He stood for a moment, head up, shoulders squared, seeking the question to end on. Now he had it. ‘Why should we turn, for models, to lower forms in the evolutionary train?’
‘Human to drink water,’ Lavinia said. ‘From the clear spring. But it doesn’t put us among the beasts to have a shandy now and again.’
‘I’m going to have my bath,’ Cuthbertson said, offended that Lavinia had not seen the superior quality of his arguments. He turned and retreated rapidly into his own room, passed straight through it without pausing, and went out into the corridor. ‘Sherry, brandy, beer,’ he heard Lavinia’s voice calling after him.
He made his way to the bathroom with a sense almost of being pursued. He locked himself in and put on the cold shower, letting it run cold while he undressed. Before getting under he regarded his blanched corpulence for some seconds in the long mirror set in the wall, inspected his tongue and eyeballs, the paucity of hair on his crown. The thin spray of the shower looked like steam almost, but he could feel the chill of it. He nerved himself to get under, endure the doubt-expelling, fear-expelling, shock. It was the only thing, he had found, in the morning, which would settle his mind. He had not missed a morning now for … five months and ten days. Shivering in his nakedness he checked and double-checked this calculation. Yes, absolutely right. The reassuring sense of exactitude, mastery of brute fact, enabled him once again to achieve the matutinal self-conquest. He stepped under the shower. Enclosed within a plastic screen he writhed and clutched.
*
Baines had taken off his dressing-gown and his pyjama jacket, and now stood for some moments fronting Honeyball. The skin of his body was very pale. Light auburn hair formed a cross on it, the vertical bar reaching down to the top of his pyjamas. His shoulders were smooth, heavy, with a pronounced slope. ‘Now what about this Cuthbertson chap?’ he said.
Honeyball looked timidly at his chief’s naked torso. ‘I have been there twice since I saw you last,’ he said. ‘You are going to the party tonight then?’
‘This fancy dress affair?’ Baines turned to the chair on which his clothes were draped, picked up the pale pink shirt, and looked closely at the collar. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think it is important for us both to go. I have hopes of these Cuthbertson people. You don’t see a pair of cuff-links, do you, up there on the mantelpiece?’
‘Yes,’ Honeyball said. ‘Here they are. Can I put them in for you?’
Baines smiled. His eyes had a way of widening when he smiled, which gave his face an appearance of great charm. ‘If you like,’ he said, extending an arm. ‘You are a good fellow, Honeyball. Your value is known at Headquarters, believe me.’
The smile vanished, however, as he found himself looking down from close quarters at Honeyball’s narrow, neat, saurian head. Not a pure type, Honeyball. ‘The day is coming,’ Baines said, ‘and coming sooner than a lot of people think, when we shall be able to fulfil our natures, be ourselves, play the roles we were intended for.’
‘Certainly,’ Honeyball said.
‘In the meantime, Honeyball, it is all a subterfuge. We are dressed in borrowed robes, to quote the bard. You’re going there this afternoon, aren’t you?
‘To the School? Yes.’ Honeyball lowered his head, increased his concentration. He was normally very nimble with his fingers, but the Regional Controller’s nearness was making him clumsy.
‘Good man. Finished that one?’ Baines extended his other arm.
‘She has asked me to tea again. I don’t quite know why. It is the second time in the last week. Perhaps she wants to pass on some message from him, from Cuthbertson.’
‘Mysterious lady,’ Baines said jovially. ‘Why has she invited me to her party, for that matter? She doesn’t know me.’
‘I spoke to her about you.’
‘I hope you didn’t say too much,’ Baines said, with a sudden change of tone.
‘I spoke of you as a friend.’ Honeyball, who had registered this change, did not dare look up as he said this. He had once seen Baines seriously displeased, and it had frightened him. He heard Baines breathing above him, passed a few moments of half-pleasurable apprehension, then after a moment the voice, restored to joviality, said, ‘Good man. You’re a bit of a butterfingers, aren’t you?’
‘Not as a rule,’ Honeyball said. ‘There, it’s finished now.’
‘You have been working on Cuthbertson?’
