The Sound of Trumpets Read online

  ‘If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.’

  So Rosalind spoke her epilogue in the play, a girl no longer dressed as a boy or, in reality, Alaric Inwood, public-school drug-dealer, now dressed as a girl, and he said the words as they were written, and as he, more than any other member of the cast, had learnt them. On the stage at the end of the Y.O.I. gymnasium Duke Senior and the melancholy Jaques, Orlando and Jaques de Boys, Touchstone the clown and Charles the wrestler, William the country fellow and Audrey the country wench, Celia, Rosalind’s friend now dressed as a girl, Silvius and the vicar Sir Oliver Martext, stood on a stage decorated with branches shedding their leaves, a stag’s head on loan from the Swan’s Nest Hotel, and bowed in more or less embarrassment as Alaric performed a creditable curtsy. An unShakespearean voice in the audience called out, ‘Good on yer, poofter!’, and was seriously warned by a prison officer. The audience applauded warmly.

  The gym was packed, but a wide gap divided the inmates from the visitors, the friends of the Offenders’ Institution, who had bought raffle tickets, paid up when the boys’ artworks were auctioned, lent furniture, supplied make-up or prepared and served the vegetarian meal. They applauded as loudly as the inmates, told each other that it was really very good and indeed better than the production set on an abandoned building site at Stratford that year. They felt strangely excited at being in a prison, having been let in by men and women with jangling keys, with iron gates opening and clanging behind them. The education officers, the social workers, the instructors in pottery and transcendental meditation, being used to the prison, clapped less loudly than those in the voluntary sector and did not whisper such facts as that the melancholy Jaques had been the leader of a gang rape and that Orlando had robbed for heroin. In the front row the governor sat between Anne Hopkins the English teacher who was the play’s producer, and Agnes, who wore, unusually, a black dress, high heels and jewellery for the occasion. She held her hands high in the air and clapped, applauding not only the actors but the high achievement of her friend’s liberal and enlightened regime. Agnes and Anne went for a drink in the governor’s office. The inmates were taken back to the cells. The visitors were escorted down corridors, through doors unlocked and locked again, and down concrete paths through a prison garden rimed with frost, towards the gate.

  They were admitted, in a shivering, chattering group, into a brightly lit no man’s land, between custody and freedom. Trevor Marlowe, a prison officer with a beard, and P.O. Sheena Gamble were in charge of this final stage of the visitors’ journey. These two were tired after a long day and the overtime entailed in the production of As You Like It. They were also much in love and anxious to get back to Sheena’s Worsfield flat, into which Trevor had just moved, leaving his wife and children in Fallowfield. Sheena glanced casually at the little knot of women visitors, fur coats, anoraks and scarves over their cocktail dresses, who chattered their teeth and called out to be released to their warm cars. She locked the bars behind them and Trevor opened the small door in the main gate.

  Among the departing women was one skirted, cloaked figure, whose head and ears were protected by a tartan scarf. When she was out in the car park she approached no car but made for a dark corner of a wire fence and started to climb. The scarf slid back as Celia/Slippy wriggled over the top of the fence and slipped back into freedom at last.

  By the end of the evening Terry had made up his mind. He hadn’t come so far in the struggle for Hartscombe to throw the prize away now and, he told himself, he had to protect Agnes. Titmuss had to be told and told quickly. He phoned his Lordship and got no reply. Finally he scribbled a note – ‘I have decided to denounce P.F. I see no alternative.’ – signed it and after As You Like It drove round to the Manor. Nobody answered his ring so he put his envelope through the letter-box and went away, dreading what he had to do.

  Chapter Twenty

  Nabbs had said, ‘You’re strangely honoured. The big guns never arrived to help Des Nabbs win Fallowfield. Reckon they thought I could fight my own battles. Well, I also reckon they were right. What you’ve done to make yourself the blue-eyed boy, God knows!’

  ‘If God knows,’ Terry thought, ‘I hope he keeps it to himself.’

