The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s

Introductions were belatedly performed. Miller shook hands again exuberantly, remarked how tired the PM looked and admired the quality of Watts-Clinton’s suiting. He was a tall man – almost as given to bony protuberances as the Colonel – with tufts of hair on his fingers and from beneath the sheltering foliage of his eyebrows. Not, one would have estimated, a man given to mirth; yet his geniality flowed through the room like champagne into a footsore slipper.

‘The Government is very interested in your formula, Mr Miller,’ the PM said, ‘but we should naturally require a conclusive test, under proper surveillance, of your discovery.’

Miller winked conspiratorially.

‘It’s in the bag. You’re laughing – or you will be. Why don’t you let me give you an injection? How about going down in history as Sir Herbert Macclesfield, the smiling Prime Minister – no the Primed Prime Minister? Don’t mind me, I’m only being funny. Believe me, I’ve never felt so good. Fallen arches? I’ve still got them; they still pile up; they don’t bother me. I just don’t let the worries worry me, thanks to polyannamine.’

‘Can you control your obvious ebullience enough to tell us roughly how the stuff works?’

‘Tell you roughly? Nay sire, as I hope for an OBE, I will tell you gently. My prescription may be applied orally or intravenously or by inhalation; 10 c.c. only needed. Infallible! Guaranteed to cheer up even a TV comedian. No harmful side effects. No dimming of intelligence – I always looked this stupid, ha ha!’

‘I have a question to put you, Mr Miller,’ said Watts-Clinton, seeming to offer it transfixed on one stabbing finger. ‘You make large claims for this – er, medicament. Personally, I should be grateful if you would explain how it differs in any appreciable way from the tranquillisers and euphorics which have been on the market for some years.’

Miller squeezed his cheeks and mouth into a lemon face that aped the Foreign Secretary’s features with considerable success.

‘I have an answer to put to you, Mr Clotts-Winton – er, Witts-Clunt –, er, Watts-Clinton, that I trust will answer your question. Polyannamine is permanent! It does not act directly on the endocrines. It goes straight to the kidney and there establishes a respective area which begins immediately to secrete its own supply of polyannamine. From then on, the process is irreversible. It becomes part of the natural function of the kidney. Without impairing its other functions to any noticeable extent, the kidney will continue to secrete polyannamine until death does it part, and that polyannamine does its part in the endocrines from then on without stopping. In other words, one injection only of the synthetic solution is needed – for life.’

‘I see,’ said Watts-Clinton. Then his face burst into a slow smile. ‘By God, Herbert, if this is true. …’

‘Just what I was thinking …’ said the PM. ‘We’ve got to face the House with this second reading of the Capital Punishment Bill in the morning. If only. …’

Bowing low, Miller produced a small object from a waist-coat pocket. It looked like an anemone bulb, a cushion with a small spike on it. It was made of glass and contained a clear liquid.

‘If I catch your meaning, sir, you need a few dozen of these. If you sit on this, you get an injection of polyannamine – no trouble.’

The PM looked at Watts-Clinton. He looked at Quadroon. He looked at the pencil portrait of Christie. Then he looked back at Miller.

‘It’s worth a knighthood,’ he breathed.

Quadroon moved restlessly.

‘Two knighthoods,’ he corrected.

‘Two knighthoods,’ the PM agreed.

They all walked back together to the car. A bevy of convicts in evening dress were writhing to the voice of Johnny Earthquake.

In the big wide world I’m all alone,

They gone and left me on my own,

I’m shedding tears on tears to be

A Teenage Divorcee.

The PM looked up at the slow-moving grey smog of London overhead.

‘Beautiful evening,’ he said. ‘Beautiful evening. The prospect is distinctly rosy.’

Next day, Lady Elizabeth – wearing a tailored Italian costume that fitted her with mathematical exactitude – stood in her cosy room in Downing Street looking down pensively at the TV announcer.

The announcer, whose eyes were of an irreproachable blue, looked pensively back at Lady Elizabeth and said, ‘… case of horse-doping at Newmarket this month. Scotland Yard has been called in. This morning, the so-called M1 Massacre Man, Gulliver McNoose, was executed at Pentonville Prison. Under the new dispensation, his girl friend was allowed to be with him in the condemned cell; she held his hand till the last, singing “Rock of Ages Rock”, the new religious pop song which was McNoose’s favourite tune. We hope to have pictures on our later bulletin. Meanwhile, capital punishment was the subject of debate in the House of Commons this morning.’

