by Brian Aldiss
‘You realise I must report this to the police at once,’ I said. ‘I can’t go getting myself mixed up in murder.’
She stood up too. She was shorter than me. Her eyes went very narrow.
‘When he was still – moving about, I ran up to your room to see if you were in, to get you to come and help me. I knocked and ran straight in, Mr Cream. I saw that dead woman in that chair. You’d better not go to the police, Mr Cream! You’d better stay and help me get rid of this body, or someone’s going to hear about that dead woman in that chair.’
With irritation, I recalled that although I had locked my door when I first left my room that morning, I had forgotten to do so later, after leaving Lawrence’s blankets in there, owing to a temporary depression of spirts. It just shows you can’t be too careful. I recalled the way Father used to tease Mother by saying that a woman would always find your secrets out.
‘Well, what do you say to that?’ Mrs Meacher asked.
‘Naturally I will help you if I can.’
‘The body?’
‘I will help you dispose of the body.’
My stomach began to rumble the way it sometimes does in times of crisis.
‘Excuse me, please,’ I said, beginning to leave the room.
She followed me up instantly, in a very pugnacious manner I did not like at all.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the toilet, Mrs Meacher,’ I said with dignity.
It was a disgrace that the whole house had only the one toilet on the ground floor. While there, I had a chance to think things over more calmly. Lawrence would not be the sort of man anyone would want to trace. Who was there to care if he lived or died – except our landlord, who would ask no questions as long as he got his rent? Mrs Meacher could see to that.
Then we could have a little sort of double funeral. Both Miss Colgrave and Mr Lawrence could go down into the cellar, behind all that useless wood and junk, to join Miss Robbins, and the Irish girl. It would be nice to have help with the weight down all those wretched stairs. A pleasure shared is a pleasure doubled, as Mother used to say every Sunday when we went to chapel.
Thinking along those lines while I juggled with the chain until the cistern flushed, I had an idea. What Lawrence had said about Mrs Meacher’s ten thousand pounds returned to my mind. It was a lot of money, and somehow I felt I deserved it.
She was a respectable woman – her reactions to Lawrence proved that. Besides if the worst came to the worst, she was smaller than me. Flossie. Flossie Meacher. Flossie – Cream.
As I proceeded back upstairs, I called out cheerfully, ‘I’m just going to get a blanket. Don’t worry. Leave everything to me, Flossie!’
Basis for Negotiation
The University of East Lincoln is a muddle of buildings. In the centre stands the theatrically baroque pile still called Gransby Manor, while round it lie the pencil-boxes of glass and cedar and cement that are our century’s contribution to the treasury of world architecture. John Haines-Roberts and I walked round the grounds in agonised discussion, viewing our conglomeration of a college from all its meaningless angles.
When I tell you the date was July 1st, 1971, you will know what was the subject under discussion.
‘I tell you I cannot just stay here, John, idle, isolated, ignorant,’ I said. ‘I must go to London and find out what the devil the government is doing.’
Most of the conversations that follow, I feel confident, are word for word what was said at the time. My memory is generally eidetic; in times of stress such as this, it records everything, so that I see John Haines-Roberts now, his head thrust forward from those heavy shoulders, as he replied, ‘I will offer you no platitudes about considering your reputation at such a grave time. Nevertheless, Simon, you are a public figure, and were before your knighthood. You have a foot in both worlds, the academic and the world of affairs. Your work on the Humanities Council and the Pilgrim Trust has not been forgotten. You were MP for Bedford under Macleon. That has not been forgotten. At such a trying time, any untoward move by somebody of your stature may fatally prejudice the course of events, marring –’
‘No, no, John, that’s not it at all!’ I stopped him with a curt movement of my hand. He talked that awful dead language of English newspaper leaders; with his evasions and euphemisms, his ‘untoward moves’ and ‘trying times.’ I could not bear to listen to him. He believed as I did on that one fundamental point, that the British Government had made the most fatal error any government could have done; but this apart we could have nothing in common. His woolly language only reflected the numbness of his intellect. At that terrible moment, one more prop fell away. I began to hate John. The man who had been my friend since I took the specially created chair of Moral History two years before suddenly became just another enemy of my country, and of me.
