Authors: Julian Mitchell
“I’m not sure. He can be sweet and delightful sometimes, other times he seems cold and—oh, almost brutal. No, not brutal so much as inhuman. D’you know what I mean?”
“Oh, sure. He’s full of sort of dead ends, isn’t he? I mean, about some things he’s just weird. And he has this thing about not doing anything, about nothing being worth doing.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Jackie. “It’s as though there’s a sort of hole in him somewhere, a deep black hole, and
sometimes
he seems to climb into this hole and hate everything.”
“You could call it that, I suppose,” said Judy. “But you know him better than I do, don’t you?”
“I don’t think so,” said Jackie. “I mean, how do you ever feel sure you know him at all?”
“Well, you can feel that about everyone,” said Judy practically. “I mean, I know Pete pretty well by now, but there are times he seems a complete stranger.”
“But Edward’s always rather like a stranger. A nice stranger, full of ideas and jokes and things, but still unknown, really. Don’t you think?”
“No. But maybe he’s always more or less the same when he’s with us. I mean, I don’t understand him all the time, but I can
usually predict what he’s going to say and how he’s going to react and so on.”
“I can’t,” said Jackie.
“You seem pretty interested,” said Judy.
“I was wondering, that’s all.”
“Oh,” said Judy. “Oh, sure.”
T
HE
gentleness of English rain, which some claimed to find pleasing, did not please Shrieve. He gazed out of his streaky window at the steady drizzle falling over south London and thought of violent tropical storms. He shivered. He had a headache. England was taking its customary revenge for long absence. The thermometer indicated no temperature, but he took three aspirins and went back to bed. Propped up on the pillows he thought about the week-end.
His father had been so exactly the same as usual that it was almost funny. He had welcomed his son with no show of warmth, had talked of local affairs, had read him small items from the Sunday papers in a withering tone of voice, and had taken him to lunch at the Conservative Club, where they had been served overdone roast beef, soggy roast potatoes, damp parsnips and damper cabbage. The treacle tart and cream had been good, but the coffee had been a disgrace to a political club which prided itself on being the repository of the best British traditions. (Unless, Shrieve thought, the tradition being
preserved
was that of indomitable, Churchillian, backs-to-
the-wall
, 1940’s cooking.)
General Aldous, who had made the fuss about last year’s accounts, was introduced. He had, it seemed, felt after all, like Shrieve’s father, that it was better to fight within the club than resign and see it go to the dogs in the hands of the irresponsible middle-aged. There was talk of the County Championship and the last Test Match. The General opined (it was the only word for it) that cricket wasn’t as entertaining as it used to be, there was too much negative play. Shrieve knew none of the names his father and the General mentioned, but it gave him pleasure to listen to the two old men, and to watch their slow gestures from their deep arm-chairs.
Afterwards, Mr Shrieve suggested a game of billiards. The table had not been put in the basement until after Shrieve had left home.
“Should have had this when you were a boy, Hugh,” said Mr Shrieve, gravely chalking a cue. “But I don’t expect you get many opportunities to play, do you?”
“None. I’m sorry I can’t give you a better game.”
“Perhaps you’d rather play snooker?”
“No, no. Billiards is fine.”
His father beat him three times in a row. Clearly he practised a lot. Shrieve wondered if that was how he got through his days: coming downstairs each morning after reading
The
Times
and reconnoitring the crossword, pondering over the choice of cue, chalking one, then playing game after game with himself, and cheating a little to keep it interesting. It was rather sad.
The housekeeper’s Sunday dinner was identical to her Friday and Saturday dinners, except for the main dish. It started with vegetable soup, continued with boiled potatoes, French beans and the variable meat of the day, and ended with custard pudding.
“I’m really very fond of custard pudding,” said Mr Shrieve, when his son remarked on its third appearance. “And Mrs Spedding is very good at it, don’t you think?”
“Very good. I wondered if you might not fancy something else occasionally. As a change, perhaps.”
His father thought about it for a while, then said, “I don’t think so, honestly. I’m not much of a man for puddings.”
After dinner they played three more games of billiards and again Shrieve lost. As they put the cues in the rack his father said, “You ought to sharpen up your game, Hugh. You should be able to beat a man of my age, you know.” Shrieve could see that he was very pleased.
His father had not seemed sorry to see him go on Monday morning. Two days was as long a visit as he appreciated.
“See you again soon,” he said briskly, then went into the house without waiting to see Shrieve drive off.
Monday’s lunch with Dennis Moreland had gone quite well.
