There were currently two Terence-related issues preying on Berthea’s mind. The first of these was his car—the Porsche that Lennie Marchbanks had reluctantly obtained for him from Monty Bismarck; it was a constant worry, even if Terence tended to drive it at not much more than twenty-five miles per hour. There was still the potential to go much faster should he ever decide to put his foot down hard on the accelerator; and Terence was so uncoordinated, in spite of all that sacred dance, that his foot could conceivably go down without his intending it.
That was one worry. The other was India, and the references that Terence had recently made to the possibility of visiting an ashram he had read about in one of his New Age magazines. Berthea had gently pointed out the complexity of visiting India, the need to have inoculations and to avoid the monsoon season.
“And you have to get a visa,” she said. “And that’s terribly complicated. You should see the forms, Terence—very complicated. Hardly worth bothering, I would have thought.”
“I won’t need a visa,” he said.
“Yes, you will. Everybody needs a visa. The Indians are very strict about that.”
Terence shook his head. “No. I think they let you in as long as your karma’s good. They’ll assess that at the airport.”
Berthea had stared at her brother. Where did one begin with somebody like Terence? And, more importantly, where did one end?
31. Lennie Marchbanks Utters a Warning
THE LOW-SLUNG PORSCHE was waiting for Berthea as she emerged from Cheltenham station. She waved: dear Terence, what a great effort it cost him to be punctual—with all his metaphysical concerns—but he had managed it, bless him! And now that he had this car, the eventful journeys in the Morris Traveller, during which they had more than once run out of petrol between the station and the house, were a thing of the past.
As she approached the Porsche, the driver’s door opened and a figure stepped out to greet her. It was not Terence Moongrove, but his garagiste, Lennie Marchbanks, who smiled warmly at Berthea, his ill-fitting false teeth projecting slightly as he did so. She remembered those teeth—how could she forget them?—as she had briefly kept them in her coat pocket when Lennie had gamely played the part of the Green Man in her elaborate plan to save Terence from the New Age fraudsters. The knowledge that one has had the false teeth of another in one’s pocket lends a strange intimacy to a relationship, Berthea mused.
Lennie stepped forward to help with her bag.
“Not much luggage,” he said as he took the well-packed grip Berthea was carrying. “You should see Mrs. Marchbanks when she goes off for a day or two to her mother in Bristol. You need a camel to carry everything.”
“People have different requirements, Mr. Marchbanks,” said Berthea. She had only met Lennie’s wife once, but felt that she must defend the travelling habits of her sex in the face of this rather old-fashioned comment. “I’m sure that your wife packs only what she needs.”
“I’m not,” said Lennie cheerfully. “She takes half her wardrobe, so she does. I see her packing. She just empties whole drawers into the suitcase.”
They got into the car. It was very badly designed for getting in and out of, thought Berthea, at least for people like her. But then she realised that Porsches were not for people like her in the first place but for rather younger, lither people—the sort of people who wore sunglasses when it was not strictly necessary. The unnecessary wearing of sunglasses, of course, was a sure sign of neurosis, as her training analyst had told her years ago. This belief had been confirmed by her own experience.
“I must ask you to remove your sunglasses during analysis,” she had said to one patient. He had done so, and she had seen the anxiety in his eyes as his protection against the world was laid aside. She had felt momentarily guilty, and assured him that it was for his own benefit. “We cannot shelter during this process,” she explained. “The whole point of analysis is to see behind that which stands between us and the social world.”
The patient had looked at her reproachfully. “I need them,” he said. “Like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks.”
Lennie turned the key in the ignition. “Lovely sound, this motor,” he said. “You hear that, Dr. Snark? Gorgeous sound.” He looked at her and smiled. “I’ve come to collect you because I had the car in the garage for its service. Your brother phoned and said I might as well pick you up since I was going to be bringing the car back to his place. So here I am.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Marchbanks,” said Berthea. “My brother, as you know, is not quite as other men. I’d be very worried about him if I didn’t know that you were keeping an eye on him.”
“You’re quite welcome, Dr. Snark,” said Lennie. “I do my best, and I’m fond of Terence, you know. He’s got some unusual ideas in that head of his, but nowt so queer as folk, as they used to say. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“People are very strange,” agreed Berthea. “But it’s certainly true, I think, that some are stranger than others. My dear brother possibly belongs in this latter category.”
“Could be,” said Lennie, as he changed gear. “Listen to that gearbox. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. You have to hand it to the Germans: they make a very fine gearbox.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Berthea. “And I’m perfectly happy to give them the credit for it.”
There was silence for a few moments. Then Lennie said, “Actually, Dr. Snark, there’s something that’s giving me cause for concern. Your brother’s got a little scheme brewing.”
Berthea’s heart sank. “Tell me,” she sighed. “It’s best that I should know.”
“It’s that Monty Bismarck,” Lennie went on, frowning as he spoke. “He’s got no business getting Mr. Moongrove all excited. I had a word with his dad, you know, Alfie Bismarck, but he said that Monty was a grown-up and he couldn’t really tell him what to do any more. He said that he’d tried but it hadn’t worked.”
