Grand Days

by Frank Moorhouse

  There were supportive chuckles. Edith tried not to chuckle but did, pulled in by the laughter of the others.

  ‘I want to begin philosophically. In my banishment, I have been able to give much time to thinking philosophically. What has come home to me is that we, in the League, have been dealing with all things in isolation, in compartments, when we should’ve been looking at them as a whole, as a planetary system, with the planets revolving in fixed axes to each other. We have not been thinking universally. I blame myself as much as I blame anyone. Believe me, it was how I thought until recently. More anon.

  ‘I see all international predicaments as linked one with the other, all in cause and effect. If we are to wallop these predicaments, I would now argue that we must begin at one correct and vital place. Not at all places at once. And it is at this one point that we must apply all our coffers. That somewhere, that beginning point, is the key to all our endeavours.

  ‘For having once found this point, and then having changed this one cardinal part of our universe in an absolute and productive way, it will follow that all other parts will therefore change in an absolute and productive way. There will be a cause-and-effect repercussion through to all the other predicaments — an explosive chain of consequence — through the whole of the universe of predicaments which bedevil us. In medicine we once called it the reflex arc, the theory that one organ can sicken another.’

  This was a tantalising, if fanciful, beginning and Ambrose had the attention of the meeting.

  ‘Down in my place of banishment, my Siberia, I asked myself which predicament it was to which all others are linked.

  ‘I knew that if I could determine this, then I would have the key to all predicaments. Time went by and no answer came to me.’

  He went on with a tense enthusiasm. ‘While on leave, I saw an invention and was struck by the whole philosophical and organic connection to this one invention and I said to myself, “Why, here it is!” We look to conferences and assemblies and parliaments to solve the calamities of the human condition when here before our very eyes — my very eyes in this case — ’ he smiled, but went on without waiting for any responsive laughter, ‘here then was the answer, in a field of hay. It is not political theory which will save us, but one simple useful invention. How obvious it now looks!

  ‘It came to me that all predicaments of the world are linked to a very rudimentary thing — they are all linked to hunger. That if we solved the predicament of hunger then all others would be resolved, as it were, overnight: war and so on, good health — here I speak as a doctor.’

  There were some glances one to the other now as Ambrose talked. He was sounding not like a doctor at all, and less and less like a League official — more like someone at Hyde Park Corner. Or one of the many crank correspondents who wrote to the League.

  ‘If people are well fed, nourished correctly, they will resist all illness. I believe this. That correct diet will armour people against all illness. I see your first objection. That surely it also matters what persuasions and beliefs these people have to life, that also determines their health mentally. I argue that persuasions and beliefs flow from good diet — good politics comes from good diet.’

  Everyone in the room now seemed to know that it was going wrong and that Ambrose was not well, but they were immobilised by courtesy.

  He was oblivious to the change in the mood of the meeting. ‘With my haversack and birch staff — very English — ’ he smiled at the non-English members, ‘here I was, on a walking trip through Wiltshire in the sunshine, listening to the birds, smelling the flowers, smelling the hay, and I stopped to watch the hay-makers at work. For anyone wanting to refresh their spirits, I would recommend Wiltshire at the end of summer — I have some inns, some addresses if anyone is interested — it was here in Wiltshire and in a field of hay that I saw the answer to all to which we have dedicated our lives: the simple invention which will revolutionise all our lives — trust the British to come up with it, I thought — gentlemen, ladies, this invention is called the New Century Hay Sweep.’

  He paused for dramatic effect.

  For a single minute, as he stood there expectantly with his pointer, she was able to look at him dispassionately and she saw that he was unbalanced — perhaps the shock of being demoted and the continuing mental strains from the War had now unbalanced him seriously. There was a desperate tension oozing through his affable manner. She could see now that the affable manner was, in fact, an imitation of an affable manner. There were some nervous clearings of throats, some shuffling. Oh my God, thought Edith, and she looked at Dame Rachel who had closed her eyes.

  ‘I know what some of you are thinking.’ Ambrose tried for a joke, sensing for the first time, perhaps, that the audience was not altogether with him. ‘You are thinking, some of you, that I have a financial interest in the New Century Hay Sweep or that I am connected by family or something like that to the inventor. Not true. Not true at all. No fiduciary connection exists at all. None whatsoever, I assure you.

  ‘I saw the New Century Hay Sweep being used both with horses and with tractor and the farmers and men using it have nothing but praise for it.

  ‘It is an absurdly simple contrivance and until you see it in use it looks quite impractical, quite ungainly — clumsy even.

  ‘The hay is left in long rough lines on the field and the sweep is drawn either by two horses or a tractor.

  ‘The machine consists of long wooden prongs which can be raised or lowered by a lever in the hand of a single driver. The prongs are lowered until they just scrape the ground when picking up the hay and raised when the sweep is empty or has a load.

  ‘The sweep takes the hay right up to the stack or barn. I saw it at work on a hot day and the horse hardly lathered at all. I touched the rump of the horse to test if it was straining. I can assure you gentlemen, ladies, that it was not.’ He said this with inappropriate intensity.

