Blame It on the Bossa Nova Read online

  “I have explained the situation to our young friend, and he is still interested,” said Toby giving a resume to any listeners who had missed the last episode.

  “It looks as if we’re going to be going to parties together,” I said to Pascale in a fresh schoolboy manner.

  “It seems that way,” she said.

  “Better brush up your dance routines. I’ll give you some lessons if you like.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “You and me together Pascale. We could take on the world.”

  She showed her enthusiasm for this vision by walking round to the other side of the car and getting into the front passenger seat.

  “Time to be off then Old Boy,” said Toby, now fully recovered from the effects of the tutorial.

  “You couldn’t drop me at the bus stop could you?”

  “‘Fraid not. Bad security.”

  “Just testing,” I said. “I wouldn’t have wanted any other answer.” I watched the car wind its way down towards the Robin Hood Gate. I watched it get smaller as it put distance between us. Inside it was Pascale. Our five minute meeting had reminded me of her characteristics, her body, the way she moved, her indifference, hopefully calculated. There was no doubt about it, she was becoming more gorgeous by the second.

  *****

  Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringgggggggg.

  “Hello.”

  “Alex Marshall?”

  “Yes.... Who is this?”

  “You’re a friend of Sandie’s?”

  “No.”

  “A friend of Chris’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to meet you sometime soon.”

  “Sure....... Who are you?”

  “Could you come to the House tonight?”

  “Any particular house?”

  “The House of Commons.”

  “Sure..... What time?”

  “Is ten o’clock alright.... I’ve got a Division earlier.”

  “Sure.”

  “If you wait at the entrance to Dean’s Yard I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Well...... see you later, then.”

  “It is who I think it is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure..... see you later........” I put the Mingus ‘A Night in Tunisia’ LP onto the turntable of the Dansette record player, savouring what I took to be its anarchic crescendos. I wanted to be loose for my confrontation with the Establishment.

  Of course they kept me waiting. Once or twice I hopped across to the statue of a griffin, or whatever it is, in the middle of The Sanctuary, in front of the west front of the Abbey. It was cold. A crowd started to spill out of the Methodist Central Hall opposite, and to dissolve. As I watched, momentarily distracted, a hand was placed on my shoulder. It spooked me. I jumped up and round.

  “Mr Marshall?” It was some old guy, not worth taking in.

  “..... Follow me please.” He led me under the archway that is the entrance to Dean’s Yard, along a stretch of pavement and up some steps. A porter in the lobby waved us through and we began to climb a narrow flight of steps in an old building that was apparently partitioned off into hundreds of private offices mostly for backbench MPs, I could see by the labels on the doors we passed. We went down a corridor at the end of which was an open door. Light came out, we went in....... A room with three secretarial stations, filing cabinets and trays, papers everywhere - on the floor, on shelves, on cupboards. Seated behind a typewriter but casually swinging his legs sideways and also leaning back, forcing the pivot in the back of his office swivel chair to its extremes, was Ronnie Forsythe, the guy I’d seen through the half open door with Sandie at the party in Earls Court. He was one of those guys with the permanent seven o’clock shadow - but groomed. The image says ‘Successful Businessman, Smooth Hard-Case’. And generally it doesn’t lie. He had the suit and tie to match. I heard the door close behind me and looked round. Old Bones had disappeared but a young guy had taken his place, also smart but this time hard in a different sense - physically. He leaned on the door in the way detectives do in films while their mates are interrogating a suspect they ‘know’ to be guilty. He looked at me as if weighing up my prowess in a rumble. I sat down the other side of the desk to Forsythe. I put my foot on the grate of a fireplace where a fire had been allowed to die a few hours previously and pushed myself back into the chair.

  “Alex..?” Part welcome, part question, part accusation.

  “That’s right.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” A hand extended across the table and I swivelled round and shook it awkwardly, then went back to my former position. I felt that neither of us was too happy with even this token display of cordiality.

  “The future.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The future - You.... You’re the future. Our future, the country’s future.... You and your generation.” I didn’t think the gap in our ages was sufficient to justify this Methuselah style approach but I let it go.

  “And yet I hardly know you.” Silence. “... You’re a person. You have dreams, aspirations... I expect.”

  I mulled over my limited aims.

  “....Tell me about them.”

  “They’re pretty personal. They wouldn’t interest you.... Really they wouldn’t....” Silence.

  “So, you’re a friend of Bryant’s?” There was no love of Chris implicit in the question.

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded lethargically. He watched me. Big Ben chimed half past.

  “A partner of Bryant’s?”

  “Since he practises medicine that’s hardly likely is it?”

  “I wasn’t referring to his medical practice....”

  “What then?”

  “His sideline.”

  “What’s that then?” We spoke with long pauses between. I reached over and tapped his time clock, it was a game of chess.

  “Blackmail.” Suddenly we were into the middle game, and me with my pawns not properly developed. I said nothing but turned round to look at the bodyguard.

  “He’s surprised, Adrian,” said Forsythe.... I hadn’t figured him for an Adrian.

