The Sound of Trumpets

by John Mortimer

  ‘His Lordship warned me you’d be coming,’ she said. ‘And I’m to bring you straight through.’

  He noticed how little her dashing lipstick fitted her mouth, and then she led him down draughty passages, economically lit by forty-watt bulbs.

  Titmuss said, ‘The editor of the Sentinel got a picture of you, sharing a joke and a glass with the Governor of Skurfield Young Offenders’ Holiday Camp. He’s not going to use it.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘Because he phoned me for advice. And because he owes me something. And because a picture of you cosying up to Fogarty would be just about handing the election over to Wee Willie Willock with a pound of tea.’ His Lordship was lying, uncharacteristically, with his long legs stretched out on the study settee. He held, resting on his stomach, a dark glass of whisky with only a little soda, a drink he had mixed for himself when he denied one to Terry. He was wearing the trousers of a suit, a flannel shirt and the sort of cardigan seen on men in old people’s homes. His shoes had been kicked off under his desk and a little circle of white toe was visible at the end of his sock, Mrs Ragg’s care of him being sometimes more emotional than efficient.

  Terry sat on an upright chair, underneath an overhead light which shone with a hundred-watt bulb, regardless of expense. ‘You know I did a radio interview?’

  ‘Of course I know you did a radio interview. That was a near-fatal accident. Now we’ve got to start patching you up. And it’s going to take some pretty drastic surgery. You’d better consult me before you do any more dangerous chat shows.’

  ‘Des Nabbs is advising me from now on. He says it’s a Party directive.’

  ‘If your Party takes Des Nabbs’ advice it’ll be out of office for another eighteen years. Labour politicians will be an endangered species, like the white whale, and your precious S.C.R.A.P.’ll be campaigning to save the last living Nabbs from extinction. We have to discuss what you’re going to do next.’

  ‘You mean, what I should say about youth crime?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think you should say anything. We can’t send the little buggers up chimneys. Or deport them to the colonies. No one knows what the hell to do with them. So shut up on the subject. Everyone has ideas what not to do with them, however. So what I suggest is this … You ask a few questions. Rather publicly.’

  Terry denied his new adviser the pleasure of being asked, ‘What questions?’ A silence followed, during which Titmuss emptied his glass, rose from the settee with only a little difficulty and padded across the room in his stockinged feet.

  ‘I know it’s become the practice among the damp New Right only to ask questions for ready money, but I’m giving you a few free of charge. Try this one on for size. “Why is the Chairman of the Conservative Party so keen on easing the lot of Slippy Johnson?” ’

  Terry looked up at the wandering politician, failing to understand.

  ‘Is the Honourable Would-be-Member for Hartscombe inquiring as to the activities of a certain Slippy Johnson?’ Titmuss was mocking.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Not if I like. The information is entirely for your benefit. The youth Johnson is part of an extended family of house-breakers, safe-openers and more-than-semi-skilled thieves. He has a string of convictions, the last being for extracting money from a row of allegedly impregnable slot-machines in the Fallowfield Park Amusement Centre. He still has six months to go at Skurfield, provided they manage to keep him there that long.’

  ‘What’s this boy Slippy … ?’

  ‘Slippy Johnson. Christened, I believe, Alan.’

  ‘What’s Alan Johnson got to do with the Chairman of the Tory Party? Tell me.’

  ‘No.’ Titmuss stood, his hands in his pockets, taking his time, apparently enjoying the obscure game he was playing. ‘I’ll tell you nothing. But I’ll ask some further questions, which you may care to repeat. At convenient moments.’

  Terry waited. The former favourite of his Party’s one-time heroine was choosing his words with care.

  ‘Try this. Slippy, at a tender age, is a habitual criminal. Police cautions, probation, community service, have proved as effective as a fire extinguisher filled with petrol. According to the penal theories of Wee Willie Willock, Slippy should be chained to a log, fed once a day on watered gruel and regularly birched. Instead of which, Willock’s boss, the Party Chairman, has him out regularly and asks him only to help with a little light gardening. Why?’

  ‘You want me to ask that?’

  ‘Something to that effect. We’ll use it. When the time is ripe.’

