by MARY HOCKING
Mrs. Brophy came up to him. She insisted that he must call her Fay. ‘You know, Neil, I was so delighted by your success. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me.’ In spite of her doll-like prettiness, she had anxious eyes. ‘You seem to stand for things that. . . .’ She looked at him vaguely, perhaps hoping he would put into words some unease she had about life for which he had the cure. ‘The world is a maggoty place now,’ she said with unexpected bitterness.
‘There’s certainly a lot that needs to be done.’ Moray felt inadequate to bear the burden of such a conversation on one dry martini. He took an olive from a bowl on the table beside him and chewed it, feeling rather guilty. Fay Brophy had an unwholesome flair for rousing guilt feelings.
She said, ‘You stand for something. . . . It makes a difference.’
‘A fellow must stand for something.’ Major Brophy took up the theme as he returned to the table carrying two glasses. ‘These young Liberals, now! Lying down on tennis courts, stopping tours by rugger teams! But they’d queue for tickets for the Russian ballet! I say to these young men, “We’ve heard what you’re against. Now let’s hear what you are for!” What you are for, see! That’s what is important to me.’ He clasped Moray’s shoulder. Moray tried to think of something he was for; it was rather embarrassing, like being asked if one was saved.
‘Do have one of these.’ Mrs. Brophy produced a plate of sausage rolls. ‘But they are rather greasy; I’ll get you a napkin.’
‘I was telling Neil how important it is to stand for something.’ Major Brophy turned to William Lomax who had arrived at the same time as Hannah.
‘Such as parliament, or the county council?’ Lomax looked bemused, as though he had come in half-way through a film and couldn’t make out whether it was supposed to be comic or serious.
‘I don’t know about the county council. Tell me, what do you make of this. . . .’ Major Brophy began to tell Lomax about an incident at a meeting he had attended recently.
Moray and Hannah were left alone. Hannah said, ‘I’m hungry. We haven’t missed the food, have we?’
‘I’m not hungry. The heat, I suppose.’
‘I’m desperately hungry.’
‘Why do you think these people voted for me?’ he asked her. He looked at the people who were dancing. There must be someone who had a clearer idea than the Brophys of why they had voted for him. There were two school teachers within earshot, talking about capitation allowances; they sounded very decisive, he could not imagine they would ever perform an act of such social significance without knowing exactly why they were doing it.
‘Perhaps they didn’t all vote for you,’ Hannah said. She seemed to find the possibility amusing.
Moray turned away and left her to search for food, which was obviously her main concern. The music had stopped. Fay Brophy thought people would like a respite. Now that everyone was talking the volume of noise was much louder. Moray moved into the centre of the room, with a feeling of putting himself in peril, like a swimmer leaving the shore behind. He talked to as many people, as possible. ‘I know this isn’t an appropriate time, but I so seldom have a chance to talk to you. . . .’ He gave each person his slow, diffident smile, and asked what reform they most wanted to see brought forward. The replies varied alarmingly, even allowing for the amount of liquor which had been consumed. ‘Get us out of the Common Market’, ‘Get rid of the national health service’, ‘Repeal the abortion Act’, ‘Equal rights for men’ (from a very drunk young man who wanted to stay at home and look after the baby), ‘Get us out of Ireland’, ‘Abolish the Race Relations Board’ and ‘Take over all private housing’. One girl said, ‘Oh, what the hell!’ And it seemed to Moray that she was summing up what all the others really felt. They didn’t expect that any particular reform would make much difference to the world in which they lived; they had lost their belief in government. But they did believe in him. They looked at him with an expectancy which he found at once pathetic and daunting. Hadn’t Yeats once said something to the effect that one should never define one’s symbol? Was he a symbol to these people? Did they value him because they felt they knew what he stood for, or because they could interpret him in a way which most satisfied their needs? He had never been unconscious of his magnetism and had not found it unpleasing to see its effect on other people; but in the past it had required little effort on his part, whereas now it seemed that the charm must be put to work. He didn’t like the idea of that.
