by Simon Raven
“I’ve written a journal,” Fielding said at last.
“Ah?”
“It’s unprintable as it stands, but it contains . . . the kind of reactions . . . which seem to interest you.”
“It could be turned into fiction?” said Detterling, without turning from the bookcase.
“Yes . . . A lot of people might recognise themselves. Including you.”
“I promise not to sue. Others might be less amenable.”
“We could sort all that out,” said Stern, fluttering his hands. “It's what we pay John Groves for. Is there a theme to this journal? Something to provide a basic plot?”
“You might call it a love story. A vision of ... of the true and the beautiful. I need hardly tell you that it has an unhappy ending.”
“Through whose fault?” asked Tom Llewyllyn.
“Mine. With a bit of exterior malice thrown in. Jealousy, deliberate misunderstanding.”
“Right,” said Stern, who seldom asked for details once he was satisfied as to competence. “I'll take your two novels for an advance of £200 each, on the understanding that you’ll loosen them up in the way I’ve suggested. Our editor has details.”
He pressed a buzzer on his desk.
“You’ll be given a cheque now,” he said, “and you can fix an appointment with our editor for tomorrow. We’ll do our best to publish the first of them - the Court-Martial one - in October. But” - his fingers flew over his coat buttons and then up to test his lower teeth - “what I’m really interested in is what you can do with that journal. I’m commissioning you to make a novel of it in the sum of £100 down, a further £100 on delivery, and yet a further £100 on the day of publication - all this, of course, being an advance against royalties on the usual scale.”
“This is generous,” said Fielding Gray, who was resisting a strong impulse to cry.
“Let us say that I am prepared to . . . er . . . back my beliefs with hard money. So many publishers are not. With the result that in the end they lose both money and author.”
“Was that altogether wise?” said Tom Llewyllyn after Fielding had gone.
“Yes,” said Stern. He tapped the typescripts on the desk. “There’s quality here. And if he can find a little something else as well . . . which I hope is in that journal ... a love story, he said ...”
“I think I know what it’s about,” said Detterling. “Among other things, the boyhood of our friend, Somerset Lloyd-James.”
“Don’t tell me Gray was in love with Somerset,” said Tom.
“Perhaps it was the other way about.”
“And where do you come in?”
“Peripherally, I should imagine. When things went wrong with Fielding, I had a lot to do with finding him a place in the Army.”
“What did go wrong?” asked Stern.
“Better wait for his version,” Captain Detterling said. “After all, you’ve just offered him 300 quid for it.”
As for Fielding Gray, for him it had been a morning of triumph. In his pocket was Stern’s cheque, which not only represented a substantial sum of money but acknowledged him as a proper and practising novelist. On top of this, when he returned to the Cavalry Club, he found a note from Somerset Lloyd-James, who was very pleased with his first little piece and was now prepared to offer him a basic fee of £300 a year to write reviews and articles for Strix; subject, the note said, to giving Strix “first refusal” of all his journalistic work, but this did not seem an unreasonable condition. For a moment Fielding thought uneasily of Somerset’s probable displeasure when his third novel should appear (for Detterling’s surmise about its matter was largely correct); but it had all happened, he told himself, over ten years ago, he would try to be tactful in his treatment, and in any case the novel’s completion, leave alone its appearance, was many moons away. So he turned with satisfaction to consider his third piece of good luck: in answer to an enquiry in Stern’s office, Tom Llewyllyn had advised him that the cheap and suitable digs he had been wanting were to be had in a place called Buttock’s Hotel. Indeed, Tom had said, he would arrange for Fielding to inherit his own quarters there, for these he must shortly vacate against his bridal day, which was not long . . . . Sweet Thames run softly, Fielding mused, until I end my song. A vision of the true and the beautiful, he had told Gregory Stern: if others would only see it too, through his eyes, then everything would have been worth while.
In the event, Somerset sent a copy of his article to Canteloupe two days before they were to dine so that he might be fully prepared for its discussion.
