by Paul Gallico
‘Yes, yes,’ said Sir Wilmot hastily, ‘I’m sure you would, but for the moment …’ and feeling that actions would speak louder than words, he settled down a bit in the bed and closed his eyes.
But it was too late, for Mrs Harris was no longer even aware of him. The Joan of Arc that is latent in every woman had been loosed and, holding the handle of the broom away from her like the shaft of a banner, she launched forth. ‘I’ll tell you what I’d say to them to make them sit up. Live and Let Live! They won’t let us live, that’s what’s the matter. They never gives us a chance to get our ’eads above water before they’re pushing us down again. Life was made to be lived, but they keep us worried from the first breath we draw to the last.’
Sir Wilmot opened his eyes again, or rather they were opened for him by the combination of despair and clarion ring of the cry he had heard, ‘Live and Let Live!’ and he was not at all astonished to see no longer the slightly ridiculous, garrulous figure of the typical, London char on a soap-box, but a person of flaming and evident sincerity.
‘ ’Oo’s the majority in the country? The respectable poor, that never has quite enough money to be able to relax and enjoy a bit of living. You know what’s wrong with the system? It ain’t Labour and it ain’t Capital; it’s the squeezing of us in between, so that we can never catch up. We go to the shops and one week to another the prices is just that much ’igher than what we’ve got in our pockets. Give us a chance to enjoy life a little, that’s all we ask.’
Sir Wilmot felt strangely moved and had the sophistication to ask himself why. Was it the physical weakness in himself engendered by the fever which he had managed to sweat out, or was there some truth to the sudden illusion that he was listening to the voice of the millions of the faceless about whom nobody gave a damn? Not the poor and downtrodden who had their spokesmen and their organizations to succour them, but the vast oceans of humanity in every land and every clime as well as Britain who, caught in the ever-rising spiral of wages and prices, never had quite enough to enable them to draw a free and joyous breath, and who were condemned to a slavery of worry far more destructive than abject poverty?
There was something most arresting and rousing about that first anguished cry which still rang in his ears, ‘Live and Let Live!’
‘That’s what I’d tackle,’ Mrs Harris was orating. ‘And do you know who I’d have a sharp word with? The working man. None of ’em has got the brains they was born with. And how do I know? Because I live amongst ’em an’ I seen their women suffer. Strike, strike, strike! Them and their strikes. ’Old out for months for a fourpenny rise and take three years to catch up on what they lost on wages in the meantime, not to mention killing the goose and sending the price of eggs up ’igher. If they’ve got to strike it ought to be against prices. There’s only one thing that’ll ’elp the working man, and it ain’t strikes. It’s work and if he ain’t got the brains to see that it’s only work that makes money, ’e wants somebody with the brains to tell ’im so. ’Im and ’is thirty-five hour week! Where would you be if you only worked them hours, or me? There wouldn’t be enough for an extra cup of tea, or a cup of anything at all.’
Like all shrewd and powerful men who have climbed up out of the ruck by the sheer force of their wits, Sir Wilmot’s mind was able to operate on split levels. The bugle call of ‘Live and Let Live’ had set turning the wheels of political scheming; schemes so off-beat and far-fetched that they were likely to be rejected immediately as impossible and absurd. Except that they were not entirely absurd because of the compelling figure into which the wispy little char had grown, holding the weapon of her trade almost like a flaming sword. That and the memory of something he had either seen, heard, or read about in recent years, and not too long ago. He was only half listening to Mrs Harris now, because of the smooth way the wheels had begun to mesh. And yet, more of what she was saying was still coming through.
‘And as for the Mods and Rockers, you know what I’d do with them? I’d have their trousers down and give ’em a taste of the birch, that’s what I’d do. Every mother’s son of ’em, and their sluts too. I’d ’ave their bottoms fanned. Bored, are they? I’d give ’em boredom with the end of a strap. And right out in a public square, that’s what. That’d fix ’em – destroying property and beating up old men and women.’
Another portion of Sir Wilmot’s brain, where he kept his imagination, flashed a picture on his internal television screen of Sloane Square with a huge posy of bared bottoms at the centre and policemen beating on them with birch rods. No more Mods and Rockers!
