Paradise Postponed

by John Mortimer

  ‘But it’s possible, isn’t it?’ Leslie was pushing gently. ‘Quite likely in fact.’

  ‘I suppose’ – Nicholas felt it would be disloyal to dismiss the suggestion out of hand – ‘it is reasonably likely.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to start looking round, won’t we?’

  ‘Looking round? Whatever for?’

  ‘A new Conservative candidate. For the Hartscombe and Wors-field South constituency.’

  Grace didn’t have to entertain Leslie much that weekend. Magnus Strove had invited him to dinner at Picton House, partly to discuss Tasker Street and partly to persuade his father to try and make some money out of his gloomy and underpopulated house and the large park that surrounded it. For instance, a pop festival in the grounds might be profitable and Hartscombe Enterprises would undertake the organization. ‘Popular music?’ Doughty had a momentarily comforting vision of a band playing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan, but he knew that was not what the young men had in mind. ‘Look at it this way,’ Leslie suggested. ‘At the moment Picton represents locked-up capital with a minus income factor. Let it pay its way occasionally.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have to have lions, would I?’

  ‘No, Father. Not lions. Just a lot of frightfully nice people wearing beads.’

  ‘Of course.’ Leslie refused port, keeping a clear head for this delicate stage of the conversation. ‘Picton’ll become even more famous after you’ve gone up.’

  ‘Gone up where?’ For an appalled moment Doughty thought that young Leslie was planning his death.

  ‘Oh, haven’t you heard anything?’

  ‘Anything about what?’

  ‘It’s just that Nicholas was saying this morning that it’s more than likely, in fact it’s pretty well certain. Of course they don’t tell people, do they?’

  ‘What don’t they tell people?’ Pale old Doughty had an edge of panic in his voice.

  ‘It’s all meant to be a tremendous secret, I suppose that’s why Nicholas won’t talk to you about it. Well, I promise you I won’t say a word.’

  ‘Won’t say a word about what? For heaven’s sake, Titmuss. I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Such a pity it’s only life peerages with the Socialists in power. Still, I suppose he’ll be the Honourable Magnus.’

  ‘Honourable Magnus?’ Doughty savoured the future which he understood at last. ‘I’ve always wanted the House of Lords. I think it would be right for the family.’

  ‘No one deserves it more, according to my father-in-law.’

  ‘Vague sort of chap in many ways, but Nicholas is pretty near the heart of the Conservative Party.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t mention it to him. It was told me in confidence and one simply doesn’t gossip about these things.’

  ‘What would the style be, I wonder?’ Doughty sounded dreamy. ‘Lord Strove of Picton Principal? Lord Picton?’

  ‘Not Lord Skurfield, Daddy.’ Magnus laughed at the inelegant title and Leslie paused, like a snooker champion planning a long pot into a distant pocket. Then he played the shot. ‘Of course, you’d have to give up the idea of fighting Hartscombe in the next election.’

  ‘Give up the parliamentary candidacy?’

  ‘They’d want you to make that clear before any final decision. I mean if you get in they wouldn’t want to move you to the Lords, couldn’t risk a by-election.’

  ‘I see.’ Doughty thought that he did.

  ‘It’ll be a bit of a relief to you, won’t it?’ Leslie was understanding. ‘To be out of the dust of the arena? Leave the hard slog to a younger man, won’t that be a relief?’ Doughty Strove seemed to think that perhaps it would.

  On Sunday morning, Leslie went to church. In the evening he sat by the fire in Rapstone Manor watching Grace playing patience while Nicholas read dutifully through the proceedings of the Begonia Society.

  ‘So Charlie’s studying to love the poor?’

  ‘Something like that, yes. You could put up your Red Queen.’ Grace’s refusal to wear glasses when they had visitors, even such visitors as Leslie Titmuss, made her miss many tricks in her solitary card games. ‘I suppose she’s got to love someone. She can’t love me.’

  ‘And the Black Jack.’ Leslie moved it for her.

  ‘I don’t think it’s at all necessary to love a person, just because they happen to be your mother or your daughter. There’s no need for anyone to feel guilty about such things.’

