by MARY HOCKING
‘Muddled,’ she said.
Lomax returned to his office an hour later. He was carrying a daily newspaper which seemed to have put him in a bad mood. ‘ “A fully paid-up member of the human race!” ’ He threw the offending newspaper across the room. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll give up journalism.’ Todd, who had been waiting his return from the civic lunch, had more substantial cause for concern to report. He followed Lomax into his room.
‘Allinson wanted to see you, but he’s had to go out.’ Todd paused, waiting for Lomax’s full attention. Lomax perversely began to rummage through the papers on his desk as though something of great importance was buried among them. Todd, satisfied that this was a form of attention, said, ‘We’ve lost Colcott’s advertising.’
‘What do you mean, we’ve lost it?’ Lomax went on creating chaos among the papers for some moments and then looked up. ‘We’ve lost it!’ Todd said nothing, allowing time for the shock to register. Lomax sat down. Todd thought how small and frail he looked, hunched there behind the mound of paper. Then Lomax said, ‘Well, well. That’s interesting.’ He had completely recovered his good-humour and smiled benevolently at Todd. Todd wondered whether he was insane.
‘This will be a loss to Colcott,’ Lomax said. ‘It’s not as though there is another local paper.’
‘It will be a loss to us,’ Todd said grimly. Colcott owned several businesses in the town and spent a lot of money on advertising. The drop in revenue would be noticeable. Lord Cannock didn’t interfere with his editors, but he didn’t like to make a loss either.
‘If Golcott has done this, there must be someone behind him who means to bring pressure to bear on us.’ Lomax rubbed his hands together energetically: Todd didn’t think he was washing his hands of the West Front controversy. ‘That someone must be getting rather worried, don’t you think?’
Todd decided to leave it to Allinson to bring him to a more sober frame of mind.
Major Brophy was in an unusually sober frame of mind as he drove to Moray’s flat. All the traffic lights were green, there were no lorries unloading goods, no buses moving out of the bus-bays, no learner drivers stuck on Station Hill. He made the journey in a record ten minutes. He wouldn’t have minded a bit of stop-and- start en route; he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Moray. As he got out of the car, he hoped that Moray was at the House of Commons.
When Moray opened the door of the flat, Brophy said reproachfully, ‘Thought you would be in Westminster.’
‘I had business to attend to here. I’ve only just got back from my office.’
‘Like a word with you.’
‘About what?’
‘One or two little things.’
Major Brophy did not feel that it should be necessary to be too specific between gentlemen. So when he said to Moray, ‘Look here, let’s get one thing clear, no one doubts your honour,’ he felt he had stated his mission with all the clarity that could be expected of him. Moray greeted the remark with the bemused surprise he might have accorded his bank manager had that gentleman thought it necessary to call on him to tell him that his account was not overdrawn. He allowed Major Brophy to manoeuvre him into the sitting-room.
‘Vicente seems to be stirring up a bit of trouble,’ Brophy said when he had Moray with his back to the mantelshelf.
‘Trouble is his business.’ Moray snatched at the phrase.
‘They say he claims to have information he will hand over to the police.’
‘Everyone goes to the police. Even my secretary. She goes one day about this and the next day about that. You mustn’t believe a thing she says.’
It’s Vicente I’m talking about.’ Major Brophy was perplexed but dogged. ‘There are rumours he is on to something about contributions to your campaign fund. . . .’
Moray waved his hand at the files strewn round the room as though by their very existence they were a proof of innocence. ‘He’s welcome to look at them if he wants to.’
‘Glad to hear you say that. It’s the right line to take, absolutely open and above-board. Unfortunately, that’s not all. There’s a suggestion that . . . well, quite frankly, that Cope is in Heffernan’s pay. Don’t want to say too much, you understand. Mustn’t condemn a fellow untried. Damn good chap in many ways, excellent army record, brave. . . .’
‘And audacious.’
‘That’s it!’ Major Brophy wiggled his eyebrows at Moray knowingly. ‘Audacity can be a damn nuisance. Believe me, I’ve had some of these fellows. You can’t hold them. Brilliant in their way, some of them; but you know what they say, only a thin line between. . . .’
