by Brian Aldiss
‘Look, David, you don’t know what I am doing.’
‘Let me guess then. You are going to drive to London. You have influential friends there. You are going to get in contact with someone like Lord Boulton or Tertis, and you are going to throw in your lot with the group trying to overthrow the government.’
This was so good a guess that he read his answer in my face. I said, with some bitterness, ‘Your politics are no secret to me. For years you have preached that we should disarm, that we should cease to behave like a first-rate power, with all the assumptions of a first-rate power, when we are really a second-rate power –’
He seized my arm, only to release it at once. Behind his spectacles, his eyes brimmed with anger.
‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Simon! We are a second-rate power, but now the moment of truth is upon us, isn’t it? The bastards who misgovern us would not climb off their silly perches when they had a chance, when we were warning them. Now, now, they just must honour agreements. You know I’ve no time for America, but by God we owe it to them to stick by them: we owe it to ourselves! We mustn’t behave like a fifth-rate power: that at least we’re not.’
‘So we’ve both arrived on the same side?’
From his pocket he produced a revolver.
‘You could have worse allies than me, Simon. I don’t go to Bisley every year for nothing. I’m prepared to use this when needed.’
‘Put it away!’
Savagely he laughed.
‘You’re a gentleman, Simon! That’s your trouble. It’s the only really vital difference between us. You don’t enjoy force! You’re as like Minnie as makes no difference! In the ultimate analysis, his faults are yours – and it’s a class fault.’
I grabbed his jacket, clenching a fist in his face and choking with rage.
‘You dare say that! Even you’ve not opposed Minnie as bitterly as I. I hate all he stands for, hate it.’
‘No you don’t. You both belong to the same league of gentlemen – Balliol and all that. If it wasn’t that your wife happened to be American, you’d feel as Minnie does. It’s you blasted gentlemen putting the social order before the country that have got us into this bloody disgraceful muddle. …’ With an effort, he broke off and pushed my hand roughly away, saying, ‘And I’m in danger of doing the same thing myself. Sir Simon, my apologies. Our country has disgraced us before the world. Please let me come to London with you. I’m prepared to do anything to boot out the Nationalist party. That’s what I came here to say.’
He put out his hand; I shook it.
We were round at the car port getting my Wolseley out when Spinks, the head porter, came thudding up at the double.
‘Excuse me, Sir Simon, but the Dean wants you very urgently, sir. Matter of importance, sir.’
‘All right, Spinks. I’ll just drive the car round to the front of Manor and go in that way. He’s in his rooms, I take it?’
His round heavy face was troubled.
‘You will go straight in to him now, sir, won’t you? He did stress as it was urgent.’
‘Quite so, Spinks. Thank you for delivering the message.’
I drove round to the front of Manor, accelerated, and in next to no time we were speeding down the drive. David Woolf sat beside me, peering anxiously back at the huddle of buildings.
‘Relax,’ I said, knowing it would anger him. ‘Nobody’s going to shoot us.’
‘The war’s forty-eight hours old – I wonder how many people have been shot already?’
Not answering, I switched on the car radio as we struck the main road. I tried the three channels, General, Popular, and Motorway. On the first, a theatre organ played Roses of Picardy. On the second, a plummy woman’s voice said, ‘… when to my bitter disappointment I found that all the jars of strawberry jam had gone mouldy; however, this tragedy –’ On the third, a disc jockey announced, ‘That was My Blue Heaven, and while we’re on the subject of colour, here are Reggy Palmer and his Regiment in a colourful arrangement of another old favourite, Chinatown.’
‘I wonder they didn’t censor that one out for reasons of political expediency,’ David said sourly.
We stayed with the jocular jockey, hoping to catch a news bulletin, as I drove south. Avoiding Lincoln, we entered the newly opened M13 at Hykeham and increased speed. Noticing the number of Army vehicles heading south with us, David started to comment when the news came through.
