The patient young men in Roger’s private office allowed themselves a shrug of relief. He had got tired of it at last, they said. Four months of commotion: then absolute silence. From their records, they could date when silence fell. It was the third week in May.
In that same week, I happened to have been inquiring whether certain invitations to accept Honours had been sent out. My question had nothing to do with Brodzinski, though I thought mechanically that his invitation must have gone out too. It did not occur to me, not remotely, to connect the two dates.
As the summer began, all of us round Roger were more confident than we had yet been. First drafts of the White Paper were being composed. Francis Getliffe came from Cambridge twice a week to confer with Douglas and Walter Luke. Papers passed between Douglas’ office and Rose’s. Roger had issued an instruction that the office draft must be ready for him by August. Then he would publish when he guessed the time was right. In private, he was preparing for the month after Christmas, the beginning of 1958.
While we were drafting, Diana Skidmore was going through her standard summer round. On the last day of Ascot Week, she invited some of us to a party in South Street. She had heard – as though she had a ticker-tape service about American visitors – that David Rubin was in England. She had not met him: ‘He’s brilliant, isn’t he?’ she asked. Yes, I assured her, he was certainly brilliant. ‘Bring him along,’ she ordered. There had been a time when the Basset circle was supposed to be anti-Semitic. That, at least, had changed.
When Margaret, David Rubin and I stood at the edge of Diana’s drawing-room, about seven o’clock on the wet June evening, not much else seemed to have changed. The voices were as hearty as ever: the champagne went around as fast: the women stood in their Ascot frocks, the men in their Ascot uniforms. There were a dozen Ministers there, several of the Opposition front bench, many Conservative members, and a few from the other side.
There was a crowd of Diana’s rich friends. She welcomed us with vigour. Yes, she knew that David Rubin was talking to the English nuclear scientists.
‘People over here being sensible?’ she said to him. ‘Come and tell me about them. I’ll arrange something next week.’ She was peremptory as usual, and yet, because she took it for granted that it was for her to behave like a prince, to open England up to him, he took it for granted too.
How was it, I had sometimes wondered, that, despite her use of her riches, she didn’t attract more resentment? Even when she put a hand, with complete confidence, into any kind of politics? She had been drawn back into the swirling, meaty, noisy gaggle: there she was, listening deferentially to a handsome architect. Even in her devoted marriage, she had had a hankering for one
guru
after another. Just as she took it for granted that she could talk to Ministers, so she loved being a pupil. If it seemed a contradiction to others, it seemed natural to her, and that was all she cared about.
Margaret had been taken away by Monty Cave. I noticed Rubin being shouted at hilariously by Sammikins. I walked round the party, and then, half an hour after we came in, found myself by Rubin’s side again. He was watching the crowd with his air of resignation, of sad intelligence.
‘They’re in better shape, aren’t they?’ He meant that these people, or some of them, had lost their collective confidence over Suez. Now they were behaving as though they had found it again. Rubin knew, as well as I did, that political sorrows did not last long. Political memory lasted about a fortnight. It did not count beside a new love-affair, a new job, even, for many of these men, the active glow after making a good speech.
‘No country’s got a ruling class like this.’ David Rubin opened his hands towards the room. ‘I don’t know what they hope for, and they don’t know either. But they still feel they’re the lords of this world.’
I was fond of Rubin and respected him, but his reflections on England were irking me. I said he mustn’t judge the country by this group. Being born in my provincial town wasn’t much different from being born in Brooklyn. He ought to know the boys I grew up among. Rubin interrupted, with a sharp smile: ‘No. You’re a far-sighted man, I know it, Lewis. But you’re just as confident in yourself as these characters are.’ Once more he shrugged at the room. ‘You don’t believe a single thing that they believe, but you’ve borrowed more from them than you know.’
People were going out to dinner, and the party thinned. Gradually those who were left came to the middle of the room. There stood Diana and her architect, Sammikins and two decorative women, Margaret and Lord Bridgewater, and a few more. I joined the group just as David Rubin came up from the other side with Cave’s wife, who was for once out with her husband. She was ash-blonde, with a hard, strained, beautiful face. Rubin had begun to enjoy himself. He might have a darker world view than anyone there, but he gained certain consolations.
