The Stone That Never Came Down

by John Brunner

  “We deserve it, no doubt of that. Okay, tea, and plenty of sugar. And a cheese sandwich.”

  “Coming up!”

  Over the next week, he became a familiar and popular visitor to the nearby streets.

  The news was of Russian forces being unexpectedly assigned to “manoeuvres” in southern Hungary, and a call for stern resolution in the face of trial issued by the Right Honourable Henry Charkall-Phelps at a giant Moral Pollution rally in Birmingham, where he was cheered nonstop for almost five minutes.

  –So little of it available … If only Malcolm hadn’t had to flee, destroying half of what we’d painfully bred for fear Gifford’s people might discover traces of it! I’m not sure he had tracked the connection between Malcolm and the Institute, but obviously he must have been monitoring phone-calls from and to there, so the risk was acute.

  Sawyer shifted from foot to foot and blew into his hands. It was chilly waiting here in the line for admission to the Public Gallery of the House of Commons, but it seemed like an absolutely perfect target, far better than cinemas or tube-trains or other obvious possibilities. Particularly today, when it was being rumoured that at long last Charkall-Phelps would launch his personal attack on the Prime Minister, expected since his recent veiled insults on TV and at public meetings. Of course, it would not be in the gentlemanly tradition of British politics to hold a fight out in the open; the real business would be conducted behind the scenes, so that the country would eventually be presented with a fait accompli under the guise of democratic process. But certain aspects of what was happening might now and then be glimpsed between the drifting smoke-clouds of verbiage.

  –Even if I don’t manage to get to the head of the line in time for the big speech of the afternoon, it’ll be worth going in anyhow. And I’ve already done marvels, though I say it myself. That special service for forces chaplains at St Paul’s yesterday: that was a real stroke of luck! I wonder whether Malcolm’s friend at the Epidemic Early Warning Unit has begun to notice another outbreak of this curious variety of narcolepsy … Probably not. We’re having to spread the VC so thinly, it’s an even chance whether people are actually receiving the threshold dose. Apart of course from Lady Washgrave. Reminds me: I should see how Cissy’s doing.

  The news was of shouting-matches behind closed doors at EEC Headquarters in Brussels, with the big countries’ delegates–those from France, West Germany and Britain–insisting on a hard line and the literal execution of the ultimatum, while the smaller countries, led by the Dutch, were claiming that there would be no way of confining a war if it broke out, and although big nations might have a faint hope of surviving nuclear attack small ones would be completely depopulated with half a dozen bombs.

  Not that anyone ought to have needed to be told.

  This winter, the most popular of all restaurants as a rendezvous for members of the Bonn parliament was Am Weissen Pferd, whose proprietor was a great sentimentalist. On noticing an attractive dark-haired woman weeping openly before one of the city’s countless monuments to Beethoven, it was only natural that he should stop and inquire what was the matter.

  Having been reassured that she was in tears purely because she was overwhelmed by the awareness of walking on ground Beethoven himself had trodden, he equally naturally invited her to visit his restaurant. He was married and had three grown children, but he was a notorious womaniser.

  Besides, he was extremely proud of his cuisine, and took her on a tour of his kitchens to demonstrate that even in this heavily polluted land of Western Germany it was possible to eat at certain places, even now, without risking one’s health because the food was contaminated with artificial substances, preservatives or insecticides or flavour-enhancers.

  Fascinated, she inquired why he did not offer sea-salt, but had ordinary commercial salt on every table, and he told the sad story of the salt from Aigues-Mortes which had proved to contain more than one per cent of some fearful industrial waste-product, and resulted in many of a rival restaurant’s clientèle being taken to hospital.

  He had not, as it happened, heard of Maldon salt, from the still relatively uncontaminated North Sea, and by way of making a gesture towards repayment of his hospitality and generosity she obtained some for him, which he had tested and was able with a clear conscience to give his guests. Overjoyed, he asked her advice in other matters, and was equally pleased to discover that she herself was an immensely knowledgeable cook.

