‘I was just going to set those out on the coffee table.’
‘Perhaps he gave his word to someone,’ Fred suggested.
‘You mean to Leslie Titmuss?’ Henry was contemptuous. ‘If he tries to say that…’
‘It might be true.’
‘It can’t be! Simeon had no possible reason to promise Titmuss anything.’
‘But if he had a reason your case would collapse, wouldn’t it?’
‘What reason can you suggest?’
‘Perhaps I can find one.’
‘Why would you want to try?’
‘Your solicitor…’
‘Our solicitor.’
‘Cantellow’s been pestering Mother. She’ll never give evidence.’
‘She may have to.’
‘Would you force her?’
‘It isn’t because you’re so concerned about Mother, is it?’ Henry, much pinker than he used to be, flushed to a deeper shade. ‘She stands to gain as much as any of us. It’s because you can’t bear a fight. One thing you can say for the terrible Titmuss, he’s a fighter! You’ve always been the same, Frederick. You couldn’t even fight me all those years ago. You had to cave in, over Agnes.’
Lonnie, reacting to the mention of the Numero Uno, dropped a spoon, picked it up, flustered, and wiped it with a table napkin. ‘Well, is Fred staying to dinner or isn’t he?’
‘He isn’t,’ Fred told her. ‘I’m leaving now.’
‘Going to sample my ex-wife’s experiments with herbs, down the wrong end of the Fulham Road?’ Henry asked him.
‘You know about that?’
‘You’d better take it I know most things about you.’
*
After this visit to his brother Fred was more anxious than ever to discover the true reason for their father’s will. He thought how little he really knew about Leslie. What secret did this politician, whom Fred had always found faintly ridiculous, have which made him deserve Simeon’s sudden and secret generosity at the Simcox family’s expense? Intent on discovering some clue to the Titmuss mystery, Fred thought of Leslie’s long-time friend and business associate. He invited Magnus Strove and his wife, Jennifer (née Battley), to lunch at the Swan’s Nest Hotel. They accepted eagerly and arrived dead on time.
Their table was in the new Old Father Thames Carvery, where they were attended by a malign-looking Portuguese waiter wearing a soup-stained purple dinner-jacket. Piped music tinkled and gurgled incessantly and Fred noticed that the platform, where he had once played for a dinner dance with the Riverside Stompers, had been abolished. Magnus’s boyish good looks had faded, he was now a balding, disappointed, middle-aged man, wearing a blazer and an old Knuckleberries tie. His wife, Fred thought, had worn rather better. She had become a determined and rather tough woman, the organizer of a family which had fallen on harder times than they ever expected to encounter. Both the Stroves looked down at their plates with approval. ‘It’s a while since we had smoked salmon, isn’t it, Magnus?’ ‘Rather a while. Of course, you quacks must be making a fortune out of the National Health. And when you and Henry win the battle for the Simcox shares…’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you about. I want your help.’
‘Well, absolutely anything we can do to scupper the toad, Titmuss. Isn’t that right, Jennifer?’
‘Absolutely anything to scupper the toad.’
‘You know my father left his whole estate to Leslie?’
‘Then he must have been off his chump, quite definitely. What do you say, Jennifer?’
‘I’m awfully afraid to say that the late Rector must have been entirely off his chump. Not hereditary, of course,’ Jennifer added hastily.
‘Tell me a bit more about him; Magnus. After all you were in business together for a long time.’
‘Hartscombe Enterprises. Its name’s engraved on my heart.’ Magnus looked pained.
‘Was he ever in need of money?’
‘Leslie in need of money?’ He gave a small and mirthless laugh. ‘That’s pretty rich, isn’t it, Jennifer?’
‘Yes, it is. Pretty rich.’ These Stroves, Fred thought, clearly supported each other.
‘Look. You remember when Leslie first got into the Government? Under-Secretary for Public Urinals. Some damn thing or other…’
‘Advanced Technology.’
