by Ruth Edwards
‘You’re on,’ said Amiss. ‘And before I go tomorrow we’ll compose a joint letter to the two of them, pointing out how well we get on without them and urging them not to hurry back. We will include this poem: I’ve been saving it up for the right occasion.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and declaimed:
‘Love a woman? You’re an ass!
’Tis a most insipid passion
To choose out for your happiness
The silliest part of God’s creation.
Let the porter and the groom,
Things designed for duty slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelia’s womb
To get supplies for age and graves.
Farewell, woman! I intend
Henceforth every night to sit
With my lewd, well-natured friend,
Drinking to engender wit.
Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,
And, if busy love entrenches,
There’s a sweet, soft page of mine
Does the trick worth forty wenches.
Maybe that’ll bring them back on the next plane.’
‘That would only be a distraction now,’ said Pooley. ‘Goodnight and thank you very much, Jim. Don’t let him keep you up too late. I’ll let myself out.’
‘D’you think he felt left out?’ asked Milton as he topped up Amiss’s outstretched glass.
‘I don’t give a fuck if he did or didn’t. I’ve become very fond of Ellis and I’m prepared on occasion to be tempted into his latest hare-brained scheme, but I’m buggered if I’ll carry on like Richard Hannay and his chums in a John Buchan novel. The trouble about Ellis’s preoccupation with crime fiction is that it’s a genre that sits most comfortably in an England that is dead and gone.’
‘Like ffeatherstonehaugh’s?’ said Milton.
‘Precisely,’ said Amiss. ‘It’s enough to make one feel one should go into the West End to a Heavy Metal disco or something.’
‘Why don’t we watch the re-run of today’s “Match of the Day” instead?’ suggested Milton. ‘There won’t be anybody in it over thirty.’
‘Perfect. And let’s make a vow. We won’t talk about anything earnest, serious, or in any way related to ffeatherstonehaugh’s between now and my departure.’
‘Done,’ said Milton.
Chapter Twelve
‘There’s something peculiar going on,’ said Sunil on Monday morning, during their private morning snack. ‘Mmmm. I’ve never had gulls’ eggs before, Robert. Very nice.’
‘Good. Pass the pâté,’ said Amiss. ‘What d’you mean, peculiar? How can anything that happens here be called peculiar?’
‘I mean abnormal,’ said Sunil. ‘You can be a frightful pedant, Robert.’
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘Well, the Admiral came in yesterday afternoon.’
‘On a Sunday. That’s very unusual, isn’t it?’
‘For a non-resident it is, though I suppose he’s got a perfect right, being chairman and everything. He wandered around for a couple of hours having chats with any of the old fellows who were around the place.’
‘Like who?’
‘Mainly the hard core. You know—Fagg, Fishbane, Glaston bury, Chatterton and the Commander. There’s hardly ever anyone else staying at weekends.’
‘Ah! The dear Commander. Slaving away at his job, even on a Sunday. Heroic.’
‘An example to us all, I think.’
‘Was he just being sociable?’ Amiss tried to sound no more than mildly interested.
‘Don’t think so. He upset Glastonbury. Poor old boy looked a bit tearful after they’d talked. Fagg was in an absolute rage.’
‘Fagg’s always in a rage. Here, have the last of the eggs. I’ve had most of the pâté.’
‘Thanks, I will. Today’s lunch in the servants’ hall consists of tripe and onions, followed by tapioca pudding.’
‘Some people like tripe, you know,’ said Amiss wonderingly. ‘In fact I’ve heard Mauleverer going on about a tripe restaurant in Paris.’
‘Even if I weren’t of Hindu stock, I doubt if I would ever have been attracted by the notion of eating a cow’s stomach.’
‘Shall we give it a miss then?’
‘Oh, I’ll look in. I have to have a word with Gooseneck about my timetable for this week.’
‘So what d’you think the Admiral was up to? You didn’t hear anything that was said?’
