by C. P. Snow
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I was in the pub. Didn’t you see in the papers?’
There had been headlines, Vandals in Belgravia. Unfair to Vandals, Humphrey commented, but Thirkill wasn’t interested in reference to fifth-century history.
‘Oh, that,’ he said.
‘It wasn’t pretty.’
‘I think you must accept’ – Thirkill could, without effort, suddenly speak with force, and did so now – ‘that when people get better off they are going to behave worse. That is, by our standards.’
‘By any standards, I would have thought.’
‘Could be. Respect has gone out of the window. But you must accept, the respect isn’t going to come back when people are better off. We may not like it, but there you are. And I’m sure you wouldn’t think so, but that is no reason under heaven for not making people better off.’
It didn’t take him long to order his meal. Humphrey had made a misjudgment. Thirkill was less self-indulgent than he was himself. Soup and a cutlet would have been more than enough for him. Further, he drank very little. One glass of wine, perhaps. Humphrey would have to sink the bottle without further help.
At the same time that he was abstemious about food he wasn’t so about giving disquisitions. He had the gift of making commonplace statements about himself as though he were baring his soul. He had been born just fifty years before, he said. In Birmingham. That didn’t get the worst of the Depression. But it was bad enough. You wouldn’t see what you saw last night. There was more respect. Better behaviour, if people our age have any right to judge. ‘But I tell you, Humphrey (he was already using Christian names), I wouldn’t have that world back in place of what we have now.’ He had been a young accountant in Birmingham, without a penny – that was at the end of the forties. Then there was the first sign of a breakthrough. That was when he had begun to make his money, and had realised that it was his duty, in the long run, to go into politics. Duty, said Thirkill, so that his listener couldn’t miss the word.
The thick eyebrows, mobile mouth confronted Humphrey across the table. From most politicians, this would have been a conventional apologia. He wasn’t showing any originality of view; but Humphrey, more than he had bargained for, was being bombarded by an originality of temperament. One mightn’t like Thirkill, or want to do business with him, but it was hard to think that he was negligible. He began a similar bombardment about the future.
‘What is going to happen to us?’ He challenged Humphrey.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean this country, this year.’
‘I can’t pretend to be bubbling with optimism.’
That year, and for years past, none of Humphrey’s friends in private had been bubbling with optimism about the state of the nation, or its economy or, deeper down, of the state of the Western world.
‘There I must take issue with you. We (he meant the Government, and his own Labour Party) can get the finances into shape. We had. We shall. With a bit of luck and good management and the right men in the right places, we ought to get things straight.’
Once again, those remarks could have come from any conventional politician, especially one with ambitions, seeing clearly the necessity for getting one right man into one right place. Politicians had to be optimistic; otherwise they wouldn’t be politicians. In parliamentary societies like this one, the future was as close as their own hopes, and world concern was a very long way distant. They had to live in the present. Thinking ten years ahead, even five, was for spectators, not for them.
Here in the restaurant Thirkill was uplifted by the prospect before him, speaking like any other professional politician but with a temperament that Humphrey hadn’t often met before. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘we shall manage it. The finances will look brighter next year. Our lot can do it. The others can’t. It’ll come out all right in the wash. No one really wants the other lot. Not the fellows who understand finance. Not industry. Not the City. I give you my solemn word.’
Soon Thirkill had other reflections. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Humphrey, I happen to have about the tenth safest seat in the country. My father was a parliamentary agent, he never earned more than £300 in his life, but he taught me most of what I know about politics. Politics is about bread and butter, he used to tell me when I was a boy. So I waited until I could get a seat like mine. Some of the lefty boys in the party don’t like me having it, at all, at all. They’d like to get me. Let them try.’
Suddenly, as between one moment and another, in the midst of the confident, confidential, authoritative voice, had come a tone quite different, so different that for a moment Humphrey might have been listening to another man.
‘I suppose you’ve heard all about these libels that are going round? You know they keep on printing libels about me?’
‘Yes, I did know something.’