‘Thin red line. . . .’
‘Perhaps I’m not making myself clear.’ Major Brophy was becoming uneasy. ‘People are saying things-lot of nonsense probably, but they are saying things just the same. And Cope’s the fellow the finger points at, so to speak.’
Moray said, ‘I’m glad you see things this way.’ His face was bland as though something very pleasant had been brought to his notice. ‘We’ve been through a lot together. Solidarity is important. I really do appreciate it very much.’ He spoke these phrases as though he was trying them out for sound, volume, inflection; he might have been standing in front of a mirror in an empty room. In spite of this lack of contact, his manner towards Brophy became effusive. The major was a tower of strength who had done yeoman service to the organisation; he was also a tower of wood and a drawer of water; the member of parliament must shoulder a heavy burden and it was comforting to know that things were in good hands on the Scotney front. He was shepherding Brophy into the hall; at the front door, he said that it was particularly comforting to know that Major Brophy was ready to stand up and be counted.
Major Brophy made a last-ditch stand. He said, ‘I hope you will think over what I have said about Cope.’
They stood eyeball to eyeball on the doorstep, there was little room to do otherwise. Moray said, ‘Cope has my complete confidence.’ He made this statement without emphasis, as though it was a religious truth which was not subject to the normal process of reasoning.
As he got into his car. Major Brophy said, ‘Mission accomplished,’ although he wasn’t any too sure of it.
Moray was pleased that the visit had taken place. He saw it as something inevitable which, by its very inevitability, was a proof that all was well, as reassuring as the continuing habit of night to follow day. He saw every development as a good sign. Even unpleasant suggestions were as welcome as if he were making a collection of them. The more varied the collection the better. He was like a person with a terminal illness who, when it attacks another part of the body, says with relief, ‘This is something new: perhaps the diagnosis was wrong.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘The drama of complete contrast. That’s what I’m after,’ Heffernan said.
Councillor Cray said, ‘Ah, yes, yes.’ He nodded his head slowly, so that Heffernan could see that here was a man capable of envisaging such a concept. He repeated, ‘The drama of complete contrast.’
‘Well, you try putting that across to the planning committee, Sid!’ Alderman Bakewell, who was a crude, unimaginative little man, knocked back his gin and vermouth and looked round hopefully. Heffernan pursued him with more gin.
‘I find it hard to know just what it is that your planning committee does want,’ he said. ‘I get the feeling, I may be wrong, of course, but I get the feeling that the only development it would be likely to approve is a bungalow estate.’
‘God forbid!’ Bakewell was shocked. ‘Scotney has never gone in for bungalows.’
‘That’s why I’m so disappointed,’ Heffernan said. ‘Most of the coastal towns only come alive during the summer months; for the rest of the year they are ghost towns. But not Scotney. Scotney is a town in its own right, full of life and vigour, and a bit of honest vulgarity. . . .’
‘Oh, it’s vulgar enough,’ Bakewell acknowledged with affection.
‘But over this development,’ Heffernan pursued his advantag
e, ‘you’d think the town was a retreat for retired gentlefolk. Just what are the objections? Come along, you tell me.’ He fixed Bakewell with his bright, unwinking eyes. ‘Seems to me you’re the one chap who doesn’t mince his words, and that’s the kind of person I like to deal with. I never take offence, never. I’ve been in business too long to take offence at anything! The harder a man hits, the better I like it.’
Bakewell searched around in his mind for something offensive to say, but for once inspiration failed him. It’s not the development itself, so much,’ he said, ‘it’s the people it would bring here.’
‘Don’t you want people to come here?’
They do come here.’ Bakewell warmed to the issue. ‘They come because the town’s got a lot to offer as it is; just as you said, it’s alive. What we’re afraid of is that your development wouldn’t be part of the town, it would take people away from it.’