It wouldn’t work, naturally, but momentarily there was something curiously satisfying about the picture of this beastly form of social vengeance. What, after all, contained more common sense and practical value than ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’? Generation after generation that had not been spared the rod had grown up without so much as a sign of Mod, Rocker or unwashed Beatnik. The wheels continued to mesh smoothly and sweetly. It was, of course, utterly impossible, but that was not what the cogs were saying.
‘As for them Ban the Bombers,’ Mrs Harris went on, ‘you know what they are, don’t you? Mostly a lot of rotten, filthy Communists. Or fools, and I don’t know which is worse. Filthy! Filthy dirty, some of ’em. I’ve seen ’em. Out from under a flat stone. I’d give ’em marching. Do you know where I’d march them? Right through a bath, that’s where. That’s what they need. Clean up their bodies and maybe you’d clean up their minds.’
Sir Wilmot’s private television now produced another picture for him, a long, snake-like, unending line of greasy, unwashed, subversive failures passing through something like a gigantic car-wash and emerging from the other side clean, sparkling and freed from their burden of wishing to make everyone and everything as foul and useless as themselves. Inwardly he smiled at himself for the ingenuousness and then once again the beat of ‘Live and Let Live’ took over and the wheels turned faster.
Mrs Harris was not so sound on foreign policy, except for a glimpse of laissez-faire; letting those who wanted to be Communists be Communists if that’s what they thought they’d enjoy, and see where they’d end up. But domestically and economically it all coincided with the common sense of giving human beings at least a few moments of relaxation, happiness and enjoyment during their short shrift on earth. Besides which everyone knew that this election would not be fought on the basis of foreign policy.
Suddenly Sir Wilmot was aware that there was silence in the room and the only clatter he was hearing was the machinery of his whirling mind. Mrs Harris had run down.
It was she who broke the silence. ‘Coo,’ she said, ‘ain’t I the one! Tiring you out and you under the weather. But I ’ad to get it off me chest after listening to that man last night, didn’t I?’
Sir Wilmot said, ‘That’s all right. By the way, Mrs Harris, where do you live?’
‘Oh, I thought you ’ad me address: 5, Willis Gardens, East Battersea.’
Sir Wilmot nodded. He had known at the back of his head, but it had just seemed too good to be true and this knowledge was probably what had contributed to the smoothness of the wheels. ‘Had you ever thought of going into politics, Mrs Harris?’
Mrs Harris looked thoroughly startled. ‘ ’Oo, me?’ she said. ‘What could I do? Me, as ain’t never even ’ad a proper educuyation! What would I ’ave?’
Sir Wilmot reflected before replying. ‘Something brand new, I expect. Sincerity.’
‘Nobody would ever want me,’ said Mrs Harris. ‘Well, I’ve got to be getting on,’ and setting the broom against the door for a moment, she came in and removed the tray from his lap. ‘I’ll just clean up these dishes and be on my way. I’ll call in early in the morning and tidy up this room. You’ll be all right now until Lady Corrison gets ’ere.’
Sir Wilmot lay quietly in bed, looking up at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of washing-up from the small kitchen below; the splashing of water, the rattle of plates and silver and the closing of cu
pboards. These were followed by a moment of silence when he imagined she would be changing into her street clothes and, sure enough, he heard the opening and shutting of the front door and the sounds of footsteps dying away on the cobbles of the Mews.
A curious smile gathered at the corners of his slightly too-small mouth as he turned in bed and reached for the telephone.
3
His first call was to his home, where he was able to catch his wife before she started for London. He said, ‘Look here, Leila, I’m glad I got you. There’s no need for you to be coming up. I’m loads better. Mrs Harris came by and looked after me. Remarkable woman. I must have just caught a chill, or something. Just send Bayswater back to me and I’ll be out with him tonight and not come up tomorrow, if things go the way I want them to.’
Next, he glanced at his watch, saw that it was not yet one. He dialled the number of his office and got on to his personal assistant, Tom Trevin.
He said, ‘Look here, Tom, what was it I read in a paper some time back – or maybe even a couple of years ago – about some charwoman, at Claridge’s, who was mayoress of Bermondsey? Could that be possible, or did I dream it? Have it looked up, would you? It ought to be in our hotel file. I’ll hang on.’
