Bond got to his feet. He said nothing. He walked across the room and let himself out, closing the door with exaggerated softness. Outside, Miss Moneypenny looked sweetly up at him. Bond walked over to her desk and banged his fist down so that the typewriter jumped. He said furiously, “Now what the hell, Penny?
Has the old man gone off his rocker? What’s all this bloody nonsense? I’m damned if I’m going. He’s absolutely nuts.”
Miss Moneypenny smiled happily. “The manager’s been terribly helpful and kind. He says he can give you the Myrtle room, in the annex. He says it’s a lovely room. It looks right over the herb garden. They’ve got their own herb garden, you know.”
“I know all about their bloody herb garden. Now look here, Penny,” Bond pleaded with her, “be a good girl and tell me what it’s all about. What’s eating him?”
Miss Moneypenny, who often dreamed hopelessly about Bond, took pity on him. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “As a matter of fact, I think it’s only a passing phase. But it is rather bad luck on you getting caught up in it before it’s passed. You know he’s always apt to get bees in his bonnet about the efficiency of the Service. There was the time when all of us had to go through that physical-exercise course. Then he had that head-shrinker in, the psychoanalyst man—you missed that. You were somewhere abroad. All the Heads of Section had to tell him their dreams. He didn’t last long. Some of their dreams must have scared him off or something. Well, last month M got lumbago and some friend of his at Blades, one of the fat, drinking ones I suppose”—Miss Moneypenny turned down her desirable mouth—“told him about this place in the country. This man swore by it. Told M that we were all like motor cars and that all we needed from time to time was to go to a garage and get decarbonized. He said he went there every year. He said it only cost twenty guineas a week, which was less than what he spent in Blades in one day, and it made him feel wonderful. Well, you know M always likes trying new things, and he went there for ten days and came back absolutely sold on the place. Yesterday he gave me a great talking-to all about it and this morning in the post I got a whole lot of tins of treacle and wheat germ and heaven knows what all. I don’t know what to do with the stuff. I’m afraid my poor poodle’ll have to live on it. Anyway, that’s what’s happened and I must say I’ve never seen him in such wonderful form. He’s absolutely rejuvenated.”
“He looked like that blasted man in the old Kruschen Salts advertisements. But why does he pick on me to go to this nuthouse?”
Miss Moneypenny gave a secret smile. “You know he thinks the world of you—or perhaps you don’t. Anyway, as soon as he saw your Medical he told me to book you in.” Miss Moneypenny screwed up her nose. “But, James, do you really drink and smoke as much as that? It can’t be good for you, you know.” She looked up at him with motherly eyes.
Bond controlled himself. He summoned a desperate effort at nonchalance, at the throw-away phrase. “It’s just that I’d rather die of drink than of thirst. As for the cigarettes, it’s really only that I don’t know what to do with my hands.” He heard the stale, hangover words fall like clinker in a dead grate. Cut out the schmaltz! What you need is a double brandy and soda.
Miss Moneypenny’s warm lips pursed into a disapproving line. “About the hands—that’s not what I’ve heard.”
“Now don’t you start on me, Penny.” Bond walked angrily toward the door. He turned round. “Any more ticking-off from you and when I get out of this place I’ll give you such a spanking you’ll have to do your typing off a block of Dunlopillo.”
Miss Moneypenny smiled sweetly at him. “I don’t think you’ll be able to do much spanking after living on nuts and lemon juice for two weeks, James.”