“Lover,” said Shamus.
“Yes?”
“Fuck off.”
“Please go on about Dale,” said Cassidy to Helen, trying not to laugh. “When’s he actually publishing? That’s the point. When do we start looking in the best-seller lists?”
Helen was prevented from replying by a sudden unearthly shriek which filled the cab and caused both herself and Cassidy to start violently. Shamus was working a laugh machine. It was a small cylinder made of Japanese paper, with steel ribs inside. Every time he turned it over it gave a dry cackle which, carefully controlled, slowed to a choking, tubercular cough.
“He calls it Keats,” said Helen, in a tone which suggested to Cassidy that even maternal angels do not have unlimited patience.
“It’s fantastic,” said Cassidy, recovering from his alarm. “Mirthless and right. Carry on,” he called to the driver. “It’s okay, we were just laughing.” He closed the partition window. “We’ll be there soon,” he said, with a reassuring smile at Helen.
She’s tired from the journey, he thought. Shamus has probably been playing her up.
No one mentioned Paris.
It was a place on its own over a warehouse, with an outside steel staircase to the red front door. A nautical place, right on the river, with a view of two power stations and a playground to one side. Cassidy had taken it furnished for a great deal of money, and changed the furniture because it was too ordinary. There were flowers in the kitchen and more beside the bed, and there was a crate of Scotch in the broom cupboard. Talisker ’54 from Berry Brothers and Rudd. There was a ship’s wheel on the wall and rope for a bannister, but mainly it was the light you noticed, the upside-down light, that came off the river and lit the ceiling not the floor.
Demonstrating each tasteful feature—the new Colston washing-up machine, the coyly stowed deep-freeze in its random Iroko boarding, the draft extractors, the warm-air heating system, the Scandinavian stainless steel cutlery, not to mention the all-brass window fastenings of his own design—Cassidy felt the pride of a father who is giving the young couple a fair start in life. This is what Old Hugo would have done for me and Sandra, he thought, if he’d not been Tied Up With a Deal. Well, let’s hope they show themselves worthy of it.
“Cassidy, look, there’s even brown sugar for coffee. And serviettes, Shamus. Look, Irish linen. Oh my God, oh no, oh no . . .”
“Something wrong?” Cassidy asked.
“He’s had our initials put on them,” said Helen, almost crying for the sheer joy of her discovery.
He left the bedroom till last. The bedroom was his very particular pride. Green, he had wanted. Blue, Angie Mawdray had urged. Wasn’t blue rather cold? Cassidy countered, quoting Sandra. In Harrods they found the answer: floppy blue flowers on the palest green background, the very same print which for years had given him such pleasure in Hugo’s nursery at Abalone Crescent.
“Let’s put it on the ceiling as well,” Angie urged, with a woman’s sympathy for Helen. “So they’ve got something to look at when they’re lying on their backs.”
To match, they had selected a Casa Pupo coverlet, the biggest available size to cover the biggest available bed. And sheets with a fabulous blue print, and fabulous pillowcases in the same way-out pattern. And white curtains bordered with a greenblue braid. And a fabulous white drugget to set it all off.
“Cassidy,” Helen breathed, “it’s the biggest bed we’ve ever had.” And blushed, as became her modesty.
“Bathroom through there,” said Cassidy, more to Shamus this time, in a very practical voice, as if bathrooms were men’s work.
“Big enough for three,” said Shamus, still looking at the bed.
They stood at the long window, watching the barges, Helen one side of him, Shamus the other.
“It’s the loveliest place I’ve ever seen,” said Helen. “It’s the loveliest place we’ve ever had, or ever will have.”
“I rather like views,” said Cassidy, playing it right down to make it easy for them. “That’s what first drew me to it actually.”
“And the water,” said Helen, understanding.
A long string of barges slid by, slow and out of step, overtaking one another as they passed the window, falling back into lines as they disappeared.
“Anyway,” said Cassidy, “should be all right for a while.”
