Only when i larf, p.13
Only When I Larf, page 13
So I kept myself to myself. I’d tried to explain about civilisation to both of them, but neither would listen to me. It was quite clear to me from the books I’d read that the first men to wander upon the earth had hunted and fought and cared only for their own family. Later in communities such as the Tigris Euphrates valley, the Nile and the Yellow River, which flooded periodically, men had to work together to protect their crops against the flooding and form communities of common interest and common good. That’s what progress really is, and we should learn from that. Being a con man was anti-social. I told them again, over the banger sandwiches, but Liz just giggled. For some reason she found this worker’s café funny. I told her not to be a snob. I told Silas too. Silas said, ‘These river communities that formed; were there not wise men or witch doctors or medicine men who advised the community, predicted the seasons and warned them of impending flood?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said.
‘They based their predictions upon the condition of the moon?’
‘Probably,’ I said.
‘Of course they did,’ said Silas. ‘Well they didn’t go around telling everyone about the moon. They were clever, they invented spells, dances and rituals. Their knowledge and observation of the ways of the world had put them into a position of wealth and power, and they held onto it. That’s right?’ He pushed his half full mug of tea away.
‘Don’t you want that?’ I asked. He shook his head. I drank it while thinking about what he said.
Professor von Schreider’s book Mesopotamia; Melting Pot of Peoples hadn’t put it like that, but Silas could screw any set of facts around to suit his purposes.
‘Well we are the medicine men,’ said Silas. ‘We are the observers, the witch doctors, the sociological sports of our age. We are part of the process of natural selection; for we deprive the stupid and the inefficient of wealth and prestige. Without us the balance of nature would be upset. If the stupid prosper, then our society must lose its dynamism and finally falter. We are part of the life-cycle of the capitalist system.’ Quietly and sincerely he added, ‘That’s a system in which I devotedly believe, and for which I fought in the war.’
‘I believe in it too,’ said Liz. She collected our empty plates. ‘How about you Bob?’ she asked. She was just trying to stir things for me.
‘Zap, zap, zap. I hate the stinking system,’ I said. ‘I thought you knew that.’
‘What’s wrong with the system?’ said Silas loudly.
‘Blokes like you are running it,’ I said.
A lorry driver at the next table shouted, ‘Hear, hear, mate. Up the workers.’
Silas put on his glasses and looked around, surprised that his old leather jacket hadn’t made him one of the proletariat.
‘I suppose you would prefer Babylon?’ he said.
I said, ‘Babylon, although often described as a bureaucratic monarchical city-state, provides lots of evidence to suggest that the Babylonian citizen could be more directly compared to a communist citizen when we consider burial fees, land dues and taxes.’
Silas nodded but I could tell he was niggled. ‘That’s good to hear,’ he said. ‘Very good to hear, but now let’s try to have one small segment of the day in which no one is talking about Babylonians.’
‘O.K.’ I said. ‘If that’s what you want.’
10
Silas
Napoleon had a maxim about combination of arms. ‘Infantry, artillery and cavalry cannot dispense with each other,’ he said. I saw the three of us like that. That is not to say that we would never be able to dispense with each other, but during an operation it was essential that there was good communication and cooperation between us. I saw Liz as my cavalry; her role was recce and infiltration. Using her feminine skills, a pretty girl can see people and dig out things that would take a man weeks. In this operation she had found this fellow Geegee in the first place, and he had confided in her straight away and been delighted to have her along, to talk to and pump Mr Ibo Awawa.
Bob was artillery; not very imaginative, not able to think on his feet, but as a way of dropping a bombshell of careless talk right into the enemy camp he was a gem. Bob’s clumsiness was his great value. My role was not only the infantry, but also supreme commander. Planning, research and execution were all my responsibility. The trip down to the railway yards at Southampton was a typical example of the care that I was prepared to put into a rehearsal. I had restencilled all the boxes personally, and I had put one – carefully marked – case in position. Mr Awawa or Geegee Grey might want to look inside. These Vigilant anti-tank weapons are nearly four feet long with their launchers so I had put four of them in padded racks as the top layer of the case. They had all been old and damaged when I got hold of them, but repainted and bulled up with instruction stencils they looked as good as new. Of course I wouldn’t agree to opening a case at the first suggestion of it. (In fact I would try to prevent them going to Southampton at all.)
