by Ken Follett
He nodded. "Brandy last night. Ought to know better."
Her face was expressionless. "I suppose it has nothing to do with yesterday's half-year results."
He heaved himself to his feet and walked slowly across the expanse of oyster-colored carpet to the bathroom. The face he saw in the mirror was round and red, balding, with rolls of fat under the jaw. He examined his morning beard, pulling the loose skin this way and that to make the bristles stand up. He began to shave. He had done this every day for the last forty years, and still he found it tiresome.
Yes, the half-year results were bad. Hamilton Holdings was in trouble.
When he had inherited Hamilton Printing from his father it had been efficient, successful, and profitable. Jasper Hamilton had been a printer--fascinated by typefaces, keen on the new technology, loving the oily smell of the presses. His son was a businessman. He had taken the flow of profits from the works and diverted it into more businesses--wine importing, retailing, publishing, paper mills, commercial radio. This had achieved its primary purpose of turning income into wealth and thereby avoiding tax. Instead of Bibles and paperbacks and posters, he had concerned himself with liquidity and yields. He had bought up companies and started new enterprises, building an empire.
The continuing success of the original business disguised the flimsiness of the superstructure for a long time. But when the printing complex weakened, Hamilton discovered that most of his other businesses were marginal; that he had underestimated the capital investment needed to nurse them to maturity; and that some of them were very long-term indeed. He sold forty-nine percent of his equity in each of the companies, then transferred his stock to a holding company and sold forty-nine percent of that. He raised more money, and negotiated an overdraft running into seven figures. The borrowing kept the organization alive, but the interest--rising fast through the decade--ate up what little profit there was.
Meanwhile, Derek Hamilton cultivated an ulcer.
The rescue program had been inaugurated almost a year ago. Credit had been tightened in an attempt to reduce the overdraft; costs had been cut by every means possible from cancellation of advertising campaigns to utilization of print-roll off-cuts for stationery. Hamilton was running a tight ship now; but inflation and the economic slump ran faster. The six-month results had been expected to show the world that Hamilton Holdings had turned the corner. Instead they demonstrated further decline.
He patted his face dry with a warm towel, splashed on cologne, and returned to the bedroom. Ellen was dressed, sitting in front of the mirror, making up her face. She always managed to dress and undress while her husband was out of the bedroom: it occurred to him that he had not seen her naked for years. He wondered why. Had she run to seed, the fifty-five-year-old skin wrinkling and the once-firm flesh sagging? Would nakedness destroy the illusion of desirability? Perhaps, but he suspected something more complex. It was obscurely connected with the way his own body had aged, he thought, as he climbed into his cavernous underpants. She was always decently clad; therefore he never lusted after her; therefore she never had to reveal how undesirable she found him. Such a combination of deviousness and sensitivity would be characteristic.
She said: "What are you going to do?"
The question caught him off balance. He thought at first that she must know what he was thinking, and be referring to that; then he realized she was continuing the conversation about the business. He fastened his suspenders, wondering what to tell her. "I'm not sure," he said eventually.
She peered closely into the mirror, doing something to her eyelashes. "Sometimes I wonder what you want out of life."
He stared at her. Her upbringing had taught her to be indirect and never to ask personal questions, for seriousness and emotion spoiled parties and caused ladies to faint. It would have cost her considerable effort to inquire about the purpose of someone's existence.
He sat on the edge of his bed and spoke to her back. "I must cut out brandy, that's all."
"I'm sure you know it has nothing to do with what you eat and drink." She applied lipstick, contorting her mouth to spread it evenly. "It began nine years ago, and your father died ten years ago."
"I've got printing ink in my blood." The response came formally, like a catechism. The conversation would have seemed dislocated to an eavesdropper, but they knew its logic. There was a code: the death of his father meant his assumption of control of the business; his ulcer meant his business problems.
She said: "You haven't got ink in your veins. Your father had, but you can't stand the smell of the old works."
