“He does compel. In a sort of awful way.”
“Huge risk.”
“We could have egg on our faces.”
“How old is he?”
“A throwback? Or a new departure?”
“He’d have to wear that suit.”
“The voice . . .”
“You couldn’t invent him.”
“The delivery . . .”
“So . . . ?” says Delia Canning.
Marion is vaguely sorry for Stella, but finds her pathetic. She feels no guilt, where Stella is concerned. All right, she has been having an affair with Stella’s husband but she had—has—no intention of appropriating him, and all this is a storm in a teacup, frankly. Stella should know Jeremy well enough to be able to rise above this. Marion does not think that Jeremy is a philanderer, but neither does she flatter herself that she is his first and only aberration. Stella should have the measure of Jeremy by now, and recognize that if she wants him she has got him anyway, for better or for worse.
If she doesn’t want him and so it would appear, with all this rattling of solicitors, then it is Jeremy who has to face up to things.
Just leave me out of it, thinks Marion. I have my own problems.
One of the Poles has sprained an ankle and can only work at half strength.
George Harrington is said to be in China.
Marion had not realized that banks charge such punitive rates for an overdraft.
“Not that one was in any doubt,” says Henry. “But it is good to have confirmation. Filming in a couple of weeks’ time, apparently. It might amuse you to come along and watch, Rose. Oh, and I think perhaps my tweed suit should go to the cleaners before then, if you would. Actually, more than just watch, I think it would be advisable to have you there as PA—check that I have the script, that sort of thing. We don’t want any hitches. The script is not yet in its final form, of course. I am working on the draft. Walpole, I propose—a definitive consideration of the man. So back to the drawing board.”
“What on earth can they be thinking of?” says Rose. “Out of their minds. They won’t know what’s hit them. People will be asking for their license money back.”
Charlotte observes that television history programs are in any case a minority taste. Perhaps the minority will take to Henry.
Rose snorts. “Whatever—he’s being insufferable. PA duty, and get my suit cleaned, and type up this draft, and then next day print it off again with three words changed. He’s driving me up the wall.”
“Never mind,” says Charlotte. “It’s Thursday. The weekend’s coming up.”
And it is, it is. Rose looks at the weekend, at Saturday, and it gleams.
For Anton too the weekend shines out. Weekends are always a blessed oasis, but this one has a special quality. He realizes that he is looking forward to something, that he is experiencing anticipation for the first time in months—in many, many months. He looks at his life with detachment, and thinks that it is a poor sort of life that has not known expectation, the pleasure of savoring ahead. So enjoy it while you have it, he tells himself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Henry too is in a state of anticipation. He anticipates with complacency; this filming—which will (he anticipates)—reveal an unexploited talent for popular communication. Occasionally, he practices in front of the mirror in the hall (Rose has caught him at it, and has retreated to her office with a smile); the expansive gesture, he is after, the humorous lift of the eyebrows, the smile that will draw in the viewers, show that one is sharing, not patronizing. Yes, that’s it. Sharing one’s scholarship, one’s breadth of vision.
He is keen to get going, but there is now a silence, where Delia Canning’s outfit is concerned. That brief call from the boy—what’s his name? Mark—to say that the project would go ahead, and now nothing. This is tiresome, but he can get on with polishing and amending his script, working on some ideas for further programs.
Henry is pleased with the script, when eventually it is groomed to his satisfaction; a lively presentation of Walpole as man and as politician, with some entertaining digressions—other personalities of the age, the intricacies of eighteenth-century political life.
“Very nice, I think, Rose. I fancy this is going to come across rather well. Send it to Ms. Canning, would you? Maybe that will get them going—we need a date for filming.”
With the script off his hands, Henry is at a loose end. He decides to go through old lecture notes in search of inspiration for future programs, comfortably confident that they will decide on a series, in the end.
Henry’s papers are not in good order. They consist of many files and boxes, inadequately labeled. There is no reliable retrieval system, and in order to find anything he has to do much tipping out of the contents of any file or box onto his desk, to see what exactly we have here.