A view of Parliament came on to the screen as the announcer’s head dissolved; this did not prevent his continuing, ‘The Government were seeking to make unofficial strikers liable to the death penalty, and it was expected that they would meet lively opposition. Mr Gaskin, however, who was to have spoken against the motion, appeared to be in exceptionally genial mood, says our Westminster correspondent, admitting that unofficial strikes were a bit of a nuisance; he added that if the country was to get ahead it had better lose a few. The laughter, particularly on Mr Gaskin’s side of the house, lasted for many minutes, after which the government measure was carried through without further discussion. Her Majesty the Queen, who is on a goodwill visit to the Isle of Man –’

Lady Elizabeth switched the set off. Her face did not relax into a smile.

‘You don’t look very pleased,’ her sister Nancy, the Honourable Mrs Lyon-Bowater, said, pouting prettily. ‘Sounds jolly good to me. Of course, I know I’m only an old silly.’

‘Of course,’ Lady Elizabeth agreed. She did not enjoy her pretty younger sister’s visits. Since a certain nursery-days quarrel over a palomino pony, the sisters had never entirely seen eye to eye. ‘The passing of this Bill is a triumph for Herbert – a vindication of all he has been working for. Unfortunately, it must be counted as a minor triumph. Perhaps you don’t realise it, Nancy but we stand on the brink of a third world war.’

‘Oh yes, isn’t it terrible? Still, we have for years, haven’t we? It’s all Towin ever talks about – that and his mouldy old shares.’

Lady Elizabeth sat down in the most graceful way on the very edge of her chaise-longue and said, ‘Nancy dear, this time it is rather different. There was a serious border incident in Berlin in the early hours of this morning.’

‘Politics is your business, darling, not mine; I prefer Chihuahuas.’

‘This is everyone’s business, darling. You will remember the East Germans built a wall round their sector four or five years ago – or perhaps you won’t. Then in the American sector a huge tower was built, the New Brandenburg tower. We claimed it was for a new UN office; the East Germans claimed it was to spy into their territory. In retaliation they built huge screens behind their wall, so that nobody could see into their sector.’

‘As though anyone would want to see into their sector,’ said Nancy, lighting a cigarette with the elaborate ritual gesture of a waiter about to scorch a crêpe suzette in an expense account restaurant.

‘Be that as it may, Nancy, the screens were built. The Western Powers agreed in finding this an aggressive gesture; accordingly, they prepared a warning.’

‘Oh yes, if they do it, it’s a threat: if we do it, it’s a warning. I do know that much about politics.’

‘Well, our warning took the form of a big statue, two hundred and five feet high and thus the highest in the world –’

‘Oh, you mean Buster!’

‘Its official name is the Statue of Freedom. It is so large that even the poor East Germans can see it, especially as its eyes light up at night.’

‘It’s lovely, Elizabeth. Towin and I saw it when we were over there last year; they had some sort of a crisis on then, as I recall. It looked lovely – much more fun than the dreary old Eiffel Tower, and with this rather absurd crown on its head saying “Coca-Cola”.’

‘Yes. The Western Powers had some trouble among themselves about that. The crisis to which you refer was of course caused by the Russian insistence on regarding Buster – mm, the Statue of Freedom as a provocative act. We should have had a war then but for Herbert’s personal intervention. He flew over to speak to the Russian Premier, Nikita Molochev. Instead of declaring war, the East Germans built a statue themselves.’

Nancy burst into bored laughter and coughed over her cigarette.

‘Even I know about that, darling. It made me pro-Communist on the spot. Such a delightful sense of humour!’

‘Really, Nancy, you are too frivolous. Not only is it a statue representing a very ugly worker, but it is higher than Buster; and it is thumbing its nose at Buster. As President Kennedson said, quite rightly, it is an aggressive act – as well as a threat to Western air space.’

‘At least it was his idea to call it Nikko.’

‘Last night, Nancy, at three o’clock Central European Time, a daring gang of West Berliners blew Nikko’s head off with explosive shells.’

‘Good heavens, I shouldn’t have thought it possible!’

‘Well, Nikko lost his nose, anyway. The full extent of the damage is not clear yet; there are conflicting reports. Unfortunately the East Germans and Russians have chosen to regard this innocent prank as a threat to their security.’

