by Simon Raven
'The atom bomb,' said Somerset at lunch, 'is just another element in the situation.'
'Peter and the head man seem to think it's too colossal to take into account. That it's beyond our control.'
'Nothing which we ourselves have made can be beyond our control. It is simply another problem which requires thought.'
'So what would you do about it?'
'To start with,' Somerset said, 'I'd put a stop to all this so-called moral protest. The atom bomb exists. We may as well accept the fact without whining.'
'All right. I accept the fact without whining. So what am I to do next?'
'You should remember that as far as you know only your side can make it. No one else has the secret ... yet.'
'And so?'
'And so you should establish dominance before it's too late. Before your enemies too can make atom bombs and so achieve parity.'
'Somerset ... You don't mean we ought to use the thing?'
'One would hope that the mere threat, the unambiguous threat, would be enough.'
'And who,' I asked, 'are our enemies?'
'Those who wish us ill - about three quarters of the world's population.'
'So you would establish a series of atomic bases all over the world and then hold it to ransom?'
'For its own good,' said Somerset, 'to say nothing of ours. Unfortunately, however, we can't afford it and our American friends, who can, won't finance such an undertaking. They would regard it as wicked.'
'They might not be alone in that.'
'No doubt they will have the sentimental support of all who, like themselves, are ignorant of history. The historical lesson is quite plain: if you are lucky enough to discover a new weapon, you should make full use of it. Because if you don't somebody else will, and almost certainty at your expense. A melancholy truth,' said Somerset with satisfaction, 'which applies, mutatis mutandis, in all human activities.'
For three days nothing much happened. We went for walks by the sea, we prepared meals and ate them, we talked of neutral topics, and we read. Somerset said no more of 'the private things' which he had to communicate; nor did he make any signal of impending battle. But always the threat was there, and I became more and more impatient for its open declaration.
On the fourth evening of Somerset's visit, having dinner at the local hotel, we saw Angela Tuck. She waved in a friendly way, and when she had finished her meal she came over, unasked. to join us.
'Introduce me to your fascinating friend,' she said.
I introduced her.
'Tuck is back tomorrow,' she announced.
'And we are off - to a friend at Whereham.'
Then you must come round to my place,' Angela said, 'and have a drink.'
We all went down the road to the Tuck bungalow by the quay.
'Drinkies,' said Angela. She bustled out and bustled back with a tray, three glasses, and, incredibly, two bottles of champagne.
'Don't ask me where I got it from,' she said, and opened one bottle with a few expert movements.
Somerset coyly dabbled some of the wine behind his ear.
'Twenty-one today,' sang Angela raucously, and knocked back the glass in one.
'Literally?'
'Literally. I hope Tuck brings me something nice from London. He hasn't even sent a telegram, the rotten sod.'
'Let's hope he's had good hunting,' I said. 'It might make him more generous.'
Angela gave me a sly look and seemed about to reply. But by now Somerset was on his feet proposing a toast.
'To our charming hostess.' Somerset said, 'now that she has acquired the key of the door. May she always be free with it.'
'Whoops,' went Angela, and tucked into her fizz. She sat down on Somerset's lap and started to stroke his cheek.
'Little Somerset,' she said; 'and where did he learn to say such pretty things to the ladies? Open the other bottle,' she ordered me, rather sharply, and deposited a sploshing kiss on Somerset's spotty forehead.
What in God's name is she up to now, I wondered. I opened the bottle with clumsy, unfamiliar hands, while Angela went on kissing Somerset. The cork popped and a great gout of champagne shot over her dress.
'When it rains, it rains bubble-juice from heaven,' Angela sang. 'Lucky we've got some of mother's ruin for when that's gone. Better put on something dry,'
She tottered out.
'I can't understand it,' I said: 'she's usually got a head like a rock. I mean, whatever she does, there's none of this childishness.'
'She's been drinking all day.' said Somerset coolly.
'How do you know?'
'She's got fresh blisters on her fingers where she's burnt them with cigarettes. Drunks always do that.'
