Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

And So to Bedlam by Neil Schofield

The darkly comic situations in many of Neil Schofield’s stories seem ideally suited for adaptation to radio, film, or television. Nowhere do we get a better sense of this than in this new story about a daffy ex-military man who falls prey to a more sinister, if equally unbalanced, character. Mr. Schofield currently lives in France; he is a past finalist in our Readers Award competition, and one of our best short story writers.

When, over breakfast in the morning room at “Dar-es-Salaam,” Jimbo Garside showed the latest issue of Man o’ War to Mrs. Maj. Garside and with a certain pride pointed out this letter, she told him he was a perfect cretin and went off to prepare for her coffee morning at the Women’s Institute, in which she was an activist member of the Militant Wing. Mrs. Garside was a large woman, and when she Made An Exit it was an impressive sight. But she paused at the morning-room door to point out that the penultimate sentence should have ended with a question mark, since the simple soldier had started out to ask a question but, exhilarated by the giddy literary tiderace, had clearly forgotten this fact by the time he reached the end of the sentence. In addition, if it was now going to be open house for all manner of riffraff and barrack-sweepings, could he please not refer to her as the spouse of self? She found this not only rotten English but also maladroit. And finally, who on earth was “Loopy” Drinkwater? She certainly didn’t remember any “Loopy” Drinkwater. He definitely hadn’t been on her father’s staff. With this she swept out, leaving Jimbo dispiritedly chewing the last of his bacon and toast.

He had always been a disappointment to the Memsahib, he knew, ever since he had retired as a mere major, which she had told him more than once was the sign of abject failure. All right, fair dos, he wasn’t very bright, never had been, but he could tell the Mem was vexed, that was clear, he just couldn’t for the life of him see why. Mind you, she had always been tiptop on the old grammar, going so far as to vet and correct his personal messages on last year’s Christmas cards. In red pen, what was more.

Oh, Lord.

He stared at himself in the hall mirror, adjusting his tie before leaving to catch his train up to town for a meeting with his solicitor. He also pushed his moustache into place. His face was plump and pink and he had moist blue eyes which stared mournfully back at him. He had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and he knew why.

“Oh, Lord,” he said to the reflected Jimbo, “the Mem’s out of sorts. Short commons for a bit, now. Be dining on cold shoulder tonight, I shouldn’t wonder, old man.”

But he was an ex-soldier, and he straightened his back, knowing that some things just have to be faced, however unpleasant. He tugged fretfully at the jacket of what he called his town suit, a charcoal-grey chalk stripe.

“All because of a measly letter, too,” he added to himself for good measure. “Rotten poor show on the Mem’s part. And someone she doesn’t even know.” Because, it was true, he had remembered far too late that “Loopy” Drinkwater and he had been messmates before his secondment to General Bollingsworth’s staff in KL and therefore before the advent of Mrs. Maj. Garside, nee Hetty Bollingsworth. “Well, I don’t care. Don’t know that I won’t give her a bit of cold shoulder of my own.”

And with that cheering if deeply implausible thought, he left the house. At least the Memsahib had left the garage doors and the main gates open for him when she left in her Morris shooting brake.

Before leaving, he took a stroll around the orchard, or what he liked to call the orchard, to take a roll call of the Ribstone Pippins and the Cox’s Orange. In fact, there were barely twenty trees, but it was a pleasant quarter-acre or so, to which Jimbo frequently escaped when the Mem was out of sorts, or to smoke a last cigar before turning in. The whole property was bounded by a high wall of venerable weathered red brick, built when the house and grounds were owned by the local squire. This gave Jimbo the pleasant feeling of being in a fortified place, and kept the villagers out. Not that the villagers often wanted to come in, especially when the Mem was out of sorts.

He drove his ancient Rover out of the high wooden gates, which he religiously closed lest the underclasses should gawp importunately at the imposing frontage of Dar-es-Salaam, a habit which the Mem was intent on stamping out. Driving down the lane which led to the main village street and then to the station, Jimbo tried to remember the last occasion on which he and Loopy Drinkwater had soldiered together.

“Singapore,” Jimbo said aloud, hastily returning the salute of Sergeant Bosworth, who comprised the sole and entire police presence in Handlebury, “Singapore is where it was. Dear old Loopy. Wonder what he’s doing now.”

At half-past nine three mornings later, someone pulled the vast iron handle at the front door of Dar-es-Salaam, which rang the equally monumental bell in the hall.

Jimbo was alone in the kitchen at that time, the Mem having gone off to one of her W.I. meetings to plan the logistics of preparing rhubarb tarts and apple turnovers with which they were later due to pelt an under-secretary of state for agriculture as a protest against something. Peltings were a regular and popular activity for the members of the Handlebury W.I., which was viewed by most competent authorities as a Home Counties version of the Shining Path.

Jimbo had just put his dishes neatly in the sink for Mrs. Whipple, their cleaning lady and occasional cook, and was vaguely planning his morning, when the bell rang. He went to the door.

The figure who greeted him on the doorstep was a slight man in a violently green suit and a brown trilby. He had a narrow face, close-set eyes, and a traplike mouth surmounted by a bristly ginger moustache. Jimbo looked at him.

“Jimbo!” said the man, “Jimbo, after all these years! It’s me, ol’ man. It’s Loopy! Loopy Drinkwater! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your old messmate.”

“Good God,” said Jimbo. “Good God. Loopy, can it really be you?”

“None other, ol’ man. Was in the neighbourhood, saw your picket lines, and thought I’d respond to your kind invitation.”

Indeed, now Jimbo realised that there was a brown suitcase standing at the other man’s feet.

“Good God,” he said. “Good God.”

“Aren’t yer going to ask a chap in, then, Jimbo?”

