Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (43 page)

‘What, that newcomer?’

‘The same. Don’t worry, I can vouch for him.’

Vladimir looked dubious and studied me even more closely. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. Look, here’s a bag with some fresh clothes from your mum—and a birthday cake as well.’

‘Ta,’ growled Vladimir and inspected the vast bag’s contents as if to check we hadn’t stolen one of his shirts to use as a bed sheet.

‘So it’s all right if we go in, is it?’ Disvan queried, for the fruit of Mr Bretwalda’s loins still blocked out floor to ceiling in front of the door.

‘S’pose so—but you tread careful, mind,’ he said, quite unnecessarily, to me. ‘I’ve got my eye on you!’

I was so upset by this mindless aggression that, had I been much bigger and braver than I am, I would have wanted to anoint Master Bretwalda with my fist. Instead, being a reasonable man, I let Mr Disvan usher me round the human mountain and through the door. What I saw there made me forget present upsets in favour of more interesting matters.

In some respects, the average sized room we were in was academia personified. Books and papers covered every wall and most of the floor. To some extent, it was also academia updated, since there was also a fair quantity of high-tech present in the form of TVs, PCs, videos, radios and so on.

A pale young man, who somehow struck me as a typical Binscomite, was reading aloud from a newspaper to the focus of the room—to which all the televisions
et al
were also directed. This focus comprised a stout wooden box, maybe two feet square, with a metal grill set in one side. Over it arced a formidable iron cage in which considerations of security prevailed, without much of a struggle, over beauty.

The young man carried on reading.

‘…and the bill is expected to pass its committee stage without further significant amendment—hello, Mr Disvan—although its opponents have vowed to place every procedural barrier in its way.’

A long silence followed. In place of something to say, I pretended I was about to have something to say and said ‘Er...’ in the accepted English fashion.

‘Er...’

Mr Disvan hushed me and the silence continued. What eventually broke it was a deep and gruff voice that, had I not known better, gave the illusion of coming from the wooden box.

‘I see. Thank you. Not time yet, I think,’ it said.

I inspected the container with care. It looked too old to be a radio and, in any case, I couldn’t see any sign of wires or switches about it. The voice must have come, in that case, from one of the myriad gadgets around the room and tricked my ears in some way as to its point of origin.

I then noticed that Disvan and the young man didn’t share this interpretation. They continued to stare at the square box in the corner.

‘And that’s about it,’ said the young man—although not, it seemed, to us. ‘The next news is on BBC 1 at midday. I’ve set the video timer.’

‘I am obliged to you, sir,’ said the gruff voice.

The young man now seemed to consider himself ‘off-duty’ in some way and got up to greet us properly. Mr Disvan introduced me and I received a better welcome than that offered outside the door.

‘Mr Oakley, this is Jeremiah Thurloe, the second of our two Binscombe Scholars,’ said Disvan.

We shook hands.

‘What station was that you were tuned to?’ I asked.

Thurloe looked puzzled for a moment.

‘You mean you haven’t told him?’ he said to Mr Disvan.

‘The number of clues that have been dropped,’ Disvan replied, ‘I didn’t think I needed to. However, since he has been rather slow, perhaps you’ll do the honours for me.’

Thurloe smiled and waved me forward to the centre of the room. He then gestured towards the caged box.

‘My Lord Protector,’ he said, ‘please meet Mr Oakley of Binscombe. Mr Oakley, please meet the Lord Protector, Mr Oliver Cromwell.’

‘How do you do, Mr Oakley?’ said the box in that plain, deep voice I’d heard before. ‘Funny sort of weather we’ve been having, isn’t it?’

Fortunately, Mr Disvan had a chair ready for me to fall back into.

*  *  *

‘He knew the end was near, you see,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘and there are certain precautions a person with contacts can take in that situation. Certain advisors that can be called upon.’

‘That’s right,’ confirmed Thurloe, fiddling with the cherry on a stick in his Babycham. ‘In fact, I think it was pretty clear to anyone with a pinch of sensitivity that he was on his way home. For instance, the month before the Lord Protector departed, George Fox, the founder of the Quakers, met him in Hampton Court Park and recorded afterwards that he felt, and here I quote: “a waft of death go forth against him” and that Cromwell “looked like a dead man.” When it got that obvious, provisions were made for what was to come afterwards.’

We’d all retired to a nearby wine-bar, which was very much my sort of milieu in the normal run of events, although Mr Disvan clearly didn’t feel at home. He had ordered a glass of Lebanese Chateau Musar (which impressed the proprietor) and then fled to a corner seat from which to eye the clientele with deep suspicion. Vladimir Bretwalda had also joined us, first securing the door of the Binscombe Scholarship room with five separate keys and padlocks. Like Thurloe, he too was a Babycham fan.

A quantity of champagne was making me feel better as it almost never failed to do. I was able to chose my next question with a degree of calmness.

‘What “provisions”?’ I asked firmly.

‘That needn’t concern you,’ said Disvan, just as firmly, ‘although,’ (this in a more kindly tone), ‘I can confirm that Binscombe was involved in some minor capacity.’

