TERENCE MOONGROVE was largely silent on the trip to Chipping Campden. Sitting in the back of Lennie Marchbanks’s silver Volvo, he looked out of the window in a thoughtful, slightly injured way. From the front passenger seat, Berthea half turned to check up on her brother. Poor Terence, she thought. The shattering of an illusion is never easy, even if one’s life is filled with illusions.
Lennie Marchbanks, sensitive to the atmosphere, tried to make conversation. “I drove along here the other day with Alfie Bismarck,” he remarked. “We were going to see a horse that Alfie’s got up there. Nice horse that he bought from Christopher Catherwood last year. Christopher had some success with him on the flat races over in Newmarket, but wanted to concentrate on something else.”
“Oh yes?” said Berthea. “That’s interesting, isn’t it, Terence?”
“Jolly interesting,” he mumbled.
“Alfie’s got the touch all right,” continued Lennie. “He turned round a really useless horse that had done the rounds. Ireland. France. Back to Ireland. Then Alfie started working on him and he began to romp home. I said, ‘Alfie, you’re giving that horse something in his oats,’ and Alfie got all shirty and said I shouldn’t talk like that. I said it was only a joke, but he said there are some things you shouldn’t joke about.
“Alfie’s honest, though. I’d trust him with my shirt, more or less, as long as I had a spare one, ha! And that boy of his, Monty, I’ve heard what people say about him but it isn’t true, you know. He’s a chip off the old block, that boy. He won two grand last week at some small meeting up north. Came home with his pockets full. I said, ‘Monty, you should invest that, you know. Buy some shares in something solid, like futures in helium.’ He looked at me like I’d suggested that he should fly to the moon. So I said, ‘How do you think your old man made his money?’ I was referring to Alfie’s eye for a good investment, but young Monty says, ‘Gambling, Mr. Marchbanks. That’s how he did it.’ ”
The conversation continued in this vein until just outside Chipping Campden, when Lennie told them all to start looking out for Terence’s Porsche. “We’ll just cruise through,” he said. “Then if we don’t find it, we can start looking along some side roads I know. Good places for stolen vehicles, those side roads.”
They drove slowly. There was a Porsche parked outside a newsagent’s premises, but it was the wrong colour. Then, as they made their way into the main square, Lennie gave a low whistle. “See over there?” he said. “See?”
“My car,” said Terence. “What a nerve.”
“They’re in that hotel,” said Lennie. “Probably having lunch. Stuffing their faces.”
“Shall we call the police?” asked Terence.
Berthea shook her head. “The police will complicate matters. All those forms. The police have bad karma, Terence.”
Terence nodded. “I just want to give Rog and Claire a piece of my mind. That’ll be worse for them than being arrested. I can get jolly cross, you know.”
“You’re right,” said Berthea. “That’ll teach them.”
Lennie Marchbanks parked his car and they went into the hotel. Roger and Claire were seated in the dining room, perusing the menu. They looked up, and were surprised when they saw that Terence was accompanied.
“We thought it was just us,” said Roger, rising to his feet.
“Well, you thought wrong!” snapped Terence. “You Sam!”
Roger frowned. “What?”
“You Sam!” repeated Terence. “You great Sam!”
Roger looked angry. “You’re calling me a Sam? What have I done to deserve that?”
“You stole my Porsche,” spluttered Terence. “We saw it outside.”
“Yes,” crowed Lennie Marchbanks. “Fine pair of car thieves, parking the car in broad daylight.”
Roger looked at Lennie in astonishment and then turned to Berthea. “But you told me to take it,” he said. “You said that Terence had said …”
“Delusions,” said Berthea.
Roger let out a cry. “Delusions? You told us! Claire heard, didn’t you? You told us that Terence wanted to meet us here.”
“A likely story,” interjected Lennie Marchbanks.
Roger spun round and glared irately at Lennie. “You shut your face! You Sam!” he shouted.
“You calling me a Sam?” Click. Lennie’s voice was filled with anger, and his teeth, dropping forward, made the familiar clicking sound. Click.
“It’s jolly rude to tell somebody to shut his face,” said Terence. “You shouldn’t say things like that in public. You shouldn’t.” He turned to Berthea. “Did you tell them that, Berthy? Did you tell them to take my car?”
Berthea swallowed. “Of course not, Terence. Have I ever lied to you? Ever? Once? And have I ever let you down? Ever? Even when Uncle Edgar accused you of eating those sponge finger biscuits of his when you were eight. Remember? And I said that you hadn’t, although I knew you had because I’d seen you.” She paused, adding under her breath, “And what did the Green Man say?”
“I didn’t eat all of them,” said Terence. “The dog had four.”
“For heaven’s sake,” snapped Claire. “This has got nothing to do with biscuits.”
“Indeed it hasn’t,” said Berthea coldly. “But it has everything to do with the theft of a Porsche. Give me the keys, please.”
“No,” said Roger.
“Then I shall call the police.”
Roger hesitated, and then handed over the keys to the Porsche.
“Now we can go home,” said Lennie Marchbanks. “And these two can make use of public transport to get back to Cheltenham.”
Berthea looked at the dejected fraudsters. “You’ll find your cases with all your possessions at the front gate,” she said. “You may remove them without entering the property.”
They left. Terence drove back with Berthea in the Porsche.
“I’m really grateful to you, Berthy,” he said. “There was something about that couple that I didn’t quite trust. I saw it all along, you know.”
Berthea nodded. The delusions of which the human mind is capable are manifold and varied, she thought. We are imperfect creatures in every respect, and it was her job to lend wholeness to those who were shattered and unhappy. Not every mission ended quite as well as this one, but that did not mean that one should not try. Every day we should try, she said to herself; we should try to make life better for those around us, and for ourselves. We should try to be kinder. We should try to control our impatience with people like Terence—and others.
“Dear Terence,” she said fondly. “Now you have your car back.”
“Thanks to you,” said Terence. “Dearest Berthy.”