‘Jennifer knows all about it. Anyway, he had to get out of Hartscombe Enterprises just at the top of the property boom. We couldn’t go wrong at the time. Offices, hotels, blocks of flats were going up like mushrooms. And we were coining the stuff. So Christopher Kempenflatt and I were delighted to buy the toad out, even though we had to pay through the nose for it, in readies.’
‘Cash down!’ Jennifer told Fred.
‘That was it. We didn’t want to deplete the company so I borrowed a load on my expectation of the Picton estate.’
‘The house?’
‘Of course, and the cottages and woodlands, couple of farms in hand – the whole bloody boiling. Well, Daddy was going into a state of depression about the peerage he never got and I knew it’d all be mine in pretty short order. I thought I’d pay off the mortgage out of the company profits. That’s what I thought!’
‘That was when Hartscombe Enterprises went broke?’
‘Worse than that. When he was our accountant, do you know what the toad made Christopher and me do? Only give our personal guarantee to the bank. Of course we needed a loan to expand in those days.’
‘And Leslie didn’t give a guarantee?’
‘Toad Titmuss? He wouldn’t guarantee his own child the price of a Mars bar.’
‘So when Doughty died Magnus had to let the whole estate go back to the mortgage company.’ Jennifer carried on with the story as Magnus seemed to momentarily weaken with disgust. ‘And you know who was the principal shareholder of that little enterprise?’
‘He can guess, Jennifer. Fred can guess.’
‘Yes, I suppose I can.’
‘The Honourable Member for Hartscombe and Worsfield South, otherwise known as the Toad. Now we’re left with nothing. Of course, Jennifer’s got her physiotherapy and I fill in as part-time secretary at the Golf Club. That’s the poor, starving little brewery clerk your father decided to leave his money to.’ Magnus looked out of the restaurant window at the river and the line of punts which still bumped gently against the landing-stage. ‘We made a big mistake that night at the dinner dance,’ he said. ‘We ought to have drowned the little bugger.’
The events which Magnus Strove had described took place in the years after 1974, when Mr Heath fell prey to the miners and Leslie in opposition was able to devote his time to his new business interests. The quick upward climb of ‘fringe’ banks and property companies, such as Hartscombe Enterprises, was over and they began to slide towards disaster. Leslie had jumped for safety just in time. So, in due course, the changes in the market and the death of Doughty delivered him Picton House and the Strove estate. When he first took possession of Magnus’s old house Leslie stood for a while on the terrace, surveying his domain. Then he walked through the rooms, huge, empty and dusty with marks on the walls where the Strove ancestors had once hung. Standing in the hall he heard a strange sound in that house, the sound of laughter. He went down a number of draughty corridors to the kitchen and there found his mother in rubber gloves and an overall preparing for a good clean-up. She was laughing her head off.
After he had entertained Magnus and Jennifer at the Swan’s Nest, Fred had a further opportunity to research into the character of Leslie Titmuss. He came back from a call and Miss Thorne, the receptionist, told him, with a certain amount of pride, that the Minister had been on the phone asking for Dr Hardison to visit; the great man had lost his voice.
‘I might go over to Picton myself.’
‘He did especially ask for Dr Hardison.’
‘But Hardison’s not back yet, is he? I mean we can’t leave a politician without a voice.’
Leslie was not delighted to
see Dr Simcox. Owing to the pending case, he whispered, he felt it was quite improper for Fred to treat him. ‘You mean it might be contempt of court to look at your larynx? Don’t be ridiculous!’ Fred got out his torch and spatula. ‘Now if you’d just sit down and open your mouth.’ Such are the magical properties of the doctor’s black bag that the Minister obeyed him.