‘We cannot discuss the problem in these terms,’ I told him. He stopped, peering forward in that intense way of his. In the distance, I saw some undergraduates bunched together in the tepid sunshine and watching us with interest. ‘The British have turned basely against their dearest friends and allies. Either this wounds you to the heart or it doesn’t –’
‘But the Americans can manage alone perfectly well –’ he began, with all the patience and reason in the world in his voice. John Haines-Roberts was a saint; nothing in the world could ruffle him in debate. I knew he would be standing reasoning in some quiet corner of University College when the H-bombs fell.
‘I’m sorry, John, I’m not prepared to go into it all again. The sands have run out – right out of the bottom of the glass. This is no time for talk. You don’t think the Communists are standing talking, do you? I’m going to London.’
He saw I was making to go and laid a placatory hand on my sleeve.
‘My dear fellow, you know I wish you well, but you have a reputation for being over-hasty. Never, never let action become a substitute for thought. You’ll recall what that great and good man Wilberforce said when –’
‘Damn Wilberforce!’ I said. Turning away, I strode off. The undergraduates saw me coming and fanned out to intercept me on my way to Manor, pouring out questions.
‘Is it true the Americans have cordoned off Holy Loch? Sir Simon, what do you think of the news about the International Brigade? Did you see C. P. Snow on TV, blasting poor old Minnie?’ ‘Minnie’ was their nickname for Sir Alfred Menhennick, the Prime Minister.
Behind my back, John was still calling, ‘Simon, my dear fellow. …’ To my audience, I said, ‘Gentlemen, from this week onwards, only shame attaches to the name of England. You know how I feel on this subject. Please let me pass.’
Their faces were before me, troubled, angry, or snivelling. They began bombarding me with preposterous questions – ‘Who do you think will win, America or China?’ as if it were a boat-race staged for their delight.
‘Let me through!’ I repeated.
‘Why don’t you join up, if you feel so strongly?’ ‘We don’t owe the Americans anything.’ ‘We’ll still be here when they’re one big hole in the ground.’ And so on.
I said: ‘You had the police in here last night. Rowdyism will get you nowhere. Why don’t you go somewhere quietly and consult your history books if you have no consciences to consult?’ I hated them, though I knew they half-sided with me.
‘Consult our history books!’ one of them exclaimed. ‘He’ll tell us to cultivate our gardens next!’
Angrily I pushed through them, making my way towards my rooms. That last remark echoed through my head; obviously many of them could not differentiate between my convictions and those of, say, Haines-Roberts. In the final judgement, he and I would be lumped together as men who sat by and let it happen – or, even worse, would be cheered as men who had not interfered.
With distaste I surveyed the comfortable room with Adam fireplace and white panelling that I had chosen in preference to an office in Whitehall, asking myself as I took in – through what a scornfully fresh vision! �
� the untidy bookcases and neat cocktail cabinet, if there was still time left to do something effective. How terribly often in the past must Englishmen have asked themselves that!
Momentarily I surveyed myself in the looking-glass. Grey-haired, long in the nose, clear of eye, neat in appearance. Not a don. More a retired soldier. Certainly – oh yes, my God, that certainly – a gentleman! A product of Harrow and Balliol and a Wiltshire estate. With the international situation what it was, it sounded more like a heresy than a heritage. Nothing is more vile (or more eloquent of guilt) than to hate everything one has been: to see that you have contaminated the things that have contaminated you.
Taking a deep breath, I began to phone my wife at home. When her voice came over the line, I closed my eyes.
‘Jean, I can’t bear inaction any longer. I’m going up to London to try to get through to Tertis.’