"I inherited a strong business, and I want to bequeath to my sons an even stronger one. Isn't that what people of our class are supposed to do with their lives?"
"Our sons aren't interested in what we leave them. Michael is building his own business from scratch, and all Andrew wants to do is vaccinate the whole of the African continent against chicken pox."
He could not tell how serious she was now. The things she was doing to her face made her expession unreadable. No doubt it was deliberate. Almost everything she did was deliberate.
He said: "I have a duty. I employ more than two thousand people, and many more jobs are directly dependent upon the health of my companies."
"I think you've done your duty. You kept the firm going during a time of crisis--not everyone managed that. You've sacrificed your health to it; and you've given it ten years of your life, and . . . God knows what else." Her voice dropped on the final phrase, as if at the last minute she regretted saying it.
"Should I give it my pride as well?" he said. He carried on dressing, tying a tight little knot in his necktie. "I've turned a jobbing printer's into one of the thousand biggest companies in the country. My business is worth five times what my father's was. I put it together, and I have to make it work."
"You have to do better than your father."
"Is that such a poor ambition?"
"Yes!" Her sudden vehemence was a shock. "You should want good health, and long life, and--and my happiness."
"If the company was prosperous, perhaps I could sell it. As things are, I wouldn't get its asset value." He looked at his watch. "I must go down."
He descended the broad staircase. A portrait of his father dominated the hall. People often thought it was Derek at fifty. In fact it was Jasper at sixty-five. The phone on the hall stand shrilled as he passed. He ignored it: he did not take calls in the morning.
He went into the small dining room--the large one was reserved for parties, which were rare these days. The circular table was laid with silver cutlery. An elderly woman in an apron brought in half a grapefruit in a bone china dish.
"Not today, Mrs. Tremlett," he told her. "Just a cup of tea, please." He picked up The Financial Times.
The woman hesitated, then put the dish down in Ellen's place. Hamilton glanced up. "Just take it away, will you?" he said irritably. "Serve Mrs. Hamilton's breakfast when Mrs. Hamilton comes down, and not before, please."
"Very good," Mrs. Tremlett murmured. She took the grapefruit away.
When Ellen came in she picked up the argument where they had left it. "I don't think it matters whether you get five million or five hundred thousand for the company. Either way we'd be better off than we are now. Since we don't live comfortably, I fail to see the point of being comfortably off."
He put down the paper and looked at her. She was wearing an original tailored suit in a cream-colored fabric, with a printed silk blouse and handmade shoes. He said: "You have a pleasant home, with a small staff. You've friends here, and a social life in Town when you care to take advantage of it. This morning you're wearing several hundred pounds' worth of clothes, and you'll probably go no farther than the village. Sometimes I wonder what you want out of life."
She blushed--a rare event. "I'll tell you," she began.
There was a knock at the door, and a good-looking man came in, wearing an overcoat and carrying a cap. "Good morning, sir, madam," he said. "If we're to ca
tch the seven forty-five, sir . . ."
Hamilton said: "All right, Pritchard. Just wait in the hall."
"Very good, sir. May I ask if you'll be using the car today, madam?"
Hamilton looked at Ellen. She kept her eyes on her dish as she said: "I expect so, yes."
Pritchard nodded and went out.
Hamilton said: "You were about to tell me what you want out of life."
"I don't think it's a breakfast-table subject, especially when you're rushing to catch a train."
"Very well." He stood up. "Enjoy your drive. Don't go too fast."
"What?"
"Drive carefully."
"Oh. Oh, Pritchard drives me."
He bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned her face to him and kissed his lips. When he pulled away, her face was flushed. She held his arm and said: "I want you, Derek."
He stared at her.
"I want us to spend a long, contented retirement together," she went on, speaking hurriedly. "I want you to relax, and eat the right food, and grow healthy and slim again. I want the man who came courting in an open-top Riley, and the man who came back from the war with medals and married me, and the man who held my hand when I bore my children. I want to love you."
