Hammer to Fall

by John Lawton

  “He’s coming down.”

  “Shouldn’t I be going up?”

  “Said he wants a quick word first.”

  “When I shoot him, just look the other way, would you?”

  “Be my guest.”

  It was several minutes before Rod appeared, panting as though he’d run all the way down the drive.

  “Sorry. Honestly, I just forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “You.”

  “Who is it this time. Ringo Starr? Taylor and Burton? The Pope?”

  “No, just Harold.”

  “Harold who?”

  “Wilson.”

  “Harold fucking Wilson?”

  “Manners, Freddie. The prime fucking minister.”

  “It’s Saturday afternoon. He should be in his constituency handing out leaflets and platitudes. What does he want?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “And yet you forgot about me.”

  “Just come inside and get cleaned up. We’ll explain everything.”

  “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

  “Freddie, you’re just prevaricating.”

  “I haven’t had lunch—he hasn’t had lunch!”

  Troy pointed at the Fat Man, still perched on the tractor.

  “And they can hear his stomach grumbling in Poland!”

  §149

  Troy declined to clean up. Skipping lunch, not making Wilson wait till he’d eaten, was all the concession Rod was going to get. If the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland wanted Troy’s attention he’d have to take him as he was in his grubby boiler suit, smelling somewhat of cow shit.

  He took his wellies off.

  Wilson and Rod were in Troy’s study, without so much as a by-your-leave. Troy knew why Rod had done this. It was an icebreaker. Anyone who visited Mimram was curious less about the Troy brothers than about their father, Alex (deceased 1943), a near-contemporary of Churchill, and a quondam ally and sparring partner—they’d go months without speaking. The study had been Alex’s before it was Troy’s, and showing the enquiring pol in there bought time, answered questions by giving them a slice of history—the detritus of life in Russia and Austria, every object—the room was cluttered—every object an anecdote.

  Wilson was smoking a postprandial cigar, thereby confirming what Troy had always thought, that the pipe was as much a prop as the plastic mac he habitually wore, if slightly less repulsive.

  “Harold. What brings you all this way?”

  Rod hissed in his ear, “Prime Minister!”

  Troy hissed back, “Fuck off.”

  Wilson had to be slightly deaf not to have heard them, but sat back down after the handshake, unperturbed.

  “You’ll have heard the news?”

  “Yes. New Beatles LP delayed until the autumn. Tragic.”

  Troy felt Rod’s shoe tap sharply against his stockinged foot.

  “No … no. I meant about Lord Brynmawr.”

  Troy’s first and only thought was “Who the hell is Lord Brynmawr?”

  Helpfully, Rod read his expression right down to the punctuation.

  “You knew him as Hywel Thomas. He was our planning minister.”

  The name rang a bell—little tubby bloke from South Wales. Union man—miners or steel workers or something.

  “Oh. When was he kicked upstairs?”

  “Not a phrase we use, Freddie.”

  Wilson affected a chuckle.

  “Not kicked, Freddie. Jumped. I needed an ambassador in Prague. Hywel fitted the bill. And he jumped at the chance. Never happy in Planning. Foreign Affairs was much more his sort of thing. But I could never move him to the Foreign Office with George still around.”

  George was George Brown. Wilson’s deputy and until his sudden resignation, in a huffy fit about six months ago, he had been Foreign Secretary. He was a free-speaking piss-artist, a pain in the arse to Wilson, and, for that reason if for no other, Troy and Rod quite liked him.

  Troy said, “Why are you talking of Hywel Thomas in the past tense?”

  Wilson said, “You haven’t told him?”

  “I missed Freddie at breakfast and he’s only just got in for—”

  “—for the lunch I haven’t had yet,” Troy muttered.

  “Hywel died last night, Freddie. Heart attack, I believe. Harold received a phone call early this morning. Dreadful news.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Troy said. “But what has this got to do with me?”

