Friends in Low Places

by Simon Raven

  He glanced up at a shelf which held the bound volumes of Strix as though to imply, if not without polite irony, that all knowledge and all wisdom reposed between their covers.

  “I’m very sorry - ”

  Gray held up his hand.

  “No need to be. It was time I had a change in my life. You may remember that I once had ambitions ... of a non-military kind.”

  Somerset twitched slightly in assent. Answer to question (2) coming up.

  “Well,” proceeded Gray, “I have a pension and a gratuity which between them will keep me fed and watered. But little more. I could probably apply for a University Grant, but it’s a little late in the day for that. I must do as best I can with what I know already.”

  “The Army . . .?”

  “The Army. Most of Europe and the Near East. East Africa. Hongkong. Extensive reading for the last thirteen years - soldiers have a lot of leisure, you see. It all adds up to a body of knowledge.”

  “Certainly,” said Somerset; and then, amiably, “unspecialised knowledge.”

  “If you like. Wide but unspecialised knowledge of men, places and events. Not to mention books. The equipment of a general commentator.”

  Gray’s tone was still steady, but Somerset could detect a thin, ghostly plea for encouragement, for one word to show that he understood and might approve. Well, perhaps he would give that word. But not yet.

  “And so?” he said.

  For the first time since Gray had been in the room Somerset now started adding to his notes. “Not broke,” he wrote: “wants work and is convinced that he can do it. (Ambitious?) But uncertain whether he can get anyone to share his faith in himself.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting you in anything important,” said Gray politely when Somerset raised his head again.

  “Not really . . . . Just a point to be made in a letter. I didn’t want to forget it. I find my memory slips more and more as I grow older.”

  “I know what you mean. Life is so complex. There are so many threads to be sorted and kept straight. That is why I have tried to keep my hand in all these years.”

  “Keep your hand in?”

  “As a writer. You may remember that my little efforts were well regarded when we were still at school. But of course everything was very simple then; every day was either wet or fine, so to speak. It has grown more complicated since; so I have tried to develop my talent - such as it is - accordingly. To use it to sort the threads and keep them straight. For my own satisfaction . . . for my own mental safety.”

  - Somerset considered this.

  “By which you mean you’ve kept a journal,” he asserted at last.

  “Yes. Dating right back to the time when things first started to get complicated. To that last summer at school. You remember, Somerset?”

  Somerset remembered. On the foolscap sheet in front of him he sketched a Maltese cross, his personal symbol for danger.

  “But of course,” said Gray indifferently, “I’ve no intention of trying to publish it. The journal was for myself, so that I might understand who I was. What I had hoped,” and now the faint note of supplication was back in his voice again, “was that I might be able to do something about publishing a couple of novels which I have also written.”

  “Based on the journal?” said Somerset heavily.

  “No,” said Gray. His mouth flickered briefly in what might have been either a smile or a sneer; there was no way of telling. “The journal is an attempt to analyse the characters and explain the actions of myself and people I have known well - you among them. The novels are also analytic, but of situations rather than people. They deal with technical problems, not moral ones. The first of them turns on a vexed point of military law; the other on the necessity to make a starving tribe eat food forbidden by its faith.”

  “A moral problem, surely.”

  “Perhaps, but in no sense individual and therefore not concerned with subtleties of human character. As you may see from the solution, which is merely administrative: you deceive them into thinking that the forbidden food is in fact something else, veal, say, and not pork.”

  All this he offered poker-faced. Somerset drew a small fish, which meant “danger passed”, but qualified it with two question marks.

  “Let the dead bury their dead,” said Gray, as though reading his thoughts; “it was all too long ago. Things are as they are; and as they are, Somerset, I want your help.”

  Somerset excised the question marks. Before looking up he wrote: “A curious example of God’s Grace. By his own endeavours alone, apparently by the simple effort of keeping a journal, Fielding has come to understanding and forgiveness. Even so, he could be troublesome if he chose. Therefore help him; but also make difficulties, so that the help may appear the more valuable. A.M.D.G. ”

  “I'm sorry,” he said, and pushed the papers away from him: “I just wanted to get that finally out of the way. I’m all yours, Fielding.” -

  “I have come to you because you are the only person I know in this line. You presumably know a bit about publishers, and of papers, like this one, which might be prepared to give me a trial.”

