Paradise Postponed

by John Mortimer

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re really not meeting up with a young lady?’

  ‘I promise you. No young lady.’

  ‘Then we’d better show you, hadn’t we?’ Tom held out his empty mug for a refill and said, as though it was part of his request for another drink, ‘It’s time you got blooded.’

  Before Fred could ask for any further explanation, he saw Terry Fawcett, clarinet player of the Stompers, pushing his way towards them. It seemed they were all going on together in Terry’s muddy and battered old Zephyr Zodiac. They called at a big and rather melancholy pub by Hartscombe station to collect Den Kitson, and had a surprising number of shorts for which Fred found himself paying. No one seemed prepared to tell him if the evening was to be devoted to drink or music; there was no further mention of blood, and as they came out of their final pub, the Badger at Skurfield, he had ceased to care. Den and Fred sat in the back of the Zephyr. Tom Nowt was in the front with Terry, who drove down the narrow lanes with the dark hedgerows whipping the sides of his old banger with untrimmed branches. Terry began to sing softly; Den joined in and Fred beat out a rhythm, slapping the worn plastic on the seat beside him: ‘I don’t stay out late. Don’t want to go. I’m home about eight. Just me and my radio.’ The dark shapes of trees, the straightening of a bend in the road, told Fred, who had known this landscape all his life, that they were going to Mandragola. This was a ruined farmhouse at the head of a hidden, isolated valley, a long stretch of woodland, fields and patches of grassland which had never been cultivated by the Stroves, who owned the land, so that it was rich in butterflies, shells, wild flowers and small strawberries, as well as scrub, brambles, rabbit warrens and hawthorn bushes. Soon Fred saw the shape of the farmhouse walls, and a few cottages with broken windows and fallen-in roofs which Doughty had never found the money to repair, and then the car turned and bumped down a rutted woodland track. They heard owls hoot and saw squirrels scuttle across the road.

  Then, at the edge of a wood at the corner of an abandoned field, Terry stopped the car and switched off the lights. Tom put a stop to the singing. They sat for a long while in a silence which was incomprehensible to Fred, and then he heard a faraway rustling sound. Tom nodded and got out with Den. When they came back from a quiet visit to the car boot they were both carrying rifles. They sat with their barrels pointing out of the windows, so that the car looked like an old man-of-war, as Terry started the engine and it creaked slowly forward along the track. The lights were still off and the darkness of the wood seemed to press against them like fog. ‘Stop,’ Tom whispered, as though he had heard something else, and, after a long silence, ‘Now!’

  When Terry snapped on the full beam of the headlights, the woodland ride in front of them was lit up like a pantomime transformation scene and dazzled, staring motionless into the glare of the lights, was a tall deer crowned with antlers. It seemed to Fred to stand wide-eyed for a long time before the rifles cracked and it sank gently, reverently, to its knees in front of the car. He felt Den take his arm and pull him out and saw Tom take out his knife and go for the animal’s throat. Then a bloody thumb was on his forehead, and he was initiated as brutally as a child who sees its first kill on the hunting-field.

  After Simeon Simcox died, Kevin Bulstrode (Kev the Rev. to Henry Simcox) moved into the old Rectory from which he could direct religious operations at Rapstone, Skurfield and Picton Principal. The Bulstrode children fought and screamed and slept in the rooms Fred and Henry had once occupied, and Mrs Bulstrode held her meetings: ‘Women for the Priesthood’, ‘Women against Discrimination’ and ‘Women against Rape’ (‘Are there any women for rape, I wonder?’ Dorothy had murmured when she heard of the last organization) in the big drawing-room. Kevin Bulstrode took over the old Rector’s study. He felt a little in awe of the place at first, calling it the Holy of Holies, and then complained, only half joking, of the fact that no journalists came to ask his opinion on every subject from punk hairdo’s to the Resurrection. He was, he often said, only a simple parish priest, and not in the Top Ten of popular parsons.

  Kevin Bulstrode was not entirely easy with what was left of Simeon’s possessions; in particular the bust of Karl Marx appeared, at times, to regard him with a sort of lofty disdain and he was afraid that the Rural Dean, or even the Bishop, might call and find it inappropriate. Accordingly, he packed the bearded head and a large number of Simeon’s books, pamphlets and assorted papers into tea-chests and lodged them in the attic, telling Dorothy that perhaps she would send someone to fetch them whenever it was convenient.