As the evening wore on, the gin began to produce melancholy reflections. They had paid for him, all these people had paid for him with their vote; he was more of a gigolo than a member of parliament.
A girl in a tight-fitting tangerine dress came up to him. He could not remember where he had met her, but she saved him from embarrassment by saying to the young man who was with her, ‘I always thought Neil was an old world gentleman until that night when we went round to Jimmy Hearn’s after the meeting in Gloucester Park. Some of the stories he told then!’ Her reference to that particular evening helped him to place her; she was the Brophys’ daughter, Arlene. ‘I’ve got a story for you, lover boy.’ She swayed towards him and laid a thin, brown hand on his arm; where her dress parted he could see the bones in her chest and her small, firm breasts. He wondered whether she would come back to his flat with him if she could get rid of the boy friend. Vincent Strick, who was Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce, joined them. They were still countering one another’s stories when the centre light was switched off for a record of Hildegarde singing Love’s last word is spoken, cheri. In the dim light, Arlene Brophy’s skin looked very dark and Neil was reminded of Lucy whose letter was on the mantelpiece in his flat, still unopened.
He moved away in search of another drink. Major Brophy also seemed dispirited. ‘I could dance all night when I was a young man,’ he said. ‘Now I get tired soon after eleven.’ He poured stiff drinks for himself and Moray. The two men stood side by side, not talking. Nearby, Hannah and Lomax were standing by the french windows looking into the night. She was saying, ‘. . . maddening to be born in the wrong hemisphere. . . .’ She didn’t look very deprived; in fact, as she talked about the Southern Cross something happened to her face which surprised Moray. Hannah was a cheerful person; but happiness is something quite different, something for people set apart, not a thing to radiate from the faces of the homely. He experienced a sense of harm having been done to him, as though there wasn’t enough happiness to go round and it was inconceivable that some should have been allocated to Hannah Mason. He hadn’t had this feeling (which shocked him since it put him in direct competition with others) since a boy at his school, who wasn’t supposed to be as clever as he, had been awarded a Cambridge scholarship.
Major Brophy had also been watching Hannah. He said, ‘Nice of her to take him in hand like that. Funny fellow, Lomax. Not good socially and doesn’t drink much. Thought journalists had to drink, condition of employment. . . .’
The wind rustled the curtains, puffing warm air into the room. It seemed to act as a signal for which they had all been waiting; there was a drift towards the door.
Moray stayed until most people had departed because he felt this was required of him as guest of honour. When eventually he left he was surprised to see Lomax, who had apparently returned after taking Hannah back to her flat. Lomax explained that he had left something behind; he sounded rather vague, as though he had already forgotten what it was that he had left behind. They went down the drive together. Moray said, ‘I can’t remember a warmer night in years.’
Lomax said, ‘The heat doesn’t agree with me. I suppose one shouldn’t be ungrateful.’
They turned into the avenue which was lined with tall, dark trees which seemed to hang heavy as velvet over them.
‘It’s the humidity that makes it so unbearable,’ Moray said. He was beginning to feel sick.
Lomax said, ‘A pity Cope couldn’t be here tonight. How is he, by the way?’
‘He has made a remarkable
recovery.’
‘A remarkable man.’ They paused under a street lamp, where their paths separated. Lomax, standing with his head a little to one side, looked up at Moray like an alert bird examining with disinterested curiosity a creature of another species. ‘I heard a remarkable story about Cope.’
‘Really? He’s that kind of man.’
‘You think these stories are true?’
‘Some of them, no doubt.’
‘This one was told me by Pauline Ormerod. She said that Cope had an affair with her, and that it was he who was responsible for stealing those documents.’
‘She must be a mad woman.’ Moray had momentarily forgotten that she was dead.
‘Somebody’s mad,’ Lomax agreed. ‘Anyway, I thought you should know about it. I go this way. Good night.’