  “Of course he is...” said Adrian. “... They always are.”

  It was evident from his demeanour that Adrian considered himself one of those chosen few never taken off guard by the vicissitudes of fate.

  “Who does he blackmail?.... You?” I said.

  “How could I possibly be blackmailed?” said Forsythe.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” I said. I could go on like this forever.

  “I can do this quicker,” said Adrian and Forsythe smiled.

  “Stop wasting my time Mr Marshall. I know your game - Adrian.”

  I stood up as he came towards me but I was ill prepared. He belted me in the stomach and then the face, cutting me with a heavy ring he was wearing. Then he put a hand on my shoulder and forced me back into the chair. He remained standing behind me. I wanted to vomit from the blow in the guts and my face seemed to be inflating like a balloon. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. I sensed I hadn’t really done myself justice. Beyond Forsythe I saw the top of a red bus going past in the street outside, peoples’ faces looking out. I had somehow got the impression that we had progressed to the inner depths of the building, I hadn’t previously taken in the window. Now I could see that we were in a room fronting on to Great Smith Street. It seemed strange that a cabinet minister could supervise a beating up in a backbencher’s office within sight of the public should they choose to look in. I suppose it’s one of the great strengths of living in a democracy - accountability.

  I took out a handkerchief and pressed it to my cheek.

  He said “I’m sorry, that was clumsy. But talking would have taken so long... Can we just take it as read that I can get this sort of thing organised very easily, and far more comprehensively....” My silence testified to my comprehension.

  “... Anything you could get th
rough Bryant’s squalid little activities would be peanuts.... and you take a big risk. You annoy people who generally don’t appreciate being leaned on, however gently..... People like me who can arrange five witnesses to say you assaulted a policeman... What will that get you? Five years? It’s not worth it... There’s dozens of bent Old Etonians in the woodwork. Burgess and Maclean weren’t the only ones. Rentokill will get them in the end... I can assure you it’s far more rewarding to be working for the good guys.”

  I had my doubts about the efficacy of Rentokill but I kept them to myself. I looked cautiously round at Adrian.

  “It’s alright Adrian, you can leave us now.”

  “See you Adrian,” I said ambiguously, but I don’t think he lost any sleep.

  Once in a pub in Cambridge, in a part of the town as far removed from dreaming spires as is the underground city of proles in Metropolis from the fresh air, some mates and I jokingly engaged an old working class communist in argument. He was a Stalinist; we had taken the obvious ‘What about the purges? What about Hungary? Whatever happened to Baby Marx?’ line - The Humanists - We cared. He had seen through us. Halfway through our talk after I had made, what I thought, a particularly telling point he rounded on me. “You can be bought, you can be bought.” He’d said it intensely, his face pressed close to mine, but with a twinkle in the eye as he reached to get us all another round. But he’d meant it. And inside me I’d known he was right.

  Forsythe sat opposite. We were alone now. He was looking, he thought searchingly, into my face. Of course I knew I could be bought. It wasn’t even a question of how much. Just how many times.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” I said.

  *****

  It hadn’t been a good day for me. Things had started to go wrong with my arrival at the Labour Exchange in Battersea Park Road. I’d registered there on the first day I’d moved into the flat at the tail end of August. That had been the good old days- the worst unemployment figures since the war. Four hundred and thirty thousand. It had been easy to register yourself as something slightly awkward and turn up every week for your dole money.

  Now a letter dropped through my door summoning me to report to Battersea Labour Exchange; a virulent flu epidemic had completely changed the situation. When I arrived I had been offered a form of employment which I, alone, considered beneath my station. I had been forced to go to Balham to interview for a job. I had succeeded in failing the interview but had jeopardised my chances of receiving further benefit. I walked back dispirited through the side streets between Balham and Battersea.

  As I passed the Duke of Cambridge, a Young’s pub just off Battersea Park, they were unbolting the doors for opening time. I went inside. It was pleasant sitting there drinking alone after the rigours of the day, looking at the head of a pint of Special, watching a regular come in with his dog and strike up a boring conversation with the landlord. Such is the stuff of the English pub. But it was soon spoiled for me by a bunch of young layabouts - office workers. They sat nearby and soon smashed my mellow mood with their jarring shouts and laughter as they selected their World eleven to play Mars at football. They had pencilled in either Pele or “Tosh” Chamberlain of Fulham to play at number eleven. I couldn’t take any more I drank up and left.