‘So – we’re on the brink of war again. Ho hum. And what is dear Herbert doing about it?’

‘He’s making a conciliatory speech in the Guildhall, at the bi-annual luncheon of the Ancient Order of Swan-Uppers and Down-Pluckers,’ said Lady Elizabeth. She stood up with a grace that rested on a firm foundation and began pacing the room daintily. ‘The unfortunate part is, that he is reading a speech I wrote for him. At least, I put in bits from several of his old speeches, but it is mainly my work. I feel the future of the world rests in my hands – the Russians and Americans seem so eager to have this war.’

‘Perhaps they feel it would be best to get it over with. It is awkward for us, being in the middle, so to speak. Well, darling, I must go. I home the Swan-Uppers give Herbert a good lunch, anyhow.’

‘I hope I haven’t bored you. Being a woman in a position of responsibility can be so difficult.’ Lady Elizabeth took her younger sister’s hand and gazed into her eyes.

‘How fortunate then that you are a woman of determination,’ Nancy said, disengaging herself to assume her gloves, ‘as you proved long ago over the palomino.’

The noise of voices in the hall made them both pause. Lady Elizabeth raised a humorously quizzical eyebrow.

‘Sounds like a regiment out there.’

‘A regiment plus Herbert!’

Lady Elizabeth went to see. The PM was being abstracted from his coat by Tarver; from his flushed look she could tell at once that the luncheon had been (a) good and (b) televised. Knowing the quality and extent of the Guildhall cellars, Lady Elizabeth resolved to get black coffee to him as soon as possible. Struggling with their own coats were Ralph Watts-Clinton and Lord Andaway, the Home Secretary; they too bore the Swan-Upping insignia in their cheeks.

Surprisingly, Miller was also there, grinning broadly at all that went on. Balancing a large carton on one hip, he waved cordially to Lady Elizabeth.

‘Here’s your wandering boy, Your Ladyship,’ he called. ‘I met him on the doorstep as I was about to deliver the goods.’

‘Who’s he? Did he lose his way to the tradesmen’s entrance?’ the Hon. Mrs Lyon-Bowater asked, in a dreamily sotto sort of voce in her sister’s ear.

Behind Miller, lined up like discarded gravestones, were three dark and solemn men. One she recognised as Bernard Brotherhope, the secretary of the Transit and Gradual Workers’ Union. By their air of non-denominational piety and their collars, Brotherhope’s companions were recognisable as union leaders. They stood patient, strong, unblinking, with their hats in the on-guard position; as Brotherhope nodded curtly over the heads of the others to Lady Elizabeth, a line of Hilaire Belloc’s about hating the Midlands which are sodden and unkind rose impertinently to her mind.

‘Take these gentlemen into the visitors’ room, Tarver,’ the PM said. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will join you in a minute. Oh, Miller, I want you.’

‘What sweet men, Herbert!’ Nancy exclaimed from her corner, as the others filed into the front room, each anxiously offering precedence to his companion.

‘Oh, you’re here, Nancy,’ the PM said glumly.

‘It must be such fun being PM You meet all sorts of people you wouldn’t otherwise, don’t you?’

‘You remind me to inquire after your husband.’

Unabashed, Nancy said, ‘Still living, I suppose.’

The PM pushed past her into the cosy room and subsided slowly into the chaise-longue, letting his heavy lids fall as he went.

‘Coffee’s coming, my darling,’ Lady Elizabeth said. ‘You’ll have some too, Mr Miller, or are you not stopping?’

She successfully outstared him. Miller’s eyes retreated like little wet animals under his eyebrows and he laughed in admission of defeat.

‘Don’t want to intrude on the old family circle, you know. That is one circle of which there’s never enough to go round! Anyhow, here’s a supply of polyannamine as promised. Why not give your husband a shot? He looks as if he needs it.’

‘Thank you for your advice. Tarver will show you the door.’

‘That’s very good of him. I must say I admire that door more every time I see it. You must come up and see mine some day, Lady Elizabeth.’

As he was passing her, she thought for a dreadful moment that he was reaching out to kiss her. Instead, he whispered something in her ear. Her features relaxed; she smiled and nodded. When he had tiptoed, all comically conspiratorial, from the room, she went over and knelt by Herbert. Unnoticed, Nancy moved to look into Miller’s carton.

‘How did the speech go, Herbert?’ Lady Elizabeth asked tenderly.

