Текст книги "What a cave up!"

Автор книги: Джонатан Коу

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

His voice rose almost to a shout on the last word. Then he sat back and ran his hands through his hair.

‘So what’s it like then, her book?’ I asked, after he had had time to calm down a bit.

‘Oh, it’s the usual sort of rubbish. Lots of media people being dynamic and ruthless. Sex every forty pages. Cheap tricks, mechanical plot, lousy dialogue, could have been written by a computer. Probably was written by a computer. Empty, hollow, materialistic, meretricious. Enough to make any civilized person heave, really.’ He stared ruefully into space. ‘And the worst of it is they didn’t even accept my bid. Somebody tipped me by ten grand. Bastards. I just know it’s going to be the hit of the spring season.’

There appeared to be no easy way of breaking the ensuing silence. Patrick’s eyes were popped out like a frog’s as he looked straight past me, and he seemed to have completely forgotten that I was in the room.

‘Look,’ I said at last, making a big show of glancing at my watch. ‘I really have to go and keep another appointment quite soon. If you could just give me a few pointers about the stuff I sent you …’

Patrick’s eyes slowly turned in my direction and came into focus. A dreamy, rueful grin spread over his face. I don’t think he had heard me.

‘Then again, maybe none of this matters,’ he said. ‘Maybe there are more important things going on in the world and my little problems don’t count for much at all. Perhaps we’ll be at war soon, anyway.’

‘At war?’

‘Well, it’s beginning to look that way, isn’t it? Britain and France sending more troops to Saudi Arabia. On Sunday we expel all those people from the Iraqi Embassy. And now the Ayatollah’s joining in and calling for a holy war against the United States.’ He shuddered. ‘I’m telling you, the implications of this situation look pretty grim from where I’m sitting.’

‘You mean that as soon as the fighting starts, Israel is going to get involved and before we know it relationships in the Middle East will be even worse. And then if the United Nations breaks up under the strain, the whole Cold War situation is wide open again and we could be looking at the possibility of a limited nuclear war?’

Patrick’s glance expressed pity at my naivety.

‘That’s hardly my point,’ he said. ‘The thing is that if we don’t get a biography of Saddam Hussein into the shops in the next three or four months, we’re going to get crapped on by every publisher in town.’ He looked up at me with a sudden desperate gleam in his eye. ‘Maybe you could do one for us. What do you say? Six weeks’ research, six weeks’ writing. Twenty thousand upfront if we keep all the overseas and serial rights.’

‘Patrick, I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’ I got up, paced the room a couple of times and then looked him square in the face. ‘I can’t believe you’re the same person I had all those discussions with eight years ago. All that stuff about the – permanence of great literature; the need to look beyond the horizons of the merely contemporary. I mean, what’s the business doing to you these days?’

I could see that I’d caught his attention at last and, from the way his face was rapidly falling, that my message had a chance of getting through. So I decided to press the point home.

‘You used to have such faith in literature, Patrick. I’ve never known faith like it. I used to sit in this chair listening to you talk and it was like a – like a revelation. You taught me about the eternal verities. The values which transcend generations and centuries, and which are encoded in the great imaginative works of every culture.’ I couldn’t keep this bullshit up for much longer, that was for sure. ‘You taught me to forget about everyday truths, ephemeral truths, truths that seem significant one day and irrelevant the next. You made me see that there’s a higher truth than any of that. Fiction, Patrick.’ I thumped the manuscript which was still lying on his desk. ‘Fiction – that’s what’s important. That’s what you and I believed in once, and that’s what I’ve returned to now. I thought you of all people would understand that.’

He was silent for a little while, and when he spoke again, his voice quivered with emotion.

‘You’re right, Michael. I’m sorry, really I am. You came here to get my opinion about something you’ve written, something you feel very deeply about, and all I can talk about is my own problems.’ He waved me back to my chair. ‘Come on, sit down. Let’s talk about your book.’