‘They come,’ said Thirkill, ‘from some of those boys in the party. I can’t prove it, but I know it. They get a little cash selling gossip round Fleet Street. Some of them don’t even get cash, they just think it’s useful to be in with the journalists. I dare say that you’re not entirely surprised.’
‘It’s fairly common knowledge.’
‘I dare say you wouldn’t be entirely surprised about who these lefty boys are.’
Humphrey was accustomed to persons trying to make him indiscreet about his old profession. He just said: ‘Of course, you must know them personally yourself.’
Thirkill didn’t press further, too full of his complaints and intentions.
‘I can’t get my hands on them,’ he said, in the curious grinding tone which had, minutes before, taken Humphrey by surprise. ‘By God, I should like to. They’re doing their worst for all of us. By God, they’re doing their worst for me. But I can get my hands on these journalists they’ve fed. And their wretched rags and everyone connected with them. I’ve been waiting. It was good to wait until they had overplayed their hands. I don’t mind telling you, it took some patience to wait when you saw what people were thinking. And what your family was going through. But it was worth it. No one had the score right except my lawyers and me. A handful of writs went out on Friday night. They’re going to pay. I’m not a vindictive man, Humphrey, and I wouldn’t say it in any vindictive spirit. But when these fellows have been trying to ruin me I don’t care if I see them starving in the streets.’
‘What are the chances? What do the lawyers say?’
‘What do you take me for?’
To an extent, this conversation was what Humphrey had been in search of. But he realised that, except for this news about the writs, which in any case would be public within an hour, he had learned almost nothing. Thirkill gave the impression of entering into intimacy. He seemed to be making confessions and then made none, except what one could infer. This continued when Thirkill went on, using all his emotional power, which was considerable, to demand sympathy and help. He wanted sympathy and help in what others thought of his financial operation. It was hard, he said, for an honest man to be written off by people who didn’t understand the first thing about finance. It had come easy to him since he was very young. It was a flair, he said, to be able to think about money. Playing the exchanges was like playing bridge. You had to guess how other people would play, mainly people not too bright at any other game. It was no use if you let yourself be too far-sighted; money wasn’t made that way.
None of this contradicted Luria’s view of how Thirkill had performed. Whether it was true, Humphrey hadn’t the insight or knowledge to form any opinion at all. The most he could do was ask again whether Thirkill was totally confident about the legal cases. Thirkill said: ‘They won’t even fight them. They’ll never come to court.’
Some mud always sticks, he broke out, demanding sympathy again. But in responsible circles his name would be as good as it ever was.
By this time, Humphrey, though he couldn’t be sure of the factual truths (all evening had kept recurring a gibe of
a fellow member of the Commons, if Tom Thirkill tells you the time, it’s just as well to check it by your own watch), had one or two definite impressions.
This man’s confidence didn’t go deep. He was borne up by something like physical hopefulness. Whether he was certain that he would be vindicated, or whether he should be, Humphrey couldn’t penetrate. But Humphrey was sure that, long before this trouble, all his life, Thirkill had never had the underlying confidence of less aggressive characters, such as Luria or young Paul Mason. And, though it didn’t occur to Humphrey, he might have added himself. Thirkill, though, had reserves and compensation none of them possessed, great attacking force, and a savage will. Whether his will was stronger than other men’s, that needed testing; but it was constantly in operation, and listening one couldn’t escape the pressure of his will.
The strongest impression of all was that Tom Thirkill had a touch, probably more than a touch, of paranoia. It was that which made his tone begin to grind. He felt surrounded by enemies. He was asking for help. Like a good many people who felt persecuted, he might have something to feel persecuted about. It wasn’t an uncommon blend, the naïve demands for support and protection and the ferocious, intense, attacking venom. It was a blend, Humphrey had sometimes thought, which had much appeal for decent good-natured persons, particularly among the young. Not so much as you grew older. You discovered that such natures took but never gave. But Humphrey could understand that Thirkill had a following in the centre of his own party, moderate sensible men who wanted to protect him and at the same time who succumbed to something stronger than charm. Such men gave him hero-worship. They were his power-base in politics, as a parliamentarian could have told Humphrey before now.
