by Graham Swift
I carried it off like an actress. Such dignity! Such courage! Such – in the circumstances – self-possession! The English are so wonderful, aren’t they, Doctor K, at Events?
I don’t know what happened to Harry. He just disappeared, melted away. But that was always his trick, wasn’t it? The vanishing act. Grandad and I used to call him The Invisible Man. Perhaps he was wandering among the crowd, trying to be anonymous, trying to be just another one of them. Which wouldn’t stop their eyes picking him out with a sort of wary fascination.
That’s him. That’s Harry Beech. He doesn’t put bombs in cars. He just –
We came face to face in the drawing-room as the whole thing was winding up. People were leaving, moving to their cars, and Frank was saying, ‘Go now, Sophie. You’re exhausted. You’ve been marvellous.’ (Never performed better.) ‘You don’t have to stay to the very end.’ (So what end was that?) And Joe saying, as if he were actually standing there waving like some magic wand, in case I’d forgotten, two tickets to New York, two tickets to the Promised Land: ‘Let’s go, let’s go.’ Let’s slip away, just you and I, from the party.
It’s easy, it’s simple: you just go away. You just make sure you’re not at the scene. You just don’t be there.
He looked stranded. So what’s the matter, Harry, no home to go to? He held his arms outwards, like a pair of useless wings. I know what he wanted. He wanted to embrace me. So it would look right, there in front of everyone. Life is an act, isn’t it? Life is a real act. For a moment, a deliberate moment, I let him flap his arms like that. And there was Harry Beech, so in his element wherever the action was, so always pressed up against the window of the news trying to get in, floundering, sinking, amongst the tea cups and sherry glasses in an English drawing-room. I said to myself: You’re never going to see, you’re never coming near your grandchild. Then I put out my hand. I saw the look in his eyes. He took it, pressed it. And I said, ‘Goodbye. Harry.’
Father, Dad, Daddy.
Harry
A hero’s death. A martyr’s death.
A hero chooses. A martyr chooses.
As if he had known. As if he had stepped out that morning and got into the Daimler with the express purpose of risking his life against the forces of terrorism. But didn’t he do that every day? As a manufacturer and supplier of arms – to, amongst others, our lads in Ulster – wasn’t he always putting himself in the exposed and dangerous front line? And let’s have no shilly-shallying and no moral niceties. We need arms for our defence. We need arms to maintain law and peace.
Cut to 1941. A rare, brief clip of Robert Beech in a factory yard with Mr Winston Churchill (grey bowler, cigar primed). Factory girls, with head scarves, in the background, jostling and grinning – one waves a tiny Union Jack. Mr Churchill congratulates ‘Bob’ Beech on his production achievement. (A photo of the same scene, with the Churchill signature, framed, above his office desk in London.)
Cut to R.B. with Max Beaverbrook and Royal Ordnance directors outside sandbagged offices of the Ministry of Supply.
Cut, by way of photo-library material, to 1875. Beech Munitions Company founded. First factory near Woking, Surrey. Early work in the development of the steel-cased shell and the use of cordite propellant and lyddite filling. Also in small-arms engineering. Beech armaments used in the Sudan and South Africa. Cut – cut (representative material: howitzers at Omdurman; Mafeking celebrations). Cut to group photo of Sandhurst cadets, circa 1916: Bob Beech amongst – second row left, blurred. Cut to all-purpose Western Front footage. ‘In 1918 …’
There was the potent and self-damning irony of the I.R.A. choosing for their target an arms manufacturer. Since terrorists themselves, by definition, required arms, which had to be made by someone. An irony duly exploited but not over-stressed. Since it led, in one direction, to the spectre of the arms-maker as the patron of terrorism, a mercenary among mercenaries – hardly appropriate to a company which was by now virtually an agency of the Ministry of Defence. Which begged in turn the question of what other fields BMC was now operating in, and what exactly was its area of development. The impression was given that it was still churning out good old unobjectionable bullets for latter-day Tommy Atkinses. But – nothing ill of the dead.