In the matter of a few minutes his man was back again. ‘Got it, sir,’ he said. ‘Jackson remembered seeing it. It’s a photo in the Daily Express of 4 July 1962, of a Mrs Alice Burns with her dog, stepping into a Rolls-Royce. Shall I read you the caption?’
‘Yes, please do.’
Trevin said, ‘The headline is “ALICE IN WONDERLAND”, subhead, “Charwoman Steps into Her Rolls”, and the caption goes: “The men of Claridge’s, whose noses normally twitch at anything less than a peerage or a Manhattan expense account, spring to attention as the hotel’s most unexpected celebrity makes for her car. Shoes sparkling white, hat and gloves to match, a freshly pressed suit, and Mrs Alice Burns, for sixteen years a Claridge’s char, steps into her Rolls. She even has that final touch of distinction – a Sealyham who must go first. His name is Midge and he lives at the hotel, where he is cared for by Mrs Burns and her friends. This year unexpected fame has come to Alice Burns. She has been chosen mayoress of Bermondsey by her friend seventy-year-old Mrs Evelyn Coyle, who is now mayor after thirty years on the council. Alice, as the mayor says, is used to meeting people. Yesterday they drove together from Mayfair to a school prizegiving at Tooting. Early today Mrs Burns, back in overalls, will be at work again on the hotel stairs.”’
Sir Wilmot was pleased. His memory had not tricked him. ‘First-class!’ he said. ‘Now, look here, call Phil Aldershot at Centre Headquarters and tell him I want to see him here within a half-hour. If he isn’t there, find out where he is. But get him.’
It was a half-hour minus just one minute when the bell rang and Sir Wilmot, now shaved and in his dressing-gown, opened the door to admit his second-in-command, Phil Aldershot, a tall, bespectacled, studious-looking, ex-Cambridge don, one of the few Centre Members of Parliament who had won his seat by a large majority and hence had considerable influence in the Party.
He said, ‘Sorry if you’ve got a luncheon appointment, Phil, but you can cancel it from here.’
‘No, no, Sir Wilmot, it’s quite all right. I actually hadn’t.’
‘Fine! Then sit down and have a drink.’ He handed a glass to Aldershot, poured one for himself, said his usual ‘Chin, chin!’ and then asked, ‘Who’s our candidate for East Battersea?’
His lieutenant had it at his fingertips. ‘We were planning to run Chatsworth-Taylor there, Sir Wilmot. He had a very good record at Oxford: tennis blue, Magdalen, firsts in Etruscan History, Political Science and Economics.’
Sir Wilmot raised his eyes from his glass. ‘That gets votes?’ he asked.
‘He makes a very good impression and is well thought of.’
‘So was the last clot we put up in that constituency. We had to pay his forfeit, didn’t we? He didn’t collect enough votes to paper a cigar box.’
‘Well,’ Aldershot protested, ‘Charles Smyce, our election agent, picked him and is going to manage his campaign, and Charles is an old pro at the game, if ever there was one …’
‘And a nasty bit of work and a snob to boot, I’m afraid,’ Sir Wilmot concluded. ‘You’ll have to tell him that old tennis blue Chatsworth-Taylor won’t do. We’re not standing for Wimbledon, but East Battersea.’
Aldershot echoed uneasily, ‘You want me to tell him?’
‘Certainly,’ said Sir Wilmot, a good deal of whose success in life was based upon the fact that he never did any dirty work that he could get anyone else to do.
‘Er – have you anyone else in mind, then?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Sir Wilmot said quietly. ‘Her name …’
‘HER name?’ repeated Aldershot. ‘You mean …’
‘… is Mrs Ada Harris, of No. 5, Willis Gardens, Battersea SW II. That’s nicely centred in the constituency where, I suspect, she is probably quite a popular person. She’s my charwoman.’
Aldershot was now thoroughly alarmed. ‘Your charwoman. You’re joking, Sir Wilmot? As a Labour candidate – possibly. But surely there’s no precedent for a charwoman to …’
‘Oh, but there is,’ said Sir Wilmot and showed Aldershot the caption from the Daily Express he had taken down over the phone.