‘All right, then, all right!’ Heffernan stabbed a forefinger like the muzzle of a gun aimed between Bakewell’s eyes. ‘Now, we’re getting down to it. I came to listen to objections, and when I listen to an objection I don’t just dismiss it, I think about it. The opinions of the people who live in a place have got to be considered, and I’ll tell you why.’ He poked the finger at Bakewell’s breastbone. ‘Not because I don’t like hurting people’s feelings, because I’m not squeamish about people’s feelings. But,’ he prodded Bakewell again, ‘I KNOW there’s a good chance that the chap who lives in a place may have thought of one or two things that haven’t occurred to me. Now! You don’t want Scotney to become a dead town. And I don’t, either. If I wanted to destroy life and vigour I’d go to Hinton or Seacombe Bay or some place where the work’? been done for me. So, it seems we’ve got a lot in common. Right? Then shouldn’t we get together about this? You’re saying my scheme is too comprehensive, too all-inclusive. That is what you’re saying, isn’t it?’
‘Something of the sort.’ Bakewell was hypnotised.
‘All right, then! Maybe that wants looking at; maybe we need to look at it together and strike a balance.’
He had appalling energy, Lomax thought, as he watched the performance from the window alcove where, he had taken refuge with a glass of tomato juice. It wasn’t what he said, but the extraordinary force which he put into each word which was so impressive; and he had that utter lack of sensitivity which can get a man over hurdles insuperable to other men. One felt helpless with him, in the grip of an obscene monster against whom neither right nor reason can prevail. Beside Heffernan, Bakewell, himself no mean performer, seemed totally ineffective.
‘Didn’t imagine Bakewell could take such a clobbering, did you?’ Rodney Cope had appeared at Lomax’s side; he was carrying a tray loaded with empty glasses and bottles. ‘Mind if I join you?’ He sat down with the tray on his lap. ‘What an appalling creature that is! Like a frog in a particularly nasty fairy story.’ He was looking at Heffernan. ‘It makes one wonder whether he has the mentality to envisage anything beyond a high-rise block of flats.’
‘Your interest in the scheme doesn’t extend to a high-rise block of flats?’ Lomax scarcely expected an answer other than a denial of any interest, but Cope replied without hesitation.
‘I thought the scheme would be exciting. An aerial city. But nowadays we have so many guardians of mediocrity you couldn’t hope to get away with a concept like that.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Lomax pursued his mundane way, ‘you will find it financially rewarding?’
‘Oh that, yes,’ Cope shrugged. ‘Juggling with such vast sums of money has a certain excitement.’
“Ask and it shall be given to you,” Mario had said: as far as Cope was concerned, this appeared to be true. Perhaps later he would deny ever having had this conversation, but even so there was something extraordinarily reckless about the man’s behaviour which Lomax found disturbing.
‘Do you think all tycoons are dreary?’ This was not said in Cope’s usual derisory tone. His dissatisfaction went deeper than Heffernan’s failure to hold his interest. His face, though filmed with sweat, was very pale and the lips were chafed and bloodless; he gave the impression of someone suffering from a severe cold rather than heat. It seemed to Lomax that Cope had reached a stage when life, like Heffernan’s scheme, seemed to be shrinking and growing daily less notable.
Behind them, a man was trying to open one of the windows. ‘The bloody fans aren’t working,’ he grumbled.
Cope pulled himself back from whatever bleak prospect he had been contemplating. ‘Have a drink,’ he said to Lomax. ‘Whatever is that you’ve got there?’
‘Tomato juice.’
‘Oh well, have a trip on this!’ He extracted a bottle of Worcester sauce from the miscellany on his tray and shook it liberally over Lomax’s glass. ‘And may God bless all who sail in her.’ He eased his shoulders against the wall and closed his eyes.
Heffernan went past with Alderman Bakewell and the mayor in tow.
‘ “The drama of complete contrast”!’ Lomax repeated disdainfully. ‘Contrast between life and death, do you suppose he means? The international set coming to Scotney for a blood transfusion.’
‘There speaks a true provincial.’
‘And why not? Scotney is a provincial town, the only one with any character on the whole of the South coast.’
‘Brighton?’
‘Too big.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. But shouldn’t you learn discretion? You aren’t built to be a giant killer.’ Cope eyed Lomax provocatively, reminding him that between them there was a question of killing. ‘As it is, Heffernan regards you as an enemy.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, indeed, and verily, verily! From the way he talked about you, you’d think the one thing he regretted about Scotney was the passing of the harbour gangs with their handy ways with a razor blade.’