Jimbo stood aside dumbly and waved the man in. To tell the truth, he was shocked at the change in his old friend and messmate. Loopy had lost at least forty pounds in weight and an inch in height. He must have been through it a bit, thought Jimbo, seen some hard times. The same hard times had also apparently caused a pronounced strabismus in his right eye.

“Good God, Loopy,” said Jimbo, “you’ve changed a bit, I must say, ol’ man.”

“Been through the mill a bit, Jimbo, since we last raised a glass.” Loopy put down his suitcase by the hall stand. “When was that, by the way? I’ve been trying to think.”

“Singapore,” said Jimbo, “Singapore. I was trying to remember myself only the other day.”

“Ah,” said Loopy, “Singapore. That’s it. It’s coming back to me now. Gin Slings in the Long Bar at Raffles, wasn’t it? Speaking of which—”

“Come through,” said Jimbo, “and I’ll show you the rest of the old place.”

“Show me to the drinks tray, ol’ man, that’s all I need at the moment.”

So Jimbo led Loopy into the sitting room and sat him down in an armchair by the empty fireplace, then prepared a stiff brandy and soda for Loopy and a much weaker one for himself. He wondered what the Mem was going to have to say about this. Spirits at half-past nine. Oh, Lord.

He sat down in another armchair and raised his glass.

“Mud in yer eye,” said Loopy, and swigged, which did not prevent the rogue eye from fixing Jimbo unnervingly over the rim of the glass.

“I can’t get over how you’ve changed, ol’ man,” said Jimbo. “I hardly recognised you.”

“Well, ol’ man, that’s what wars do for yer. Knock yer about a bit. Knock bits off yer.”

“But you’re retired now, Loopy, surely.”

“Oh, a chap with his wits about him can always find someone to come up with the dibs,” said Loopy, smiling at Jimbo to reveal brownish teeth. “Experience. ’S what they’re short of, yer see. Specially in Africa and the Asias.”

Jimbo nodded slowly. “Well, Loopy, it’s jolly nice to see you again. After all this time.”

“Could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw yer letter in Man o’ War,” said Loopy. “I thought, have to look old Jimbo up one of these days and accept his kind invitation. And lo and behold, few days later, where should I be, arranging a bit of business, but in the locality. And here we are.”

Jimbo’s heart was sinking.

“Absolutely delighted, ol’ man,” he said. A lie. “And the Mem’ll be absolutely delighted, too.” An outrageous lie. And demonstrably so that evening when the Mem walked into the kitchen, flushed from tart-throwing and with the light of battle still in her eyes, to find the worthy Mrs. Whipple preparing potatoes in a vicious, tight-lipped, I-never-saw-the-like sort of way. She also found, in a sitting room filled with a disgusting blue fog, two men who reeked of spirits and who had quite clearly been drinking all day.

When she walked in, Jimbo immediately jumped to his feet.

“Gah,” he said, without knowing exactly why, “Hetty, my dearest, look who’s come to see us.” He had a dangerous colour, did Jimbo, and his movements were not those of a man in full command of himself. “Allow me ter introduce dear old Captain Drinkwater. Dear old Loopy, this is my dear old wife.” This last did not go down as well as it might have.

They looked at each other. The Mem saw a hideous suit, unnecessarily green, crumpled up in an armchair like a badly-wrapped parcel. Inside it was a small ratlike individual who seemed to be not so much wearing the suit as leaking very slowly out of it. Loopy, seeing a large woman with grey hair like steel wool, piercing blue eyes, not entirely unprotruding, and a chin like a Russian Navy icebreaker, knew instantly what those Easter Island johnnies had been banging on about.

Loopy clambered out of his armchair and approached the Mem in what could only be described as a controlled fall. He put out his hand.

“Ter meetcher, Mrs. Jimbo,” he said. “Jimbo’s been tellin’ me all aboutcher, the lucky bounder. Have ter say he didn’t do yer justice.”

The Mem took the very tips of two of his fingers in her hand and gave them the tiniest shake.

“And to what,” she said, “do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Jimbo’s been kind enough to offer me a cot in your splendid residence for a night or two.”

Jimbo jumped in.

“Least we can do, Hetty, old thing,” he said, “seein’ as Loopy’s in the neighbourhood on business.”

“Really?” The Mem was clearly in the grip of some strong emotion and her tone could have stripped paint. “And what sort of business might that be, Captain Drinkwater? If one might ask.”

Loopy tapped the side of his nose and eyed her slyly, while at the same time, she noticed, also eyeing the fireplace.

“Buyin’ and sellin’,” he said, “can’t say more, y’understand. Other parties involved. Wouldn’t be aboveboard.”

“Quite,” said Jimbo, “quite understand.”

“Well,” said the Mem, “that is more than I do. Dinner will be at eight sharp. James, show Captain Drinkwater to his room. The Blue Room, I think. And we do not smoke in the bedrooms, Captain.”

When Jimbo set down the battered suitcase in the Blue Room, Loopy gave the bed a practice bounce.

“I think your wife’s rather taken to me, ol’ man.”

Jimbo stared at him fuzzily.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I think you might be right.”

Dinner that night at eight sharp was a fairly silent affair. Jimbo’s attempts to engender and prolong conversation met with scant encouragement, and his gallant efforts to summon up the jolly ghosts of shared times past met with groping responses from Loopy and frigid disinterest from the Mem.

Over the soup, Jimbo tried desperately to whip up some brio.

“I say, Loopy,” he said, “do you still do the old painting? Loopy,” he explained to the Mem, “used to be a dab hand with the old watercolours.”

“Really,” said the Mem, clearly not believing it for a moment.

Loopy shook his head.

“Gave it up, ol’ man. The old peepers not up to it anymore.” He waved a fork dangerously close to the organs in question.

