"Mr. Longfellow tries to sell Peregrine a portal."
"Here comes young Mr. Albert now, sir," said Aunt Gladys.
An old man of about eighty shuffled towards me, with his arms piled high with paperback books. He was wearing a bow tie and a red rose in the lapel of his dress and looked very smart, but the load was too heavy for him to carry, and it seemed he would fall over any second.
I ran over to help.
"Can I give you a hand?"
"Dear boy, if you would," he croaked gratefully and dropped the entire pile of books into my open arms.
"Ernest wants these, and I've lost my confounded specs somewhere. Here's the list; just tick off the copies he ordered; there's a good lad. I'll nip over and ask Aunty to make us a pot of tea."
When I looked up, Albert was gone. I carried the books over to a table and looked at the list.
The first was Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I put it to one side, doing the same with The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, The Silver Chair, The Hobbit, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and, of all things, Plato's Republic.
I put the rest on the table, took the selected books over to the counter, and left them neatly stacked with the list on top. Somebody had written in green ink:
Needed on the journey. Please make sure that you only select soft paperbacks.Urgent.
I returned to my chair by the table to await the return of the not-so-young Albert and looked forward to a nice cup of tea.
Twenty-five minutes later, he returned.
"Sorry to keep you," he said. "I had to wait for the kettle to boil. Now, what can I do for you?"
I decided not to ask what had happened to my cup of tea.
"I'd like to see some portals, please," I replied.
"Really?" He sounded surprised. "Business or pleasure?"
"Pleasure. I want to see other worlds before I start college next year."
"Certainly," said Mr. Albert.
He at once became very businesslike.
"Your name, please?"
"Peregrine Tripp."
Aunty had the vacuum cleaner on full blast, and he cupped his ear.
"What?"
"P-e-re-green-Tripp," I said slowly, sounding out every syllable phonetically.
"Pea-green tripe? What are you talking about?"
I started to answer, but he interrupted.
"Never mind. My name is Mr. Menschen.
"This is Mr. Longfellow. He is our senior salesman."
He indicated a tall, sad-faced man with downcast eyes and stooped shoulders.
I noticed that he had spilt half of his breakfast boiled egg on his waistcoat, and there were various other stains of unknown origin.
If you would follow me, please, Master Peagreen." Mr. Longfellow said gloomily. "I will show you some of our current range."
The shop carpets were thick underfoot, and I fingered the thin wad of notes in my pocket nervously.
"Here we are," he said as we came to an alcove, discreetly hidden from prying eyes by a long row of luxurious red curtains. Mr. Longfellow pressed a button on the wall, and the curtains slid open to reveal a line of beautifully varnished, solid oak doors. Each had a number on a gold plate and highly polished brass handles set at arm level. Mr. Longfellow launched into his well-worn sales patter.
"Five-star all-inclusive destinations. Six hundred state dollars per person, tips included, and free transportation from your home on the day of departure and return. Door-to-door service. That's an advertising slogan I made up myself," he said shamelessly.
I grinned politely.
"We only use traditional door portals, of course. It goes back to the days of Tolkien's The Doors of Durin and Alice in Wonderland. A convention continued in more recent times by Coraline, Neverwhere, Sabriel, and, of course, The Door to the Chamber of Secrets, one of the books in the Harry Potter series. God bless him; that boy did wonders for sales. No magic rings or old wardrobes for us at Menschens, or the latest fad of cutting open the spacetime fabric between universes with a sharp knife. Damaging the environment with an offensive weapon, I call it sheer vandalism. Doors are the only type of portal we deal with, and we are proud of it.
Take your pick from our extensive range of award-winning exotic destinations. All at the same low price, and I tell you what, young Peagreen. I like the cut of your jib, and I'll throw in a room upgrade and a sea view, free of charge. How does that sound, my boy?"
"It sounds wonderful, but I'm afraid I couldn't afford to pay anything like that amount."