'How clever of you to notice.'
'There've been quite a few drinkers in my family.'
Angela came back in pyjamas.
'Tell you what,' she screamed 'birthday gamies. Let's all have a birthday gamey.'
'Willingly.' said Somerset, hiccuping and helping himself to the last of the champagne.
'Get the gin first.' said Angela, throwing out her bust like Volumnia.
'Where is it?'
'Kitchen.'
Somerset clumped off.
'What do you mean... gamies?' I said.
'Cardies,' She swayed over to a desk and came back with a pack. 'Forfeits. You'll see.'
Somerset came back with the gin and poured out stiff measures all round. Remembering the scene on the last night of the quarter, I wondered whether Somerset would be sick again: certainly drink effected a rapid change in his demeanour, a change decidedly for the better, I thought.
'Forfeits.' announced Angela.
She dealt each of us a card, face down.
'Whoever has the highest card can claim a forfeit from the one with lowest,' she explained with surprising lucidity.
'What kind of forfeit?'
Angela shrugged.
'Turn 'em up,' she said.
Somerset had the highest card, Angela the lowest.
'I claim a kiss from Angela,' Somerset said.
'You've already had some.'
'This will be a special kiss.' Somerset's spectacles were crooked and his lisp pronounced.
'That's the thpirit,' Angela mimicked. She crawled along the carpet to the side of Somerset's chair, knelt there and held her face up to him. Somerset took his spectacles off, leaned down, missed her mouth, and kissed her on the end of her turned up nose.
'You need your gig-lamps.'
She picked them off the arm of the chair.
'Don't meth about with my thepectacles.'
Too late. Angela had keeled over and crunched the glasses against the hearth stone. Blood came from her hand.
'My glathes,' wailed Somerset.
'Angela's hand ...'
'Never mind my hand or anybody's rotten glasses. Deal the cards.'
'Luckily I remembered to bring another pair. But they're not so comfortable.'
'Deal the cards'
I dealt. This time Angela had the highest card, Somerset the lowest.
'Take your trousers off,' said Angela briskly.
Knowing that Somerset was too mean to buy himself underpants from his allowance, I started to smirk. But Somerset was equal to the occasion. Having got his trousers off swiftly and with dignity, he tucked the tail of his shirt between his legs.
'Not much meat,' said Angela, pinching one of Somerset's thin white calves and leaving a trail of blood. 'Deal the cards.'
Somerset dealt. This time I won with a ten, while both Angela and Somerset had eights.
'Forfeits for both of you,' I said hilariously. 'Let's have your shirt, Somerset. And as for you, Angie, the top half of your pyjamas.'
Angela complied pokerfaced: Somerset seemed reluctant.
When he had removed his shirt, he was naked save for his shoes and socks, and he did not strip prettily. He placed his hand over his groin, Angela inspecting him closely as he did so. Am I trying to humiliate him.
I wondered; or do I. in some unbelievably perverse way, wish to be ... associated with him?
'Cards,' said Angela, excitable no longer but grave and purposeful. She dealt each card with ponderous care; after which she turned up an Ace, Somerset and I both Kings.
'Ace high,' said Angela; 'forfeits from both.'
She looked carefully from Somerset to me and back again.
'You,' she said to Somerset, 'are interesting. Ugly and skinny, but interesting. I claim you ... You,' she said rounding on me, 'are just a sexual cliché. Peaches and a little frothy cream. From you I claim privacy.'
'The game's not over yet,' I said sullenly.
'This is my house, and I'm telling you to go away and leave us alone.'
She wiped her bloody hand casually over her breast, then bent over Somerset, who was looking myopic but composed.
'Do as the kind lady asks,' said Somerset.
This time, I thought furiously, he is not going to be sick.
'I think,' said Somerset with deadly softness, 'that I shall be able to find my own way back ... even without my glasses.'
He lay back in his chair. Angela took his hand and lifted it away from his body.
'Get out,' she hissed at me; 'and don't slam the door.'