‘Just the odd sentence here or there. But none of his encounters seemed to be convivial, so they weren’t calling for drinks while he was there. I just heard Fagg shouting, “How dare you, sir?” and the Commander wailing something about old times. Honestly, it sounded to me as if he was giving them all some kind of ultimatum.’
‘Did they get together afterwards or anything?’
‘No. The Commander was going out anyway. He always goes to his married daughter on Sunday evening. And Glastonbury goes to his mother’s grave to do a bit of gardening. Anyway, Fagg looked too furious to speak to anyone.’
‘Well, it’ll be interesting to see if they go into conference this afternoon,’ said Amiss. ‘It would make a nice change to have something happening in this place for once. Maybe they’ll launch a putsch and get themselves a new chairman.’
‘Maybe,’ said Sunil. ‘But my feeling is that the winds of change are blowing through this club and that the old guard’s days are numbered.’
‘And which side will you be on, Sunil?’
‘I shall be neutral. I’ve got two essays to write in the next fortnight. And you?’
‘Oh, I shall compose an elegy when the time is right.’
***
‘What’s the Admiral up to, Ellis?’ Amiss shovelled some more change into the slot.
‘Nothing that I’ve heard. I mean, we told you that he was planning what he called a tactful chat with the main protagonists, but I thought the idea was to lull them into a sense of false security. Sunil’s evidence suggests that he upset some of them.’
‘Well, if you hear anything, ring me. Pretend to be from the employment agency.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘It’s called Service With A Smile,’ said Amiss through clenched teeth. ‘And the motto on its letterhead reads: “We also serve who only stand and wait.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and do that very thing.’
***
The group in the Smoking Room that afternoon resembled rather more the Angry Brigade than the Gang of Five. Amiss was fascinated by the range of inarticulate sounds they could produce. Gaggings and chokings and wailings and grumbles and mumbles and expostulations and curses and oaths followed each other in rapid sequence in response to the fluent introductory speech by Fishbane, who appeared to have appointed himself master of ceremonies. Much to Amiss’s chagrin, his eavesdropping was greatly hampered by a new cleaner, who had arrived to do a serious job on the upstairs kitchen. Amiss spent a deeply frustrating hour rushing to his post any time the cleaner left or appeared to be absorbed in his job, frequently having the conversation drowned out by the sound of a vacuum cleaner and in between having to exchange inane pleasantries. He spent as long as he could going round the Smoking Room at a snail’s pace, cleaning clean ashtrays and polishing polished tables, and when summoned once or twice to wait on other members he dragged out the process of serving them for an inordinate length of time. Nevertheless, he could pick up very little. Glastonbury was certainly upset, although that didn’t stop him nodding off on several occasions; Fagg was enraged—the term ‘bloody fellow’ came up frequently; Fishbane was considered; the Commander spluttered a lot and Chatterton said very little except to draw on his memory of some committee problem that had arisen in 1964. Chatterton thought this event had occurred on the afternoon of the tenth of January, although he did concede that it might have been the eleventh. He remembered this because it was the day on which the BBC Home Service had announced the news that Her Majesty the Queen had given birth to what would become known a
s Prince Edward. Chatterton declared himself slightly worried that he could forget such a momentous date.
***
When Pooley rang around six o’clock, Amiss’s frustration had still not been dispelled.
‘Jim had a word with the Admiral, Robert. Sunil was right. It didn’t go too well yesterday. He said he got angry at the absolute resistance to any kind of moderate reform and at the dismissive way some of them spoke about poor old Trueman. Anyway, the upshot was that he demanded there be a committee meeting this Thursday to work out a club strategy.’
‘They won’t like that: it sounds ominous and modern and dangerous.’
‘Well, he did say he’d try to cool things down in advance of the meeting,’ said Pooley. ‘He’s intending to drop in and have a social drink with a few of them in the next day or so, have lunch or dinner, participate in old boys’ chat, that sort of thing.’
‘I wish him luck. It’s hard to be one of the boys when the boys unite only against a common enemy and at the moment that is oneself. Tell him to stay well away from the balustrade.’