  ‘Why, exactly?’

  ‘It’ll wrong-foot them. Stop them in their tracks. Make the punters wonder if they really mean what they say.’

  ‘Will they wonder that about me?’

  ‘Let’s hope so. If they think you didn’t mean the rubbish you talked on the “Breakfast Egg”, that will be entirely to your advantage.’

  Terry decided to let that go. Instead he asked, ‘Are there any other questions?’

  ‘One or two. We might leave them for later.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The attack outside the supermarket. The police got a witness statement from a shopper who thought he heard one of the masked boys shout out, “Slippy”. Yet Skurfield’s records show Slippy Johnson wasn’t at liberty at all that day. Are the records wrong? If so, what’s the Chairman doing taking out a boy that mugs his wife?’

  ‘We can’t prove the records are wrong.’ Terry had no desire to get Agnes’s friend into further trouble.

  ‘That remains to be seen. Further inquiries are being made.’

  ‘You’ve talked to the police?’

  ‘Of course I’ve talked to the police. What do you think I do here all day? Chess problems? Petit point? Breed orchids? Keep myself informed so I can provide you with questions. I hope you’re grateful.’

  ‘I understand,’ Terry told him. ‘I’m simply the instrument of your revenge.’

  Titmuss did a surprisingly theatrical bow and bobbed up again, still smiling. ‘That is the role,’ he said, ‘which you have the honour to perform.’

  Terry nodded, clear about the arrangement. ‘Anything else I ought to ask?’

  ‘Some time. Perhaps. Yes.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  Titmuss moved away now and seemed to be intent on examining the photographs of himself with world leaders. He spoke casually, as though engaged in a conversation about the weather or the quickest route to Worsfield. ‘Someone might remember the occasion when Millichip, the sitting M.P., was found drowned and was fished out of the water.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That was an early morning when the Chairman had young Slippy out of the nick.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Perfectly sure. The police inquiries were commendably thorough.’

  There was a further silence. Titmuss was dusting the silver frame round Ronald Reagan with a clean handkerchief. This was another area, it seemed, where Mrs Ragg failed in her duties.

  Then Terry asked, ‘So what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Quite honestly I haven’t the faintest idea.’ Reagan was clean now, and propped back beside the Queen Mother. ‘But somebody may have. The time might come when they ought to be asked.’

  Was that all, Terry wondered. All the ammunition. He had no idea when to fire it, or at whom. But he felt he’d been let into some secret and trusted to carry out Titmuss’s revenge. He remembered the Barbarians, slid back his cuff and tried to look at his watch without his informant noticing.

  ‘So you’re anxious to get away from me?’ Titmuss had noticed.

  ‘I just wondered, when I should leave. The Barbarians’ dinner …’

  ‘There’ll be some there it’ll be worth persuading. The editor of the Sentinel. Chief Constable. Bishop Roger. Chancellor of Worsfield University. You could do yourself quite a lot of good this evening. You’ll be dressed
, of course.’

  Was he to sit down with a naked Chief Constable and a Bishop with his kit off? Or did a point come, late in the evening, when these dignitaries stripped off and the closed circle of jobfinders for fellow Barbarians and funders of many children’s charities pranced around in primeval woad, living up to their chosen title? ‘What do you mean, exactly?’

  ‘Penguin attire. The soup and fish. The Barbarians will want you in black tie plus all the trimmings. I remember well,’ Titmuss shivered slightly as though the memory still caused him some discomfort, ‘the first time I wore a soup and fish to a formal dinner at the Swan’s Nest Hotel. I was then considerably younger than you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t possess one.’ Not to wear a dinner-jacket, even on S.C.R.A.P.’s most formal occasions, was an article of Socialist faith with Terry, and he had remained entirely true to it.

  ‘The problem is solved. I got Formal Occasions in Worsfield to telephone your agent. He checked on your approximate height and size of collar. You’ll find everything in your bedroom. I’m paying the rent. Please accept it as an anonymous contribution to your expenses. No need to tell Nabbs.’

  ‘That’s kind but …’

  ‘No “but”. Go in and woo them. Tonight’s an excellent opportunity to launch the first question.’