  So, on the morning before polling day he sat at his positively last morning press conference between the big guns Nabbs had wondered if he deserved. These heavy howitzers came in the shape of a man and a woman. The man was Eric Feldman, a short, plump, bald, bespectacled Bermondsey sparrow who had carried the nasal twang of his South London accent (he was the only child of a successful greengrocer) through London University and all the way up to the Shadow Cabinet. He was a favourite of cartoonists, who saw him as an irrepressible little bird whispering advice, usually to take devious and daring action, into his Leader’s ear.

  The other big gun was the dark-haired, pale-faced, immaculately dressed woman Terry had seen, but hadn’t spoken to, at the Barbarians’ dinner. She was wearing, that day, a large brooch in the shape of a scarlet dagger and, as she gave the candidate a firm handshake, she said, ‘Hannah Mortlock.’ Then Terry knew who she was – a Midlands M.P. and the Leader’s political adviser – and he understood why Nabbs M.P., in greeting her, had allowed himself the bow which he would never have made in the presence of Royalty.

  They sat in front of a large screen which was not red, or even pink, but a pale shade of green on which a single rose was depicted. The usual suspects, Bob from The Times, Mel from the Guardian and Cornelius from the Telegraph, sat in the front row, and the cameras flashed as Eric Feldman told them that notice would be served on the Conservatives the next day. There would be a Labour government after the general election, which had to come before the summer, and the Tories had better save up their cash for questions as retirement money. They’d be sent home, provided they could find a privatized train still running to take them. He spoke slowly, as though to explain his jokes to an audience of children whose first language was not English. Terry thought that the Shadow Home Secretary’s heavily underlined irony was disliked by Bob, Mel and Cornelius, who didn’t crack a single smile, although June Wilbraham of the Sentinel laughed politely.

  When Eric sat down Mel asked if Terry intended to live in the constituency were he to win the next day. Terry had just opened his mouth to reply when Hannah Mortlock’s husky voice of authority came out with, ‘Terry Flitton’s a local boy, as you know. His heart is in Hartscombe, and he’s absolutely committed to moving here with his wife after his victory. Terry also tells me he’ll be starting a family. If there are no more questions, I think that just about wraps it up.’

  As the hall emptied Terry said goodbye to Hannah. ‘Thanks for telling me about the family,’ he said. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘It’s what we usually say,’ she told him, ‘to make sure they don’t think you’re going in for a sex change or anything embarrassing.’

  He said, ‘I didn’t get a chance to say much.’ She was smiling at him, exposing slightly protuberant front teeth. To his surprise he felt a disturbing moment of sexual attraction.

  ‘Until the votes have been counted,’ Hannah told him severely, ‘it’s much better that you don’t say anything at all.’

  But Terry knew that he’d have to say something very soon indeed.

  It happened as soon as he got back to headquarters in Penry’s house. Nabbs had stayed to make the most of the big guns and escort Hannah Mortlock, with a quasi-royal flourish, to her car. Penry was busy organizing transport to drag potential Labour voters, kicking and screaming if necessary, to the polls. The big downstairs room looked a tip, with lists, pamphlets and paper cups covering the table-tops, but no overflowing ashtrays owing to the presence of Kate, who had answered one foolhardy male Party worker who had asked, ‘Do you m
ind if I smoke?’ with ‘Do you mind if I die?’ A question which he neither wanted nor dared to answer.

  ‘For you,’ a red-headed girl in tartan trousers handed Terry a phone.

  ‘Yes? Terry Flitton speaking.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Flitton. It’s Kenny Iremonger from Radio Worsfield. I suppose you’ve heard the news?’

  ‘No. What news?’ Terry had a moment of irrational dread, a vision of Agnes’s Volkswagen smashed and shapeless in front of a shit wagon, blood on the road and a shape covered with a blanket. It came as a relief when the voice said, ‘We’ve just got the release. There was a break-out last night at Skurfield. One of the young offenders got clean away.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Terry felt detached, uninterested, until he remembered what Titmuss had called upon him to do.

