Charles Snow - Corridors of Power

‘I hope you are right.’

‘He has made it perfectly clear—’

‘I hope you are right.’ Suddenly his face was full of illumination, as though he were looking over my shoulder. ‘Then I shall go straight to him in the future.’

‘That may not be possible, when he’s occupied—’

‘That,’ said Brodzinski, ‘is for the Minister to say.’

With ritual courtesy, he inquired what I should be doing for Christmas. With dignity he thanked me for entertaining him. When I took him to the top of the stairs, he gripped my hand in his immense one. I returned to the drawing-room, and stood preoccupied, not noticing acquaintances about the room, with my back to the fire. I was thinking angrily of Roger. He should have broken the news himself.

A cheerful little old man patted my arm. ‘I saw you caballing down there—’ he pointed to the end of the room — ‘with that scientist chap.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said.

‘Talking a bit of shop?’

‘Talking a bit of shop,’ I said.

I was wondering just how I could have done it better. One thing was clear: I could hardly have done it worse. I was wondering what Brodzinski would do next.

I was letting myself get worn down by one man. It seemed foolish, right out of proportion, as I stood there by the fire, in the drawing-room of the Athenaeum.

It seemed even more foolish, half an hour later, in the drawing-room of my own flat. Francis Getliffe was there before me, having come for dinner before he got the late train back to Cambridge. He was talking to Margaret, who liked him best of my old friends, who shone at him as if, in different circumstances, he might have been her choice. This was not so, and he knew it was not. She was fond of him, both because she recognized his reciprocal affection, and because she admired what his life had been. Like hers, it had been signally without equivocation. They knew how to talk to each other simply, without parentheses.

The room was bright, the pictures were lively on the walls, it was a home such as in my young manhood I thought I should never have. I mentioned that I had had a scene with Brodzinski. Margaret was smiling, because of the place where it had happened. Francis was impatient. The sooner he delivered the report to Roger, the better: as for this man, he could not see that he mattered. Nor could I, drinking before dinner in my own home.

Francis had quite a different concern. Soon after I arrived, a young man and a girl came into the room, both of them flushed. The young man was Arthur Plimpton, who immediately took charge of the drinks. He made Margaret lie back, and went round with a tinkling tray, refilling our glasses, calling Francis and me ‘Sir’, with his mixture of respect and impudence. The girl was Penelope, Francis’ younger daughter.

She was nineteen, but looked older. She was taller than her father, Junoesque and, in a rosy flowering fashion, beautiful. She did not much resemble either of her parents. Where that particular style of beauty came from, no one could explain; if I had not known, it would not have occurred to me that her mother was Jewish.

Arthur had managed to get his way. It had been easy to coax Margaret into inviting them to stay with us for a week. It had not been so easy for Penelope to accept. Francis, who usually rejoiced in his children’s love-affairs and marriages, did not seem to rejoice in this. The fact was, that someone had let him know, after Arthur had got inside the family, how rich the young man was. Francis did not like it: or rather, he would have liked them to get married, but could not let anyone see it, even his oldest friends. He would not, even by an ordinary invitation, appear to be encouraging his daughter to marry a fortune. His sense of punctilio was getting stiffer as he grew older: he had all the hard pride of the English professional classes, plus something added of his own.

It amused me, having known Francis since we were both young. I had seen him, less orthodox than now, marrying for love, but also marrying into a rich family. I had seen him defying taboos, a Gentile carrying off a Jewish girl. I had seen him less respectable than now. Other people, meeting him in his middle fifties, regarded him as he and I regarded the dignitaries of our own youth — Sir Francis Getliffe, high principled, decent, full of gravitas , a little formal and, yes, a little priggish. I could not regard him so. Even when he was behaving stiffly, I could still hear, as none of us can help hearing with the friends of our youth, the chimes of another time: the ‘chimes of midnight’, in the empty, lonely streets we had once walked together.

That did not prevent Margaret and me from twitting him, saying that he was showing ridiculous decorum, and ourselves opening our house to Arthur. I was fond of Penelope, who happened to be my goddaughter, but of the pair it was Arthur who was the more fun.

That night at dinner, he had two objectives. One was to absorb the conversation. He could not get over his discovery that Sir Francis, so eminent, so strait-laced about domestic behaviour, was, when he talked about the world, by American standards wildly radical. Arthur could not have enough of it. It shocked him, and gave him a thrill of guilt. Not, I thought, that anything Francis, Margaret or I said would affect him by as much as one per cent. But I thought also, with a certain grim satisfaction, that it would do him no harm to hear us talk about communists as though they were human beings.

Arthur’s second objective was less intellectual. It was to get Penelope to himself. Towards the end of the meal, Francis was looking at his watch. He would soon have to leave for Liverpool Street. If Arthur waited half an hour, he and Penelope could slip out without a word. But Arthur was a young man of spirit.

‘Sir Francis,’ he said, ‘we will have to be going ourselves. I must say, it’s been a very fine evening.’

‘Where are you going?’ said Margaret, since Francis did not reply.

‘Penny and I are going to dance some place.’

They were both waiting. Penelope, who was not talkative, had an inward-turning smile.

They might be late, Arthur went on, and asked Margaret if they could have a key.

‘I’ll get her back safe and sound,’ Arthur said to Francis.

Francis nodded.

‘And I’ll send her back to Cambridge in time for Christmas,’ Arthur went on, a little lordly, and knowing it.

I joined in, to stop Arthur teasing Francis any more. I said we would all travel to Cambridge together. We were taking our children, as we did each year, to spend Christmas with my brother Martin.

Francis, back in authority again, asked us all to come to his house on Boxing Day. There was to be a great party of Francis’ children, a couple of grandchildren, Martin’s family and ours.

Just for an instant, Arthur looked appealing. He wanted to be invited. Francis knew it, and glanced at him from under high, quixotic eyebrows. Arthur might be obstinate, but he had met another obstinate man. This time Francis held the initiative. He did not budge. He gave no invitation. He said politely that in five minutes he must be off.

Resilient, Arthur was on his feet.

‘We have to go too. Come on, Penny. It’s been a very fine evening, Sir Francis.’

They told Margaret they wouldn’t want breakfast, and would see her later in the morning. Arthur said good night to Francis, and Penelope kissed him. Then they went out, a handsome couple, cherishing their secrets, disclosing nothing except happiness, full of the pride of life, full of joy.

On a bright January morning, the telephones kept ringing in my office. Did I know, did anyone know, who was going to be the new Prime Minister? Had anyone been summoned to the Palace? All over Whitehall, all through the maze of the Treasury Building, men were gossiping. To some, in particular to Ministers like Roger, the answer mattered. To one or two, it would be decisive. No one in Roger’s circle knew what it was going to be. They had not been ready for the resignation. Now the Chancellor was being backed: so was the Home Secretary. Moral sentiments were being expressed, and a good deal of damage being done.