  ‘Which one’s that?’

  Titmuss stood a while in thought and came out with, ‘Why does a so-called Conservative government, dedicated to cracking down on crime, leave the vulnerable and criminally minded youth of the Skurfield Institution in the care of a homosexual?’

  The air in the study seemed to have got suddenly colder. Terry got up and started for the door. ‘I couldn’t ask that.’ He was thinking of Agnes. ‘I couldn’t ever ask that.’

  ‘In that case,’ Lord Titmuss said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘New Labour,’ said Titmuss, ‘new dicky-bow.’ He said it with a broad smile because he, like all the other Barbarians, guests, honoured guests and fellow members, had resisted any temptation to put on the soup and fish and were dressed, with varying degrees of elegance, in lounge suits decorated only, in so far as Lord Titmuss was concerned, with the chain of office of Master Barbarian elect, the present Master Barbarian being Bishop Roger, famous for his consoling ecumenical approach to the issues of the day (fox-hunting, cigarette-advertising, boneless beef) on Radio Worsfield’s ‘Pause for Prayer’.

  Terry, still flushed with anger and embarrassment, squirmed in a too-tight Formal Occasions dinner-jacket which smelt of lighter fuel. The Barbarians’ lady guests, wives and partners looked dressed for the Happy Hour on a first-class Caribbean cruise. Newly waved grey hair topped green and gold dresses, a good deal of costume jewellery and faces lightly tanned by winter breaks. Kate, wearing a red silk dress with a high collar buttoned to the neck as a tribute to the Third World, looked like an extremely beautiful Japanese waitress in a restaurant where she loathed and despised the customers.

  Titmuss was now on his feet, introducing that evening’s honoured guest and visiting speaker. ‘I well remember when I wore my first dicky-bow at a Young Conservatives do at the Swan’s Nest Hotel. It’s going back a bit but Young Conservatives then were different from today. They were all old boy and public school and “I say, I think Jamie Thingummy’s been sick in the bogs!” [Moderate laughter from all except Bishop Roger, who was creased up with amusement.] The sort of Champagne Charlies our late and greatest Leader wouldn’t give the time of day to. Well, there was I, a young lad, a very junior clerk in Simcox Brewery, doing his best to pull himself up by his bootstraps. Thank God my bootstraps have been long enough and tough enough to yank me up to the Cabinet and the House of Lords [A number of Barbarians called out, ‘Hear, hear!’ and there was a fusillade of applause.] and I’d never seen a tuxedo except in the films. Bing Crosby wore it in High Society at the Hartscombe Odeon. [Soft and yearning murmurs of ‘Oh, yes. Bing Crosby.’] That was the nearest I ever got to a “soup and fish”. And then what do you think the Old-School-Tie Brigade did to me? Only took exception to my formal wear. Only accused me of carrying about on my borrowed finery the smell of mothballs! [Laughter.] Oh, yes, fellow Barbarians, they were merciless concerning my dicky-bow. What was wrong with it? So far as I was concerned nothing was wrong with it. It was plain and simple. A black bow which clipped on to the collar. But that was wrong, you see, to those champagne oafs. Because they had the knowledge and the number of formal invitations, and the wealthy family backgrounds, to learn how to tie their own dicky-bows. No doubt some of those young lads learnt to tie their dicky-bows before they learnt to read! [Loud laughter.] Anyway, not to tie your own dicky-bow was something so disgraceful that I ended up ceremoniously dumped in the river. [Cries of ‘Shame!’, and from the widow Millichip, ‘Bastards!’] And I would say this to you, Honoured Guests and fellow Barbarians. That experience did me nothing but good. [Murmurs of ‘No, why ever?’ and ‘Outrageous behaviour!’] Because, and I say this to you, I was determined that, from then on, our great Conservative Party would be for us all! Those who couldn’t tie their dicky-bows as well as those who could. And the most important members of our Party, fellow Barbarians and guests, are those for whom dressing for dinner just means asking the wife to iron a clean shirt! [Loud applause.]’

  ‘Why are you going to wear it, just tell me why? That’s all!’ Kate had asked when he opened the box from Formal Occasions. ‘You never do. You don’t believe in it.’