  ‘Oh you can keep Karl Marx if you care for him,’ she said. ‘I have so little room now in my minute house in Hartscombe.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve settled in comfortably.’ Kevin did, in fact, look considerably relieved. There was a long period when he feared that Simeon’s widow was going to be as much a fixture at the Rectory as the joint author of the Communist Manifesto. ‘Of course we were worried about how you’d manage, particularly when we heard that Simeon has left everything to Mr Titmuss.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bulstrode. I had a little something of my own.’ They were talking in the church where Dorothy still came regularly to do the flowers. The air was heavy with pollen and the dust from old hassocks.

  ‘To leave everything to a Conservative cabinet minister!’ Kevin Bulstrode pursed his lips in enjoyable speculation. ‘It seems so unlike the Simeon we knew and loved.’

  ‘I suppose he thought he should be fair, even to Conservative cabinet ministers.’

  Dorothy’s house was indeed small, a flint cottage in a side street. She settled in quickly, Dora Nowt came and did for her, and she thought that the house might have some advantages over the old Rectory. It was going to be impossible for her to have Henry and Lonnie to stay, for instance, and she’d hardly be able to squeeze any number of old parishioners in for tea. In fact, with any luck, she’d be left alone with her patch of front garden.

  ‘I thought a real cottage garden,’ she told Fred. ‘Cabbages and roses together, and sweet peas all mixed up with the runner beans. I could never do that at the Rectory. Your father had an unusually tidy mind for a Christian Socialist.’

  ‘It’s a bit of luck you have the house.’

  ‘And a few investments Simeon’s Aunt Pauline left me.’

  ‘Did Simeon’s Aunt Pauline leave you the house? I can’t remember.’

  As always at the mention of financial transactions Dorothy looked vague and withdrawn, as though the conversation had suddenly taken an improper turn. She took the head of a hollyhock between her fingers and looked down on it with mild disapproval. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I think so, don’t you?’

  It was only then that Fred saw something which made him remember standing with Dr Salter in the same small garden so many years before. There was the white headstone, almost covered with ivy, against the wall of the house. Half the inscription was hidden, but he could still read… MORY OF TEDDY… INY MARMOSET. Then he realized that they were in the house in Sunday Street, where Mrs Amulet and her monkey had both departed this life.

  ‘Are you going to cut back the ivy?’ he asked his mother. ‘Make a feature of it?’

  ‘Poor monkey’s grave!’ Dorothy shook her head. ‘I think we should let it hide itself in decent obscurity.’

  It was some time later, when Dr Fred was examining Jackson Cantellow as an insurance risk, taking his blood pressure and listening to the cavernous chest of the solicitor, that the question of Simeon’s will was mentioned again. ‘I don’t believe we’ll ever explain your father’s will. The old Rector moved in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform. Of course it was lucky your mother had a few investments, and the house in Sunday Street.’

  And Fred, who had just asked Jackson Cantellow to pull up his trousers and hop on the scales, said, ‘Didn’t Great Aunt Pauline leave Mother Sunday Street?’

  ‘Oh no. Your predecessor left it to her, he got the freehold from a grateful patient. Dr Salter
and your mother were old friends of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fred was adjusting the scales to measure Cantellow’s increasing bulk. ‘You need to lose a couple of stone.’

  ‘I need the weight, for the low notes in the Creation. Oh yes, your mother’s house came from Dr Salter.’

  16

  Getting Out the Voters

  In the great world, far from Mandragola and the Rapstone Valley, the revelations of scandal in high places continued to add zest and flavour to the breakfast tables of the nation. Dr Stephen Ward, who, it was suggested, had procured mistresses for the rich and powerful, was to be tried as a concession to one of the British public’s periodical bouts of morality, and to commit suicide by way of a pathetically exaggerated apology. Mr Macmillan fell ill and the leadership of the Party, which numbered young Leslie Titmuss among its adherents, had been assumed by Sir Alec Douglas-Home, who had resigned his peerage and was said, for all his apparent amiability, not to show up well on television. All these doings were reported by Hartscombe’s representative at Westminster, Doughty Strove, M.P., to a committee of his local Party Association meeting in Hartscombe Town Hall. After the whole sad story had been recounted and a decent silence had been allowed for those who had fallen in the great scandal, Nicholas said, with his usual fairness, ‘One feels sorry for the Minister. It was the lying, of course. I don’t suppose anyone cares who the fellow jumped into bed with.’

