“Yes.”
“You knew it?”
“Some of it.”
“And when it’s all over, what then?”
“Peace, I guess.”
“But the Americans stay?”
“Well, not all the troops, you understand. Of course not.”
“But they stay? The government doesn’t govern without their say so? Laws aren’t passed, changes made, monies spent, without some rubber stamp from Washington?”
“Well, yes, yes, I suppose so. For a while. But there will be laws. Isn’t that better than what has been here? Isn’t any stable government better than anarchy?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, turning from her. “I don’t know.”
She rose and left. They had not mentioned Chaucer.
He didn’t see Exsmith for nearly a week, then he was summoned to his office. Present also were two middle-aged sober-suited men.
“Come in, Whitey,” said Exsmith. “Pleased to see you. May I introduce Mr. Hain and Mr. Carradoc, two of our government advisers who’ve been posted to England to help with the rehabilitation programme. Now, the thing is, Whitey, how do you see your future?”
“Future?”
“Yeah. You must have been giving it a lot of thought. These are stirring times for this little island. Everyone’s full of hopes and uncertainties. I’m sure you’re no different. What do you want to do with yourself.”
“I’m not sure. Write again, I guess. Not straightaway, perhaps, but soon. Yes, that’s it, on balance. I should like to go back to the States, rest up for a while, then get back to work.”
As he spoke, the words suddenly became true. This was what he really did want to do. Get out of this town, this country. Go where there was space and sunshine, and new memories waited to be formed to bring balance and shape to the old. Then write. Not articles this time. Not paper pellets to flick and irritate for a few seconds. But a book, documentary, history, fiction, he wasn’t sure which. But it would contain all this.
Exsmith was speaking again, sympathetically but firmly.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Whitey. Not for a while. No, you see, the thing is, our government thinks it best that entry visas to citizens of this country be restricted only to accredited diplomatic and trade representatives for a while. In any case, your own country has decided to place similar limitations on exit permits.”
“Hold hard!” said Whitey. “You forget, I’m an American citizen and have been for several years.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Exsmith. “Don’t you recall, you renounced your citizenship both by written and oral declaration only a few weeks ago? I’m afraid the machinery went into motion and your name’s been removed.”
“But you know why I did that, you know I had to … “
He stopped. Of course they knew. It wasn’t a negotiable point.
“Can I reapply?”
“Perhaps. Later perhaps. But meanwhile, what about work?”
The man called Hain spoke for the first time.
Mr. Singleton,” he said, “this country needs men like you at the moment. You’ve been working for Mr. Wildthorpe recently, I believe, in the field of public relations. This is my special interest and this is what I’m here to advise on. We can use you in a variety of interesting and meaningful projects that your government has in hand.”
“Propaganda, you mean,” said Whitey.
“I prefer public relations, but use what term you will. It’s a worthwhile job with a big future.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it. But I feel I may prefer to make my own arrangements.”
“That’s your privilege, Whitey,” said Exsmith. “But before you go, Mr. Carradoc would like to say a few words.”
“I’m attached to the Justice Department,” said Carradoc in a rapid monotonous voice. “Until such time as the system can be reviewed and overhauled, it is arguable that the laws under which the old system operated must be, de facto, the basis of jurisprudence in this country. Mr. Singleton, you are a convicted criminal enjoying at the moment a term of parole. No, let me finish, that’s what it amounts to. One of the conditions of this parole refers specially to your employment, and it is arguable that for you to abandon or refuse to return to this employment, or some similar employment of an acceptable nature, would constitute a breach of parole.”
“You stinking bastards,” said Whitey slowly.
“Whitey! Please! We’re trying to help. You and your country both. Look, you can do well. Think what the future can hold for you. Miss Chesterman, Hydrangea you call her, she’s very fond of you, I know that. You might want to marry, bring up a family. I promise you your children would be entitled to dual citizenship. And it’s in your power to make sure there’s a safe and stable environment for them to grow up in. The alternative … well, hell, who wants to talk about that? What do you say?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Whitey, rising.
