Corduroy Mansions Page 0,86

he would do something really stupid?

She sighed. She could not take Terence back to London—there was not enough room in the house, unless she gave up her study, and it would be impossible having him mooching around, going on about sacred dance and such matters. There were plenty of soidisant visionaries in London, of course, and he would doubtless fall in with others who shared his interest in Bulgarian mystics and the like, but she had her own life to lead and she just could not look after her brother too. No, Terence would have to stay in Cheltenham.

As she walked up to the front door, an idea occurred to her. If she could get to know some of Terence’s friends—the sacred dance crowd—then perhaps she would be able to find somebody who would agree to keep an eye on him. There were women in the sacred dance group, no doubt, and one of these might be taken aside, woman to woman, and asked to help see that he came to no harm. England was full of helpful women, Berthea was convinced: there were legions of them, all anxious to help in some way and many of them feeling quite frustrated that there were not quite enough men—for demographic reasons—in need of their help. One of these women would be the solution and, with any luck, it might even turn into a romance. That would be the best possible outcome—to get Terence settled with a suitable woman who would look after him and make sure that he did not try to do anything unwise with electricity.

Berthea sighed. It was something of a pipe dream. What woman in her right mind would take on somebody like Terence? What would be the point? He had no conversation to speak of, other than sentimental memories of things that no woman would be remotely interested in. He read nothing of any consequence, apart from peculiar tomes from small, mystically minded publishing houses, and even then he rapidly forgot both the titles and the contents of these books. He could not cook; he was inclined to asthma; and if sacred dance required any deftness of foot, then Terence would almost certainly be no good at it. And when it came to the romantic side of things—oh, dear, poor Terence with his square glasses and his untidy hair and his cardigans that always had buttons missing …

But she could try; it was the least she could do.

“Terence,” Berthea said as she came into the dining room, “I’ve decided to extend my stay a little, if I may.”

Terence, who had seated himself at the small bureau, where he was going through mail, seemed pleased. “You’re always welcome, Berthy. We could sort out some of those old photographs together. There are Daddy’s pictures of Malta—all those photies—and maybe we could even stick them in an album.”

Berthea nodded. She could think of nothing worse than going through the several boxes of old photographs of Malta that she knew Terence had in the attic, but he was her brother and she had to do something. “I thought that I might also come along to one of your sacred dance meetings,” she said. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

Terence looked up from his letters. He beamed. “But that’s wonderful, Berthy. You’d be very, very welcome. You know that. And I could give you one of Peter Deunov’s books to read first. You could then see what the objectives are, and understand.”

“That would be very nice.”

“Good.” He pushed the mail to the side of his desk. “And you know what, Berthy? You know what? I’ve decided to do something about my car.”

Berthea looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Oh yes?”

“Yes,” said Terence. “I’m going to get rid of it. I shall phone Mr. Marchbanks immediately and ask him to find me a new one.”

61. A Suitable Car

LENNIE MARCHBANKS, patient garagiste to Terence Moongrove and the proprietor of Marchbanks Motors, drove round in his truck and parked before the stranded Morris Traveller. Terence, who had seen the truck coming up the drive, went out to meet him, while Berthea watched discreetly from an upstairs window.

“So what’s the trouble now, Mr. Moongrove?” asked Lennie. “Old Morris not starting? I put petrol in for you, remember? Should go now.”

“I’ve decided to sell it,” said Terence. “That’s why I asked you to come out, Mr. Marchbanks. I want to get rid of it and get a new car.”

Lennie stared at him in frank disbelief. “You want