“I notice,” said Canteloupe over the lobster souffle, “that you call them ‘camping sites’. Nothing about caravans.”
“Caravans imply something cosy and casual - even anarchic: gypsies and so on. ‘Camping’ is more stern, bringing to mind campaigns, expeditions . . . herosim on Everest.”
“I see ... I was thinking; perhaps it won’t do to be too stern at first. After all, I’ve got to attract people to these places.”
“The sort of people you hope to attract won’t read my article in Strix. We’re interested in building you up as a politician who combines practical good sense with high moral ideals. You’ll prove your practical good sense by making a profit - and we shan’t enquire too closely how you do it: you can run your sites like Butlin’s for all we care. But in order to put across your moral ideals we’ve got to . . . let it be understood . . . that campers are leading a life of self-denial, dedicated physical effort and so forth. You understand? Like Edinburgh’s Outward Bound rubbish, only a family version.”
“In your view then,” said Canteloupe, “I’ll end up providing the working class with the usual candy floss and slot machines, while the readers of Strix, who won't bother to come and see, think that everyone's sweating up mountains and practising first aid.”
“That’s about it,” said Somerset, as the duck press was wheeled up. “Of course, there must be a certain attention to appearances in case someone should investigate. You might hire a few Army throwouts to hang around; call them ‘camp leaders', ‘fitness guides', that sort of thing. And give the sites impressive names: ‘Hilary', ‘Wingate’, ‘Montgomery’. You might even get Edinburgh to open one. Which reminds me: what actual progress have you made? When will the first site be ready?”
“Late June,” said Canteloupe. “But don't you think it might be safer not to hurry? I mean, people can get all this moral uplift and so on just by reading about these camps: need we risk actually having one?”
“There's a lot,” said Somerset, “in what you say. But I think you should have one in existence, if only to get the publicity of the opening ceremony. You could always close it quietly down afterwards. This one that'll be ready in June . .. where is it?”
“Somerset. No, not you - the Quantocks.”
“Splendid. We'll give it some sensible west country name . . . ‘Drake’, perhaps - ”
“ - Wasn't he a Devon man? - ”
“ - No need to be pedantic. A bracing west country name, a royal opening on television, and presto, in moves the first lot of campers - ”
“ - Wearing lederhosen - ”
“ - Singing Jerusalem - ”
“ - Men and women hand in hand, but peeling off emphatically to separate quarters - ”
“ - Except for the family parties with bright-eyed children to prove it - ”
“ - A service of dedication - ”
“ - Taken by Donald Soper - ”
“ - Accompanied by a skiffle group - ”
“ - And I’ve got just the name. Westward Ho!”
“But how,” said Canteloupe as the crepes flamed skyward beside him, “can I be sure of getting suitable campers for the occasion?”
“Out of work repertory actors. You can hire them by the gross. Tell me,” Somerset said, “now we’ve got all this buttoned up, have you got any more projects in mind? I'd like to do another piece for Strix in about a month.”
“Well,” said Canteloupe, �
�Carton Weir suggested that we ought to do something for the popular arts. More recognition for band leaders, and so on - why should the Shakespeare boys hog all the honours? All right as far as it goes, though no money in it, but it gave me a better idea. Government recognition of popular pastimes. Bingo, for example. It’s all the rage just now, and why shouldn’t H.M.G. cash in? Publicly owned Bingo Palaces, that kind of a thing?”
“But the moral line? Not very elevating.”
“Ah. Leave aside our profit, a big proportion of the prizes would be awarded in special bonds, which in theory at least would be financing medical research into incurable conditions. ‘Win Bingo Bonds to Beat Disease.’ Make it a moral duty, you see. And you know how sentimental the English are about health; so the bonds could carry bugger-all in the way of interest, and even so no one would ever dare cash them in. Imagine going to the Post Office and selling a bond with ‘Paralytic Old Folk’ or ‘Spastic Kiddies’ written all over it. You’d feel like a murderer.”
