Страница 346 из 624
Bond, mystified by all this, said defensively, ‘I don’t eat all that much bread, sir.’
‘Maybe not,’ said M. impatiently. ‘But how much stone-ground whole wheat do you eat? How much yoghurt? Uncooked vegetables, nuts, fresh fruit?’
Bond smiled. ‘Practically none at all, sir.’
‘It’s no laughing matter.’ M. tapped his forefinger on the desk for emphasis. ‘Mark my words. There is no way to health except the natural way. All your troubles’ – Bond opened his mouth to protest, but M. held up his hand – ‘the deep-seated toxaemia revealed by your Medical, are the result of a basically u
‘No, sir.’
‘Just so. Well those are the men you would be wise to study. Those are the great naturopaths – the men whose teaching we have foolishly ignored. Fortunately,’ M.’s eyes gleamed enthusiastically, ‘there are a number of disciples of these men practising in England. Nature cure is not beyond our reach.’
James Bond looked curiously at M. What the hell had got into the old man? Was all this the first sign of senile decay? But M. looked fitter than Bond had ever seen him. The cold grey eyes were clear as crystal and the skin of the hard, lined face was luminous with health. Even the iron-grey hair seemed to have new life. Then what was all this lunacy?
M. reached for his in tray and placed it in front of him in a preliminary gesture of dismissal. He said cheerfully, ‘Well, that’s all, James. Miss Moneype
Bond looked across at M., aghast. He said in a strangled voice, ‘Out of where, sir?’
‘Place called “Shrublands ”. Run by quite a famous man in his line – Wain, Joshua Wain. Remarkable chap. Sixty-five. Doesn’t look a day over forty. He’ll take good care of you. Very up-to-date equipment, and he’s even got his own herb garden. Nice stretch of country. Near Washington in Sussex. And don’t worry about your work here. Put it right out of your mind for a couple of weeks. I’ll tell 009 to take care of the Section.’
Bond couldn’t believe his ears. He said, ‘But, sir. I mean, I’m perfectly all right. Are you sure? I mean, is this really necessary?’
‘No,’ M. smiled frostily. ‘Not necessary. Essential. If you want to stay in the double-O Section, that is. I can’t afford to have an officer in that section who isn’t one hundred per cent fit.’ M. lowered his eyes to the basket in front of him and took out a signal file. ‘That’s all, 007.’ He didn’t look up. The tone of voice was final.
Bond got to his feet. He said nothing. He walked across the room and let himself out, closing the door with exaggerated softness.
Outside the door, Miss Moneype
Bond walked over to her desk and banged his fist down so that the typewriter jumped. He said furiously, ‘Now what the hell, Pe
Miss Moneype
‘I know all about their bloody herb garden. Now look here, Pe
Miss Moneype
‘He looks like that blasted man in the old Kruschen Salts advertisements. But why does he pick on me to go to this nuthouse?’
Miss Moneype
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 schmalz! What you need is a double brandy and soda.
Miss Moneype
‘Now don’t you start on me, Pe
Miss Moneype
Bond made a noise between a grunt and a snarl and stormed out of the room.
2 | SHRUBLANDS
James Bond slung his suitcase into the back of the old chocolate-brown Austin taxi and climbed into the front seat beside the foxy, pimpled young man in the black leather windcheater. The young man took a comb out of his breast pocket, ran it carefully through both sides of his duck-tail haircut, put the comb back in his pocket, then leaned forward and pressed the self-starter. The play with the comb, Bond guessed, was to assert to Bond that the driver was really only taking him and his money as a favour. It was typical of the cheap self-assertiveness of young labour since the war. This youth, thought Bond, makes about twenty pounds a week, despises his parents, and would like to be Tommy Steele. It’s not his fault. He was born into the buyers’ market of the Welfare State and into the age of atomic bombs and space flight. For him life is easy and meaningless. Bond said, ‘How far is it to “Shrublands”?’
The young man did an expert but u
He put his foot down on the accelerator and neatly but rather dangerously overtook a lorry at an intersection.