The Umbrella Man and Other Stories Read online

  “If only what?” my mother said.

  “If only you would give me in return a pound for my taxi fare just to get me home.”

  My mother was still suspicious. “If you had no money in the first place,” she said, “then how did you get here?”

  “I walked,” he answered. “Every day I go for a lovely long walk and then I summon a taxi to take me home. I do it every day of the year.”

  “Why don’t you walk home now?” my mother asked.

  “Oh, I wish I could,” he said. “I do wish I could. But I don’t think I could manage it on these silly old legs of mine. I’ve gone too far already.”

  My mother stood there chewing her lower lip. She was beginning to melt a bit, I could see that. And the idea of getting an umbrella to shelter under must have tempted her a good deal.

  “It’s a lovely umbrella,” the little man said.

  “So I’ve noticed,” my mother said.

  “It’s silk,” he said.

  “I can see that.”

  “Then why don’t you take it, madam,” he said. “It cost me over twenty pounds, I promise you. But that’s of no importance so long as I can get home and rest these old legs of mine.”

  I saw my mother’s hand feeling for the clasp of her purse. She saw me watching her. I was giving her one of my own frosty-nosed looks this time and she knew exactly what I was telling her. Now listen, Mummy, I was telling her, you simply mustn’t take advantage of a tired old man in this way. It’s a rotten thing to do. My mother paused and looked back at me. Then she said to the little man, “I don’t think it’s quite right that I should take an umbrella from you worth twenty pounds. I think I’d better just give you the taxi fare and be done with it.”

  “No, no no!” he cried. “It’s out of the question! I wouldn’t dream of it! Not in a million years! I would never accept money from you like that! Take the umbrella, dear lady, and keep the rain off your shoulders!”

  My mother gave me a triumphant sideways look. There you are, she was telling me. You’re wrong. He wants me to have it.

  She fished into her purse and took out a pound note. She held it out to the little man. He took it and handed her the umbrella. He pocketed the pound, raised his hat, gave a quick bow from the waist, and said, “Thank you, madam, thank you.” Then he was gone.

  “Come under here and keep dry, darling,” my mother said. “Aren’t we lucky. I’ve never had a silk umbrella before. I couldn’t afford it.”

  “Why were you so horrid to him in the beginning?” I asked.

  “I wanted to satisfy myself he wasn’t a trickster,” she said. “And I did. He was a gentleman. I’m very pleased I was able to help him.”

  “Yes, Mummy,” I said.

  “A real gentleman,” she went on. “Wealthy, too, otherwise he wouldn’t have had a silk umbrella. I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t a titled person. Sir Harry Goldsworthy or something like that.”

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  “This will be a good lesson to you,” she went on. “Never rush things. Always take your time when you are summing someone up. Then you’ll never make mistakes.”

  “There he goes,” I said. “Look.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there. He’s crossing the street. Goodness, Mummy, what a hurry he’s in.”

  We watched the little man as he dodged nimbly in and out of the traffic. When he reached the other side of the street, he turned left, walking very fast.

  “He doesn’t look very tired to me, does he to you, Mummy?”

  My mother didn’t answer.

  “He doesn’t look as though he’s trying to get a taxi, either,” I said.

  My mother was standing very still and stiff, staring across the street at the little man. We could see him clearly. He was in a terrific hurry. He was bustling along the pavement, sidestepping the other pedestrians and swinging his arms like a soldier on the march.

  “He’s up to something,” my mother said, stony-faced.

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know,” my mother snapped. “But I’m going to find out. Come with me.” She took my arm and we crossed the street together. Then we turned left.

  “Can you see him?” my mother asked.

  “Yes. There he is. He’s turning right down the next street.”

  We came to the corner and turned right. The little man was about twenty yards ahead of us. He was scuttling along like a rabbit and we had to walk very fast to keep up with him. The rain was pelting down harder than ever now and I could see it dripping from the brim of his hat on to his shoulders. But we were snug and dry under our lovely big silk umbrella.

  “What is he up to?” my mother said.

  “What if he turns round and sees us?” I asked.

  “I don’t care if he does,” my mother said. “He lied to us. He said he was too tired to walk any further and he’s practically running us off our feet! He’s a barefaced liar! He’s a crook!”

  “You mean he’s not a titled gentleman?” I asked.

  “Be quiet,” she said.

  At the next crossing, the little man turned right again.

  Then he turned left.

  Then right.

  “I’m not giving up now,” my mother said.

  “He’s disappeared!” I cried. “Where’s he gone?”

  “He went in that door!” my mother said. “I saw him! Into that house! Great heavens, it’s a pub!”

  It was a pub. In big letters right across the front it said THE RED LION.

  “You’re not going in are you, Mummy?”

  “No,” she said. “We’ll watch from outside.”

  There was a big plate-glass window along the front of the pub, and although it was a bit steamy on the inside, we could see through it very well if we went close.

  We stood huddled together outside the pub window. I was clutching my mother’s arm. The big raindrops were making a loud noise on our umbrella. “There he is,” I said. “Over there.”

  The room we were looking into was full of people and cigarette smoke, and our little man was in the middle of it all. He was now without his hat and coat, and he was edging his way through the crowd towards the bar. When he reached it, he placed both hands on the bar itself and spoke to the barman. I saw his lips moving as he gave his order. The barman turned away from him for a few seconds and came back with a smallish tumbler filled to the brim with light brown liquid. The little man placed a pound note on the counter.

  “That’s my pound!” my mother hissed. “By golly, he’s got a nerve!”

  “What’s in the glass?” I asked.

  “Whisky,” my mother said. “Neat whisky.”

  The barman didn’t give him any change from the pound.

  “That must be a treble whisky,” my mummy said.

  “What’s a treble?” I asked.

  “Three times the normal measure,” she answered.

  The little man picked up the glass and put it to his lips. He tilted it gently. Then he tilted it higher . . . and higher . . . and higher . . . and very soon all the whisky had disappeared down his throat in one long pour.

  “That’s a jolly expensive drink,” I said.

  “It’s ridiculous!” my mummy said. “Fancy paying a pound for something to swallow in one go!”

  “It cost him more than a pound,” I said. “It cost him a twenty-pound silk umbrella.”

  “So it did,” my mother said. “He must be mad.”

  The little man was standing by the bar with the empty glass in his hand. He was smiling now, and a sort of golden glow of pleasure was spreading over his round pink face. I saw his tongue come out to lick the white moustache, as though searching for one last drop of that precious whisky.

  Slowly, he turned away from the bar and edged his way back through the crowd to where his hat and coat were hanging. He put on his hat. He put on his coat. Then, in a manner so superbly cool and casual that you hardly noticed anything at all, he lifted from the coatrack one