By the end of his first year he was widely recognised as the thinly disguised author of a regular social column in the undergraduate newspaper in which he reported mockingly on the antics of what he described to Pountney at a rare meeting on their staircase as ‘Pitt Club monsters with more money than is good for them’. Those he sought to ridicule saw the appearance of their names in his column as reinforcing their status. They bayed for more. Bomberg’s success brought him the notoriety he sought. His ability to put a name in a column gave him a power over his fellow undergraduates that he relished. The scholarship boy from Hackney Downs had successfully created a persona that gave him credentials his background denied him.
‘Look, at Cambridge, you can do anything you set your mind to,’ he told Pountney as he returned late one evening from the Varsity office. ‘That’s what makes it so intoxicating. I wasn’t anybody before I came here. I wasn’t breathing. I wasn’t alive. Now I can reach for a world I never knew existed and make it mine. It’s better than dreaming.’
Pountney watched enviously from the sidelines as Bomberg slipped the moorings of his origins and reinvented himself. If he was to make the same journey (he too had dreamed of Cambridge as the stepping-stone to a new life), he would have to do it in his own way and his own time. It would take much longer, he knew, because he lacked Bomberg’s nerve and self-confidence. But with patience and care, he’d get there. He never doubted that. Patience had always been his strength.
Bomberg’s ambition tripped up only once. In his third year he ran for President of the Union. It was a step too far. He suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of a Tory with, he claimed, ‘not an original thought in his head but the right connections’. Despite this baggage, or perhaps because of it, his victor ten years later had a safe seat in the Commons. The rejection hurt Bomberg because it told him the place he had engineered in Cambridge society was less secure than he had imagined. For once his dreams had been too heavy for the foundations he had tried so carefully to lay, and without warning they had collapsed.
He took his rejection hard. For a week he hardly left his room. Then, one night, unshaven, his eyes deeply ringed, his hair unkempt and wearing a dressing gown over a pair of old corduroys, he burst into Pountney’s room and declared what he would do with the rest of his life.
‘Look, Gerry, you go and fly the flag in foreign parts,’ he said, knowing that Pountney was trying for the Foreign Office. ‘For me, the future’s in television. That’s the land I’m going to conquer, OK? Then I’ll get my own back on the bastards who did for me here.’
Pountney got a first, passed well into the Foreign Office and his own quiet adventure began. Bomberg scraped a third and disappeared from sight. He was last heard of working in television in Manchester or Glasgow – no one knew for sure – producing a children’s programme, something to do with glove puppets. He was written off by his enemies as overambitious. ‘Shot his bolt at Cambridge. The rest of his life will probably be an anticlimax. All that energy, to end up with puppets. Too bad, isn’t it? No wonder he’s gone to ground.’ Pountney said nothing. He knew better than to underestimate Bomberg. He’d surprise them all yet.
*
By the mid-fifties, Bomberg had graduated from children’s puppets to current affairs. The year after Suez – he had now risen to the role of editor of a weekly current affairs programme – he revealed that a group of councillors in a northern city had been lining their pockets for years by taking their cut on local building projects. The accused were put on trial on charges of corruption, convicted and sent to prison. A police investigation prompted by a television programme was the instrument by which justice was finally done. The verdict created headlines. Bomberg had triumphed. The apprentice years of painful obscurity and other humiliations were quickly forgotten. He was back in control, his reputation assured. This time the dream had been built on such solid foundations that it was soaring into the sky. The lesson of his humiliation at Cambridge had been well learned.
Three years later, out of the blue, he contacted Pountney, who by this time had resigned from the Foreign Office over Suez and was working for a newspaper, having in the interval written a book about the crises of 1956.
‘Look, Gerry, I read your book,’ he said on the telephone, not bothering to announce himself. It was as if they had spoken to each other only ten days before, not ten years. ‘Come and have lunch. I’ve got a proposition you’ll find irresistible, OK?’