What we have, he realizes—what we have collectively—is a most confusing paper trail of his own life. Letters, notes of his reading, notes for his lectures—a whole lot of arbitrary evidence as to who this person was and what he did. Henry is in fact capable of a degree of detachment about himself, and he views this accumulation with some interest. He finds himself picking out seminal moments, names, themes. He finds himself thinking that things could have gone otherwise. The clever young man with his starred first class degree could have headed for the civil service rather than academia—one might have ended up a Whitehall mandarin. Or politics?
And what about this? He has come across a letter from Lorna Mace, pushed into a file of ancient lecture notes, along with other unsorted old correspondence. Lorna Mace was a colleague with whom he had had briefly what would nowadays be called a relationship, though Henry is not aware of that use of the term. He thinks of Lorna Mace—or rather, seldom does think of her—as a young woman he once (twice, actually—maybe thrice) bedded, in appropriate eighteenth-century language. Henry’s sex drive is low; back in his youth he had a couple of mild sexual experiences, of which Lorna was one. In the course of these he discovered that so far as sex was concerned he could take it or leave it, and since then, on the whole, he has left it. But the sight of Lorna Mace’s letter prompts a sudden vision of what might have been, had his ardor been greater, had she been more pressing herself. One might have married. One might have had children.
Henry’s capacity for detachment stops short of imaginative flight. This glimpse of an alternative life is there for an instant, and immediately rejected. He has no regrets—in that direction or any other. He is who he is, has done what he has done, and is satisfied. Just occasionally he finds himself bewildered by other people’s wilder excesses, which are frequently triggered by sex or parenthood, it seems, those areas mysterious to him—and is relieved to have been spared all that.
Henry glances at the letter from Lorna Mace, does not bother to read it, remembers for an instant brown eyes, a habit of pushing her glasses up with one finger, and the frankly dismaying sight of pink undergarments tumbled upon a chair. No, no. He does not wonder what became of her—she is off his radar now, in perpetuity. Except that she lies here in one of his files.
The betraying nature of evidence. Henry does think for a few moments of this; an investigator who knew nothing of him might assume from this piece of paper that Lorna Mace was of significance in Henry’s life. The problem that faces the historical researcher: what weight should be given to any single piece of evidence?
Indeed. Henry picks up Lorna Mace’s letter again, tears it across and drops it into the wastepaper basket. One’s biographer . . .
But the point of this trawl was to ferret out something that would inspire the second—third, fourth—of these programs. The close scholarship of the past is to be the springboard for future popular fame. What about that stuff one did once on the South Sea Bubble? Where is that? Financial speculation is much in the news these days.
He finds the right box. Ah, yes—promising. Dear me, how assiduous one was. Reams of notes, references
. Henry reads, skims, reads. Hard to distill all this into a handful of succinct comments; there is quite a challenge here. But he is up for it, in his present state of heightened endeavor, of youthful ability.
A week or so later he has a nice draft of a script on the South Sea Bubble. To be filmed in the City, maybe? Ironic—all those soaring twentieth-century buildings. And then one morning the boy rings up. Rose takes calls in her office and brings the phone to Henry if appropriate.
“It’s Mark from Ms. Canning’s office.”
“Ah, yes, yes. I’ll take that.” Henry settles himself more comfortably. “Good morning, good morning. Now, how are the plans? You’ve had my script, of course?”
Yes, but no.
“No?” says Henry, incredulous.
Not Walpole, it seems. Delia Canning and her team are not interested in Robert Walpole. They are interested in issues. Eighteenth-century issues. Issues of crime and poverty. This is to be the theme of the program. The idea will be to evoke the atmosphere of eighteenth-century London, the apposition of wealth and penury. The teeming stews.
Henry has never paid much scholarly attention to the stews. Not his field. He is silenced.
“Hogarth . . .” the boy is saying.
Hogarth. Of course. They were bound to rope in Hogarth.