“Be quick,” said Exsmith. Whitey did not reply, but left the room.
In the outer office stood Hydrangea. She looked at him hopefully, an unspoken question in her eyes.
“I told them I’d think about it,” said Whitey walking past her and out of the room.
Nixon Lectures : Fifth Series
Conclusion of final lecture
You have listened to me patiently during these last few weeks and I have tried to reward your patience with an objective picture of the state of Britain in this modern age.
But you will appreciate how hard it is for me to remain purely objective as I describe the horrors which the Four Clubs have brought to my old country. I still share in those horrors, though I have left them behind for ever. Every time I sign my name, I am reminded of them. My friends often ask me why I am called ‘Whitey’. It’s nothing to do with my colouring, I assure you. The truth of the matter is that my father was a great football fan and the team he loved most of all played at a ground called White Hart Lane. He would have named me after the whole team, but my mother protested, so he contented himself with having a son called White Hart Singleton. He was a fine man. He died in the great Birmingham riot of 1982. I was the only survivor from those two coachloads of fans.
Well, so much for my name. I have never been to the ground since that day and I do not think I shall ever go back again. For while terrorism, and the rule of the mob, and the law of the strongest prevail in Britain, I cannot return. Let us pray that there are a few Britons still left who can remain untarnished by what is going on around them. Let us thank God that this great country which has adopted me still has a footing on British soil and may still be an influence for a return to traditional morality and the rule of law. Human relationships lie at the bottom of both these. If we are true to those who love us, we have laid the basis of the great society.
Thank you for your patience. Tomorrow I leave for Tokyo and after that I shall visit the Sudan. I assure you an African war holds no fears for a man who has faced such a distinguished audience as this! But as always I shall look forward eagerly to returning to the last and greatest stronghold of freedom in the modern world. Thank you for letting me in.
Chapter 18
It was a glorious late February day, containing all the promise of Spring. Hydrangea had put the pram out in the sunshine for the first time ever and kept on going into the garden to make sure all was well.
After lunch when Whitey rose from his chair and put his jacket on, she asked, “Are you going to the match?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I thought it was such a lovely day, we might go out for a little run somewhere. What about it?”
Whitey hesitated, then shook his head.
“Tomorrow, eh? If the weather holds. I’ve been looking forward to today’s game. It’s the first time for two months the ground will be fit to play decent football on.”
Hydrangea made a moue of disappointment then grinned.
“OK. But tomorrow, we go. Even if it snows. Take your overcoat now, this
sunshine can be deceptive.”
At the end of the street the policeman who was permanently there since the last car-bomb saluted him.
“Morning Mr. Singleton.”
“Morning, Joe. Bet you wish you were on football duty.”
“You can say that again.”
Whitey walked on, thinking that his father would have found the policeman reassuringly familiar thirty years ago. Except for the machine-pistol he carried in the crook of his arm.
The streets became progressively busier as he approached the ground. Getting football going again had been one of the brainwaves emanating from Whitey’s own department. It had taken a little while to get things under way, but the teams were now over half-way through their first full season, and as league and cup hopes became more and more clarified, so interest had grown, till the better games had become sell-outs.
The theory was that old Four Club loyalties could most easily be dissipated in this way, and it seemed to be working. Of course, stringent methods of dealing with rowdyism, both on and off the field, had been introduced from the start. No-one wanted to risk the development of the early eighties situation which had led to the Four Clubs.
Everyone looked happy today. The sunshine and anticipation of a good match had warmed their spirits, continuing the job begun by the recent relaxation of tax controls as the economy began to move upwards. Whitey knew the controls could have been slackened even further, but prosperity brought its own dangers. Gratitude was only shortlived. Today’s gratefully accepted gift quickly became tomorrow’s automatic expectation. Besides, while an American presence in Europe was sufficient reward for the politicians, the businessmen who had pumped millions of dollars into England were now looking for a return on their investment.
Still, it was good to be walking along Tottenham High Road once more, with the floodlights of White Hart Lane visible in the distance.
