Charles Snow - The Conscience of the Rich

No one could have enjoyed it more, I thought. No one could have more enjoyed throwing himself into this new, serious, senatorial part. He added: ‘Of course, if one keeps one’s head above water, one gets certain consolations for the responsibility. I’m thankful to say that may happen.’ He chuckled. ‘I haven’t had to cut off my evening glass of beer. And it’s fun to take my wife round the town and order a dollop of champagne without doing sums in the head.’ He was in triumphant form. He felt he was going to arrive. He kept giving me heavy homilies, such as were due from a man of weight. He believed them, just as he believed in everything he said while he was saying it.

After a time I said: ‘By the way, I came to ask you something.’

‘If there is any help I can give you, L S,’ said Getliffe, ‘you have only to ask. Ask away.’

‘You remember the trouble that happened just before your brother’s wedding?’

‘What trouble?’

‘Rumours were going round about some investments in Howard & Hazlehurst.’

Getliffe looked at me sternly.

‘Who are Howard & Hazlehurst?’ he said.

He seemed to believe that he had forgotten. I reminded him of our conversation that evening in chambers, when he was frightened that Porson would expose the deal.

‘I remember it vaguely,’ said Getliffe. He went on reprovingly: ‘I always thought that you exaggerated the danger. You’re a bit too highly strung for the rough and tumble, you know. I think you were very wise to remove yourself most of your time to a place with ivy round the walls. One has to be very strong for this kind of life.’ He paused. ‘Yes, I remember it vaguely. I’m sorry to say that poor old Porson has gone right down the hill since then.’

‘I wanted to ask you,’ I said, ‘if you’d heard that some similar rumours were going round now.’

‘I have been told of some nonsense or other,’ said Getliffe in a firm and confident tone. ‘They appear to be saying that I used inside knowledge last year. I’ve ignored it so far: but if they go on I shall have to protect myself. One owes a duty to one’s position.’

‘Have they the slightest excuse to go on?’

‘I shouldn’t let everyone ask me that question, L S,’ said Getliffe reproachfully. ‘But we know each other well enough to pass it. You’ve seen me do things that I hope and believe I couldn’t do nowadays. So I’ll answer you. They haven’t the slightest excuse, either in law or out of it. I’ve never had a cleaner sheet than I’ve had the last two years. And if I can prove these people are throwing mud, they’ll find it a more expensive game than snooker.’ He looked at me steadily with his brown, opaque eyes. He said: ‘I can’t answer for anyone else. I can’t answer for March, Hawtin, or the ministerial bigwigs, but I’m glad to say that my own sheet is absolutely clean. A good deal cleaner, I might tell you, than some of our common acquaintances’ about the time that you were dragging up just now. I suppose you know that old Sir Philip did himself remarkably well out of the Howard & Hazlehurst affair? He was much too slim to have anything to do with Howard & Hazlehurst, of course. No, he just bought a whole great wad in a rocky little company whose shares were down to twopence and a kiss from everyone on the board. Well, Howard & Hazlehurst took over that company six months later. They wanted it for their new contract. Those shares are now 41s. 6d. and as safe as young Aunt Fanny. Our friends in Israel must have made a packet.’

His manner became weighty again, as he went on: ‘I must tell you that I strongly disapprove. I strongly disapproved when it happened, though I was a younger man then and I hadn’t done as well as I have now. I don’t believe anyone in an official position ought to have any dealings, that is, speculative dealings, on the Stock Exchange. And I should like to advise you against it, L S. There must be times in your little consultancy when you gain a bit of inside knowledge that a not-too-scrupulous man could turn into money. I dare say you’d bring it off every now and then. But you’ll be happier if you don’t do it. I don’t know what you collect from your little consultancy and that job of yours with the ivy round the walls. But I advise you to be content with it, whatever it is. I’m content with mine, I don’t mind telling you.’

We went out for lunch. As usual, I paid. When I left him, on my way to find Porson at an address in Notting Hill, two thoughts were chasing each other through my mind. Getliffe was speaking the truth about his ‘clean sheet’ in recent years. His protests were for once innocent, not brazen; it was a luxury for him to have such a clear conscience. The rumours about him seemed to be quite false. That surprised me; but it did not surprise me anything like so much as his revelation about Sir Philip. I did not know how much to believe; remembering Mr March’s report of his visit to Philip’s bedside, I was sure there was something in it.

Porson had given me an address in Notting Hill. When I reached it, I was met by his landlady, who said that he had been called away that morning: he had left a message that he would write again and fix another rendezvous. The house was decrepit, the landlady was suspicious of me, on guard for Porson; he was living in a flat up the third flight of shabby stairs.

I called on friends who might have heard the gossip — radical journalists, civil servants, barristers who knew Getliffe. Several of them had picked up the rumours, but no one told me anything new. Some were excited because there was scandal in the air. Even when one man said: ‘I don’t like the idea of a Dreyfus case started by the left,’ his eyes were bright and glowing.

Then I told Mr March what I had found out. The rumours, I said, all referred to a leakage within the past year. I told him that Herbert Getliffe seemed not to be in any way responsible this time. If even one of these rumours was brought into the open, it looked entirely safe to sue straight away. But I also told Mr March that, though I could not see the bearing, he ought to hear Getliffe’s story about Sir Philip.

Mr March listened in silence. At the end he said: ‘I am deeply obliged to you for your friendly services.’ His expression was not relieved, but he said: ‘I may inform you that my brother Philip yesterday appeared to think that the affair was blowing over. I have always found that persons in public life become liable to a quite unwarranted optimism.’ Mr March himself showed no optimism.

I waited three weeks before I heard from Porson. Then a note came in his tall fluent hand, which said: ‘I expect you have guessed what chase has kept me away from London. I will tell you about her when I meet you. I insist on going to the University match, and shall return in time for the first day. Do you feel like joining me, even though your respectable friends may see us there and count it against you?’

I found him on the first morning, sitting on the top of the stand at the Nursery end. I had not seen him for two years, and I was shocked by the change. Under his eyes, screwed up in the sunlight, the pouches were embossed, heavy, purplish-brown. His colour was higher and more plethoric than ever, and the twitch convulsed his face every time he spoke. His suit was old, shiny at the cuffs, but he was wearing a carnation in his buttonhole and an Authentic tie. He welcomed me with a hearty aggressive show of pleasure. ‘Ah well, my boy, I’m glad you haven’t boycotted me. I need some company, the way these people are patting about.’ His face twitched as he looked irascibly out to the pitch. ‘It’s going to be bloody dull. I hope it won’t mean your being crossed off many visiting lists if some of your friends notice you’re here with me. Anyway, it’s bloody good to see you.’