‘This morning has been punctuated by disturbances and demonstrations in most of the larger towns throughout Britain. Some arrests have been made. In Norwich, a man was fined twenty pounds for defacing the Town Hall. The Sovereign’s visit to Glasgow has been postponed until a later date.’
‘Royalty!’ David grunted.
‘Tautology!’ I grunted.
‘The Soviet Ambassador to Britain said today that the Soviet peoples greatly sympathised with the wisdom shown by the British in remaining neutral. They themselves had been drawn into the conflict with the deepest reluctance, and then only because vital interests were at stake. M. Kasinferov went on to say that he was sure that guided by our example the rest of Europe would remain neutral, thus saving itself from what could only be complete annihilation.’
‘Bloody flatterers,’ David growled.
‘Concealed threats,’ I growled.
‘In the United States of America, our neutrality has been generally condemned, although as one Washington correspondent points out, “Had Britain not torn up her treaties with us, she might well have been obliterated by now.” Discussions over the immediate evacuation of US air, naval, and military bases in this country are taking place in Whitehall. A government spokesman said they were proceeding in what he described as “a fairly cordial atmosphere.’’’
‘How English can you get?’ David asked.
‘They’re probably tearing each other’s throats out,’ I said, instinctively pressing my foot down on the accelerator. I looked at my watch; an idea had occurred to me. From the dashboard, the gentlemanly voice continued in the same tones it had used in happier years to describe the Chelsea flower show.
‘Last night saw little aerial activity, though reliable US sources report aerial reconnaissance from points as far apart as the Arctic Circle and Hawaii. Formosa is still under heavy bombardment from shore batteries. Units of the British Fleet stand ready to assume defensive action in Singapore harbour. The fighting between Chinese Airborne forces and units of the Indonesian army in Northern Central Sumatra and near Jakarta in Java still continues. Peking yesterday reported the evacuation of Medan in Sumatra, but Indonesian sources later denied this, whilst admitting that the city was “almost uninhabitable” by now. The landing of US troops near Palembang continues. So far only conventional weapons are being used on all fronts.’
‘So far … so far,’ David said. ‘They’re only limbering up yet.’
That was where all the trouble had begun, in Sumatra, little more than a month ago. Peking had protested that the large population of overseas Chinese there were being victimised. Jakarta had denied it. A bunch of bandits shot a prominent Indonesian citizen in the Kesawan, Medan. President Molkasto protested. Tempers flared. Fighting broke out. The UN were called in. The USSR protested against this unwarranted interference in national affairs. A plane full of US experts was shot down near Bali, possibly by accident. The slanging started. Three weeks later, the People’s Republic declared ‘a crusade of succour’: war.
‘David, we’re going to London via Oxford,’ I said.
He looked curiously at me.
‘What the hell for? It’s a long way round. I thought you were in a hurry?’
‘The motorway will take us as far as Bicester. The delay won’t be too great. As you know, I’m a Fellow of Saints; I want to call in there and have a word with Norman, if possible.’
His reaction was predictable. Among the less informed on his side of the political arena, Saints had an undeserved reputation for being a sort of shadow Establishment from which the
country was governed. This legend had been fostered by the fact that Saints, as a compromise between Princeton’s Institute for Advanced Studies and Oxford’s own All Souls, naturally contained the influential among its members.
‘Who is Norman?’ David inquired. ‘Do you mean Norman Parmettio, the Contemporary Welfare chap?’
‘If you like to put it like that, yes, “the Contemporary Welfare chap.” He’s in his eighties now, but still active, a sage and lovable man. He drafted the Cultural Agreement of ’69 with Russia, you know. He’s seen academic and public service, including working as an aide to old Sir Winston at Yalta in the forties.’
‘Too old! What do you want to see him for?’
‘He’s an absolutely trustworthy man, David. You forget how out of touch I am. We can’t just drive into London knowing absolutely nothing of what is going on behind the scenes. Norman will put us in the picture as to what’s happening in the Foreign Office and to who’s changed sides in the last forty-eight hours.’