The documents for the purchase and shipment of the scrap metal were very impressive; signed, countersigned and cleared for export. I put them into an old War Office folder I had, and then clipped the outside and wrote confidential on it. All that remained was to exchange the papers for the Magazarian War Department’s money, and that would be done in the Embassy next day, unless they insisted upon the Southampton trip. This was the way a proper operation was planned.
It was a fine operation. I had been responsible for many jobs but none were more carefully pre pared. Some of my operations had been successful, some unsuccessful, but I had never been defeated. To be defeated is to be asked something for which you have not prepared an answer. My first line of fortifications was the Defence Ministry documents, manifests, and consignment notes. The second line was that the cases were at the railway yards if anyone should enquire by phone. The third line of defence was that the cases could be inspected, they were correctly stencilled for transhipment and purchased by me. The final position was four reconditioned Vigilant guided missiles in first class condition inside the most accessible packing case. The troops were on the start line and it was one minute to go. I sang lustily as we drove back from Southampton. I sang an old song called ‘We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line’. It had been hard and cold work stencilling those cases and as it was lunchtime I thought it would be good fun to stop at one of those lorry driver’s pull-ups. I parked outside a filthy old hut marked ‘Bill’s Cafe. Egg and chips all day.’ I locked up the Bedford and we went inside for egg and chips. I was somewhat amused to record that there was but one teaspoon which remained chained to the counter like a medieval bible. There was a babel of conversation about dog racing and television, the air was heavy with steam and burned fat, and the plastic tables awash with tea. But I entered into the fun and soon Bob was asking me questions about his new interest – archaeology. As usual Bob was more interested in the trivia of the subject rather than the broad platform of oriental scholarship.
When the conversation had degenerated into a comparison of Ancient Babylon and modern Russia, I felt we were beginning to excite too much attention among the lorry drivers, so I gently but firmly steered the conversation on to more everyday topics.
As a way of maintaining contact with the enemy forces I had decided to have dinner with Geegee Grey that evening. This would enable me to have some idea of what the Magazarians might ask when I attended the Embassy next day for lunch and payment. I had promised to phone Geegee before three p.m. and I used the cramped, graffiti-adorned phone box at the café. A woman’s voice answered Geegee’s phone. ‘Hello,’ she said, and then before I could reply, she said, ‘Hello. Hello. Hello, who is it?’
‘It’s a friend of Mr Grey,’ I said authoritatively.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong?’
She said, ‘He’s in an awful state, I can tell you. He’s soaking wet, he’ll catch his death of pneumonia, you know.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘Mr Grey, that’s who. He’s had a bash on the head and he’s black and blue.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘How should I know. I come in from two to four-thirty on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I just came in and found him unconscious. Shall I phone the doctor?’
‘Luckily Mrs …’
‘Sanderson. Mrs Sanderson.’
‘Well luckily Mrs Sanderson. I am a medical man myself.’
‘Is that a doctor?’
‘Exactly, Mrs Sanderson. You’ve put it rather more neatly than I have. I am, as you have intimated, a doctor. Is he breathing Mrs Sanderson?’ I asked. There was a clatter as she put the phone down. After a long pause she returned, ‘Yes, he’s breathing. Do you want to know anything else?’
‘Breathing is the main thing,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed philosophically. ‘Breathing is the main thing. He’s bleeding you know,’ she said.
‘Not spurting though,’ I said.
‘No, not spurting,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘Just oozing, but I’m worried about him. He’s such a nice man; Mr Grey.’
‘Let him ooze until I get there,’ I said.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said.
‘Look Mrs Sanderson. I’ve got a young daughter of my own, and I wouldn’t ask either you, or her, to get your name dragged through the police courts and mixed up in a nasty case in the newspapers. Goodness only knows what might be behind it. You think of yourself first, Mrs Sanderson. You let yourself out and forget the whole business. It will take me only a couple of minutes to get there. You leave these unpleasant matters to us, we get paid to sort them out.’
