A Coat of Varnish (8 page)

‘What are the chances? What do the lawyers say?’

‘What do you take me for?’

To an extent, this conversation was what Humphrey had been in search of. But he realised that, except for this news about the writs, which in any case would be public within an hour, he had learned almost nothing. Thirkill gave the impression of entering into intimacy. He seemed to be making confessions and then made none, except what one could infer. This continued when Thirkill went on, using all his emotional power, which was considerable, to demand sympathy and help. He wanted sympathy and help in what others thought of his financial operation. It was hard, he said, for an honest man to be written off by people who didn’t understand the first thing about finance. It had come easy to him since he was very young. It was a flair, he said, to be able to think about money. Playing the exchanges was like playing bridge. You had to guess how other people would play, mainly people not too bright at any other game. It was no use if you let yourself be too far-sighted; money wasn’t made that way.

None of this contradicted Luria’s view of how Thirkill had performed. Whether it was true, Humphrey hadn’t the insight or knowledge to form any opinion at all. The most he could do was ask again whether Thirkill was totally confident about the legal cases. Thirkill said: ‘They won’t even fight them. They’ll never come to court.’

Some mud always sticks, he broke out, demanding sympathy again. But in responsible circles his name would be as good as it ever was.

By this time, Humphrey, though he couldn’t be sure of the factual truths (all evening had kept recurring a gibe of a fellow member of the Commons, if Tom Thirkill tells you the time, it’s just as well to check it by your own watch), had one or two definite impressions.

This man’s confidence didn’t go deep. He was borne up by something like physical hopefulness. Whether he was certain that he would be vindicated, or whether he should be, Humphrey couldn’t penetrate. But Humphrey was sure that, long before this trouble, all his life, Thirkill had never had the underlying confidence of less aggressive characters, such as Luria or young Paul Mason. And, though it didn’t occur to Humphrey, he might have added himself. Thirkill, though, had reserves and compensation none of them possessed, great attacking force, and a savage will. Whether his will was stronger than other men’s, that needed testing; but it was constantly in operation, and listening one couldn’t escape the pressure of his will.

The strongest impression of all was that Tom Thirkill had a touch, probably more than a touch, of paranoia. It was that which made his tone begin to grind. He felt surrounded by enemies. He was asking for help. Like a good many people who felt persecuted, he might have something to feel persecuted about. It wasn’t an uncommon blend, the naïve demands for support and protection and the ferocious, intense, attacking venom. It was a blend, Humphrey had sometimes thought, which had much appeal for decent good-natured persons, particularly among the young. Not so much as you grew older. You discovered that such natures took but never gave. But Humphrey could understand that Thirkill had a following in the centre of his own party, moderate sensible men who wanted to protect him and at the same time who succumbed to something stronger than charm. Such men gave him hero-worship. They were his power-base in politics, as a parliamentarian could have told Humphrey before now.

In that tête-à-tête, meal finished, Thirkill hadn’t given up the initiative. As they rose, he rapped out a question as though at random: ‘You’re a friend of Mrs Lefroy’s, so I am told?’

Humphrey answered with a neutral yes. As they got into the car outside, Thirkill persisted: ‘You’re a close friend of Kate Lefroy’s, I hear? You knew that my daughter works for her.’

Humphrey again said yes, he did know that.

Driving up Sloane Street, Thirkill went on: ‘My daughter is having dinner with that Lord Loseby tonight. What does Kate think of him?’

Humphrey was ready to evade this cross-examination.

‘Should you think she’s seen much of him? I do rather doubt it.’

‘Kate’s a shrewd woman, isn’t she?’

Humphrey didn’t reply. Thirkill said: ‘You’d better stop by at my place, I expect you can use another drink, can’t you?’

It was early, and now that he was prepared Humphrey was curious to see where Thirkill was leading. Yes, he would enjoy a nightcap.

There were no more questions until they were sitting in Thirkill’s drawing-room. It was one of the high and handsome Eaton Square reception rooms made for nineteenth-century soirées; and it was handsomely furnished. Either Tom Thirkill or his wife (who was living in their country house, so Humphrey had picked up) had taste, a taste not frightened or over-modest. On the walls hung a Matthew Smith, a Samuel Palmer, a Sickert, a picture which looked like a bright and glorious pastiche of Veronese, and (what surprised Humphrey most) a de Kooning.