“Pity, that,” Jimbo said. “I was thinking you could have painted the Mem’s portrait.”

“Nothing would have tickled me more,” said Loopy, fixing them both earnestly, one eye each, “than to immortalise Mrs. Jimbo’s classic beauty, but alas, Dame Fortune has dealt me a measly hand, the old cow.”

Following this, silence fell again, until with no warning, halfway through the feast, Loopy began, between and through mouthfuls of roast beef, a series of off-colour reminiscences which to Jimbo seemed singularly ill-chosen for the company. He was supported in this opinion by the Mem, who, throughout the entire sequence, remained absolutely still, eyes closed and wattles quivering. At the end of the meal, which came none too soon, the Mem announced her intention of speaking to Mrs. Whipple about tasks for the following day, rose, and left the room. Loopy looked after her.

“I say, ol’ man, I hope I didn’t offend Mrs. Jimbo in any way.”

“Good God, no. Didn’t notice a thing, I’m sure,” said Jimbo with an unconvincing laugh, as he thought about the reception the Mem was preparing for him. A roasting, this time, he thought. Cold shoulder was painful, but roastings were pure hell.

The Mem had noticed. And she noticed lots more things in the days that followed. Because Loopy’s lightning visit turned out to be not as lightning as all that. But as Jimbo told her, sometimes business can take longer to transact than you thought. And she told him that, according to Mrs. Whipple, Loopy’s business seemed to consist largely of loafing outside billiard halls and public houses with assorted louche individuals.

“He has been seen in Cambridge,” said the Mem, “being extremely coarse on the public footpath.”

“Chap’s a right to relax a bit after he’s been doing business all day.”

But the Mem was having none of it. With disconcerting speed, she changed the subject. She could turn on a sixpence, the Mem could.

“In any case, you will have the goodness to ask him to stop calling me Mrs. Jimbo. My nerves are in absolute shreds. Another thing: What gives him the right to take your car to go off and do his bits of so-called business? And, I might add, to do hand-brake turns into the drive at three o’clock in the morning, the worse for drink, I have no doubt.”

“Chap’s got a right to some transport, Hetty,” said Jimbo defensively. He too had heard Loopy’s erratic entries but had, with characteristic generosity, put it all down to boyish high spirits.

“And I,” said the Mem, taking no prisoners, “have the right to know why your so-called Captain Drinkwater wears his hat indoors. A hat, moreover, which is lined with BacoFoil, I happen to know.”

It was true, Jimbo had noticed that Loopy wore his trilby in the house. Except at mealtimes, of course. An odd habit, but a chap who had been through it a bit had the right to the occasional odd habit.

“BacoFoil?” he said, trying a flanking move. “I didn’t know we had any in the house.”

“We do not,” said the Mem. “Mrs. Whipple and I are against the use of aluminium in the preparation of food. It is a deadly poison. Which means that your Captain Drinkwater has smuggled it into the house.”

“Righto,” said Jimbo vaguely, beating a retreat, “see what I can do.”

Tell you one thing, Jimbo said to himself that night. Life With Loopy might be a pain, but it’s never boring. He realised that he was quite looking forward to the next Loopy outrage, and even to the roasting that would ineluctably follow it, as the night the day.

Loopy had been in residence for about three weeks when Jimbo returned home from a meeting with his bank manager and lunch at the RAC. He garaged the car and went into the kitchen, where he found the Mem sprawled full-length, facedown on the floor. He thought at first that the Mem was playing some sort of prank on him, but on reflection recalled that this sort of jape was not her style at all.

“Good Lord,” he said, “Good Lord.”

He had not had much experience with death, but he had had enough to know that this excessive stillness was not a sign of bouncing good health.

“Hetty,” he said tentatively, “Hetty? It’s James here. How goes it, old thing?”

But there was no answer from the floor.

“Oh Lord,” he said, and left the kitchen, feeling rather weak around the old knees.

He went into the sitting room, went straight across to the drinks tray, and poured himself a stiff brandy, which he downed in one. He poured himself another, and then became aware that Loopy was sitting in an armchair, suited and trilbied, reading the Sporting Times and smoking a cigar.

“I say, Loopy,” he said. “I say, I’ve had a bit of a blow.”

Loopy looked up.

“Oh, yes?” he said. “And what’s that then, ol’ man?”

Jimbo sat down heavily on the sofa. “Just found the Mem in the kitchen. Lying on the floor. Stretched out. Like this.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to give Loopy some idea of the posture. He took another gulp of brandy. “There’s blood, too. Gave me a hell of a turn, I can tell you. Bit of a blow this, and no mistake.”

Loopy looked at him vaguely.

“Sorry, ol’ man, I was miles away,” he said. “The Mem? Ah yes, that was probably me, I expect.”

“You, Loopy? What on earth do you mean?”

“Caught her going through my doings,” said Loopy. “Came home, went upstairs, and there she was going through my suitcase. She’d picked the locks with a hairpin. Going through my doings, cool as you like.”

Jimbo was aghast. “With a hairpin?” He didn’t know the Mem possessed any hairpins, and he had certainly never suspected that she had burglarial leanings. Well, there you are, he thought, you think you know someone.

“I challenged her, of course, as any man would in the circs, but she simply swep’ out of the room. I caught up with her in the kitchen. She turned very nasty, very nasty indeed. Grabbed a fish-slice and came at me. Lucky I happened to have your shovel with me. Good shovel you’ve got there, Jimbo. Sturdy and reliable. Spear & Jackson. A fine brand, none better.”

Jimbo stared at him. Mental pictures of what had evidently been a pitched battle in the kitchen swirled muddily in his imagination.

“Good Lord, Loopy. Good Lord. I mean to say — well, good Lord.”