‘That’s what I’d like to do doctor.’
‘Well, you do that Mrs Sanderson. Be sure to leave the door on the latch and toddle along home.’
‘If you say so doctor, but I don’t like to leave him alone.’
‘I’m only around the corner,’ I said. ‘He’ll be all right for a moment or two.’
I went back to Bob and Liz and mobilised them quickly. I drove back trickling through vast armies of road repair workers who constantly occupy Britain’s highways. It was nearly two hours before we reached Bayswater. I parked behind the block of flats in which Geegee lived and hurried inside. I avoided the caretaker and then made sure that there was not a lift man.
Mrs Sanderson had left the door ajar. Geegee was sprawled across the bed. He was bruised and cut and still bleeding slightly. I put my hand on his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. He was soaking wet. He opened his eyes.
‘Brigadier Lowther,’ he said weakly. ‘Have to call off dinner I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind dinner,’ I said. ‘What the devil’s happened here?’
I looked around the flat. It was like the furniture department of Harrods; silk, gilt and bobbles. ‘What are you doing dressed like a Teddy boy?’ asked Geegee. I went into the bathroom and came back with a damp cloth to bathe his bruised face. The floor of the bathroom was awash. The soap and sponges and cloths had been thrown in every direction.
‘Security, Geegee,’ I said. ‘A special assignment. Can’t talk about it, I’m afraid.’ Geegee flinched as I washed the tender abrasions on his cheek and chin.
‘I quite understand,’ said Geegee. ‘Intelligence; I’ve just been reading a book about it.’
‘Good chap,’ I said, ‘well you understand. Now, tell me what all this is about.’
‘Gambling,’ said Geegee. ‘I owe a gambling club three thou. They think I’m being difficult, but I just don’t have it.’ I nodded.
‘You’d better take care who you’re opening the door to Geegee.’
‘I won’t be able to go to work for a few days,’ said Geegee. ‘I mean, I’ll look a sight until the swelling goes down.’
‘You will,’ I said.
‘Get me a mirror,’ said Geegee. I unhooked one from the bathroom and took it in to him. He studied his face. ‘I’d better not come to the Embassy with you tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you’d better phone,’ I said. ‘Give them your apologies and tell them to expect me.’
‘No need for that,’ said Geegee. ‘They never forget anything. They will be expecting you.’ I nodded and walked into the living room. There wasn’t much damage except for a broken ash tray and a dented standard lamp. ‘Do you want a doctor, Geegee?’ I said.
‘No,’ said Geegee. ‘Just let me sleep.’
‘Call me if you want anything,’ I said.
Geegee just groaned gently, so I closed the curtains, lit the electric fire and let myself out. I hurried around the corner to where Liz and Bob were waiting in the Bedford lorry.
‘He’s been beaten up,’ I said. ‘He’s bruised and he’s bloody.’
‘Beaten up, what for?’ said Bob.
‘He says for gambling, a three thousand pound debt. A debt he can’t afford to pay.’
‘What’s going round in your mind now?’ Liz asked me.
‘Supposing he asked me to pay his debt for him because he couldn’t face the idea of getting beaten up again?’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ said Liz. ‘He’s the middleman in the deal.’
‘That’s just human,’ agreed Bob. ‘That’s just what anyone would do. Especially since we are collecting three hundred grand tomorrow. What’s worrying about that? Anyone would ask you.’
‘The worrying thing,’ I said, ‘is that he didn’t ask me.’
I was due at the Magazarian Embassy in Belgravia at one o’clock. Bob and I both wore civilian clothes. A flag moved sluggishly in the damp morning air. The brass plate with the words ‘Republic of Magazaria Embassy,’ was brightly polished and so was the big bell pull under it. I tugged at it and the doors opened instantly.