“We don’t want all right, do we, lover,” Shamus quietly reminded him. It was some time since he had spoken. “Never did, never will. We want the sun, not the fucking twilight.”
“Well there’s plenty of sun here,” said Helen brightly, with another confiding glance at Cassidy. “I adore picture windows. They’re so modern.”
“And free,” said Cassidy.
“Exactly,” said Helen.
“It needs movement,” said Shamus.
Thinking he meant the river still, that he had entered their conversation with an aesthetic objection, Cassidy put his head on one side and said:
“Oh . . . Do you . . . ?”
“The three of us,” said Shamus. “Or we’ll just go into the mud.”
Turning to Cassidy, he embraced him.
“Dear lover,” he said softly, “that’s a lovely, innocent thing you did. Bless you. Love you. Forgive.”
Over Shamus’ shoulder, he saw Helen shrug. One of his moods, her smile said. It’ll blow over. Drawing close, she kissed him too, where he stood, held in her husband’s arms.
After shampoo, which Cassidy had put ready in the High Speed Gas refrigerator, he tactfully made his excuses and left them to unpack. With the same nice tact, Helen left the two lovers to say goodbye. Shamus came down the steps with him.
“You don’t know where I can buy a football, do you?” he asked, looking at the playground.
It was a dark, sullen kind of day, the grass very green and a lot of pink behind the power station as if the brickwork had stained the sky. A group of black children was playing hopscotch.
“You could try the Army and Navy,” said Cassidy, a little disappointed to think he had forgotten something. “Shamus, there’s nothing wrong is there? Nothing bad . . .”
“Moral judgment?”
“Good Lord no—” said Cassidy hastily, knowing the rules.
Again Shamus was silent.
“God took six days, lover,” he said, smiling at last. “Not even Butch can do it in a morning.”
“And you really got stuck into those centre pages?” Cassidy asked, wishing to end it on an upward note.
“All for you. I’m a very obedient lover these days. No booze, no whores. Enoughs all the way. Ask Helen.”
“She told me,” said Cassidy, injudiciously.
“Bye, lover. Great pad. Bless you. Hey, how’s the bosscow? I thought I’d ring her up some time.”
Cassidy barely flinched:
“Away I’m afraid. Gone to shack up with Mum for a while.”
Helen from the balcony watched them hug, a princess in her new tower, the broad moat of the river at her back. His last sight of Shamus was of him standing with the children in the queue for hopscotch, waiting to take his turn.
At home meanwhile, contrary to Cassidy’s little piece of artistic licence, all was happiness and activity. Cassidy’s stock was much improved; his illness had done him good, they said; John Elderman was a genius. Aldo eats well, Aldo’s eye is brighter, he has a sense of purpose: the word was passed from one female mouth to another, with allowances for domestic status. The cleaning women clubbed together and bought him a backrest for the Bentley; the dogs recognised him, Hugo drew him hooray cards and illuminated them with soluble crayon. Heather Ast came almost daily, witnessing Aldo’s recovery while discussing with Sandra the resuscitation of human wrecks.
“We should open a place in the country,” they said, loving the summer weather. “A place where they can all dry out.”
This brightening of Cassidy’s domestic sky was not without its cause; for Cassidy had finally recognised his true vocation, and S
andra in particular was delighted with it. Playing fields were a dead loss, she said; one could waste whole years and get nowhere; local Councils were corrupt beyond belief.
“It’s just what you need,” she said. “To give you an interest.”
The ideal solution, she said; the natural compromise between Church and Trade:
“I can’t think why you didn’t hit on it earlier, but still.”
“It came to me while I was ill,” Cassidy confessed. “I had that awful feeling I’d wasted so much of my life. I lay there, I thought who are you?—why are you?—what will they say of you when you’re dead? I just didn’t want to worry you until I was sure,” he added.
“Darling,” said Sandra, a little ashamed all the same, as she later admitted to Heather, that she had not been more alive to her husband’s inner turmoil.