“A homicidal maniac, if you want my honest opinion. She was handling that fish-slice thing like a trained killer. Could have had my tripes out in no time flat but for a trick or two I picked up from the wily Masai. Good job you’ve got a good-sized kitchen, too, space for a really good swing. In a smaller room, I’d have been a goner.”

“I admit, Loopy, she had her little ways, but — good Lord.”

Jimbo saw that he had emptied his second glass of brandy. He got up and went to the drinks table.

“Thing is,” he said, half to himself, pouring yet another brandy, “how to explain it? I mean, it’s got to be explained, hasn’t it? Explanations have to be given.”

“My view, your best bet is a domestic accident,” said Loopy. “Happens all the time. Fifty percent of all accidents happen in the home.”

“Domestic accident?” said Jimbo.

Loopy got up and came across to pour a drink for himself.

“Need a bit of dressing up, of course.”

“But Loopy, what sort of domestic accident?”

“Well,” Loopy went and sat down again, “speaking off the top of my head, you understand, I think the best thing is, we lug the guts outside and prop a ladder against the side of the house.”

“Yes?” Good old Loopy. A ray of hope glimmered through the darkness.

“Tragic story, all too common. Picture the scene. The cat climbs up onto the roof, gets stuck, wedged in the chimney, something like that, cats do it all the time. The Mem, wanting to rescue the little bugger, gets the ladder, clambers up to the roof. The cat panics, comes over vicious, I’ve known some like that, and turns on her. The Mem tries to prevent her unprotected gullet from being ripped out by the slashing claws and the ravening fangs, leans backwards, and there you are. Wallop, Mrs. Cox. Bob’s yer uncle.”

Jimbo shook his head slowly. The light at the end of the tunnel was receding again.

“Loopy, it just won’t hold water. We don’t have a cat. We’ve never had a cat.”

Loopy spoke slowly and clearly as if to a backward child.

“Well, go and buy one.” He looked at his watch with one of his eyes. “You’ve got time, if you step on it. Or perhaps you might hire one, seeing as it’s only pro tem. Failing that, you could pinch one. There’s thousands of the little sods about in the village. I ran one over just the other day.”

Jimbo felt as though he were trying to fold a newspaper in a high wind.

“But the Mem can’t — couldn’t stand cats, Loopy. Couldn’t abide them. Wouldn’t have them in the house.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but just for the moment, she doesn’t have much of a vote, far as I can see.”

“No, Loopy.” Jimbo sat down again. “It’s not on. Nobody would ever believe that the Mem was shinning up the side of the house trying to rescue a moggy.”

Loopy sighed and picked up his Sporting Times.

“Well, then, ol’ man, I really don’t know what to suggest.” He spoke with the air of someone who had done all that mortal man could do to help a difficult and obtuse friend out of a nasty hole but was now, regretfully, washing his hands of the whole affair.

“Oh Lord,” said Jimbo.

He was not a tremendously bright man, the simple soldier, but one thing he did know was, in circumstances like these, you had to tell someone.

“I’ll have to tell someone,” he said. “The police. Or someone.”

“Wouldn’t do that, ol’ man,” said Loopy sharply from behind the Sporting Times. “Leads to all sorts of things. You’ll have snoopers and sniffers round here in a brace of shakes, digging and prying. It can lead to all sorts of things. You never know where it’s all going to end. Take it from one what knows. Don’t do it.”

“But Loopy, it’s what people do in cases like this.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit selfish, ol’ man? Thinking about yourself a bit there, aren’t you? What about me? I think you might give a thought to an old chum before you go rushing off in all directions and dropping him into seven kinds of ca-ca.”

Jimbo was in a torment of indecision. His duty was to tell someone, he knew that perfectly well. But Loopy was right. How could he do that if it meant doing the dirty on a pal?

“But what else is there, Loopy?” he said in distress. “We can’t just leave the poor old Mem lying there on the kitchen floor.”

Loopy put down his paper. “Tell you what, though,” he said, “there’s always the orchard. It’s nice there. She’d like it there.”

Jimbo thought about it. Trust dear old Loopy to come up with the goods. That was the thing to do, all right. As a purely temporary wheeze, until something better suggested itself, it was A-one.

Even with the peerless Spear & Jackson shovel and Jimbo’s faithful old trenching tool, it took them a good three hours to dig an appropriate hole and lay the Mem in it, wrapped in an Afghan rug she had always prized. They had almost finished filling in the hole when Jimbo had a belated and ghastly thought. He looked at his watch.

“Gosh,” he said, “I’d better get a move on and clean up the kitchen. Mrs. Whipple will be coming along any moment.”

Loopy stopped filling and leaned on his shovel. “Damn, blast, and a thousand buckets of excrement,” he said mildly, “I knew there was something I’d forgotten.”

“What’s that?” Jimbo said.

“Oh, nothing, really. Simply that your Old Mother Whipple just had to wander in this afternoon, damn her eyes, the nosey old bat, exactly at the wrong moment, talk about your rotten luck. Completely slipped my mind, curse it.”

Jimbo had a feeling of weary dread.

“I suppose—?”

Loopy nodded. “She’s in the laundry cupboard.”

Jimbo sighed. Oh, Lord. Better not put off until tomorrow.

There was quite an animated discussion apropos Mrs. Whipple. Loopy was all for simply scraping a couple of feet of earth off the top of the Mem and putting her there. Jimbo was adamant that this would not be seemly or dignified for either of them. His view prevailed, and they gave Mrs. Whipple her very own hole. Night had fallen long before the end, and they finished off by the light of a Tilley lamp, patting down the newly replaced turf.

Jimbo looked at the two patches of grass. Closer together now in death than they had ever been in life, he thought, and was pleased with the notion.

Loopy scraped the earth off the spade with a scrap of grass.

“Mess call,” he said. “I could eat a horse.”

Jimbo realised that he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. He was ravenous.

