“Jezebubble! That’s what you are! Jezebubble! Throwing people down!”
Ann had gone to the window, and seeing René in the yard opposite, she called to him and told him to take Joe away and make him sober. René came running up, dragged Joe to his feet, lugged him into the yard, and held his head under the tap. Joe spluttered and cursed, and when he was released, stood up with the water streaming from his hair, eyes, and mouth. He showed fight. René caught him by the neck and threatened to turn on the tap again unless he showed himself amenable to reason.
Ann called:
“Take him away.”
René nodded, picked Joe up in his arms, and threw him on the floor of his car and drove him out far beyond Uxbridge into the country. There by a black pinewood they stopped. René got down and laughed, for Joe had picked himself up and was sitting perkily with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, with his hat on one side, pretending to be a lord.
“Aw! Chauffah!” he said. “Dwive me to Piccadilly Circus. I want to buy a box of matches.” Changing his tone, he added: “You don’t ’appen to ’ave a fag on yer, guvnor?”
René gave him a cigarette and a match, lit one himself, and sat by the side of the road.
“Was that a joy ride?” asked Joe.
“No charge,” replied René.
“I’ve spat in the car. Is there any charge for that?”