Moray watched him go with a disturbing, almost superstitious feeling that he ought to run after him; when the small figure was lost in the shadow of the trees, he remained listening until the footsteps had died away.
When Moray got back to his flat he made strong black coffee. He sat in the sitting-room, drinking the coffee and looking at the files strewn around. There were too many files; it would take weeks to sort out the contents. When he had finished the coffee, he lay down on his bed without undressing. His heart pounded, his head ached, and he felt sick; but he was beyond caring. He tried not to think of what Lomax had said. Too much had happened, he couldn’t take in any more.
He stayed in bed the whole of Sunday thinking about what Lomax had said.
He did not go to London on Monday morning. He knew that he should have gone; but he lay in bed, watching the hands of the clock informing him that he had missed the ten to eight, the ten to nine, the ten to ten. . . . At ten he got up, had breakfast, washed and shaved, and went to the office.
‘I didn’t feel well,’ he said to Hannah.
‘I had a bit of a jolt this morning,’ she said.
Why, he wondered, is there this one-up-manship where misfortune is concerned? If you have a bad cold, you can be sure that everyone you speak to will have had an even worse cold. Now that he didn’t feel well, Hannah must needs have a jolt.
This morning she had read her Sunday newspaper which contained a brief account of the inquest on Pauline Ormerod. It had recalled to her mind an incident which she had witnessed in Mario Vicente’s restaurant at the harbour. She recounted the incident in minute detail.
‘Do you think I should go to the police?’ she asked.
‘Perhaps you should,’ he said listlessly.
‘I’m not anxious to inform on Mario!’ She made a joke of it, but she was obviously worried.
‘Don’t go to the police, then.’
In the end, she went; she had one of those sturdy Puritan consciences.
‘Did they rush out and arrest Vicente?’ Moray asked when she returned.
She laughed. ‘I saw a nice fatherly sergeant who took a note of all I said. He made me feel silly, in the nicest possible way. He said very soothingly, “You know. Madam, I expect there are quite a few restaurants in Scotney where they don’t serve coffee on its own at lunchtime.” Reduced to that, it all sounded quite harmless.’
Moray could see she was relieved that her story had not been taken more seriously.
‘When you have finished dwelling on your clash with the Mafia, perhaps we could look at the post,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to catch the two-thirty to London.’
‘Is it worth going now? You’re speaking at the Chamber of Commerce dinner tonight.’
‘I may not be able to make it. I must be in the House for the debate on immigration, and if it goes on into the evening I shan’t get away.’
‘What a pity. It’s your first big engagement here.’ She made it sound like a vaudeville act.
He stayed in London all that week. He was barely aware of what went on in the House, it was all happening so far away. Out in the street, in the little cafés around Westminster, along the Embankment, on Westminster Bridge, it was just the same; it was all rushing away from him, getting smaller and smaller. How absurd it was, this business called life!
He had taken a room in a house off Sloane Square. He went back to the room every night intending to think this thing through; but the trouble was he was not quite sure what was the thing he had to think through. The words were meaningless, like the words which echoed round the House all day. Usually, he ended up thinking about himself. He had always taken great trouble to preserve this thing that was himself. He had built a wall around it. But now it seemed as though he was on the outside of the wall, and there didn’t seem to be any way in. What was happening to the person inside, the himself he had guarded so faithfully all these years? If himself was trying to get out, surely he ought to know. There must be some means of communication between them, a tapping on the wall. He began to listen, but he couldn’t hear anything. If there wasn’t anyone inside, then he was in a bad way; because there wasn’t much left outside.
Chapter Fifteen
Todd met Ronald Singleton one evening when they were both drinking at The Crossed Keys. Singleton had dropped out of Moray’s campaign early on, but Lomax had been right in suggesting he would have plenty to say on the subject.