They met in a restaurant in Audley Street. Nothing had changed over the years. Julius Bomberg was recognisably the same man he’d known at Cambridge, only more confident, harder, more ambitious.
He handed the menu to Pountney. ‘I can’t be bothered to read all this. You choose, OK? I’ll have whatever you’re having, so long as it’s not offal.’
They talked briefly of the years since they’d last met. Bomberg questioned Pountney on his resignation from the Foreign Office: ‘Getting out was the best thing you ever did, Gerry. You were wasted in that organisation. God knows why they don’t abolish it’, on his book on the Suez Crisis: ‘Not enough anger, Gerry. The writer is still trapped inside the civil servant. You must learn not to be afraid of your feelings so we can know where you stand on issues. Still, I enjoyed it. Who’d imagine Gerry Pountney fighting the establishment?’ and on his divorce from Harriet and his new life with Margaret. Bomberg had already been through two wives and was now on to his third: ‘I pay more in alimony in a month than most people earn in a year.’ Finally Bomberg came round to Pountney’s reinvention as a journalist.
‘Are you happy in Fleet Street?’ Bomberg asked. There was an aggression in his question that unnerved Pountney.
‘The newspaper’s been good to me, Julius,’ he replied, the defiance in his voice a response to Bomberg’s unstated challenge. ‘I like the people and the job. It’s something I do well.’
‘I thought the anti-establishment Gerry Pountney was braver than that.’
‘Braver than what?’ Pountney was bemused.
‘Look, you resigned from the Foreign Office because you thought their policy towards Nasser and his henchmen was wrong at a time when we should have been helping the Hungarians. You wrote a book to give more permanent form to your arguments. Does it end there? Has Gerry Pountney, harrier of those more powerful than himself, shot his bolt? Is he a one-hit wonder? Does he retreat under the skirts of a newspaper whose leaders read like a government press release? Come on, Gerry. You’re worth more than that, aren’t you?’
Had Bomberg suggested lunch so he could attack him for accepting a job that had nothing to do with him? The mystery about the invitation deepened.
‘Look at it another way, Gerry,’ Bomberg continued. ‘Print’s finished, OK? Hot metal, thundering presses, restrictive practices and out-of-control unions – they’ve had their day, thank God, and not before time. The newspaper industry has begun its fatal slide to a watery grave and it’s not worth saving. Ten years from now there won’t be a newspaper business to speak of. When the ship is sinking, my advice is take to the lifeboats fast.’
‘The ship seemed pretty buoyant when I left it an hour ago.’
‘Remember what I told you all those years ago, Gerry? I was right then and I’m right now, OK? The future’s in television. Come and join the future. Come and work with me.’
Mystery solved. Lunch was a job offer. Julius was handling the subject with all the sensitivity of a charging bull.
‘I don’t need a lifebelt, Julius. I’m quite happy where I am.’
‘Look, I’m talking to you from the future. I’m offering you the chance to sail in a ship which is not only seaworthy in every department but is now beginning to get up speed and make waves.’ He paused for a moment to draw breath. ‘I want a new kind of presenter, Gerry. I want a journalist with experience of foreign affairs who can work in front of a camera, OK? You’ve been overseas, haven’t you?’
‘Moscow. For a few months. That’s all.’
‘Good en
ough. You’d fit the bill as well as anyone.’ Bomberg lit a cheroot and contemplated Pountney from behind a cloud of blue smoke. ‘But I get the impression you despise our brave new world. I’m right about that too, aren’t I?’
‘How can I despise what I don’t know?’
‘Show me a more self-satisfied organisation than a national newspaper.’ Bomberg laughed. ‘Most journalists I know would bite my hand off to come and work in television. They ring up every day begging for jobs. What’s holding you back?’
‘You think I bought the wrong ticket. I’m not convinced I did.’