Determined to retain my advantage, I held my hand up in a gesture of deprecation and said: ‘Perhaps it’s not such a good time. I have this other appointment, and you maybe need a little longer to think before you can reach a decision, so why don’t we –’

‘I’ve already reached a decision about your book, Michael.’

I sat down immediately. ‘You have?’

‘Oh yes. I wouldn’t have called you in here if I hadn’t.’

Neither of us spoke for a few seconds. Then I said: ‘Well?’

Patrick leaned back in his chair and smiled teasingly. ‘I think you’d better tell me a little bit about it first. The background. Why you’ve written a book about the Winshaws. Why you’ve written a book about them which seems to have started out as a history and turned into a novel. What on earth gave you the idea?’

I answered these questions truthfully, precisely and at some length. After which, neither of us spoke for a few seconds. Then I said: ‘Well?’

‘Well … I hardly need to tell you that we have a serious problem with this book, Michael. It’s flagrantly libellous.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ I said. ‘I’ll change everything: names, locations, timings, the lot. This is just a beginning, you see, it’s just a basis. I can cover my tracks, make the whole thing practically unrecognizable. This is just the start.’

‘Hmm.’ Patrick put his forefingers together and laid them thoughtfully against his mouth. ‘Well, what does that leave us with, exactly? That leaves us with a book which is scurrilous, scandal-seeking, vindictive in tone, obviously written out of feelings of malice and even, in parts – if you don’t mind me saying this – a little shallow.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So you’ll publish it?’

‘I think so. Subject to your carrying out the necessary revisions, and, of course, providing it with some sort of ending.’

‘Absolutely. I’m working on that at the moment, and I expect to come up with something … soon. Very soon.’ In my exhilaration I felt a sudden rush of warmth towards Patrick. ‘You know, I was sure that this book was perfect for the market right now, but I can’t tell you how much I needed to hear you say this. I was worried, you know, with it being so different from my other novels –’

‘Oh, not that different,’ he said, with a wave of his hand.

‘You don’t think so?’

‘There’s a definite stylistic link between this stuff and your last book, for instance. I could recognize your voice immediately. In many ways, this has the same strengths, and the …’

‘… and the what?’ I asked, after he’d tailed off.

‘Pardon?’

‘You were about to say something. The same strengths, and …?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Really.’

‘The same weaknesses, that’s what you were about to say. Isn’t it? The same strengths, and the same weaknesses.’

‘Well yes, if you must know.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘Oh, we don’t want to bother about that now.’

‘Come on, Patrick, tell me.’

‘Well …’ He got up and walked to the window. The car park and the brick wall didn’t seem to inspire him. ‘I don’t suppose you can remember, can you, what we talked about the last time we met? That last conversation we had, all those years ago?’

I remembered it vividly.

‘Not offhand, no.’

‘We talked a lot about your work. We talked a lot about your previous work, and your future work, and your work in progress, and I ventured to make a small criticism which seemed to upset you, to a certain extent. I don’t suppose you can remember what it was?’

I could almost remember his exact words.

‘Can’t put my finger on it, I’m afraid.’

‘I suggested … well I suggested, to be frank, that there was a certain element of passion lacking from your writing. You don’t remember that?’

‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Not that this suggestion in itself would have caused you to take offence. But I did also go on to suggest – and here I really was being a bit presumptuous, I suppose – that the explanation for this might lie in the fact that there was also a certain element of passion lacking in – well, how shall I put this? – your life. For want of a better word.’ He watched me carefully: carefully enough to be able to say, ‘You do remember, don’t you?’

I stared back at him until my indignation got the better of me. ‘I don’t know how you can say that,’ I spluttered. ‘This book is full of passion. Full of anger, anyway. If it communicates anything at all, it’s how much I hate these people, how evil they are, how much they’ve spoiled everything, with their vested interests and their influence and their privilege and their stranglehold on all the centres of power; how they’ve got us all cornered, how they’ve pretty well carved up the whole bloody country between them. You don’t know what it was like, Patrick, having to surround myself with that family for so many years; day after day with no one but the Winshaws for company. Why do you think the book turned out like that? Because writing it all down, trying to put down the truth about them, was the only thing that stopped me from wanting to kill them. Which somebody should do one of these days, incidentally.’