Aldershot read it. When he had finished Sir Wilmot said, ‘She’s actually a remarkable woman. An hour ago I listened to the best political speech I’ve heard in years. You must trust my judgement, Phil. We’re going to run Mrs Ada Harris for East Battersea on her own platform of “Live and Let Live”.’
‘I’m trying to follow you, Sir Wilmot, but – a charwoman? I do trust you – but what’s she got that …’
Sir Wilmot Corrison reflected and tried to recall just what it had been that had succeeded in getting him started upon a scheme that any other sensible politician would have put down as utterly harebrained. A memory of how she had looked and the curious sensation he had experienced came back to him.
‘Why,’ he said, ‘she touched me.’
Aldershot looked at his chief with amazement bordering upon shock. Sentimentality was a quality he would not have suspected in him. ‘She what?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ replied Sir Wilmot, ‘but it’s a first-class political commodity. Let’s use it.’ He reflected for a moment and then mused, half to himself, ‘Her ideas are utterly impossible, of course, but she has a certain something that makes you long for them to be possible.’
There was no doubt that Sir Wilmot was serious and Aldershot began to prepare for whatever snags might be encountered in carrying out his boss’s directives and to cope with them. ‘But will she stand? Have you spoken to her?’
‘I’ve put the idea into her head,’ replied Sir Wilmot. ‘It’s up to you chaps to do the rest.’
‘But suppose they don’t want her?’ Aldershot said. ‘You know what Selection Committees are like, and how difficult it is to control them particularly if they get the notion into their minds that you’re trying to lead them. Besides which, we’re going to run into trouble with Charlie Smyce. Chatsworth-Taylor is his man.’
Sir Wilmot’s features seemed suddenly to shrink even more with petulance and he snapped, ‘Charlie Smyce will do as I say. I happen to know where the body is buried. I’ll outline the campaign I want conducted for her.’
‘But the Committee,’ Aldershot insisted and this time Sir Wilmot did considerable reflection, for there was no glib answer to those independent Committee members in the constituencies who interview prospective candidates, their terrifying question and answer sessions, and in whose hands rested the final decision as to the fitness of the candidate. Sir Wilmot knew them well, stubborn, autonomous, often arbitrary; they could be manipulated somewhat but only just so far.
Sir Wilmot tossed a mental coin into the air, called ‘heads’ and heads it turned up. There came a point in every kind of political deal, plan or plot where the unforesee
n could not be provided for and a gamble had to be taken, and this apparently was it. Looking back over the events of the last hour or so and the affair he was hatching, it all seemed so potentially idiotic that he wondered whether he might not be still suffering from a touch of the fever that had afflicted him the night before. But then, as clear as the finest cinema projection, on his mental TV screen flashed a picture of Mrs Harris dramatically planting the standard of her mop and her call to arms, ‘Live and Let Live’, and he knew that he would go ahead.
‘Let the Committee interview her,’ he said, ‘and tell Charlie Smyce I said to keep his mouth shut.’
‘What if she refuses? That type of woman might be simply terrified at the prospect.’
Sir Wilmot’s features relaxed again and took on their normal dimensions and he even smiled as he replied, ‘Did you ever know a char who was afraid of anything or anyone? And, besides, it’s up to you to persuade her. That’s part of your job. She’s just finished mothering me like a cat one of her kittens. If you can make her believe she’s needed, you’ll not encounter any difficulty. Remember, No. 5, Willis Gardens, East Battersea. I suggest you drop round this evening and have a preliminary chat with her, after you’ve seen Smyce. Then give me a call in the country tomorrow and let me know what you think of her and how it shapes up.’
Sir Wilmot stopped Aldershot at the door as he was about to close it behind him with, ‘Oh, and by the way, Phil, if the Committee gets on to the subject of Foreign Policy, put them off it. She’s not too clued up there. Keep them on the domestic situation if you can.’
‘Sir Wilmot,’ and it was almost a last minute cry of despair from Aldershot, poised in the doorway, ‘do you really believe we might get her elected?’
‘Elected?’ echoed Sir Wilmot, and his mouth formed just the wisp of an anticipatory smile. ‘Of course not! But we might just be able to pull Major Kempton through in Fairford Cross.’