No one could talk much, in that inner residue of the party, but Sammikins. He was trumpeting away with a euphoria startling even by his own standards. Just as Diana had lost money at Ascot, he had won. With the irrationality of the rich, Diana had been put out. With the irrationality of the harassed, which he would remain until his father died, Sammikins was elated. He wanted to entertain us all. He spoke with the luminosity of one who saw that his financial problems had been settled for ever. ‘All the time I was at school,’ he cried, ‘m’tutor gave me one piece of advice. He said, “Houghton, never go in for horse-racing. They suck you in.”’ Sammikins caught sight of David Rubin, and raised his voice once more. ‘What do you think of that, Professor? What do you think of that for a piece of advice? Not
à point
, eh?’
David Rubin did not much like being called Professor. Also, he found Sammikins’ allusions somewhat esoteric. But he grappled. He replied: ‘I’m afraid I have to agree with your friend.’
‘M’tutor.’
‘Anyway, he’s right. Statistically, he must be right.’
‘Horses are better than cards, any day of the week. Damn it all, Professor, I’ve proved it!’
David Rubin was getting noise-drunk. Sammikins, in a more conciliatory tone, went on: ‘I grant you this, Professor, I don’t know about roulette. I’ve known men who made an income at roulette.’
The scientific truth was too strong for Rubin.
‘No. If you played roulette for infinite time, however you played, you’d be bound to lose.’ He took Sammikins by the arm. We had the pleasant spectacle of Rubin, Nobel Laureate, most elegant of conceptual thinkers, not quite sober, trying to explain to Sammikins, positive that he had found the secret of prosperity, distinctly drunk, about the theory of probability.
Diana said, in her clear, military rasp, that racing was a mug’s game. On the other hand, she was sharp with happiness. She wanted to have dinner with the architect. It was only out of duty, as we were all ready to go, that she mentioned the Government.
‘They seem to be getting on a bit better,’ she said.
There were murmurs of agreement all round her.
‘Roger’s doing all right,’ she said to me. She was not asking my opinion, she was telling me.
She went on: ‘Reggie Collingwood thinks well of him.’ We were getting near the door. Diana said: ‘Yes. Reggie says he’s a good listener.’
Diana had passed on the good news, and I went away happy. Objectively, Collingwood’s statement was true; but, from a man who could hardly utter about one of the most eloquent men in London, it seemed an odd compliment.
In September, with the House in recess, Roger kept coming to his office. It was what the civil servants called, the ‘leave season’. Douglas was away and so, in my department, was Hector Rose. Nevertheless, Roger’s secretaries were arranging a set of meetings to which I had to go. As I arrived in his room for one of them, Roger asked in a matter-of-fact tone if I minded staying behind after it was over. He had something he wanted to talk to me about, so he said.
He seemed a little preoccupied as he took the meeting. When he spoke, he was fumbling for the words, as a man does when he is tired and strained. I did not take much notice. The meeting was purring efficiently on. There were some unfamiliar faces, deputy secretaries, under-secretaries, appearing instead of their bosses. The competent voices carried on, the business was getting done.
The cups of tea were brought in, the weak and milky tea, the plates of biscuits. The meeting was doing all that Roger wanted. He might be tired, but he was showing good judgement. He did not hurry them, he let the decisions form. It was past six o’clock when the papers were being packed in the brief cases. Practised and polite, Roger said his good evenings and his thanks, and we were left alone.
‘That went rather well,’ I said.
There was a pause, as though he had to remember what I was speaking about, before he replied: ‘Yes, it did, didn’t it?’
I was standing up, stretching myself. He had stayed in his chair. He looked up without expression, and asked: ‘Do you mind if we go for a stroll in the Park?’