In spite of evident fatigue, words spilled out lightly and effortlessly, it was difficult to tell what was nonsense and what was meant more seriously. Or was he ever serious in the way that most of us attempt to be serious? It seemed to Lomax that this man existed almost entirely without forethought, taking each moment as it came and making what he could out of it. This impromptu attitude to the business of living no doubt explained some of the apparent inconsistencies in his behaviour.
‘How very composed you are!’ Cope laughed. ‘You sit there, looking prim and a trifle superior, as though the prospect of being carved up was not of the slightest concern to you.’
‘If the harbour gangs still existed, and I was likely to be involved with them, I should be very concerned,’ Lomax assured him, and added severely, ‘As would any normal person.’
‘You disappoint me,’ Cope said. ‘There are times when you seem far from normal’
Lomax sipped his tomato juice and spluttered. Cope laughed. ‘Serves you right! That will liven up your normal life.’
Neil Moray came towards them; he seemed displeased to see them talking so freely together. ‘Do you know where Major Brophy is?’ he asked Cope.
‘He hasn’t come.’
‘Oh.’ Moray’s mouth dropped. He said sulkily, ‘Why are you sitting over here?’
Cope got up. ‘Let me get rid of this tray, then I’ll join you.’
When he had gone, Moray’ stood on the fringe of the crowd, looking disconsolate as a lost child waiting to be collected. Councillor Cray came up and spoke to him. Lomax watched the two men. Moray responded with a reluctant interest which was oddly effective, giving an impression that Cray was gradually extracting something that, without his skill and ingenuity, would not have been brought to light. Cray would come out of this exchange with the pride of the miner who has struck a rich vein where others have failed. Whereas in reality, he had himself provided the treasure because there was nothing in Moray, it was all a conjuring trick. Lomax was having some very strange thoughts; he was on the verge of something important to do with Moray, so much on the verge it made him giddy. He wished the fans wo
uld come on again. He looked out of the window. The sky had darkened to violet and the waves were white-crested. An elderly man and woman were standing in a shelter putting on raincoats, people were collecting children and deck chairs; it must already be raining, although as yet the pavements did not look wet. He felt an imperative need to be out there in the rain.
A woman had now come to stand beside Moray, one hand resting lightly, but minatorily, on his arm. She had a face of singular sweetness, and yet one felt that had Councillor Cray dropped dead she would have continued her conversation with Moray over his prone body.
‘Is the editor of the Gazette here?’ she asked Moray. ‘I very much want to meet him. Will you introduce me, please.’
‘You’re standing in front of him,’ Moray said.
‘Oh, don’t get up!’ She laid a restraining hand on Lomax’s arm as though he was much older than herself, which was not the case. She sat beside him. ‘It is so hot in here, isn’t it?’ She looked concerned. Lomax was reminded of the way his infant school teacher had looked at him once when he was sick in class. The woman reminded him of the teacher, same severe hair style and clothes, same implacably gentle manner . . . many similarities in situation . . . feeling sick at present time. . . .
‘I have read your paper with such pleasure, Mr Lomax, I felt I must congratulate you.’ They had not been introduced and she did not make good the omission, but Lomax remembered that she was Heffernan’s secretary. ‘My father edited the Church Chronicle for many years, and although it was a comparatively humble periodical, it was beautifully presented. I noticed at once the care . . . indeed, the love I think I would call it . . . which had gone into the format of the Gazette.’
One or two people were leaving, perhaps affected by the change in the weather. The rain was coming down heavily now and the greyness of the evening made one imagine it was much later than half-past seven. Moray eased his way towards the door where Hannah was talking to the chairman of the Chamber of Commerce. She smiled at Moray, but went on talking. Hannah was playing life very straight just now. Yet, because she was not glittering so much, there seemed to be more substance to her; she had begun to draw the threads of her personality together and was becoming someone to be reckoned with. When at last she freed herself from her companion, Moray said with mock humility, ‘May I approach you now?’