The Picton living-room was now furnished according to Leslie Titmuss’s specification and looked as though everything had been ordered in one lot from Harrods. On the gold striped wallpaper there were oil paintings of watermills and cardinals drinking wine. On the copy antique console table stood signed photographs of the Queen visiting Leslie’s department, President Reagan, Mrs Thatcher, Lee Kwan Yew and the Pope. For all the money spent on it the room gave no more sign of individual taste than the Residents’ Lounge of a chain hotel; it was warmer but not less grim than it had been in Doughty’s day. In the midst of this splendour the Cabinet Minister sat with his chest bared, his mouth open and his tongue depressed by Fred’s spatula.
‘Really you and I don’t have to quarrel about anything.’
‘Oo-shoo-arr… ber… hat.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You should ask your brother that,’ Leslie croaked when Fred removed the spatula.
‘Henry thinks my father was mad to leave his money to you.’
‘Do you agree with him?’
‘My difficulty is finding any sort of logical explanation.’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Your father was…’
‘Open again, will you? I’ll just take another look at those remarkably overworked tonsils.’
‘En… essly… sappointed…’
‘What?’
‘Endlessly disappointed.’ The spatula was removed and the croak returned. ‘Your brother left his wife for some sort of typist, didn’t he? I don’t imagine that went down very well at the Rectory. Besides which he used to be a Socialist, now he’s criticizing Margaret for being soft on the unions. Did you read his article on Sunday?’
‘I thought you might approve of that.’
‘The Rector wouldn’t have.’
‘He might have been disappointed in Henry but that doesn’t begin to explain why he should have left everything to you.’ Fred took out his stethoscope in as authoritative a way as possible. ‘I mean, you’re somebody who’s led a totally wasted life.’
‘Wasted! My life wasted?’ Outrage and laryngitis silenced Leslie.
‘You have got a nasty cold.’ Fred was listening attentively to the Titmuss chest.
‘What do you mean wasted?’ A still, small voice returned. ‘Ever since I was a kid, ever since I cut your nettles, I’ve been determined to make something of myself.’
‘What went wrong? Just cough again for me, will you?’
Leslie coughed and was about to protest when Fred went on. ‘I mean you were set for life, you might have done a very decent job as head of the accounts department at the Brewery, getting the beer circulating efficiently. You might have done a lot of good in the world.’
‘Look.’ Titmuss spoke in a furious whisper. ‘I told you I’d asked for Hardison.’
‘But you couldn’t stick to it. You had to go into property, turning corner shops into offices and doing no possible good to anyone. And getting into the Cabinet! Where’s that got us all? Back to where we were before the war: wasted lives, no jobs, back to the years before Simeon made his well-meaning offer of Paradise. Why on earth would our father have left everything to a person like you? You can do your shirt up now.’
Leslie stood and did so. Anger gave him back some of his voice.
‘God! You’re arrogant,’ he rasped. ‘I always thought Henry was the bloody superior one. Always on television, always writing about himself, knowing everything, laying down the law. Henry’s got nothing at all on you! You’re the one for arrogance, aren’t you? You don’t do anything, don’t commit yourself to anything. It’s all far beneath you, isn’t it? Politics! Business! Property! Writing books! Even getting married and giving birth to another human being. All that’s far beneath your dignity!’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Fred was writing out a prescription.
‘You’re so pure, aren’t you, Doctor Frederick? So uncorrupted. Doing your rounds in your tweed jacket and old flannel trousers. The decent, quiet country doctor and we all know why Simeon cut you out of his will!’
Fred packed up his medical bag, the consultation almost over. ‘Do we? I’ll leave this here.’ He crossed to put the prescription on the mantelpiece. ‘You’ll probably get better just as quickly without it.’
‘That Christmas in the Rectory,’ Leslie muttered.
‘That Christmas?’
‘The respectable country doctor was found tucked up in bed with someone else’s wife when the simple-minded Rector was delivering a Christmas stocking.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Someone I can call to give evidence in court.’ Leslie, triumphant, suddenly spoke clearly.
‘Mr Wickstead, I suppose. Isn’t he in charge of your image? At least I’ve done one thing for which you ought to be extremely grateful: you seem to have completely recovered the power of speech.’