In the kitchen, Loopy foraged in fridge and cupboard and, using a variety of ingredients, cooked up something he called Stromboli, a violent and unforgiving dish, which made Jimbo’s eyeballs mist up on the inside. They sat at the kitchen table and ate. Jimbo had a thought.

“I say,” he said, “people’ll be asking questions, though.”

Loopy paused with his mouth full. “Questions about what, ol’ man?”

“The Mem. And what about Mrs. Whipple?”

“Deny all knowledge,” said Loopy. “Tell ’em to sling their hooks.”

“There’s the Mem’s W. I. lot, for one thing. They’re a nosey bunch. They’ll be wanting to know what’s happened to her.”

“Easy. You say she’s gone off,” said Loopy, “gone off for a little break. To see an old friend. Who’s sickly. Unto death. Something lingering. Don’t know when she’ll be back, sickly lingering friend doesn’t have a telephone. Don’t bang the door on yer way out.”

“Ah,” said Jimbo. “Yes, I suppose. But there’s her car.”

Loopy tapped his nose.

“Leave it to me,” he said. “Know a bloke.”

Good old Loopy. There was a chap you could really depend on.

But Jimbo was still uneasy. People would be bound to come asking questions. He said so.

Loopy looked at him seriously. The wandering eye was more errant than ever.

“Only one way to deal with peepers and pryers,” he said. “Give ’em short shrift. Tell ’em to bugger off. If some enemy ever comes sliding round here, pretending to know me, or pretending to be me, it’s been known, they’re tricky little sods, you see ’em off the property at the end of a fowling piece.”

“Enemy?” said Jimbo, confused. “What sort of enemy would that be, Loopy?”

“Been in some strange spots, done some odd things for the Old Country. You can’t do that without running across some touchy sorts, easily vexed, some of them. Quite possible some of them might pop round to do me down and do the Old Country down. If they do, see ’em off, Jimbo, there’s a good man.”

“Right,” said Jimbo, more confused than ever, but willing to help a chum out. “Right, old chap.”

He slept in one of the spare rooms that night. The thought of sleeping in the master bedroom gave him the ab-dabs. He had an uncomfortable night. The sheets were cold and a little damp, and thoughts swirled around in his head until in the early hours they began to swirl round like water going down a plughole and the simple soldier slept.

When he rose the next morning, the house was deserted. There was no sign of Loopy. And he wondered distractedly why there was no sign or sound of the Mem until the memories of the previous night swept over him.

He made some tea and ate some toast in the kitchen without enthusiasm. He wandered upstairs to get dressed, entering the large bedroom with trepidation. He found, as he opened the wardrobe, that all the Mem’s clothes had disappeared. Her half was a void jangling with empty clothes hangers.

“All the Mem’s frocks,” he said, “gone, every last one. Rum do, that.” And when he later patrolled the house, he found that everything of the Mem’s had gone. Everything. All her bits and pieces from the dressing table and the bathroom. Even her Morris had gone from the garage, he realised when he went out to get some air.

He went to find Loopy, but found that the door to the Blue Room had acquired the largest padlock Jimbo had ever seen. The door was also now decorated with a metal plate, apparently the property of Electricite de France, which told him to Defense d’Entrer. He did exactly as he was told.

Loopy did not reappear for three days. But when he walked up the drive at three o’clock in the afternoon and let himself into the house, he found Jimbo still in dressing-gown and pyjamas sitting in an armchair. He had a heavy beard and his hair was dishevelled.

Loopy said, “I say, ol’ man, we’ve let ourselves go a bit, haven’t we?” He had abandoned the green suit in favour of a three-piece in natty maroon. He was also sporting a new watch that looked like a gold donut and his tie was secured by a pin with a horse’s head on it. The trilby was still present.

Jimbo had let himself go a bit. He’d had an absolutely rotten three days, wandering about the house, pacing the empty rooms with no one to talk to except himself, which he had begun to do quite a lot and quite early on. He had also had a horrible shock. A postcard had arrived, that very morning, bearing a sunny picture of Weston-super-Mare. The writing on the card, which was difficult to read in places since it had been smudged by a circular mark, perhaps from a wet glass, read: “Dear Jimbo, I have run away from you to Join A Sect. Do not try to find me or it will be the Worse for you. They have given me the Love you have always Denyed me you rotten bastard. Do Not Try To Find Me. All my Love, Hetty Garside (The Mem). PS. Give my best to old Loopy who is a rough diamond but a good sort.”

As Jimbo read this, his brain was trying to climb up the inside of his skull. What in the world could this mean? The Mem didn’t know anybody in Weston-super-Mare. What’s more, she couldn’t stand the place. And what sort of sect could you find anyway in Weston-super-Mare? He had spent the rest of the day in a confused half-trance.

He now showed the postcard to Loopy, who looked it over, and then looked at him.

“Well, that sort of puts the lid on it, doesn’t it, ol’ man?” said Loopy. “Enough there to satisfy any peeping prying bastards who come sniffing around. I’d say you’re in the clear, ol’ man.”

Jimbo nodded and stared at the card again, shaking his head.

“It’s just a bit of a shock, Loopy, that’s all. I mean, Weston-super-Mare of all places.”

Loopy considered him for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “well, there’s no accounting for tastes, is there? As the bishop said to the actress. Now, I think it’s off to the ablutions with you, Jimbo. Can’t have you lounging about idle on parade like this. Meantime, I’ll knock together a good helping of Stromboli. That’ll put the lead back in yer pencil. Yer need feeding up a bit.”