And in answer to those coolly liberal elements who might have said (all things being equal, and without wishing to condone the I.R.A.), Why the fuss? If you deal in that trade, if you live by the sword – Ah yes, but he did live by the sword and he was prepared to die. He was, as we all know, a hero already. A Victoria Cross and a tin arm. A life member of the valour club. And who had a better right to make and trade in arms (no obvious puns please) than a decorated ex-soldier who had sacrificed a limb in his country’s service?
A hero. He sat on ten pounds of gelignite.
And should you be getting too warlike a picture, consider the campaigner of peace.
Cut to period photos of: the new (‘Robert Beech’) Wing (Amputees’ Rehabilitation Centre) of the King George Hospital at Guildford, Surrey, opened 1925; the façade of the Institute for Artificial Limb Research at Chiswick, west London, established 1929. His involvement in medical research was not widely known. Particularly in the field of prosthesis and surgical reconstruction, where his own personal trauma (he himself was an enthusiastic guinea-pig) was naturally a prime motive. But the objects of Beech benevolence, to mention only the medical ones, were many and diverse, ranging from obstetrics to heart research (he suffered a near-fatal heart attack in 1945; was fitted with a pacemaker in 1968), and from plastic surgery to the funding of a company – virtually a Beech subsidiary – which specialized in the development of electrically powered wheelchairs and other invalid aids. Charity begins at home, and travels in strange ways, and it would be unfair to point out that numerous beneficiaries of Beech patronage, from hospital patients to schoolchildren, might have been surprised to learn what was the original source of their succour.
Cut to village children on the lawn at Hyfield, mid 1930s (local press material). Cut to local worthies with R.B. on same lawn, same period. Cut to general view of the house and grounds – ‘his home for nearly fifty years’. Intersperse with film of the bomb-damaged façade, April 1972. Cut to shot of R.B. as parliamentary candidate, 1935. Voice-over quoting from election speech. Brief sequence illustrating impercipience of Baldwin and Chamberlain governments. A gentleman, a true Englishman of the old school, but not afraid to speak his mind or challenge the mood of the time, and no enemy of the modern. Cut to film (last known footage, by proficient amateur) of after-dinner speech, November 1969. He jokes about his pacemaker: ‘Soon I will be all spare parts.’ He speaks of the ‘courage’ (he uses that word) of science in penetrating the ‘strongholds of romance’. The Apollo landings, the cardiac transplant. The moon. The heart.
Bluff old charmer. A still spry public man at over seventy. An enthusiast for the new, but an avowed critic of what he called Britain’s post-war ‘relaxation’, and ever ready throughout his long life to defend the old ways. Even to make the final sacrifice.
Cut.
This was ’72. Ominous times. The flowers of the Sixties faded. The long trough of the new decade yawning. The Irish trouble. And the sense of a new, barbarous world encroaching, a world no longer keeping to its former demarcations, former protocol. Bombs going off in airports, embassies, shopping centres, homes.
You could say they were successful: they eliminated their target. You could say they miscalculated: they erected a monument.
People want stories. They don’t want facts. Even journalists say ‘story’ when they mean ‘event’. Of the news photo they say: Every picture tells a story – worth two columns of words. But supposing it doesn’t tell a story? Supposing it shows only un-accommodatable fact? Supposing it shows the point at which the story breaks down. The point at which narrative goes dumb.
No art. Just straight photography. Avoid beauty, composition, statements, symbols, eloquence, rhetoric, decorum, taste. All that is painting.
But just hold open the shutter when the world wants to close its eyes.
Brian Patterson, at his Fleet Street desk, was the first to get hold of me, less than an hour after the story ‘broke’. Even got through somehow on that red-hot Hyfield number. Behind the confidential, I’m-talking-to-you-as-a-friend voice, I could hear journalistic excitement mixed with journalistic frustration (on a Monday of all days – and this was a Sunday paper).
‘You were there when it happened – is that right?’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘God, I’m sorry. What can I say?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘You weren’t hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Sophie?’
‘Shock. Just shock. They’ve taken her to hospital. Shock.’
‘Look, Harry – I – Do you want to cover this one?’