Moreland wrote for a right-wing paper, but his views seemed conventionally liberal, though some of his questions about general matters in the colony made Shrieve slightly uneasy.
“Of course,” said Moreland, “what I think and what I write aren’t always quite the same thing, as I’m sure you realise. But my paper is generally in favour of the government’s African policy. It’s the best thing for everyone in the long run, and for immediate political purposes it’s the only possible safe course. We can’t afford an Algeria or even another Cyprus. Those things do immeasurable harm. And though the right wing of the Tory party bangs a big drum now and then, my editor doesn’t go along with it.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Shrieve.
Moreland smiled. “Don’t be too quick to be pleased. The editor does agree with the loud mouthed boys about some things, and one of them is that we’re getting out too quickly in some places. He wants an orderly withdrawal, not an undignified scuttle. And, let’s face it, Mr Shrieve, he’s got a point. Take your colony, for example. Five years ago, all quiet. Then rumblings of nationalism, demonstrations, riots,
emergency
, negotiations. The constitutional conference opens when? Thursday? And they’ll probably have independence by the beginning of next year. Bang—more red paint to be scrubbed off the map. And a good thing too, you may think. But the whole process has been terribly quick, hasn’t it? And some of the plaster under the red paint looks awfully rickety.”
“I think it’ll hold up in my colony,” said Shrieve.
“Will it? Doesn’t it look as though your Ngulu could easily become victims of an unworthy passion for haste?”
“I hope not,” said Shrieve. “Not now, anyway. I think the people that matter are all aware of them now.”
“Thanks to your efforts,” said Moreland, “and no thanks to the government or anyone else.”
“I don’t know,” said Shrieve. “The Minister may have had them in mind all along. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t forget them.”
“Quite. Quite. But that you were anxious shows something,
doesn’t it? And these so-called assurances you got from Sir Sebastian Filmer—are you sure they’re not just being offered in the hope of keeping you quiet?”
“I should hate to think so. The Minister is an able and honest man, he knows what’s going on, and he knows there’ll be a tremendous row if anything goes wrong. I see no reason to think he’s trying to play the problem down.”
Moreland shrugged. “They’re given to handing out placebos, those people. Their virtue may be decency, but their vice is blandness. And that’s what you’ve got to watch for. A bland solution, satisfactory in theory, useless in practice.”
“I know,” said Shrieve, wondering what Moreland was leading up to. “But I don’t know how to make sure we get something stronger.”
“What do you think Bloaku will do with all those troops and aeroplanes we’re leaving behind?”
“Nothing much. He’ll use them mostly for parades, I expect. I hope he won’t send aeroplanes low over the Ngulu in a show of strength, that’s all. They’re scared stiff of planes. They think they have spirits in them, and the louder they are and the lower they fly, the angrier the spirits are.”
“Did you tell Filmer that?”
“What would have been the use? You can’t explain the Ngulu, really, you can only watch and hope that eventually you’ll understand. They’re fairly reasonable ninety per cent of the time, but for the remaining ten per cent—well, you just have to get used to them. They don’t mind very high planes—they think they’re guardian angels.”
“How fascinating,” said Moreland. “They must be a hell of a handful.”
“Oh no, I love them.”
“I’m sure you do. I suppose they’re increasing their
population
as rapidly as every other tribe in Africa. I was reading the other day that half the population of the continent is under twenty. Can it really be possible?”
“I should think so,” said Shrieve. “But the Ngulu, I’m afraid, are a dying race. Whereas all these other people are
breeding more than they used to, the Ngulu are breeding rather less. The reason their numbers stay roughly the same is that the weak babies are kept alive now by drugs and so on, the old live a little longer, the ones in their prime don’t die so often from illness or injury. It’s a most artificial little world. And because it’s so artificial they need extra care.”
“Of course,” said Moreland. He helped them both to more wine. They were eating at Moreland’s club in Pall Mall, and the food was excellent.
Shrieve told him about the conference at Oxford, and Moreland said he knew Tufnell and that he wrote quite often for his paper.
“He’s always ready with fifteen hundred words on
Communist
influence somewhere or other,” he said. “And he’s the scourge of the left, of course. Sometimes he goes much too far and we refuse to publish him. His article on ‘The Traitors of Suez’, for instance. But he got it published somewhere else.”
“What did it say?”
“Oh, that it didn’t matter if your country was wrong, you must always support it. He personally believed Suez was wrong morally, militarily and politically, but nonetheless we should all have rallied round the Prime Minister and put aside party differences—you know the sort of thing. He’s a bit calmer now, I’m glad to say, but he still sees a Communist under every bed, and often
in
bed, too, with almost anyone you can name.”