***
Though Amiss was not entirely convinced that Trueman had been murdered, he did feel a sense of unease about the Admiral’s safety, so he was relieved to see that he seemed to be getting on rather better with his committee colleagues than the Sunday experiences had promised. He lunched amicably with Glastonbury and Chatterton, dined civilly with Fagg and Fishbane, and even had a seemingly friendly tête-à-tête with the Commander on Wednesday afternoon. Yet Amiss felt that to a group of paranoid old men the Admiral’s conduct must have appeared worrying. He refused three of the courses at lunch, four at dinner; he skipped the Madeira and champagne; his consumption of port was derisory. He tended to bow out when the other old codgers were getting stuck into tedious reminiscence, clearly lacking the high boredom threshold necessary to keep these dissidents happy.
Amiss wondered what a management consultant would do, faced with the Admiral’s problem. He had explained to Milton and Pooley that he had to carry the body of members with him. History suggested that anciens régimes tended to resist modernisation. The Admiral was going to have quite a job persuading even the ordinary bloated members to pay more, and to eat and drink less. None the less, Milton believed that he had a fair chance, if one believed that the English gentleman normally had some good in him, and that an appeal to decency and tradition could work. What was pretty clear was that Colonel Fagg would not be in the vanguard of modernisation.
‘Bloody fellow says he can’t manage fish and meat at the same meal,’ Amiss overheard him saying, as globules of congealed snuff quivered in his nostrils. ‘It’ll be austerity packages and spam fritters if we’re not careful.’
‘Never mind,’ he heard Fishbane offer, ‘we’ll sort him out tomorrow.’
The committee never got the chance to remonstrate with their persecutor. On Wednesday evening, the Admiral looked in on the club after dinner and Amiss heard him say goodnight to the five, remarking that he had a little work to do in the office, after which he would get back home and turn in: he looked forward to seeing them the following day.
***
Among the many fictions maintained in ffeatherstonehaugh’s was that committee members were busy men. Meetings therefore always took place at five-thirty in the evening, a time when a politician, a lawyer or a captain of industry might be expected to be able to get away from his office for an important private occasion. Gooseneck deputed Amiss that Thursday afternoon to provide refreshments. At five-fifteen he was to take tea and Dundee cake to the committee room. At six-thirty he would turn up with a large jug of the club cocktail, for it was a tradition that committee meetings ended with a toast to the club in its own tipple.
***
Punctually, Amiss descended the staircase with a laden tray: the Admiral was a hundred yards ahead of him. As Amiss entered the room the blast went off: he was flung across the room unconscious. The Admiral, who had unwittingly detonated the explosive, never had a chance.
Chapter Thirteen
The call came first to the anti-terrorist squad, so it took an hour before Milton heard the news on the grapevine. By then the press had already been told that the likelihood was that this was a terrorist act: the media were already speculating on whether the perpetrators were Arab or Irish. While Milton explained the background and tried to wrest the case back to his jurisdiction, Pooley, who had gone with him to ffeatherstonehaugh’s, was white-faced with fear at Ramsbum’s gleeful account of the state of the two victims.
‘Course the Admiral, ’e was a goner. His own mother wouldn’t have recognised him. Lost a fair bit of his ’ead.’
‘And the waiter? D’you know which one it was?’
‘Oh, yeah. It was young Robert. Can’t remember his second name, but he was an English chap.’
‘Was?’ Pooley was overwhelmed with horror. ‘But he’s still alive, isn’t he?’
‘Can’t see ’e’d be able to hang on. ’E was covered in blood. They couldn’t ’ave caught him in time. Must ’a lost gallons.’
Without another word Pooley tore into the club and found Milton. ‘I must speak to you, sir. It’s urgent.’
Milton apologised to the chief of the anti-terrorist squad and took Pooley into a corner.
‘Ramsbum says the injured waiter was Robert and that he’s in a serious condition.’ Pooley was gabbling.
‘I’ve just been told the same. Apparently there’s no word from the hospital yet.’
‘Can I go along there please, sir?’
‘No, I’m afraid you can’t. We’re taking over here now and you’ve got to stay. We can’t let personal feelings interfere with duty: you know that.’
