Titmuss Regained

by John Mortimer

  And yet, and yet … As Gregory fed more and more facts into his computer, hoping that the ingenious machine would come out with the answer he found it so hard to arrive at, as he remembered the stream of experts, planners, botanists, porers over archaeological remains, politicians and sociologists who had passed before him during that long hearing, he couldn’t help remembering Dr Simcox. He hadn’t at first taken to the Doctor, who seemed lacking in respect for the tribunal and to regard all the evidence, including his own, with the same amused detachment. But then something Fred had said returned to him: ‘We’re all at the mercy of strangers.’ Gregory had protested at that, he remembered. It had seemed irrelevant to the proceedings. But now, thinking about it, he saw Fred’s point; although it was one which would never be understood by a computer.

  He, after all, had been born in a small country which had fallen into the hands of the alien English. The Scots, in Gregory’s view, had done nothing to deserve such a fate and what crime had the inhabitants of Rapstone and Hartscombe and the countryside in between committed that they should be punished by Fallowfield Country Town? It was not their fault that three of the farmers who lived in their midst were prepared to sell the past to a hungry developer who, like some vulture wheeling in the sky, was only on the look-out for a defenceless body to pick to the bones. Their homes were not to be razed to the ground and their woods destroyed because they occupied the perfect site for a new town, but simply because it was there that Kempenflatts had found an opportunity to make money. Slowly, painfully and with minute attention to detail, Gregory Boland was coming to the view that he would decide against Fallowfield.

  Such were the Inspector’s thoughts when his wife knocked at the door, something she rarely did when the computer was wrestling for his soul, and announced a telephone call from the Ministry of Housing, Ecological Affairs and Planning. He went downstairs to have his ear filled with the voice of Ken Cracken, calling him as though on a loud-hailer.

  ‘Boland. I suppose you’ve broken the back of the Fallowfield business?’

  ‘Ay.’ Gregory was, as always, cautious. ‘I think I see light at the end of the tunnel.’

  ‘And you’ve done a splendid job, by all accounts. How about a celebration lunch? Give yourself a day off and come up to town.’

  ‘I don’t think that would be quite appropriate.’

  ‘Not to discuss Fallowfield, of course. That’s entirely off limits. But we’re up to the bloody neck in these applications now. We’re looking for someone of real experience to become chief adviser in a brand-new planning department. Salary not yet fixed but appropriate to the responsibilities. And naturally your name came up in preliminary discussions. Think about it and give me a bell, why don’t you?’

  Once Gregory had mentioned this to Mrs Boland the result was inevitable. Was he to lose a last chance to gain some of the prosperity he had missed by not joining the Masons? So, a couple of days later, Gregory Boland entered the Savoy Grill to be lavishly entertained by Ken Cracken and his political adviser.

  ‘What we’re looking for is a bloke with a real knowledge of planning law and a reputation for being clean as a whistle. Naturally you were first on our list.’

  ‘I am suitably gratified.’ Although he had protested that he never drank at lunch-time Gregory had been persuaded to share the bottle Ken chose, the second most expensive on the list. ‘The Ministry doesn’t often get a chance to show its gratitude.’ As he raised the glass of Pichon-Longueville and was filled with its costly benevolence, Gregory felt himself at the beginning of a new career. ‘This is a treat,’ he said. ‘A rare treat.’

  ‘What attracts us to you’ – Joyce Timberlake was looking at the Inspector over the rim of her glass with wide-eyed admiration – ‘is that you understand politics.’

  ‘I’m an architect by trade.’ Gregory was flattered but modest. ‘I don’t quite know where politics comes into it.’

  ‘Comes into everything, doesn’t it?’ Ken was carefully weighing up the rival claims of profiteroles and bread and butter pudding on the sweet trolley. ‘The trick, in your present inquiry, is to come up with the right decision at the right moment.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t going to discuss Fallowfield.’ There was a slight rise of the Boland hackles.

  ‘Of course not. That would be quite inappropriate,’ Joyce reassured him.

  ‘Improper,’ Ken agreed.

  ‘Entirely wrong.’

  ‘Until you’ve announced your decision.’

  ‘Which, of course, we’re looking forward to with enormous interest.’ Somewhat mollified, Gregory returned his nose to his wine glass. ‘But it would be pretty short-sighted,’ Ken went on, ‘not to recognize the political climate in which all these decisions are taken nowadays.’

  ‘You mean a general free-for-all?’ Gregory put down his glass and resumed his severe expression.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ Joyce laughed as though he had made a joke. ‘In government we like to call it the operation of market forces.’

  ‘I’m well aware’ – Gregory looked like one of his Wee Free ancestors winding himself up to denounce the Pope – ‘that there are those in government who think it a sign of our national well-being that the whole of Southern England should be concreted over to accommodate banks, shoe shops, hairdressers, building societies and other light industries. It’s surely my job to see that the outcome of this particular case is my free and independent decision!’

  There was a silence while the product of so many elders of the kirk fixed his listeners with a glare of defiance, and then Ken Cracken sat back and clapped his hands in a loud gesture of applause which disconcerted the waiters.

