Mr Catterpill's New

Year Party

BY DR. ALOYS1US C. PEPPER MY old friend Baddeley took me to Mr. Catterpill's New Year • party. As a sceptical observer of the political scene I was curious to see how those who were patronising Catterpill only the other day would conduct themselves now that he had been set so high above them in the Party.

But I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw that the small turnip-headed person who had preceded us into the hall of Appletree Cottage was Ercole (by which pseudonym that voguish ace-of-all-trades, Peter Peasack-Thwarton, still prefers to be known).

`What arc you doing here?' said Baddeley.

`Living up to his nom de guerre,' said I, 'and come to cleanse the Augean Stables.'

`Charming.' said Ercole, handing his greatcoat to a man- servant. 'But are you so madly surprised that I should be interested in politics? Humani tail, as you should well know, a me alienum puw.'

`That,' said I, emboldened by the two martinis which I had taken at Baddeley's before leaving for Mr. Catterpill's ostentatiously modest Highgate home, 'I did indeed notice at your poetry reading of unhappy memory.' Tut !' said Ercole lightly.

Now then,' said Baddeley in that rosy prefectorial manner which he has lately been affecting, `no squabbling here. Let's go up.'

At the entrance to the drawing-room Baddeley paused. `Come and meet Charlie,' he said.

'Charlie?'

'Catterpill.' • 'In a moment,' said I. 'First I should like to try a glass of the punch which I see being dispensed in the corner behind that large trade unionist.' I have neither the strength nor the patience to endure the company of professional 'politiciaps' without a little fortification.

Baddeley, a recent convert to Catterpillisna, looked as if he was about to take this as a personal affront. But Ercole pulled at his sleeve. 'I'd simply adore to meet Mr. Catterpill,' he breathed.

They marched into a close-packed herd of party boys, Baddeley lumbering ahead with the sublimity of a hippo- potamus pushing through an assemblage of weasels.

For myself, I sampled the punch and, judging it to be composed mainly of a disgusting sweet cider, laid down my silver cup politely, but decisively. The maidservant leant across and whispered: `Would you rather have some whisky, Sir, or gin or some- thing? We've got plenty for everybody, but we keep them "under the counter" in a manner of speaking. The punch is really only for show like.'

'Just,' said I to Andy McDoodle, a party man who had sidled up to bestow upon me a little of his supercilious presence, 'like Mr. Catterpill's nationalisation?'

'Poorish, Pepper,' said McDoodle, frowning at the maid- servant, who had been kind enough to titter.

'Well, this may help to spice my wit,' said I, raising an ample beaker to my lips. 'But tell me—good heavens, what was that?'

A large person had tripped on the threshold and cannoned into a group of men who, from their appearance, I supposed to be 'economists'—rather small, rather round, and radiating that marvellous self-confidence which only a total ignorance of erring humanity can confer. They bounced back on to their feet like so many rubber balls and helped the newcomer to his feet with many a solicitous murmur. He was obviously very drunk. But his smile was wide.

`Ah,' said McDoodle, 'it's Cheshinghame.'

'Of the Sunday Rector?'

'Of course,' said McDoodle, assuming a sycophantic grimace. 'I must have a word with him.'

'But tell me meanwhile,' said I, ignoring with difficulty the proximity of a scraggy teetotal man who was staring suspici- ously at the contents of my beaker, 'tell me, have you been home lately?'

'Naturally. Why? I left home only an hour ago.'

'Not Kensington; Motherwell, I mean' `Unfortunately, no. I haven't had a moment to myself for months, what with committees and delegations abroad and broadcasting and television and one thing and the other.'

`Ati, how much I enjoyed those speeches which you used to make when you first came to the House eighteen months ago, about running barefoot over the coal bings and queueing outside the fish and chip shop for the penny bag that was your only luncheon.'

'Here,' said McDoodle warmly, 'are you—' `Good heavens, no,' said I. 'I love fish and chips out of a newspaper.'

`So do I,' said Lady Audrey Annan's fashionable voice across my shoulder.

`Dear Audrey,' said McDoodle, turning himself on the instant into a character of Pinero's, 'and you told me at Dame Irina's last week that you would never speak to me again.' `But I will this evening, now that you have so obviously abandoned—have you not, being here?—the odious Levine.'

'Of course,' said McDoodle suavely, 'one is not in politics purely for one's health. One must move—' `With the majority,' said Steeley, a Caterpillite of long standing who had come up smugly to join us. attracted by the gracious lady.

'Not so h— bluntly!' said Lady Audrey contemptuously.

But my hopes of an amusing altercation among these frightful people were ruined by a howl of laughter that issued from the centre of a group in the middle of the room. It was my friend Baddeley showing his appreciation of some small pearl of wisdom new-dropped from Catterpill's lips.

I moved across. Baddeley was nudging Catterpill.

'You are a one!' he exclaimed. 'I've heard that before.'

But ne'er so well expressed,' said Ercole in an eager inter- jection, drawing from Baddeley a glance of disapproval. Just then Cheshinghame lurched into the midst of us.

'Look at them all !' he exclaimed comprehensively.

'At whom?' said Catterpill. maintaining his air of amused detachment.

'At all those — scraping their knees as they clamber on to the bandwagon,' said Cheshinghame thickly. 'it makes me moderately ill.'

'Moderately?' said Baddeley. 'Sucks to you, and sour grapes!'

'Hear, hear,' piped up Ercole, 'you should have changed trains sooner.'

'Shut up,' said Baddeley, `no outsiders allowed. Attack him, you attack me.'

He poured a carafe of water, much to my amusement and to Mr. Catterpill's, down Ercole's neck.

'Jolly good, Baddeley, old bean.' said Cheshinghame, 'we hacks must stick together.' • He broke into an ungainly shuffle. 'I've invented a new dance,' he said. 'The Catterpill Crawl !'

Having uttered which doubtful joke, he fell down insensible and was carried forth by a couple of general secretaries of mammoth trade unions.

Mr. Catterpill was sponging the back of Ercole's neck when the manservant came into the room.

'The photographers are here, Sir.'

'From the Daily Expedient?'

'Quite, Sir.'

'What a bore! Off to the k itchen,1 fear.'

So we all trooped off to the kitchen, where Mr. Caterpill donned a gingham aprod. Ercole tied the bow daintily, and the gentlemen from the Expedient photographed Mr. Caterpill washing up.

'What fun!' exclaimed Baddeley in a positive exultation of cynicism. 'I'm going,' said I, visited by a sudden access of nausea. `Spoil-sport!' said Ercole, as if he were already a member of the household.

`—!' exclaimed Baddeley jealously.

`Well, if that's how you feel,' said Ercole, fingering the dampness at the back of his neck. Ercole and I left together, and the last thing we heard, as we left Appletree Cottage was Baddeley's booming laugh.

11/1r. Catterpill; said Ercole wistfully, 'must have said something funny.'

`Naturally,' said I, inhaling the innocent night air as if it were Friar's Balsam and menthol.