In that tête-à-tête, meal finished, Thirkill hadn’t given up the initiative. As they rose, he rapped out a question as though at random: ‘You’re a friend of Mrs Lefroy’s, so I am told?’
Humphrey answered with a neutral yes. As they got into the car outside, Thirkill persisted: ‘You’re a close friend of Kate Lefroy’s, I hear? You knew that my daughter works for her.’
Humphrey again said yes, he did know that.
Driving up Sloane Street, Thirkill went on: ‘My daughter is having dinner with that Lord Loseby tonight. What does Kate think of him?’
Humphrey was ready to evade this cross-examination.
‘Should you think she’s seen much of him? I do rather doubt it.’
‘Kate’s a shrewd woman, isn’t she?’
Humphrey didn’t reply. Thirkill said: ‘You’d better stop by at my place, I expect you can use another drink, can’t you?’
It was early, and now that he was prepared Humphrey was curious to see where Thirkill was leading. Yes, he would enjoy a nightcap.
There were no more questions until they were sitting in Thirkill’s drawing-room. It was one of the high and handsome Eaton Square reception rooms made for nineteenth-century soirées; and it was handsomely furnished. Either Tom Thirkill or his wife (who was living in their country house, so Humphrey had picked up) had taste, a taste not frightened or over-modest. On the walls hung a Matthew Smith, a Samuel Palmer, a Sickert, a picture which looked like a bright and glorious pastiche of Veronese, and (what surprised Humphrey most) a de Kooning.
Before Humphrey was given a drink, Thirkill had left the room, and was away some minutes. When he came back, he said: ‘The girl’s not in yet.’ Then he went to a cupboard, masked in the panelling, and told Humphrey to come and choose for himself. Thirkill didn’t drink, but his acquaintances did, and they were duly provided for.
Each of them in deep chairs, Thirkill leaned forward in his demanding posture and said: ‘You haven’t told me yet what Kate Lefroy thinks of that young man.’
‘You mean Loseby?’
‘Who do you think I mean?’
‘I don’t see how she can have much idea, you know. She certainly hasn’t said much to me. Of course, I don’t see her all that often.’
‘Don’t you?’ That was attacking, edged with meaning.
‘She’s very busy, you realise that, don’t you? Your daughter must have told you.’
Thirkill had free energy to spare on suspicions over Humphrey and Kate. Maybe Susan had them, too. Humphrey was ready to be non-committal until Thirkill got tired. But Thirkill had a greater imperative.
‘I want to hear about the young man Loseby. Is he any good?’
‘He’s very engaging.’
‘Is he any good for my daughter?’
‘How can anyone judge that?’
‘Is he a playboy?’ The tone was grinding.
‘You ought to ask his friends. He’s extremely pleasant to meet. If you ask me, though, possibly yes.’
‘Susan has made mistakes before. She’s only twenty-three, but she’s made mistakes. I’m not going to have another. If this fellow lets her down, then he’ll have to reckon with me. I want to see her married. That’ll calm her down. She’s a good girl. Does Kate say she’s a good girl?’
‘Of course, Kate is very fond of her.’
Thirkill didn’t give up. ‘That family of Loseby is no good. No earthly good. All they have is an estate they can’t keep up. No money. Grandmother was a society tart. Father useless. Useless drunk. Living in a tax haven, in Morocco. Why he wants a tax haven, God only knows. There can’t be anything in the way of tax to pay. This boy is fooling round in the Army. Precious lot of use that is. The best he can hope for is to make colonel. If he’s lucky.’
Then he made another appeal for sympathy. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much about that. Money’s no problem for a daughter of mine. All I want to be sure of is that he’d be good to her.’ After a pause, he added: ‘Mind you, it mightn’t be any good for me.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Haven’t you thought what some of my precious colleagues would say, if my daughter married into that crowd?’