“Go on,” said Somerset; “this is fascinating . . .”
Mark Lewson, though undeniably second-rate in his chosen profession, was subject to flashes of inspiration. He was, and always had been, hampered by incompetence, fecklessness, captious changes of plan and negligence in their execution; but he was seldom short of good ideas. In the case of des Moulins letter, it occurred to him that if he could get more than one party to bid for it he might also get more than one party to pay for it; and with this firmly in mind he paid a call on Somerset Lloyd-James, taking with him a photostat copy of the original document.
To Somerset the letter was just what he had been waiting for, the answer to his most fervent prayers, in Westminster Cathedral, the Brompton Oratory, Farm Street, and on his knees by his own little bed, for the last month. Here was matter to compromise several leading members of the Cabinet and in particular the party’s Dean of Discipline, Sir Edwin Turbot. With this letter in his possession he could demand anything he wanted short of a dukedom, and Sir Edwin, pastmaster of ways and means, would be compelled to devise a formula to see that he got it. There could be no question now of Sir Edwin refusing his support over the candidature for Bishop’s Cross; and that was only the beginning.
But clearly there were dangers and difficulties: for a start, was the original document genuine? The photostat was impressive; the contents of the letter were consistent with everything he knew or suspected about the Suez affair; but even so, it was not beyond Mark Lewson to have got the whole thing up himself. What was it Jonathan Gamp had once said? “My dear, he’s famous for cheques.” Just so; if cheques, why not letters?
“You know Max de Freville?” Mark said.
“I’ve played at his parties.”
“He put me on to this. Why not ring up and check with him?”
“He can’t know it’s genuine any more than I can.”
But Somerset, clammy with excitement, was anxious to believe, and on re-examining the text he found something which convinced him, if not that the original was beyond suspicion, at least that here was a gamble worth making. For the letter purported to be written by a cosmopolitan Israeli of German birth; it was in English; and in two respects the English, otherwise excellent, betrayed a weakness common among those to whom German is their native tongue. In the first place, there was a pedantic tendency to write ‘shall’ where ‘will’ would have sounded more natural: ‘I shall not claim to understand quite why, but it seems that the Cabinet Minister, Sir Edwin Turbot . . . Secondly, and far more convincing, was a confusion of subjunctives: ‘If the Prime Minister would go’ for ‘if he were to go’ (or ‘went’); and if your Government would wish (wished) to provide such co-operation, it could swiftly make this plain.’ It was of course possible that these errors had been deliberately planted by Lewson, but Somerset doubted this: had the thing been a forgery, the fake errors would have been cruder.
All right, thought Somerset, so I accept the document as genuine. But the original will be very expensive. Can I do without it, can I work with a copy? The answer to this, in the long run, was ‘no’. To bring pressure to bear effectively he must be in a position, not only to print the letter, but to adduce the original when he was challenged. A threat to print when he was supported only by a photostat would scare nobody. Ergo, he must first make sure that the original still existed and then he himself must possess it.
“The thing is,” said Mark, who had a fair notion what Somerset was thinking, “that a lot of people will be feeling the same. I wonder whether you can afford it?”
“Afford what?”
“Let’s say . . . twenty thousand.”
Somerset retched.
“After all, it’s the scoop of the century, so I should have thought Strix could pay that much. Or were you perhaps thinking of going into business on your own account?”
“I’ll give you five thouthand down,” Somerset lisped.
“Darling” said Mark, pretending to be Jonathan Gamp.
“Theven.”
“Now look, thweetheart,” said Mark, “let’s get one thing straight. Are you bidding for Strix or for Somerset Lloyd-James?”
“For the latter,” said Somerset, gagging.