  ‘We’ve got an election to win,’ he told her. ‘Wherever we go we mustn’t upset the audience. You took your shoes off when we went into the Worsfield mosque.’

  ‘That was Third World,’ she argued. ‘That was part of their religion. These are just a collection of ghastly businessmen.’

  ‘Ghastly businessmen have got votes. Anyway, it seems dinner-jackets are part of their religion.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Oh, someone who knows.’ Terry found cuff-links in a small, plastic envelope; they seemed to bear the crest of the local constabulary. ‘I think he was on the committee.’

  Now Titmuss was saying, ‘That’s quite enough about me. [Negative noises from the diners, indicating that they would be quite prepared to hear his Lordship rattling on about himself for the rest of the evening.] It’s now my job to introduce our honoured guest and visiting speaker. [Silence greeted this change of subject.] Now I’m sure Mr Flitton will not mind my saying this, but the fact of the matter is, and he makes no secret of it: he is not a Conservative! [Some laughter, in which Terry does not join.] There may be moments of extreme emotion when he calls himself a Socialist, which I take to be an extinct sort of animal, exclusively Jurassic [Applause.], but whatever he calls himself, those of you who have had the privilege of sitting next to him at this excellent meal, or next to his good lady Denise [This led to a whispered interlude with the Secretary, followed by] Kate. Thank you for correcting me, Malcolm. His lovely wife Kate. We know our honoured guest is a thoroughly bright lad and very much the sort of bright lad I was when I first clipped on a dicky-bow and entered politics. [Applause, during which several of the lady wives are seen to smile at Terry.]

  ‘And may I end these remarks by saying this. Let me return to the subject of the dicky-bow. No doubt our honoured guest now feels, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit of a chump! [Laughter.] No doubt he thinks he’s put his foot in it. No doubt he’s shown his ignorance of the way we manage our affairs and the Barbarians’ dress code on formal occasions. But I say this. What he has done shows his respect for our gathering! It shows he wishes to pay tribute to us and our wonderful work for charity. It shows, does it not, how much he honours us that he, who calls himself a Socialist, will put on a dicky-bow for our guest night? [Murmurs of approval and further smiles at Terry.] I ask you, fellow Barbarians, to greet young Terence Flitton with applause and listen to him with interest!’

  ‘We won’t do anything like that again. Promise me
!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t do anything like that again.’ Kate was hopeful.

  ‘No. I can’t promise we won’t ever do anything like that.’

  ‘It was a complete nightmare!’

  ‘Did you think so? I thought it was rather useful.’

  Kate looked at her husband with bewilderment, as though he had just said something in a foreign language she didn’t understand. The horrible hired costume had been thrown in the vague direction of the Formal Occasions box. Terry, stripped to his underpants, was setting the alarm clock. He had a look of contentment which she found treacherous.

  ‘Useful! They made a complete fool of you. Getting you to wear that ridiculous tuxedo!’

  ‘Not a complete fool. I thought Titmuss turned that quite nicely in my favour.’

  ‘Titmuss? If anyone had told me six months ago that I’d not only be in the same room as Leslie Titmuss but eat with him, drink with him, have him tell me what a lucky young chap you were and listen to him talking about President Reagan! If anyone had said that was going to happen to me, I’d’ve thought they were certifiably insane!’

  ‘Six months ago we weren’t trying to win an election.’

  ‘You think you can win it by eating dinner with Leslie Titmuss?’

  ‘Titmuss is a superb politician.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Kate’s voice rose to a chant of derision. ‘He hates foreigners, gays, single mothers, social workers and the poor. He loves Mrs Thatcher, hanging, mandatory life sentences, global warming and ex-President Reagan. Is that what you call a superb politician?’

  ‘It’s the way he operates that you’ve got to admire. Forget the political beliefs.’

  ‘Oh, well then. Yes. Marvellous! You can forget political beliefs, can you? Political beliefs don’t matter that to you.’ Here Kate moved to Terry to snap her fingers in his face. His smile remained imperturbable. ‘It’s just the game that counts, is it? The Titmuss game. Pulling the strings, conning the electors. Winning!’