  ‘Damn good!’ Ken raised his glass. ‘Let’s drink to your free and independent decision.’

  ‘So long as that’s perfectly understood.’ Gregory Boland then drank to his independence.

  ‘Of course,’ Ken began again after a suitable pause for reflection, ‘if you’d said all that about concreting over England a year or two ago I’d’ve entirely agreed with you.’

  ‘A year or two ago the only song we sang was about the free market economy,’ Joyce bore him out. ‘It was all on one note. Fallowfield might have seemed the answer to all our problems.’

  ‘But there’s been a bit of a difference in the political climate, quite honestly, Greg.’

  The Inspector looked warily from the Minister to his political adviser. What were they getting at now?

  ‘The truth is’ – Ken Cracken now leaned forward confidentially – ‘Leslie Titmuss has become ozone-friendly.’

  ‘He’s come out for the rhino and broad-leafed trees, hedgerows, butterflies, chemical-free farming, unpolluted streams. The rumour is’ – Joyce laid a strong hand on Gregory’s cuff and smiled to indicate that she wasn’t to be taken entirely seriously – ‘that he’s given up using a hair-spray!’

  ‘Oh, he never used a hair-spray,’ Ken corrected her. ‘I don’t believe he’s got beyond brilliantine.’

  ‘We’re off the H in H.E.A.P. and on to the E.’

  ‘It’s not housing. Ecology’s the buzz word nowadays.’

  ‘Well,’ Gregory told them. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Indeed he was. As his mind was turning towards saving the Rapstone Valley for the badgers he was delighted that he would have his Secretary of State’s approval.

  ‘But the major political development in the last two years’ – Ken now looked at Gregory in a way the Inspector found uncomfortably conspiratorial – ‘is something entirely different. Not really anything to do with the environment.’

  ‘No,’ Joyce agreed. ‘More something to do with housing.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ Gregory was again afraid that he might understand them too well. Ken Cracken waited ostentatiously until the waiter had cleared away the pudding plates – he had gone for the profiteroles with a touch of bread and butter pudding on the side – and then he leant forward to make it quite clear to anyone of
the meanest intelligence that Gregory Boland was being invited to take part in a plot.

  ‘The outstanding event of our time,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘is that Leslie Titmuss decided to buy Rapstone Manor.’

  ‘Mr Titmuss’s house.’ Joyce made it painfully obvious. ‘So naturally he’s a bit concerned about what goes on in his back garden.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not suggesting, either of you’ – Gregory thought he knew quite well what they were suggesting – ‘that I should allow the position of the Secretary of State’s house to have the slightest effect on my decision?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Joyce, apparently horrified.

  ‘God forbid!’ Ken echoed her.

  ‘No effect at all,’ said Joyce.

  ‘Your decision will be based, I’m sure, on sound environmental principles.’

  ‘Fulfilling our duty,’ Joyce intoned, as though it were part of a new and recently learned litany, ‘to our planet earth.’

  ‘Of which we’ve but got a lease for a short number of years.’ Ken Cracken took up the response and then added, in a more businesslike manner, ‘I’m sure the Secretary of State would be delighted if you made that the basis for your decision to stop the development.’

  ‘The basis for my decision?’ Gregory Boland, his eyes alight with the strength of his principles, looked at his hosts with scorn; in such a way the early Protestant martyrs no doubt faced the threats of the Inquisition. ‘What’s Mr Titmuss got to do with the basis of my decision?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ Ken Cracken agreed with a smile.‘Provided it doesn’t mean a new town being planted on top of him. If that can be avoided, I know he’ll be extremely grateful. And we’ll look forward to your joining us, as our new overall planning adviser.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll have to go now.’ So Gregory the martyr thrust aside temptation and stood up proudly in the Savoy Grill. ‘I have a great deal of work to do. Redrafting my conclusions. You may tell the Secretary of State that he will have my full report before the month is over.’

  ‘Worked like a charm,’ Ken said when the Inspector had gone home to disappoint Mrs Boland and he had ordered a couple of Remy Martins to go with the coffee. ‘We’ve certainly got the right character. He’ll go to the stake for Fallowfield Country Town after that.’

  ‘You handled him beautifully,’ Joyce told her lover with admiration.

  ‘Well, you’ve got a great deal of political talent yourself. As well as being an absolutely delightful screw.’ Ken didn’t bother to lower his voice for the benefit of the waiter who was warming two huge balloon glasses. ‘Hardly worth going back to the Ministry this afternoon, is it?’

  ‘Hardly worth it at all.’

  So, on a bright and windy April morning Gregory Boland’s report thudded on to his Secretary of State’s desk, to coincide with a well-timed paragraph leaked to Tim Warboys by Ken Cracken, which had appeared in the Fortress. LESLIE TITMUSS TO JOIN THE HOMELESS? it was headed at Ken’s suggestion, after Warboys had been assured that Leslie would welcome so dramatic a statement of his promised sacrifice.