‘Yes. I have been going on in the way we decided. He now quite definitely believes that my position in the Ministry gives me access to inside information about take-over plans and so forth. I think he also believes, though he pretends not to, that there is a possibility of the State extending its ownership over all the places of further education. Either that, or if they cannot be made to fit into any official category, closing them down altogether. And not only that.’ Honeyball smiled. His teeth were small, neat, yellowish. ‘He is actually coming round to the belief that I can influence the decision, on a local basis.’ His smile widened. ‘He is gullible,’ he said, ‘for a man in his position.’
‘Everyone is gullible these days,’ Baines said, ‘It comes from the sense of crisis. Disaster makes people gullible, Honeyball. And it suits our book very well. It suits us as far as Cuthbertson is concerned, and it suits us generally. The readiness to believe in what we are trying to create. The readiness of the State to purify itself. Any means of achieving that readiness is justified. Ripeness is all, to quote the bard. You can’t see a pair of black shoes over there, can you? Over near the bed?’
‘I’ll have a look.’ Honeyball went in the direction indicated. ‘No,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I can’t see any shoes here.’
‘Perhaps they got pushed under the bed,’ Baines suggested.
‘Here they are,’ Honeyball said, on hands and knees beside the bed. ‘They need a bit of a wipe-over. Can I do it for you?’
‘By all means. You’ll find some polish and a brush at the bottom of the cupboard.’ Baines removed his pyjama trousers and threw them on to the bed. His legs were rather short in relation to his body, and thickly covered with glinting gingerish hair. ‘What we need,’ he said, ‘and I know I have said this before, is a room in that house of theirs, a rent-free office in that building. He must have rooms he doesn’t use. It would be marvellous cover. Do you think he can be persuaded?
‘I think he might be,’ Honeyball said, busy with the shoes.
‘That is our first objective, Honeyball. A base, a foothold, a room in that house. But there is more at stake than that. If these people could be made … sympathetic to our cause, think of it, Honeyball. Think of it in terms of possible donations. Money is not plentiful up at Headquarters, you know.’
‘I know it,’ Honeyball said.
‘And Cuthbertson must be quite rich.’
‘Very rich, yes.’
‘It is important that he should be handled in the right way. I want you to keep this to yourself, Honeyball, but the people up at Headquarters have decided that this is what is officially known as a High Potential Area. It is predominantly middle and lower-middle. Very little industry as such, and relatively small proletariat. Large number of chronically insecure small businessmen and self-employed persons. Out towards the coast a lot of people on fixed incomes with inflation going up. Then there is the military base, all those trainee officers, and the Government threatening further defence cuts. It has all the ingredients, Honeyball.’
‘I see that, yes.’
Baines began to put his grey flannel trousers on. ‘Which means,’ he said, ‘that they will be watching developments here with particular interest. By the way, what is she like?’
‘Mrs Cuthbertson?’ Honeyball blushed a little. ‘She doesn’t seem to care about the school, as such,’ he said.
Baines, noting the blush, laughed in a barking way. ‘Got her mind on other things, has she?’ he said. ‘Well, you must be ready, aye ready, Honeyball. No sacrifice is too great.’
Honeyball’s blush deepened. H
e looked down. ‘Your shoes are ready, Eric,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ Baines looked at his servitor in silence for some moments. Not really enough panache there to exploit a situation like this, he thought. He had a shrewd suspicion that Honeyball, at thirty-five, was still a virgin. Perhaps just as well he was to meet her himself. He had always been a great one for the ladies. God bless the ladies, he often said to himself and others. Where should we be without them? ‘Do you think Cuthbertson worries about being shut down on legal grounds?’ he said. ‘He must be sailing near the wind, dishing out his own degrees like that.’
‘As the law is constituted at present there’s nothing illegal in it. Anyone can open a school and charge what fees and run what courses he likes. He can issue his own certificates, diplomas, degrees. There are a good number of such places up and down the country.’
‘Parasites,’ Baines said. ‘Their days are numbered, old boy.’