Before Humphrey was given a drink, Thirkill had left the room, and was away some minutes. When he came back, he said: ‘The girl’s not in yet.’ Then he went to a cupboard, masked in the panelling, and told Humphrey to come and choose for himself. Thirkill didn’t drink, but his acquaintances did, and they were duly provided for.

Each of them in deep chairs, Thirkill leaned forward in his demanding posture and said: ‘You haven’t told me yet what Kate Lefroy thinks of that young man.’

‘You mean Loseby?’

‘Who do you think I mean?’

‘I don’t see how she can have much idea, you know. She certainly hasn’t said much to me. Of course, I don’t see her all that often.’

‘Don’t you?’ That was attacking, edged with meaning.

‘She’s very busy, you realise that, don’t you? Your daughter must have told you.’

Thirkill had free energy to spare on suspicions over Humphrey and Kate. Maybe Susan had them, too. Humphrey was ready to be non-committal until Thirkill got tired. But Thirkill had a greater imperative.

‘I want to hear about the young man Loseby. Is he any good?’

‘He’s very engaging.’

‘Is he any good for my daughter?’

‘How can anyone judge that?’

‘Is he a playboy?’ The tone was grinding.

‘You ought to ask his friends. He’s extremely pleasant to meet. If you ask me, though, possibly yes.’

‘Susan has made mistakes before. She’s only twenty-three, but she’s made mistakes. I’m not going to have another. If this fellow lets her down, then he’ll have to reckon with me. I want to see her married. That’ll calm her down. She’s a good girl. Does Kate say she’s a good girl?’

‘Of course, Kate is very fond of her.’

Thirkill didn’t give up. ‘That family of Loseby is no good. No earthly good. All they have is an estate they can’t keep up. No money. Grandmother was a society tart. Father useless. Useless drunk. Living in a tax haven, in Morocco. Why he wants a tax haven, God only knows. There can’t be anything in the way of tax to pay. This boy is fooling round in the Army. Precious lot of use that is. The best he can hope for is to make colonel. If he’s lucky.’

Then he made another appeal for sympathy. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much about that. Money’s no problem for a daughter of mine. All I want to be sure of is that he’d be good to her.’ After a pause, he added: ‘Mind you, it mightn’t be any good for me.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you thought what some of my precious colleagues would say, if my daughter married into that crowd?’

Humphrey permitted himself a breath of realism. If Tom Thirkill, living in state in Eaton Square, thought he could ingratiate himself with the militant left, he had temporarily lost his political sense. Further, Humphrey still hadn’t seen a case, even in England in the 1970s, where a connection with the aristocracy, however down at heel, hadn’t done a public figure more good than harm.

For once, Thirkill had the grace to laugh. It was a gritty laugh, but it broke out. Humphrey was thinking, the man wasn’t often simple, but now he was. He was nothing but an anxious father. He wanted to see his daughter married. In secret, he might like to see her married to a future marquess, but above all he wanted to see her safe. As the minutes passed, he was violently hoping to see her come in happy and tell him that she was engaged. The minutes passed. The man was anxious, and when he pressed Humphrey to stay he felt compelled to. He took another drink. They had been sitting there, making spasmodic talk, the attacking force gone out of Thirkill, for an hour and a half – it was getting on for midnight – when the outer door of the apartment banged to. Thirkill’s face opened with expectation, anxiety, hope. More minutes passed. Then there was the sound of another door shutting. Thirkill sat in silence. Finally he said: ‘She must have gone to bed.’

The following evening, Monday, Humphrey sat in the Square gardens, watching for Kate to come home from her hospital. When she had parked her car, and he had stopped her, she was already frowning. He gave her an account of what had happened the night before, and the frown deepened, a furrow where there was already a line, becoming permanent in the high forehead. ‘Susan hasn’t spoken a word all day,’ she said.

‘I was afraid of that.’

‘The man’s a shit.’ Kate was in a bitter temper. He was used to her in her lively spirit, not often like this. She was angry with herself because she hadn’t been immune to Loseby’s blandishments. She was angry with Susan because there was someone she was fond of and couldn’t help. She was angry with Humphrey because he brought, or crystallised, bad news.

