A Pack of Lies Read Online Free PDF

Englishmen wore to hunt tigers in the days of the British Empire. He was reading a book propped open on the handlebars. The panniers of the bike were crammed to overspilling with books, and under one arm he carried a large wooden box, lacquered so that it flashed in the light. So engrossed was he in the book that he almost overshot the shop, and had to scuff one shoe noisily along the tarmac to turn and pull up.
    ‘So dreadfully sorry for the removal of your transport, sir,’ he said, thrusting his box into Mr Singh’s outstretched, accusing hand, and handing the book to Ailsa while he dismounted. He spoke with a very clipped precision, as if English were a foreign language he had learned to perfection. ‘It was most necessary that I should reach the railway sidings in time for the very first car boot to open.’
    ‘Mr Berkshire, where’s the money from the clock?’ said Ailsa.
    MCC placed the bicycle with infinite care against the lamp-post and refastened the combination padlock. He unpacked the books from the panniers as if he were Securicor making a delivery of gold bullion, loading them into the arms of Ailsa and Mr Singh until they were buckling at the knees. Then he put an arm each round their shoulders — being considerably taller than either of them — and led them conspiratorially into Povey’s Antiquary. ‘You see there was this Car Boot Sale and Flea Market advertised and if you can get to these things right at the start there are some real bargains to be picked up. Take that box, sir. That, sir, is a genuine Victorian writing case — rosewood inlaid with cherry. Not veneer, mind! All handcrafted inlay work. And all it’s short of is a key.’
    Mr Singh, who was being quickly off-loaded by Mrs Povey, was soon left holding only the box. He tried to open the lid. ‘But it’s locked shut!’ he protested.
    ‘Yes, think of it! Think of the secrets that box will keep till the day of its destruction!’ cried MCC, snatching it out of his arms.
    ‘It’s useless!’ insisted Mr Singh excitedly, tugging it back and rattling it. ‘What use is a box you cannot open, if you will be so good as to tell me?’
    ‘You’re a Utilitarian, sir!’ said MCC, snatching it back.
    ‘I’m a Sikh, sir!’
    ‘But you think a thing is beautiful only if it’s useful. You are a Utilitarian!’
    ‘Mr Berkshire! Mr Singh! Please!’ begged Mrs Povey. ‘Have some coffee! Have some breakfast!’
    ‘I have newspapers to sell, Mrs Povey, madam. But if I were you, madam, I wouldn’t trust this kind of a fellow, with his bicycle-stealing and his foolish hat and his
suntan
! No no. Where has he been for such a suntan, I ask you, while poor people like us are working to earn a living?’
    A look of shocked injury crossed Berkshire’s face, and his eyes, under the brim of the pith helmet, were darker than the Ganges river. ‘
And must I apologize for having Anglo-Indian blood?
’
    Mr Singh did not know which way to look. He was covered with embarrassment. He stroked one sleeve of the green corduroy jacket soothingly. ‘My dear young gentleman! I, who have so often had abuse in my own shop, to my own face, about the colour of my skin! That I should cast insults on a man partly of my own race! Now I look at you, of course I can see that your eyes are . . . I’m glad you . . . borrowed my bicycle, yes certainly. I am very glad. And now I come to look, it is indeed a very fine box. What craftsmanship! It is for Mrs Povey’s excellent establishment to sell, I suppose?’
    ‘Ah yes, and what a story it has to it!’ exclaimed MCC, and Ailsa made a snatch at his hand and dragged him aside — almost into a giant, mirrored wardrobe.
    ‘Please, Mr Berkshire,’ she whispered, feeling thewhole weight of the family business resting on her shoulders. ‘Please don’t tell Mr Singh any
more
lies. He’s a nice man. And he has a bit of a temper. And he only lives next door.’
    ‘
More
lies?’ said MCC, loudly astonished.