Three Brothers (8 page)

On the following morning the editor asked to see him. This was an unexpected summons, since Andrew Havers-Williams did not generally mingle with the junior staff. Harry considered him to be something of a “toff,” a man of impeccable and even dandified dress; he wore silk waistcoats and silk ties; he swept his luxuriant white hair back in bouffant fashion; his enunciation was clipped and precise; his voice had the timbre of an expensive education. “Well, Hanway,” he said as Harry entered his office. “Well done. Very well done. The proprietor likes this sort of thing.” His tone suggested that the proprietor, Sir Martin Flaxman, was a man of comparatively simple tastes. “Personally I know nothing about this Hanover chap. Comedian, is he? Where did you find him?”

“In a pub, sir.”

“A pub? I see. Well done.” He had an air of forced cheerfulness, as if he were aware of a disparity between them that could only be negotiated by a show of bonhomie. “How long have you been with the paper?”

“Two years.”

“Two years on Porcupine is long enough, don’t you think?” Harry nodded. “I’m going to hand you over to the news desk.”

That had been Harry’s aim from the beginning. “I would welcome that,” he said.

“Talk to James White.”

James White was the news editor. He was middle-aged, tall, balding. He had been an officer during the War, and had retained the manner ever since. He owed his post solely to
the fact that he had attended the same school as the editor, and he was widely disliked by the staff of the news desk. He was something of a martinet, something of a bully. “Don’t just stand there,” he said on the first day. “Do something. Make yourself useful. Wait. I want you to go to the Old Bailey. See if anything’s happening.” That was how he always addressed Harry—“I want you to …” He was generally stiff and condescending; he was always irritable, as if he was chafed by some inward discontent.

Yet Harry soon learned how to deal with him, as he learned how to deal with his other colleagues. They were immensely susceptible to flattery. “Good piece,” he would say. “Good piece.” Or he would pat someone on the back. “Terrific story. Terrific.” He realised that many of them lacked self-confidence. They had wanted to be barristers, or politicians, or writers; but they had ended up as journalists. They gathered at the end of the day in the Duke of Granby, a long and narrow pub near the corner of Chancery Lane and Fleet Street. Here in an atmosphere of forced joviality they discussed the day’s stories and events at the newspaper itself; they gossiped mercilessly about their contemporaries; they mocked the journalists on rival newspapers; they were sarcastic about the politicians of the day; they drank great quantities of beer or lager to keep themselves in good humour. They prided themselves on knowing the ways of the world, as a little tap on the side of the nose would signify. They were generally red-faced, with wary eyes.

Three political journalists were employed on the
Chronicle
, the most senior of them being an excessively neat and fastidious man. George Hunter was always rearranging the objects in front of him. It was said that he could not enter a room without emptying the ashtrays. He had a gentle and unemphatic voice, sometimes trailing off into silence. It was said by
his colleagues that this was a ruse—that his silences were a way of extracting confidences from otherwise reticent politicians. No one likes silence in a conversation.

“Well, George,” Harry might say in the Duke of Granby, “have you had a good day?”

“Yes. A good day.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“It
is
warm in here. Yes. What are you drinking?”

“A pint of Courage. The very best.”

“A pint of the very best, Suzanne.”

He was a perpetual echo. This was another secret of his success. He never seemed to have any opinions of his own. He was cautious and circumspect. He spoke respectfully of Mr. Harold Wilson and Mr. Edward Heath. He alluded to various political events and arguments in a low voice, as if they were still decidedly confidential. Yet he was observant. He missed nothing.