  “Hywel died at the worst possible moment,” Wilson said.

  Troy did not need this explaining. Just before midnight on the twentieth Russian tanks had rolled into Czechoslovakia and clipped short the Prague Spring.

  “We need to a get a new man in place as soon as possible. By next week, in fact.”

  “Well good luck with that. I can’t think of anyone I might recommend, so—”

  A toe-shattering tap on the foot from Rod’s size-twelve beetle-crushers.

  “You’re being an ass. Harold is offering you the job.”

  Troy—almost speechless, but not quite.

  “What?”

  “I need a man right away,” Wilson said. “Above all, given that the Russians will not be withdrawing any day soon, I need a good Russian speaker. Someone who can talk to them face-to-face without an interpreter.”

  Troy could only conclude that whatever file MI5 and Special Branch had on him had not been read by Wilson. He’d not seen it himself, but he’d readily conclude that every scrape he’d got into and got out of was recorded, and the fact that he had been cleared every time, exonerated every time, would not do a damn thing to diminish the suspicion that he was not entirely kosher, not entirely pukka and not entirely “one of us.”

  “You’re mad. Both of you. Mad as hatters.”

  A little more of the Wilson fake chuckle.

  But Rod wasn’t laughing.

  “Do excuse us a moment, Harold.”

  Rod bundled Troy, approximately half his size, out into the corridor.

  “Stop acting like a spoilt brat!”

  “I’m not. I’m being honest.”

  “Freddie, get back in there, be polite and hear the man out. He’s our prime minister for God’s sake.”

  “You never liked him! We used to call him Mittiavelli. You’ve always taken the piss out of him—remember? ‘How can you tell when Wilson’s lying? His lips move.’ I’ve heard you crack that one a dozen times.”

  “I was probably pissed. But I’m sober right now and he’s not lying.”

  “Rod, he’s a conman in a Gannex mac.”

  “Not the point. I serve under him, and I’m happy to do so.”

  “Happy?”

  “OK. Not happy, but willing. Freddie, just hear him out and tell him you’ll think about it.”

  Back in the study Wilson briefly outlined to Troy the duties of an ambassador. Troy didn’t ask any questions.

  “And of course, the real advantage to us, the government, is that you’re free now—you retired last year, didn’t you?”

  Troy had retired five years ago but said nothing.

  “And you know the Russian mind.”

  His heart sank. This was the anglicised version of the nonsense he had heard so often as child whenever two or three Russians were gathered together in the same room—the Russian Soul, that agonising, self-tormenting, invisible, elusive and possibly nonexistent organ. Berdyaev had written the lot—The Soul of Russia, The Fate of Russia and The Russian Idea. It would not surprise Troy to learn that there were ten or twenty books called The Russian Mind. He hadn’t read any of them. The Russian Mind/Soul/Idea/Fate were just more reasons to get drunk and maudlin and sing songs about women with black eyes.

  Troy gave Rod what he’d asked for.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “Good, good,” Wilson replied. “Think about your title while you’re about it.”


  §150

  When Wilson had gone, Troy said, “What did he mean by ‘think about your title’?”

  “Hywel took Lord Brynmawr. It’s where he was born in the Welsh valleys.”

  “I know. But what did Mittiavelli mean?”

  “Ah … I see. Hywel was a lord. If we were to send you out as plain Mr. Troy, the Russians, not understanding titles any more than the Americans do, would see it as a sort of downgrading. Hence they’d assume Czechoslovakia meant less to us and that would make any negotiations we might undertake, any demands we might have, less effective. ‘Oh, they’ve only sent a bloke not a lord, so he doesn’t matter much.’ ”

  Oh shit.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  Oh fuck.

  “Isn’t one title in the family enough?”

  “Ah … it wouldn’t be hereditary, just a life peerage. You wouldn’t be able to pass it on to all those sons you don’t actually have.”

  “Wanker.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a wanker, Rod. A complete and utter wanker.”

