She hesitated. “Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve worked for you, Sir Charles. Now I don’t know whether I transfer to Mr. Selby, because he’ll be Managing Director, or stay with you. I mean—it’s never been settled.”
“Mr. Selby will probably want to keep his own secretary. But if you’re to remain with the Company—and you certainly ought to, Miss Latham—then I don’t think you can stay with me. However, I’ll see that you’re decently fixed up. With Mr. Garson, perhaps.”
“You mean—you’re leaving?”
“Do you know, I believe I am.” His tone echoed her surprise. Up to that moment it had not occurred to him that he might walk out altogether. “We’ll see. Don’t bother about it now. Let me have the letters that are going as soon as you can, please.”
She turned at the door, her face crumpling. “I think it’s wicked.”
He smiled. “Come to think of it, so do I.”
Ten minutes later, old George Hathon came lumbering in, wheezing over a cigar. “Charles, I think you’re sulking.” He lowered his two hundred and fifty pounds into the arm-chair, keeping his bloodshot little eyes fixed in an accusing stare.
“I don’t think so, George,” said Ravenstreet coolly. “But I’m not going to pretend I like what you’ve done or the way you’ve done it.”
Hathon nodded and grunted. “Can’t talk here. Anything to keep you?”
“A few letters to sign. Why?”
“Care to have a drink with me? I’ll take you along to one of my clubs. I have my car and I’ll go down and wait in it for you. Had enough of this dam’ place. All right, my boy? Good!” He groaned as he pushed his great carcase out of the chair. “We’ll have our drink among the rich and powerful, Charles. Do you good to see ’em. Don’t be too long.”
Just after six o’clock they settled themselves in a corner of the smoke room of Hathon’s grandest club, a cavernous black-leathery place. “Yes, lot of power and money looks in here about this time, Charles,” said Hathon, after he had ordered their whisky.
“And with all due respect,” said Ravenstreet, “they’re not a pretty sight.”
“No worse than you find in the nearest pub,” the old man protested.
“They should be better—they cost more.”
“Don’t be disgruntled, my boy. But we won’t talk until we’ve tasted the whisky. And I doubt if there’s a better whisky anywhere in London except perhaps at the Caledonian Club.” He sat facing the room and now and then nodded or waved a mottled hand at some man he knew. Ravenstreet lit a pipe and smoked in silence. The whisky arrived, was sampled, commended.
“Well now, Charles, you don’t like what we’ve done nor the way we’ve done it—um? Feel the knife in your back—sort of thing?”
“Just about that.” Ravenstreet was curt.
Hathon grinned. Like most men of his kind, old and fat but once formidable, he could not easily be jolted out of his assurance. “I didn’t enjoy it. But it’s the best thing for the Company, Charles. There was a lot of pressure put on me, but I didn’t agree until I’d thought it out carefully. I don’t particularly like Selby. He’s not a friend of mine—never will be. You are—at least I hope so.” He gave Ravenstreet a droll look but there was serious enquiry in his tone.
“I hope so too, George. I think you were wrong, from every point of view, but I don’t propose to pick a quarrel about it. You know as well as I do, though, that Selby’s not an electrical engineer, not an industrialist, not a producer at all. It would be just the same to him if we were marketing safety-pins or dried fruit. He’s a financial man——”
“Right,” Hathon cut in firmly. “He’s an accountant—let’s face it—no different from a hundred others who are now managing big enterprises. Not my type of fella. Wouldn’t dream of bringing him here, for instance——”
“You’d be wrong, then. Just his kind of place.”
“But he’s what we need now, my boy. That’s why there are so many of ’em about these days. Jumped-up accountants, sitting on top. I don’t like it. But then I don’t like anything that happens now.”
“Why do you give in, then?” Ravenstreet hardly troubled to take the contempt out of his voice.
“Because I think nearly everything’s wrong,” Hathon replied promptly, “so it’s not worth while trying to change a bit of it. Because I’m old, I hate trouble, and I want to be able to afford to sit here and a few places like this. Selby’s the type we need now. He knows finance, knows how to fiddle his way around, can get along with the people he needs to get along with, and will keep things easy and steady. That’s what we want now—a fella that will let it tick over. Of course he couldn’t have done what you’ve done for the Company. He’s not you. But then, my boy, we’ve got you. We might have lost him—these fellas aren’t limited to one industry—and there were signs, very distinct signs, that we would have done if we hadn’t brought him upstairs.”