“So I thought. But you can’t pay enough, can you? On the other hand, you have got what is sadly lacking in little me - application and expertise. So listen carefully, darling, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”
It had all come to Mark as he entered Somerset’s office. Here was a Headquarters; here was authority and organisation; here was a man able and ready to pay attention to the tedious details, which he himself could never abide. The answer was obvious: in return for a substantial but not impossible payment, he would admit Somerset into partnership, thus obtaining a nice sum of ready and a competent executive who would assist him in further extortions. Blithely he now declared his terms. For seven thousand pounds he would entrust the original letter into Somerset’s keeping. Somerset could use this as he saw fit; but it must not be resold or published without Mark’s agreement. Further, Somerset must be prepared to produce the letter whenever required to do so for Mark’s purposes, and must be prepared, moreover, to advise Mark on the furtherance of these.
“So long as it doesn’t go out of my sight,” said Somerset. The idea of being in a syndicate with Mark Lewson gave him little pleasure, but he was in no position just now to argue. Later on perhaps . . . .
“And don’t go getting ideas about double-crossing me,” said Mark; “because I’ve got Max de Freville behind me and he might turn nasty.”
On this Somerset made no comment.
“If I’m to help you,” he said, “I must know what you have in mind.”
What Mark had in mind, he explained, was a visit to Sir Edwin Turbot, whom he proposed, in accordance with Max’s advice, to make his first victim; one point being that Max’s connection with Isobel would smooth the way.
“We’ll go together,” Somerset said.
“How friendly. If you’ll undertake to manage the old boy, we’ll split down the middle.”
Mark Lewson was an open-handed man by nature, particularly to those who relieved him of bother. As for Somerset, he did not trouble to explain that his own price would not be reckoned in pounds sterling.
“This,” said Tom Llewyllyn to Tessie Buttock, “is Mr. Fielding Gray. Or should I say ‘Major’?”
“ ‘Mister’ will serve from now on.”
Tessie, warned by Tom about Fielding’s appearance, nevertheless examined him with the frankest attention, and finally shook her head, as though to say, “That’s what comes of playing with dirty children.”
“Well dear,” she said: “naughty Tom tells me you want to move into his room when he leaves next week?”
“If I may.”
“You may, dear. Any friend of Tom’s. Did he tell you the rules?”
“No.”
“Only two, dear. Weekly payment in advance, and no dragging back.”
“Dragging back?”
“No rubbish off the street. They nick things and spread crabs all over the house.”
“I see.”
“Not that I’m a prude. If you’ve got a nice girl, you know, a lady, bring her in and welcome. But try to pop her out again before the maids get here in the morning.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Now dear,” said Tessie turning to Tom, “that little back room I thought you might like as a pied à terre. You’re sure you don’t want it?”
“ ’Fraid not, Tessie.”
“Because I’ve had another offer. Funny little chap came in here yesterday, common voice but dressed like a gendeman, wants a room for a few weeks, he said. Kept picking at his fingers, which I didn’t care for, and Albert Edward didn’t like him - did ’oo, woozums? - but I thought, if Tom doesn’t want it, and if he pays as sharp as he looks - ”
“Kept picking at his fingers?” said Tom with interest. “What was his name?”
“Holford, Holworthy, something like that.”
“Holbrook?”
“That’s it, dear. He’s coming again today. Know him, do you?”
“Yes.”
“All right?”
“No,” said Tom, “very much not all right. But as far as you’re concerned, he’ll pay weekly in advance and I don’t think there’ll be any dragging back.”
Later on, when Tom and Fielding were walking together in Hyde Park, Tom said:
“I think I’ll move out even sooner than I told Tessie. I don’t want to see more of her new guest than I can help.”
“Holbrook? What’s the matter with him?”
“He reminds me of what I’d sooner forget.”
“Most people have that effect on me,” Fielding said.
“I know what you mean. But Holbrook’s a special case. My very own personal plague rat.”
“Where will you go?”
A spring breeze skimmed the Serpentine and the trees rustled with the familiar invitations.
“Off into the blue. A walking tour. I always planned it, to nerve myself before getting married.” Tom hesitated. “You . . . wouldn’t like to come with me? There’s a lot we might talk about.”