‘All right then, let me put it another –’

‘So how you can say there’s no passion in it beats me, I must say.’

‘Well, perhaps “passion” is the wrong word.’ He hesitated, but only for a second. ‘In fact it wasn’t even the word that I used when we first had this conversation. To be absolutely blunt, Michael, I pointed out that there was an absence of sex in your work – sex was the very word I used, now I come to think of it – and I then went on to speculate whether this might mean – might mean, I go no further than that – that there was also, and equally, a parallel and … concomitant absence of … sex … in your … Let me put this another way: there’s no sexual dimension to your writing at the moment, Michael, and I only wondered if this might possibly be because there is no – or at least not much – sexual dimension to your … to your life. As it stands.’

‘I see.’ I stood up. ‘Patrick, I’m disappointed. I didn’t think you were the kind of editor who told authors to put sex in their books just to help the sales along.’

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. Not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying that there’s a crucial aspect of your characters’ experience which is simply not finding expression here. You’re avoiding it. You’re pussyfooting around it. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were afraid of it.’

‘I’m not staying here to listen to any more of this,’ I said, making for the door.

‘Michael?’

I turned.

‘I’ll get a contract in the post for you tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and was about to leave, when something made me stop and say: ‘You hit a bit of a nerve, you know, when you went on about … an element, being lacking in my life.’

‘I know.’

‘Good sex scenes are very difficult to write, anyway.’

‘I know.’

‘Thanks, all the same.’ Another afterthought. ‘We must have lunch together soon, like in the old days.’

‘The firm won’t let me buy lunch for authors any more,’ said Patrick. ‘But still, if you know somewhere cheap, we could always go Dutch.’

He was pouring himself more water as I left.

3

My meeting with Patrick had gone on for much longer than I’d expected, and I was almost late arriving at Vanity House. I’d been hoping to have a meal somewhere on the way, but there wasn’t time, so I had to make do with some more chocolate instead. I tried one of these new bars called Twirls: spirals of flaky chocolate covered in a rich, creamy, succulent coat. Not bad, as a matter of fact, although they did have a bit of nerve describing it as ‘new’, since it clearly owed a large conceptual debt to the Ripple. This one seemed firmer, somehow, though: chunkier and more substantial. I’d bought a packet of Maltesers as well but didn’t feel like opening it.

I was looking forward to visiting the Peacock Press, and partly for a reason which will perhaps seem foolish. The first person I had ever spoken to there – the person who had actually approached me with the idea for the Winshaw book – was a woman called Alice Hastings, and we had, I thought, struck up an immediate rapport. I might as well add that she was also young and very beautiful, and not a small part of the attraction of the whole project lay in the opportunities it promised for further meetings with her. But this was not to be. After that initial encounter, I was passed on to the attention of one Mrs Tonks, a plain-speaking and by no means unfriendly woman of late middle age who subsequently assumed complete responsibility for overseeing the progress of the book. She took her duties seriously and did her best to make me feel well looked after: every Christmas, for instance, she would send me a parcel of her favourite books from the year’s catalogue, wrapped up in gift paper. This was how my library came to be adorned with such choice items as Great Plumbers of Albania, 300 Years of Halitosis, the Reverend J.W. Pottage’s pioneering study, So You Think You Know about Plinths?, and a frankly unforgettable memoir – although its author’s name escapes me – entitled A Life in Packaging – Fragments of an Autobiography: Volume IX – The Styrofoam Years. Much as I appreciated this generosity, it was no substitute for seeing Alice again, and on the rare occasions (no more than three or four) when I had visited the office in person, I had always made a point of asking after her. As luck would have it, though, she had always been out at lunch, or away on holiday, or busy dealing with an author. And yet even now, absurdly, eight years since I had last seen her, I felt a sweet ache of sexual nostalgia as I entered the building, and the thought that I might glimpse her again or even exchange a few words with her put a tiny spring in my step and a flourish in the movement of my wrist as I pressed the lift button for the ninth floor.