Thurloe moved to lessen the snub.

‘In fairness, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘I think it’s true to say that there are few now who know the fullness of the matter. We just deal with the consequences.’

I thought I’d ingratiate myself with Vladimir Bretwalda by drawing him into the conversation.

‘And what are those consequences, Vladimir?’ I asked.

He didn’t even deign to tear his glance away from a loud woman of indeterminate age in white stretch lycra.

‘Search me, Mr Oakley. I’m just here for security reasons.’

‘And the rowing,’ prompted Mr Disvan.

‘And the karate,’ added Thurloe.

Vladimir nodded. ‘Yeah, them also—and in my spare time, I read about the demolition business so I can join my dad’s firm when I’m through here. “Consequences” are more Jerry’s field of work.’

‘Broadly speaking, that’s true’ Mr Disvan agreed. ‘We try and tailor the Scholarship to students’ aptitudes. Your last question is more in young Thurloe’s line.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’ asked Mr Disvan in all innocence.

I had the patience to outlast them. ‘Well-what-are-the-consequences-Mr-Thurloe?’

Thurloe came back to life and proved that he had learnt his lessons well. Perhaps too well.

‘The consequences are potential rather than actual, Mr Oakley, and we deal with the phase of transition from potentiality to actuality.’

I leaned back in my chair and poured myself another drink.

‘Thank you for baring your soul in that way, Mr Thurloe. It’s all crystal clear to me now.’

Mr Disvan also seemed a little shocked at this outbreak of gobbledegook from a fellow Binscomite on whom so many advantages had been showered.

‘What he means, Mr Oakley,’ Disvan translated, ‘is that the consequences haven’t arrived yet, but we await the day.’

‘The day of what?’

My three companions suddenly brought fresh attention to the discussion.

‘The Republic!’ said Mr Disvan, proudly. ‘The Commonwealth, the “Good Old Cause”—call it what you wish.’

I started to feel the sense of unease that was part and parcel of knowing Mr Disvan. I raised the usual ineffective barricade against further thought on the subject.

‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid,’ I said.

‘No matter, Mr Oakley. I’ll re-cap for you. Cromwell knew he was not long for this world. He knew he had no proper successor—not one worthy of him, anyway. He was also aware, given the nature of the Royalists and their lackeys, what was likely to happen to his body should they lay their hands on it. He took steps to prevent them achieving the victory they wanted.’

‘By which you mean...?’

‘By which I mean the negation of his work and cancellation of his memory. Being the man he was, he felt a continuing sense of responsibility for his countrymen and the Commonwealth of Everyman he had tried, however falteringly,  to build. Therefore, he ensured that, in the right circumstances and in the right company—’

‘He’s alive, isn’t he?’ I interrupted, no longer able to contain myself. ‘That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?  In that rotten box, Cromwell’s head is alive and—’

‘No, he’s not alive, Mr Oakley, not really,’ said Disvan, attempting to calm me. ‘That would be blasphemous and beyond the power of men to arrange. No, it’s truer to say that he merely maintains a link with us to see how we’re getting along. And, in the presence of sympathisers, he’ll even offer guidance.’

It all seemed vaguely improper and distasteful to me, and so I naturally wanted to know more.

‘Guidance about what?’

‘Oh, most things. Politics, morals, religion, warfare; you name it—and it’s all good stuff. Whose shrewd judgement do you think Terence the solicitor followed to become a cabinet minister? Whose advice do you reckon Reggie Suntan followed to back the right side in all those little wars that made him rich?’

I tentatively indicated back towards the college.

‘That’s right,’ confirmed Mr Disvan jubilantly. ‘Mind you, they had to pay handsomely for the consultation. That’s how we support the Scholarship fund—the students’ grants, the contribution to Sydney Sussex, the equipment costs and everything. Loath as we are to foster the likes of Terence, the Scholarship has to be self-financing.’

‘So,’ I said slowly, thinking as I went along, ‘that’s why you read him all the papers and let him listen to the news and have those videos and so on. The Binscombe Scholarship students are there to keep him up to date with what’s going on.’

‘Exactly,’ said Disvan. ‘Well, in fact, one does that and the other provides security—but basically you’re right, yes.’

‘Every newspaper,’ added Thurloe, ‘every journal of opinion, scientific digest and new historical work. All the documentaries on TV and radio,
Question Time
on BBC 1, Channel 4 news and all that sort of thing. He’s also keen on
The Sky at Night
with Patrick Moore and
Songs of Praise
—but that’s purely for relaxation.’

Most of the features of Binscombe life were like three-hundred-piece jigsaws of blue sky. This one was now almost complete but for the centre, which remained obstinately empty.

‘All this,’ I said, ‘just to provide advice for money? Has the “Enterprise Culture” captured Binscombe as well?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Mr Disvan, almost indignantly. ‘All that’s just a useful by-product, a necessary distraction. No, Mr Oakley, the Binscombe Scholarship is here to wait for the word.’

I wondered whether to ask ‘what word?’ and decided not to.