Implosion, p.14
Implosion, page 14
The map looked very different now. There was an irregular patch over the best part of Belgium.
“We think that the Flemings and the Walloons are having a go at each other.” His thick finger moved across to Berlin. The city was ringed. “Now I wonder who did that?”
Bart looked sharply at his boss, but Farmer’s face was devoid of expression. He returned to the map. There was a roughly elliptical area across northern France and western Germany, and nearly half, the southern half, of Italy was red. Farther east, parts of Poland were affected, and to the south, the largest part of the Middle East was colored.
Bart stared at that area for some time. “I cannot understand why war has not broken out,” he said at last.
“Yes,” admitted Farmer, lighting his pipe. The faint smell of floor polish was blotted out. “But remember the evidence of attack grows so slowly. It is one thing to say ‘those wicked bastards across the border are going to seize—or have seized—our beloved Ruritania.’ There you’ve got something concrete to stir the masses with, but to tell the average man that his wife is not going to produce any more babies—” He tapped the map with his pipe, “In primitive farming communities, agreed, it would be regarded as disaster, but they are getting less, and who ever heard of politicians taking much notice of poor damned farmers? Then again, I think people realized that no one can afford war now, it is simply too expensive in terms of manpower, never mind cost. There was a time when I was worried about the chances of preemptive nuclear strikes to stop the use of PROLIX, but once we had the formula spread worldwide, that risk disappeared.”
Bart stared at the Middle East patch again. “I don’t know who struck first, but it is evident the Israelis have taken good care of their neighbors.”
“They’d be in a damned poor position if they didn’t,” said Farmer. He added speculatively, “They’ll want watching too. Supposing they appeal to international Jewry—`Send us your fertile women’ approach. Yes,” he said slowly, “that would be a damned good idea.” He shrugged, “But I can’t see anyone letting the women go.”
But Bart was concentrating on the map again. Kashmir, West Pakistan and part of southern India were red. Farther south, Java and southern Malaya. Bart’s eye swept upward. Cambodia, Vietnam …
Bart spoke at last. “When you see it presented like this, it is like the spread of a disease—”
“Wait till you’ve seen this one.” The Premier pulled down a second overlay, clipping it carefully in position. “These are the possibles—Class Three.”
All France and Germany were red. Patches blotched North and South America like livid fungus.
“Japan!” Bart turned, “I didn’t know—”
“No. That really is a new one. Only came in, in the last forty-eight hours.” Farmer’s short laugh was devoid of humor. “We suspect the Japs don’t even know it yet—correct, Manningham?”
“Correct, sir,” said Manningham expressionlessly, and without looking up.
Bart shook his head. “I’ve seen enough.”
Farmer sniffed noisily, but did not comment. He waved a hand at the other green curtains. “These are more detailed maps of the more interesting areas. Right. Come on.” Abruptly Farmer left for his office. Behind them, Bart heard Manningham carefully drawing the curtains.
“Now you’ve seen what I mean by the big picture,” said Farmer, slumping carelessly down into his chair.
Free from the inhibiting presence of Manningham, Bart spoke out. “I can’t understand how you can be so damned pleased, yes, pleased by all that. It’s horrible—mass genocide!”
“Absolute tripe!” barked Farmer. “I’ll not deny there are going to be millions of frustrated women. Hard bloody luck! But we’re fighting for survival; don’t expect me to burst into tears. All right, we put the weapon in the world’s hands, but it was just the dark side of human nature that used it—and will go on using it. Yes, you’re right; I’m glad.” There was no defiance in the Premier’s attitude, just plain, uncompromising certitude. “We’re over the hump. PROLIX has gone too far to be contained. World population is imploding. And don’t forget this,” Farmer wagged a finger at the silent Bart. “World famine before PROLIX was practically a dead cert. By 2000 it would have been here, and that wouldn’t be just a matter of frustrated women. When the dust has settled, a lot of the pressure will have gone out of international politics. Lebensraum wasn’t invented by Hitler, and even if we think it an excuse, others have believed it—and still do. Another twenty years and China would have been busting at the seams. And that’s another thing. People have been so bloody mesmerized by China, they’ve overlooked the Indian subcontinent, Japan, Indonesia. No, we were all set for a vast bloodletting, plus the unknown effect of the inevitable nuclear long-term hazard. Right. This is grim—but it’s a hell of a lot better than what might have been.”