Today, in any case, even the unassuming efficiency of Mrs Tonks offered a cheering prospect: doing business with her would be a blissfully uncomplicated affair after my dealings with Patrick. That at least was my expectation, as I stood peering into the mirror and wiping a smudge of chocolate from my lower lip, while the lift carried me smoothly upwards.

I caught a sense that something different was in the air, however, when Mrs Tonks, instead of keeping me waiting in the reception area, hurried out to see me as soon as she heard that I’d arrived. Her stout, businesslike face wore more than its habitual flush, and her fingers fiddled nervously with the heavy wooden beads which hung low over her pendulous bosom.

‘Mr Owen,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to telephone you all morning. I was hoping to save you a journey.’

‘You didn’t manage to look at the manuscript?’ I asked, following her into a large, comfortable office, handsomely decked out with bonsai trees and modern abstracts.

‘I was intending to read it today, before you came in,’ she said, waving me to a chair, ‘but circumstances didn’t permit. The fact is, we’re in disarray. There’s been a little upset. Not to keep you in suspense any longer, we were burgled last night.’

I can never think of anything intelligent to say in response to such statements. My reply was something like, ‘How awful’. Followed by: ‘I hope you didn’t lose anything valuable.’

‘Nothing was stolen at all,’ said Mrs Tonks. ‘Except your manuscript.’

That shut me up.

‘It was in the top drawer of my desk,’ she continued. ‘It doesn’t seem to have taken long for the thief to find it. We haven’t notified the police yet: I wanted to talk to you first. Mr Owen, is there any reason why this should have happened now, so soon after we received it? Have you done anything recently which might have alerted someone to the fact that you’d resumed work on this book?’

I thought for a moment and said, ‘Yes.’ Pacing the room angrily (the anger directed at myself) I explained about the newspaper advertisement. ‘It was meant as a declaration of war, as much as anything else. A coded challenge. Well, someone’s obviously taken me up on it.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Mrs Tonks. ‘Not given them our address, without consulting us first. Anyway, that leaves the field wide open. It could have been anyone.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said, as a suspicion began to take shape within me. ‘There are certain members of the family who’ve already expressed an interest in suppressing this book, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised –’

Mrs Tonks wasn’t listening.

‘I think we’re going to have to bring Mr McGanny in on this,’ she said. ‘Come with me, will you?’

She led me out into reception and for a few moments disappeared into another office, leaving me alone with the secretary. Lulled by the gentle tapping of her computer keyboard, I drifted off into some random speculations as to which of the Winshaws might have pilfered my manuscript (or more probably hired someone else to do it). The obvious candidate was Henry: after all, he had already attempted to burn the thing once. But then none of the others could be entirely ruled out. Whoever was behind it, their objective was unlikely to be the suppression of the book: they would surely have anticipated my taking several copies, so the intention presumably was just to find out how far my investigations had proceeded. I decided not to worry about this until I was in possession of a few more facts. The time was ripe to ask another, more urgent question.

I wandered over to the secretary’s desk and said, with affected carelessness: ‘I don’t suppose … Miss Hastings wouldn’t be here this afternoon, by any chance, would she?’

She stared back at me, her eyes bored, without expression.

‘I’m only temporary,’ she said.

Just then Mrs Tonks re-emerged and beckoned me to follow her. I had never met Mr McGanny, the managing director of the Press, and wasn’t sure what to expect. The sumptuousness of his office took me by surprise, for one thing: it boasted leather armchairs and a huge picture window fronting on to the local park. As for the man himself, I placed him somewhere in his mid fifties: his face made me think of a horse – thoroughbred, perhaps, but slightly on the lean and cunning side – and instead of the Scottish brogue which I’d been anticipating, he spoke in the suave drawl of the Oxbridge– and public-school-educated Englishman.