  –If he only knew that it’s all book-learning … But VC does make the most incredible acts of imagination possible. Like reading the score of a symphony; Ernest Newman once said that was a purer pleasure than listening to even the best orchestra under the best conductor! A cook-book can be a banquet for me now. Luckily eating is still better, in my view, or I could find myself sitting over a bowl of soup, reading about a gourmet meal, and paying no attention to the muck I was actually ingesting. Didn’t realise until now how much of what we’re sold as food really is muck. Dangerous, too …

  When she produced, with a flourish, a seasoning he had never heard of but which at her table at least, in the small apartment she had temporarily rented, seemed to make the simplest food taste exquisite, he had no qualms at all about trying it out at Am Weissen Pferd.

  Where, sadly, the majority of the customers continued to do as they had always done: drink so much they blunted their sense of taste, smoke between courses and even during them, and leave half the food on the plate.

  But that was politicians for you. And with the clouds gathering over Europe, it was perhaps less than surprising.

  The news was of a mounting roar of support in Italy for the New System of Marshal Dalessandro, of recognition of his government by Greece first, then Spain, then Portugal, then the United States. And of air-raid warnings being tested, and shelter-drills for schoolchildren, and the printing of ration-cards.

  “Que je suis désolée, mais aujourd’hui il n’est pas vraiment possible!” the madam exclaimed, and it was obvious that she really meant it. Within a week or so of his arrival this English milord–unmistakably a milord, even though he was travelling incognito as a plain mee-stair–had become the most popular client her house had ever had. “It is the armée,” she added by way of explanation, and spread her hands.

  “Mais je comprends parfaitement,” the Englishman said. And did. The existence of this streetful of brothels in this small garrison town was tolerated on conditions, chief among which was that when one of the locally stationed regiments was dispatched for active service its men would have first call. “Another time, then. For tonight, perhaps you would distribute these among the girls as a token of my appreciation?”

  He snapped his fingers, and the young man who seemed to be his valet produced an armful of expensive and delicious candy, at least a dozen boxes.

  Receiving them with cries of exaggerated gratitude, the madam whispered, “Milord–I mean monsieur–it is not only you who are appreciative. I swear, never have I seen before such a phenomenon as yesterday, when a girl came to me who I know never touched a man in her life except in the course of the profession, who has always saved her heart for other women. And said if there is a man who might change her, it would be you. Milord, it is of the most extraordinary!”

  –Madam, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Promise, promise.

  “A bientôt, madam,” he said, turning away.

  “Oui, Monsieur Fraï! A bientôt!”

  XXII

  “Oh, milady, you’re awake at last,” cried Tarquin Drew, and in his excitement almost dropped the flowers he had brought to replace yesterday’s, now drooping on the bedside table in this neat clean hospital room.

  “I woke up hours ago,” Lady Washgrave snapped, laying aside the Daily Telegraph she had been reading. “They tried to telephone you, apparently, but you didn’t answer!”

  Tarquin blushed brilliant crimson.

  “I–uh … Well, for some reason, milady, I’ve been oversleeping. Even though I’ve been retiring early for
the past three days, I’ve slept until nearly ten a.m. each morning.” He essayed a little joke. “Sympathetic magic, perhaps!”

  He sat down eagerly at the side of the bed, and then caught sight of the headlines on the Telegraph. “Oh, you must know already the great news I was going to impart!” he exclaimed. “What a shame!”

  “What ‘great news’?”

  “Why, that Mr Charkall-Phelps is almost certain to oust the Prime Minister at the next meeting of the Parliamentary Party!”

  “It’ll be a sad lookout for the country if he does,” Lady Washgrave grunted.

  “Why, milady! What on earth makes you say–?”

  “What he’s been saying makes me say!” she interrupted. “Since I woke up I’ve had a chance to catch up on these speeches he’s been making. The man’s mad. Should have realised it years ago.”

  Totally disoriented, Tarquin could only stare.