“People in fancy dress?” Henry inquires, wearily.
“Actually, no,” says the boy—the hint of a smile in his voice. “Sound effects, more, I think . . .”
Henry interrupts. “Ah. The Beggar’s Opera?”
“Well, no—not that that isn’t quite a nice idea. Atmospheric effects, against clever shots of the Hogarths, and contemporary prints, London as it was then, that sort of thing. Though I believe reenactment is not entirely ruled out at this stage.”
Henry grunts.
“There was a thought that possibly you yourself . . . An idea that perhaps a sequence in costume—ironic, you see—the presenter himself becoming part of the past.”
“Me . . . in costume.”
“Well, maybe not,” says the boy hastily. “Just a vague idea, I think. As I say, nothing’s absolutely firmed up yet, just the general approach. The theme and the treatment. It’s going to be extremely effective.”
Henry has always known how to act with circumspection. No good throwing a tantrum and saying—how dare you jettison Walpole, I insist that you reinstate Walpole. Henry has sensed an immovable force, where Delia Canning and her team are concerned. Make a fuss, and he could risk being dropped entirely. It is exasperating—and undignified—to be beholden in this way to these—well, apparatchiks, if one is honest—but there it is. Best to appear compliant, and then if—when—his performance is judged an unqualified success he will be in a position to exert pressure next time around.
“Somewhat perverse,” he told Marion, over Corrie’s Irish stew. “These people—a perverse choice, to my mind, but I dare say something can be made of it. You’re not eating, my dear—not unwell, I hope?”
Marion was not unwell, but the Irish stew is a particular horror. However, Sunday lunch at Lansdale Gardens came as something of a respite, after a trying week. The Poles were undermanned, one of them nursing an injury, a large bill had come in (second demand), and there had been this dismaying business of George Harrington’s secretary.
Marion had phoned, yet again, in pursuit of Harrington himself. She had dialed the direct number, but the call had been answered by an unfamiliar voice.
“Mr. Harrington’s secretary is not available.”
“Oh. When will she be back?”
A fractional pause. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
Marion had persisted. Tomorrow? Next week? Is she ill? “I’m afraid I have no information.”
Four days later there was still no information. Irritation turned to unease. What is this? What is going on? Harrington’s last tranche of cash was now all spent; Marion had paid the Poles for the last three weeks, settled such bills as she absolutely must, and was now piling up her overdraft. The bank was reminding her of this. With relish, she felt.
Why had she never got hold of Harrington’s mobile number? Oh, but she had tried to, she now remembered. At that lunch. She had said, at one point—“Wouldn’t it be sensible if I could reach you directly if I need to?” and he had said that he was so often on the move, in some other time zone as like as not, better to get on to Judy, she’s always available, she can always get a message through.
Huh. So where is she? Where is he? What do I do?
“Do?” said Jeremy. “She’ll turn up, won’t she? On holiday, I expect. Overdraft? Darling, you’re talking to the world expert on overdrafts. I’ve had more overdrafts than you’ve had hot dinners. Treat it with disdain. An overdraft is just an attempt to hobble a really enterprising, creative person. Listen, sweetie, I am quite desperately in need of a break. I’m quite desperately in need of you. There’s a clearance sale at this mansion in Shropshire next Saturday. Let’s have a weekend in the country. Come on—you deserve it.”
Marion had always been careful. She had balanced the books, had seen to it that money out was matched by money in. And now suddenly her formerly stable small overdraft had hurtled upward—£28,647 and counting. A consignment of expensive hand-made tiles had just been delivered to the flat—another bill; the Poles must be paid at the end of the week.
“I’m sorry, I have no information regarding Mr. Harrington’s secretary.”