Jimbo looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. He did need feeding up a bit, he thought. His cheeks had lost their former chubbiness, there were circles under his eyes, and his moustache had run riot. He would have to pull himself together. He would also have to do something about the rather worrying fits of involuntary, high-pitched laughter which had come on quite suddenly and inexplicably two days before. Just the very thought of these giggling fits brought on a fresh bout of cackling, until he spoke sharply to himself, regarded the other Jimbo sternly in the mirror, came to attention, and prepared to shave.

In the days that followed, life at Dar-es-Salaam settled down into an even if rather outlandish pattern. Jimbo found that life with Loopy rather suited him. Loopy did the cooking, consisting principally of variations on Stromboli and another equally sullen dish called Idi Amin’s Revenge, while Jimbo went shopping for whatever vittles were needed and yet another case of Martell. Their evenings were spent cosily in the sitting room over a bottle of brandy, playing a card game that Loopy favoured called Dead Rats, which was played with three and a half decks of cards and had Byzantine rules that Jimbo never fully understood, which cost him dear.

They were, Jimbo often thought, like any other old couple. Except, of course, for the odd occasion when Jimbo fell to giggling and had to be slapped out of it. But they accommodated these little upsets.

“Goo’ night, ol’ man,” Loopy would say at the end of one of their evenings, weaving his way up to the Blue Room.

“Sleep well, Loopy,” Jimbo would affectionately say, leaving him at the head of the stairs to head for the master bedroom, quietly burping Stromboli and musing that he didn’t know what he’d have done without dear old Loopy to help him through the dark days following the Mem’s sudden departure. Weston-super-Mare. Of all places.

Several days later, Jimbo came back from town and a lunch with his broker at the Traveller’s Club during which he had, over the steak and kidney, unaccountably fallen to shrieking with helpless laughter, while his mortified lunch partner tried his best to dematerialise and the other members and their guests eyed him nervously and tried to estimate the distance to the door.

Jimbo picked up the Rover in the station car park and drove into the village, intending to call on Dr. Caldicot to ask him if he could do something to stop this bloody giggling, but found that the surgery was closed. He discovered why when he entered his drive and saw first of all an old grey Austin blocking half the garage, and second of all, Loopy at the end of the garden.

Loopy advanced towards him. He was in shirtsleeves and very sweaty. He was carrying the Spear & Jackson shovel.

“Well, look what the cat’s dragged in. I say, Jimbo,” he said testily, as Jimbo climbed out of the car, “you might tell a chap when you’re going to be late back to camp. I’ve had a hell of a time all by myself. You might think of other people a bit, you know. Bloody selfish, I call it.”

Jimbo was mortified. “Loopy,” he said, “I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea.”

“Well, now you’re here, you can come and help me finish off.” Loopy led Jimbo to the orchard, where Jimbo saw two new patches of freshly turned earth.

“Just have to put back the turf, that’s all. Not too much to ask, I hope?” said Loopy with heavy sarcasm.

Jimbo stared at the patches of earth.

“No, of course not. But Loopy, what on earth...?”

“You might well ask, ol’ man. Only somebody pretending to be the brother of Old Mother Whipple, accompanied by somebody making himself out to be a local doctor.”

“I didn’t know Mrs. Whipple had a brother.”

“Almost certainly doesn’t. This blighter had professional snooper written all over him. And the so-called doctor. No more a doctor than my left boot. Tried him with some simple questions about beriberi and yellow jack and he was floundering. Patent imposture. They gave me a lot of old toffee about the old Whipple not having turned up for a bit and not having taken her medicine. But I saw through them. The whole thing was laughable. Talk about your transparent tissue of lies. Make a cat laugh.”

“Good Lord,” said Jimbo, “so what happened?”

“When they started getting violent I had to calm them down slightly.”

“God, Loopy, you don’t mean—”

“Well, perhaps I overdid it a bit. But what the hell can you do when two bruisers force their way into your home unasked and start to beat you up?”

The idea of Dr. Caldicot, who was a frail seventy-two, paper-thin and myopic, as a bruiser interested Jimbo. There must have been more to the old boy than people made out.

“Good Lord,” he said, “what on earth can have possessed him?”

“Beats me,” said Loopy. “Now can we get this turf back down? I hate muddle and mess.”

When Jimbo put the Rover in the garage, he peered into the so-called doctor’s car, and saw that there was a so-called doctor’s bag on the passenger seat. Here’s a turn-up, he thought, it’s an ill wind. There was bound to be something here. He opened the bag. In it there were many containers of tablets of all sorts and sizes. There was no pill box marked specifically Just the Job for the Giggles, as he was hoping there might be, but that night he took what seemed to him to be a reasonable handful of different colours and persuasions with his last swig of brandy.

The next seventy-two hours was a strange and drifting twilight time during which he lay in bed, half sleeping, half not, dazed by the play of coloured lights in the air around his bed and with an incessant carillon in his ears. There were also hallucinations. He awoke several times to hear what seemed to be raised voices, and a repeated, metallic clanging. And at one point, with his mouth full of cotton, he rose, went down to the kitchen, and poured a glass of water. Through the kitchen window, he could see, reflecting redly either the sunrise or the sunset, a police car. He smiled knowingly, finished the water, curled up on the kitchen floor in his pyjamas, and went to sleep.

He was woken on the third day by bright daylight, the sun streaming through the windows. He climbed slowly and painfully to his feet and hobbled out of the kitchen door in bare feet. The police car must have been a hallucination, because it had gone. But Loopy was there, in the sunlit orchard, digging at the bottom of a new trench right next to the Mem. Well, no, not next to the Mem, was it, because the Mem was in Weston. Well, no, she was here, but — not really here. Jimbo’s mind tried to split in two as it did when he tried to tackle these thoughts.

Jimbo said, “Morning, Loopy. I say, what day is it?”