For Cassidy had decided to enter politics.
As a precaution, however, she consulted John Elderman. They went together as if their problem were bridal. Would it be too much of a strain for him? Would it get him down the way Paris had? Much travel was involved, lonely nights in dismal northern hostelries. Was John absolutely sure that Cassidy’s physique could take it? After some demur, John Elderman gave the green light.
“But watch that old ticker,” he warned. “The smallest tweak and you call me in. No hiding it away, right?”
“He’ll hide it if he gets a chance,” said Sandra, knowing her Aldo.
“Then you watch him,” said John Elderman.
Hallowed now by a profound sense of sacrifice, they set to work in earnest. The first thing was to settle on a Party. Though Sandra’s mind was absolutely made up, Cassidy, with his harsher experience of the world, his fabled understanding of the fleshly weaknesses of men in trade, had yet to reach a firm decision. Sandra thought it vital she should not influence him in any way, therefore (as she later told him) she witnessed in silence the dialogue between his conscience and his purse.
“I just can’t get over being Socialist and rich,” he said. “It doesn’t seem to add up.”
“You’re not that rich,” Sandra consoled him.
“Well I am really. If the market keeps up.”
“Then give it away,” she snapped, “if that’s your problem.”
But Cassidy felt that giving it away was too easy.
“I’m sorry, Sandra, it’s just not the answer. I can’t run away like that. I’ve got to stand for what I am,” he told her over dinner, on the eve of Helen and Shamus’ arrival. “Not for what I ought to be. Politics reflect reality.”
“You used to say we were judged by what we looked for.”
“Not in politics,” said Cassidy.
“Then why not the Liberals? There are masses of rich Liberals, look at the Niesthals.”
“But the Liberals never get in,” Cassidy objected.
Better to be a free Independent than a tied Liberal, he said.
“You mean you’ll only back winners?” Sandra demanded, as ever the custodian of her husband’s probity.
“It’s not that. It’s just . . . well the Liberals speak with too many voices. I want a Party that knows its mind.”
“Well as far as I’m concerned,” said Sandra, “the Conservatives are absolutely out.”
Conservatives hated the poor, she said, they had absolutely no sympathy for the underdog, Conservatives were stupid, her father had been one, and if Cassidy went anywhere near the Conservatives she would leave him at once.
“I’m absolutely damned if I’ll be a Tory M.P.’s wife,” she said. “Except in a country area. It’s different in the country, more traditional.”
Soothing her, Cassidy explained his plan of campaign. He did this very judiciously, admitting her bit by bit to a complex and delicate secret. Did she promise not to tell anyone?
She did.
Was she sure?
She was.
He didn’t mind her telling Heather and the Eldermans and the cleaning women because they would all find out anyway; yes, and the Niesthals if they asked but not unless.
She understood.
Well, he had cleared the decks entirely at the office. It was the silly season, the Trade had pretty well packed up after the Paris Fair, a lot of the staff were on holiday. So anyway, Cassidy had been in touch with the Unions—
“The Unions,” Sandra echoed, much excited. “You mean you’re going to join the—”
“The Unions,” Cassidy repeated patiently, brushing aside his virtue. “Now will you let me finish?”
Sandra would; she had not meant to interrupt.
Very well, there had been discussions. Did she remember that Wednesday he had to go to Middlesbrough and Beth Elderman said she had seen him in Harrods?
Sandra remembered it clearly.
Well, that was one of the discussions.
Sandra was contrite.
As a result of these discussions, which had ranged over several weeks, the Unions had now invited him to make a thorough examination of the whole organisation of the Labour Movement from the businessman’s angle.
“Oh my God,” Sandra breathed. “But that’s dynamite!”
In effect (though this was highly confidential) a Business Efficiency Analysis. At the end of his researches he would put in a Paper, and if he still liked them and they still liked him, well, maybe a safe Union seat could be found . . .
“They might even publish it,” Sandra said, still very excited as they undressed for bed. “Then you’d be a writer too. The Cassidy Report.... When do you start?”
