Mrs Harris, MP

by Paul Gallico

  Ada Harris was too doughty a person to accept defeat this easily. She heard that Smyce had returned from his holiday and she went around to Centre Headquarters in West Rowntree Street, Battersea, to try to get to the heart of things.

  13

  And Mr Smyce, of course, was of no help whatsoever.

  ‘Spitting into the hurricane, that’s what it would be,’ he said. ‘Do you know how many seats we’ve got in the House? Five! Where do you plan to get support from? Go ahead and make a fool of yourself if you want to.’

  Mrs Harris said, ‘But I was elected. Oughtn’t I at least to make a speech or something?’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ said Charlie Smyce. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and make a speech?’

  Still made timid by her ignorance, she said, ‘I don’t even know how to get to make a speech.’

  Charlie Smyce was slopped deep into his chair, feet upon the desk, a cigarette hanging from his lips, in an attitude not at all coincident with the presence of a female Member of Parliament. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘you just stand up and wait to catch the eye of the Speaker.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Harris.

  Mr Smyce blew out a puff of blue and stinking smoke, and his sour expression twisted itself into a grin. ‘Sometimes it takes two years,’ he said.

  Mrs Harris said, ‘You bloody little barstid!’ It was out before she knew she had said it or was aware that something had snapped within her. ‘Get your feet off the desk and that gasper out of your fyce, when you’re talking to a lady,’ she said. ‘I think I’m beginning to ’ave enough of you, Mr Charlie-boy Smyce, and it wasn’t no thanks to you I was elected.’

  He merely put his hands behind his head and looked at her insolently. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t any thanks to me. My job was to see that you didn’t get elected.’

  For he was fed to the teeth, was Smyce, with all that had occurred and above all the overwhelming victory of Mrs Harris. This he saw not as a series of accidents and odd coincidences, but a result which might have accrued to his man had he run. Chatsworth-Taylor would have known what to have done with such a victory. C. Smyce was about ready to blow the gaff. Mrs Harris gave him the opportunity.

  ‘You was?’ she cried. ‘Why you rotten little crook! I thought there was something fishy about your be’aviour. All them muddles which seemed to ’appen to me and saying I was to keep off the telly. I see it all now. You ’ad your own man you wanted for the job and you was in there doing the dirty on me. I guess Sir Wilmot won’t be ’arf interested when he hears about this.’

  ‘Not only half, but one hundred per cent,’ corrected Mr Smyce, ‘since it was his idea.’

  ‘’Is idea! How dare you say such a thing!’

  ‘Because it’s true,’ said Mr Smyce and taking his feet off the desk, leant forward and pointed a long and grimy finger at Mrs Harris. ‘Because you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick, my girl, and you oughtn’t to be calling old Charlie Smyce a crook when he’s just the little man who carries out his orders from above.’

  There was that about his attitude which had suddenly become most horribly convincing and which curiously tied in with thoughts rejected and suspicions denied that she had harboured fleetingly in the past weeks. Still she said, ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You don’t now,’ replied Mr Smyce succinctly, ‘but you will in a moment. You’ve been taken for a ride by a couple of sharpies, except in the end the joke’s on them as well as on you, and I’ve been laughing my head off ever since. Just you listen to me.’

  And therewith, step by step, so that even a child could understand it, he unfolded the details of the plot in which Mrs Harris had become enmeshed and the manner in which she was to have been manipulated and then discarded.

  And now that she heard it detail by detail, from the lips of this bitter, disappointed man whom she knew was engaged in selling out his superior, it all rang fearfully true, except for one major discrepancy in the affair which might yet bring the edifice of Smyce’s humiliating story tumbling to the ground as a vengeful pack of lies.

  ‘But how did it come that I got in, then?’ she asked, and dared to instil a note of triumph and challenge into the question.

  Mr Smyce regarded her gloomily for a moment before he replied, ‘That will remain one of the great, unsolved mysteries of the election. You had somebody behind you we didn’t know about, who wasn’t born yesterday. You might ask your friend Bayswater. I wouldn’t suppose he’d be able on his own to think up the idea of getting off with the snob vote in the district.’