  “Must be mad!” she declared. “The way he’s talking, you’d think he was a reincarnation of Churchill and the enemy were lining up to invade! Going on about our determination to withstand the most appalling onslaught, confident in our great traditions, and the rest of it. I’d like to see him try and stop an H-bomb with fine words and flowery phrases!”

  She glared at him. “Oh, he fooled me all right, I have to admit that. It’s only now he’s coming into the open, showing himself up for what he is–a thoroughgoing megalomaniac!”

  “But, milady–!”

  “It’s perfectly clear,” she snapped. “Perfectly clear, at long last. If I’d been at the last few rallies of the Crusade, I’d have given him a piece of my mind! Hah! I take back everything I said about Brother Bradshaw. He saw through the sham at once, and I should have done, and I didn’t. To my lasting disgrace! I knew perfectly well that if he was a business associate of George’s he must be a bad egg, and I hid the truth from myself.”

  “I–I honestly don’t follow you,” Tarquin whimpered.

  “Well, you never knew George. And even if you had met him you might not have caught on. You’re easily fooled by charm, aren’t you?” And, as he bridled, she gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, you know perfectly well you are! Maybe because you have so much of it yourself. Even more than George. Of course, I don’t suspect you of hiding anything under it half as bad as what he did. Vicious bastard.”

  “Milady, I–!” Tarquin seemed on the verge of crying.

  “Brace yourself, man! You know damned well this is a hell of a world we live in, and lying here I’ve realised that the effort I’ve put into trying to make it better was like–like wallpapering a room to hide the cracks and the dry rot! I even managed it inside my own head. But”–her expression changed suddenly; she looked inexpressibly miserable–“but I can’t fool myself any more, Tarquin. It hurts dreadfully, but I have to put an end to it. I have to admit that I knew without knowing how George made that fantastic fortune of his.”

  There was a dead pause. Eventually Tarquin said, “In–ah–property, surely!”

  “By driving people out of their homes, Tarquin! I was living with him. I knew, all right! I just pretended to myself that I didn’t. That’s one of the reasons I was glad when he dropped dead.”

  “Glad?” he echoed in horror. And then, with an unexpected access of boldness, “Milady, can I say something? I”–he had to swallow–“I can’t help wondering whether when you called him vicious just now, you meant …”

  It broke off there.

  “Vicious to me?” Lady Washgrave said. “Oh, yes. True to type in marriage and out. And I don’t mind who knows it. Not now. There’s a word I’ve often read but never until now grasped the true meaning of: catharsis. Like having a boil lanced in your soul. I’ve been hiding knowledge of something foul from myself, under a veneer of ‘good works’. I hope I never delude myself that way again.”

  “But your work has been good!” Tarquin insisted. “You’ve done marvels!”

  “Good enough to repay the people who were driven out of their homes to make the fortune I enjoy?” rasped Lady Washgrave. “And you of all people should condemn some of the consequences I’ve aided and abetted, like what led to that gay club being burned out and seven people killed!”

  Tarquin gasped. “Milady, I–”

  “Come off it, you’re as queer as a coot and you know it and I know it and to be absolutely honest the only thing I can genuinely regret about it is that it means I can’t invite you into bed with me. George was the only man I ever had, and he was so unspeakably incompetent I don’t suppose our marriage ever recovered from the ghastly honeymoon he inflicted on me. Of course I took it for granted that that was how all men behaved to their wives, but it obviously can’t be true because so many women actually like sex.” She eyed him speculatively. “It may be a bit late in my life but I do feel it’s high time I–Tarquin!”

  But he had rolled his eyes upward in their sockets and slid off his chair in a dead faint.

  It was forty-nine hours before he reawakened.

  The news was of frantic in-front-of-the-scenes speeches declaring determination to stand firm and not to compromise and frantic behind-the-scenes negotiations undertaken in the intervals of trying to find the right person to bribe for a booking on a ship or plane bound for the Southern Hemisphere and drafting advertisements to sell desirable residential properties at ridiculously low prices, “owner unexpectedly posted overseas”.