The PM patted his brow and groaned.

‘That confounded port … Either I’m getting too old for it or it’s getting too old for me. And then I arrive back here to find a delegation from the TUC awaiting me; I shall have to go and see them. Where’s that coffee?’

‘It’s coming. … Here it is. Thank you, Jane, I’ll take it here. How did the speech go, darling?’

As she took the coffee tray and began to pour, Nancy said, ‘It’s none of my business, Herbert, but can’t you put the TUC chappies off? What’s the fun in being PM if you have no power?’

‘There’s no fun. …’ He took the cup in trembling hands and sipped through his moustache. ‘We’re in trouble there, Elizabeth. I can’t think how I can have been so short-sighted. We romped home with the Capital Punishment Bill this morning, thanks to Miller’s polyannamine, but of course the trade unions are on to us now like a ton of nationalised bricks. They’ve threatened a general strike if we don’t retract. … I must go and see Brotherhope. The coffee was lovely.’

Wiping his moustache, he rose and squeezed her upper arm. Having long ago trained herself not to respond with disgust to this old man’s gesture, Lady Elizabeth merely said, ‘Take this polyannamine capsule in with you; Miller advised it in case you had trouble. How’s the head now?’

‘Better for your coffee, my dear. Have some yourself.’ He pocketed the capsule, adjusted his tie, and shuffled out of the room.

Elizabeth sighed deeply, passed a hand over her forehead, and turned towards her sister.

‘Nancy, I fear I must turn you out now, unless you came for anything in particular?’

‘Can you tell me what polyannamine is?’

‘Just a sort of tranquilliser; nothing to be curious about. Shall I get Tarver to let you out?’ She turned her back on Nancy and commenced to pour herself coffee.

‘Damn your conceit, no, Elizabeth! I came for something in particular and you may as well hear it. I want – I need – a divorce from Towin.’

Lady Elizabeth forget her coffee.

‘But Towin is Secretary of State for Air!’

‘You don’t have to remind me of the dangers of nepotism.’

‘Spite always did improve your repartee. You know you can’t have any fuss in public at present, Nancy. The General Election is only two years away.’

‘The Last Trump may precede it.’

‘The Last Trump will scandalise the British public less than a ministerial decree nisi. You’re in some sort of a mess, aren’t you?’

‘How you adore your euphemisms and your clichés! Yet how else could you bear to be married to Herbert? You’ll be talking next about washing dirty linen in public.’

Lady Elizabeth rose and said, with the glacial courtesy of anger, ‘You’re in some sort of a mess, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am, if you must know. I am having, ducky, a rather hot affair with a pop singer called Johnny Earthquake.’

They faced each other lividly, hate and love running together like a spilt Irish coffee. Finally Lady Elizabeth turned away and marched over to the door saying, ‘The Prime Minister’s sister-in-law involved with a pop singer. … Governments have fallen for less.’

Deftly, while her sister’s back was turned, Nancy knocked the nipple off one of the polyannamine capsules she had pocketed, and poured its contents into Lady Elizabeth’s coffee. Then she marched towards the door. Again the two were face to face.

‘A pop singer!’

‘He makes me feel horribly democratic!’ With an angry leer, Nancy swaggered out.

For some minutes, Lady Elizabeth stood inside the cosy room, clutching her temples.

Then the phone rang.

Her voice when she answered gave no hint of her feelings.

It was an agitated young secretary to an under-secretary, Rupert Peters, phoning from Whitehall. Lady Elizabeth knew him well, and admired him; the feeling was reciprocated – as she had perceived.

‘This is a horribly informal way to come through to you, as Your Ladyship knows; I can only plead in extenuation a grave emergency. Would it be at all practicable for me to have a word with Sir Herbert?’

‘He has the TUC on his back at present.’

‘Jolly! Well, look, we’ve got the Ambassador to Russia speaking on a scramble call from Moscow. He has just had an extremely abusive note handed to him from Nikita Molochev. We’re going to be at war before morning unless something happens fast.’

‘Rupert! But this is unprovoked!’

‘Within the contemporary usage of the term, not entirely.’ Rupert paused. She sensed his embarrassment down the other end of the line.

‘What do you mean, “not entirely”?’

‘I’m afraid it was that remark of Sir Herbert’s in his Guildhall Speech.’

