The Code

by Nick Thripp

  ‘What, when I’m grown up, you mean? You’re not talking to a child, you prick,’ she replied, her pencil hand still skimming across her pad.

  ‘I meant when you leave finishing school.’ I leant across and looked over her shoulder. The lettuces were rapidly taking shape.

  She looked up at me with contempt in her eyes.

  ‘I’m fucking well not going to finishing school. I’m going to art school even if I have to fuck the entire faculty to get a place.’

  I brushed a persistent bluebottle away from my face with a wave of my hand.

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘I’m not into incest. They can go fuck themselves.’

  When I told Rachel of Suzie’s determination to study art, omitting reference to how she was proposing to bring it about, she said, ‘Daddy will make her go to finishing school, despite all her wheedling. Mummy’s adamant this time.’

  Later that week I was sitting in the drawing-room reading the newspaper while digesting a traditional English breakfast of enormous proportions when I heard a car pulling up on the gravel drive. I ignored it and was surprised when Edwina, Rachel’s mother announced that a visitor was waiting for me in the study. I couldn’t think of anyone who knew I was here. Curious, I eased myself out of the old leather chair, a thin strand of horsehair stuffing adhering to my arm, and went to investigate.

  John Beart, standing with his back to the mullioned window, extended his hand.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this. I was just passing.’

  ‘Just passing? This place is in the back of beyond. How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I gave your parents a ring. They seem to be in pretty good shape from the sound of it.’

  I had a distant recollection of sharing my plans with my mother.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t want to disturb your weekend too much. I dropped in to see whether you’d be interested in taking my business to your firm. I don’t think you gave me an answer when we spoke last.’

  I was about to respond when the door opened and Rachel entered, as though by accident. Still in her sweat-stained singlet and shorts, she’d just returned from one of her regular early morning runs. Without hesitating, John introduced himself and she said, ‘I’ve heard so much about you. You gave us that lovely chess set. You must come for dinner.’

  ‘Love to,’ John replied. ‘But look, I’ve got a little place about ten miles from here. Why don’t you have dinner with me there the day after tomorrow? We can talk about my proposition. Seven thirty for eight?’

  Before I could respond, Rachel accepted and John shook us both briskly by the hand, though I did notice him surreptitiously wipe his on his trousers after disengaging from Rachel’s sweaty palm.

  ‘Who on earth was that?’ Edwina asked as his Aston Martin crunched slowly down the long gravel drive. ‘Very polite, but with the eyes of a crocodile.’

  ‘That’s a bit tough on crocodiles.’ I laughed loudly at my own joke. Rachel merely looked thoughtful.

  Rachel and her mother, deep in conversation, left the study. Through the window I saw Suzie, who was standing by the gate, flag John’s car down, speak to him through its open window and get in. They drove off together.

  *

  The next day Suzie was waiting for me in the library after breakfast, and asked me to give her a lift to the station.

  ‘I don’t want my things to get wet,’ she explained. ‘It’s absolutely pissing down.’

  Dressed neatly in a light grey suit and with her hair scraped into a pony tail, she held a bulging folder under her arm. Despite the deluge outside, she wasn’t wearing a coat or carrying an umbrella.

  I was surprised she’d singled me out for this task.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘London. I’m meeting the principal of Tooting Art College. And can you pick me up this evening?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Let this be our little secret, OK?’ She reached out and gave my crotch a painful squeeze which made me wince. ‘Unless you want me to tell my parents you’ve been putting the moves on me.’

  I couldn’t let the little minx get away with that.

  ‘And I might tell them where you’ve been getting all your gear.’

  ‘You have no fucking idea,’ she said, then tailed off, staring at me. Although she thought I was bluffing, she wasn’t sure and seemed reluctant to take the risk.

  ‘In any case, there’s no need for threats, Suzie. I’ll do it as a favour.’

  ‘You’re not getting anything off me,’ she replied. ‘Not just for a lift.’

  ‘I said it was a favour and that’s what it is. Anyway, won’t your parents wonder where you are?’

  ‘No one ever knows where the fuck I am. I make sure of that.’

  We got into my car, which was parked in a secluded spot at the side of the house, and nosed slowly and quietly down the drive.

  ‘Where did you go with John yesterday?’ I must have caught her off-guard because she faltered for a second.

  ‘What the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Fair comment,’ I replied. ‘It’s worth remembering though that people may know more about you than you think.’

  We arrived at the station and I let the engine idle while she collected her things together before getting out.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, leaning across and kissing me full on the lips. My heart missed a beat and then started to pound. She leaned back and squinted at me, probably amused at my startled expression.

  ‘Be careful. You never know who’s watching.’ She got out. The car door was still open and commuters were milling all around us. ‘Six thirty. Don’t forget, lover,’ she said loudly, slamming the door.

  I was waiting in my car outside the station that evening when Suzie filtered through the crowds standing by the doors. She slung her folder into the back and slid into the front seat.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Fucking lousy, he’s gay. Third one in a row. There must be some fucking art schools run by straight men. Or lesbians.’

  A few months later, Rachel told me Suzie had got a place at art school.

  ‘I don’t know how she managed it. She didn’t meet any of the entry criteria.’