Bart sighed. “Well, certainly it’s spreading fast. D’you think it may be contained?”
“Really, John, I wonder whose side you’re on. Be your age! Take the Israel/Egypt exchange. I don’t know who struck first, and I don’t damn well care, but can you imagine that not happening? There’s not much on the USSR or China, but this is only because their security is too damn’ good. We have the smell of it, and I’ll lay a small bet with you that they are sorting each other out. No one has friends or allies now. Cast your mind back to our early days; who did we fear? Not Russia, but our NATO allies, neighbors.” The Premier flourished a dismissive hand at Bart. “Anyway, you’ll have worked out a lot of this for yourself.”
“No. No, I have not, and it frightens me. I have been so wrapped up in my own work—the Homes, the Schools, tests, so much—yet I should have seen more of this coming. I’ve been too single-minded—”
“It’s been your great strength, John.”
“Yes, that may be, but after all, I did hold down your job temporarily. Even then I concentrated solely on my own affairs—”
“Your own parish,” commented Farmer. “You had no time to think of other things.”
“I should have done more, though. It is true that this does not come as a blinding revelation, but so much is obvious.” He looked steadily at Farmer. “Do you still think I am the man to understudy you?”
“Yes!” Farmer was decisive. “You’re less than fair to yourself. True, you’re a bit naive—you wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the old days in politics, the sharks would have had you,” he snapped his fingers, “like that. But you’re right for this time. I know.” He banged his pipe on the ashtray. “Remember this; try not to be so bloody fair to everyone else. The rarest thing in this world is altruism, and you’ve more than your fair share of it. Think of you a bit more, accept that you have to do the dirty on someone sometime. This is not medicine in an ivory tower; this is a hard, dirty world, and by God, you have a job to do in it! Think on that.”
As Bart got up to go, Farmer went on in a more even tone, “By the way, John, what particular problem is worrying you?”
Bart hesitated, the thoughtful look on his face deepened into hardness. “Thanks for the advice, George. What you say is very true. I’ve made a few hard decisions in this job, and have paid for them in my own mind. I’ll try to be more detached in the future.”
“Don’t lose your essential humanity,” warned Farmer. “That’s another of your strong points. And your problem?”
“Is of no importance.” Bart’s face did not relax.
For several minutes after his caller had left, Farmer sat slowly filling his pipe and staring at the closed door and wondering if he had gone too far. Certainly he had made Bart’s mind up for him on one point, but Farmer was not to know that.
15
Miss Parkins had done her stuff, tracing Mary to the West London Hospital. Mrs. Flavell had a cut forehead, a dislocated shoulder and was suffering from shock. Otherwise she was unhurt. Miss Parkins added that she had already sent flowers from the Minister, and that the attending physician had Mrs. Flavell under sedation, and suggested that she should not see visitors until the next day.
Bart nodded his thanks, told his secretary to fix a time for him on the following morning. He was glad of the respite. While he had to agree with Farmer’s opinion of him, that “naive” rankled. He dictated a sharp order to Miss Parkins. A committee was to be formed to consider the enforcement of camp discipline. Each camp was to send one senior staff member. Doctor Parsons of the Clacton Home was to take the chair, and the Minister expected a report within seven days. Miss Parkins pursed her lips and looked thoughtful, but said nothing. Bart reverted to the question of Mary Flavell. He knew her parents were dead, and he had an idea that only Flavell’s mother was alive. He called Miss Parkins back.
“I’d like you to find out who Flavell’s solicitors are.”
“I have already done so. Do you want to speak to them?”
Bart nodded, Miss Parkins nodded back.