Inland from the sea, on the way to Whereham, the fields shimmered and drowsed. The bus, almost empty, nosed along the lanes and through chimps of complacent trees, made long stops in market places or in front of tiny post offices, which displayed in their windows pre-war Christmas annuals, knitting magazines and toy magic lanterns.
At one such post office I dismounted and sent a telegram to Christopher. 'Please confirm 3rd, 4th or 5th September for visit. Anxious to hear. Fielding.' After all. I thought, Christopher must have had my last letter at least five days ago; he should have answered by now.
When I returned to the bus, Somerset, who had hardly spoken since we got out of bed, inquired with bland interest:
'What was all that about?'
'Just a wire to the charwoman. Something I forgot to tell her.'
'It could have waited, surely until we reached Peter's house? '
'I suppose so. I just felt restless.'
'So I noticed. You know, I think the time has come ... now ... for me to speak to you. After what happened last night, I fancy the conditions are favourable.'
'Then make yourself plain, Somerset. For God's sake be plain and be done.'
'Very well.' Somerset took a deep breath. 'There's one thing I want.' Somerset said, 'which I don't propose to let you take from me or to spoil for me after I have it. Eight months from now, next spring, they will need a new Head of school. I propose to be that Head and I don't propose to allow you, as a subordinate Head of your own House, to challenge my authority. Nor do I propose to allow you to discredit that authority by making a mess of things in your own little area. Mismanagement or scandal in your House would also mean mismanagement or scandal in my school.'
'People have been warning me about you for some time,' I said slowly, 'and I sometimes thought that it might turn out to be something like that. But then I told myself, calmly and reasonably, that it simply couldn't be, because no one as sensible as you could care about anything so trivial. I'm disappointed that I was wrong. Why, Somerset?'
'You have so much already,' said Somerset, almost humbly. 'Surely you wouldn't grudge me this?'
'You can have it and welcome. I shan't stand in your way or make rude noises when you ascend your throne. But the choice isn't ours. It will be made by the Headmaster.'
'If the position is offered to you, you must refuse.'
'The head man would think it very odd.'
'You must put him off as best you can.'
'I've told you,' I said, irritated at last. 'I don't care either way and I wouldn't dream of pushing myself forward. But if the head man should call on me, then I'm damned if I'll grovel about saying, "No, I am not worthy, choose Somerset instead." You can't expect it.'
'Can't I? You know. Fielding. I've been following up one or two little rumours about you. About you and Christopher Roland. I don't suppose you'd much care for them to be brought to the Headmaster's attention.'
'The head man already knows I'm fond of Christopher.'
'But does he know how fond? He can be very sensitive, the head man, about that kind of thing. He has to be in his position.'
'There's nothing to be sensitive about.'
'Isn't there?' Somerset paused, and then proceeded with the solemn manner of one dictating his terms. 'What's happened. Fielding, was no affair of mine. I'll let the past rest and gladly, provided you do as I say. That's the first point. By-gones can be by-gones if you'll let them be.'
'Generous of you.'
'But secondly, remember this. If I get a hint of anything in this line starting up again, next year ... I won't have it. Fielding. Any more of that, with Christopher or anyone else, and I'll get you sacked.'
'Is it pride talking, or morality?'
'Let's just say that anything of this kind would offend my sense of good order.'
'Pride.'
'Seemliness.'
'Obsession'
The bus drew to a stop. I spotted Peter, who was waiting for us in front of a brick chapel of improbable denomination.
'Have it which way you will,' said Somerset, taking his case from the rack. Those are my terms - quite easy terms, don't you think? - and if you still want to be there wearing your pretty blue blazer next summer, you'd better keep them.'