  ‘The Ace can go up.’

  ‘I may not be the most practical person in the world, but I can manage my own patience.’

  ‘I’m sorry, moth… I mean, I’m frightfully sorry, Grace.’

  ‘And don’t feel sorry about things! There’s far too much of that about, if you want my opinion. Anyway, stop watching me like a hawk. I fully intend to cheat a little.’

  So Leslie moved away obediently and told Nicholas that old Doughty Strove seemed to be slowing down a bit. ‘He complained to me that he gets tired very easily. Politics are beginning to take it out of the old chap.’

  ‘Lifting a heavy brandy glass in the Members Bar must be absolutely exhausting!’ Grace dug into the pack and extricated the Red Seven she had been hoping for.

  ‘In fact he’s extremely doubtful whether he’s going to stand at the next election,’ Leslie was able to tell them. ‘No sort of final decision on that as yet of course.’

  Although he left early on Monday morning, Leslie didn’t go directly back to London. He spent the day doing some business with local estate agents and had a drink at lunchtime with the editor of the Hartscombe Advertiser. George had just got home from the Brewery when Leslie called at ‘The Spruces’. The table was set with lettuce and tinned salmon, slices of bread and butter, cake and biscuits.

  ‘There’s more than enough for three,’ Elsie said, and started to lay another place.

  ‘Thank you, Mother, but I’m having dinner in London. Magnus and I are meeting a couple of fellows from the bank.’

  ‘Feed up, boy.’ George was thumping the bottom of the salad cream bottle, which then emitted a hefty white dollop. ‘You’ve got a journey to go.’

  ‘He’ll be having his later, Father, in the form of dinner.’

  ‘And I can’t go out with the fellows from the bank and not be hungry. It wouldn’t be polite.’

  ‘So it’s more polite to come here and not be hungry, is it? I mean it’s all right not to be hungry in your own home.’ George took a large mouthful and chewed steadily, as though it were now his duty to eat for his son as well.

  Then Leslie told them that he might, he might just possibly be offered something rather important. Elsie guessed that it was a position, but he said he couldn’t tell them any more about it because it wouldn’t be fair to ‘someone who isn’t in the very best of health’. However, he wanted them to know that he’d always be proud of them, proud of having been brought up in Skurfield and proud of having been taught not to be above going out to cut nettles to earn a bob or two when it was needed. After this speech Elsie sat looking at her son in silent admiration, and George, pushing away his emptied plate, said, ‘Very tasty dear. That was very tasty.’ At which moment there was an unexpected chime at the door and Leslie hurried to admit a Mr Narroway, a photographer from the Advertiser, who had, it seemed, called to take a family group of the Titmusses. At last a somewhat bemused George was persuaded to stand on the left of his son in front of the fireplace, while Elsie was on Leslie’s right. Prominent in the background was the statuette of the bather from Cleethorpes which, as a boy, Leslie had once rashly given to the Rector. ‘Will all this be something to do with your new position?’ his mother asked, and Leslie murmured, ‘Let’s hope so,’ as Mr Narroway caught them all three, startled and wide-eyed in the flash.

  Although Elsie searched the Advertiser with excitement during the next months the photograph was delayed until the Tasker Street development was securely launched and Leslie started to acquire the fortune which woul
d allow him to devote his life to the work to which he had apparently become dedicated. ‘Politics: the thankless task of bossing around a lot of people who don’t want to be bossed and don’t care who’s trying to do it. The work is extremely dull and its only reward is a temporary illusion of power’ (Dr Salter’s definition). Such was the mysterious ‘position’ which he had hinted at, and which his mother had hoped to be something moderately high up in a bank.

  On the day the demolition gangs moved into Tasker Street, Elsie was rewarded by the sight of her family, her own front room and the bather from Cleethorpes featured in the Advertiser. ‘City Developer at Home in Skurfield’, was the headline, and the readers were told that it was Mr Leslie Titmuss, a partner in Hartscombe Enterprises, now involved in an important development scheme in the City of London, pictured at home with his parents. ‘Mr Titmuss Senior has just completed forty years’ service in the accounts department at Simcox’s Brewery.’