Loopy stopped digging, leaned on the spade, and squinted up at Jimbo. “Defaulters’ Parade,” he said. “Caps off, face front. Welcome back the Sleeping Beauty. I must say, Jimbo, you disappoint me a bit.” He was stripped to the waist but wearing the ever-present trilby. Jimbo wondered vaguely, given this baking heat and the trilby’s BacoFoil lining, what the temperature inside Loopy’s skull might be.

“Why’s that then, Loopy?” Jimbo looked about him. There seemed to be more patches of replaced turf scattered around between the Ribstones and the Cox’s Orange than he remembered. He counted eight, eventually, because he lost count twice and had to start all over again.

“I say, I thought I saw a police car last night. Or was it the night before?” said Jimbo.

“Oh yes,” said Loopy, “it’s been come one, come all here while you were snoring like a pig and while I was trying to handle everything alone. All alone without a friend to help me.” He looked around him in the hole he had dug. “I think that’ll do. Give me a hand out, will you?”

Jimbo helped him out of the hole.

“Who are all these?” he said, waving a hand at the fresh patches.

“Assorted sniffers and snoopers,” said Loopy.

“Speaking as a friend,” Jimbo said, picking his way carefully through the confused contents of his head, “I think you may have to slow down a bit, ol’ man.”

“Now look, Jimbo,” said Loopy, “I hope you’re not implying that I’m one of those whatchermacallits — serious killers. Just happened to have a bit of an imbroglio with intruders, is all. Could happen to anyone. Lucky I happened to be here. You’d have been murdered in yer bed, in yer regimental pyjamas.”

“But Loopy,” Jimbo began.

“See here, ol’ man, you’re starting to irritate me. It’s beginning to sound to me like you’re on their side.” Loopy appeared het-up. He stumped off through the trees, giving each of the fresh mounds a clout with the shovel. “Look at ’em and tell me if you ever saw the like. Spies and snoopers every one. And obviously all in cahoots.” Bang. “Person from the parish council, apparently. Saw through him straight off.” Bang. “Copper, or said he was a copper. Believe that, you’ll believe anything.”

Oh Lord. Sergeant Bosworth, Jimbo thought woozily.

Bang. “So-called friend of the so-called Whipple family.” Bang. “So-called secretary of soi-disant doctor. See what you’re up against, Jimbo? A gang of snoopers and spies out to get you no matter what. They’re everywhere, Jimbo. They eavesdrop through the fireplaces and they send secret messages through the electric, as you’d know if you listened carefully to your fridge at night. And then they come creeping around pretending to be people. The good news is that the used-car market’s picked up quite a bit recently.”

“Who’s this one for, Loopy?” asked Jimbo. He was standing on the edge of the hole.

“Ah,” said Loopy craftily, tapping the side of his nose, “that’s the question, isn’t it? In any case, it’s no use leaving things till the last minute. If there’s one thing I learned at staff college, it’s that.”

“I can see that,” said Jimbo mildly, “but really and truly, old chap, you might have to think about easing up a little.”

He turned and looked down into the new hole.

“With you, Jimbo, I thought I had found sanctuary,” said Loopy, behind him, “but now it turns out you were in league with them all along.”

Jolly fine hole, Jimbo thought, the sides and edges all square and straight.

“Must say, very neat work, Loopy,” he said, and turned to find that Loopy was galloping towards him through the orchard, clearly trying to swat a bothersome wasp with the upraised shovel. Jimbo stepped sideways to give him room to work, but Loopy continued to head straight towards him.

“I say,” said Jimbo, “you ought to be a bit—” He never finished the sentence. The toe of Loopy’s boot caught in a loose square of the Mem’s turf, which had come unaccountably dislodged. His run continued, but now there was more stumble content. He stopped dead at the edge of the new hole, clearly thinking about jumping it to use up his momentum, but it was too late, his upper body was already on the way. He looked briefly at Jimbo with intense irritation, said, “Dammit,” then fell across the hole at attention, still holding the shovel at port-arms, until he was stopped by his chin hitting the far side. There was a dull, very final-sounding crack. He hung there in a perfect curve like a suspension bridge, the insteps of his boots on one side of the hole and his chin on the other. His arms hung down below him, his hands still clenched on the shovel.

Oh Lord.

Jimbo walked round to look him in the face. Loopy’s eyes were open, and Jimbo saw that the strangest thing had happened.

“I say, your squint’s gone, Loopy ol’ man,” he said. And it was true, Loopy’s eyes were now as straight as anybody’s. They were staring past Jimbo’s shoulder out of the Here into the Somewhere Else.

“Well, this is a facer,” said Jimbo. “Poor old Loopy. Came to pay your last respects and stayed to share them.”

He sat for a while on the side of the hole next to Loopy, humming and swinging his legs and musing on nothing in particular. When he next looked about him it was dark and seemed to have been for some time.

“This is no good,” he said to Loopy, “have to get this squared away.”

He went up to the house to find the Tilley lamp. And then he went up to the Blue Room and collected Loopy’s suitcase. He did not open it. One did not rummage through another chap’s doings, after all. Back at the hole, he had to climb down inside to retrieve the shovel from Loopy’s deathly grip.

Once out, Jimbo went round to Loopy’s feet side. He was careful to stamp down the turf on the Mem’s hole, because it was clear you still had to watch yourself when she was around. Well, no, she wasn’t around, was she? She was in Weston. He waved a mental hand at the flies that filled his brain, gripped Loopy firmly by the ankles, and pulled. Loopy’s chin slipped from its hold and his upper body fell down towards the bottom of the hole, but Jimbo, with a soldier’s instinct for these things, had been ready for this, and remained rock-steady. He hauled Loopy out and laid him out reverently.

“Well, Loopy, old comrade,” he said, “this is the end of the trail. Last Post and Lights Out. Pay Parade on the other side. Now hold on tight, ol’ man, this could be a mite bumpy.”

