Charles Snow - George Passant

George asked Eden: ‘Did you make these people realise that I was acting as a private person?’

‘My dear Passant, you ought to know that one can’t draw these distinctions. If you — not to put too fine a point on it — choose to make a fool of yourself among some influential people, then Howard and I will come in for a share of the blame.’

‘I can draw these distinctions,’ said George, ‘and, if you will authorise me, I can make them extremely clear to these — to your sources of information.’

‘That would only add to the mischief,’ said Eden.

There was quiet for a moment. Then George said: ‘I shall have to ask you a definite question. You are not implying, Mr Eden, that this action of mine cuts across my obligations to the firm?’

‘I don’t intend to discuss it in those terms,’ said Eden. ‘I’ve been talking in a purely friendly manner among friends. In my opinion you’d do us all a service by sleeping on it, Passant. That’s all I’m prepared to say. And now, if you’ll forgive me, Howard, I’m afraid that I must go and get some sleep myself.’

We heard his footsteps down the path and the click of the latch. George stared at the carpet. Without looking up he said to Martineau: ‘I’m sorry that I’ve spoiled your evening.’

‘Don’t be silly, George. Harry Eden always was clumsy with the china.’ Martineau had followed George’s eyes to the stain on the carpet, and spoke as though he knew that, in George’s mind, the spill was rankling more even than the quarrel. Martineau went on: ‘As for your little disagreement, of course you know that Harry was trying to smooth the matter down.’

George did not respond, but in a moment burst out: ‘I should like to explain to you, Mr Martineau. I know you believe that I should be careful about doing harm to the firm. I thought it over as thoroughly as I could: I’m capable of deceiving myself occasionally, but I don’t think I did this time. I decided that it would cause a whiff of gossip — I admit that, naturally — but it wouldn’t lose us a single case. You’d have made the same decision: except that you wouldn’t have deliberated quite so long.’ George was speaking fervently, naturally, with complete trust. I wished that he could have spoken in that way to Eden — if only for a few words.

‘I’m a cautious old creature, George,’ said Martineau.

‘Cautious! Why, you’d bring the whole town down on our heads if you felt that some clerk, whom you’d never seen, wasn’t free to attend the rites of a schismatic branch of the Greek Orthodox Church — in which you yourself, of course, passionately disbelieved.’ George gave a friendly roar of laughter. ‘Or have you been tempted by some new branch of the Orthodox lately?’

‘Not yet,’ Martineau chuckled. ‘Not yet.’

Then George said: ‘I expect you understood my position right from the start, Mr Martineau. After Mr Eden’s remarks, though, I should like to hear that you approve.’

Martineau hesitated. Then he smiled, choosing his words: ‘I don’t consider you a man who needs approval, George. And it’s my duty to dissuade you, as Harry did. You mustn’t take it that I’m not dissuading you.’ He hesitated again. ‘But I think I understand what you feel.’

George listened to the evasive reply: he may have heard within it another appeal to stop, subtler than Eden’s, because of the liking between himself and Martineau. He replied, seriously and simply: ‘You know that I’m not going into this for my own amusement. I’m not searching out an injustice just for the pleasure of trampling on it. I might have done once, but I shouldn’t now. You’ve understood, of course: something needs to be done for Cotery, and I’m the only man who can do it.’

THE meeting of the School committee was summoned for the following Wednesday. I knew before George, since the notice passed through my hands in the education office. And, by asking a parting favour from an acquaintance, I got myself the job of taking the minutes.

On Tuesday night, I thought that I might be wasting the effort: for a strong rumour came from Olive that Jack himself had pleaded with George to go no further. But when I saw George later that night, and asked, ‘What about tomorrow?’ he replied: ‘I’m ready for it. And ready to celebrate afterwards.’

I arrived at the Principal’s room at ten minutes to six the next evening. The gas fire was burning; the Principal was writing at his desk under a shaded light; the room seemed solid and official, though the shelves and chairs were carved in pine, in a firm plain style which the School was now teaching.

The Principal looked up as I laid the minute book on a small table; he was called Cameron, and had reddish hair and jutting eyebrows.

‘Good evening. I am sorry that we have to trespass on your time,’ he said. He always showed a deliberate consideration to subordinates; but from duty, not from instinct. At this time he probably did not know that I attended lectures at the School.

Then Miss Geary, the vice-principal, entered. ‘It was for six o’clock?’ she said. They exchanged a few remarks about School business: it was easy to hear that there was no friendliness between them. But the temperature of friendliness in the room mounted rapidly when, by the side of Canon Martineau, Beddow came in. He was a Labour councillor, a brisk, cordial, youngish man, very much on the rise; he had a word for everyone, including an aside for me — ‘Minuting a committee means they think well of you up at the office. I know it does.’

‘I suppose we’re waiting for Calvert as usual,’ said Canon Martineau, who had a slight resemblance to his brother, but spoke with a drier and more sardonic tang. ‘And can anyone tell me how long this meeting is likely to last?’

‘No meeting ever seems likely to last long until you’ve been in it a few hours,’ said Beddow cheerfully. ‘But anyway, the sooner we begin this, the sooner we shall get through.’

Ten minutes later, Calvert appeared, a small bald man, pink and panting from hurry. Beddow shook his hand warmly and pulled out a chair for him at the committee table.

‘I hope you won’t mind sitting by me,’ he said. He chatted to Calvert for a few moments about investments; and then briskly, but without any implication that Calvert was late, said: ‘Well, gentlemen, we’ve got a certain amount ahead of us tonight. If you don’t object I think we might as well begin.’

The City Education Committee was made up partly from councillors and partly from others, like the Canon: in its turn it appointed this one, ad hoc : and so Beddow took the chair. He, with Calvert on his right and the Principal on his left, sat looking towards the door, on the same side of the committee table: the Canon and Miss Geary occupied the ends of it. I worked at the smaller table behind theirs, and within reach of the Principal and Beddow.

The Principal read the minutes (I was there purely to record) and then Miss Geary interrupted.

‘Can we take No. 6 first, Mr Chairman?’ No. 6 on the agenda read: ‘J Cotery. Termination of Bursary.’ ‘I believe Mr Passant wishes to make a statement. And I noticed that he was waiting in the staffroom.’

‘I suggest that the first three items cannot conveniently wait,’ said the Principal promptly. Beddow looked round the table.

‘I think the feeling of the meeting is for taking those three items first,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Geary: we shan’t waste any unnecessary time.’

The three items were, in fact, mainly routine — fees for a new course in architecture, scholarships for next year. The clock on the Principal’s desk was striking the third quarter when Beddow said: ‘That polishes off your urgent business, doesn’t it? Well, I suppose we’re obliged to get No. 6 over some time. Perhaps this would be a convenient opportunity to have Mr Passant in.’