‘Sit down, Owen, sit down.’ He faced me across the desk. Mrs Tonks stood by the window. ‘This is serious news about the Winshaw book. What do you make of it?’

‘I think my line of inquiry has started to prove a little too controversial for certain members of the family. I think they may have wanted a foretaste of exactly what I was proposing to write.’

‘Hmm. Well, it’s a damned underhand way of going about it, that’s all I can say.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Owen. I don’t approve of controversy.’

‘I see.’

‘But there are two sides to every coin. I didn’t commission you to write this book, and I don’t give a damn what you put in it. That’s Miss Winshaw’s business. It’s down to her what goes in and what comes out, and it seems to me that this arrangement gives you a pretty free hand, since we all know, and there’s not much point beating around the bush here, that she’s one or two fly-leaves short of a folio. To put it mildly.’

‘Quite.’

‘Now I’ll be frank with you, Owen. My understanding is that through her solicitors, Miss Winshaw has fixed up a pretty cosy financial arrangement on your behalf.’

‘You could say that.’

‘And there’s no harm in letting you know that she’s done very much the same for yours truly. By which I mean the firm.’ He coughed. ‘So the fact of the matter is that there’s no hurry for you to get this book finished. No hurry at all. The longer the better, one might say.’ He coughed again. ‘And by the same token, I would hope that there’s no question of you dropping it at any point, just because of a bit of intimidation from various interested –’

A buzzer sounded on his desk.

‘Yes?’ he said, jabbing at a button.

The secretary’s voice: ‘I finally got through to Wing Commander Fortescue, sir. He says he’s sure he put the cheque in the mail last week.’

‘Hm! Send him the usual letter. And don’t disturb me again unless it’s urgent.’

‘Also, sir, your daughter phoned.’

‘I see – cancelling dinner, I suppose. Some new boyfriend she’d rather be seeing instead.’

‘Not exactly: she said her audition this afternoon was called off so she’s coming to meet you early. She’s on her way now.’

‘Oh. All right then, thank you.’

Mr McGanny thought for a few seconds, then rose abruptly.

‘Well, Owen, I think I’ve said all I needed to say at this juncture. We’re both busy men. As indeed is Mrs Tonks. No point in hanging around when there’s work to be done.’

‘I’ll see you to the lift,’ said Mrs Tonks, coming forward and taking my arm.

‘Good to meet you at last, Owen,’ said Mr McGanny as she propelled me towards the door. ‘Head down and pecker up, eh?’

I was out of his office before I had time to reply.

‘How are you getting home?’ asked Mrs Tonks, who surprised me somewhat by travelling down with me in the lift. ‘Taking a cab?’

‘Well, I hadn’t really thought –’

‘I’ll call you one,’ she said; and sure enough, she accompanied me out on to the street and had hailed a taxi in less than a minute.

‘Really, there was no need,’ I said, opening the door and half-expecting her to follow me inside.

‘Don’t mention it. We like to pamper our authors. Especially’ (with a simper) ‘the important ones.’

The cab moved off and stopped at a set of traffic lights almost immediately. As we waited, I noticed a taxi pass us in the opposite direction and pull up outside the main entrance to Vanity House. A woman got out and I turned to watch, assuming that it would be Mr McGanny’s daughter and stirred by an idle curiosity to see what she looked like. But no; much to my surprise and – irrationally – my delight, it turned out to be none other than Alice Hastings.

‘Alice!’ I called out of the window. ‘Alice, hello!’

She was bending down to pay the driver and didn’t hear me: then the lights changed and my taxi pulled away. I had to be content with the knowledge that she was at least still working for the company, and that she hadn’t, from what I could see, changed very much in the years since our meeting.

Not many minutes had gone by when the driver pulled back the partition and said, ‘Excuse me, mate, but you wouldn’t happen to know anybody who might be following you, would you?’