“You haven’t got me, you know, George.”
“I know, I know,” the old man cried rather irritably. “You won’t serve as Production Manager under Selby. I guessed you wouldn’t, before you told us. But all that can be arranged.”
“No it can’t,” said Ravenstreet. “I’m getting out, George.”
Hathon pushed out a swollen underlip. “You’re sulking again. Stop it. Swallow your pride. Swallow that whisky too—we’ll have another. But no sulks now.”
Ravenstreet waited a moment or two. “I’m not doing this in a fit of temper, George. I’m quite cool and clear-headed. You see, if what you say is true—about the Company needing Selby——”
“You can take my word for that, Charles. Didn’t want the fella for his beautiful eyes——”
“Then it isn’t my kind of company any longer. I don’t want any part of it. The sensible thing is to sell out—and I’m giving you notice now, George, that my holding’s for sale. I’d be obliged if you and Selby would quote me a price as soon as you reasonably can. Don’t let’s argue about this. My mind’s made up.”
“Take a long holiday. Enjoy yourself. Travel—we can fix it for you. You’re stale.” Hathon looked at him accusingly. “I’ve thought so for some time.”
“I’m not stale,” said Ravenstreet reflectively. “I’m dead. I think I died about four years ago.”
“Don’t be fancy. The truth is, you’re at a damned silly age—middle fifties—I remember ’em. Still not old enough to enjoy the moment and to the devil with everything else. Hang on and things will come right again, after a fashion. I’m seventy-four, and in theory I don’t like anything any more, but in practice I enjoy this and that. You ought to have married again, Charles. I know you weren’t too lucky with Maureen. Never cared for her myself, though perhaps I oughtn’t to say so, for the poor girl’s dead and her father was one of my oldest friends. A great friend to you too, my boy.”
“Yes, I loved old Frank. Better than I did Maureen, though I tried, for all our sakes. I think I didn’t marry again, George, because when I occasionally thought of it I was too busy, and when I was less busy I’d stopped thinking about it. And no family, of course. At the risk of being told I’m being fancy again, I’ll tell you that really I’m dead. Now that the Company’s been taken away from me, I see it quite clearly. So here’s where you tell me I ought to have some nice hobbies—like you.”
“All right, I’ve said it.” Hathon grinned, but when he continued he was serious. “Even the silliest might knock a brick or two out of the wall. You’d be surprised.”
“It’s a matter of temperament, George,” said Ravenstreet gloomily. “You’re naturally an old hobby boy, trying this, tasting that. I’m not. I’ve got to be completely engrossed, as I was for so long by the Company. If I’m not, then I haven’t enough interest and energy left to buy some old china or grow peaches. You’re the born English amateur, George. I’m the born professional, the long-term regular, the hundred-per-center, the fellow who enjoys work and secretly hates holidays.”
“Somethi
ng in that,” Hathon admitted. “All right, then. Try good works. Hate ’em myself, but they might suit you. A Cause, Charles. Or just plain politics. Thoroughly engrossing, they tell me.”
“No, George. Neither of the two big parties seems to be doing any honest thinking, and I couldn’t start a party of my own, not at my time of life.” He took a drink and then re-lit his pipe. “Besides, I don’t care sufficiently. You ought to care about people in general—and I don’t. Less and less, I’m afraid. We seem to me to get sillier and sillier, George. These New Elizabethans, herded by the Government and the unions, stampeded in any direction by the popular Press, spending their evenings watching dons and actresses playing parlour games on television!”
“That’ll do, my boy. There’s a lot of newspaper twaddle about, of course, and I fancy the new working class is softer and spongier than it ought to be. But now I’ll tell you something, Charles, that ought to wipe that sneer off your face. In my circle—and remember I’ve five grandchildren between twenty and thirty—there is something Elizabethan about a lot of the youngsters, and both the boys and girls seem to me better than their fathers and mothers were at the same age—more dash and devilment, a richer mixture of enterprise and sensibility. They drive old cars, sail leaky boats, listen to music and quote poetry. I don’t say there are enough of ’em as against the spongy mass, but here they are, for the time being, lively and not badly cultivated and not caring a damn. Your trouble, Charles, is that you don’t know ’em. That’s what you’ve missed by not being a family man. You’ve no real private life.”