Berthea remained tight-lipped as the mechanic continued.
“It’s to do with a car,” said Lennie.
Berthea was relieved. At least that was manageable, and could presumably be dealt with by Lennie Marchbanks. Was Terence planning to get a newer Porsche, perhaps? Well, that was not exactly the end of the world: he had survived this one, and would probably drive the next one in much the same way.
“That doesn’t sound too ominous,” she said. “You can manage a new car, can’t you, Mr. Marchbanks?”
Lennie shook his head. “He’s keeping this. He’s not getting rid of it.”
“Well?”
“He’s getting another one, Dr. Snark. That’s the problem. Monty has managed to persuade your brother to invest in a syndicate to buy a vintage racing car.”
“With a view to selling it on? Does he know what he’s doing?”
Lennie’s false teeth made a strange clicking sound. “Oh, Monty Bismarck knows what he’s doing all right. The syndicate consists of himself and Mr. Moongrove—that’s all. Monty’s putting in two hundred quid, and Mr. Moongrove’s putting in one hundred thousand.”
Berthea looked out of the window. Terence had been left well provided for by their father and there was no shortage of money, but one hundred thousand pounds … For a car—and a secondhand one at that!
“It’s a Frazer Nash,” Lennie continued. “Lovely machine, actually, and I’d buy it like a shot myself if I had the cash. The 1932 model, and those aren’t two a penny, I can assure you. But it is a racing car, you know, and … Well, Monty intends to race it.”
Berthea shrugged. “Well, I suppose those old cars don’t go too fast. And it will be on a racetrack, I take it.”
“They can get going,” said Lennie. “It’s not Formula One stuff, but they go fast enough with the wind behind them.”
“Well, I suppose there are more dangerous sports.”
“Yes, there are,” conceded Lennie. “But the point is this: Monty’s agreed to have Mr. Moongrove as his co-driver. There are lots of these old car races t
hat are for two-driver cars. So your brother’s actually taking up motor racing, Dr. Snark. That’s the problem.”
32. Oily Deposits
TERENCE MOONGROVE CARRIED his sister’s bag upstairs. “You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve put you in your usual room, Berthy,” he said. “I had a friend staying last week. He loved the view from that window, you know, the one that Uncle Edgar painted when he unearthed that old watercolour set in the attic.”
“Oh yes,” said Berthea. “I remember the painting. What a pity he had absolutely no talent. Quite devoid of it, in fact. Poor Uncle Edgar.”
Terence admonished her. “Naughty!” he said, nonetheless allowing himself a smile. “Be careful what you say about Uncle Edgar, Berthy. I believe his spirit is still here somewhere. He’s very close to us. Even now, as we speak.”
Berthea crossed the room to open the window, in case Uncle Edgar might wish to get out. There was a curious, rather sweet smell in the room; the smell, she thought, of an exotic, over-scented pot pourri. Was Uncle Edgar wearing something? Or smoking it perhaps?
“You’ve seen him?” she asked her brother. “Do you have any evidence?”
Terence put the bag down on the end of the bed. “Oh, you may mock, Berthy,” he said. “You and your reductionist, materialist outlook: the reason you never see anything is that your eyes are closed to things that clearly exist on another dimension. You are one-dimensional, Berthy, that’s what you are.”
Berthea sighed; with her generous figure, she would have loved to be more one-dimensional. “Where exactly is Uncle Edgar?” she asked. “And when precisely did you see him?”
“I’ve seen him twice over the last six months,” said Terence, using a matter-of-fact tone, of the sort one might use to describe the spotting of a friend on the street. “I saw him outside the kitchen window one evening, looking in at me from the garden. I waved to him and he—or his spirit—waved back. Then he dematerialised and I didn’t see him again until I caught a glimpse of him cleaning his teeth in the downstairs bathroom. I spoke to him on that occasion but he did not reply. Spirits rarely do.”
Berthea raised an eyebrow. “Strange that one would have to clean one’s teeth in the spirit world: I would have thought that one of the perks of being disembodied would be not to have to clean one’s teeth, not to use deodorant, perhaps. But still … What did you say to him, Terence?”
“I asked him whether he was happy in the other dimension.”
“And did he reply?” asked Berthea. “Did he complain about a shortage of whisky on the other side? Remember how he loved his favourite whisky—any whisky, indeed.”
Her levity clearly annoyed Terence. “It’s all very well for you to laugh, Berthy, but this is not an amusing subject at all. Just you wait until you cross over yourself. Would you want people making fun of you, just because you were a spirit?”
Berthea tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry. What did he say, Terence?”
“He was unable to comment on the precise arrangements on the other side,” said Terence, “because he dematerialised again—rather quickly. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone.”
“How unfortunate,” said Berthea. “And in general, don’t you agree it’s somewhat unfortunate that we have so little quality time with spirits. You’d imagine they might occasionally make themselves available for interview, perhaps, on the more hospitable television programmes. They need not agree to be interviewed by anybody aggressive, but it would be so helpful …”
Terence gave her a sideways look. “They’re very busy,” he said. “You can’t expect them to spend their time with those of us on this side when they have all those things to do on the other side. It’s kind enough of them to give us the occasional glimpse, and we should be grateful for it.”