“It’s the usual conspiracy theory at work I suppose. It used to be Freemasons and Jews. Or Catholics.”
“That’s right. Though there
is
a
real danger from
Communism
, of course.”
“Oh yes,” said Shrieve. “I’m sure there is. But not in my part of the country.”
They adjourned to the smoking-room for coffee, and Moreland insisted on Shrieve having a brandy. Later, Shrieve was surprised to find that it was three o’clock, and Moreland was saying he really must get back to the office and start putting something on paper. Copy-day was tomorrow.
“It’ll help follow up the letter to
The
Times
,”
said Moreland. “I’ll see what I can do.” He shook Shrieve’s hand vigorously, but gave no indication of what he was going to write.
And now tomorrow was today, and Moreland would have written God only knew what, especially after all they’d had to drink, and Shrieve had a cold, definitely, and probably flu. He put on a sweater, took two more aspirins and began to read the papers. In all of them were pictures of the African
delegation
, smiling cheerily from the steps of the plane or waving from the steps of their hotel. They were always, Shrieve noticed, on steps: one photographer had even persuaded Bloaku to pose in front of the Albert Memorial. Of Ukurua, no stranger to London, there were a couple of old pictures in one of the smutty papers which showed him escorting girls into night clubs. The girls were white, and without actually saying so, the smutty paper managed to imply that only nasty dirty black men took clean decent white girls into night clubs. Shrieve threw the paper down and groaned at the ceiling. His head was palpably thickening.
*
The Brachs Building glistened brazenly beneath the rain. Edward and Pete looked nervously at the doors as they sheltered under an awning across the street.
“Am I mad?” said Edward. He was holding a briefcase full of music.
“Absolutely,” said Pete.
They were wearing suits and white shirts with plain ties. Judy had insisted on ironing creases into their trousers before they left. “Christ,” she’d said, “you boys don’t know the first thing about show business. Those men up there will want to see you looking smart and nervous, not relaxed and untidy. They’re not going to be impressed by fancy shirts and trousers, you know. They spend their lives thinking up outrageous sequined suits for singers, they don’t want suggestions from you.” She had thumped down on the ironing-board, while Pete blew softly through his trumpet and Edward stood in his shirt-tails in front of the stove, waiting for her to finish.
“I wouldn’t mind so much,” said Pete, grimacing at the rain, “if it wasn’t so bloody early in the morning.” It was nearly ten-thirty. “Christ, the pigeons aren’t awake yet.”
“Five minutes to go,” said Edward. “My life is nothing but appalling interviews at the moment. I’d better start looking for a real job, while I’m still in training.”
“Let’s go and look at the brass plates over there,” said Pete. “It’s cold. If we’re very lucky, we might even see Mr Brachs.”
“Brachs,” said Edward, “Brachs, Brachs, Brachs. The man’s everywhere. You can’t even take a shit without reading his name on the lavatory paper.”
“Really? Can you buy Brachs paper?”
“No. But you see what I mean.”
“You should speak more respectfully of your patron.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have him as your patron, would you? I mean, if he offered to lend you a couple of thousand quid to start your club, you wouldn’t accept, would you?”
“Not till after I’d consulted a lawyer,” said Pete.
They crossed the road, dodging between taxis, and pushed open the swinging glass doors. They were met by a waft of conditioned air and a commissionaire with a row of war ribbons.
“Yes, gentlemen?” he said. He carried white gloves and wore a silk hat. The story went that Mr Brachs had bought him out of the Guards after he’d had a little trouble with his colonel about the number of his wives at home and abroad. Hearing about it through his enormous grapevine, Mr Brachs had summoned the man, liked the look of him, and put one of his most able lawyers on to his defence. It was said that the
ex-Guardsman
now headed a platoon of other reliable ex-soldiers strategically and discreetly deployed about the Building, and receiving personal instructions from Mr Brachs.
The commissionaire looked as though he would have had no trouble dealing with any stampede of fans trying to reach their favourite singer.
“Champney, Morrison, Dulake and Co,” said Pete.
Edward looked unhappily at the commissionaire. Surely
men like that detested pop songs and their singers? His moustache seemed to bristle with contempt.
“Eighteenth floor,” said the commissionaire. He ushered them into a lift. The doors closed. Nothing happened.
“Perhaps we’re supposed to press a button,” said Edward.