The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “How long was he in the army?”

  “Seven years.”

  “That’s the blink of an eyelid, nothing more. You get a different outlook when you make a career of it, when you’re responsible for the country during war and peace. Good night, pleasure meeting you.”

  Quite suddenly, the big house turned silent. The last car drove away, and the only noise was that of the staff cleaning up. Saxon grabbed a bottle of Remy-Martin and two snifters from the bar before William could remove everything. He carried them to the enclosed patio that overlooked the lawn. Pouring a generous amount of cognac into each glass, he passed one to Katherine, and held his own in the air.

  “Cheers. You were a wonderful hostess.”

  “Cheers yourself.” She clinked glasses. “You weren’t a bad host, but you’ve obviously had plenty of experience.”

  Saxon rolled cognac around the snifter. “You didn’t think very much of some of the guests, did you?”

  “Sir Donald Leslie? A bit too pompous, and a bit too much of the ‘England expects every man to do his duty’ for my liking.”

  “He’s a very worried man.”

  “About this country?”

  Saxon nodded. “Many of us are. We see it going to hell in a handcart. We hope, with the election coming up, and a probable Conservative victory, that things are about to change. They’d better change, or else we might just as well pull the plug and let the country sink.”

  “You agree with what Sir Donald said?”

  “With his sentiments, yes. We have to stop the rot —”

  “What rot?”

  “The lack of ethics, the total abrogation of morality. There are far too many spongers getting a free ride in this country, and we can’t damned well afford it. We have to get the work ethic back in proper focus, get everyone to accept the philosophy, old-fashioned as it may be, of a day’s work for a day’s pay. I don’t necessarily agree with Sir Donald’s desire to see everything neatly regimented by a strong government, but that’s because I’ve spent my life building a business — being an entrepreneur, if you wish — while he spent his life in uniform.”

  “What about Jeffrey?”

  “He feels the same way I do. Many years ago, he even ran as a Conservative candidate for Parliament, but he found out that his television fame did him more harm than good. You see, Katherine, everyone here tonight — all my friends, all Jeffrey’s friends — we’re people who’ve done well for ourselves. We’ve become successful, not by taking something for nothing, but through sheer hard work. We’re all a little jealous of what we’ve achieved, and of what we own. We don’t want to see it squandered. If you spoke to your father, I imagine his feelings would be very similar.”

  A big smile illuminated Katherine’s face; her teeth shone like pearls, and bright lights danced in her blue eyes. “I can remember a few times, during my idealistic days, when I thought my father was a mile to the right of Attila the Hun. He probably does agree with you. The funny thing is, these days I regard my father as quite a liberal.” She sipped the cognac, savoring both its bouquet, and the pleasant glow of the spirit down her throat. “How do you know Jeffrey?”

  “I met him the same way I meet many people, including your father. On some committee or other, I forget now. In common with most of the country, I find Jeffrey vastly entertaining. Better company in the flesh, in fact, than on television. He, in turn, is fascinated by the world of business. We became friends. And through Jeffrey, of course, I met Sir Donald.”

  “The other people here tonight . . . the MPs, Edwin Johnson and Daniel Cooper . . .” She tried to remember the names of the other guests, but for some reason only their positions in life came to mind. “. . . The banker, the judge, the brewery chairman, the surgeon, how do you know all of them?”

  “Are you writing a story on this party?”

  “Of course not. I’m just curious how a man can be so politically selective in choosing his friends.”

  “That’s simple to answer. I took out a classified ad in The Times, seeking friends who voted Conservative. Does that answer your question?”

  She looked at him through the empty snifter. “I think you’re making fun of me.”

  “And I think you’re not fit to drive home.”

  “Of course I’m not; that’s why I brought my toothbrush.”

  Saxon gave a wide grin. “You’re quite drunk, aren’t you?”

  “I am?” She tried to recollect what she’d consumed. The champagne cocktails at the beginning of the evening, the glasses of delicately perfumed Margaux to wash down the beef Wellington, and then an after-dinner liqueur. The large Rémy-Martin had constituted a deadly overdose. “Have you ever made love to a woman who’s really drunk?”

  He shook his head. “Tipsy, yes. Really drunk, no. But I’d very much like to.”

  She held out her arms. “Carry me upstairs, and then,” she added with mock resignation, “do whatever you must with me.”

  As she felt herself lifted up, an alarming thought occurred. “Was I drunk during the evening? Did I make a fool of myself?”

  Laughing, Saxon shook his head. “You were perfect during the evening. You saved being sloshed just for me.”

  The alcohol ruined their lovemaking. Lying in Saxon’s bed, held by his arms, and feeling him pressing hard and hot against her, Katherine found her mind wandering down a totally different path. Drunkenness focused her thoughts, for the first time in two days, on Raymond Barnhill. Instead of being angry with him, she was concerned. Had he caught his plane? He was supposed to be in New York now, preparing for his meeting, and for all Katherine knew he might have fallen in his own apartment, smacked his head on the corner of the coffee table, cut himself, and bled to death! And, she decided in a fit of tipsy moroseness, it would all be her fault for walking out on him.