‘What makes Cuthbertson unusual is that he actually runs the place as a school, employs teachers, and so forth. I mean, most of these places do it by post; you take a very expensive course of correspondence lessons and you get your degree. But Cuthbertson insists on giving value for money, as he would probably put it. He has a sort of ethical attitude towards it. No one gets a degree who hasn’t attended. He is an idealist, in his way.’
‘He is a crook, in his way, too,’ Baines said. ‘It is foreigners he mostly attracts, isn’t it? Back home in Abu Dhabi people won’t know the difference, that’s the idea, isn’t it?’
‘Partly. But he gets quite a few English people too. People who want to be able to say they’ve got a degree. People who want to get jobs in undeveloped countries.’
‘Knaves and fools, that’s what it comes down to. I don’t call a man like that an idealist.’
‘I only meant that in his own eyes he is a man of principle.’
‘We are idealists,’ Baines said, and Honeyball realised from his manner that he had been offended by the application of this word to Cuthbertson.
‘Working in poverty and obscurity,’ Baines said, ‘to make this country great again.’
‘True,’ Honeyball said. ‘It was the wrong word.’
‘Still, if he is confused about his motives, so much the better for us. He will be more suggestible.’
Baines mused for a moment. Dressed now in his flannel trousers and navy-blue, double-breasted blazer, he looked large, handsome, dependable. ‘We are desperately short of funds,’ he said. ‘You know that. If we could estblish some sort of influence there, it would be invaluable. And highly regarded at top level. It is just the sort set-up I regard as promising. A basically crooked enterprise, whatever the law says, and whatever the illusions of this Cuthbertson chap.’
He began to pace backwards and forwards in front of Honeyball. ‘I can smell it,’ he said. ‘Money is of first importance to us just now. Every penny of expenditure is carefully scrutinized up there, Honeyball. Even the cost of hiring a costume for this party tonight will have to be accounted for. I myself live on a pittance. Not because they are niggardly – there are some very noble natures up there. It is simply that money is so short. These Cuthbertsons sound the likeliest sources I’ve come across in ages. Believe me, I have a nose for these things.’
‘I know you have,’ Honeyball said, watching the pacing figure with awe and admiration.
‘So keep at it, there’s a good chap. You will be mentioned in despatches, never fear. Well, I won’t keep you any longer now.’
The two men raised clenched fists and looked fixedly at each other for a moment. Then Honeyball, grasping his brief-case firmly, turned to the door.
‘What are you going as, by the way?’ Baines said.
‘I’m going as Toad of Toad Hall,’ Honeyball said. ‘It is the only fancy dress outfit that I possess. There is a headpiece, you see, so I shan’t need to bother about a mask.
‘Good man.’ Baines nodded his head approvingly.
When Honeyball had gone, he sat down again at the table, and looked at the newspaper. Again the picture of debris and bodies on the front page drew his attention. Martyrs, they were martyrs. Even though they had died in ignorance. Probably left-wing terrorist shits who had planted the bomb. But it made no difference, no difference at all. This bomb, this damage, these deaths of men, women, children all helped towards that readiness he had spoken of earlier, to be achieved through the erosion of security. Millions of people would be horrified by this picture, this morning and some of their faith in government to enforce and protect would go.
The sight of the anonymous corpses stirred Baines: he was moved by the sacrifice. To have died like this was virtuous, it was to have played a part, however humble, in the dynamics of history. Their bodies would sprout flowers. There was almost a lump in his throat. He stood up abruptly, to break this unmanly weakness, and began striding back and forth across the worn carpet of the room. The life of the individual was as nothing. A collective grave, a mound humped with flowers. A moment before quick with life, instinct with beauty. Now anonymous meat. But not futile, no – those who directed history, those with the power and the wisdom to accept the violence necessarily inherent in the dialectical process, we know how important, how profoundly important … otherwise animals, clinging to life. A ground-swell of music began in his mind, building up to a mighty surge, taking in on its sweep all the devastation, the wounds of the world, and bearing on in triumph.
2
It is now known, said Mrs Greenepad’s radio, that twenty-three people died and more than seventy were injured, many of them seriously, in the series of bomb outrages which took place yesterday evening.
