John Braine - Room at the Top

"That's very true," I said, fighting to keep the anger out of my voice. "It also makes a man easier to handle."

"You sound a little bitter," he said reprovingly. "By the way, you're going to the Civic Ball, aren't you?"

"I hope so," I said. "Providing that I can hire an evening suit."

"There are some very pretty girls going to the Civic Ball." He achieved a genteel leer. "I'll introduce you to some."

"I was thinking of taking someone."

"The Spring Term ends on the fifteenth," he said. "The ball takes place on the twenty-fifth."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Come, come." He was smiling, but not with his eyes. "I'm sure that you do, Joe. I want you to save yourself a guinea. You don't take a bottle of beer into a pub with you, do you?" He looked at his empty cup. "I think I'll have some more tea."

I rose. "I'll ask June to bring you some."

"I'll phone for two more cups," he said. "Don't go yet, Joe. I haven't quite finished."

I needed the second cup; my mouth was bone-dry and my tongue seemed too big for it.

"Like Chekhov, isn't it?" he said surprisingly. "We sit here drinking tea and talking about life ... Without an audience, unfortunately. You do see my point, don't you?"

I laughed. It sounded hoarse and strained, and I abandoned it halfway. "I do indeed. I've enjoyed our little private talk, Mr. Hoylake. And I'll remember what you said: there are some pretty girls going to the Civic Ball."

"That's right," he said approvingly, "that's right. I don't often say it, Joe, but you've a great future ahead of you."

"You've been a long time with Der Fuehrer," Teddy Soames said when I returned. "Hasn't been tearing you off a strip, has he?"

"Positively not," I said. "There was an atmosphere of great cordiality." I yawned; I felt so tired that I could have gone to sleep on the floor.

"Come off it," he said. 'He didn't have you in there for twenty-five minutes just to be cordial. Sometimes I don't trust you, Joseph. What were you talking about?"

"Sex," I said.

Going home that evening I called at the chemist's for some razor blades. The owner of the shop, a tall thin man with an angry sergeant major's face, was talking politics with a customer, a fat woolman type. The chemist knew that I worked at the Town Hall, and greeted me by name. (He greeted most of his customers by name, which was one of the reasons for his prosperity.)

"'Evening, Mr. Lampton, and how are the town's finances?"

"We're solvent," I said.

"A damned sight more than can said for the country," said the woolman heavily.

"By God, but you never spoke a truer word, Tom." The chemist's face was nearly purple with anger. "Every damned thing rationed, not one promise kept. You might think that they were deliberately trying to ruin the businessman. Where's our freedom? Winnie was right, we're under a Gestapo."

The chemist's assistant finished wrapping a large parcel for the woolman. "That's right, Mr. Robbins," he said. "And look at the income tax ..." He was a big man, as tall as me, on the verge of forty. I remembered him telling me once that he'd been at Robbins's for twenty years. He was obviously the unqualified general mug who did all the rough work and worked the most awkward hours. His pale face was set in a fixed smile; the habit of submissiveness had rounded what had once been a fine pair of shoulders. "You're right, Mr. Robbins," he repeated. "Dead right." His smile widened, and he nodded his head to underline the point. The other two took no notice of him at all, though they were standing cheek-to-jowl.

I left the shop feeling a bit sick. How on earth did the assistant stand it? He'd sold himself, and what price had he got? Perhaps seven pounds a week, and not even any assurance of security; he was dependent for his daily bread on one man, and that man was ignorant, ill-mannered, and mean. Then I remembered my interview with Hoylake, and wondered how much difference there was between me and the assistant. True, I had more money, better working conditions, and security; but essentially our positions were the same. My master was better-mannered than Robbins, and had less power over me; but he was still my master. My price was a shade higher, that was all.

It was still raining; I caught the bus at the station. It smelled of wet clothes and stale tobacco, and there wasn't a seat vacant. I went to the front of the bus, and while I was thinking about all this, didn't notice the awkwardness of my position until we were nearly at Eagle Road. By the time I'd squeezed my way out of the bus I was breathless and ruffled. I walked up Eagle Road, turning my collar up and holding my hat against the wind and the rain, and saw Bob Storr's Austin disappear along St. Clair Road.

After tea I rang him up. "Want a baby-sitter again tomorrow, Bob?"

"I'm not sure ... Wait a moment, Joe." His voice was noncommittal.

"You said you did last week."

"Yes, of course. I'll have a word with Eva."

I waited, my heart beating fast with anger; I knew what was coming.

"I'm awfully sorry, old man," he said, "but Eva invited some friends up. Between you and me, for business reasons. She's been reading those articles on how to help your hubby to success. Personally I'd rather go out, they're crashing bores, but there it is. Some other time, eh? The weather's getting warmer now anyway." He laughed; I seemed to detect a gloating note. "Give my love to Sue," he said. "And Eva sends hers. Sorry if this has messed up your plans, Joe."

"That's all right," I said. "I hadn't really any plans."

"When I was younger, I used to go to the Folly. No one else ever visits the spot. Or if they do, they won't bother you." He laughed again. "It's hell to be young and passionate in a cold climate."

"How true," I said, "how true. I'll return to the delights of economics now, Bob. Goodbye."

I replaced the phone and went to the window. The ground was shiny with rain. The room was quiet. The Thompsons had gone to the theatre and wouldn't return till late. The fire was burning brightly and smelled faintly aromatic, as it had done the first time I'd been in the room. The quietness bit my sense of time like a Commando ear-box; I had to pick up the paper to reassure myself of the date. It was as if somehow I would find myself in yesterday with the knowledge that I would have to endure the interview with Hoylake and the phone call to Bob again.

I lit a cigarette and turned to Benham's Economics . Halfway through a chapter I stopped. I wasn't taking in a single word; the truth was that I'd already had a very stiff lesson in economics. We shall begin by examining Joseph Lampton. Born January 1921 at Dufton. Father John Lampton, occupation overseer. Educated Dufton Grammar School. Junior Clerk, Treasurer's Department, Dufton UDC, 1937. Sergeant-Observer, 1940. 1943-1945, Stalag 1000, Bavaria. Present post, Senior Audit Clerk, Warley UDC. Salary, APT Two. Resources, Ł800, from accumulated RAF pay, gratuity, and insurance on parents. Prospects: he might be the Treasurer of Warley one day. Shall we say a thousand a year at the age of forty if he's very fortunate? Lampton has risen remarkably high, considering his humble beginnings; but, in our considered opinion, he has not the capacity to succeed in our sense of the word. He lacks the necessary background, the poise, the breeding: in short, he is essentially vulgar, and possesses no talents which might compensate for this drawback.

We learn to our astonishment and horror that Lampton has entered upon a clandestine relationship with a young Grade Two woman. The young woman in question is of an ardent and impetuous nature and lacks the worldly experience which would enable her to deal firmly with a man of Lampton's type; it is, therefore, imperative that we intervene.