Pooley straightened himself. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know that, sir.’
‘Good man, Ellis. Now here’s what I want you to do.’
***
The switching on of a harsh electric light woke Amiss at 6 a.m. He stayed immobile, trying desperately to identify where he was and to recall how he had got there. He raised his head slightly and took cautious stock. He was in an iron bed which resembled that on which he slept in ffeatherstonehaugh’s, but it had on one side a sad leatherette-and-wooden armchair and on the other a small white cabinet. Enclosing these three items were murky yellow-and-green curtains. There was a strong smell of disinfectant. He was wearing winceyette pyjamas like those he had had as a child. Enlightenment dawned: he was in hospital.
‘Morning, Bert,’ called a loud, high-pitched, trembling voice from his left.
‘Morning, Alf,’ came the shouted response from opposite. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Oh, not too bad. Mustn’t grumble. Much better than the other night when my leg was so bad. I think that cup of tea last thing at night really helps. How about you?’
‘Pardon?’
Alf turned up the volume. ‘I said, how about you? How did you sleep?’
‘Oh, not bad. Mustn’t grumble, mustn’t grumble. Wonder what’s for breakfast this morning. Think it will be cornflakes or rice crispies?’
‘It’s Friday. Probably rice crispies. Don’t like them as much as cornflakes.’ Alf’s voice had dropped a decibel.
‘Don’t like what?’
‘I don’t like rice crispies as much as cornflakes,’ roared Alf.
‘Nor do I. Still, mustn’t grumble. And there might be strawberry jam today.’
‘Hope so.’
‘All right, Alf?’
‘All right, Bert.’
The conversationalists relapsed into silence, broken by intermittent spitting and coughing. Amiss stayed hidden in his enclosure, nervously examining his body for signs of damage. He could find only a small cut and bruise on the back of his head. Confused and agitated, he pressed the call button.
Three or four minutes later he heard a female with an Irish accent enquiring who wanted her: after a few cheery exchanges with the other inmates, she arrived at his pen. She pulled back the front curtain vigorously and revealed he
rself to be young and jolly-looking. ‘Hello there, I’m Bernadette. You’re Robert, aren’t you? And what can I do for you?’
‘Why am I here, Bernadette?’
‘Bit of an accident. Nothing serious. You’re grand now, thank God. Sister’ll tell you all about it in a minute.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘Sorry. Robert. Sister knows the details. Now don’t you worry your head. You’re in fine fettle.’
‘I can’t find my watch. What time is it?’
‘Ten past six.’
‘Christ.’
‘We have to get an early start in hospital, you know.’ She began to draw the other curtains back. ‘No, no, please,’ squealed Amiss. ‘I want the curtains closed.’
‘Closed. Why?’
‘Because I want to be alone.’
‘What for, for heaven’s sake? Who do you think you are? Greta Garbo?’
From his period of employment in an Irish pub, Amiss was well accustomed to its denizens’ congenital gregariousness; this went hand in hand with a complete inability to understand anyone else’s need for peace. Unable to explain, he fell back on charm. ‘Oh, go on, Bernadette. Humour me.’ He spoke as flirtatiously as was humanly possible in his anxious state.
‘Oh, all right. Fair enough. If that’s what you want. Be seeing you.’ Shaking her head with mystification, she drew the curtains to.
After a few minutes they were half opened and a middle-aged woman came and sat on the chair by his bed. Her uniform was festooned with epaulettes, badges and stripes: Amiss wondered why a profession so given to the trappings of power stopped short of medals.
‘Good morning, Robert,’ she said. ‘You gave everyone quite a fright.’
‘What did I do?’
‘You got yourself involved in an explosion. Don’t you remember?’
‘I don’t remember anything except carrying a tray of tea and cake down a long corridor.’
She looked at him sympathetically: her crisp, rather schoolmistressy manner gave way to something more gentle. ‘You’ve been very lucky. Some kind of bomb went off. I’m afraid it killed Sir Conrad Meredith-Lee.’
