard a man calling out angrily in Portuguese—Buckmaster. It sounded just like the sort of thing he had bawled at the chauffeur that afternoon in Lisbon. There was silence for a time. Bowen began falling unquestioningly off to sleep again. There was a sudden loud bang of wood on wood from the end of the veranda where Buckmaster’s room was: a door being flung open or a table or chair falling. A mixed-up disturbance followed, with two angry voices this time and things falling or being knocked into. It might have been a fight or it might have been a violent argument with people blundering about. Bowen sat up. He tried to tell himself that it was only like old Earl Knowland and his pal taking things to heart overhead in South Ken., but he was too afraid to believe himself. After another pause the disturbance started again, but without the voices. It seemed to move on to the veranda. He could hear someone panting. I am exactly the kind of man for this not to happen to, he thought.
Buckmaster’s voice called: “Bowen. Bowen.” Not loudly, but as if something physical was preventing him from calling loudly. Not loudly enough, perhaps, to wake Bowen up if he had been really sound asleep, but quite loudly enough to reach him in a waking state.
Bowen stayed absolutely still for a second. Then he jumped out of bed and ran out on to the veranda. Whatever it was was going on round the corner. Before he reached the corner there was a prolonged thumping noise. A second later he was there. A man standing near the top of the steps turned round when he heard him coming. He was dressed in a singlet and a pair of dark-coloured jeans, as the captain’s father on Suomi had been, Bowen remembered. It was the chauffeur. As Bowen approached, the other bent into a sort of wrestler’s crouch. Bowen kept moving. He had not hit anybody since the last line-out of the last match he had played in at St. Helen’s against the Scarlets (Swansea 11 pts., Llanelly 9 pts.) but now he got ready to do it again. They were still a few feet apart when the chauffeur laid his hand on the rail of the veranda and vaulted elegantly over it. Bowen heard him land—it was not a long drop—and run away round the side of the house.
The moon was bright enough for Buckmaster to be visible at once, lying on his back half-across the bottom step. He was moving about slightly. Bowen went down, stepped over him, then knelt. Something fearful seemed to have happened to Buckmaster’s mouth. It was misshapen but Bowen could find no evidence of a blow. Then he had an idea and eased the lower jaw down. Yes, the old boy’s false teeth were all over the place. Better take them out. He was doing this when Buckmaster’s hand came up and made the adjustments. “I can do it,” he said.
“How do you feel?”
“That treacherous devil. It’s the last time I do anything for anyone.”
“Can you stand up?”
“Drew a knife on me. My leg hurts. They’re all the same in the end. Nothing to choose between them.”
“Try and stand. Lean on me.”
“Sorry to be such an appalling nuisance. It’s this leg.”
“Hold on here.”
When Buckmaster’s left foot touched the ground he gasped and shuddered. Bowen helped him to sit down on the second step from the bottom with his leg out in front of him. They were both panting; Bowen realised he had been doing it almost ever since first coming out on the veranda. “I’ll get a doctor,” he said.
“I’m all right.”
“I can’t move you without help and I’d be scared to anyway with that leg of yours. It feels normal to me but it might be broken; I wouldn’t know. Does it hurt much now?”
“I can bear it.”
“Listen: where’s your housekeeper?”
“The village. At her sister’s. And she’d be no help if she were here. She’s another of them.”
“How can I leave you, then? Supposing that chauffeur chap comes back?”
This seemed to bring Buckmaster round completely. “Luis? What happened to him? Where is he?”
“He ran off before I got to him.”
“How typical. He will still be running, I have no doubt. Then some time tomorrow he will return, sobbing his repentance. I know the cycle, every stage of it.”
“Has he been as violent as this before?”
“Not quite. And so this time will be the last time.” Buckmaster gasped again and shivered. “What a nuisance I am. Forgive me for involving you in this.”
Bowen went away and returned with a couple of blankets, some pillows, a bottle of whisky from the dining-room cupboard and a glass. He bestowed them appropriately about Buckmaster. Then he went away again and returned in jacket and trousers. “Tell me where I can find a doctor,” he said.
“In