  ‘We don’t know who the particular lad is. We have heard that it might be one of the louts that mugged Lady Inwood. We just wondered if you’d care to comment?’

  The terrible moment had come. ‘Well, yes,’ Terry said. ‘Yes, I’ll give you a quote.’

  ‘We’re quite ready,’ Kenny Iremonger said over the phone. ‘Mr Flitton. What’s your comment on the Skurfield break-out?’

  ‘The present Home Secretary must accept responsibility for the slackness at Skurfield. And the inappropriate appointment of that particular governor.’

  ‘You’re saying that Paul Fogarty isn’t up to the job?’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious. Mr Fogarty may have many virtues but he’s clearly not a suitable custodian of young boys.’

  ‘Why not exactly?’

  ‘He is …’ In the seconds of a pause Terry’s mind was whirling. Couldn’t he win now without Titmuss? He could face Willock, he could swear undying loyalty to Kate. He could say no more and fight the battle to the end. But the risks seemed too great, and panic overcame him. Titmuss had got him to the point of victory and now Titmuss could destroy him for ever. He made a dash for safety, as his dark Lordship’s obedient servant. He heard his voice, as though it were the voice of a stranger. ‘He is … unmarried.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘What I have said. His sexual orientation makes him unsuitable.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Flitton. There’s nothing else you want to add to that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He put down the phone with a dry mouth and a feeling of having stepped into darkness. If he hadn’t lost the election he had certainly lost Agnes. And then he managed to persuade himself that if he could only speak to her he could find some form of words, some reasonable-sounding explanation which would surely convince her. Even though Kate was in the room he called Agnes’s number, but there was no reply; nor was he able to speak to her in the days to come.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen. On the eve of a poll which may prove to be one of the more important events in Hartscombe’s history, when this dear old town of ours decides whether to stick to a sensible, businesslike government with increasing prosperity and low inflation or take a risk on the big dipper to Socialism, let me introduce the man who has, for so long, been the heart and soul of the Conservative Party, Lord Titmuss of Skurfield, with a message which I know will hearten and inspire us all.’

  What had been planned was an outdoor rally in the early dark of a cold evening. It was to be an echo of a nobler political past, when Disraeli climbed on to the portico of a Beaconsfield hotel or when Gladstone addressed the cheering multitudes in Midlothian. By careful planning the Tory workers had produced something like a multitude, bussing in Young Conservatives from outside the constituency, rounding up Party activists from as far away as London and Birmingham, organizing a number of parties after the event and handing out hot wine to warm the crowd. So the square in front of the town hall looked packed and Sir Gregory, apparently not in the least put out by the discussion of his poolside activities, stood in his overcoat and a fur hat with ear flaps, which he had bought for a mission to Moscow, and introduced the Party’s heart and soul.

  And then, like some gaunt pontiff about to deliver a message to the faithful, Titmuss emerged from the entrance of the town hall and stood on the top step, bathed in the false sunshine of the television lights, and quoted scripture from a note he held in his hand.

  ‘ “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted … A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.” ’

  There was, at this solemn beginning, an ecclesiastical silence, broken only by a single cough from an elderly supporter who had been dragged out of bed for the occasion.

  ‘So, my friends and fellow Conservatives. What is this time for? This time, when we stand on the verge of a great decision? Is it a time to dance?’

  The loyal crowd, which hadn’t considered the possibility of dancing, didn’t answer this question.

  ‘No, my friends. This is damn well not a time to dance!’ Was this a joke? To be on the safe side the audience met it with a ripple of laughter. ‘I would suggest to you, in all humility, that we have very little to dance about. Not long ago our Party saw the assassination, the betrayal, the deposition, in a mean-minded backstairs plot meanly carried out, of the greatest Leader our Party has ever known. I needn’t repeat her name. Her name is engraved on the heart of every loyal Party supporter.’