  “Why are you crying?” Saxon asked.

  She touched her face, surprised to feel the warm wetness of tears. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  Saxon let go of her and turned away, gazing quietly at the window and its picture of a clear spring night.

  “John . . .” Wanting his warmth and comfort, she tried to draw him back. “What’s the matter?”

  “I told you before that I’ve never made love to a really drunken woman. I must admit that I was quite looking forward to it. You might have shed some inhibitions I never even realized you had. I’ve never made love to a woman who’s crying either. That’s been a very conscious choice, because I might be fooled into thinking that her tears were a reflection of the happiness she’d found in me.”

  They did not make love. They just lay side by side, like two strangers forced by some quirk of fate into sharing a bed. After an hour, when Saxon got up to visit the bathroom, Katherine slipped out of the bed and returned to the guest suite.

  She awoke at eight the following morning with an aching head. Moving slowly, she climbed out of bed, walked into the bathroom, turned the shower full on, and stepped in. Some of the cobwebs disappeared. Afterward, she stood in front of the mirror, fixing her hair with the blow dryer she’d brought from home. Dressed in the slacks and plaid jacket she’d arrived in, and carrying the overnight bag, she went downstairs.

  At the foot of the staircase, she was met by the butler. “Mr. Saxon is waiting for you on the patio, madam.”

  Katherine walked out to the enclosed patio. Two breakfast places were set at the table. At one, clad in blue pajamas and a blue silk robe, and reading the Sunday Times, was Saxon. At the other place, a copy of the Sunday Eagle was set out.

  “Good morning, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering breakfast for you,” Saxon greeted her, setting down his newspaper and rising to his feet. “Eggs, bacon, kidneys, grilled tomatoes, sausages, and toast.”

  “Don’t you ever become bored with being the popular conception of the traditional English gentleman, John?”

  “You have a reasonably long drive, and it’s a chilly morning. You need something solid inside you.
”

  “A cup of tea will be fine.”

  Breakfast was served on covered silver trays. Saxon piled his own plate high with everything, while Katherine scraped butter across a slice of toast. She did no more than glance at the front-page headline of the Sunday Eagle, which referred to the upcoming election.

  “I got quite a shock last night when I came back from the washroom and discovered I was alone.”

  “Nothing was going to happen, John. I thought it best that I returned to the guest suite. That way, we’d be able to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Did you manage to?”

  “Yes, even if I was greeted with a hangover when I woke up.”

  “I didn’t sleep at all. It’s a type of insomnia that comes from looking forward to snuggling up all night to someone very warm and lovely, and then finishing up on my own.”

  “I’m sorry, John. Let’s just say that last night belonged to Jeffrey Dillard, and not to us.”

  They finished breakfast. William carried Katherine’s overnight case and garment bag to the Porsche. By the front door of the house, Katherine and Saxon kissed good-bye. “Thanks for a fabulous evening, John. All of it.”

  “Thank you for being such a wonderful hostess.”

  She ran down the steps, climbed into the Porsche, and started the engine. Saxon remained by the front door, watching as Katherine raced the Porsche around the circular drive before heading toward the small country road that ran past the estate.

  Driving hard, she reached Kate’s Haven by midmorning. The children, who were riding their bicycles in the forecourt, clustered around the Porsche the instant it stopped. They wanted to know where their mother had been, and she answered that she had attended a friend’s birthday party.

  “Why did you stay away all night?” Henry asked.

  “Because the party was held a long way away. You wouldn’t want me to drive a long way late at night, would you?”

  While Henry shook his head, his sister broached a more important subject. “What did you bring us from the party?”

  Katherine fished into the overnight case. In a clear plastic box — specially prepared by the cook — were half a dozen petits fours. No matter where she went, she never forgot her children.

  *

  By the following Thursday, the general-election campaign was in full swing. Only three weeks remained until the country went to the polls. Every newspaper carried advertisements and editorial guidance for its readers. Television viewers were regaled by the sight of politicians telling them “what we have done,” or “what they have not done.”

  Katherine noticed that the Daily Eagle, in its first pronouncement on the election, declared that it was a time for major change. She was having lunch with Sally Roberts that day, and when the two women met, Katherine asked, “Did my father lean on the leader writers to endorse Margaret Thatcher?”

  “No. He leaned on me, and I leaned on Gerry Waller. Who, in turn, leaned on the leader writers. Not that any of the leaning was really necessary. I think this is the first time we’ve all agreed on the party we want to see in power.”

  After that evening’s showing of “Fightback,” Katherine returned home. She felt tired, and decided to stay up only long enough to watch the news. She settled in front of the television. The lead item covered the election campaign. Film clips showed the leaders of the two major parties, James Callaghan, the incumbent Labour prime minister, and his Conservative challenger, Margaret Thatcher. Then came some foreign news: South Africa had ousted three American embassy aides as spies; more executions had taken place in Iran; opponents of nuclear power were having a field day following the accident at Three Mile Island two weeks earlier.