  Elsie posted a copy of the paper to her son but he was more interested in the scarcely prominent paragraph in the Daily Telegraph which appeared later. He read it aloud over breakfast, while his wife was standing, gulping coffee and chewing toast, on her way to what was to be a rare working-day at the London School of Economics: ‘Doughty Strove, the former Conservative Member for Hartscombe and Worsfield South, has announced that he will not be contesting the seat at the next election. “I hope I shall be able to be of service to my country,” Mr Strove said, “in another capacity.” Hartscombe is a Labour marginal where Ben Leverett, M.P., had a majority at the last election of only thirty-nine.’

  ‘Is that the big news in the paper?’ Charlie asked on her way out. ‘Of course,’ Leslie told her. ‘It’s the big news for me.’

  20

  The Lost Leader

  ‘Henry Simcox. May I ask you what you’re writing now?’

  ‘Something we started on a few years ago, but couldn’t get off the ground. You know about movies? They die and get resurrected time and again before they appear in public. This is an idea I had about characters who come from all over the world to go on this – well, this pilgrimage.’

  ‘But it’s not religious?’

  ‘No. I promise you. I’m more interested in live sinners than dead saints.’

  ‘Are you a contemplater?’

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Have you got a god-sized hole in you? I mean one takes the point about Christianity, but the religions of the East…’

  ‘Eastern complacency’s even more repulsive than English complacency. I’ve got no time for blokes who sit in Kathmandu contemplating their navels and putting up with poverty and starvation, and the worst class system outside Bournemouth. I’d like to see all those gurus get off their backsides and start demonstrating…’

  ‘Camera reloading,’ a voice called from the shadows, stopping him in mid-flow. The interview was being filmed in his flat. He sat in a pool of white light and chatted until the camera was ready to receive the image of Henry Simcox once more.

  ‘You know we’ve got a cottage in your neck of the woods.’ The interviewer was Mr Mallard-Greene of the B.B.C. Arts Programme. ‘My wife absolutely adores it.’

  ‘That was terrific stuff! Going very well,’ the director called from the darkness. ‘Pick it up from “get off their backsides and start demonstrating”.’

  ‘Bit of a dry mouth,’ Henry discovered.

  ‘Lonnie! You’ve got Mr Simcox’s coffee?’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course.’ An enthusiastic girl appeared in the pool of light carrying a mug of Instant. Although not especially pretty she was remarkable for her soft voice and expression of deep concern. ‘I can easily heat it up again if that’s what you’d like.’

  ‘It’s fine thank you. I only wanted a swig.’

  ‘When you’re finished I’m going to pluck up courage and ask you to sign one of your books for me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Please. Don’t forget.’

  They were ready for another take and Henry gave his mug back to the girl, who retreated with it reverently, as though she had just been handed the Holy Grail.

  ‘So you are in favour of demonstrating?’

  ‘Certainly. What are we supposed to do about Vietnam? Well, at least we still have the right to shout!’

  As though taking her cue from this, the four-year-old Francesca, who had just fallen over in the bedroom, let out a series of piercing shrieks. ‘All right, cut.’ The director sounded weary. ‘Lonnie, see if you can do something about that child.’ So Agnes, comforting her daughter, was surprised by a plumpish girl whose eyes seemed to be rather too close together and who looked at her with a kind of tolerant despair. ‘Please. Could you try and keep the child quiet. After all we are shooting.’

  Agnes went to Grosvenor Square because she believed in the protest and thought that Henry believed in it too. Although there were many women there with toddlers, and even babies, she left her child at home with a babysitter, thinking that Francesca was not yet able to make decisions in matters of world politics. She and Henry were together at first, marching in the detachment from Oxford Street. In front of them she could see the helmets of policemen trying to stop the column but the helmets retreated. Agnes was marching solemnly, like a new recruit, still anxious to do her best. Henry walked excited beside her. He was shouting and seemed to be protesting for everyone he could think of: Czech students, as well as children in Asian villages, American blacks and even the inhabitants of Rapstone who found themselves short of cottages. His anger came out in great whoops of delight and he smiled frequently at the marchers around them. Although he was a well-known writer he seemed to pass unrecognized and, like his wife, he was merely a private in this army. Round them the placards waved like banners and there was a great deal of shouting of ‘Hey, hey, L.B.J., how many kids have you killed today?’ It was when Henry joined in this cry that Agnes noticed that he did so with an American accent.