Humphrey permitted himself a breath of realism. If Tom Thirkill, living in state in Eaton Square, thought he could ingratiate himself with the militant left, he had temporarily lost his political sense. Further, Humphrey still hadn’t seen a case, even in England in the 1970s, where a connection with the aristocracy, however down at heel, hadn’t done a public figure more good than harm.
For once, Thirkill had the grace to laugh. It was a gritty laugh, but it broke out. Humphrey was thinking, the man wasn’t often simple, but now he was. He was nothing but an anxious father. He wanted to see his daughter married. In secret, he might like to see her married to a future marquess, but above all he wanted to see her safe. As the minutes passed, he was violently hoping to see her come in happy and tell him that she was engaged. The minutes passed. The man was anxious, and when he pressed Humphrey to stay he felt compelled to. He took another drink. They had been sitting there, making spasmodic talk, the attacking force gone out of Thirkill, for an hour and a half – it was getting on for midnight – when the outer door of the apartment banged to. Thirkill’s face opened with expectation, anxiety, hope. More minutes passed. Then there was the sound of another door shutting. Thirkill sat in silence. Finally he said: ‘She must have gone to bed.’
6
The following evening, Monday, Humphrey sat in the Square gardens, watching for Kate to come home from her hospital. When she had parked her car, and he had stopped her, she was already frowning. He gave her an account of what had happened the night before, and the frown deepened, a furrow where there was already a line, becoming permanent in the high forehead. ‘Susan hasn’t spoken a word all day,’ she said.
‘I was afraid of that.’
‘The man’s a shit.’ Kate was in a bitter temper. He was used to her in her lively spirit, not often like this. She was angry with herself because she hadn’t been immune to Loseby’s blandishments. She was angry with Susan because there was someone she was fond of and couldn’t help. She was angry with Humphrey because he brought, or crystallised, bad news.
‘Thank you for trying,’ she said, but Humphrey, fe
eling ill-treated, thought that one day he might remind her that thanks like that were more efforts of politeness than demonstrations of gratitude.
She didn’t want to listen to anything more about the Thirkills. ‘I must rush,’ she said, and forced a smile better shaped but less attractive than her habitual cheerful, disrespectful, ugly grin.
The heat remained constant. People used to complaining about changes in the weather were now complaining it didn’t change. That Monday was 19 July and at eleven o’clock, when Humphrey went for a saunter round the Square, though it was getting dark, it was still so hot that the air seemed palpable against his cheeks. Lights were shining in the windows. In some, standard lamps were visible, and pictures along the walls. Humphrey didn’t know the owners and from the pavement couldn’t identify the paintings: one or two were interesting but didn’t compare with Tom Thirkill’s.
Humphrey wasn’t giving more than a random thought to the previous night, or to Susan. After all, he barely knew the girl. He was irked – more than he admitted, he was hurt – that Kate had been so brusque and shown him no affection. So far as he had sympathy to spare, it was, perversely, for Tom Thirkill. Not Tom Thirkill as an operator – Humphrey had seen enough of operators for one lifetime, and was tired of them. But Tom Thirkill as a father, worrying about his daughter, that was nearer the bone. Humphrey, too, had worried, still worried, about his children, and had been disappointed. For a singular reason. They had both elected to lead sacrificial lives.
Neither was married. His daughter, now in her mid-twenties was ill-paid, hard-worked, as an assistant in a slum settlement in Liverpool. She had broken altogether with the circles in which Humphrey had been born. She had adopted a working-class accent, or, not having a good ear, her bad imitation of one. She wrote affectionate letters to Humphrey, but wouldn’t meet his friends. She might have had lovers; Humphrey wasn’t sure. There he could feel with Thirkill. As for the son, he had qualified, with difficulty, as a doctor, and then taken a job in a Catholic hospital in South Africa, in the Transkei bush, for which he had to pretend to be a Catholic, which he wasn’t. That might be noble, but it seemed to Humphrey quixotry gone mad. The young man wasn’t bright, wasn’t amusing, but Humphrey loved him. Fatherhood, as the Japanese used to say, was a darkness of the heart.