Peter's father, an immense brown man with a trace of Norfolk in his voice, was seldom seen save in the evenings, when he liked to discuss the prospects for county cricket now that the war was oven and Peter's mother, a grave woman with an enchanting smile, was called away to a married sister's sick bed the day after Somerset and I arrived. So the three of us were left, as I had hoped we would be, to amuse ourselves. Since Somerset was prone to hay fever, Peter did not suggest that we should help in the fields. Instead he took us on long leisurely tours of his family demesne; drove us in a farm cart to markets, or in a trap (petrol being tight even for farmers) to have picnics where there was a castle or a church, & village cricket match or a summer fête. It was a time of happiness and truce. Peter gave himself up to serene enjoyment of his last few days as a civilian in his own place; Somerset was clever, affable and modest; and I myself, while conscious of the new threat posed by Somerset, was in good part reassured by the wholesome presence of Peter and lulled by the simple pleasures of his country. So the kind days of the late summer and the new peace passed, until, one morning shortly before Somerset and I must leave, we all set out for Whereham Races, along with Peter's father, who had taken a rare holiday to watch one of his own horses run.
The main event of the day was to be a three mile steeplechase, carrying a prize of one hundred sovereigns and open to any gentleman or yeoman who, during the war, had farmed his land in the shire or borne arms for his King. Mr. Morrison's contestant for the prize, Tiberius, was to be ridden by a young tenant who had recently returned from Germany, Mr. Morrison himself being disqualified by a weight of eighteen stone. Tiberius, an ageing black stallion much loved by Peter and known for many miles around, was second in the local betting. Favourite was Lord Blakeney's Balthazar, a young, clever and quick-tempered horse, who, it was said, would worry Tiberius by his aggressive manner and finally defeat him by sheer speed and skill.
But hope stood high with the Morrison faction, and the sun shone, and the midday provision of food and drink, which many of Mr. Morrison's friends and tenants had been bidden to share, was ducal by the standards of the time. Flushed faces came and went, ate and drank, whispered into Mr. Morrison's ear or boomed at him across the tankards; during which time Somerset condescended to those about him in his best country manner. I was euphoristic and inclined to show off, and Peter, anxious for his beloved Tiberius, was hospitable but preoccupied. We watched the first race, a mediocre affair over which Somerset contrived to win a little money on the
outsider, who was ridden, as he remarked, 'by the only jockey whose knees inspire confidence'. After this there was more drinking. Then came the second race, again poorly contested, again yielding money to Somerset but not to myself. By now, what with the sun and the cider, I had already lost more than I had meant to risk on the entire meeting, but this was no time for counting losses: for next on the card was the great race of the day, and any moment now Tiberius would appear in the paddock.
Peter rejoined us after a visit to the ring.
'How do they bet?' asked Mr. Morrison.
'Even money for Balthazar, sir,' said Peter, who always addressed his father by this style: 'two to one Tiberius. Five bar.'
'Lay this down the line,' his father said, producing a thick I wad of white five pound notes. 'Slowly now. Don't go sending them into a panic. And put at least a score of it with the tote.'
'Thee be sure then, 'squire?' said a wizened old man who wore a vilely dirty cloth cap and had drunk perhaps two gallons of cider since our party arrived on the course.
'Nay,' said Mr. Morrison, 'how should I be? But it's a while since I had a good bet these last years, and the price is fair.'
'Shall I take less than two to one, sir?' asked Peter.
'Go down to six to four, my dear,' his father said; 'then take the rest to the tote. And not less than twenty on the tote, mind, howsoever they bet.'
'Best be to work, master,' said the cloth cap to Peter: 'there'll be a pile of money come in for the black 'un.'
'Come with me,' said Peter to Somerset and myself. 'We'll watch by the water-jump.'
While Peter disposed of his father's money Somerset wandered off 'to see', as he put it, 'if he could get a price'. Myself, feeling that faith was the only logic of the day. I put ten of the twelve pounds I had in my pocket on Tiberius, getting one of the last offers at two to one: if he won. then I should recoup my losses and be fourteen pounds to the good; if not ... well then Peter or Somerset would have to help. But it seemed as if I were on to a good thing: although Balthazar was still favourite, his price was stretching as that of Tiberius shortened; and likely enough the prices would meet before betting was through. Peter, looking strained, came away from the tote tent and put his hand into my arm; Somerset materialized from nowhere.