All through that day, that evening, the next day and the next: phone calls, questions, propositions. ‘Mr Beech, can you describe for us …?’; ‘Mr Beech, what are your feelings at this moment?’; ‘Mr Beech, as a distinguished news photographer, who has …’; ‘You were actually just about to leave for Belfast, is that true?’; ‘What were the last words that …?’; ‘We understand that your daughter …’; ‘Harry? Is that you, Harry? We’re putting together this two-minute piece. Your father’s life. We wondered if you had any material. You know, family photos …’; ‘Only a few words – a son’s tribute …’; ‘So you and he were not always …’; ‘What we want, Harry, is some personal stuff. You know, the real man, the inside story …’
No comment. No comment. No. And no again. There was always the same tone of almost indignant surprise, of veiled reproach. But you were there, weren’t you? A big story, and you’re right in the middle of it. You’re Harry Beech, aren’t you? The true pro. Stop at nothing. Just because –
That first swarm of photographers outside the gates at Hyfield, when Joe and I returned in the police car from the hospital, took me totally unawares. I who had stood – how many times, in the early days? – waiting for cars, lunging forward as they swung by. The flash-bulbs, like pistol shots. The faces. Hey, Harry – how come you’re there on the inside looking out. Looking at us.
No, I don’t want to cover it. You’re asking the wrong man. The man you should be talking to – if you can get him between discreet calls from Whitehall – is Frank Irving. Acting Chairman. He’ll give you all you want to know. Full story. Slip in, while you’re at it, a few direct questions about BMC, about arms trade ethics. No? Too underhand, too ‘unpatriotic’, under the circumstances? Unlike asking a son to –
One of Frank’s first acts as duly appointed Chairman: to commission a bronze bust, larger than life-size, to be placed on a plinth in the main foyer of the office. A bust, or rather head only, to avoid the problem of artificially representing an artificial arm.
A hero’s death. A martyr’s death.
(And that extra, poignant touch. The chauffeur. A cameo part. Sacrifice within sacrifice.)
No, I’m not covering it.
Because I’d already covered it. Already been the true, un-flinching, the ultimate pro.
Sophie
Darling Doctor K, we mustn’t go on meeting like this. Here in your darkened room, on your couch, with my mind all un-dressed. People might talk. People might tell.
It was supposed to be a little, brief, therapeutic fling, wasn’t it? A few intimate and secret sessions with you, then back to normality again, all the better for it. Back to being the loving wife and mother I used to dream once upon a time that I was.
But it’s getting to be serious, you and me. It’s getting to be a regular thing.
I kiss him goodbye in the morning. He says: You’re seeing Doctor Klein today? I say, Yes, and he kisses me again, as if it’s my work-out at the gym day or my special treat for being a good girl day. Then I take the kids to school, then I come on over the river and tell you things I’ve never told him. Tell you, a little, dry, elegant, elfin man, who I don’t know a thing about and I only met three months ago, what I’d never tell him. Though I’ve known him for sixteen years, and once we used to fuck like mad things all round that place we went to for weekends on Poros. We used to eat these big red chunks of water-melon – karpouzia – naked, so the juice ran all down. Then he wasn’t eating the water-melon, he was eating me.
See what I mean? I could be trying to come on to you, couldn’t I? Telling you things like that.
It could be some deal, I guess. An arrangement, a conscience-salver. (He pays!) Because really he’s screwing his secretary, down there on Sixth, every other evening. But I know he’s not. Because that’s not Joe. And even if he were, I’d know, I’d smell it on him. So why doesn’t he smell it on me? Smell Nick the plumber. And Dean the insurance agent. And Jerry the just-divorced husband of Karen Sherman. Because he isn’t like that. He doesn’t have that sort of sensitive nose. Or eye. Or memory. A toy gun is just a toy gun.
And, besides, they were just cheap, quick, mindless screws, to make me forget I was anybody, to make me think I was nobody.
Not like you and me.
There’s always hypnosis. Isn’t that a technique they use? We haven’t tried that. Oh yes, I’d gladly let you send me sweetly to sleep. Happily let you probe and pry just as you wished while I lay back in a state of unresisting, unremembering unconsciousness. What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me? What do you think I’ll do? Leap up, start beating on the door and shout, Rape! Rape!