  To which there was a rumbling of general assent and one small, sharp voice, ‘I don’t agree.’

  ‘Titmuss?’ Nicholas was displeased by the interruption.

  ‘It’s not only the lying, is it? I mean, a member’s private life does have to be above suspicion. If we choose a fellow to represent us, we have to make sure he has absolutely no skeletons in his cupboard.’ At which those present were surprised to see the young Titmuss fixing Doughty Strove with what looked very much like a glare of accusation.

  ‘Well, there’ve been all sorts of stupid rumours, of course. Bloody tittle-tattle!’ Doughty Strove was obviously nettled. ‘But I’ve made it perfectly clear that if anyone wants to suggest that there’s any connection between me and that fellow in the iron mask – they’ve apparently got photos of him dishing out vegetables to a party of decadents – well, I wouldn’t even know where to buy an iron mask.’

  An embarrassed silence met this refutation, after which Nicholas was again the conciliator. ‘No Doughty. My dear fellow! Of course you wouldn’t.’

  ‘It would be quite wrong of me to suggest that there is anything in Mr Strove’s past life that could cause us the slightest concern.’ Leslie Titmuss went on in a voice which sounded like a prosecution and continued to give offence. ‘But in my opinion our Party has attracted far too many rumours lately and they’re quite likely to lose us the next election!’

  ‘We shall weather this little difficulty and be returned next time, whenever it may be, with a handsome majority,’ Doughty assured them all.

  ‘I really don’t agree.’ By now his son-in-law’s voice was affecting Nicholas like a rusty nail on a slate. ‘We’ve always stood as the Party of public morality,’ Leslie grated on. ‘It seems to me that if we lose that reputation we might as well all go off and join the Socialists.’ There was a merciful gap in Leslie’s speech, into which the Chairman hurried to pour oil.

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sure we’re all extremely grateful to our member for his clear report from Westminster and for the quiet, dependable way he’s represented Hartscombe. Many of you will have noticed the helpful question he asked about oil-seed rape was it, Doughty? I’m sure no one could possibly suggest that he’s a man who could be connected with any sort of scandal.’ Nicholas smiled vaguely around him. ‘With or without an iron mask. So I propose a vote of thanks to Doughty Strove, long may he represent Hartscombe and Worsfield South.’

  ‘I should like to second that, Chairman.’ It was Leslie Titmuss, smiling and quick off the mark. His father-in-law looked at him with the nearest he could come to real anger and, when Leslie emerged after the motion had been carried, was waiting for him by the notice-board in the cold and marmoreal Town Hall entrance.

  ‘Father-in-law!’ Leslie smiled. ‘Whenever are you going to pay us a call?’ Since his marriage to Charlie, Leslie had seen very little of her parents, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful but which he resented. Grace and Nicholas hadn’t yet included them in their dinner parties at Rapstone Manor.

  ‘I must say that was a bit strong!’ Nicholas was clearly not in a social mood.

  ‘Really? I thought it was a jolly good meeting.’

  ‘People who live in glasshouses, Titmuss’ – the Chairman looked round to make sure there was not a Conservative within earshot – ‘should keep their mouths shut at meetings. What about your own marriage? Didn’t you rather jump the gun?’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that Charlotte was pregnant when I married her?’ Leslie looked pained.

  ‘If she wasn’t I don’t know what all the fuss was about.’

  ‘I really think you ought to know that the first night I slept with your daughter was on the honeymoon in Torquay you so generously paid for. I’m sure we’ve got too much respect for the institution of marriage. Of course we both hope to present you with a grandchild once I get settled in the new business. Best wishes to mother-in-law.’

  So Leslie Titmuss went out into the Hartscombe night, and left Nicholas feeling that an act of flagrant immorality had occurred, particularly if, by some strange chance, his son-in-law were telling the truth.