‘Darling, we went over all this last night. You can’t help by going to see Tertis – no, don’t tell me you can’t help by not going either. But it becomes more and more obvious each hour that public opinion here is with Minnie, and that your viewpoint …’
By ceasing to listen to her meaning, I could concentrate on her voice. Her ‘all’ was pronounced ‘arl,’ her ‘either’ was an ‘eether’; her tone had a soft firmness totally unlike the harshness of so many Englishwomen! – no, comparisons were worthless. It was stupid to think in categories. She was Jean Challington, my beloved wife. When I had first met her in New York, one fine September day in 1942, she had been Jean Gershein, daughter of a magazine publisher. At twenty-six, I was then playing my first useful role in affairs on the British Merchant Shipping Mission. Jean was the most Anglophile, as well as the most lovely, of creatures; I was the most Americanophile and adoring of men. That hasty wartime wedding at least was a success; no better Anglo-American agreement ever existed than our marriage.
This was the woman on whose breast I had wept the night before last, wept long and hard after the bleak TV announcement that in the interests of future world unity the British Government had declared its neutrality in the American-Chinese war. Last night I had wept again, when the USSR had come in on the side of the People’s Republic and Sir Alfred Menhennick himself had smiled to viewers under his straggling moustache and reaffirmed our neutrality.
Now, with the phone in my hand and Jean’s voice in my ear, I could not but recall Menhennick’s hatefully assured delivery as he said, ‘Let us in this darkest period of civilised history be the nation that stands firm and keeps its lamps alight. It is a difficult – perhaps you will agree that it is the most difficult – role that I and my government have elected to play. But we must never forget that throughout the quarter century of the Cold War, Great Britain’s path has been the exacting and unrewarding one of intermediary.
‘We must remember, too, that the United States, in facing Communist China, faces an enemy of its own creating. One of the most fatal failures of this century was the failure of the US to participate in world affairs during the twenties and thirties, when Britain and France strove almost single-handedly to preserve the peace. Despite constant warnings, the US at that time allowed their enemy Japan to grow strong on the spoils of an invaded China. As a consequence, the broken Chinese peoples had to restore their position as a world power by what means they could. It is not for us to condemn if in desperation they turned to Communism. That their experiment, their desperate experiment, worked must be its justification. At this fateful hour, it behoves us to think with every sympathy of the Chinese, embroiled yet again in another terrible conflict. …’
The hypocrisy! The sheer bloody wicked hypocrisy, the lies, the distortions, the twists of logic, the contortions of history! My God, I could shoot Menhennick!
‘Darling, I hadn’t mentioned Menhennick,’ Jean protested.
‘Did I say that aloud?’ I asked the phone.
‘You weren’t listening to a word I said.’
‘I’ll bet you were telling me to pack a clean shirt!’
‘Nothing of the sort. I was saying that here in Lincoln there are some demonstrations in progress.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘If you’ll listen, honey. The best-organised procession carries a large banner saying, “Boot the Traitors out of Whitehall.’’’
‘Good for them.’
‘My, yes, good for them! The odd thing is, those boys look like exactly the same crowd we used to see marching from Aldermaston to Trafalgar Square shouting, “Ban the Bomb.’’’
‘Probably they are. If you think with your emotions, slight glandular changes are sufficient to revise your entire outlook. In the Aldermaston days, they were afraid of being involved in war; now that Russia has come in on China’s side, they’re afraid that the US will be defeated, leaving us to be picked off by Big Brother afterwards. Which is precisely what will happen unless we do something positive now. What else goes on in Lincoln?’
Jean’s voice became more cautious. ‘Some anti-Americanism. The usual rabble with ill-printed posters saying, “Yanks, Go Home” and “Britain for the British.” One of them spells Britain “B-R-I-T-I-A-N.” So much for the ten thousand million pounds spent on education last year. … It feels funny, Simon – to be an alien in what I thought was my own country.’
‘It’s not my country either till this is all put right. You know that, Jean. There’s never been such a time of moral humiliation. I wish I’d been born anything but British.’
‘Don’t be silly, Simon.’
Foreseeing an argument, I changed the line of discussion.
‘You’ve got Michael and Sheila and Adrian there with you?’