He had a season ticket for the main stand, but he rarely used it, preferring to pass through the turnstile on to the terraces. When asked about this he always answered, “My dad used to say you start watching football when you can’t play it, and you start sitting down to watch when you can’t stand.”
There were still fifty minutes to kick-off time but already the terraces were almost full. He bought a programme and made his way up the terracing to the very top, where he halted and surveyed the pitch. It looked in good health from up here, green and lush in the sunlight.
His programme listed the teams as expected. It was surprising how in both sides there were two or three names surviving from the pre-dissolution days. Youngsters then, their chosen careers nipped in the bud, now they returned as elder statesmen to bring expertise and stability to a generation who had grown up with little formal experience of the game.
The programme also told him that the guest of honour that day was going to be Sam Exsmith, the American Ambassador. And the most important man in the country, added Whitey mentally. It was a current Whitehall joke that the second most important man in the country was Premier Wildthorpe if you didn’t count Exsmith’s dog.
A young man with a drooping blond moustache shouldered his way up the terracing and came to a halt beside Whitey.
“Lovely day for it,” he said cheerfully.
“It is,” agreed Whitey.
“Any team changes?”
“Have a look,” said Whitey, handing over his programme. The young man scanned it briefly and returned it.
“Ta,” he said slipping into his pocket the sheet of paper he had taken from between the programme pages.
Down below a band had appeared on the pitch and now they struck up ‘When The Saints Go Marching In.’ Soon the fans on the terraces were singing lustily. It was curious, Whitey had observed, that they were much more responsive to musical accompaniment than they had been in the seventies when bands were frequently inaudible through the rival tunes being chanted round the ground.
“That moustache looks terrible,” he said under cover of the noise.
“Rest assured. Underneath it I’m as bare-faced as ever,” answered King. “How’s Hydrangea?”
“Fine. Another year and she’ll be back at work. She misses it, I think.”
“That’s good. It was a useful contact. She never suspects anything?”
“No,” said Whitey sadly. “Women think that a leopard could change its spots for love. By the way, I wish you’d be more careful where you’re putting those cars. My greenhouse was ruined by the last blast.”
“You shouldn’t live so close to the Commissioner of Police. That reminds me. You drive here today?”
“No.”
“Good. Well, don’t stray near the car-park afterwards.”
“What? You’re trying for Exsmith again?”
King shrugged.
“Why not? It keeps the interest going. Like the band, till the big game starts.”
“I suppose so.”
They joined in the singing now, till the band stopped and the players ran out on the field, forming two lines for the presentation ceremony.
Out of the tunnel marched the official party. In the centre of the group, Whitey could just make out Exsmith. The man’s courage had to be admired. Even with his bullet-proof waistcoat and his four body-guards constantly moving around to keep their bodies between Exsmith and possible sources of attack, he was still very vulnerable.
The band struck up the American anthem. In the main stand, they began to sing, but here upon the terraces few mouths opened.
Then suddenly a voice was raised in a distant corner, a strong tenor which sent one word floating over the ground. Immediately there were waves of violent movement in the crowd as men began to converge on the singer. These were policemen too, Whitey told himself, but not such as his father would have recognized thirty years ago.
Now the word was sung out again from another part of the ground. Movement again, but this time the word was taken up elsewhere immediately and the waves became uncertain, erratic, till finally they died away completely as from all corners the word was sounded out till the band was drowned fathoms deep in the noise.
ALBION! ALBION! ALBION!
Beside him, King had joined in, his eyes shining, his absurd moustache looking in danger of being blown off by the force of his voice.
Whitey looked at him affectionately. He was still young enough to hope.
But even, perhaps especially, when the future looked black beyond redemption, a man needed something to give himself to.
Muted at first, but with increasing power, he joined in the chant.
About the Author
Reginald Charles Hill FRSL was an English crime writer and the winner of the 1995 Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1974, 1977, 1997 by the Estate of Reginald Hill
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5975-6
This edition published in 2019 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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REGINALD HILL
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Singleton's Law Page 20