  It was far removed from the gentle walk across the English countryside which Fred had escaped from to meet Agnes when the threat of war had seemed less important than love in a churchyard. The reality of fighting on the other side of the world, the burning villages and the laid-out bodies of dead children, received the tribute of a pale, imitation war in the West End of London. When Agnes got into the square she saw that the garden in the centre was already occupied and a column was wheeling round to advance on the front of the American Embassy. She saw people running, throwing stones, clods of earth from the garden, and over the crowd she saw the mounted police and the heads of the horses. Smoke bombs and fire crackers went off in front of her and she began to run with the rest of the demonstrators.

  Even as she ran, Agnes thought of the absurdity of the situation. What would a stone thrown, a policeman’s helmet knocked off in Grosvenor Square, do to stop mass killing on the other side of the world? The shouting, the waving placards, seemed as ridiculous as the solemn cavalry, brought out as if to fight some ancient battle, forgotten in the history books. Yet as she realized the day’s pointlessness, she became excited. She began to get nearer the horses, she wanted to see the charge. It was then that she looked round and saw that Henry was no longer with her.

  It wasn’t until she was on the pavement opposite the Embassy that she saw him again. She was standing against some railings looking towards South Audley Street, as a crowd of reinforcements tried to force a police barrier. She saw a large, silver-coloured motor car parked, and beside it stood Henry talking to, of all people in the world, Mr Bugloss. Had Benjamin K. suddenly become a peace demonstrator, was he about to risk his valuable connection with Jack Polefax and Galaxy International for the sake of one glorious shout in front of the Embassy? Agnes tried to wave at him and to call out words of encouragement. Then she saw both men get into the car and Henry was driven away from the battlefield. Agnes left the railings as the police horses began to trot in the face of the crowd. She stood still, amazed by the sudden beauty of the sight.

&
nbsp; ‘Judging me! You’re always sitting there judging me!’

  Agnes didn’t say anything. She was giving Francesca her tea, egg and toast soldiers, after she had arrived home from the engagement in Grosvenor Square. ‘I suppose’ – Henry was walking up and down the room in increasing anger – ‘you think I haven’t lived up to your extraordinary standards.’

  ‘Just one more bite, Francesca.’ Agnes offered a yellow-dipped soldier.

  ‘One more bite! To end the Vietnam War.’

  ‘You were the one who was keen on the demonstration.’

  ‘Look! Ben Bugloss heard about my interview on television. He’s just on the point of doing a deal for Pilgrims with Galaxy. Naturally he didn’t want his writer arrested for storming the American Embassy!’

  ‘Very reasonable, I’d say.’ Agnes was eating the soldiers for Francesca.

  ‘Well, I was there, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You were there, Henry. You stood up and were counted.’

  ‘Why do you have to say it like that?’

  ‘Say it like what?’

  ‘Looking down from a great height! Passing judgement.’ He turned away from her and opened the stripped pine cupboard where the bottles were kept. ‘I’m having a drink. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve just had Francesca’s tea.’

  ‘My little brother Fred ran out on a demonstration.’ Henry returned to the attack. ‘He sneaked off to see you, as I remember. You snogged in a churchyard. You didn’t blame little Fred for that!’

  ‘No. That wasn’t what I blamed him for.’

  ‘So it’s just me, is it? You only want to condemn me! That’s what really makes you feel good.’ He was into one of his speeches now, Agnes knew, spreading the ointment of words on the pain he felt. ‘That’s what gives you your great, warm, comforting assurance of feminine superiority. “I married Henry Simcox, but he turned out to have feet of clay. Just like everybody else. Did you hear how he ran out of the Battle of Grosvenor Square? Of course, I stayed on. So I wouldn’t be ashamed when Francesca asked me, ‘What did you do in the Great Demo, Mummy?’” ’