Berthea did not pursue the matter. “Oh well. Tell me, Terence, who was the friend who stayed here last week?”
“My friend Jasper,” said Terence. “I haven’t known him long, but we get on very well together.”
Berthea’s eyes narrowed. “And how did you meet him?”
Terence smiled. “In the car. I was driving over to Glastonbury to do some healing, and Jasper was standing by the side of the road, indicating that he wanted help in getting somewhere. So I stopped and asked him where he was going. And he said, ‘That depends on where you’re going, my friend—our journeys are converging, I think.’ Those were his exact words, Berthy, and I thought them very beautiful words indeed. So I opened the door for him, and he hopped in.”
“And?” said Berthea, through pursed lips.
“And I drove Jasper all the way to Glastonbury. We talked a lot on the way there, and he told me that he had been a coracle-maker in Wales—or apprenticed to one—when the call came.”
“What call?”
“It was a call to stop making coracles and to take up another project altogether.”
“Which was?”
“To map the ley lines of the west of England. Do you know, Berthy, there isn’t a full map of ley lines and other energy fields in England? People know about them, of course. I pointed one out to Monty Bismarck the other day; it ran straight through his father’s living room—not that Alfie Bismarck is at all sensitive to these things. Nor Monty, for that matter: all Monty asked was whether it would interfere with the television reception. Honestly, Berthy, some people …”
Berthea was keen to find out more about Jasper. “So this new friend of yours, this Jasper, is working on a map?”
“Yes,” said Terence proudly. “And he’s asked me for advice on relevant features of the countryside round here. He wants to put in not only ley lines but sacred wells too.”
Berthea suddenly felt very tired. She had experienced this sensation before when talking to her brother, and so it was familiar enough. It sprang from despair; despair at not knowing how to penetrate the fog of magical thinking that seemed to envelop Terence Moongrove. It was how the parent of an estranged teenager might feel, struggling to find some way of penetrating a consciousness that would admit of no rational exchange.
“The bed,” said Terence suddenly. “I haven’t changed the sheets since Jasper was here. It’s a new policy I have to help protect the environment. And Jasper is perfectly clean, so there’s no reason why we should change them just yet.”
Berthea’s jaw dropped. “You mean, I’m to sleep between some … some man’s sheets?”
Terence nodded. “Why not? He only used them for three days.”
“But … but people like clean sheets,” protested Berthea. “There’ll be …” She struggled to find the right word. “There’ll be bits of skin on the sheets. We all shed bits of skin, you know. And oily deposits too.”
Terence looked puzzled. “Oily deposits? You know, Berthy, you do sound rather fussy.”
Berthea’s voice was now raised. “Fussy! That’s rich, Terence.”
He stood his ground. “Yes, fussy. How do you know that Jasper has oily deposits? Yes, go on, how do you know? You tell me!”
33. You’re My Brother, and I’m Proud of You
DINNER WAS A trying occasion for Berthea. Terence was in a talkative mood and insisted on giving her long and detailed accounts of issues dividing his sacred dance group.
“Most of the members are easy enough to get on with,” he said. “Very easy. They’re not interested in political intrigue. They just …”
“Just want to get on with the dancing,” prompted Berthea.
“Exactly,” said Terence. “But there are always some people who see committees as a way of advancing themselves. You know the type, Berthy? They plot and scheme. They use all sorts of devices to get themselves into positions of power. I’ve no time for people like that, Berthy—no time at all.”
Berthea suppressed a yawn. She wondered what issues could arise in a sacred dance group: personality clashes, perhaps? The issue of unconventional steps? It was possible that there were even theological divisions between those who stuck to that Bulgarian mystic??
?what was his name?—and those who were open to other influences. People had an insatiable appetite for disagreement, she felt; whenever two or more were gathered together it seemed inevitable that they would find something to differ about. And there was always politics—even, it seemed, in the sphere of sacred dance.
Berthea toyed with her soup. Terence had put far too much salt in it, making it virtually undrinkable. She took a sip, and spat it back into the spoon. “What are these issues, Terence?” she asked.
Terence appeared to be having no difficulty with the salty broth. “Good question, Berthy. There are quite a few, as it happens, but the thing that has really set the cat among the pigeons is morris dancing. That’s made things jolly difficult for everyone, Berthy, I’m telling you.”
Berthea stared morosely at her soup. The salt made it impossible to divine exactly what sort it was, but she was beginning to suspect it was based on tripe. Tripe soup was unheard of, surely, but then anything was possible with her brother.
“Yes,” Terence continued. “There are some on the committee—that horrid Jones woman being the ringleader—who want us to accept an invitation to dance with a group of morris dancers who perform outside the Lamb and Flag every other weekend. That Jones woman had a letter of invitation from the leader of the morris men and she’s frightfully keen that we accept.”