  It was only just gone six o’clock but already it was dark and the chill in the air no longer had the charm of a long lost friend. I walked up towards Albert Bridge at a brisk pace, I just wanted to get back to the flat. I had settled for writing the day off. A bath, some grub, perhaps the television, and then to bed - The Modern Monk. As I drew close I looked up and got a shock, the light was on in the living room overlooking the park. I quickly crossed the road and leaned against the park fence to get a better look, but I could see no one, just a light glowing away. Then I realized it must be the owner, Nigel, back from Hong Kong for some reason. Either him or one of his family, or someone like me whom he’d given the key. What a bore. Tonight of all nights. I was even less inclined than usual to be sociable. I rang the bell to give fair warning, I didn’t want to catch some guy jerking himself off over the kitchen sink. But no one answered. I rang again then let myself in. I was gripped by a moment’s fear as I imagined someone standing behind the door about to jump out on me. Then I saw Pascale. She was sitting in the only really comfortable chair in the flat - a capacious, floral-print covered armchair. She was wearing a dress that looked like it could be high fashion, if I only knew what that was. It showed up her figure well. She looked classy, as if she might be going out for a smart informal evening. I noticed her coat, slung over the back of a chair in the corner.

  “Good evening Alex, so this is where you live.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Toby gave me the key a month ago. This is the first time I’ve had to use it.”

  I stood there for a second really pissed off by her arrogance. So, she was a good looker, but she didn’t like me and she thought I didn’t like her. So who was she to walk into my flat as if she owned it? She caught my mood.

  “Have I put you out?” she asked, but not in a troubled, soul-searching kind of way.

  “Not really, I always prepare an extra portion for dinner in case someone unexpected drops in. It’s an old Polish custom.”

  “Oh don’t worry, I’m not hungry.”

  “Good.” We looked at each other for a while then we both did the time-honoured looking out of the window into the middle distance bit.

  “That’s Battersea Park,” I said. “... Why did you come here then?”

  “There was a man getting on my nerves.”

  “Toby?”

  “Whfffuff,” she made a Gallic gesture of ridicule. “... No, another man. He kept bothering me, coming round my flat.”

  “Wouldn’t leave you alone you mean?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You poor bitch.”

  “You don’t like me do you Alex?”

  “Ah... Like? ... No, I don’t like you. But I don’t think I dislike you. It’s more a vague feeling of antipathy. To me you’re antipatica, as they say in Italy.”

  “Yes. Antipathique, as we say in France... That’s a shame. Still, nevertheless, if you don’t mind I would like to use the flat tonight.”

  I shrugged my shoulders in resignation.

  “This guy, he gets violent does he? Loses control?”

  “It must be nice to live in a dream world Alex.... No, he doesn’t get violent. But he’s giving me a hard time just at the present, so if you don’t mind...” She lit up a cigarette and proffered me a packet of ten Olivier.

  “Want one.” I took one and sat down facing her.

  “Cheers..... I’ve had a hard time today myself.”

  True to character she had no interest in the events of my day and so we sat there in silence. “.... Yes, really hard.” I continued, supplying for my imagination the required interrogative response. “....There’s a flu epidemic in Balham. Did you know that?..... It’s pretty tough down there.... They’re dropping like flies.... Open graves on Tooting Bec Common, shovelling them in with bulldozers.... The area’s cordoned off by the military... They’re shooting anyone who tries to break out... They’re going to let the plague burn itself out, then go in and raze everything to the ground - Start again.... People can be replaced, that’s what they were saying.... I think they’re being too harsh.... You’d think they’d let the kids out....” Clouds of cigarette smoke rose slowly to the ceiling. We watched them in silence.

  “Tell me about your day Alex..” she said.

  “Let’s watch television,” I said and turned on the snowstorm. A guy called Barry Bucknell was busy turning a well proportioned unspoiled end of terrace Victorian family house in Ealing into two flats. He was explaining how to conceal the panelling on the pine doors by sticking slabs of hardboard over them. After that he demonstrated how to rip out carved ornamental banisters and replace them with ranch style railings, again hardboard figured prominently. It was called progress an
d he was getting paid for it. I turned the set off.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” I said. “Hitler could have used men like him but I can’t.”

  “I never asked you to turn it on,” she said.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. She didn’t answer, but as I was very hungry I got up and went into the kitchen. I hadn’t been taking a lot of trouble to keep my larder well stocked. I looked through the torn, broken bit of the perforated zinc front to the meat safe:

  Six medium eggs, about five slices of streaky bacon beginning to harden and curl, an open tin of baked beans and a packet of eight pork chipolatas.

  “Did you ever read ‘Wind in the Willows’ when you were a kid?” I shouted to her.

  “That’s an English story isn’t it?” she replied. It was her way of saying no.

  “Yeah. It’s about a group of animals. A rat, a mole, a toad, a badger, an otter.... their adventures. But my favourite bit in the book is the part where the rat and the mole get lost and find the house where the mole used to live. And they go inside - It hasn’t been lived in for ages - and they improvise a meal out of all the things he’s got stored away. Can you imagine it - this little home, underground, all womb like, and these two little animals making themselves a feast on Christmas Eve?”

  “Why do the English always have animals in their childrens’ stories? Either that or objects like railway engines. Are they that scared of reality?” She had got up and was leaning on the kitchen door.

  “Shit scared,” I said. “Reality’s horrible, hadn’t you noticed? Why bring on the pains earlier than necessary. Reality’s a terminal cancer.”

  “These two animals, were they both men?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. No wonder so many English are bent. It’s not just the public school system.”