‘Thank you for trying,’ she said, but Humphrey, feeling ill-treated, thought that one day he might remind her that thanks like that were more efforts of politeness than demonstrations of gratitude.

She didn’t want to listen to anything more about the Thirkills. ‘I must rush,’ she said, and forced a smile better shaped but less attractive than her habitual cheerful, disrespectful, ugly grin.

The heat remained constant. People used to complaining about changes in the weather were now complaining it didn’t change. That Monday was 19 July and at eleven o’clock, when Humphrey went for a saunter round the Square, though it was getting dark, it was still so hot that the air seemed palpable against his cheeks. Lights were shining in the windows. In some, standard lamps were visible, and pictures along the walls. Humphrey didn’t know the owners and from the pavement couldn’t identify the paintings: one or two were interesting but didn’t compare with Tom Thirkill’s.

Humphrey wasn’t giving more than a random thought to the previous night, or to Susan. After all, he barely knew the girl. He was irked – more than he admitted, he was hurt – that Kate had been so brusque and shown him no affection. So far as he had sympathy to spare, it was, perversely, for Tom Thirkill. Not Tom Thirkill as an operator – Humphrey had seen enough of operators for one lifetime, and was tired of them. But Tom Thirkill as a father, worrying about his daughter, that was nearer the bone. Humphrey, too, had worried, still worried, about his children, and had been disappointed. For a singular reason. They had both elected to lead sacrificial lives.

Neither was married. His daughter, now in her mid-twenties was ill-paid, hard-worked, as an assistant in a slum settlement in Liverpool. She had broken altogether with the circles in which Humphrey had been born. She had adopted a working-class accent, or, not having a good ear, her bad imitation of one. She wrote affectionate letters to Humphrey, but wouldn’t meet his friends. She might have had lovers; Humphrey wasn’t sure. There he could feel with Thirkill. As for the son, he had qualified, with difficulty, as a doctor, and then taken a job in a Catholic hospital in South Africa, in the Transkei bush, for which he had to pretend to be a Catholic, which he wasn’t. That might be noble, but it seemed to Humphrey quixotry gone mad. The young man wasn’t bright, wasn’t amusing, but Humphrey loved him. Fatherhood, as the Japanese used to say, was a darkness of the heart.

As Humphrey turned at the end of the Square, he saw light in one of Lady Ashbrook’s windows, on the floor above her drawing-room. That jolted Humphrey from his brooding about his children. The light must come from her bedroom – is she lying awake? The results of her tests could come any day now. How was she getting through the nights?

He had thought all that before, there was nothing fresh to think, it soon passed out of mind.

In fact, at that moment, Lady Ashbrook was sitting up in bed, attempting to read a detective story. She had never read much, and detective stories were all she could think of reading now. But none of them had captured her attention, and, with the foreboding that news from the hospital was only days, or maybe hours, away, with this one she could not remember the page she had just looked at. She had taken two sleeping-pills, Seconals, but sleep would not come. Why did one want to sleep so much? It would have seemed more sensible to hold on to the conscious minutes; and yet, if death was certain next day, perhaps one would still want to sleep. She did not preserve to herself the stark front which she showed to others. She was craving that time would stand still. Like someone waiting for a letter by tomorrow’s post, a letter bringing black news that she already knew, she craved that tomorrow wouldn’t come. While time didn’t move on, she was safe.

If anyone had come into the room, she would have admitted nothing. She had taken care of her going-to-bed appearance after dinner, with the discipline of a lifetime, and if any visitors had called she would have greeted them in the armour of her caustic style.

She certainly would not have admitted the answer to Humphrey’s speculation about the Sunday morning. Had she prayed for herself in church? She wouldn’t have admitted even the question to herself, let alone the answer. But yes, she had prayed. She had prayed as she knelt stiff-backed before the service. She had prayed again that night, though she hadn’t knelt at the bedside. The prayers were simple, but had an anxious concentration on exact detail, as though God were likely to misunderstand or cheat.
Let me hear good news this week. I mean, let me hear that I am healthy and that there is nothing malignant, that is, no sign of a malignant growth.