  There was certainly a new feeling of morality abroad: the top place on the charts was gained by a Belgian nun who sang to a guitar. The daily excitement of scandalous revelations had been forgotten. There was talk of a coming election when the New Jerusalem might again be on offer, not this time as the austere and serviceable city of Major Attlee and Sir Stafford Cripps, but as a gleaming steel and concrete Shangri-La, humming with the Mersey Sound and the mass production of mini-cars evolved by some new and mysterious technology the secret of which had, apparently, only just been discovered. The ‘new business’ which Leslie Titmuss had mentioned to his father-in-law was Hartscombe Enterprises, a company recently formed by Christopher Kempenflatt and Magnus Strove. They had asked Leslie to join them as an accountant, partly as a reward for his support and advice in the matter of the Easy-Bite restaurant and other property deals in and around Hartscombe, but mainly because he was prepared to work with relentless energy at all hours and leave the business lunches and ‘customer relations’ to them. From time to time Kempenflatt and Magnus grew fearful at the threat of another Labour Government; then Leslie, the accountant, gave them a small smile and told them that Hartscombe Enterprises had nothing very much to fear from Mr Wilson, the new technology, or government spending on buildings and public works.

  ‘I’m coming down to Rapstone for the election.’ Henry had paid an unprecedented call on his brother and been invited to lunch in his hospital canteen. ‘We’ve both got to work, Fred. We’ve got to do something for this country.’

  ‘You mean England needs you?’

  ‘England’s dying on its feet.’ Henry spoke with the experience of someone who’d come back from a long time abroad. ‘It hasn’t even the horrible vitality of Benny K. Bugloss, or Jack Polefax of Galaxy International. My God, Frederick. What’ve you got? A fourteenth Earl of a prime minister who does sums with matchsticks, members of the Government chasing call-girls and waiting at table in iron masks!’

  ‘You’ve become very puritanical.’ Fred pushed away his cold stew and embarked on the jam roll and custard, food which always seemed to taste faintly of antiseptic.

  ‘About the only thing you’ve been able to organize decently is a train robbery.’

  ‘I didn’t organize it personally.’

  ‘You’re going to help us get rid of this lot, aren’t you? I mean, I don’t agree with everything our father says, as you know.’

  ‘But you’d like to build
Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land?’ Fred noticed that his brother’s new taste for austerity stopped short of the jam roll.

  ‘I don’t see anything particularly wrong with that.’

  They had lunch together and neither of them mentioned Agnes. Fred was tired of the taste of hospital food, the smell of the hospital corridors and the bad jokes that were essential to keep the students’ thoughts away from the hopeless reality of death. He didn’t know if Henry had come to make peace between them or as some act of contrition; whatever it was he found it hard to understand why he should be beaten about the head with his father’s politics during the short half hour he had before his turn to take blood in the children’s ward. He wondered why Henry made everything, from an election to a love-affair, sound like some football match at Knuckleberries in which his younger brother was sure to let down the side.

  ‘The trouble with our father’s paradise is that it keeps getting put off, doesn’t it?’ Fred didn’t mind trying to irritate Henry, who was now carefully stubbing out a cigarette by the side of his abandoned pudding. ‘The promised land’s always just round the corner.’

  ‘At least let’s give the people a chance and pull together.’ Fred thought Henry might have added ‘For the sake of the house’.

  ‘You mean “the workers”?’

  ‘Well, if you want to use an old-fashioned expression.’

  ‘I went out with the workers the other night,’ Fred decided to tell him. ‘The workers I play all that jazz with: Terry Fawcett, who works in Marmaduke’s garage in Hartscombe, Den Kitson from the Brewery and Tom Nowt. You remember Tom Nowt, don’t you?’

  ‘Vaguely.’ Henry seemed to lose interest once specific workers were brought into question.

  ‘Well, Tom Nowt. We all had a few drinks, of course, and then we went on a spree.’

  ‘What sort of spree?’

  ‘We drove down by the Mandragola Valley, bumped across a field, got into a wood and dazzled a deer in an old Zephyr’s head-lamps. Then they shot it and cut its throat. Nobody said anything about it when I met Terry and Den the week after and we did a trad night at the Badger in Skurfield. They never mentioned it at all. Tom Nowt smeared blood on me.’