  Now, as I am informed, the Planning Inspector’s report is to give the go-ahead for a new country town in the Rapstone Valley, will Mr and Mrs Titmuss of Rapstone Manor be out on the streets? Hardly likely. Titmuss made a sizeable fortune before he devoted himself to becoming one of the country’s most outspoken and abrasive politicians. He won’t be driven to sleep in a cardboard box. What is certain is that Leslie Titmuss, with the unshakeable integrity which has been a characteristic of his political career, will keep his promise to follow the public inquiry’s recommendations. He is not likely to allow his own personal comfort to get in the way of what he considers best for England. Whatever his critics may say, that has never been the Titmuss style.

  ‘Did you write this? It seems to have the Cracken ring to it.’

  Ken and Joyce were entertaining committee members of his constituency party and had brought them out to admire the view down the river from the House of Commons terrace. The silver-haired women and red-faced men who helped Ken Cracken to his huge majority in the London suburbs smiled with adoration as their favourite Cabinet Minister came up to them. But Leslie was tight-lipped and furious as he held the folded paper under the nose of his Minister of State.

  ‘I’m not a journalist, Secretary of State. And I’m here with my constituency party.’

  ‘You may not be a journalist but you’ve got as many leaks in you as a rusty sieve. It’s about time you and I had a word together.’

  ‘Why don’t I take you all to find a cup of tea? And a drink, of course. Perhaps you’ll join us later, Ken.’

  ‘I do realize it’s very embarrassing for you,’ Ken Cracken said as Joyce rounded up the party and they left, disappointed to be missing what looked like being an enormously enjoyable row.

  ‘Not half as embarrassing as it’s going to be for you, my lad.’ I’ve got him, Ken Cracken thought. Now he’s starting to threaten me. He looked away, down the water towards the dome of St Paul’s and smiled serenely. Then he said, ‘I don’t know why you’re so worried about that piece in the paper. I mean, it’s perfectly true, isn’t it?’

  ‘True he’s given the go-ahead to the town. Yes.’

  ‘And true you promised to abide by his decision.’

  ‘I know what you want, Ken Cracken.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want anything in particular. After all, I don’t live in Rapstone.’

  ‘You may not. But you’re thick as a couple of thieves with Christopher Kempenflatt. How much did he contribute to party funds last year?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. All sorts of businessmen contribute to our party funds.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not suggesting you’re out for money. Although I’d like to bet you and that toothy little researcher of yours have got a summer fixed up on Kempenflatt’s boat round the Greek islands. Just watch he doesn’t push you in, that’s all. If he doesn’t, I might. I know exactly what you’re after.’

  ‘I wish you’d let me into the secret.’

  ‘You want me to go back on my word, don’t you? You want me to reject the Inspector’s finding. You want me to make a decision to save my own back garden. Titmuss, you’ll be able to tell them all in the bloody tea-room, is using his job to protect his own interests. How very unlike Ken Cracken, who is as pure as the driven slush.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll find a very convincing way of putting it. If you want to stop the new town, that is.’ Ken was smiling imperturbably at his master’s insults.

  ‘Oh, yes? How would you suggest I do it?’

  ‘Start “In view of all we now know about the environment, and having regard to this government’s very real commitment to preserve the British countryside …” How about something along those lines?’

  ‘Do you want to write the speech for me? Then you’d be quite sure it sounded like a load of lies!’

  ‘I really can’t understand why you’re taking this attitude.’ Ken now assumed an expression of pained innocence, which didn’t suit him. ‘It seems to be a matter between you and Gregory Boland, the Inspector. If you want him to think again about his report …’

  ‘I think I’ll leave that sort of monkey business to you.’

  ‘I was going to say, you know as well as I do that the Inspector’s as straight as a die. If you or I asked him to do anything he’d fly off in the opposite direction.’

  As soon as he had said that, Ken Cracken regretted it, because his Secretary of State looked at him and asked, almost with admiration, ‘Is that how you managed it?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  On the day when the warrant for the execution of Rapstone Valley was leaked in the Fortress and while Leslie confronted Ken Cracken on the terrace of the House of Commons, Jenny was at work, as usual, in the garden. It was her best time of the year, full of promise but before the weeds took over, when the first blossom was starting to appear and she hoped it would be dealt with gently and not s
haken down by the wind. She took out the sweet peas she had started in the greenhouse and planted them in the earth which had been prepared for them. Then she straightened up with the trowel in her hand and looked about her, noticing the changes, the opening of buds, the length of the shoots, since yesterday. She had a premonition of disaster, as though the whole landscape were about to be blotted out, as must happen at the moment of death. She blinked, told herself not to be ridiculous, and went in to start on the dinner.

  When he had finished eating, Leslie pushed his plate away, and, instead of saying, ‘Very tasty!’ as his father always did, he smiled bitterly and said, ‘Well. It’s happened.’

  She didn’t ask him what had happened because she didn’t want to know.

  ‘The Inspector’s report’s come out in favour of Fallowfield Country Town. So far as he’s concerned the bulldozers can move in tomorrow.’

  Jenny felt her afternoon’s vision return. She said, ‘And what about as far as you’re concerned?’

  ‘I undertook to accept the result of the public inquiry. You’d want me to keep my promise, wouldn’t you?’ And when he said that, he turned on her with such a look of fury that she wondered what on earth she had done wrong, although she was soon to discover.