Turning finally to the current constitutional conference, Moreland stated that here, at least, was a clear opportunity for Britain to take a firm stand. Unlike many other colonies, there was no large white population to be cast contemptuously on the rocky shore of unemployment in what was called, with genuine affection that turned all too tragically often to contempt, “Home”. That made it easier for the negotiators to insist on the continuance of British standards and British personnel. “For a change, let the minority, the decent, hard-working minority which has brought the country so far forward in such a short space of time, brought it today to the brink of self-government, be given its proper due.” The good work must be continued. For instance, the Ngulu must be maintained in their present state of protection—theirs was a classic instance of British “colonialism” being wholly for the benefit of those “colonised”. The African delegates to the conference, in their triumphant progress towards power and (he hoped) responsibility, would probably want to remove all British administrators. Whom did they propose to appoint in their places? The Minister must be firm for once. His generosity to countries now independent was much admired by so-called liberals. It was time he—and they—faced up to the fact that true freedom, true liberty, could exist only within certain agreed limits. If all was not to be lost, as it so often had been in other instances, these limits must be clearly written into the constitution now being drafted. Britain, he concluded, had nothing whatever to be ashamed of in her colonial record. Let it never be said that in leaving her empire she betrayed those unimpeachable principles on which that very empire had been built.
Shrieve turned the page, expecting there to be more. There was not, merely the beginning of the Religious Books Supplement. The headline was “New Canterbury Tales”, and the book under review was a biography of a recently deceased archbishop. Shrieve started reading about it in a state of dazed fuddlement, realised what he was doing, and put the paper down. His coffee was cold.
So that was Moreland’s idea of doing something to help the Ngulu. He had used them as a small twig in the bundle of sticks with which he was beating the Government. So much for journalists, then. There had, it was true, been a short unsigned article in The Economist dealing sympathetically with the Ngulu, and Charles Fraser had dealt with their problem at some length in a long piece about the conference in his paper. But it was hardly the “follow-up” he had imagined Mallory to mean.
He picked up The Times. No one had written in either supporting or criticising the letter, but then, that was hardly to be expected. The news item about the conference was cautiously optimistic. All had gone well on the first day, it said, and it was hoped that the whole thing would be over by the end of the following week. Earlier negotiations had left little to be thrashed out, though it was believed that the Government was insisting on certain military agreements which were not wholly to the liking of Mr Bloaku. It was expected, however, that only minor concessions would be necessary. Mr Bloaku was reported as saying, “I do not see any major difficulties in our way.” Mr Bloaku’s reputation as an aggressive nationalist leader had perhaps misled observers in this country. Certainly he had gained considerable respect since his arrival, and a reputation for geniality and shrewdness.
Shrieve paid for his coffee and left. He wished he hadn’t told Edward he would come to the party at which Pete’s band was playing that evening. He was impatient and restless. He felt like the negotiators described in The Times: “eager to conclude the conference before the Bank Holiday.”
It was sunny and warm, and in spite of the cold which lingered in his sinuses he found London stuffy. Perhaps he was adjusted to the climate at last. As he strolled down Knightsbridge, window-shopping, he was struck by the number of expensive things on sale. The new affluence of which he had read was visible on every passerby. He stopped before a men’s clothing shop. There wasn’t anything in the window which he would have thought of wearing himself. True to the custom of the trade, the shop had already filled half its display space with winter goods, and the chunky woollen sweaters, the heavy checked shirts and sports coats were not only hopelessly inappropriate for Africa, but also in a style altogether foreign to his taste. The underpants, to take a single example, seemed all to be as brief as possible, and Shrieve had been brought up on reliably thick underwear, as recommended by his schools. He was too old to adapt to these new fashions—skimpy pants, string vests, bold shirts and bolder ties, the new narrow cut of trousers and the unpadded jackets. In the section still reserved for summer wear there were swimming trunks almost as brief as the underpants. There was one pair in white leather that Shrieve could not imagine anyone at all wearing. Loose striped cotton vests with long sleeves were advertised as the latest thing for sailing and the beach. The photographs of the male models throwing beachballs, leaning on tillers and idling on quaint old Cornish quays, were all quite openly sexual in their appeal. The models stood with their feet apart, the trousers stretched tight across the crutch, or lounged in swimming trunks in such a way as to force their maleness on one’s attention. It was all part of the new England, Shrieve supposed: the advertising men were in charge, the flamboyant, the eye-catching, the sophisticatedly obscene, all these were in. And perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps. It wasn’t like the England of his childhood or the war years. Then it had been simplicity and demureness—or had it? His childhood had always been sheltered. And then, the war had been neither simple nor demure, of course. But there was, even then, a public restraint which was nowhere to be found now. In Edward Gilchrist’s England, as he ruefully thought of it, no holds were barred.
As he moved on, he glanced at the name above the shop. I should have guessed, he thought. Brachs. Brachs’s England. Brachs was probably at the constitutional conference, personally arranging the handing over of the colony to the Free Organisation.