  Gray had tried to speak bravely but there was in what he said the pathetic eagerness of a small boy on the beach claiming his turn to bat.

  “This kind of work is sought after,” Somerset said. “It is held to carry prestige.”

  His hair, he thought, is still as beautiful as ever. Ample, auburn, with the same gentle wave. Above such a face it is incongruous, obscene.

  “But,” Somerset said, “I can certainly offer you something. This paper deals mainly with economics and industry, but in the review section we often take on books which are on the margin of these subjects. Well documented travel books, for example. They should be within your compass. Or books on military organisation and supply - logistics, I think you call it.”

  Gray nodded enthusiastically.

  “I'll give you two books to do during the next month,” Somerset went on. “If I like what you write, I’ll give you more, and perhaps commission a straight essay from you. If your work for Strix is any good, you’ll find you get enquiries from other quarters soon enough.”

  Gray’s one eye blinked. He’s moved, Somerset thought he’s moved because after all these years I’m going to help him. He was always a sentimental boy .... But this train of thought was interrupted by his secretary, whose voice now crackled at him from his desk.

  “Tom Llewyllyn here to see you.”

  “Ask him to wait a few - No,” said Somerset, “send him straight in. Tom Llewyllyn’s publisher,” he said to Gray, “has a reputation for helping new writers. Even aspirant novelists, God help him.”

  “Gregory Stern.”

  “You keep abreast.”

  “I told you. Soldiers have a lot of leisure. Particularly wounded ones.”

  Yes, thought Somerset, a great part of whose motive for admitting Llewyllyn so promptly was to see how he reacted to Gray’s disfigurement.

  “I want you to meet an old friend of mine,” he said as Llewyllyn came through the side door; “Major Fielding Gray.”

  Gray rose and confronted Llewyllyn, who merely held out his hand and nodded with visible annoyance, for he had been hoping to find Somerset alone.

  “Fielding’s just going,” Somerset said, reading Llewyllyn’s mind at once and reflecting that had the devil himself been present Tom’s only reaction would have been to indicate his superfluity. Not that Tom was insensitive to other people; but when he had something on his mind, as clearly he had now, his anxiety to discharge it precluded any other emotion, whether of sympathy, curiosity or fear.

  “Fielding,” said Somerset, “should meet your publisher. He has written some novels.”

  “So have five thousand other people,” said Tom grumpily. But then he seemed to remember something, and looked Gray straight in the face with candid interest. “I heard about you,” he said, “after that wretched business in Cyprus. Your regiment .. . didn’t a
Captain Detterling belong to it? The M.P.?”

  “Yes. He retired a long time ago, but he rejoined us from the reserve for Suez. As it happens it was Detterling, back in ’45, who persuaded me to become a regular.”

  “He is an interesting man,” said Tom, “of a type I cannot approve. Nor do I approve of the old boy net. But I'm going to let you in on it now. . . . Christ, it’s hot in here,” he said, switched off the nearest electric fire.

  Success, reflected Somerset as he switched the fire on again, had given Tom the habit of airing rather pompous ethical judgments - without, however, affecting the essential kindness of his heart. Although Tom might moralise adversely for an hour together, it did not in the least detract from his practical good-will.

  “The thing is,” Tom was saying, “that my publisher, Gregory Stern, wants to expand, so he has been looking about for partners who will bring some cash with them. One day this chap Detterling turned up and offered ten thousand in exchange for a nominal directorship, a proportionate share in the profits, and the right to interest himself, anywhere short of actual interference, in what went on. Stern liked the look of him - he said he reminded him of a Trollope character called Dolly Longstaffe - and jumped at him. Come to that, I like him myself.”

  “Then why do you disapprove?” asked Somerset.