  ‘If the sweep, as often occurs, drops or fails to pick up a lump of hay, it merely stops, backs at once out of its load which remains on the ground, and then picks up the bit it has left together with the main load and goes forward again. Do you all follow?

  ‘Now for the revolutionary fact: I am told that the sweep does the work of four men and eight horses.’

  Edith looked around. Dame Rachel was now trying to catch Sir Eric’s eye to stop the embarrassment. But Sir Eric was looking fixedly at the papers in front of him, as if frozen. He’d worked so closely with Ambrose as far back as the Peace Conference and then in the early days of the League. For Edith, it was an agony of empathy together with personal mortification. She had never been in a meeting caught in such a paralysing tension of embarrassment.

  Ambrose, unaware of the mood of the meeting, went on with his speech. ‘With a tractor, the result is even more striking. The sweep is fixed at the front of the tractor and the lever for raising and lowering it is at the driver’s right hand. The man at the wheel said he could do a steady eight miles an hour. He said he had not broken a single prong during the season. I confess that the machine looks as if it would perpetually be dropping part of its load and as if the prongs would always be catching in the ground and breaking off, but these things do not occur.

  ‘There is one problem, and I rush to admit this. The sweep is wider than most gates. But in countries with no fences this should not be a problem — that is, in the poorer countries which desperately need such an invention.

  ‘What I am saying is this: if we can speed up agricultural production worldwide by eight times, we can feed eight times more people, roughly speaking. Hence, banishing hunger for all time.

  ‘So, in conclusion, with your permission Sir Eric, I would ask the meeting, with respect, to consider urgently putting information about this sweep before our new Subcommittee of Agricultural Experts and before all governments across the world.

  ‘I have since sought out the man who patented it and he would be happy to arrange for a demonstration in Geneva for all
interested governments.’

  He beamed out a smile which begged for applause and for compliments. Maybe for a standing ovation. Ambrose must have sensed at this point that there was considerable unease in the meeting and that he had not convinced them, had been somehow off the mark. No one was looking at him directly; no eye would meet his eye.

  She forced herself to look across at him and smile, but it was a pained smile. He mouthed something back to her — maybe something like ‘Am I going well?’ — but she looked away.

  After an agony of silence he started up again, ‘I suppose the meeting is worried about the sweep being too wide for farm gates. I knew that this would worry some people and it worried me. One of the answers is that the widening of gates could be subsidised by the better-off farmers and governments …’ he began to scramble, ‘… or if that proves impracticable then the farmers themselves might consider widening their gates. Not a big job. After all, what originally back in the mists of time determined the width of a gate? The width of a gate is not God-given.’ He stared into space as if wondering whether to go on further into the history of gates and then turned away from that direction.

  ‘Surely no one could say that this is an expensive item. It costs about twenty-four pounds sterling.’

  He faltered again as some of those at the meeting began now to frown at him while others began leafing through their papers. Someone should have thanked him and let him go, but no one moved. Sir Eric was still staring at his papers and consequently Ambrose stood in the room with his notes in his hand beside the photographs on the display board. These now caught his eye.

  He tapped the board. ‘You can study the photographs which I took personally. Not too brilliant in terms of focus, but the points I have mentioned are illustrated by them well enough … to recap: the New Century Hay Sweep is the answer to hay-gathering. Hay-gathering and preservation is the secret to the feeding of animals through winter. Maybe I forgot to mention that. Oh yes, that is important. Keep that in mind. Hay is the secret to good husbandry, good husbandry is the secret of good farming, good farming is the secret to famine, the elimination of famine is the secret to the ending of disease and war.’

  He stood before the Directors, now sensing that something had gone wrong but clearly unable to make any assessment of what it was that had gone wrong. He groped through his notes, maybe thinking that it was some piece of information which he’d missed out that would make everything more convincingly complete and sway the meeting.

  Edith felt a squirming discomfort in her muscles, wanting for the situation to stop but not knowing how to stop it.

  ‘Oh — yes!’ He seemed to think that he’d found a solution to his dilemma. ‘Questions — of course! Are there any questions? How silly — of course you must have questions. I am no farmer, but bowl them up.’ And then, speaking to himself, said the word ‘questions’ as a reprimand, as if to say, how silly of me to forget to call for questions, that of course everyone was waiting to be invited to ask questions — that was what was wrong. ‘You must be bursting with questions. Don’t worry — I don’t expect you to know about agriculture.’

  Nearly everyone was looking now at Sir Eric, their gaze almost demanding him to bring the embarrassment to a close. He looked up slowly. ‘Thank you, Ambrose. Very informative. We must, you understand, get on with our agenda, and I’ll be in touch in due course.’ She had never heard Sir Eric refer to anyone by their first name.

  Ambrose was nonplussed that there were no questions, no applause, and perhaps at hearing his first name.

  ‘But … ? Of course, I am glad, Sir Eric, that you found it so informative — when I was there in the field, in Wiltshire, in the sunshine, I found it remarkable — dazzling — that I should’ve come across the answer there in a field of hay in Wiltshire. I am so glad that you all see what I mean …’

  He was struggling to find conviction now, hoping that soon he would hear the right words of acclamation spoken by Sir Eric or by someone in the group, the words which would recognise his discovery and applaud it.