As Fred left the room he heard the front door bell ring, and in the hall, Janet Nowt, one of old Tom’s daughters and now part of the Titmuss household, was letting in a portly figure who announced himself in an ingratiating manner.
‘The name’s Nubble. I was told that the Minister was working at home this morning.’ And then, with a grin, ‘Hullo there, Simcox Mi.’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Fred asked.
‘The “Creevy” column.’ Nubble sounded inexplicably proud of himself.
‘The what?’
‘You know what the name of the game is nowadays?’
‘Coffee bars? Boutiques? Flower power accessories?’
‘Gossip! People love it. All the truth about everyone you’ll never meet. I’m interviewing Titmuss. What’ve you been doing?’
‘Much the same thing.’
The living-room door opened and Leslie came out to find Nubble and Fred renewing their acquaintance.
‘Minister!’ Nubble was obsequious. ‘So awfully decent of you to see me.’
‘Do you two know each other?’ Leslie was whispering again now and puzzled.
‘Of course,’ Arthur Nubble told him. ‘We were at Knuckleberries together.’ The old school fellows stood silent and Leslie looked at them both with deep suspicion, as though he suspected them of forming some sort of alliance against him.
Part Five
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of man –
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wobbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with fever and slaughter return!
from The Gods of the Copybook Headings
Rudyard Kipling
27
The Best for Nicky
‘Rough shooting’s better since Tom Nowt left us. Fellow had a talent for luring away my pheasants. Never saw a hare either, not when Nowt was alive.’
‘He had his ways, Sir, did old Tom Nowt.’
‘Of course my wife could never stand him, wanted me to prosecute if I remember rightly.’
‘Tom was a red rag to her Ladyship.’
‘For goodness sake, we’ve got enough rabbits to go round. I mean if you own a decent bit of rough shooting, you’re under an obligation to have your game pinched occasionally. My wife can’t see that. Do you remember when she summoned in the Constabulary?’
Since the d
eath of his friend Doughty, Nicholas went round with a gun, a dog and Wyebrow who had become, after years of secret practice, an excellent shot. They walked along the edge of the woodlands, and through the sifting rain, two old men, master and servant, indistinguishable in their tweed caps and jackets. A lurcher and a spaniel sniffed and dived under bushes, causing an occasional drum roll of wings or the streak of a rabbit.
‘Of course the officers of the law never found Tom’s old hut and I didn’t give them directions.’ Nicholas sneezed. He was coming up for a cold on a bleak day in the ‘winter of discontent’, a time when hospital porters and gravediggers went on strike, and those hostile to Mr Callaghan’s Labour Government could ask what sort of a Britain was this in which the luxuries of falling ill and being buried in the ground were apparently denied to the citizens. Nicholas, being in a privileged position, fell ill privately and at home. His cold developed into pneumonia. Fred called, dosed him with penicillin, and Simeon, smiling and ruffled like a cheerful bird of ill omen, came to sit by the patient. ‘Haven’t come to administer the last rites, have you?’ Nicholas asked. ‘If you want to hear my confession, I must say you’re in for a damn dull evening.’
Simeon felt for his pipe, changed his mind about smoking in the sick room, and settled down to listen. ‘It’s a terrible thing, you know, to look back over a long life and have no sins worth confessing. Not that I’ve had many opportunities to sin. Married Grace when I was a young man and before that I was living with Mother.’ Nicholas looked back, dismayed by a blameless life. ‘Of course, I might have had a sin or two when I was parted from Grace during the war. But I never took advantage of that. More fool I! I suppose some people would say.’
‘No. I’m sure they wouldn’t say that.’
‘I might have done a bit of sinning when I was stationed at Bognor,’ Nicholas calculated. ‘Grace was always dashing up to London for evenings out. She enjoyed the air raids, you know. All I did was go for walks along the sea-front or over the Downs. I stayed away from home – not that I stayed away with anyone, you understand.’
Paradise Postponed Page 31