His two younger colleagues did not share his inhibitions. They talked of politicians in terms of personal intimacy, called them “Willie” or “Jim.” They professed cynicism but, as Harry noticed, they were thrilled to be addressed or recognised by these apparent worthless ministers. Yet Harry enjoyed their company. They were high-spirited and facetious, causing each other to laugh helplessly at some absurd or improbable fiasco. Nick Salmond was a good mimic; he could impersonate Wilson’s flickering eyes and snake-like tongue, and Heath’s convulsive shuddering laugh. They knew all the gossip, too, about the sex lives of prominent politicians. They luxuriated in speculation and innuendo. James Thorn was plump and pale; he always wore a flower in his buttonhole, and always dressed in a pinstriped suit. He had a voice, as Harry once said to Hilda, like an organ pipe. Both Salmond and Thorn were longing for George Hunter to retire,
although uneasily aware of the rivalry that would then rise between them. They sat on opposite sides of the same desk in the newsroom, beating out stories on their typewriters as the deadline drew ever closer. Harry had come to realise that words were cheap, and that they could be manufactured by the yard. The journalists would write something, and then write it again. Then they repeated it as if it were a new thought, and then recapitulated it in a slightly different way. They would conclude the paragraph with the same sentiment. And so it went on.

There was no subtlety or profundity in what they wrote. Neither of them pretended that there was. They repeated the conventional wisdom—the wisdom, if that is the word, shared by the majority of other political journalists at any one time. They both wrote editorials on political matters, in which they attempted to be authoritative. They relied upon portentous cliché masquerading as strong opinion. They were stern and, in the guise of anonymity, they were self-righteous.

Harry began to understand the way in which the political world worked. It was driven by ambition, and anger, and jealousy, concealed beneath the pretence of honesty and good intention. Nick and James realised the subterfuge well enough, and their conversation was filled with gossip about the weaknesses and vices of the politicians; but they wrote only about policies and issues, helping to sustain the deceit. George Hunter seemed genuinely to believe in the virtues of public office. He was considered to be old-fashioned. Nick and James merely gave credence to the lies they saw through. Over a drink, Harry felt at ease with them. He felt that they understood the world in which he, too, wanted to play a part.

He and Hilda Nugent had, on the strength of his new income, moved to a basement flat in Notting Hill. It was a part of London that neither of them knew, and at first they had been alarmed by its air of decay and general dilapidation.
The large terraced houses and stucco mansions had been divided into small flats and rooms for a population of beatniks, immigrants from the West Indies and transient workers. It was called “bed-sit land.” It suited them. They were still unmarried. Harry did not want to marry. He had told Hilda that he feared the expense and responsibility of a child. She might have suspected that there were other reasons but, if she did, she hid that thought from herself. She supposed that she was content with her present life. In turn Harry did not choose to enquire about his future with her. He did not reflect upon it. He did not believe that reflection was necessary.

So, as an unmarried couple, they found a place among the transient or louche population of Notting Hill. They felt at home with the peeling stucco and the untidy balconies, the unswept basement areas and the faded paintwork. They had not chosen the area deliberately. Perhaps the area had chosen them.

Hilda had found work as the manager of a coffee shop in Bayswater, called “The Wait And See.” When she had first told Harry the name she had become helpless with laughter. “Wait and see?” he asked her. “What is the hidden meaning in it?”

“There isn’t one.” And then she added, “Wait and see.” She rearranged three small china bowls on the mantelpiece. “Haven’t you got anything else to ask me?”

“Anything else? As in?”

“Well, how do I
like
it?”

“Like it?”

“Yes. Enjoy. Take pleasure in. Derive comfort from.”

“How do you like it?”

“The job is just fine. Thanks for asking. There are times, Harry, when I feel that you don’t care for me at all.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Well, now I’ve said it.”

Sometimes she described to him the events of the day. “An
old man came into the café today. He was perfectly dressed, bowler hat and all. He was tall and stout and wore a three-piece suit. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I am Arthur Effles.’ That’s a
funny
name, isn’t it? ‘May I just order a cup of tea?’ Then he sits down, very deferentially I thought, and lights a fag. ‘You see, young lady, I am here with a purpose. I have rented a room in the neighbourhood. Just a plain, simple room. I have rented rooms in other parts of London. Then I fan out, so to speak, from street to street. At present I am on your street, which is Coppice Street. I visit every establishment—just like this one—and make myself thoroughly familiar with it.’ He kept on making little bows and blowing little kisses. He had a beautiful smile, like a
patriarch
. Do you know what I mean?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you
suppose
or do you know? Oh forget it. It doesn’t matter. So anyway he smiles this lovely smile. ‘I talk to a person such as yourself, and I find out all about the neighbourhood. When I have walked down all the streets, and discovered all its secrets, I leave my lodging and rent somewhere else.’ Then he gets up and sits by the window. For the rest of the morning he just looks into the street. I could tell from the way he sat that he loved windows.”