  It was the name of Bayswater which succeeded in collecting all the separate little flashes, glints and splinters of light, which from time to time had been playing about the back of Mrs Harris’s head, into one sudden, improbable yet possible, blinding glare of illumination. Events which she had been too bemused and excited to notice before began to fall into place like the pieces of a picture puzzle: Bayswater’s Rolls-Royce cavalcade; the invitation to appear on television coming not through Party Headquarters, but directly to her home. And even the far out, far-fetched coincidence of the attack in the French newspaper. French – France – Paris – and the Marquis de Chassagne in London at the time of the campaign. It wanted only corroboration which she desperately hoped would not be forthcoming.

  Mrs Harris arose, picked up her bag and to the enormous surprise of the agent said quite quietly, ‘Thank you for what you’ve told me, Mr Smyce. I’m sorry I called you bad names. I shouldn’t wonder but what you’ve had your come-uppance in this business. I’ll be going now.’

  She was in that phase of state of shock where the full force of the blow has not yet entirely registered, and where the head remains still quite clear, directing the limbs and other organs in exactly what they ought to be doing.

  Thus Mrs Harris, when she had reached the street, opened her purse to determine the number of pennies available. They were inadequate. She walked until she found a sweet shop, entered and purchased a ‘Crunchie’. She requested her change in coppers and then marched onwards until she came upon an unoccupied telephone box. She looked up a number with continued calm, deposited the four required pennies, dialled Temple Bar 4343 and when the voice at the other end said, ‘Savoy Hotel,’ she pressed ‘Button A’ firmly and said, ‘May I speak to Mrs Schreiber, please. Mr or Mrs Joel Schreiber.’

  The operator, who had assisted in conducting a great many of Mr Schreiber’s transatlantic calls during their stay, said, ‘Schreiber? I don’t think they’re here any more. They left some time ago. Will you wait? I’ll give you Reception.’

  ‘Never mind, and thank you very much,’ said Mrs Harris, and replaced the receiver. She had known that this was how it would be. It explained, then, the sudden interest of the television producer in her and the important programme on which she had been invited, not to mention the manner in which it had been conducted. None of the passers-by seemed to want the booth, and so she leaned against the glass for a moment to reflect.

  The Schreibers, of course! But if they had been in London why would they not have been in touch with her? For she and Mrs Schreiber had become friends beyond the normal barriers between employer and employee. Besides which, there was little Henry, the boy they had been able to adopt through the medium of Mrs Harris. Surely they would have called with some news or message from the child. Unless – unless they had not wanted her to know that they were in town – unless there was some secrecy afoot, some kind of conspiracy and here her sharp mind added the word ‘counter-conspiracy’. For if it was true that on one side she had been the dupe of a snide, political plot, it seemed now that on the other, as well, there had been some extraordinary intrigue.

  Into her memory crept the sarcasms of Mr Smyce, ‘Ask Bayswater.’ She glanced at her watch. It was shortly before eleven in the morning. Bayswater, of course, would be busy. And then her still clearly functioning mind told her that he would not be busy, since Sir Wilmot and Lady Corrison had fled from Lond
on, as Mr Smyce had told her with satisfaction, to escape the consequences of the mess and the wrath of Mr Coates. He might just be about.

  Four more pennies inserted, another number dialled, the burring of the double ring, a voice, ‘Bayswater 4093. Mr Bayswater speaking.’

  She pressed ‘Button A’. ‘Hello, John. This is Ada.’

  ‘Hello, Ada. Ah – how very good to hear from you. Er, how are things in Parliament?’

  ‘Just loverly,’ said Mrs Harris. ‘How is your good self?’

  ‘First rate, thank you. Having a bit of a rest. My people have gone away, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Harris, ‘I know.’ Then she asked, ‘How were the Schreibers when they were ’ere? Everybody well?’

  ‘Oh, in very good form,’ replied Bayswater, unmindful of the trap. ‘Little Henry sends …’ And then ‘The Schreibers, did you say? I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. Where would I have been seeing the Schreibers?’

  ‘And the Marquis,’ continued Mrs Harris, ‘was ’e in good form too?’