‘The cosy confidence of Fleet Street. How I hate it. All right, I can take that argument head-on. Is television a serious medium? Can it deal with news, facts, current affairs? You may think the jury’s still out on that one. I maintain there’s no case to be answered. Television can do the job a damn sight better than most newspapers, and a damn sight quicker too. That’s the point, OK? The speed of news-gathering and broadcasting will change the world and put newspapers out of business. The power of television as a popular medium is awe-inspiring. Gerry, come and make your name with the rest of us as we pioneer this extraordinary revolution.’
*
‘Coffee?’ Bomberg was already at the machine, pouring himself a cup of what was known at the Centre as Bomberg’s ‘black poison’.
‘No thanks.’ Last time he’d drunk Bomberg’s coffee, he’d felt ill for days.
The office was a cramped and chaotic affair. Bomberg himself, a small, unprepossessing man with a sallow pock-marked face and a shock of stiff black hair beginning to grey, sat in the only armchair, an ancient cane-backed affair, out of keeping in scale and style with the rest of the office, but to which he was devoted because, he said, it was all he had inherited from his much-loved great-aunt Bella. Pountney sat in a chrome and canvas contraption, a design that was as out of date as it was uncomfortable. He had to press his outstretched feet against the table leg to prevent himself pitching onto the floor. He wondered if designers ever sat in the chairs they created.
‘OK. Let’s look at that interview again.’ Bomberg wasn’t going to give up without a fight. He set the machine and sat back to watch.
The short extract began with a shot of a uniformed colonel in the British Occupation Force replying to Pountney’s question about the future of the Allied presence in West Germany.
‘The Soviets are threatening to change the status of West Berlin by merging it with the German Democratic Republic. That would mean the Allies would be able to enter Berlin only with East German permission. Such a situation is wholly unacceptable. Not surprisingly, we would interpret such a move as an aggressive act. If we don’t oppose the Soviets on issues as fundamental as this, we will be pushed out of Berlin and possibly out of Germany. If we are to stop the Soviets having their way, we must convince them that on this issue we mean business.’
‘You mean stop them by force,’ Pountney asked from behind the camera.
‘If we have to, yes.’
The camera held the officer’s face for a moment. Was he smiling? Certainly not, Pountney concluded. He was showing the proper distaste for the possibility of conflict. Then he was gone, and Pountney once more filled the screen. He looked troubled, perplexed even. He held the microphone in front of him like a torch.
‘In a few weeks or less, the Soviets say, they will bring their sector of Berlin under GDR rule. The West cannot accept such a move without destroying its own position. In America and the Soviet Union, military budgets are suddenly being substantially increased, the first moves in the inevitable game of political brinkmanship that may bring the world ever closer to an East–West confrontation. Suddenly we are hearing talk of war. The question is, now we’ve got on this treadmill, how do we get off again?’
The clip ended. Pountney turned off the monitor.
‘That was a smile, no question,’ Bomberg said excitedly. ‘The man was enjoying himself. That’s what I object to. The British Army threatening war on the Soviet Union off its own bat is news so good that we’ve got to keep it in. You can’t possibly cut it out, Gerry. We’re going to be headline news tomorrow. God, what a bloody shambles.’
Behind the indignation, Pountney sensed Bomberg’s excitement.
4
Marion was in the bathroom when she heard the key turn in the front door. She ran quickly into the bedroom and got into bed, pulling the sheets up to her neck. It was absurd, but she still felt embarrassed if he saw her naked when he was dressed.
‘Bill?’
She knew who it was – who else had a key to her flat? – but that didn’t stop her calling out.
‘I’m late, I’m sorry. I got held up.’ He came in, carrying his jacket and eating a sandwich. ‘The bursar collared me after my supervision. Some nonsense about wanting me to join the wine committee. Of course I refused. He must know by now I’ve never joined anything in my life.’ Gant, sitting on the end of the bed, put his bicycle clips on her dressing table, a habit which always irritated her, and began half-heartedly to untie his shoes. ‘How was your morning?’