“He sounds like a daft old bastard.”

“I wouldn’t describe him as
daft
. Perhaps a little bit
cracked
.” She sensed that she had bored him with this story. So she said no more.

Late one afternoon, as she stood behind the counter, a young man entered the coffee shop. He lingered over the menu, asking her carefully and specifically about every item. Even as he did so it seemed to Hilda that he was troubled by some inward thought or inward distress. Without knowing anything about him, she pitied him. Eventually he ordered a ham sandwich and a cup of tea. She watched him surreptitiously
as he chewed the food, and drank the tea; he was staring far away.

She presented him with the bill.

“I’m afraid I can’t pay this,” he told her. “I have no job. No money.” He looked at her without expression.

She was so surprised that she did not know how to reply. “No money?” He shook his head. She stood there for a moment, and then impulsively went back to the counter and put three pastries into a paper bag. He took them and, without a word, left the coffee shop. She sat down at one of the tables, and burst into tears. Hilda told Harry the story that evening, omitting the detail of her tears.

He sighed, and looked away for a moment. Somehow he knew that she had encountered Sam.

She followed Harry’s career with more interest than her own, questioning him about his work and colleagues. “How is the balding bully?” she asked him. She was referring to James White, the news editor.

“Getting more beastly every day. Whenever I think of him, I feel an inexpressible sensation of weariness. Or boredom. One or the other. What is the point of these people? He’s so damned superior. But he has nothing to be superior about. He has a companion. A comrade in arms who has a pudgy face and smokes all the time. That’s all I know about him. All I want to know.”

One evening, she said to him, “I saw that man you interviewed. Cormac something.”

“Cormac Webb?”

“That’s it. Webb.” Cormac Webb was a junior minister in the Department of Housing. He had been interviewed by Harry because he was the youngest member of the Labour government. Webb had struck him as being brash, exuberant and opportunistic—all the qualities that Harry admired. He
had told Harry, off the record, that he preferred champagne to beer and that his favourite restaurant was Simpson’s in the Strand. He exuded a sort of charmless bonhomie. “Where did you see him?” he asked her.

“He was going into that Ruppta’s building.” These offices were immediately across the street from The Wait And See. Asher Ruppta was a businessman, of ambiguous nationality, who had become the subject of hostile controversy and bitter complaint in Notting Hill Gate. He was known as a brutal and rapacious landlord, buying up old houses and subdividing them into smaller and smaller flats that were then rented to immigrants from the West Indies. It was reported that he terrorised the older residents until they were forced to move out or to sell their properties to him. Then he would bring in new tenants and charge them exorbitant rents. His “agents” always had bull terriers with them. “Then I saw them walking towards the park. Later, that is.”

What would Webb have to do with Ruppta? The fact that Webb was in the housing department occurred to Harry as soon as he asked himself the question. But why would he visit Ruppta’s offices? Why did not Ruppta go to Whitehall? “Did you tell me once,” he asked her, “that Ruppta’s staff use the coffee shop?”

“That’s right. Lunchtime. She eats
so
much. She orders
three
sandwiches.”

“Who does?”

“The secretary. And then there’s a typist, who looks a little bit like a mongoose. No. A marmoset.”

“What does a marmoset look like?”

“Like
her
. Anyway she’s leaving. I don’t think she likes it there.”

“You remember how to type, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. Have you forgotten how to breathe?”

“Are you any good?”

“Any
good
?”

In his excitement it did not occur to him that Hilda might want to stay at the coffee shop.

It did not take him very long to devise a scheme whereby Hilda would enter the office of Asher Ruppta. She took the secretary and typist into her confidence. “You know,” she told them, “I am
sick
of making sandwiches.” Later she added, “I used to be a typist, like you. I
loved
it.”