‘The trouble with Moray is he has no more idea where he is going than have any of his followers.’ Singleton’s thin, sallow face was bitter as he gazed into the mug of beer Todd had just put down in front of him. ‘Look at his record! Formed a community housing association with a group of architects when he came down from Oxford, the idea was to buy up slum property and modernise it in co-operation with the tenants – no capital, and they didn’t speak the same language as the tenants, so that didn’t last long.’ Singleton ticked off Moray’s failures with satisfaction. ‘After that, he was appointed as community relations officer to one of the local authorities in the Midlands that has a big immigrant problem. In that kind of job, for every inch you gain you lose two – it wasn’t his idea of progress. Then he did a three-year stint with the Flaxman Prisoners’ Aid Society. He’d been arrested once or twice at various demos and used to say there were better men in prison than you ever met outside, but once he got down to the grind of trying to help some of the less “better” ones his enthusiasm waned fairly rapidly. The Scotney by-election cropped up just about the time he packed it in with Flaxman.’
‘And you jumped at him,’ Todd reminded him.
‘I don’t deny it.’ Singleton looked out of the porthole window at the boats bobbing about in the harbour in a sunset glow of saffron, rose and emerald; the sight appeared to give him little pleasure. ‘He has what you fellows call charisma. But there’s nothing behind it; no vitality, no stamina.’
‘But he won the election.’
‘Oh, he polled the votes.’ Singleton spoke as if this was the least part of an election campaign. ‘But Cope had more to do with that than Moray. It’s the organisation that counts in the long run.’
‘Cope hadn’t much experience, though,’ Todd said. ‘I was surprised you let him take over the running of the campaign.’
‘Let him!’ Singleton gave a little bark of contempt. For a moment, it seemed as though he wasn’t going to say any more. It was very hot, the door was open; there were people standing in the porch and sitting on the benches outside. The sunset was breaking up, charred remnants were still scattered about the western sky, but the evening star was up. Singleton said, ‘I wasn’t given any option.’
‘You mean Cope pushed you out?’
‘He poured red paint over me.’
Todd put the mug down on the table carefully and held the beer in his mouth for several seconds before he managed to swallow it. He looked at Singleton. The man wasn’t laughing. He was looking out of the porthole again. A lantern had been lit on the wall to his right; in its amber light his face looked tired and defeated, the bitter mouth sucked in slightly as though his gums were receding along with his hopes.
Todd said, ‘How come?’
‘Y
ou remember all those slogans which appeared in fluorescent paint?’
‘I remember one on that dump near the Dominion Cinema. “This site has been empty for three years. Why? Neil Moray is the man who will get an answer to this question.” Or words to that effect.’
‘Cope painted those slogans. It stirred up a lot of feeling; but it’s not the way to go about things, you make enemies of people you’re going to need as your friends if you win. I caught up with him one night when he was doing it. It was in Jakes Yard; the Council had a compulsory purchase order on five of the cottages and they’d been left to rot for years. Cope was up a ladder, painting on one of the walls. I started to argue with him and he said, quite amiably, ‘Bugger off and leave me to handle this.’ I put my hand on the ladder and rocked it. I suppose I meant to give him a bit of a fright for talking to me like that. He stared down at me and laughed. He said, ‘That was a silly thing to do.’ He looked absolutely delighted, as if I had given him a present. Then he picked up the tin of paint and poured it over my head. I had to walk home; it was dark, but that made it worse, the paint being fluorescent. Some people screamed and others laughed, but no one offered to help. I remember a man calling out “What happened to the other fellow?” I could have sued Cope, I suppose. But he would have said I upset the paint when I rocked the ladder. No one would have believed me. Even my wife said I’d been fooling about. She wouldn’t speak to me for a week afterwards, it gave her such a fright.’
‘Did you tell Moray?’
‘No. I didn’t want any more to do with any of them. It shook me up.’ He put down his empty mug. ‘I’d better be getting home. The wife gets a bit touchy if I’m out late.’