  But there was reference, a long way down the News in Brief column, to a curious sickness afflicting troops on duty in Glasgow.

  “Well, Vee, how d’you like Canberra?” Harry Bott said proudly.

  “Don’t,” she answered sullenly. “Not much, anyway.”

  “Ah, I know it’s going to be tough for a while. But I have a job already, don’t I? Not much of a job, but enough to make ends meet. With one of the best air-conditioning companies in the whole of Australia!”

  “And all of us packed in two rooms!” she snapped back. “At least at home we’d have been in four rooms!”

  “If we’d stayed at home I’d be in jail!” Harry exploded.

  “Yes, and it’d have been no loss …” Vera pushed back a stray tress of hair from her face. It was beginning to grey near the roots.

  And then, as if she had overheard herself say that in memory, “Harry! I didn’t really mean it! Don’t hit me!” She cringed away from him, one arm raised as though to ward off a blow.

  –Lord. Have I made her that scared of me? I suppose I must have. Makes me so angry with myself, deep inside. I feel ashamed. There’s more to life than playing out a part. I been doing that far too long.

  He reached for the bottle of Foster’s beer which he had going and hesitated as he poised it over his glass. “Er–want some?” he ventured. “You haven’t tasted this Aussie beer yet, have you?”

  Not quite believing that he hadn’t hit her, she lowered her arm slowly and stared at him.

  “Harry, what’s come over you?” she said at last.

  “I’ll tell you one day,” the grunted. “For the time being mark it down to my being so pleased that I’m here, not sweating out five years’ bird!”

  –And … Well, I don’t know how he fixed it, I really don’t. But I’m going to keep my side of the bargain I made with Mr Sawyer. When those new air-conditioning units go into that posh hotel all the MP’s and diplomats use, there’s going to be that little gadget added to each one I can get my hands on. Not much to pay back for years of extra life, is it?

  “I’ll find you a glass,” he said. “Or a cup, or something.”

  The news was of a crisis in Japan, with a fervent right-wing movement demanding that advantage be taken of the mess Europe was drifting into, and of a violent argument between those Australian politicians who maintained that old loyalties required them to support the British government come what may, and their opponents, who declared that the British had long ago cut them loose by their repeated perfidy.

  And the days of the ultimatum were wearing down, like rock er
oded by the swift tumult of a river.

  “Oh, it is a very great day for all of us here in Arcovado,” the priest said, rubbing his hands as he led Bradshaw through the bitterly cold church. In the past week he and his American visitor had become fast friends. Belying his modest disclaimers about his ignorance of the language, the latter had been able to pose amazingly technical questions about ritual, vestments, the sacrament of the mass, and other abstruse theological subjects, and had shown a greater and greater interest in the Roman confession, to the point where the priest was if not confident at least optimistic about the chance of welcoming this declared heretic into the fold.

  “Yes!” he went on. “Without misusing the term, one might well refer to Marshal Dalessandro as the saviour of Italy, the man who will restore the true faith … Forgive me, I am admittedly prejudiced in that area!” He laughed as he opened the door from the nave into the little stone-walled room where the raw materials, as it were, lay waiting: the wafers and the wine, not yet transubstantiated by blessing.

  “To think that in the morning he and so many of the famous will take the communion here! Oh, it’s the fulfilment of a dream, the answer to a thousand prayers … Excuse me, is something wrong?”

  Bradshaw was sniffing the air suspiciously.

  “Father, you’ll forgive me if I mention a most delicate subject, I’m sure,” he said. “Perhaps through long habit you simply do not notice, but … Ah–is there sewage, somewhere nearby?”

  The priest blinked rapidly several times. The point sank home. He said, “Oh!”

  “I believe I’m right,” Bradshaw said. “There is an open drain to windward of here somewhere. While I’m certain that in cold weather it can lead to no possible harm, the aroma, the effluvium … Your distinguished visitors, after all, do hail from somewhat more prosperous localities!”