It was the eight o’clock news, and Mrs Greenepad was not giving it her whole attention, because she was listening for her room-mate’s return from the bathroom. As soon as Edwina set foot inside the door, Mrs Greenepad was going to turn the set off.
Flying glass caused extensive facial injuries and it is feared that at least two …
That’ll teach her, Mrs Greenepad thought, with vindictive pleasure. Setting up her contrary opinions. Putting on airs because she is invited out to a fancy-dress party. Anyone would think it was her radio. This Mrs Cuthbertson needs her head examined, inviting such a class of person, but she is not up to all that much herself, flighty creature, mutton dressed up as lamb, if you ask me …
Terrorist groups have already claimed responsibility for the explosions. The one thought most probable …
At this point, seeing Mrs Mercer’s head appear round the door, and waiting only long enough for her room-mate to appreciate the significance of her action, Mrs Greenepad switched the set off.
Lavinia, unwitting cause of all this trouble, was still in bed. For some time after her husband had left the room, the names of drinks had continued to pass in desultory fashion through her mind. Gin and orange, gin and tonic, gin and It… Gin first and It afterwards, she thought, recalling a remark made by a lady in a pub years and years ago. Lady in a sheepskin jacket. I was shocked, she thought proudly. Take more than that to shock me now. Cherry brandy. Vodka. Mark of a barbarous person or a child always to want home cooking. How would mankind progress? Donald is a barbarous person. Bloody Mary, there’s another one. Or perhaps a child. Making speeches at me …
She heard the bathroom door being locked and thought with wonder of Donald writhing under the cold shower. Part of the business of getting a grip, she thought vaguely. That was a favourite phrase of his. He was always girding himself up, while she herself drifted. Now, I am forty, she thought. My fortieth birthday will mark a turning-point. No one knew it was her birthday – no one but Donald. She had privately decided that this fancy-dress party was going to mark a turning-point, usher in a new era – she believed firmly in the possibility of Beginning Life Anew. There was no earthly reason, of course, why she should wait even that long for a new experience. Mr Honeyball was coming to tea that very afternoon and something might well emerge from that.
I hav
e tried to broaden his outlook, she told herself, reverting to Donald, but he will not stretch himself. In any sense of that term … How his face changed, when he could not find whatever it was. Something small. Jewellery? and then he started day dreaming, right in the middle of our conversation. These days it happened more and more frequently that Donald lost the thread of things. He seemed somehow disabled by thoughts.
She tried for some moments to trace this behaviour to some definite beginning, some origin in an actual event. But it was impossible now even to be sure when she had first noticed it. Probably, she thought vaguely, Donald needed a holiday. He had hardly been away from the School in the last five years. Nor had she, for that matter. All the money the School was making, thousands and thousands, and what did they get out of it?
This last thought, of her own deprivations, broke her mood of vaguely affectionate concern about Donald, and she began to feel a sense of grievance. He had been dishonest, she confusedly felt, dishonest to argue, after his abysmal failure to honour her birthday, about homo sapiens being face to face. That wasn’t the point at all, it wasn’t just technical at all. She didn’t care about positions really, and Donald knew that. The fact was, he didn’t seem to want her any more.
Am I to be regarded as a mere adjunct to this School? she asked herself, and with the question thoughts of Mr Honeyball returned. He was so slim, and potentially, she hoped, vicious, owing to pent-up desire, with that thin moustache, narrow, rather peering grey eyes, frail-boned, snapping jaws. Though for the time being rather shy. She had made definite progress, she felt, on the last occasion, four days previously, when he had come to tea. That sleeveless Italian blouse had been effective, though rather chilly. He had gripped his cup with both hands, as if it might be blown away, and talked rapidly and at some length about that friend of his, of whom he seemed to have a high opinion, Baines, Eric Baines. He was coming to her party too … Hands that held on to things. What was the word? Prehensile. Rather military looking, Mr Honeyball, apart from this tendency of the hands to clutch. She must remember to ask him if he had served in the Forces. Shiny shoes, and always neat, and he kept his handkerchief in his sleeve, which she had always thought of as a military foible …
The Big Day Page 3