“No, I’ve had a profession and then a firm to cherish,” said Ravenstreet, not without bitterness. “And I wake up one afternoon and find they’ve gone. My God, George, it’s a bad day to remind me what I’ve missed. I hadn’t much, but it’s just been taken away from me——”
Hathon wagged a finger at him. “Then I’ll remind you of something else, my boy, though you may never have heard it before. It’s an old favourite of mine, though. When you’re bitter you’re beat.”
Their corner had been invaded. A tallish middle-aged fellow was smiling down at them. He was an odd figure, looking almost deformed, for he had curiously high wide shoulders and a long chinny face that was much lower than it ought to have been, as if he had no neck. “Sorry to butt in, Hathon,” he began. His voice was surprisingly deep, quiet, soothing.
“Oh—hello, Karney,” Hathon grunted. “You two know each other? Sir Edwin Karney—Sir Charles Ravenstreet.”
“Heard a lot about you,” said Karney with a broad smile. “Like to have a talk sometime.” He turned to Hathon. “Came across to ask if next Tuesday afternoon would be any good to you—for the Fulbridge Committee. Suits most of us. Have a look at your book.”
“I can manage it,” said Hathon. “Though you don’t really need me.”
“Absolutely essential, my dear man,” said Karney in his almost hypnotic bass. Then he stared at Ravenstreet again. His eyes, of a darkish indeterminate shade, seemed to swim in oil, and suggested an exotic ancestry. “Member here, Ravenstreet? No? Well, like to have a talk sometime. Lunch perhaps? May I give you a ring?” Now he looked from one man to the other, his smile wider than ever. “I hear Selby’s taking over your New Central Electric concern——”
Hathon shook a fist at him. “Go away. You’re a dangerous fella, Karney, and we don’t want you here.”
Ravenstreet watched the high wide shoulders move across the room, which was now well-filled, smoky, loud with talk. “Now how could that fellow know what happened at a private board meeting only three hours ago?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Hathon irritably. “Fellas of that sort always know. They live by being in the know. I’m told Karney plays with millions now. Pops up all over the place. Including Buck House for a knighthood. And don’t ask me why they gave him one. Public Services. Not stealing the spoons. Anything. But he’s a good man on a committee—really runs the Fulbridge. If he asks you to a meal, better accept, Charles. He may have an idea for you. That’s assuming, of course, that you mean what you say when you talk of leaving us altogether.”
“I do, George. Better make me an offer for my shares before the Karneys rush in. Yes, I know,” he added hastily as Hathon began a rumbling protest, “naturally I’d give you the first chance, though I’m not sure you deserve it. But I want a capital sum, not income. I’m tired of paying taxes.”
Hathon reflected a moment or two. “It’ll amount to a tidy bit of money. Over two hundred thousand, I fancy. There are fellas here who can smell it already. Be careful, Charles. Outside our industry you’re a babe in the woods. Another whisky?”
“No, thank you, George. I must go. I’m dining with Garson—he knew what was coming, of course, when he asked me. I ought to have seen it. No excuse. I wasn’t always so dense. It probably means that somewhere at the back of my mind I didn’t care. I’ll go back to the works tomorrow and begin doing some tidying up. Don’t expect me at Victoria Street until the middle of next week. I’ll leave you to break the news to Selby, then you can arrange the purchase between you.” He got up out of his chair with unnecessary vigour, as if it needed an effort to escape from this somnolent, whisky-and-Havana atmosphere. His tone was cold. “Don’t let Selby try anything funny there, George. I’d make myself very unpleasant if he did.”
Hathon pushed himself up, and then spoke, looking mournful. “You can trust me, can’t you, Charles?”
“No, George, I can’t. Not any more. But thanks for the excellent whisky—and the good advice.”