  Here the audience clapped, leaving it unclear whether they were applauding the Great Leader or her assassination.

  ‘Among those who carried a dagger, even if only a small dagger, rather blunt, and he wasn’t much good at stabbing, was our present candidate Mr Willock. He was then the not entirely Honourable Member for Pulford. Mr Willock now claims, as his reward, your votes and the seat of Hartscombe and Worsfield South!’

  Here the crowd began to realize that this was not to be an enthusiastic endorsement of the Conservative candidate. But then Titmuss was back in Ecclesiastes.

  ‘ “A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing … A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.” My friends. Fellow Conservatives. I have kept silent. After all, I told myself, I’m a retired politician. A bloke kicked upstairs to the House of Lords. An old foot soldier in the service of our late Leader, who has fought his battles and is busy examining his scars and polishing his medals in the retirement home.’

  At this a red-faced man with a moustache called out, ‘Rubbish, Leslie! You’ll always be a fighter!’

  ‘Thank you very much. There may be some truth in that! Well, as I say, I thought it was a time for silence, but now I know it’s a time to speak. And you know me. When it’s a time to speak I speak my mind. I can’t help it!’

  Sir Gregory, who thought he knew what was coming and feared it horribly, moved back into the shadows. Whatever Leslie was going to say about the late Member’s death, he was prepared to deny. But once again the sad, sing-song voice quoted the Bible.

  ‘ “A time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together.” And which stones should we cast away? Those that pelted our Great Leader! My friends. It’s a time to speak, and a time to speak plainly, because there is a time to get and a time to lose. And, in all honesty, I suggest that this is a time to lose!’

  The crowd, after a quick intake of breath, was stunned into a profound silence. If Lord Titmuss had stripped and done a full frontal dance on the town-hall steps they would not have been so astounded or, indeed, embarrassed.

  ‘And why is this a good election to lose? So we can take stock. So we can get back to the tough old truths we stand for. So we can cast away the stones that tell us to become softer, trendier, more “compassionate”, which means trimming our sails and standing for nothing very much. I’ve been asked here to endorse a candidate. All right, I’ll endorse one. Youn
g Terence Flitton calls himself a Socialist. He’s not doing himself justice. He’s no more a Socialist than I am. Believe you me, that young lad has got his head screwed on. He’s not afraid to say what he thinks. You heard what he said about the do-gooding attitude to young thugs. Let’s give him a chance, shall we? I reckon he’ll do, just until we can pluck out the weeds in our Party and come back and fight for the real Conservatism, the tough old policies we know and love. Fight for them and win! Goodnight and God bless you all.’ At this his Lordship turned and, like some character in a melodrama leaving the stage, disappeared into the entrance of the town hall. On a distant hillside a bus hooted. The crowd remained silent.

  Standing near the steps, a dark-haired young man wearing a leather coat with a sheepskin collar shouted, ‘Good old Titmuss!’, and started to clap. Confused but obedient, and because they had always applauded him in the past, the audience gave Titmuss an ovation which was neither loud nor prolonged. He didn’t reappear to take his curtain call.

  Inside the town hall he went to the Gents, took off his overcoat and jacket and washed his face and his hands carefully. He combed what was left of his hair in a spotted mirror and dressed up warmly again. He was not surprised, when he emerged into the marble hallway, to find no sign of the candidate, the Party Chairman or any of their supporters. He heard other footsteps, however, echoing towards him and saw a young man holding out his hand.

  ‘Garth Inwood,’ he said. ‘I think you got a sighting of my delinquent young brother in the nick. I just wanted to say I thought that was a terrific speech. Agreed with every single word of it. We need a period of peace to regroup and then, wow! Won’t we show them!’

  Titmuss stood still, examining the boyishly enthusiastic young man, and then he took the proffered hand. So they stood linked together, like people who have reached an agreement.

  Chapter Twenty-One