  Chapter 15

  Seeds are sown, 1983

  It was the day we were due to dine with John and, after a substantial lunch at the Vicarage, I was on the point of opening the newspaper when Rachel announced we were going for a walk.

  ‘Not now,’ I moaned. ‘I might go for a run tomorrow.’

  ‘Lying toad!’ She gripped my arm and pulled me to my feet. ‘The only running you do is to fat. You’re coming with me.’ She dragged me to the coat cupboard and forced me into wet-weather gear.

  We covered about eight miles along boggy footpaths and across sodden fields, ducking into the woods whenever the persistent drizzle became heavier. My walking boots were clogged with mud, my trousers sodden and my upper body clammy with sweat. Rachel, on the other hand, seemed to gain strength from the adverse conditions, striding through the deep puddles as though they didn’t exist. She even laughed loudly when she slid down a muddy bank, coating her body and splattering her face. Her persistent cheerfulness was the most dispiriting aspect of the whole soggy episode.

  Using exhaustion as an excuse, I proposed we should give dinner at John’s a miss in favour of a quiet evening’s recuperation. Rachel would have none of it.

  ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know him. I’ve heard whispers he’s one of the coming men, one of the movers and shakers.’

  I shuddered at the term. The City seemed to be fuelled by jargon.

  ‘In my view, he’s rather flaky,’ I said, secretly proud to have mastered some of it myself.

  ‘You haven’t known him properly since prep school. Peopl
e change, you know.’

  ‘He’s all show. You’ll see,’ I said, bravely hoping he would be exposed as a poseur that evening but dreading he wouldn’t.

  *

  John’s place was considerably larger than the Vicarage, and of a very different configuration. At the centre was a modernised and extended farmhouse, around which several barns had been converted into luxurious amenities: a sauna, a squash court, a fully equipped gym, a well-stocked library. Terracotta-tiled walkways connected the different buildings, giving the property the feel of an exclusive holiday resort. A silver Aston Martin DBS, a bright yellow Lotus Eclat and a dark grey Range Rover Classic were parked carelessly outside. I nosed my Ford Escort in between the Range Rover and Aston Martin, taking care to ensure the rust patch behind the wheel arch faced away from the house.

  The dark oak door was opened by a tall, slim woman in her very early twenties. In the background, I could hear the strains of King of Pain.

  ‘Hello, I’m Sonja.’ She had a faint accent which I found difficult to place. ‘Do come in and make yourselves comfortable. John’s on the phone. New York.’

  We handed over our bottle of medium priced Rioja, and accepted glasses of champagne. King of Pain gave way to Wrapped Around Your Finger with its subtle keyboard playing.

  ‘You obviously like The Police,’ I remarked. Sonja murmured that the album was John’s and she preferred Afrika Bambaataa and the Soulsonic Force. Not recognising the name, I shook my head and Sonja smiled in the way a teenager might at an ignorant parent.

  ‘Hip hop,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to convert John. I think he’s gradually warming to Planet Rock, though with him it’s difficult to tell.’

  A sleek young cat wrapped itself around our ankles. Rachel stooped to stroke it and it purred loudly. I stepped back, a sneeze forming in my nose.

  ‘Meet Oscar,’ Sonja said. ‘John rescued him from a building site. Now they’re inseparable. ‘

  ‘A bit like Blofeld and his cat,’ I said. Sonja and Rachel ignored me.

  ‘What do you both do?’ Sonja asked.

  ‘We’re accountants,’ Rachel said, and I’m sure I saw Sonja’s eyes glaze over. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m writing up my PhD in psycholinguistics. I’m almost there, only about 5,000 words to go.’

  ‘What’s psycholinguistics?’ I asked.

  ‘Representation of language in the mind, Chomsky and all that.’ Sonja replied.

  ‘Fascinating field,’ Rachel said. ‘In your view, is human ability to use language qualitatively different from any sort of animal ability?’

  I stretched out on the sofa and peered at Rachel through narrowed eyes, wondering how she knew so much. Half-listening, I only caught some of Sonja’s reply, ‘– well I certainly believe an innate mechanism is involved in language acquisition—’ before my mind drifted off completely and I became oblivious to the rest. My eyes scanned the room. Dominating the mantel-piece was a large framed photograph of a teenage John, arm in arm with his youthful looking mother, gazing into each other’s eyes like newlyweds. It was only when the door opened and John padded in that I came to.

  He seemed to grow in stature every time I saw him. Dressed very casually in a cream sweater and faded blue jeans, he kissed Rachel on both cheeks, shook my hand, asked Rachel some polite questions, cracked some jokes, and topped up our drinks. Even though there were only four of us in the room, I felt I’d shrunk into inconspicuousness.

  Oscar wrapped himself around John’s legs and John picked him up and kissed him.

  I’d been expecting Sonja to scurry out to the kitchen and was surprised when John said, ‘Do excuse me. I must check how the main dish is doing and put the spinach on. You both like Beef Wellington?’ He put Oscar down on the thick Persian rug, where he started kneading the pile with his claws and purring.

  ‘Bless,’ said Sonja as John closed the door. Oscar immediately headed in my direction and I stood up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Sonja asked.