  Bayswater began to flounder. ‘The M-Marquis,’ he stammered, ‘I suppose so. He’s always in good form, isn’t he? I don’t understand what you’re driving at, Ada.’

  ‘You will in a moment,’ she said, paraphrasing her recent conversation. ‘I’ve been ’aving a word with Mr Charlie Smyce.’

  If she had figured it as a blockbuster to open up Bayswater, it had the desired effect, for she heard him say, ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ without realizing that he had spoken the words aloud into the telephone. He made one more attempt at extrication. ‘That nasty bit of work. You can’t believe a word he says if he swore on a stack of Bibles.’

  ‘I telephoned the Savoy,’ Mrs Harris said. ‘They said the Schreibers had been there, but had left.’

  ‘Oh,’ sighed Mr Bayswater.

  It was not that at this stage Mrs Harris was angry or put out, for she had been deeply touched by Bayswater’s organization of his cavalcade of Rolls-Royces. It was just that constitutionally she did not like secrets surrounding her and was determined to get to the bottom of things. Therefore she pursued her inquiry.

  ‘Why did they come over? Was it on account of me? How did they know?’

  Bayswater gave up. He had never been much good at pretence. He said, ‘I wrote them a letter to say that you were standing for Parliament and somebody was trying to do the dirty on you and we needed some help. Mr Schreiber said he’d look after the telly end of things.’

  ‘And the French business?’

  ‘That was the Marquis’s idea. But he wouldn’t let on to us exactly how he was going to do it.’

  ‘I suppose you wrote to ’im, too?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ admitted Bayswater. ‘But he was coming over, anyway, for the Conference. I’m sure you read about it.’

  ‘And the Rolls-Royces, and all your pals ringing doorbells?’

  ‘I’m afraid that was my idea, Ada. I hope you won’t be cross with me for meddling. I was only trying …’

  ‘It was kind of you, John,’ said Ada Harris in a remote voice, for she felt a deep surge of emotion at the lengths to which he and her friends had gone to help her, an emotion which lasted just five seconds when it was replaced by an absolute monster of a thought which swept through her mind coupled with and irretrievably glued to Bayswater’s remark, ‘and somebody was trying to do the dirty on you’. How had Bayswater known? Had he known? And if so, why had he not told her?

  Even under the threat of another impending shock, her mind remained clear, picking its way with the same meticulousness and her particular kind of logic. The plot had been hatched by Sir Wilmot Corrison; Bayswater drove Sir Wilmot; ergo: Bayswater was privy to the plot.

  She said, ‘John Bayswater, you listen to me. Smyce told me everything. How it all started and just what Smartypants Sir Wilmot was up to. But ’ow did you know?’

  ‘Well now, Ada …’

  ‘Never mind, “Well now, Ada.” Did you know, or didn’t you?’

  Silence from the Bayswater end of the phone and then, ‘Yes, I did.’ Silence from the telephone box terminus. Then from Bayswater, ‘But I couldn’t help it, Ada. They’d left the switch on of the intercom in the car, and I couldn’t help overhearing what they were saying.’

  ‘John Bayswater,’ repeated Ada Harris. ‘Do you mean to say that you knew all along and didn’t tell me and let me go on making a fool of myself?’

  It was now Bayswater who was engulfed by horror that left him once more speechless.

  ‘And be made an idiot of in front of all my friends, the Schreibers and the Marquis? And, for that matter, the whole bloody country?’ she continued.

  Bayswater finally managed articulation. ‘Ada,’ he cried in great anguish, ‘I couldn’t tell you! Don’t you see? You were so excited and …’

  ‘John Bayswater,’ said Mrs Harris for the third time, ‘don’t you ever dare to come near me or speak to me again as long as you live!’ and she hung up the phone.

  Shock was not long in taking over after that and when she emerged from the telephone box, Mrs Harris was quite numb and did not even remember how she was able to get home.

  14

  Mrs Violet butterfield, returning shortly before four o’clock in the afternoon, having blessed a ladies’ luncheon with her culinary skill and with several hours at home before she departed to render her evening’s service, saw to her surprise, by certain unmistakable signs which had become second nature to her, that Mrs Harris must be at home.