  §151

  Down in the kitchen the Fat Man was tucking into bangers and mash.

  “I saved you some. It’ll be a bit crisp. It’s in the bottom oven.”

  Troy salvaged a not-quite-burnt offering.

  The Fat Man said, “It’ll come up a treat with a dollop of HP sauce.”

  “I’m sure it will. Tell me, do you think they put the sauce bottle on the table at lunch in the House of Lords?”

  “Dunno. Why you askin’?”

  “Believe it or not. Mock me if you must. But Rod and Wilson have just offered me a peerage.”

  The Fat Man sucked air through his teeth like a plumber looking at a rusted stopcock.

  “Peer like a lord? Lord like a toff?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well … you come to the right man, old cock. I been around lords and toffs all my working life.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “Thing is. There’s toffs and there’s toffs.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “There’s yer bruv for one. He’s a decent enough bloke. Bit of a plonker from time to time and he can talk the backside off a donkey when he’s a mind. But, all things considered—”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

  “That’s it … a bit of give-and-take … he’s alright. Wouldn’t want him on my side in an up-the-garden-wall contest, but he’s alright. A bloke as you can trust. Same goes for the guv’nor. Uses words a damn sight more ju … ju—”

  “Judiciously.”

  “That’s the feller … more thingy than Rod, but you’d trust him with yer wallet and yer life.”

  “Is this leading anywhere?”

  “Course it is. Now most toffs … as in there’s toffs and there’s toffs … you shake hands with them and feel to see if yer watch chain’s still there. How do you think they got to be toffs in the first place?”

  “I say again, is this leading anywhere?”

  “Yeah. Why would you want to be a toff?”

  “This is where I came in.”

  “You don’t wanna be a toff.”

  “Of course I don’t. No … hang on, why don’t I want to be a toff?”

  “Cos you got it made, that’s why. You got everything a man could ask for. You got yer rozzer’s pension. Nice little town house, crackin’ place in the country, yer own orchard, yer own spud patch and yer own pig. Why would anyone want to have to go up to London, dress up in ermine, wear a crown, make speeches, worse … listen to speeches, when they could be at ’ome, in their orchard with their pig. To say nothing about being at ’ome, in their orchard with their deliciously fat pig … and their deliciously buxom missis.”

  Oh shit.

  Troy had given no thought to what the missis would say any more than he’d wondered what the pig might say.

  He walloped the bottom of the bottle and a pleasing slick of brown sauce coated his bangers and mash.

  He really didn’t fancy raising this topic with his wife. There was no knowing which way she might jump. Best to string out lunch until teatime.

  “Did you, by any chance, find the time to knock up a pudding?”

  “O’ course. Get that lot down yer and there’s jam roly-poly to follow. You don’t get grub like this in the House o’ Lords, I bet.”

  §152

  They got through dinner without the subject coming up. Troy had told Rod he’d thump him if he mentioned it.

  And when he asked the Fat Man to bide his time, he received the reply, “Knobs to that. I ain’t getting between you and yer bruv in a keep-shtum contest. I’ll have me dinner in front of the telly. You lot just fight amongst yourselves. Besides, it’s Billy Cotton tonight—Wakey! Wakey!”

  For a brief moment Troy thought he might enjoy an evening of tuneless big band nostalgia, as the BBC wound itself effortlessly back to the 1950s and wiped five years of satire, sex scandals, Mods and Rockers, Mersey Beat and Swinging London off the clock—but then his brain kicked in. The problem was not Rod, the problem was his wife.

  He did not choose the right moment.

  Thinking she was safely tucked up in bed, and the half-open, half-closed bathroom door a minor Maginot between them, he raised the matter at his night’s ablutions.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Not gone deaf since dinner time!”

  “Harold Wilson came over this afternoon.”

  “Bet that pleased Rod.”

  “Well … actually. It was me.”

  “Me what?”

  “He came to see me.”