  “He’s too blatant a member of the old gang. He not only takes his privileges for granted - White’s, M.C.C., chambers in Albany - but he expects everything to operate in that particular medium. It’s to his advantage, you see, that it should. Because although he’s a shrewd man, his shrewdness doesn’t extend beyond his own world. For example, when Peter Morrison left Parliament three years back” - Tom glanced furtively at Somerset - “Detterling dropped out of the Young England Group simply because he couldn’t understand the new leader Carton Weir - who’s built on a more contemporary pattern.”

  “I thought,” said Somerset, “that he just disliked Carton.”

  “Same thing. Detterling disliked Carton because he was incapable of understanding him in Detterling’s terms.”

  Major Grey was beginning to fidget.

  “Sorry,” said Tom, turning back to him abruptly. “What I was thinking was this. If you know Detterling, he should be able to help you with Gregory Stern. As I say, he doesn’t interfere, but if he makes a suggestion, Gregory will listen.”

  “Odd,” said Gray: “that Detterling should take to publishing. And with this sort of firm.”

  “You mean a firm owned by a Jew?” said Tom sharply.

  “No,” said Gray unperturbed. “Detterling always admired Jews. He used to say that Jewish blood gave a spice to personality, though like all spices it was perhaps better . . . diffused. What surprises me is that he should have chosen a small firm of recent origin. Something outside what you just called his ‘medium’.”

  “Gregory Stern,” volunteered Somerset, “is very much of Detterling’s medium. Eton and the House; his father the first Jew ever to serve as an officer in the Household Brigade; a massive merchant bank in the background. Cream of the establishment - with Jewish blood to lend spice, as you say.” Somerset seemed about to add something more, but then sat back in silence. The question was closed; so was Fielding Gray’s interview.

  “Thank you both,” said the latter as he rose. “You’ve been very kind.” And then, with his earlier hint of boyish eagerness, “You’ll send those books, Somerset? Care of the Cavalry Club, until I’m settled.”

  Somerset nodded and rose. Tom Llewyllyn smiled and waved his hand but did not rise. Major Gray turned about smartly and marched out.

  “Now,” said Tom, the smile fading from his face, “what’s the game?”

  “Fielding’s an old friend - ”

  “ - Never mind Major Gray. Bishop’s Cross, Somerset. I hear you’ve offered yourself for the seat.”

  “And why not?”

  “Well. ... Let’s say that I thought you had your hands full already.”

  “I can always resign this editorship.”

  “Somerset. You are, in your own terms, a good editor. In no terms will you be a good politician. You have what the Americans call an unfortunate personality - for public life, that is.”

  “That is why,” said Somerset, “I have chosen Bishop’s Cross. The Tory candidate there cannot fail, not even if they adopt a barbary ape.”

  “You think they will adopt you?”

  “To be candid,” said Somerset, “no. I think they will adopt Peter Morrison. But there’s just a chance, and it’s worth taking. Why are you so keen to stop me?”

  As someone had once observed of Somerset, he derived much of his massive self-confidence from a poker-face which he thought he possessed but didn’t. When Somerset was bluffing his eyes glazed over, and they were rapidly glazing over now. It was clear, Tom thought, that Somerset’s genial and modest disclaimer was not sincere: he had reasons for thinking he had a very good chance, and if Somerset had reasons they would be sound. Meanwhile, his attitude must be accepted, for the purposes of discussion, at face value.

  “I wonder you bother, that’s all,” Tom said. “Years ago you told me to stick to what I was good at. It turned out to be excellent advice. Now I’m offering it back.”