He stood nonplussed. She had never been like this with him, never. He felt hopelessly incapable of dealing with it. He did not know what to say, what to do, where to look. He said: "I . . . must catch the train."
She regained her composure quickly. "Yes. You must hurry."
He looked at her a moment longer, but she would not meet his eyes. He said: "Um . . . good-bye."
She nodded dumbly.
He went out. He put on his hat in the hall, then let Pritchard open the front door for him. The dark blue Mercedes stood on the gravel drive, gleaming in the sunshine. Pritchard must wash it every morning before I get up, Hamilton thought.
The conversation with Ellen had been most peculiar, he decided, as they drove to the railway station. Through the window he watched the play of sunlight on the already-browning leaves, and ran over the key scenes in his mind. I want to love you, she had said, with the emphasis on you. Talking of the things he had sacrificed for the business, she had said and God knows what else.
I want to love you, not someone else. Was that what she meant? Had he lost the fidelity of his wife, as well as his health? Perhaps she simply wanted him to think she might be having an affair. That was more like Ellen. She dealt in subtleties. Cries for help were not her style.
After the six-month results, he needed domestic problems like a creditors' meeting.
There was something else. She had blushed when Pritchard asked if she would be using the car; then, hastily, she had said Pritchard drives me.
Hamilton said: "Where do you take Mrs. Hamilton, Pritchard?"
"She drives herself, sir. I make myself useful around the house--there's always plenty--"
"Yes, all right," Hamilton interrupted. "This isn't a time-and-motion study. I was only curious."
"Sir."
His ulcer stabbed him. Tea, he thought: I should drink milk in the morning.
6
Herbert Chieseman switched on the light, silenced the alarm clock, turned up the volume of the radio, which had been playing all night, and pressed the rewind button of the reel-to-reel tape recorder. Then he got out of bed.
He put the kettle on, and stared out of the studio apartment window while he waited for the seven-hour tape to return to the start. The morning was clear and bright. The sun would be strong later, but now it was chilly. He put on trousers and a sweater over the underwear he had worn in bed, and stepped into carpet slippers.
His home was a single large room in a North London Victorian house which was past its best. The furniture, the Ascot heater, and the old gas cooker belonged to the landlord. The radio was Herbert's. His rent included the use of a communal bathroom and--most important--exclusive use of the attic.
The radio dominated the room. It was a powerful VHF receiver, made from parts he had carefully selected in half a dozen shops along Tottenham Court Road. The aerial was in the roof loft. The tape deck was also homemade.
He poured tea into a cup, added condensed milk from a tin, and sat at his worktable. Apart from the electronic equipment, the table bore only a telephone, a ruled exercise book, and a ballpoint pen. He opened the book at a clean page and wrote the date at the top in a large, cursive script. Then he reduced the volume of the radio and began to play the night's tape at high speed. Each time a high-pitched squeal indicated that there was speech on the recording, he slowed the reel with his finger until he could distinguish the words.
". . . car proceed to Holloway Road, the bottom end, to assist PC . . ."
". . . Ludlow Road, West Five, a Mrs. Shaftesbury--sounds like a domestic, Twenty-One . . ."
". . . Inspector says if that Chinese is still open he'll have chicken fried rice with chips . . ."
". . . Holloway Road get a move on--that PC's in trouble . . ."
Herbert stopped the tape and made a note.
". . . reported burglary of a house--that's near Wimbledon Common, Jack . . ."
". . . Eighteen, do you read . . ."
". . . any cars Lee area free to assist Fire Brigade at twenty-two Feather Street . . ."
Herbert made another note.
". . . Eighteen, do you read . . ."
". . . I don't know, give her an aspirin . . ."
". . . assault with a knife, not serious . . ."
". . . where the hell have you been, Eighteen . . ."
