Out of the Blackout

by Robert Barnard

  ‘You really managed it admirably.’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I? You could say it turned out well for all concerned. I bet Ted found some country family that looked after him all right. It’s better for kids growing up in the country, isn’t it? And I was shot of him. Mind you, I had a nasty moment a little later on.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘It was late that evening, and we were all in the house. The bereaved family. Len was wondering how he was going to tell Davey when he went to visit him. And while we were sitting there, talking low (as was only respectable, Ma thought), Ma asked about getting Ted away. She said “Good riddance to bad rubbish”, in her pleasant way. She asked how I’d joined him on to a party, and I told her, and I said it really felt like a burden physically lifted off my shoulders as I saw him walk down that platform, his little case in his hand, his satchel on his back. And Ma thundered: “You didn’t send him off with his satchel?” ’ Connie Simmeter laughed and laughed. ‘Do you know what I’d done?’

  ‘You’d sent him off with a satchel with his name in it.’

  That’s right! After all our precautions! I didn’t know his bloody name was in it. It was Mary did all that kind of thing for him. Typical of her to write his name in it, in indelible ink, when he started school. We lived in fear for days. Len came over here, to Islington, to look for another house and a new job—not hard then, with everyone away at the war. But every night before we moved we expected a visit from the police, or at least a welfare officer. You’d think with a name like Simmeter they’d have been able to trace us easily enough, wouldn’t you? I don’t know what it was—everything was chaos in those days, so perhaps there was just a mix-up and everyone thought someone else was investigating it. Or perhaps he realized the danger himself, and blacked it out, or said the satchel was another boy’s. Anything could have happened.’

  ‘Yes, anything could,’ said Simon. ‘In point of fact I threw the satchel out of the train window. Thank God—I threw it away. Good night, Miss Simmeter.’

  Thinking over the interview later, as he often did, Simon was always glad he hadn’t called her “Mother”.

  CHAPTER 18

  During the early ’eighties, the London Zoo went through something of a crisis. Or, as several of the board preferred to put it, it was in a crisis situation (Simon was never quite sure whether this made it sound more or less critical). Admission fees had been drastically raised, and the number of visitors had correspondingly fallen. Finances were rocky, and many of the Zoo’s traditional policies were called into question. Its affairs appeared all too often in Private Eye, and circulars were sent to all the staff which had an almost wartime sound to them, warning them against loose talk. A well-loved animal moped itself to death in captivity, and the Zoo’s whole approach to the custody of wildlife became a matter of public debate. A shake-up was necessary—new investment policies, new houses for many categories of animals, a new relationship with the visitors. The governing board had to be shaken out of its complacency. One of the new members of the Board was Sir Isaiah Mandel.

  He was by then semi-retired from the family businesses, and very rich indeed. Semi-retired, he would explain with a great laugh to anyone who asked, meant that he only interfered when he felt like it. The family business which had once been a chain of jewellery shops had expanded and diversified into so many fields of activity that no one (apart, perhaps, from Sir Isaiah himself) could have come up with a list of each and every pie that the firm had a finger in. Nor had business been the only field of Sir Isaiah’s activities: he was on the board of the National Theatre, had been chairman of the Parole Board, and was often to be seen sleeping at Glyndebourne. He had been put on the board of the Zoo to shake things up.

  He went about things fairly unobtrusively. In the weeks after his appointment he was to be seen walking around the Zoo—a paunchy, energetic figure, with a bald head and a hearty manner, peering, surveying, and noting down. He talked to keepers and members of the public—even, it was rumoured, to some of the animals as well. He examined the power structure, stewed over the books, and generally seemed to be making a thorough job of whatever he was doing. In 1983 Simon was acting head of the scientific staff, and in November of that year Sir Isaiah invited him for lunch in a little restaurant in Mayfair.

  Sir Isaiah was very genial, and the lunch was extremely good. Simon noted that Sir Isaiah seemed to acknowledge no dietary restrictions. He had done his homework on the most obvious aspects of Simon’s private life, and questioned him pleasantly about it while they read the menu.

  ‘Wife’s an actress, isn’t she? ‘Course she is. Seen her often. What was the name of that television show? Three into Two. That was it. Not bad. They made it sound funny even when it wasn’t. Got any more series coming up, has she? . . .’

  There were no flies on Sir Isaiah. As soon as they had ordered, he plunged straight into Zoo business—questioning, probing, suggesting, floating ideas and possibilities. ‘Remember, I’m an outsider’ he said several times; ‘I’m just trying to find out what can and what can’t be done.’ Simon applauded some of his ideas, expressed quiet scepticism about others, pointed to consequences and side-effects that Sir Isaiah had not taken into account. Sir Isaiah ate heartily, but did not let it interfere with his inquisition. He clearly did not go in for the type of business lunch where the only business aspect is that it is a business that pays the bill. Simon worked for his food. By the time they came to coffee and brandy Sir Isaiah was jotting down notes.

  ‘I’m new to animals,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I make that all too obvious, do I? I’m a London boy. My parents didn’t even encourage pets. Now I believe you’re a countryman, aren’t you?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Simon. ‘I was born in London, but I was evacuated to Gloucestershire when I was about five. I stayed on and grew up there.’

  ‘I see. Parents killed, eh?’

  ‘No. I suppose you could say that they weren’t really interested. As a matter of fact, I believe you once knew my mother. Her name is Connie Simmeter.’

  Sir Isaiah wrinkled his forehead.

  ‘Don’t think so . . . Can’t say I recall . . . Wait a minute! Good heavens! Connie! Practically my first love. Only my second or third, anyway. Bit of a disaster, as it turned out . . . Good Lord! You don’t mean to say that you—’

  ‘She only had the one child.’

  ‘Well, heavens above! What a coincidence!’ A slightly roguish smile suddenly wreathed his face. ‘Things catch up with one, don’t they? Quite like a Sunday newspaper story, isn’t it? She was a sharp little thing, was Connie. Do you know, she screwed five pounds a week out of my parents for eighteen years? I never heard the last of that, I can tell you.’ He banged his head, as a thought struck him. ‘And you say she didn’t bring you up most of the time?’

  ‘Not after I was five. I’m afraid your parents were had.’

  ‘They were, weren’t they? Well and truly fleeced. It wasn’t often that happened. It all turned out pretty well, though, didn’t it? For you, I mean?’

  Sir Isaiah looked at his watch, and decided not to wait for an answer.

  ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I’ve got a meeting of the governors of the Nat in half an hour’s time. Well, it’s been an interesting talk. You’ve given me lots of info, and a lot to think over. I expect our paths will cross at meetings and suchlike.’ He got up, and waiters hovered around him. He hesitated, seeming to think that something more was required. He decided to shake Simon by the hand. ‘You must come to dinner some evening. Bring the wife. I’ll get my secretary to ring and arrange a date.’

  And he bustled out to a waiting taxi. Simon nodded to the manager, and walked briskly back to the Zoo. He had a busy afternoon ahead of him. A giraffe was arriving from a zoo in Southern France, to be mated with one at Regent’s Park. Simon didn’t anticipate any problems. These things arranged themselves with so much less fuss in the animal world.

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  First published in the United States by Charles Scribner’s Sons 1985.

  Copyright © Robert Barnard 1984

  Copyright under the Berne Convention.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of Scribner.

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  eISBN: 9781476737232