  “Let me refer you,” said Somerset, “to your own work.” He went to a bookcase and took out a copious volume, the mauve cover of which proclaimed An Analysis of Practical Politics, by Tom Llewyllyn (Gregory Stern, 35s.). “Page 113. I quote. ‘As with literature, so with politics: if a Party these days is determined to sell a policy, or a man, the merit of the man or the policy is a secondary consideration. The sale can be effected by high pressure methods which ignore or obscure the real issues and insist on others which, while irrelevant, are plausible and attractive. This has always been true, but never so true as now, when techniques of publicity are quicker and slicker than ever before. Just as a book may be made into a best seller by the announcement, at the right time and in the right tone, that the author keeps a canary or lost a leg at Anzio, so a hack politician, however disagreeable, or discredited, may be transformed overnight into a potential Prime Minister - if only his sponsors can hit on the right image. In other words,” said Somerset, “there’s hope for all of us. Once we get a footing, that is.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Tom. “You are now a successful, even a powerful man, who need depend only on his own undoubted abilities. What can you possibly want in Parliament? Your abilities will go for nothing there. You?ll have to spend your odd time grovelling for the good-will of second-rate men and learning confidence tricks from television interviewers.”

  “But it is of our age. The power of the written word is declining, Tom. What counts is the personal appeal, the appearance on the silver screen.”

  “All I can say,” said Tom, “is that it will take one hell of an image to make you acceptable on the silver screen.”

  “I am an ugly man,” said Somerset calmly, “bald, liable to acne, prematurely aged, and long since deprived of my own teeth. I am, in fact, the very symbol of under-privileged humanity. To look at, I am the archetypal underdog in an era of underdogs. So my appeal to a large section of our industrialised and physically degraded community will be immense.”

  “Until you open your mouth and start in with your posh, clever talk.”

  “I shall affect the simplicity of Socrates - who was also, you will remember, an ugly man.”

  “Ugly or not, Socrates had charm.”

  “So have I.”

  This was undeniably true. Leave aside his ability to amuse and interest other men, Somerset had a distinct if possibly perverse appeal to women. This he seldom exploited, as he held that women made irrational demands on one’s time and purse. But Tom could remember at least one notable conquest: Lady Susan Grange, now Lady Philby and wife of Somerset’s Proprietor. It was whispered that Lady Philby still had a kindness for Somerset and was not above indulging it during Philby’s frequent business trips. From his knowledge of Lady P’s
character, Tom doubted this; but the very existence of the story paid its own tribute to Somerset.

  “So,” said Tom, “you see yourself as a sort of . . . anticelebrity. But first you’ve got to reach Parliament.”

  “Hence my application to Bishop’s Cross.”

  “Where you nevertheless think they will prefer Peter Morrison.”

  “It’ll be experience,” said Somerset smoothly. “Local associations, selection committees, chairmen .... It’ll be useful practice for next time.”

  His eyes were glazed to the point of opacity. I wonder whether he can see out of them, Tom thought.

  “What does Alastair Dixon say?” he enquired. “As retiring member he’ll be listened to, I suppose?”

  “Alastair Dixon likes Carton Weir, and Carton Weir wants me. Again: Carton leads the Young England Group - which has behaved discreetly under his leadership but which will cease to be so obliging should Peter return to take over. In sum: Alastair Dixon has a personal reason for wanting me to come in, and a political reason, which he shares with the rest of the Party, for wanting Peter to stay out.”

  This was the strongest point in Somerset’s favour, and he saw no reason to conceal it from Tom, who was certainly shrewd enough to have hit on it for himself.

  “Fair enough,” muttered Tom. But this was not the whole story, he thought. There was something else behind those glazed irises. Something only embryonic as yet, a mere seed, perhaps not even a fertilised one. But a seed there was, needing only some chance spermatozoon to quicken it, to set the foetus swelling. Which must be as may be, Tom thought; there was nothing more to be discovered just now.

  “Why are you so concerned in this?” Somerset was saying. “You’ll forgive me, Tom, but a Labour sympathiser has enough ... interfering to do ... on his own side of the fence.”

  “My interest is personal. A Tory will sit for Bishop’s Cross whatever happens. My hope is - you’ll forgive me, Somerset - that it will be a decent Tory. Not, as you yourself put it, a barbary ape, but someone like Peter Morrison .... I’ve brought you the copy you asked for.” He slapped an envelope down on the desk. “Don’t try to underpay me like last time, Somerset. Three guineas a hundred is the rate we agreed.”