  ‘Yes, well, good man, keep on with your philosophising, and now we must be on with our work here.’ Sir Eric sounded as if he were talking to the man driving the tractor, not to a former close colleague.

  It was as though one of the cranks had climbed over the Palais walls and into the very heart of the League.

  ‘Perhaps, Sir Eric, if there are questions which occur to anyone, they could contact me down in Siberia?’ He beamed out his entreating smile. ‘Glad that all is now forgiven and so on and so forth.’ He still stood there, unable to break away from the place where he so desperately wanted to be and where he wished to belong.

  Edith could stand it no longer and she got to her feet, feeling that she had to take responsibility for Ambrose as he stood at the edge of his chasm. She went over to him, taking his arm, saying quietly, ‘Thank you, Ambrose, that was useful,’ and led him to the door.

  ‘You’re convinced then?’ he said grasping at her words, then looked behind him. ‘My photographs …’ He made to go back into the room. She stopped him, saying that she’d get Jules to bring them down to him, adding, ‘People might like to study them.’ She wanted him out of the room.

  At the door, he looked across again at Sir Eric and the others and waved. She guided him out, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘they’ll want to study them. It’s a delightfully simple idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, indeed.’

  ‘One second — something else to tell.’

  Before she could stop him, he ducked back in the room. She called, ‘Ambrose — no.’ But he poked his head into the room and said, ‘One point — forgot it — to convert the horse sweep to a tractor sweep costs only ten guineas. Sorry. Forgot. Thanks again, chaps.’

  She was about to go after him and tug him out of the room, but he came back to her. He still had an ingratiating, boyish smile.

  He was now optimistically insensible to what had happened. ‘I think they liked the idea of the hay sweep but they may need time to understand the philosophical point — that all is related — like the planets — and that all is soluble — all is … well, all is whatever.’ He laughed. ‘That’s it: “All is whatever”.’

  It was almost a glimpse of the old self-teasing Ambrose laughing at himself, but it wasn’t really the old Ambrose. It was not the laughter of someone confident in the uncertainty of life. His laughter and his expression were different; they expressed the forlorn hope that what he’d said was not something about which to laugh, but was indeed a remarkable expression of genius.

  Out in the corridor, he still kept on. ‘In Australia it would be fine. No gates there.’

  ‘I expect that it would be.’ She smelled his breath for the first time, and detected no alcohol. She wished he’d been drunk and that it could all be explained by that.

  She almost steered him down the corridor, standing until she was sure he was going. He turned twice to wave.

  She stood until he had turned the corridor corner. She was struck by an unworthy feeling, that she’d been embarrassed by the idea that the others might still associate him with her, and that she’d made a mistaken move by getting up and seeing him out. Still, what mattered was that her decent self had got to its feet and helped him. And surely long ago gossip had made sure that everyone knew that they were no longer in any way a couple. She went back into the room. She heard someone say, ‘Yes, with Curzon for a time …’

  Sir Eric looked at her and said, ‘Thank you, Berry, nicely done. Now let’s get on.’

  After work, she talked with Claude, who was now Ambrose’s superior. Claude knew what she was talking about. He agreed that Ambrose needed help.

  ‘His work is no longer really good enough. I’ve talked to him — gently — but he’s declining.’

  ‘Why don’t you do something!’

  ‘Me? I can hardly go to someone like Westwood and tell him that he’s shell-shocked or whatever.
It’s hard enough being his superior. In other circumstances, he’d be my superior.’

  She asked about Ambrose’s friends.

  ‘He’s become something of a recluse. I can’t think who I would designate as his close friend.’

  She recalled seeing him drinking alone in the Bavaria. Sometimes someone would drift over to him to say hello.

  ‘Anyone who talks to him simply stands at his table and chats but they never sit,’ Claude said.

  ‘You and I do that to him.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Claude said.

  Immediately after his demotion he’d still drop into the Bavaria as if nothing had changed, as a way of keeping up appearances. At first she’d thought he was coming there to be pathetic, to indict her, but Edith realised that she had no idea who knew or who didn’t know about the reasons for his fall.

  Claude said nervously, ‘Have a talk to him, Berry. I know it’s hard to do. Might have to pack him off back to England. Let the FO have him back. His relatives, maybe.’

  ‘He has no relatives that I know of.’

  ‘I can’t manufacture relatives or friends for a chap.’ Claude tried to be light but she could see that he was feeling the sadness of it.

  In her rooms at the pension, she collapsed in her armchair, her eyes closed, reliving the nausea of the meeting.

  It was growing on her that she was obliged to do something about Ambrose and this agitated her. But too often people one knew at work, or socially — or worse, former lovers — were observed to be breaking down but no one talked with the person about it; everyone pretended everything was all right, acquaintances just let the person slide into catastrophe until they were taken seriously ill. She’d wondered about herself at times. After the stoning of the Palais Wilson, when she’d gone to Chamonix — she had hidden the fact that she was a bit odd. In those cases a holiday, or the passing of time, had cured her.