“Forget about it,” said Jeremy. “Put it out of your mind, darling. Enjoy—we’re having a spree, a jaunt. And I’m not driving too fast—this is how I drive, that idiot was crawling, I had to overtake. Apparently this Shropshire place belonged to some sort of eccentric collector—bags of interesting stuff, there should be. The grapevine says art deco a specialty—great! I can unload all the art deco I can lay my hands on. Let’s find something for you, too—a pretty piece for the showroom. Oh, cheer up, darling—of course you’re in the mood for acquisition. One’s always in the mood for acquisition. Did I tell you I’ve sold that carved overmantel? Couple doing up a pad in Bishop’s Avenue—thrilled with it. Three grand—actually, I’d have settled for two and a half. So that’s helped with the cash-flow, for the moment. See? Something always turns up, when you think the going’s a bit rough. And I’ve got rid of the Irishman and taken on a boy as work experience—son of someone I know—so I needn’t pay him at all, as work experience, it’s a snip. How long will he last? Well, until he susses out that he’s not experiencing much, I suppose, and then I can always find another. I should have thought of this before—the Irishman was money down the drain. Listen—I’ve booked us into this heavenly sounding pub—gastro, of course, and all beams and inglenooks and log fires. On me—my treat, thanks to the overmantel. So we’ll have a lovely bibulous evening, after I’ve spent the rest of the overmantel on lots of gorgeous art deco—and then a happy night, won’t we, sweetie?”
“Oh, wow!” said Jeremy. “Look at that stained glass! I’ve got to have that. And those chairs. And I’m sorely tempted by the lamps. Yes, I know I’m reclamation, not an antique dealer, but one’s entitled to move upmarket from time to time. Customers get excited, too, when they spot something like that in my place—they think they’ve made a find, and end up paying more than they would in Kensington Church Street. Let’s hope there’s not too much by way of competition—I’ve seen one or two of the brotherhood prowling around, giving me shirty looks. God, why can’t I live like this guy did—own a place like this, oodles of money, just spend it on good stuff, and sit around enjoying it. It’s so bloody unfair, isn’t it? Instead of which, one works one’s butt off getting and spending—ooh, that’s Wordsworth, isn’t it? I’d forgotten I knew it. That’s what comes of a posh education—little snippets of culture surface from time to time. Gosh—look at that gorgeous little table—now you should try to get that, it’s just your style. There! I’m putting a big tick against it—I shall make you bid. I am enjoying this—it
’s just what I needed, after that beastly business with Stella, her storming past me, refusing to speak. Do you think I should have another go? I just feel that if I could only have five minutes with her, talk reasonably, get my point of view across. Oh, sorry, darling—I meant to put Stella on a back burner this weekend, and I have, thanks to you. You haven’t got an overdraft, and I haven’t got a divorce-crazy wife—there! We’re going to sit in the front row when the auction gets going, and sweep the board. Should I go for that heavenly screen? Well, all right, only if it goes for a knock-down price, which it won’t with the brotherhood here. But I’ll have those William Morris curtains—they won’t be interested in them. And the cushions—people are after fabrics these days, I’m finding. We’d better take a look at the carpets. This is fun. Why don’t I always have you with me on days like this?”
Because, thought Marion, I am your mistress and a part-time one at that, and you are obsessed with preventing your wife from divorcing you. Which makes our connection wobbly, to say the least. And I have got more to think of than screens and pretty tables, right now. I am in debt to the bank, and am myself owed money by a man I am apparently unable to get hold of, and I don’t know what to do about the Poles—do I keep them and go on paying them myself, not knowing if I will get reimbursed, or do I lay them off and risk losing them? Harrington may suddenly surface, all will be well, and I shall need to get the project moving and will have no Poles. What do I do?
“What one will have to do,” Henry told Rose, “is go along with what they are proposing, and lend it one’s own style—give it some authority. To that end I shall read up on topics with which I am a touch unfamiliar. They wish to home in on the low life of the period—very well, I must do so myself, eh?” A chuckle.
Have fun, thinks Rose, who is pondering Tube connections from home to Richmond, and when she should leave in order to be there by eleven.
Anton is doing the crossword. He sits on the Tube, with furrowed brow, anxious to have one clue at least completed before he meets her. It is the quick crossword, the easy one—surely he will manage something.