*
Fred Martin heard a voice say “Mr Brachs for Mr Martin”, and just had time to stub out his cigarette before Mr Brachs’s face appeared on the television set. His oiled black hair glinted richly, and his thick spectacles so reflected the light that his eyes were completely invisible. It was like talking to a blind man wearing dark glasses.
“I am pleased, Mr Martin, with the recording made by Sammy Sweet this morning. You have put him. under contract?”
“Well, sir, he wouldn’t sign it. He said, sir, that he would have to go away and have it looked at by someone.”
“You offered him, I hope, something more than the standard option.”
“Oh yes, sir. I explained that he stood to be one of the richest young men in London if we took the contract up, but he still said he must have it read by someone first.”
“Wise child,” said Mr Brachs, a frown creasing his dark brow. “I trust there is no manager or agent in the background, Mr Martin?”
“He denies it, sir. He strikes me as the sort of boy who would tell the truth.”
Mr Brachs appeared to consider. “No one in this business tells the truth, Mr Martin. But I think you may be right. When have you arranged for him to come again?”
“On Wednesday. You did say, sir, that I was not to show him too much——”
“Quite.”
“He promises to have made up his mind about the contract by then. He still knows nothing, of course, about being Sammy Sweet. But judging by his performance this morning, I think he will accept our offer. He seemed to enter wholeheartedly into the Sway.”
“Good,” said Mr Brachs. “Very good. I am always pleased to hear that someone has his heart in his work. There is too much cynicism in the world today, Mr Martin.”
“Yes, sir. There most certainly is.”
“Give him,” said Mr Brachs, “as much as he asks for. Bargain with him, of course. But do not, under any circumstances, lose him.”
“No, sir.”
Mr Brachs smiled. “The Sway, Mr Martin, is going to sweep this country like a great epidemic. We will mount our campaign to catch the Christmas market. There will b
e, Mr Martin, many complaints of the season.” He laughed richly, full of phlegm, and his glasses sparkled. Martin chuckled nervously.
“I want,” said Mr Brachs mellowly, “I want people to be happy, Mr Martin. That is why I sponsor this new, this great new dance, the Sway. People will be happy doing the Sway, listening to the Sway, watching others do the Sway. The Sway will become part of our national life, Mr Martin. I am proud to be sending the Sway out into the world.”
Martin nodded, speechless.
“Good day, Mr Martin.”
Mr Brachs switched the channel of his set to his confidential secretary. “Mr Bray, please come here. Bring your copy of the Restaurant accounts and Jefferson’s memorandum.”
“Yes, Mr Brachs.”
Mr Brachs watched as Bray rose from his desk, picked up a file and left the room. Then he switched off the set.
A moment later Bray opened the door of Mr Brachs’s office, and began the long walk down the room towards the desk. The window which ran the length of the Building was shuttered, and the three remaining walls were white and bare except for a single painting, halfway down the room and opposite the window, a vast burgundy-coloured abstract which seemed to lour at the visitor as he advanced over a thick mustard carpet. Twenty feet wide and ten feet high, the picture had an oblong shape at its centre, but the colours were so shaded that the edges of the oblong were almost imperceptible. The deep dark reds against the white wall exuded menace and power. The painter was Mark Rothko.
Apart from Mr Brachs’s desk and chair, the only furniture in the huge room was two low leather chairs and the closed-circuit television. Whereas all the other sets in the Building glowed bluely, Mr Brachs’s glowered with an angry amber. It stared at the visitor like a ferocious guard dog, radiating aggression, ready to leap for the throat. There was nowhere to look except at Mr Brachs or it.
Flinching away from the Rothko, Bray finally reached the desk.
“Sit down, Mr Bray,” said Mr Brachs.
Bray sat down. The chair was comfortable, but so low that his head was only just above the top of the desk.
“I am worried, Mr Bray. I am very rarely worried as much as I am worried now. I am deeply perturbed. I am almost angry.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Brachs.”
“It is I who should be sorry, Mr Bray.” Mr Brachs looked at his fingernails for a few moments. “Tell me what you think of Jefferson, Mr Bray.”
Bray cleared his throat. “Mr Jefferson has been managing director of the Brachs chain of restaurants for five years. He has always been scrupulously honest. He is imaginative. He has done some very good work. He is, perhaps, a little overconfident.”
“You have read his memorandum on the accounts?”
“Yes, Mr Brachs.”
“And does it satisfy you?”
“It does, yes.”
“It does not satisfy me, Mr Bray. It does not satisfy me at all.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mr Brachs.”
“The restaurants are losing large quantities of foodstuffs each year. They are being robbed. Unscrupulous employees, possibly under the direction of a well-organised gang of criminals, are filching at every opportunity.”
Bray looked impassively at the television set.
“I want you, Mr Bray, to set up, without Jefferson’s knowledge, an enquiry into the chain of restaurants. Meanwhile, I have ordered Jefferson to keep a foolproof check on every tin, can, bottle, sack and case of food and beverage that enters every restaurant. A similar check is to be made on every tin, can, bottle, sack and case that leaves. I wish to discover whether the same number of tins leaves the restaurants empty as enters them full.”