  This was astonishing, for it was when the representative from East Battersea ought to be in the House of Commons making a speech. Mrs Butterfield’s idea of the function of a Member of Parliament was fixed. It was someone who spent the entire time making speeches and her mental picture of her bosom friend was of Mrs Harris on a platform interminably haranguing a spellbound House. She hoped she had not been suddenly taken ill.

  She pressed the front doorbell several times and heard it sounding internally, but there were no footsteps hastening to attend its summons. Then she noticed that the door itself was slightly ajar, which was also not as it should be and pushing it open she entered.

  She found Mrs Harris still in her street clothes and wearing her hat and gloves, sitting on the edge of a chair with her handbag in her lap, staring straight before her.

  ‘Ada,’ she cried. ‘Whatever is the matter? Aren’t you going to Parliament this afternoon, to make a speech?’ Outside of a barely perceptible shudder at the word ‘speech’ Mrs Harris remained dumb and motionless, as though turned to stone.

  Frightened, Mrs Butterfield went to her friend, bent over to look into her face, saw the expressionless eyes and almost in a panic shook her. ‘Ada, Ada! What’s the matter? What’s ’appened? Can’t you ’ear me? Don’t you know me, your friend, Violet?’

  Mrs Harris’s eyes produced a slight flicker of recognition.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ wailed Mrs Butterfield. ‘I’d better put the kettle on right away.’ Obviously, whatever it was, it called for an immediate infusion.

  Never saying a word, Mrs Harris meekly sipped her tea and as docilely permitted herself to be led off afterwards, undressed and tucked into bed. Then Mrs Butterfield took her temperature, achieved a look at her tongue and ascertained that as far as could be judged from surface indications, her friend was suffering from no physical malady. This meant, then, that some awful revelation or disappointment must have come to her. Mrs Butterfield had seen her like this once before, in New York, when her friend had learned that her somewhat irresponsible brashness had hopelessly muddled up the life of a little boy she had been trying to help. Then she had seemed to go into a coma for days, that same awful, wordless staring in front of her until an unexpected visit from John Bayswater, up from Washington for the day, had helped to bring her around.

  Ah, Bayswater! What had happened once before might well occur again. ‘Now, just you close your eyes and lie quiet, dearie,’ soothed Mrs Butterfield, pulling up the coverlets
and poking the pillows. ‘I’ll just see to one or two things over ’ome and I’ll look in upon you again in about an hour, after p’raps you’ve ’ad a bit of sleep. Then, maybe, you can tell me all about it.’

  She went out, leaving the street door still ajar so that she would be able to return, and no sooner had she gained the sanctuary of her own premises and removed her outer garments, than she made for the telephone and dialled with a fat forefinger that trembled.

  ‘Mr Bayswater, Mr Bayswater, something awful ’as ’appened to poor Ada!’

  ‘Oh no, Mrs Butterfield! She hasn’t been injured, or run over, or anything? Tell me at once!’

  ‘No, no! But do you remember that sort of fit she once ’ad, when we were all in America? Where she just kept staring like she was off her nut? And wouldn’t say a word to h’anyone?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed I do,’ said Mr Bayswater.

  ‘Well, she’s ’aving another one of ’em now. I don’t know what’s ’appened to ’er. I can’t get anything out of ’er.’

  As he often did under stress, Mr Bayswater reverted again to the phonetics of his youth. ‘Gor blimey!’ he said. ‘I’m h’afraid I know.’

  ‘Do you?’ Mrs Butterfield cried eagerly. ‘Then p’raps you can ’elp ’er again. Could you come right over?’

  Mr Bayswater indulged himself in one of those pregnant silences before he was heard to say, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t, can’t you? What kind of a friend do you call yourself?’

  ‘The best she ever ’ad, saving your own good person. But Ada don’t think so any more. I’m afraid it’s my fault. We talked on the telephone a while ago and she said I was never to see or speak to ’er again, as long as I lived.’ These mournful and tragic words were followed by a click.

  ‘Mr Bayswater, Mr Bayswater,’ cried Mrs Butterfield, but he had vanished into that limbo of people who hang up telephone instruments when they no longer wish to continue the conversation.