  “Huh. What on earth does the slimy bugger want with a retired copper? Does he want you to be Black Rod? Pink Rod? Although I can see that might have obscene overtones. Or just governor-general of Tristan da Cuhna?”

  It amazed Troy how close she had come to the target whilst doing no more than take the piss.

  “Not exactly.”

  “How inexactly then?”

  “He offered me a peerage. I said—”

  The flat of her hand between his shoulder blades caused him to spit toothpaste all over the mirror.

  “Tell me you said yes!”

  He swung around, coughed and spattered her with what was left of the toothpaste.

  “Tell me you said yes!!!”

  “No.”

  “No—you won’t tell me?

  “No. I mean I said no.”

  She punched him in the solar plexus. Not hard enough to double him up but enough to make damn sure her displeasure registered.

  “You ass. You complete and utter fucking ass!”

  He sat down on the loo with a bit of a thump.

  “I don’t want to be Lord Whatever of Wherever.”

  “Did you even think about me?”

  “Of course not.”

  She stomped off back to the bedroom. He followed, wiping minty-green toothpaste off his face and chest. And with it his ring of confidence.

  “I bet you bloody didn’t. Well … I want to be Lady Troy.”

  “We already have a Lady Troy. We had dinner with her not two hours ago.”

  “Cid won’t mind another. Besides she’s been Lady Troy since I don’t know when.”

  “Nineteen forty-three.”

  “So she’d still be top dog … I’d be … the soubrette. Fawned on by couturiers and waiters …”

  She swept around the room holding her night dress like a regal train.

  “More caviar, Lady Troy, more champagne, Lady Troy … more vinegar with your mushy peas, Lady Troy.”

  “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. In fact I’d love it. I began life as Anna Victoria Sara Coward. Spinster of this parish et cetera. Gave that mouthful up to become Mrs. Angus Pakenham—someone absolutely destined to become a widow.”

  Troy could not, would not argue with that. Angus was always a disaster waiting to happen.


  “And then, three years ago you finally popped the question.”

  “Actually it was two, and you proposed to me.”

  “All I did, Freddie, was take the words out your mouth, as t’were.”

  “So you don’t like being Mrs. Troy?”

  “It’s been bliss. A happiness I didn’t think I was ever going to get and I’m damn sure I don’t deserve. But then I think to meself, if I don’t deserve happiness who the fuck does? Certainly not you. You don’t deserve me. After a lifetime of indecision and infidelity I rather think you deserve your own circle in hell next that chap who ate his own children.”

  “Count Ugolino.”

  “Yes. Him. But … to be serious for a moment. Freddie, one of the reasons you and I took so long to get to where we are, disregarding for the moment the wife and the mistress—or two, or three—is that I always thought you’d end up with a bullet in you.”

  “Well—there has been the odd one.”

  “I mean, a fatal one. One that hit you when Kolankiewicz was not around. Without Kolankiewicz, without me, you’d be several times dead.”

  §153

  Rod was up before him. If “up” included not-yet-dressed-still-in-dressing-gown-odd-socks-on-hair-not-combed. Troy found him on the south verandah, sipping a large mug of black coffee, his minister’s red box and a scattering of papers on the table beside him. Rod had spent every Sunday morning this way for the best part of four years. He never seemed to tire of it, as though thirteen years in Opposition had left him with untapped reserves of energy. Troy had long thought the military/civil service slang for paperwork—“bumf,” as in “bum fodder”—to be spot on, yet to Rod it was meat and drink … and coffee.

  Troy picked up a paper, glanced idly at it, only to feel Rod slap him on the back of the offending hand.

  “Secrets, Freddie! Anything that comes out of the red box is a government secret.”

  “Until one of you chooses to leak it to the Daily Mirror or the Guardian.”

  He flopped down into the empty chair.

  “Besides, I’ve a right to know.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m a citizen.”

  “Oh … bollocks.”