"Really?" said Mr. Longfellow.
"How disappointing."
The curtains closed with a sharp swish.
"And just how much could you pay?"
"I've got eighty-three state dollars. Oh yes, and I have a student bus pass, so I won't need any transport. That should save a bit."
Mr. Longfellow exhaled heavily and turned to address his reflection in a long mirror.
Above it was a sign that read,
Essential Daywear for the Discriminating Portal Traveller.
"Dear me, what have we come to, Willum?" he sighed. " How the mighty have fallen. Whatever next? Day excursions? How I long for the return of the carriage trade. Those halcyon days of duchesses and drawing rooms, butlers, and boaters. In case you don't know Peagreen, my boy," he said, addressing me directly, boaters were straw hats for dashing young gentlemen. I had one myself, second-hand, of course, but I cut a fine figure on the Sunday promenade. The girls couldn't take their eyes off me."
He winked roguishly at himself in the glass.
"In those days, the young portal travellers were exclusively well-spoken children with lovely manners. Privately educated, of course. Most had absentee parents and uncles who lived in country mansions."
He smiled to himself at the memory of better times.
"I remember making an appointment to show a certain professor our latest range of door portals, and the housekeeper gave me lunch beforehand in the Servants' Hall. What a feast! Quite the best scrag end I have ever tasted, accompanied by Sprouts Naturelle. A quite delightful meal."
Mr. Longfellow stopped, lost in memory, and I waited patiently for him to continue. I couldn't wait to ask Montana about him.
He was off his head.
"It was a privilege to serve that class of people, even though they could be a little brusque at times," said Mr. Longfellow. "Blue blood, you see. Don't suffer fools gladly.
"In case you are wondering, Peagreen," he said, without turning away from the mirror. 'Suffer fools gladly' is a cliché with Biblical origins. Saint Paul, in his second letter to the Church at Corinth, was the first to use it. It's a hobby of mine—hackneyed expressions, time-proven clichés, idioms, and the like. All traditional English, of course. No modern stuff.
"Anyway, at the time, this chap had his butler throw me out of the front door. Not the most dignified of exits. I broke my samples, and the professor left me with a nasty bruise on the head from a surprisingly well-aimed catalogue I had left on approval. It was the Gentry Edition, if I remember correctly. Embossed leather with full-colour plates. It cost a fortune to print, but luckily, it proved to be bloodstain-resistant. You get what you pay for, as my old mother used to say."
Mr. Longfellow peered into the mirror, fluffing up his sparse patch of grey hair, trying to give it a bit more body and bounce, but to no avail; it still resembled a small clump of dead grass in the middle of an arctic wilderness.
The old boy continued to chatter to his reflection in the mirror.
"Not getting any younger, are we, Willum? There's no state pension when you retire in this world, so it's the workhouse for you, my boy, unless you start a new career, of course," continued Mr. Longfellow, "a bit late in life, I know, but seventy-nine is the new thirty, the government keeps telling us.
I need some capital, and those eighty-three dollars in Peagreen's pocket will be almost straight profit if I can sell him one of those specials I got as salvage."
He must have realised that I had heard him and gave me an embarrassed smile.
"Yes, specials—that's what they are—high-end specials. I spent a fortune, what with renovation and storage costs. But I have taken a shine to you, Peagreen. People will say that I'm letting my heart rule my head, but I'm going to let you have the first trip for exactly eighty-three dollars, ahem, unless that bus pass has any cash value. What do you think? No? I didn't think so; pity, but what's money? I am going to let you have it at a loss. 'Big-hearted Willum,' they used to call me at Portal Travel College. Do anyone a favour, Willum—selfless to the core. 'What a man! Legend!' It caused a bit of jealousy, of course. Envious types keep leaving my name off the invitation list for annual reunions and the like. As if I cared! Quickly now, Peagreen, before I change my mind. Let's go down to the basement and get your name on one of those babies before somebody beats us to it!"