But it’s okay. It’s I who trust you! You’re cool, you’re professional, your credentials are good. I’ve got to be perfectly frank and co-operative with you and hold nothing back, and if I don’t drop my psychic panties like a sensible girl, how can you help me? You’re neutral, you’re scientifically detached, I’m safe in your hands. And it doesn’t matter what I say, does it, it won’t bring a blush to those lightly tanned cheeks, or alternatively give you unprofessional ideas?
You’ve got it, Doctor K. Older men. Got it in one. I guess it was obvious from the start. I guess you know all the signs, all the symptoms. I’ve got this thing about older men. Little old wise men who know it all. And little kids, little twins, who’ll have to be told it all. In between it’s just foraging, isn’t it? Just make and mend and sauve qui peut and a little rough stuff thrown in. Isn’t that so?
And you’re a small man, of course! That figures. I mean, you’re not a big, Big man. No disrespect. You don’t tower, you don’t threaten. A strong wind would blow you over, wouldn’t it? But it wouldn’t actually ruffle you either. You know, I thought at first: O-oh, he’s a small guy. They’re always the worst. Watch it, Sophie, this could be your classic shrink – a crackpot in disguise. But your smallness is like a kind of distillation. It’s as though you were boiled down at some time, or slowly over the years, so there’s nothing spare or unnecessary or untidy about you. ‘Small,’ you said. ‘It’s my name. “Klein” means “small”. Small by name and small by nature. Just a small man in a big world, Sophie.’ Holding up those little hands, as if you’d never use a weapon. It was the first thing you ever said about yourself.
About the only damn thing, fuck you.
Ha! – I should tell you my fantasies, right? Oh please, let me. I’d like to pick you up – you’re so neat and light – and put you in the bath-tub. Really. Just like I do with Tim and Paul. I still do. Though it’s getting near the knuckle. Sponge them down. Run the soap round their little dormant cocks. Oh, pardon me, I didn’t mean to imply – (Mother you? You?) I don’t think of you without your clothes on. Do you think of me without my clothes on? I don’t think of your cock. But I bet it’s cute and toothsome.
I still do it. But I won’t for much longer, will I? They’ll shut the bathroom door on me. Facts of life. I’ll open it and they’ll have slipped through the window, out into the world.
I wanted a private life, that’s all. From then on. A simple, comfy, domestic life. But it’s all dissolving.
Warm and steamy and pink-smelling.
A cocoon.
Put one of those sweet hands there again. I mean here, on my forehead. (But put it anywhere you like, anywhere you like.) You know, when you do that, just that, it’s better than anything. Better than all your clever words, surrogate amnesia and professional letters after your name. A cool, calm, neutral hand on my brow. Worth eighty dollars an hour, just for that. And why can’t Joe do that? That’s just what he wants to be: a calm, firm, comforting hand on my brow. But he can’t do it. And I don’t want him to do it.
And so he pays for you! For us!
Keep your hands there. Tell me I’m attractive. Say: Sophie, you’re an attractive woman. You’re a beautiful lady. That’s how I’ll always see her, you know. Clear, fresh, always. On the lawn, under the sun umbrella. Her big black eyes, laughing lips. Making Grandad laugh. One strap of her summer dress falling over her lovely olive shoulder. That’s how I always wanted to be. To make him happy too. To be like her in his eyes. That last time, on the terrace, with the glasses of champagne …
Sure, I’ll tell you anything. I’ll turn myself inside out for you. Self-respect and modesty haven’t exactly been my forte just recently. You watch, you sit back and enjoy the show. It must be good to be you. It must be great to be you.
Should’ve ended, shouldn’t it? Should’ve split before it got too involved. Goodbye Sophie – you’re your own woman now. But it’s gone on, hasn’t it? (As long as you like, Sophie, as long as you want.) And it’s going to go on. Because you see – yes, I really do have something to tell you – he’s written this letter. Harry has written this letter. And you’ll never guess, you won’t believe, what it says.