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‘Exactly. But, Robert, there is a time and a place for everything. And the time for talking about – er —’
‘Bogs and V.D. is not in your office.’
‘Exactly. I’m glad you understand it so well. Not that I thought you wouldn’t. You’re highly intelligent. Highly. And you have a sense of humour, too. A quality sadly lacking at C and B. Mind you, you have – er —’
‘Gone a bit far on occasions.’
‘Exactly. Exactly. Can’t overlook the odd managerial black eye entirely. Failing in my duty if I did. But to turn to this – er – caricature in the non-executive – er – washroom. Quite amusing, in its way, I grant you that. I inspected it and I must admit I had a little chuckle. Quite the talk of the – er – non-executive canteen. But, Robert. But …’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I understand why you did this. Not as unimaginative as I look. I understand that there was genuine irritation behind this, genuine dislike of the – er —’
‘Petty class distinctions.’
‘Of industrial life. Exactly. I’m aware that you aren’t just striving for cheap popularity on the shop floor. But nevertheless, nevertheless, Robert, that is the effect. To make you popular – though not necessarily respected – and to make Tadman-Evans look ridiculous. And you know it was somewhat gratuitous to use his real telephone number. He had fourteen calls over the weekend.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘So under the circumstances I really feel that I have no – er – er —’
‘Alternative.’
‘Exactly. No hard feelings, eh?’
‘Well, sir, no.’
Sir John stood up. The interview was over.
‘Glad you’re taking it like this. I quite thought I might end up with a black eye. Amuse Lady Barker no end. Huh.’
Sir John extended his hand. Robert took it.
‘Well, Robert, there it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sir John let go of Robert’s hand.
‘There it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Robert made his way to the door.
‘Good luck,’ said Sir John Barker.
He walked slowly back to his office. Oh, well, what did it matter? It was time he left anyway. Twelve years was too long with one firm. This was an opportunity, not a setback.
‘Nothing wrong, Mr Bellamy, is there?’ said Julie.
‘No, Julie. Nothing wrong.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t …’
‘The sack. Yes, I rather think it must have been.’
‘Oh, Robert.’
Chapter 2
A London Night
Robert had first met Sonia twelve years previously, in the early December of 1955, at a party given by a friend of a friend of Doreen’s. Doreen shared with Brenda the room above Robert’s, at number 38. They were Yorkshire girls, from Dewsbury. They knew of every party within a six-mile radius of Kentish Town. They were waiting for the arrival of Mr Right. They liked Robert, and often dragged him off to parties, even though he wasn’t Mr Right.
Shortly after their arrival at the party, Robert found himself all alone. He took a second glass of the punch and drank it rapidly. He was twenty. He had just started at Cadman and Bentwhistle. He had never had a girl, and believed that this fact was written on his face. All the girls in the typing pool knew, and he hated it when he had to walk through the typing pool.
The room was dimly-lit, red, stripped for action, crowded. God, I hate parties, he thought.
A girl came in, apparently on her own. He made to move towards her, decided against it, decided in favour of it, did so, said: ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘Thank you,’ she said, in a confident upper-class voice.
He fished two butt ends out of the punchbowl and poured out two glasses.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Revolting,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Polly.’
‘I’m the Maharajah of Inverness.’ She laughed, embarrassingly loudly. ‘My real name’s Robert,’ he said.
‘What do you do?’
‘I work in a firm that makes instruments.’
‘What sort of instruments?’
‘All sorts. Just instruments.’
‘Why aren’t you at the university? You aren’t thick, are you?’
‘No. I didn’t fancy it. I wanted to get out into the real world, and do some work.’ How incredibly pompous. Any minute now she would go. He didn’t want her to go. She was attractive. Dumpy, half-way towards being fat, with big breasts. Her nose was squashed, her mouth big and lazy. She was sexy in the way that Christmas pudding was appetizing. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds rather pompous,’ he said.
‘Not particularly.’
‘I’ve been in the army. National Service.’ How utterly boring. ‘One day, when we’re married, I shall tell you my amusing experiences.’ How ludicrously twittish and coy.
‘Were you an officer?’
‘God, no,’ he said, making a face – rather an effective face, he thought. He had been to a public school. His parents had been well off. He hated privilege and rank.
‘Daddy’s an admiral,’ she said.
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes.’
She still hadn’t gone.
‘What do you do?’
‘I paint.’
‘I’d love to come and see your pictures.’
She chortled, embarrassingly loudly for a chortle, though not as loudly as her laugh.
‘I’ve heard that before,’ she said. ‘You want to get me alone in my room.’
‘Can’t anyone be interested in you and your work without being accused of being a sex maniac?’ he said. She would like that. She would begin to realize that he wasn’t just like all the others, that he had finer feelings.
‘Excuse me, there’s Bernie,’ she said.
He wandered into the kitchen, slowly, trying to look both calm and purposeful. There was still a little punch left. He fished out a cigar and poured two glasses. A very drunk man asked him if he was of Rumanian extraction. He said he wasn’t. The drunk accused him of being a liar. He pushed the drunk against the wall, and went back into the main room. Doreen gave him a cheerful hullo. He scowled back. The room smelt of cigarette smoke and sweat. A nervous young man with glasses was describing the sexual habits of an African tribe to five girls. Over by the mantelpiece stood a tall girl, unattractive but alone. He leapt across at her.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said.
‘Yes, I am. Who are you?’
‘The Maharajah of Inverness.’
She recognized this as a piece of invention and accepted it with a lack of amusement so deep and unpretentious that he vowed never to invent a false name again.
‘Robert.’
‘Sonia.’
‘Hullo.’
‘Hullo.’
He must make some brilliant remark, to capture her interest.
‘What do you do?’ he said.
‘I work for a publisher. And you?’
‘I make China models of the leaning tower of Pisa.’
‘Is there much future in that?’
‘Possibly. At the moment they’re a failure. They keep falling over. But I’m working on it.’ He sipped his drink, tasting it carefully. ‘A cross between Spanish Burgundy, Merrydown cider and a rather immature Friars Balsam. Have some,’ he said.
‘Well, the thing is, I’m with someone. He’s getting me one. Give me a ring. Bayswater 27663.’
What use was that? He was alone again, drowning. Nobody here knew that a woman had given him her phone number.
‘Hullo, love,’ said Brenda. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘No.’
‘Dance with me.’
‘No.’
‘Come on.’
She dragged him into the middle of the room. It was packed solid. People weren’t dancing, they were just marking time sexily.
‘No luck?’ she said.
‘No.’
He resisted telling her about the phone number. Sonia seemed too mature to be boasted about.
‘And you?’
‘No.’
He pressed his body against her, but felt no thrill. In any case she lived in the same house. Mr Mendel had said: ‘Why don’t you make for our Brenda? She’s a nice girl.’ ‘Too close,’ he had said.
‘Excuse me, will you, love? There’s a feller over there I want to work on,’ she said now.
He went into the kitchen. The punchbowl was a mass of leaves and red silt and sodden butt ends. He opened a bottle of light ale.
‘Oh, there you are. Sorry about that,’ said Polly.
He gave her his glass of light ale and opened another bottle. The drink would be running out soon.
‘He’s someone I know from art school. I want him to do something for me. Carry some heavy paintings.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’