‘Following me? Why?’

‘There’s this blue Citroen 2CV. Couple of cars behind us.’

I turned to have a look.

‘It’s difficult to tell in this kind of traffic, of course, but he’s still with us after a couple of short cuts I know, so I just wondered …’

‘It’s not impossible,’ I said, straining to get a look at the driver.

‘Well, I’ll speed up a bit and see what happens.’ He didn’t speak again until we had nearly reached Battersea. ‘No, we’ve lost him. I must’ve been imagining it.’

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief and sank back in my seat. It had been a long day. I wanted nothing more, now, than to spend the evening alone in my flat with the television and the video recorder. I’d had enough of people for a while. They were exhausting. I didn’t even want to see Fiona when I got home.

The taxi driver was counting out my change and handing it through the window when a blue Citroen 2CV chugged noisily by, gathering speed as it passed us.

‘Well, bugger me sideways,’ he said, staring after it. ‘We werebeing followed. You want to watch out, mate: I think somebody’s on your case.’

‘You might be right,’ I murmured, as the car disappeared around the corner of my mansion block. ‘You might very well be right.’

And yet at the same time, I couldn’t help thinking – a battered old Citroen 2CV? Would even Henry Winshaw be that devious?

Henry

November 21st 1942

Sixteen today! Mater and Pater gave me this smashing leather-bound notebook in which I shall record all my most secret thoughts from now on.1 Also, of course, another £200 in the old savings account, although I can’t touch that for another five years, more’s the pity!

In the afternoon they threw me a really super tea party. Binko, Puffy, Meatball and Squidge were all there, as well as one or two representatives of the fairer sex, such as the exquisite Wendy Carpenter, who didn’t speak to me much, alas.2 Thomas was aloof and snooty, as usual. But the real surprise was when Uncle Godfrey turned up out of the blue. Apparently he’s on leave at the moment, staying up at Winshaw Towers, and he drove all the way over just to look in on yours truly! He was wearing his full RAF kit and looked tremendously dashing. He came up to my bedroom to have a look at my model Spitfires and we got embroiled in a pretty deep conversation, all about El Alamein and how it’s provided just the fillip which was needed for everyone’s morale. He was saying that the chaps are already looking forward to how much better things are going to be after the war, and started waxing rather lyrical about something called the Beaveredge (?) Report, which apparently says that everyone is going to have a better standard of living from now on, even the working classes and people like that.1 When he left he slipped a fiver into my pocket without saying a word. He really is about as decent an uncle as any cove could possibly want.

December 15th 1942

The worst day of my life so far, ever, definitely. Frightful scenes up at Winshaw Towers as we came to pay tribute to poor Uncle Godfrey. Nobody can really believe that he’s gone: less than a month since he came to my birthday party.2 The memorial service was bad enough, what with Granny and Gramps looking so wretched, and the chapel being so freezing, with the wind howling outside and all that. But the night before, we stayed in the house itself, where there was the most terrible how-do-you-do. Poor Aunty Tabs has been driven completely bats by the news, and has started accusing Uncle Lawrence of murdering his own brother! She physically attacked him in the hallway as he was coming down for dinner: tried to bash him over the head with a croquet mallet. Apparently this was about the sixth time this has happened. They tried not to let me see what was going on but while we were all having dinner some doctors arrived and I could hear poor old Aunty screaming as they took her to the front door. Then I heard this van driving off and that’s the last we all saw of her. Mater says she has been taken somewhere where she’ll be ‘well looked after’. I do hope she recovers soon.

Mind you, I certainly know how she feels. The service certainly brought a lump to the old throat, and for the rest of the afternoon I was in a pretty sombre mood, full of deepish thoughts about the futility of war and all that sort of racket. As Pater drove us home I started writing this sort of poem in my head:

In Memory of Uncle Godfrey

Weep, yea weep, ye men of War,

For one among you is no more.