We went down the corridors, down the stone stairs, out through the main entrance. We crossed over the Park by the lake; one of the pelicans was spreading its wings. The trees were creaking in a blustery wind; on the grass, the first leaves had fallen. It was a dark evening, with clouds, low and grey, driving across from the west. Roger had not spoken since we left the office. For an instant, I was not thinking of him. The smell of the water, of the autumn night, had filled me with a sense, vague but overmastering, of sadness and joy, as though I were played on by a memory which I could not in truth recall, of a place not far away, of a time many years before, when my first love, long since dead, had told me without kindness that she would come to me.
We walked slowly along the path. Girls, going home late from the offices, were scurrying in front of us. It was so windy that most of the seats by the lakeside were empty. Suddenly Roger said: ‘Shall we sit down?’
Miniature waves were flecking the water. As we sat and watched them, Roger, without turning to me, said in a curt, flat and even tone: ‘There may possibly be trouble. I don’t think it’s likely, but it’s possible.’
I was shocked out of my reverie. My first thought was to ask if any of his supporters, high or low, Collingwood or the back-benchers, had turned against him.
‘No. Nothing like that. Nothing like that at all.’
Was he trying to break some news affecting me? I had nothing on my mind, I could not think what it might be. I gave him a chance to tell me, but he shook his head.
Now it had come to the point, the confidence would not flow. He stared at the water. At last he said: ‘I have a young woman.’
For the instant, I felt nothing but surprise.
‘We’ve kept it absolutely quiet. Now she’s been threatened. Someone’s found out.’
‘Who has?’
‘Just a voice she didn’t know, over the telephone,’ he said.
‘Does it matter?’
‘How do we know?’
‘What are you frightened of?’
There was a pause before he said: ‘If it came out it might do some harm.’
I was still surprised. I had thought his marriage happy enough. A man of action’s marriage, not all-excluding; but strong, a comfort, an alliance. Some of his worry was infecting me. I felt an irritation, an impatience, that I could not keep quiet. What more did he want? I was asking myself, as simply, as uncharitably as my mother might have done. A good-looking wife, children, a rich home: what was he taking risks for? Risks, he seemed to think, which might damage his plans and mine. I was condemning him as simply as that, not in the least like one who had seen people in trouble, not like one who had done harm himself.
At the same time I could not help feeling a kind of warmth, not affection so much as a visceral warmth. In the midst of his anxiety, he had been half-pleased to confess. Not with just the pleasure displayed by men higher-minded than he was, as they modestly admit a conquest – no, with a pleasure deeper than that, something more like joy. Looking at him as he sat, still gazing at the lake, not meeting my eyes, I should have guessed that he had not had much to do with women. But his emotions were powerful and, perhaps, so could his passions be. As he sat there, his face heavy, thinking of the dangers, he seemed comforted by what had happened to him – like a man for whom the promise of life is still there. I set myself to ask a practical question. What were the chances of it coming out?
‘She’s worried. I’ve never known her lose her nerve before.’
I said, probably she had never had to cope with a scandal. But the technique was all worked out. Go to a good tough lawyer. Tell everything.
‘You’ve no reason to think that any rumours have gone round already, have you? I certainly haven’t.’
Roger shook his head.
‘Then it ought to be fairly easy to stop the hole.’
He did not respond, or look at me. He stared into the distance. In a moment, knowing that I was giving him no comfort, I broke off.
I said: ‘I’m sure this can be handled. You ought to tell her that. But even if it couldn’t be, and the worst came to the worst – is it the end of the world?’ I meant, as I went on to say, that the people he lived amongst were used to scandals out of comparison more disreputable than this.
‘You’re fooling yourself,’ he said harshly. ‘It isn’t so easy.’ I wondered, was he holding something back? Was she very young? ‘Is there something special about it?’ I said. ‘Who is she?’
It seemed that he could not reply. He sat without speaking, and then in a burst of words put me off.
‘It isn’t important what’s done. It is important who does it. There are plenty of people – you know as well as I do – who want an excuse to knife me. Don’t you accept that this would be a reasonable excuse?’
‘You haven’t told me how.’
‘There’s an old maxim in the Anglican church. You can get away with unorthodox behaviour. Or you can get away with unorthodox doctrine. But you can’t get away with both of them at the same time.’