‘Touché. Carry on. You know I only came for the ride – but for God’s sake let something happen. My stomach’s turning over all the time; I have a presentiment of evil. I’m sick!’
‘So’s the whole confounded country.’
We felt sicker before we reached Bicester. Another news bulletin gave us more details of local events. International news, as I had suspected, was being heavily censored; there was no mention of what was happening in Europe, or of what the Commonwealth was saying or doing.
Several members of the government had resigned – the predictable ones like Hand, Chapman, and Desmond Cooney, with a few unexpecteds such as poor old Vinton and Sep Greene. Martial law had been proclaimed in Liverpool and Glasgow. In the interests of public safety, a curfew would operate tonight and until further notice in the following cities: London, etc. … Airline services between Britain and the US and Britain and the USSR were temporarily suspended. The LCC were all out at Lords for 114.
At Fogmere Park we ran into trouble. There was a big USAF base at Fogmere. You could see the planes and runways from the road at one point. A knot of people perhaps a hundred strong – a fair number for such a country spot – filled the road. Several cars were parked on the verges, some with men standing on top of them. Banners waved, many of them bearing the usual disarmament symbol. One florid individual was haranguing the crowd through a megaphone.
‘This’ll take your mind off your stomach,’ I told David, rolling forward at 20 mph and sounding my horn. I glanced sideways at him. He sat rigid with his fists clenched in his lap – presumably nursing his presentiment of evil.
The crowd that had been facing the other way turned to look at us, parting instinctively to clear the road. The fellow with the megaphone, a big man with a red face and black moustache, dressed in a loud tweedy suit – how often one saw his type about the country! – bore down on us and tried to open my door.
‘It’s locked, old fellow,’ I said, rolling down my window. ‘Looking for a lift to somewhere?’
He got his big fingers over the top of the window and poked the moustache in for me to inspect. His eyes went hotly from me to David and back to me.
‘Where do you two think you are going?’ he asked.
‘Straight down this road. Kindly get your face out of the way. You are being obstructive.’
He was running to keep up with us. I could hear the crowd shouting without being able to grasp what they were saying.
‘Don’t annoy him,’ David said anxiously.
‘I want to talk to you,’ the heavy man said. ‘Slow down, will you. Where are you going? What’s the ruddy hurry?’
His head was outside the car door. The window closed electrically, catching his fingers. He roared in anger, dropping the megaphone to clasp his bruised knuckles. As we surged forward, it became apparent why the crowd had gathered. Beyond them had been established a check-point with a black-and-white bar across the road and the legend: ‘UNITED STATES AIR COMMAND. HALT.’ Behind sandbags were armed men and a couple of hefty tanks, besides several light vehicles, including a British Army Signals truck. It all appeared very efficient in the colourless sunshine.
As I halted at the barrier, two Americans in uniform stepped forward, a corporal and a sergeant, one on either side of the Wolseley. Again my window came down. The sergeant looked round and amiable. I thrust my face out before he could get his in.
‘What’s happening here, Sergeant?’
‘US Air Command check point. Just a formality to check for weapons. We have to stop all vehicles.’ This in an East Coast accent: Maine, I guessed.
‘Have to? Whose orders?’
‘Look, my orders, sir. It’s only a formality. We don’t want trouble.’
‘It’s we English, unfortunately, who don’t want trouble, Sergeant, but I’m curious to know by whose authority you have closed a main British road.’
The crowd behind, divided in loyalty as in understanding, called, ‘Lock ’em up!’ and ‘Let ’em go!’ indiscriminately.
The corporal on David’s side of the car, a yellow-complexioned fellow I had already marked as a trouble-maker, since his type was prevalent in the British Army, said, ‘You Limey copsuckers, you’d always argue rather than act.’
‘Simon, don’t be difficult; tell him what he wants to know and let’s get on,’ David implored. Turning to the corporal, he added, ‘Don’t make any mistake, we’re really on your side.’
‘Oh, no you ain’t, Mac. You’re just a neutral. You ain’t on anyone’s side.’