A cold hand with ill-manicured nails wrapped itself round Lady Elizabeth’s heart. She sat down on the chaise-longue. Her coffee stared coolly up at her.

‘What remark?’ she managed to ask.

‘Sir Herbert said – and Your Ladyship must realise I quote from memory – that after prolonged consideration he had concluded that President Molochev was a disagreeable sight that should be abolished.’

She made an inarticulate noise in her throat.

‘Not, one must admit, the year’s most tactful political utterance,’ Rupert said. ‘As I say, it seems in the present inflamed state of world affairs that it may precipitate hostilities, unless speedily retracted or ameliorated. I would like to ask Sir Herbert if we should offer the Russians a complete denial. Would you, Lady Elizabeth, in view of the emergency, detach him from the embrace of the TUC?’

Lady Elizabeth sat back, pale with horror. Clearly before her mind’s eye floated the typescript pages of the speech she had prepared for the Guildhall. Page five, dealing with the Berlin question, had had the PM saying that after prolonged consideration he had concluded that President Molochev had historical logic but not contemporary logic on his side in his demand for an East German peace treaty. Such little meaning as this statement possessed had then been obliterated in succeeding paragraphs, into which, by the bottom of the page, a reference to the statues Buster and Nikko and that the two figures confronting each other formed – and here one turned to page seven – a disagreeable sight that should be abolished.

Beyond a doubt, Lady Elizabeth know what had happened. In the jocular hurly-burly of Guildhall wine and food, Sir Herbert had dropped page six, and read on without noticing the omission.

‘Lady Elizabeth, could you get him?’

The tinny voice of Rupert recalled her.

‘Just a minute,’ she said.

Limply she rose and went to fetch her husband. As she passed the hideous daguerreotype of Gladstone, she heard singing – singing at 10 Downing Street! – but Lady Elizabeth was beyond surprise. Opening with his arms round his two supporters. Their hats were on their heads at a rakish angle, and with verve they executed a few lively unison steps to their own version of ‘Rule, Britannia!’

Not only that. The Foreign and Home Secretaries were conducting the trio, singing heartily with them as they did so.

Rule, Britannia, two tanners make a bob;

Three make one and six, and four two bob.

No Common Market shall rule the Common Man

While two bob buys us booze throughout the lan’ –

I don’t mean maybe –

Buys us booze throughout the la-a-a-a-n’.

They went smartly into a reprise; no attention was paid to Lady Elizabeth, beyond a suggestively raised eyebrow from Watts-Clinton. The PM sat feebly by the drinks cupboard, emitting an inconstant smile; here, thought Lady Elizabeth with a gush of sympathy, was a man who had had greatness thrust upon him. She beckoned and he came at once.

‘Strike’s off,’ he said, as they went into the corridor, closing the door behind them. ‘Do you know what Brotherhope said to me? “Between you and me, I’m more interested in the power than the glory.” Slipping polyannamine into the sherry did the trick.’

‘But Herbert, you’ve given it to Andaway and Watts-Clinton too!’

‘Couldn’t be helped – emergency. I had to pour the stuff into the decanter. Of course I refrained from drinking it myself. It’s a pity about Ralph, but after all he is happy; he’s got no worries, whereas we’ve got plenty.’

‘You don’t know how many, my dear.’

‘It occurred to me that by spraying polyannamine over London and other big cities, we could face the next election with equanimity; I instructed Miller accordingly. Has the fellow gone?’

‘Yes, and we are in trouble, Herbert. The British Embassy in Moscow is on the line.’ And she told him what had happened.

‘My God!’ he said. They were into the cosy room by now; the jazz version of ‘Rule, Britannia!’ was silenced as Lady Elizabeth closed the door. The PM sank down on the nearest chair and stared unseeingly at Lady Elizabeth’s coffee. ‘How absolutely ghastly! You know, now you mention it I recall thinking that something dropped just as I rose to make my speech. It must have been page six. It must have gone under the table.’

‘If only you’d read the speech through first!’

‘I didn’t have time.’

‘Didn’t you notice what you were saying?’

He had his face in his hands. She saw, through his thinning grey hair, freckles on his skull.

‘You know how it is after a heavy lunch. … I just read in a stupor, I’m afraid – though I do remember everyone clapping and laughing unexpectedly. … Oh, my country!’

Feeling only compassion, Lady Elizabeth patted his shoulders.

‘You’d better speak to Rupert Peters. All is not lost yet.’