Penelope Fitzgerald - The Golden Child

‘But they might go mad at any moment. Security knows that, but I don’t think the authorities do. And the cafeteria! There’s a life-size replica of the Golden Child in hardboard to beckon you in and even at this time in the morning there’s nothing left but luncheon-meat rolls.’

‘What is luncheon meat?’ asked Hawthorne-Mannering, shuddering slightly.

‘Why should they suffer like this?’ Waring pleaded. ‘Some of them have been all night in the train.’

Hawthorne-Mannering, still without opening his eyes, stretched out his long pale hands, turned them slowly over, and spread them out in one of his chosen gestures.

‘One’s hands are clean,’ he said.

Waring reminded himself that if he did not keep this job, it was not at all certain that he would get another one, and that the whole question of his salary was constantly under the scrutiny of the Whitstable and Protective Building Society. He returned to his cubby-hole, and went rapidly through his correspondence, which represented the scourings of a great Museum, passed on from the other departments. A series of letters begged the Museum to join the campaign against the misuse of resources; a dinner was to be held, at £15 a head, where the menu was to be written on the tablecloth to save paper. The NUT wanted all the glass cases in museums removed, so that the exhibits could become a meaningful action area, and the children could pick them up and relate them to their daily lives. ‘Why not?’ thought Waring. ‘It would pretty soon clear a bit of space.’ A confidential minute from Public Relations referred to Professor Untermensch. Properly it was their business to entertain him, but apart from his great knowledge, which could be taken on trust, was he of any real importance? Could not the Exhibition Department take him out for a meal (Category 4 Grade 2) and perhaps an entertainment? As he appeared to be German, what about an operetta? ‘A what?’ thought Waring.

He wrote careful notes on the letters and went to see if he could find someone to type his replies. He was in luck, and one of the girls was free.

‘Where do you have your hair cut, Mr Smith?’ she asked casually as she took his notes.

‘I go to Samson and Delilah, in Percy Street, when I can afford it.’

‘Yes, well, we girls think you look quite nice. It’s getting a bit ragged, though.’

Perhaps Haggie could trim it for me, Waring thought, before I, a junior executive, become an object of mockery. He took a letter of his own out of his pocket. Looking at the outside did not make it any different. The Whitstable and Protective reminded him that one of their terms had been that he should within six months replace nearly all the slates on the roof and repoint, repair, make good etc., etc., which work had not so far been notified to them as having been done. Waring Smith’s salary was AP3 £2,922–£3,702 pa + £120 fringe, with £261 London Weighting (under review). He knew these figures very well, and repeated them to himself perpetually. They had seemed quite princely, when he got the job.

Having entrusted all the other letters to the typist, he went to see Sir William.

In the outer office he found Dousha actually asleep, in a quiet, cream-coloured heap over her desk. By her side was a pile of her work, and on top of that a file which she had evidently just put there. It had a green sticker on it, which Waring knew meant top secret, and the subject was the Garamantian Exhibition.

Through the glass door he could hear Sir William in the mid-stream of a conversation. Without any thought of concealment, but with very great curiosity, he began to read the file.

It began with a sheet of thick paper embossed with the address of HM British Embassy in Garamantia, on which was written, in an exquisite script:

We have, of course, not forgotten our Herodotus …

This was partially covered by an attached note:

What the hell does the sod think he’s talking about ?

The next minute was typewritten, and read:

Garamantia has no oil, no natural defences, no army, no education, and no bargaining power. She is, therefore, unworried by representatives of UNESCO, the CBI and commercial diplomats. On the other hand the population, insofar as it is amenable to census, is rising by 2.5% a year. Resources are meagre, and the infrastructure can scarcely be said to be deteriorating as there has never been any. Capital is scarcer than labour, but ‘labour-intensive’ hardly describes the Garamantian working methods. More than half of the perfectly healthy work force sleeps the entire day. The present Government (paramilitary group of the uncles of the reigning monarch, Prince Rasselas, down to enter Gordonstoun in 1980) fears takeover, wishes to put itself under the protection of the Union of Central African Muslim States (relations with USSR friendly) but has been told (as a result of consultation with the East German publicity firm Proklamatius) that the only useful contribution they can make to ingratiate themselves with the Union is to exhibit the Golden Treasure, for the first time in history, in the capitals of the West. Hopefully this is to promote the idea of age-old etc. settled cultural ideals and will to some extent combat the extraordinarily powerful presentation of the Israeli case. Hence Garamantian Treasure to be sent hastewise.

The next minute, from the Commercial Attaché, read:

Backing for insurance mounting and transit of the exhibits has been obtained from the Hopeforth-Best International Tobacco Corp. It is agreed that no advertising material shall be displayed or implied, but Hopeforth-Best have given us to understand, in strict confidence, that they feel the association of their product with the much-reverenced Treasure through their widely-used slogan ‘Silence is Golden — Light up a Middle Tar Content’ will prove consumerwise of substantial effect.

A final note from the Foreign Secretary’s office:

We must watch these tobacco people, but it is certainly a great coup for our diplomacy that the Treasure, which of course is going to Paris and West Berlin, should come to London first. A compliment to Sir William Simpkin may possibly be intended, but His Excellency will be congratulated.

Waring shut the file and replaced it by Dousha’s elbow. He stood there, deep in thought, till the door opened and Sir William, with unwonted spryness, looked out.

‘Reading the confidential files, are you? Well, why not, why not? The more people know these secrets, the less nuisance they are. I’d read it out at the conference, only I don’t want to upset the Director’s feelings. No, that wouldn’t do.’

A young journalist, who was on his way out, smiled uncertainly.

‘I’d like to thank you for the interview, sir …’

‘Mind you file it correctly,’ croaked Sir William suddenly. ‘The function of the Press is to tell the truth — aye, even at the risk of all that a man holds dear. Remember to tell them that a camel always makes a rattling noise in its throat when it’s going to bite; remember to tell them that. There’s many a man who would be living yet, if he’d heeded that advice.’

‘Sir William, all that was absolute rubbish,’ said Waring, as the reporter made his escape. ‘Every one of your expeditions was professionally planned and recorded. You’re talking like an old mountebank.’