“The first leg’s tomorrow,” said Cassidy, showing his full hand at last.
“And you’re not to compromise,” Sandra warned him. “Don’t go saying things just to please them. Those Unions are an absolute pest.”
“I’ll try,” said Cassidy.
“Good luck, Dad,” said Hugo.
“I mean it,” said Sandra.
“Politics my arse,” said Old Hugo at the penthouse, receiving his secret fortnightly visit and his fortnightly cheque. “Politics my Aunt Fanny Adam. You haven’t got the guts for it, take my word. You need the guts of a lion to be in politics today, a lion, Blue!”
A Mrs. Bluebridge was in residence, Old Hugo’s female advisor and a longstanding mother from Cassidy’s childhood. She had put a typewriter on the drawing room table—her own way of establishing respectability—and her sponge-bag in a separate bathroom, Cassidy had seen it when he went in to brush his hair. “Who’s Bluebridge?” he used to ask. “Is she your wife? Your sister? Your secretary?” Once, to set a trap, he had spoken French to her, but though surprised she had not responded guiltily.
“Well I do think, Aldo . . .” Bluebridge began, and drifted away into the problem of understanding the needs of young people in the world today.
A faint Scottish accent distinguished her from other members of her team. Her mouth was at the very centre of her painted lips, a frayed black line that parted and joined like a poor seam under pressure. He owes her money, Cassidy thought; he’s giving her love instead. Soon she would come to him, they always did. Call at South Audley Street on a Monday morning having mulled it over all weekend, sit in the deep leather chair beside Angie Mawdray’s coffee cup, twisting her fingers round old envelopes full of broken promises. Now I don’t want to say anything against your father, Aldo. Your father’s a lovely man in very many ways . . .
The young were still her concern. Having shown him her reasoning, she proceeded to announce her conclusion:
“It’s sex, sex, sex, all the way, that’s all they think of, truly Aldo. Politics or young girls, it’s the same thing. I’ve seen it all my life, I have too.”
“It’s a carve-up,” Old Hugo cried, in very high spirits, pointing to the distant outlines of Westminster. “It’s a carve-up of vice, greed, and influence, that’s all politics is, mark my words. You listen to Blue, Aldo; that woman has seen the world.”
“Now Aldo’s seen the world too, Hugo, he’s not a babe any more. Well don’t
you agree now, Aldo, deep down?” the seam enquired.
Letting him out, she squeezed his hand and wished him luck.
“I’m so glad you’re going Conservative,” she whispered. “But don’t do it on your dad’s back, will you dear, it never lasts.”
“Was he Conservative then?” Cassidy asked, meaning Old Hugo, and still smiling to have pleased them so exceptionally.
“Ssh,” said Blue, smelling of oatcake.
At the office in South Audley Street, too, all was sunny, all was content. Meale, taking three weeks’ holiday at once, had withdrawn to a monastery in Leeds; Lemming was on the Scilly Isles; Faulk had rented a cottage in Selsey and was living in much-publicised happiness with a Metropolitan policeman. Of his cercle, only Miss Mawdray had nobly stayed behind to attend the Chairman’s needs. Most of her time was spent on shopping. If she was not ordering bound works on revolution, sanitation, and the Common Market (either for despatch to Abalone Crescent or to adorn the gateleg table in the waiting room) she was engaged in the many small tasks which went towards the welfare of her master’s protégés. She arranged for library facilities at Harrods and daily newspapers from a local newsagent; for credit at a theatre ticket agency, charges to be remitted to the Company. All this on Cassidy’s instruction, all with great aplomb. She sent round stationery from Henningham and Hollis, and arranged for typists to be on call at an agency in Pimlico.
Having persuaded Helen (outside Shamus’ hearing) to accept a small allowance to tide them over till the new book, Cassidy also decided she should have a credit card, and after some difficulty and much animal persistence Angie Mawdray succeeded in sponsoring her enrolment with one of the major companies.