‘What?’ cried Mrs. Rowe.
‘PORNOGRAPHIC NOVELS AND SEX MANUALS.’
‘What about them?’
‘WHETHER WE SHOULD WRITE THEM BY COMPUTER.’
‘Write them by computer? What on earth for?’
‘I know. I know. There’s no earthly reason at all.’
Mrs. Macintosh was stuck with Nobbs. He had trapped her against a table of refreshments, and every time she made as if to move away, he snatched up the peanuts, the crisps, or the cheezeetwiggees, and thrust them in front of her, barring her progress. Every now and then he would charitably toss her an observation on the scene.
‘Funny-looking lot of people, aren’t they?’ he would shout.
‘What’s funny about them?’ Mrs. Macintosh would shout back, trying for humanitarian reasons to save the life of any infant conversation, no matter how unappealing it seemed.
‘I don’t know. They just look a funny lot.’
After a while he would have another go.
‘To me, that is,’ he would shout. ‘But then maybe I’ve just got funny ideas.’
To keep himself going through the long watches between remarks he sucked up frequent handfuls of peanuts. There were two peanuts nesting companionably in his beard. When he had exhausted the subject of the company he turned his attention to the fabric.
‘Weird-looking place this is,’ he shouted. ‘Looks more like a church than a house to me.’
‘I believe it used to be one,’ shouted Mrs. Macintosh.
‘Well, that’s what it looks like,’ confirmed Nobbs graciously. ‘To me.’
Goldwasser got Chiddingfold in his sights again. ‘Hallo,’ said Chiddingfold, with exactly the same note of implausible surprise as before. ‘Good evening, Director,’ said Goldwasser. His heart sank. Conversation was going to have to be made, which was difficult enough in itself, without letting it become apparent to those percipient blue eyes that one was very slightly pooped. He cast wildly about for a topic, but all the topics in the world seemed to dart away from his narrow beam of vision and lose themselves in the roaring confusion at the sides. He held up his empty glass and looked at the light through it judicially for a long time.
‘Well,’ he said at last with great care, ‘first party I’ve been to after which one is able to give as an excuse that one was in church.’
Chiddingfold’s smile increased briefly and subsided again. There, thought Goldwasser, I’ve done it. Perfectly easy. He made his way back to the font quite cheerfully.
In the south chancel Mrs. Haugh was consulting Mrs. Nunn.
‘Never know . . . what one should do . . .’
‘What should one do?’
‘I never know . . .’
‘What?’
‘About Goldwasser . . . very drunk . . .’
‘Very drunk? Goldwasser?’
‘According to Mrs. Plushkov he . . . then . . . and grabbed hold of her.’
‘Goldwasser? Attacked Mrs. Plushkov?’
‘And said . . . terrible things . . .’
‘Foul language, I suppose.’
‘. . . legs . . .’
‘By the legs?’
‘And then . . . teeth . . .’