‘A very apposite answer, if I may say so,’ I replied. ‘I still wish to know by whose orders you have erected this barrier across the highway.’
‘Let’s not argue, mister. Let’s just say it’s necessary, or I wouldn’t be here wasting my time,’ said the sergeant patiently. A British Army officer, a dapper captain, was coming from behind the barrier towards us. I beckoned to him and repeated my question.
Instinctively he summed me up, just as I summed him up the moment he spoke. Under his Sandhurst veneer I recognised the Birmingham middle-class accent, just as I saw he had identified my Balliol honk, accentuated for the occasion. The moment would be lost on our American sergeant, a breed without many subtleties.
‘There’s been a spot of trouble, sir,’ the captain said, very politely. ‘A small private van passed along the road a couple of hours ago and machine-gunned the American planes over on the runway. So we are just taking precautions to see that such a breach of neutrality doesn’t happen again.’
‘Captain, I am a friend of Lord Waters, the Lord Lieutenant of the county. Who has sanctioned this road block?’
‘We naturally have official permission, sir, which I could show you.’
‘Get ’em moving, Captain, before we all die of boredom,’ urged the sergeant. Two other cars had arrived behind us and were hooting.
‘Do you mind me asking, sir, have you any weapons in the car?’
‘No, Captain. No bombs, no machine-guns.’
‘Splendid. Carry on to the next check-point, sir, and try to keep moving all the time.’
‘I will try,’ I assured him earnestly, and we rolled under the barrier arm as it lifted. A mile down the road was the other point, stopping vehicles coming from Oxford; it let us through without comment.
‘Rather a comic incident that, eh?’ I said.
David’s face was wooden.
‘Your sort loves to make trouble and humiliate people, doesn’t it?’ he said.
‘Not at all. You can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry blocking the roads, or where would we be? I just asked a question I was perfectly entitled to ask.’
‘It comes to the same thing in the end.’
‘It’s people like you who fail to ask pertinent questions that get misled. Your party, for instance.’
‘You dare mention parties after the tragic mistakes yours has made this last week?’ He was furious. Debate always made his temper rise.
Quietly I said, ‘You kn
ow I know my party has behaved indefensibly, David – quite indefensibly. But your party’s unreal dreams of collective security without armament, of nuclear disarmament in a nuclear age, have hampered the country’s striking power so effectively that our shame must also be yours. Remember the TSR 2? When you were the ones who pulled our teeth, how could you expect us to bite? What curb could we offer the Red powers? At least these traitors like Minnie and Northleech can plead they had no alternative but to act badly.’
‘Christ, you wriggle on the hook as deftly as they do! What about the torn-up treaties? What about the promises? What about the Anglo-American alliance? All hot air, I suppose?’
‘Here’s Oxford,’ I said, as we came on to the top of the Banbury Road.
We were stopped again, this time by an exotic crowd of RAF Regiment, Army, Civil Defence, and police, with a couple of AA men for luck. Plus a cheerful bunch of civilians doing good business with an ice-cream van.
‘Sorry, sir, can’t go through Oxford unless you’ve got a good reason for it.’ This was a well-scrubbed corporal with a tommy-gun over his shoulder, ambling up to the car.
‘Such as? I am a fellow of Saints and am on my way there now.’
‘Better make it next week instead, sir. There’s been a bit of trouble in the town. A fire or two and some hooliganism. We’re trying to keep the city centre clear. Try the by-pass, sir, if you were thinking of going through. Keep moving and you won’t get into no trouble.’
He wasn’t to be budged.
‘There’s a phone box over there,’ David pointed. ‘Try phoning Norman.’
‘Good idea. Thanks, Corporal.’
‘Thank you, sir. Nice day, anyhow, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, lovely. Except for the LCC, eh?’
‘What, sir? Oh yes, quite, sir. They didn’t put up much of a show, did they?’
We left him beaming as I drove over to the side of the road. David laughed with an angry face.