She’d had a sleepless night, debating whether to ask him why he had suddenly turned against her at the Blake-Thomas meeting. She had watched the dawn light spread across the rooftops of Cambridge and had sworn she would say nothing, but now he was here in her bedroom her irritation at his lack of any greeting – not even a perfunctory kiss – coupled with those bloody bicycle clips, pushed out of her mind the promise she had made to herself.
‘Why didn’t you support me yesterday, Bill?’
‘Berlin’s the wrong man, Marion, and it would have been dishonest to say otherwise.’ He sounded weary, reluctant to debate the issue further.
‘You were in favour when we talked last week.’
‘I said he was an interesting candidate. I wasn’t unequivocal in my support. I remember telling you that I had some reservations about Berlin and I needed time to think before I reached a decision.’
That wasn’t her recollection but she wasn’t prepared to argue about it. She hesitated. Should she close it now, forget about it, or risk a quarrel? She’d already gone too far to withdraw.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind before the meeting? I’d been counting on your support. You could have telephoned me or left a message.’
‘My opposition can’t have surprised you, surely.’
‘It was a shock to hear you were against me.’ She noticed he had stopped undressing. ‘What have you got against Berlin? I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to him.’
‘I think his book was overrated.’
‘Oh, come on, Bill.’ Was this professional jealousy talking? Berlin’s achievement highlighted Bill’s failure to make anything of his academic career. ‘Legacies of History got a wonderful reception, here and in the States. We can’t all be wrong.’
‘I can’t shake off this feeling that somehow he’s fooling us. He isn’t who he wants us to think he is. He’s a phoney.’
They argued then, bringing the unhappy debate of the previous day into the bedroom. She put on her glasses so she could see him properly. He sat hunched on the end of the bed, an exhausted, defeated figure. She felt a moment’s regret at her outburst. Then she saw that while they’d been talking Gant had put his shoes on again.
‘Bill, if you’d rather not.’
‘What?’
‘There’s no rule that says we have to make love. We can just have lunch if you’d prefer.’
‘Are you sure?’ The relief in his voice was undisguised. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you.’
She slid out of bed, wrapping herself tightly in the sheet. What kind of inhibition made her hide herself from him?
‘Go and see what’s in the fridge while I get dressed.’
She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Was that it, then? Was this how it was going to end? In the early weeks of their affair she had allowed herself to rewrite the truth about Bill Gant. His a
cademic promise had fizzled out, she told herself, because the demands of his invalid wife were destroying him, and he either couldn’t or wouldn’t see what was happening to him. He needed rescuing and she had felt an overwhelming need to reinstate the man she believed still existed somewhere behind the exhausted mask he presented to the world. Ideas don’t die, she told herself, nor does real talent, and Bill had had ideas and talent when he was young. It is energy that fades, especially when drained away through impossible emotional demands, and with it that special self-confidence so necessary to sustain academic theory. Poor Bill.
She would restore his belief in himself by rebuilding him through love. She would make no demands on him, except that he make love to her once or twice a week. From that the relationship would grow. She would watch over his steady recovery. In time, they would write history together. They would make their reputations, and she would laugh at deriders like Michael Scott, who claimed there was never any way back up the slippery slope of academic advancement once the downward slide had begun. They would build their lives together. That was her unspoken dream. She took Bill Gant in her arms once a week on Wednesday lunchtimes and tried to work her magic on him.
How she had longed for him in those first weeks of their affair last autumn, an intoxicating time when she had still believed her dreams were possible. Each Wednesday morning she’d had difficulty concentrating on her supervision. The moment her students had gone, she’d rush off on her bike to buy something savoury from the French delicatessen in Petty Cury, then to Fitzbillie’s for a treacle tart – Bill had a sweet tooth – before racing back to the flat to await his arrival. Sometimes the tension of the minutes until she heard him put his key in the door was almost unbearable. Why was she always so afraid he wouldn’t appear? Why did she always fear that in her letterbox one day she’d find a note ending the affair? Couldn’t she have more confidence in herself? Sometimes, after he had gone, she would lie in bed crying.
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