Herbert's attention strayed to the photograph on the mantelpiece above the boarded-in fireplace. The picture was flattering: Herbert had known this, twenty years ago, when she had given it to him; but now he had forgotten. Oddly, he did not think of her as she really had been, anymore. When he remembered her he visualized a woman with flawless skin and hand-tinted cheeks, posing before a faded panorama in a photographer's studio.
". . . theft of one color television and damage to a plate-glass window . . ."
He had been the first among his circle of friends to "lose the wife," as they would put it. Two or three of them had suffered the tragedy since: one had become a cheerful drunkard, another had married a widow. Herbert had buried his head in his hobby, radio. He began listening to police broadcasts during the day when he did not feel well enough to go to work, which was quite often.
". . . Grey Avenue, Golders Green, reported assault . . ."
One day, after hearing the police talk about a bank raid, he had telephoned the Evening Post. A reporter had thanked him for the information and taken his name and address. The raid had been a big one--a quarter of a million pounds--and the story was on the front page of the Post that evening. Herbert had been proud to have given them the tip-off, and told the story in three pubs that night. Then he forgot about it. Three months later he got a check for fifty pounds from the newspaper. With the check was a statement which read: "Two shot in PS250,000 raid" and gave the date of the robbery.
". . . leave it out, Charlie, if she won't make a complaint, forget it . . ."
The following day Herbert had stayed at home and phoned the Post every time he picked something up on the police wavelength. That afternoon he got a call from a man who said he was deputy news editor, who explained just what the paper wanted from people like Herbert. He was told not to report an assault unless a gun was used or someone was killed; not to bother with burglaries unless the address was in Belgravia, Chelsea, or Kensington; not to report robberies except when weapons were used or very large amounts of cash stolen.
". . . proceed to twenty-three, Narrow Road, and wait . . ."
He got the idea quickly, because he was not stupid, and the Post's news values were far from subtle. Soon he realized he was earning slightly more on his "sick" days than when he went to work. What was more, he preferred listening to the radio to making boxes for cameras. So he gave in his notice, and became what the newspaper called an earwig.
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". . . better give me that description now . . ."
After he had been working full-time on the radio for a few weeks the deputy news editor came to his house--it was before he moved to the studio apartment--to talk to him. The newspaperman said Herbert's work was very useful to the paper, and how would he like to work for them exclusively? That would mean Herbert would phone tips only to the Post, and not to other papers. But he would get a weekly retainer to make up for the loss of income. Herbert did not say that he never had phoned any other papers. He accepted the offer graciously.
". . . sit tight and we'll get you some assistance, in a few minutes . . ."
Over the years he had improved both his equipment and his understanding of what the newspaper wanted. He learned that they were grateful for more or less anything early in the morning, but as the day wore on they became more choosy, until by about three p.m. nothing less than murder in the street or large-scale robbery with violence interested them. He also discovered that the paper, like the police, was a lot less interested in a crime done to a colored man in a colored area. Herbert thought this quite reasonable, since he, as an Evening Post reader, was not much interested in what the wogs did to each other in their own parts of London; and he surmised, correctly, that the reason the Post was not interested was simply that people like Herbert who bought the Post weren't interested. And he learned to read between the lines of police jargon: knew when an assault was trivial or a complaint domestic; heard the note of urgency in the operations-room sergeant's voice when a call for assistance was desperate; discovered how to switch his mind off when they decided to read out great lists of stolen-car numbers over the air.
The speeded-up sound of his own alarm clock came out of the big speaker, and he turned the deck off. He increased the volume on the radio, then dialed the Post's number. He sipped his tea while he waited for an answer.
"Post, g'morning." It was a man's voice.
"Copytakers, please," Herbert said. There was another pause.
"Copy."
"Hello. Chieseman here, timing at oh seven fifty-nine."
There was a clatter of typewriters in the background. "Hello, Bertie. Anything doing?"
"Seems to have been a quiet night," Herbert said.