“It is a large undertaking, Mr Brachs, and an expensive one. There will have to be a special staff recruited to do the counting.”
“It will not prove expensive, Mr Bray, if the check reveals the extent of the pilfering and waste. Someone is sabotaging our business. I am convinced that large quantities of food are being stolen. The first detailed reports will be received next week. We shall be able to make a preliminary judgement on the extent of the thefts then.”
“Yes, Mr Brachs.”
“I want you to organise your enquiry with great discretion. I am particularly anxious to know what attitude Jefferson is adopting towards my reforms.”
“Yes, Mr Brachs.”
“You understand, then, what I require, Mr Bray.”
“I do.”
“Good,” said Mr Brachs. “We are under constant watch by our enemies, Mr Bray. The man of business in the modern world cannot afford to relax his guard for a single moment. Socialists and Communists infiltrate ceaselessly.”
Bray, who knew Mr Brachs’s views on the trials of business, nodded. Mr Brachs regarded himself and his enterprises as a crusade for individual freedom against the increasing dictatorship of governments all over the world. He did not, like some businessmen, think that the world was a conspiracy against himself; on the contrary, he thought of himself and his businesses as a conspiracy against the world. Secrecy, therefore, was vital. The law required certain public statements of accounts. These had to be as misleading as possible, must contain as many vague headings as the revenue authorities would allow. The multiplicity of companies within the Brachs organisation was a way of concealing what was actually owned and by whom. Some of the subsidiary companies acted solely as holding companies for others which in their turn held them. They were blind alleys in the vast financial city which Mr Brachs governed, where long avenues of retreat ended in pre-planned bankruptcies and ramparts of financial obfuscation.
“That will be all, then, Mr Bray.”
Bray rose and started on the long trek to the door. Unconsciously he flinched again from the huge, threatening picture. When he reached the door he bowed towards Mr Brachs, who made no sign of acknowledgement, and went out.
Back in his own office he gave a few minutes to the restaurant accounts, frowned and shrugged. Then he. summoned three men to his office, gave them orders and dismissed them.
The fourth floor of the Brachs Building was very busy that afternoon, and Jefferson was in a foul temper. He was unable to leave his office until after eight o’clock.
As he put on his bowler hat and picked up his umbrella, he said to his secretary, “Let’s just hope the old man goes right off his head before he thinks up another crazy scheme like this.”
“You’d better not let Mr Brachs hear you talking like that,” she said. She even gestured at the television set. She was fond of Mr Jefferson.
“That bloody thing,” he said, pointing his umbrella at it. “You can’t even get the Test Match on it. What the hell is the use of a television set you can’t even get the Test Match on?”
“Good night, Mr Jefferson,” said his secretary.
“Good night,” he said.
A full report of his remarks and gestures lay on Mr Brachs’s desk within an hour of his leaving the Building.
*
The noise, thought Shrieve, as he clutched a glass of warm red wine and listened to Pete Harrisson taking off on a little fantasy of his own known among his friends as “When You Come At The End Of A Perfect Day”, the noise was cheerful, anyway. He smiled at Jackie Harmer and said, “Don’t you carry earplugs?”
She shook her head and said, “You get used to it in time.”
“I’m afraid I must be what you call a square,” said Shrieve. “I find it all rather wearing. Why don’t they play something quiet for a change? It’s like Piccadilly Circus on Boat Race night.”
“Oh, I expect they will soon,” she said. She grinned. “I think it’s very noble of you to have come at all.”
“He supports me,” said Shrieve, “so I feel it’s only decent to make an effort to find out what it is he does and support him in my turn.”
“You know he’s been offered a contract to sing this new song called the Sway?” said Jackie. “That’s more like having something done to you than doing it yourself.”
; “He’s actually been offered a contract?”
“Oh yes. And Pete says it’s quite a decent one—not the usual cheating kind at all. He thinks they really want to turn Edward into something.”
“How simply awful,” said Shrieve.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Jackie. She grinned at him again. “I think jazz is all right, but pops—well.”
“I’m not sure that I can tell the difference.”
“Then I’m afraid you may be a bit of a square. I think everyone ought to be able to tell the difference, if he listens at all, that is. They aren’t a bit alike. For instance, listen to Pete. He plays jazz. It’s a sort of creative improvisation within limits.”
“Ah, I see,” said Shrieve gravely.
“Only, of course, this group doesn’t improvise much, Edward’s arranged it all in advance. But even within the arrangement they’re allowed to take off sometimes and do what they like. This is one of Pete’s special solos now.”
“And does he always play it the same way?”
“Oh no. That’s the point. I suppose if he ever felt he’d played it perfectly, then he’d always try and imitate that time. But in fact he doesn’t have a set piece here at all—it’s just a tune he goes crazy over and lets off whatever steam he happens to have around at.”
“Have around at?” muttered Shrieve, bewildered.
Jackie didn’t hear him. “He’s great,” she said. “Listen to that! It’s a parody of Cat Anderson,” she explained.
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