  ‘Bit allergic,’ I replied as Oscar pursued me purposefully round the sofa, looking for an opportunity to launch himself at me.

  ‘Don’t be pathetic,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s only a cat.’ She leant down and stroked Oscar, who jumped onto her, purring and flicking his tail under her nose before settling down into a tight ball on her lap.

  Sonja, more out of a sense of politeness than interest, I suspect, started asking me about my work. After a couple of minutes Rachel dismissed Oscar, stood up and brushed his fur off her dress.

  ‘I’ll go and see whether John needs any help in the kitchen.’

  We didn’t see her again until shortly before the food was served.

  My hopes that the dinner would be uneatable were dashed. Mushrooms a la Grecque cooked in olive oil and lemon juice were served cold as an appetizer. The succulent meat in the Beef Wellington was just the right shade of pink and the puff pastry golden and crisp. The pavlova which followed was even better than the one Edwina, no mean cook herself, had produced a month or two before. I was dumfounded. My culinary skills barely extended beyond heating up pre-prepared meals.

  ‘Where did you learn to cook like that, John?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘From my mother. I didn’t have any real friends when I was little.’ He shot a look at me. ‘So I didn’t go out much. Cooking made us very close.’

  ‘How is your mother?’ I asked after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘She’s fine now. Living in a lovely cottage in Kew. Why don’t you drop in on her?’

  I stared at his face, but it betrayed nothing.

  ‘Yes, I’d like to do that,’ I said at last.

  After dinner, John and I repaired to the library, with its shelves full of leather-bound books, while Sonja gave Rachel a tour of the house. John handed me a glass of 25-year-old Talisker, much finer than any single malt at the Vicarage, and put on Judie Tzuke’s Sportscar album.

  ‘Such a beautiful voice. Do you know this record?’ he asked, as a contented Oscar settled on his lap.

  ‘Not heard it before.’

  ‘Welcome to the Cruise was a brilliant album too. I’ll play it after this one’.

  We lapsed into silence as we listened to the music, at times energising, at others soothing. John seemed to be in a trance, which suited me, so I sipped my whisky quietly, allowing its peppery, warming flavours to permeate my palate.

  Just as Rachel and Sonja came in chattering and laughing, John suddenly sat up, tipped Oscar off his lap, and stared at me, as a mongoose might at a snake.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Braithwaite. He’s delighted you’ve persuaded me to bring the business to you lot, and he’s only too pleased to reassure me that you’ll be the partner, or at least one of the partners, assigned to the audit.’

  ‘You did what?’ My mind reeled and I felt hot and dizzy. I tried to get a grip on my crumbling sense of reality, and the only way I could do so was to concentrate on cold facts till I’d had time to think.

  ‘Where did you see him?’

  ‘At Boodle’s.’

  My brain was beginning to catch up with what had happened, and my suppressed resentment started building towards explosive levels. John had gone behind my back and spoken to my senior partner. It was a fait accompli which trampled me.

  ‘Look John, very kind of you, but—’

  Rachel cut in, giving me a very sharp look.

  ‘I think what he’s trying to say is, ‘‘Thank you’’. I wish I could attract a company as big as yours to my practice. It would set me up for the future beautifully.’ Rachel directed a radiant smile at John, who gave a self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders and smiled back. I glanced at Sonja to see what she made of this newly formed mutual admiration society only to find her engrossed in reading the lyrics on the back of the Sportscar album.

  John’s broad smile was replaced by
a look of intense concentration.

  ‘You’re not planning to stay as an accountant, are you Rachel? Britain’s economy is finally beginning to take off. We’ve swallowed Maggie’s bitter medicine. Now things are on the up and there’s tremendous potential for talented people like you. Of course, you could continue to lead a comfortable existence poring over the books and counting the stock of people who are making it all happen. If you really don’t mind missing out on the excitement and are prepared to settle for the safe, the dull and the vicarious, that is.’

  Rachel, a thoughtful look on her face, didn’t respond and I had the feeling a seed had been sown. I looked at my watch.

  ‘Past midnight. Think it’s time we were going.’

  ‘God, is that the time?’ John said. ‘I’m due to talk to Boston in half an hour.’

  Rachel was very quiet as we drove back to the vicarage.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m going to contact the head hunters tomorrow. John’s right. I need to be where the action is, not spectating from the sidelines.’

  ‘Auditing is hardly on the sidelines. Without us to provide the framework and police it, business would be chaotic and anarchy would reign.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re more like referees. I want to be one of the players; in fact, I want to be a top goal scorer.’

  I glanced at her as I drove us through the dark lanes. Even in the dim glow from the dashboard, I could see that her eyes were glinting and her body was tense with excitement.

  ‘John is quite a man,’ she said in a soft voice.

  I peered at her through the half-light.

  ‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’

  She hesitated for a second.

  ‘No, but he has got…’ she paused, searching for the right word, ‘chutzpah’.

  ‘And an ego the size of a helium balloon,’ I added, though I don’t think she registered what I’d said.

  ‘Those blue eyes of his are quite, quite…’ again she paused, ‘mesmerising.’