  The image on the television faded. For an instant, the screen remained blank, then a new picture appeared. Katherine sat upright. Now what had happened? Why were file pictures of the May Day Brixton riot being shown? She had no doubt it was Brixton — men fighting, cars on fire, the police powerless to restore order.

  The picture froze. It wasn’t a news story about a riot at all. It was a commercial. A man’s voice spoke just thirteen words, but they were words that sent a chill down Katherine’s back.

  “Restore law and order. On May the third, elect the British Patriotic League.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  KATHERINE visited the Eagle building the following afternoon, taking the elevator up to the third floor. The place was not the same without Archie Waters, she reflected. The man who had replaced him did not take the pride in his appearance that Archie had done. And Katherine missed that little half-salute, the friendly greeting, and the sound of “Miss Eagles.”

  Leaving the elevator, she walked to Gerald Waller’s office. “Gerry, I was stunned to see a commercial last night for the British Patriotic League. How many candidates is the League running in the general election?”

  “Almost a hundred. They’re contesting some fifteen percent of the seats, concentrating on areas, obviously, where there’s a solid core of disaffected middle-class and working-class whites.”

  “A hundred? My God, I feel so out of touch these days.”

  “That’s what you get for letting the glamour of television seduce you away from the real world of Fleet Street.”

  “It’s closer to the truth to say that I’ve blocked my mind to everything concerning those bags of human garbage. I didn’t even realize they were putting up a single candidate until I saw that commercial.”

  “Want to hear something funny?” Waller asked. “Yesterday evening, the agency handling the League’s advertising said they wanted to buy some space in our papers. Us . . . Eagle Newspapers, who went out of our way to show up those scum for what they were! Can you imagine the nerve? We turned them down, of course, by saying that the content of the proposed ads did not meet our strict guidelines of honesty in advertising.”

  “What kind of platform are they running on?”

  “They want to beef up the police, crush violent crime, and reintroduce capital punishment. They’re vowing to get Britain out of the Common Market. They’re opposed — in case you hadn’t guessed — to immigration, because the structure of British society has been stretched to the breaking point by the tremendous amount of immigrants we’ve taken in. The League favors what it calls ‘humane repatriation’ of immigrants already here, with financial assistance given to the countries to which they return.”

  “Where’s all the money to pay for this coming from?”

  Waller shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “What’s the Eagle doing about the League’s campaign?”

  “We’ll give it the same coverage we give to the other parties’ campaigns. We’ll report fairly on their rallies, on their major speeches, on their platform. We will not allow them to foster publicity for themselves by claiming that Eagle Newspapers is out to destroy them. We’ll let the electorate do that on May the third.”

  “I hope to God you’re right.”

  As she turned to leave, Waller stopped her. “One of the contributors to the Eagle’s diary page turned in a piece about the party for Jeffrey Dillard. The piece claimed that the party was hosted by John Saxon and you, and hinted there was a romance between the pair of you. Do you want us to use it, or spike it?”

  “Thanks for the courtesy, Gerry. Do whatever you like with it. I wouldn’t try to censor you, even if I wanted to.”

  Katherine continued to see advertisements for the British Patriotic League. Some, in a bid for the law-and-order vote, depicted scenes of riots and street fighting for which the League, itself, had been responsible. Others, aimed at women voters, centered on rising food prices, all blamed on Britain’s membership in the Common Market. Women supposedly shopping for groceries were featured; without exception, they all promised to vote for the League — the party that would lower food bills by taking Britain out of Europe.

  The most powerful advertisements of all pointed out how British standards had fallen. Alan Venables, the League’
s chairman, appeared in these. With his tweedy intellectualism, and his thin, pointed face forced into a mask of sincerity, he told viewers, “Our education system, once the envy of the world, is now the laughing stock. Our welfare system is a shambles. And ask the British workingman where he can find affordable basic housing for his family. We have taken in more immigrants than we can provide for, and they have overloaded the services that Britain provided for the British.”

  Venables paused, allowing his television audience to absorb the weight of this modern British tragedy. “Now is the time for courageous men to begin the process of reversal. Labour, during its years in power, welcomed more immigrants to our shores, encouraged them, because every immigrant became a Labour voter. The Conservatives will do nothing either, because they also lack the necessary backbone. Only we have the courage to do what must be done. On election day, vote for a Britain with a future. Vote for the British Patriotic League.”

  Not once, Katherine noticed, did Venables mention black or Asian immigrants, but there was no doubt to which group he was referring. The appeal to whites seeking a scapegoat for their own misfortunes was ten miles high, a mile wide, and painted in blazing letters.

  *

  For the first time since starting work, Katherine followed the run-up to an election as an outsider. On the Eagle, she would have felt the involvement all journalists find in major events. As co-host on a television show, she was forced to do what everyone else in the country did: learn about the election from the media of which she had once been a part.

  She carefully checked each opinion poll the instant it was released. Not to see how the two major parties were faring, but to learn about the British Patriotic League. If Alan Venables and his party were gaining any popularity at all, Katherine was gratified to see, it did not show up in the polls. Voters who voiced a preference for the League’s divisive politics were listed in poll results as part of the minor and inconsequential “others” category, which traditionally included all kinds of outlandish candidates.