He rolled Loopy into the hole and dropped the suitcase in beside him.

By the time he had finished filling it in, replacing the turf and patting it down to match, then scattering the unused earth around the orchard, the sun was well up, he was grimy, sweaty, and exhausted, and his pyjamas were a perfect disgrace. To cap it all, he found Loopy’s trilby lying behind him on the ground, plain as anything. He sighed, picked it up, and trudged back to the house and into the kitchen. The kitchen clock said half-past eight.

“Good Lord,” he said aloud, “look at that. Eight-thirty. Well, Jimbo, the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the world.” He chucked the trilby on the table and went to the sitting room to pour himself a large restorative snifter of brandy.

He sat down in an armchair, bone-weary, and raised his glass. Well, that was that.

“Here’s to you, Loopy,” he said to the empty air, “happy landings.” And he drank deeply.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh Lord,” he said to the sitting room, “why can’t people leave other people in peace?”

He went to the door, glass in hand. He opened the door. There was a man standing on the top step. Jimbo stared at him. He was shortish and tubbyish, wearing a tweed suit. He had a plump face, moist blue eyes, and a neat moustache. Very much the sort of face, in fact, that Jimbo had owned until recently.

“Yah?” said Jimbo, suppressing a yawn.

“Jimbo!” said the man, beaming pinkly at him. “Jimbo, after all these years! Yer don’t recognise me, do yer, you old bugger. It’s me, old lad, Loopy, Loopy Drinkwater!”

“Right,” said Jimbo, nodding. “Right. Come in.”

“You’re surprised to see me, can’t say I blame yer. Thing is,” said the man, entering and wiping his feet neatly, “we’re in the neighbourhood, the wife and I, on a sort of painting holiday. We’re both still very keen on the old watercolours and you’ve got some first-class countryside round here. We’re putting up at the Blue Boar, the wife’s settling herself in as we speak. I said to the little woman, tell you what, I said, I’ll kill two birds with one stone and pop round and say hello to old Jimbo. Righto, she said, and here I am.”

He looked closely at Jimbo, at the muddied pyjamas and the filthy bare feet.

“Looking a bit seedy, old lad, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He peered at the glass in Jimbo’s hand and sniffed at it. “Aha. Naughty.” He wagged a finger roguishly. “Drinking spirits in the mornin’. I see it all. The better half ’s away, I can tell, and you’ve let yerself run to seed a bit. Done the same myself many a time and oft. And from the look of yer she’s been away some time.”

“Weston-super-Mare,” said Jimbo hoarsely. “Got a postcard. Nice postcard.”

“Weston-super-Mare? Fine place. Well, if she comes home without warning, you’ll get what for. She’ll be wanting to see you clean, bright, and lightly oiled. Come on, old lad, let’s get you sorted out. Where’s yer kitchen? Through here, unless my instincts have deserted me.” And he bustled off down the hall at a smart clip. Jimbo followed him more slowly.

“Good God,” said the other, in the kitchen. Jimbo looked around. He supposed it was in a bit of a state. There were, it was true, many flies, mainly concerning themselves with the immense pile of dirty plates in the sink, and the blackened Stromboli pan on the stove.

“Phew! Let a bit of air in, I think, don’t you?” The man opened the door, and looked out.

“By Jove, damn fine orchard you’ve got there, Jimbo, I must say.” His face was wreathed in a pleased smile. “In fact, you got a damn nice billet all round. Lovely little village. Not a soul about. Lovely and quiet, just the way we like it. Almost deserted, this morning.”

Jimbo stared at him for a moment. He opened his mouth. The other man stood about three seconds of the sounds that were coming in his direction, and then backed away. Just a little.

“Look, old lad,” he said, fitting his words in carefully whenever Jimbo had to take a breath, “I think I’ll take a turn around the garden. Perhaps you might freshen up a bit, change out of those pijjies that have seen better days, and then we can have a little chat and clean the place up a bit. How’d that be?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped out into the garden and walked down to the orchard. Jimbo finished off with thirty seconds of racking whoops and thigh-pounding, and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. He finished his glass of brandy with a gulp, staring at the door, his heart beating with the excitement of it all. His brain was in Spin Cycle.

This was the very thing Loopy had warned him about. Loopy had said this would happen. Loopy had said that one day an Enemy would come with false testimony, trying to do down Loopy and the Old Country. And here he was. What rotten luck, the very day after Loopy had been unavoidably called away.

He stood and went to the door and watched the tubby figure pacing about in the orchard, kicking at the newly laid turf. He had all the hallmarks of a practised snooper. And there were more of them. He had a so-called wife down at the Blue Boar. A snooperess! Well, that was all right. He could handle that. And he wouldn’t be surprised at all if they were both in cahoots with the landlord at the Blue Boar and his wife, who were both known spies and eavesdroppers. Well, he could deal with them, too. And any other henchmen or henchwomen who happened to be about.

Tragically, Loopy had been obliged to let fall the torch for urgent personal reasons, but he, Jimbo, would snatch it up and carry it ever forward. The call had come and whenever the call had come in the past, Jimbo Garside had never been found wanting. He would not be found wanting now.

He picked up Loopy’s trilby from the table and put it on. It was a little small but snug enough. Actually, old Loopy might have been on to something with this BacoFoil wheeze of his, because the ringing in his head seemed to diminish instantly. He stepped outside and picked up the faithful shovel from where it leaned against the kitchen wall, right there next to the spot where the Mem had plummeted from a ladder while heroically trying to save a cat.

And with the sound of muted carillons and trumpets in his ears, the simple soldier hitched up his pyjamas, shouldered arms, and walked into the orchard, to begin doing his duty for the Old Country and for Loopy Drinkwater, the best chum a chap could ever wish to have.

Copyright ©; 2005 by Neil Schofield.