‘Oh yes, and Mrs B. And a platoon or so of sheepish English soldiers drilling opposite the Post Office.’
‘Fine. You won’t be lonely. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Meaning just when?’
‘Soonest possible, love. ’Bye. Be good.’
I put the phone down. I looked distractedly round the room. I put pipe and tobacco into one jacket pocket, opened a drawer, selected three clean handkerchiefs, and put them into the other pocket. I wondered if I would ever see the room – or Jean – again, and strove at the same time not to dismiss such speculations as simply dramatic.
London, I knew, could turn into a real trouble centre at any hour. Early news bulletins had spoken of rioting and arrests here and there, but these were mere five-finger exercises for what was to come.
Until now, the sheer momentousness of world events had deadened reactions. After a month of mounting tension, war between the US and China broke out. Then came Menhennick’s unexpected tearing up of treaties and declaration of neutrality. Initially, his action came as a relief as well as a surprise; the great bulk of the electorate saw no further than the fact that an Armageddon of nuclear war had been avoided. The USSR’s entry into hostilities was more a shock than a surprise, again postponing real thinking.
Now – as I foresaw the situation – a growing mass of people would come to see that if they were to have any hope for a tolerable future, it would be fulfilled only by throwing in our lot heart and soul with our allies, the Americans. We had behaved like vermin, deserting in an hour of need. Even Neville Chamberlain returning from Munich in 1938 to proclaim ‘Peace in our time’ had not brought the country into such disgrace as Minnie with his ‘nation that keeps the lamps alight.’
Soon the English would realise that; and I wanted to be there when trouble broke.
As I was heading for the door, David Woolf entered, quickly and without knocking. David was University Lecturer in Nuclear Physics, with a good but troubled record from Harwell. Three years back, he had run for Parliament, but an ill-timed tariff campaign had spoilt his chances. Though his politics were opposed to mine, his astute and often pungent thinking was undeniably attractive. Tall and very thin, with a crop of unbrushed hair, he was still in his thirties and looked what he undoubtedly was: the sort of man who managed always to be unhappy and spread unhappin
ess. Despite this – despite our radically different upbringings – his father had been a sagger-magger’s bottomer in a Staffordshire pottery – David and I saw much of each other.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘I can’t stop, David.’
‘You’re in trouble,’ he said, clicking his fingers.
I had not seen him since the Chinese declaration of war forty-eight hours before. His face was drawn, his shirt dirty. If he had slept, clearly it had been in his clothes.
‘What sort of trouble?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t we all in trouble?’
‘The Dean has you marked down as a dangerous man, and at times like this the Dean’s kind can cause a hell of a lot of grief.’
‘I know that.’
Dean Burroughs was a cousin of Peter Dawkinson, the reactionary old editor of the Arbiter, the newspaper as firmly entrenched behind out-dated attitudes as The Times had ever been at its worst period – and as powerful. Burroughs and I had been in opposition even before my first day at East Lincoln, back when I edited Garbitt’s short-living independent Zonal.
‘What you don’t know is that the Dean has started vetting your phone calls,’ David said. ‘I was by the exchange just now. You made an outgoing call; Mrs Ferguson had it plugged through to old Putters, the Dean’s fair-haired boy.’
‘It was a private call to my wife,’ I said furiously.
‘Are you leaving or something? Don’t mind my asking.’
‘Yes, I’m leaving, though by God what you tell me makes me want to go and sort things out with Burroughs first. No, that luxury must wait; time’s short. I must leave at once.’
‘Then I warn you, Simon, that they may try to stop you.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
He hesitated, knowing I wanted him to move away from the door. For a moment we stood confronting each other. Then he spoke.
‘Simon – I want to come with you.’
That did surprise me. The news about the phone did not; in the present tense atmosphere, it merely seemed in character, a small sample of a vast untrustworthiness. I accepted David’s words as truth; David, though isolated from the rest of the teaching body by his political and sexual beliefs, had a way of knowing whatever was happening in the college before anyone else.