The wind that howls round chapel walls,

Each drop of rain, each leaf that falls –

In mourning, all, for Matthew’s son,

So cruelly killed by filthy Hun.

Though fight we must – and not give in –

What bitter joy, if yet we win!

We used to call him ‘Uncle God’,

But now he lies ’neath Yorkshire’s sod,

Never to share in victor’s mirth —

Just pushing daisies through the earth.1

When Pater came up to say good-night I told him I didn’t think I could bear to go to war, the whole idea was just too dreadful. I don’t know what I shall do when my call-up papers come. But he told me not to worry about that and said something mysterious about wheels within wheels. Not exactly sure what he meant, but went to bed feeling oddly comforted.

November 12th 1946

After a decidedly sticky tutorial with Prof Goodman, my new – though in fact rather decrepit – Probability Tutor, went for a walk around Magdalen gardens. Oxford looking very beautiful this autumn evening. Am beginning to feel more at home here. After that, finally decided to attend a meeting of the Conservative Association. Pater will be very pleased. (Must write and tell him about it.)

And now, dear Diary, I am about to trust you with some top secret information: for the truth of the matter is, I THINK I AM IN LOVE. Yes! For the very first time! The President of the Association is a girl from Somerville called Margaret Roberts and I have to say that she is an absolute pip!1 An utterly gorgeous head of nut-brown hair – I just wanted to bury myself in it. Most of the time all I could do was stare at her but afterwards I did pluck up the nerve to go up and say how much I’d enjoyed the meeting. She thanked me and said she hoped I’d come again. Just try stopping me!

She made the most brilliant speech. Everything she said was true. It was all true. I’ve never heard it put so clearly before.

My heart and mind are yours, Margaret, to do with what you will.

February 11th 1948

Uncle Lawrence visited today. This is good news, because we’re only halfway through term and I’m already running out of cash, and you can always rely on the old boy to slip you something on his way out. Gillam was in my rooms when he arrived, at about 12.30, so he came out to lunch with us too. I thought this might cause fireworks, because he and Uncle were bound to get on to politics sooner or later: it was all quite good-natured, however. Gillam is all for Labour – we’ve always tried to keep off the subject, for the most part, but privately I think that most of what he talks is a lot of rot. Anyway, Uncle soon sniffed him out for a hardened Bevanite,² and began ribbing him about this and that. He asked him what he thought of the idea of a National Health Service and of course Gillam went into raptures about it. But then Uncle said, In that case, why do you think all the doctors are opposing it? – because apparently only yesterday the British Medical Association voted (again) not to cooperate with the whole thing. Gillam said something feeble about the forces of reaction having to be resisted, and then Uncle pulled the rug out from under his feet again by saying that actually, as a businessman, he thought the idea of having a centralized Health Service made a lot of sense, because ultimately it could be run as a business, with shareholders and a board of directors and a chief executive, and that was the way to make sure it was efficient, to run it along business lines, i.e. with a view to making a profit. All of this was absolute anathema to Gillam, of course. But Uncle was in full swing by now, and started saying that in fact the Health Service, if properly managed, could turn out to be the most profitable business of all time, because health care was like prostitution, it was something for which the demand could never dry up: it was inexhaustible. He said that if someone could get himself appointed manager of a privatized Health Service, he would soon be just about the richest and most powerful man in the country. Gillam argued that this would never happen, because the commodity involved – human life – could not be quantified. Quality of life, he said, was not something you could put a price on, and added, In spite of anything Winshaw might say to the contrary. This was a rather flattering allusion to a short paper which I gave to the Pythagorean Society last year, under the title ‘Quality is Quantifiable’ – in which I argued (rather frivolously, it has to be said) that there was no condition – spiritual, metaphysical, psychological or emotional – which could not be expressed mathematically, by some sort of formula. (This paper seems to have made a bit of a splash: Gillam told Uncle, in passing, that its title invariably comes up in conversation whenever my name is mentioned.)