Free A Fragment of Fear by John Bingham

thought.
    I wasn’t proud of being obstinate. Far from it. I just knew that in some matters I never had the slightest intention of deviating one iota from my intentions. One such matter was Lucy Dawson. That was the streak of Boer blood in me. The trait that got the Boers through the Great Trek, and also into a lot of grave difficulties since.
    Still, it was a great trek while it lasted.
    I jumped like a scalded cat when the ’phone rang again. That’s my trouble, I look phlegmatic, but I’m not, I jump like that well known scalded cat sometimes. I strode over to the telephone and lifted the receiver and said loudly:
    “Well, what do you want now?”
    It was Stanley Bristow, my future father-in-law, ringing to confirm or amend previous engagements for that evening. He was like that, everything had to be checked at least twice.
    “What’s up with you, old boy?” said Stanley Bristow’s snuffly little voice.
    “Sorry, I thought you were somebody else.”
    “Who? Your bookmaker, old boy? Being dunned? Can’t you pay, old boy? You can always plead the Gaming Act, old boy!”
    “No, just somebody else. I’ll tell you sometime. It’s a long story.”
    “Good. And I’ve got a story for you, when I see you, old boy. About a coloured American soldier, and three chorus girls, one Irish, one Scotch, and one English. Remind me to tell you.”
    “I’ll remind you. If you forget, I’ll remind you,” I said.
    “Just a minute. The wife’s gone out of the room. I can probably tell you now, if you like.”
    “Well, there’s somebody downstairs at the door,” I lied.
    Some dirty jokes are funny, but not Stanley’s. Never Stanley’s.
    “All right. I just wanted to say that I’ve had another thought about tonight. I don’t think we’d better go by car.”
    “You don’t?”
    “No, I’ve booked a table at that little place in Charlotte Street. Impossible to park round there, old boy. Taxi’s the only thing.”
    “Taxi,” I repeated.
    “Taxi, old boy. So you could drop Juliet here at five-thirty, after you’ve picked her up at the airport, then drive back to your place and change, and then either drive up here and leave your car here, or come up on foot.”
    “Drive up or come up on foot,” I said patiently.
    “It’s not far to walk, as you know.”
    “No, it’s not far to walk. I must go now.”
    “See you this evening, old boy.”
    The thought of seeing him regularly through the years was appalling. Yet one had to be gentle with him. It seemed to me that there was no malice in the man. In fact, despite the irritation he aroused in me, I felt sorry for him.
    He had recently retired from the post of general manager in a small, but long established firm, which over the decades had slowly evolved from making tin and wooden children’s toys to plastic ones. Stanley said that they might be old-fashioned, but they moved with the times. It was the sort of remark one might expect him to make. He also said they combined the tradition of the past with the spirit of the future. Dear me.
    He had married Elaine Bristow late in life, by which time he had somehow managed to save a good deal of money, and Elaine had a little of her own. What with a small inheritance from a brother, and his pension, and his savings, and Elaine’s money, they were able to live at a reasonable standard in a ground floor flat between Kensington Church Street, and Camden Hill, which is not a cheap area.
    He should have been happy, but I wondered if he was.
    Since his retirement, he had spent most of his time going alone to race meetings, and interesting himself in various Service benevolent organisations, which entailed visiting people and eating and drinking for charity.
    It seemed to be doubtful if he was particularly interested in racing or horses or charity. He was certainly interested in getting out of the house, not that Elaine Bristow actively nagged him. She just treated him with a faint, amused contempt.
    “It is, of course,