As he made his way across the big room, looking straight before him, Ravenstreet seemed to hear many of them laughing harder than ever. He knew of course that they weren’t laughing at him. Nevertheless, he felt they were. George Hathon had said he wouldn’t bring Selby here. What were the odds, Ravenstreet asked himself, against Selby being a member before the end of the year? He walked through several streets filled with an exhausted sunlight to his own club, where he had a bedroom, and there took an unusually long bath.
Garson, who was Sales Manager and spent most of his time at the London office, had a fairly large flat off Haverstock Hill. His wife, Peggy, was a bouncy little woman, foolish but cheerful and friendly. When Ravenstreet arrived, rather late, the other three guests were already there, drinking cocktails. As he had expected, two of them were young Treves and his wife. Anne Treves looked vaguely aristocratic in a tall, blonde, scraggy way, but she had an unhappy social manner, always making commonplace remarks in a strained voice, like an amateur actress who had not quite learnt her lines. The other guest was new; and Ravenstreet soon decided that she had been included not merely to balance the dinner party but to enliven it, specially for him. She was Anne’s cousin, a Mrs. Mavis Westfret, also tall and blonde, but with nothing of the half-starved look that Anne had, being altogether the gorgeous creature, all gold and scarlet, smiles, bright remarks, flashing glances, hands on the men’s arms: a glorious technicolour girl. She had probably been told what to do but in any case did not need any telling, for Ravenstreet was not only the one unattached male present but also obviously the richest and most powerful, so she concentrated on him at once, making him feel that he was Einstein attending a children’s party and also the Caliph of Baghdad who had just acquired a new slave.
The dinner, which had been cooked by an elderly Central European woman, like a depressed fortune-teller, who had to be praised and thanked by everybody, was both messy and inadequate; but there was a great deal to drink, and perhaps because the food was not sufficiently substantial for the end of a long day, they all drank too much and began to show the effects of it. Even Ravenstreet, who had a good head, felt hot and muzzy by the time the brandy and cigars appeared. Flushed and rather shrill, the women reluctantly quitted the table, with the usual outcries at this enforced segregation. “You men are not to sit for hours, talking business,” cried Peggy Garson, making a face at her husband.
For a few minutes they didn’t talk busine
ss. “I must tell you,” said Treves to Ravenstreet, “that you’ve made quite a hit with Mavis, who’s a very dashing type, as you can see, and not easily pleased. She told me she thought you very distinguished and most attractive.”
“That’s because I am,” said Ravenstreet, forcing a grin. He tried to feel he was One of the Boys, which is what the other two hoped of him, but it was hard work. The drink, which had kept him going nicely, had now gone into reverse action, toppling him into some abyss of boredom and melancholy.
“Widow, isn’t she?” said Garson, who probably knew all about her but had to give Treves his Mavis cue. The idea round here, Ravenstreet reflected gloomily, seemed to be that if he could no longer have the managing-directorship of the New Central Electric, he had better have Mavis, although on what terms was not yet clear.
Married, Treves explained, to an equally dashing, whale-of-a-fellow, R.A.F. type who had killed himself testing a new jet fighter three years ago. Mavis had come out of it very well, tremendous courage and all that, in Treves’s opinion, which was now well soaked in sentiment and brandy. He admitted, though, that Anne, who could be very sharp about her gorgeous cousin at times (“You know what the girls are”), hinted that Mavis knew how to look after herself and was by no means inconsolable. “It was Anne who thought she might amuse you,” he concluded, grinning at Ravenstreet.
“A kind thought. But am I supposed to be in need of amusement?”
That finished Mavis, as he knew it would. At once, woman was out, business was in. “Frankly, Charles, yes, every time,” cried Garson rather wildly, passing the brandy. “Look, old man, don’t forget we knew what was coming off this afternoon. I hate to say it—but we told you so. And now let’s decide what to do, before Peggy comes to drag us out. What did you say to George Hathon? I know he took you off for a drink.”
He told them, to their dismay, which for a moment he found rather touching. His leaving would mean promotion for both of them; but even so, they did not want him to go. He reminded himself, however, that without him their long-term position would be weaker, for they alone had opposed Selby.
The Magicians Page 2