‘Come in sir,’ said a thin elegant negro in a black suit and dazzling white shirt. Two other men similarly attired, stood in the hall, just in case there was a sudden onslaught of hats and coats and umbrellas. It was a large entrance hall, the floor was black and white marble, and there were two antique mirrors that reflected a bowl of fresh flowers into an infinity of gilt and blooms. A sign on a wooden pedestal said ‘Visa Department’, and at the foot of the staircase there was a large hand-coloured photograph of a man in a fez, captioned ‘Our President’. The frame was slightly askew. Dark-suited footmen opened a double door leading off the hall and ushered me through. There was a waiting room with leather armchairs, new and unused, placed strategically around a glass topped coffee table. Scattered around there were copies of Autocar, Whats on, The Connoisseur and some journals about engineering. Before I had a chance to sit down, the door at the far end opened and a young man approached me smiling and extending a hand.
‘Brigadier Lowther?’ he said. And without waiting for a reply said, ‘I’m Ali Lin. The War Minister has been unexpectedly tied up, but he urges me to commence lunch without him.’ He smiled again. His English was precise and fluent. His suit was Brooks Brothers, and with it he wore a button-down shirt and a college or regimental tie that I did not recognise. He walked through a couple of small connecting rooms and into a rather grand dining room. I followed. Holland blinds at the windows made the light yellow and sunny as it fell across the meal, set out on the floor in Arab style. Six places had been laid. Small bowls of nuts, pickles and sweetmeats were dotted upon a fine damask cloth and soft leather cushions arranged around it. Two negroes were already seated. They wore Arab headdress and dark glasses. On the walls there were antelope and leopard skins. There were carpets too: soft Kirman carpets and silk floral ones from Kashan. Antique Mujur prayer mats and modern ones from the Caucasus. I’d say there was £20,000 worth of carpets in that room, and I’m not a bad judge. We sat down. A waiter in a starched white jacket pushed the drinks trolley to me. I noticed that the two negroes were sipping water.
‘I’ll have a soft drink,’ I said.
‘I’m having Scotch,’ said Ali.
‘Then I will too,’ I said. The waiter poured a treble measure into a heavy tumbler and I took it with plenty of water. Ali took the same. He held the glass up, ‘Here’s health,’ he said.
‘Bottoms up,’ I said.
‘I have taken the liberty,’ said Ali, ‘of inviting your driver to join us for lunch. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, although I trust I left him in no doubt that I considered it rather bad form. Bob came in looking awkward and sheepish. He handled it very well. He took a drink, snatched his cap off and then fumbled about, trying to hold cap and drink at the same time. ‘Sit down,’ said Ali. ‘Sit down next to your Brigadier.’
‘Hello sir,’ said Bob. He didn’t sit down.
‘Hello Cartwright,’ I said frostily.
‘I’d just as soon have mine in the kitchen,’ said Bob, putting his weight first on one leg, then on the other, and shuffling his feet.
‘Not at all,’ said Ali. ‘I won’t hear of it.’
‘This foreign food upsets me,’ said Bob.
‘Nonsense,’ said Ali, smiling warmly. ‘I shall select what you eat personally. You will enjoy it.’
Bob sat down next to me. Ali clapped his hands. Four waiters entered. They wore red jackets and green aprons. They placed huge silver platters on the damask cloth in front of us. There were four chickens from which came the smell of coriander and honey. There were small balls of ground mutton that Ali called kefta and urged upon Bob. Saffron flavoured rice, olives and large bowls of yoghurt were placed near each guest and so were discs of Arab bread scorched golden in the oven and almost two feet across. Ali reached for some bread and tore it apart greedily. He kept up a conversation all through the meal pronouncing upon everything from the state of the London theatre to the discomforts of jet travel. Ali wrenched choice pieces of chicken from the dish with his hand and offered them to Bob in Arab fashion. When we had eaten enough, servants brought brass bowls and poured warm, scented water upon our greasy hands. Then came soft, sugar-dusty Turkish delight sparkling with rose water. Turkish coffee came too, and tall ornamental hookahs glowing with hot coals. I put the mouthpiece to my lips and inhaled the cool smoke. We smoked silently for a few minutes. Ali offered us liqueurs and brandy, but I declined and Bob took his cue from me.