The solicitor confirmed that there was a mother, now very old and mentally feeble, living in a nursing home. He also added, at some length and with great legal finesse, that there were no other relations, that Bart was the nearest, if not the only one who might see that the last—ah—rites were, should he say, nondenominational. If, in view of Doctor Bart’s position, he did not consider he was able to undertake these sad duties, the solicitor would venture to offer his own services, etc., etc.
Bart said shortly that he knew Flavell was not a Christian and that he was quite capable of arranging the funeral. He replaced the phone while the legal man was still replying—and told Miss Parkins to get on with the funeral arrangements.
Twenty-four hours later he found his sister-in-law over the worst of the shock. The cut was nothing, the shoulder had been dealt with and her doctor was prepared to release her the next day.
She talked quite calmly about Roger’s death and insisted that she would attend his funeral. Bart said it was not really necessary, and that he would go anyway, but Mary was adamant.
“No, John.” She spoke with finality. “It is the least I can do.”
That remark struck Bart as odd, but he let it pass. “Well, my dear, if you insist—”
“John, are you making the arrangements?” He watched a pale hand, the skin smooth and with the faint yellow tinge of ivory, move restlessly on the white sheet. So like Julia.
“Yes. Mrs. Flavell is senile, you know.”
She nodded. “Poor old soul! Fortunately, I think she is beyond grasping anything. I will see her, later.” She looked at Bart, almost as if she was seeing him for the first time. “Poor old John too! As if you didn’t have enough to cope with!” The hand slid across and grasped his. “I may well forget to say so later, so—thank you.” She withdrew her hand quickly, and went on briskly. “Now; tell me the details—when—where?”
Bart played up. “Golders Green, two thirty, Thursday. I’ll pick you up—here, or wherever you like.” He added as an afterthought, “Of course, I can take you from the hospital tomorrow.”
She shook her head. “No. I do not want to be a complete burden—and in any case, I’d rather go alone—please.” She picked at the sheet. “I’ll go home Thursday morning, you can call for me at two o’clock.”
Golders Green Crematorium is not, reasonably enough, a particularly exciting edifice, and covered by lowering cloud and a fine penetrating rain, did nothing to elevate Bart’s spirits. January is a busy month for undertakers, and the priest, who had already conducted the same service eight times that day and would be well into double figures before he went home, was understandably impersonal and dispassionate. He proceeded at a smart pace through the magnificent words of the Order for the Burial of the Dead. Bart, who had an ear for words, winced mentally at the treatment of “Man that is born of woman …” The tone was flat, beaten flat by repetition.
He held Mary’s arm at the high point, the almost theatrical moment when, to a faint rumble of rollers, the remains of Roger Flavell, M.D., B.CH., glided slowly through the green curtains.
Outside, they were invited to inspect the wreaths laid out on the sodden grass, but Bart took charge.
“No. Come on, Mary, there is nothing for you here.”
Quiet, controlled, Mary looked gravely at him, then got into his car. For five minutes or so there was silence. They sat like strangers, each gazing out on to the gray faces and streets. Mary spoke first.
“John.” For all her calmness, there was timidity in her voice. “What are you going to do with me now?”
This was a point that had exercised John ever since the car started. “I thought you might care to go back to your place. Perhaps we could have a cup of tea …” His voice trailed off. It was vastly inadequate. If only there was another woman there—Julia. Julia. In her present frame of mind, thought Bart, she would be small help.
Mary did not answer. She opened her bag, looked inside for no discernible reason, and shut it again with a snap. Bart took her silence as consent, and instructed the driver.
The house was empty when they arrived. Flavell’s small staff were all at the funeral, would have left after Bart and Mary—and, not being Senior Ministers of the Crown, did not have the discreet assistance of the Metropolitan Police with their cars.
Mary led the way straight up to the sitting room. She drew the long curtains, anxious to shut out the gray day. Then she moved to a decanter on the table.
“I don’t feel awfully like making tea, John. Personally, I need a drink.” She looked inquiringly at Bart.
Bart, uneasy and unsure what to say, said with unnecessary brightness that he would love one. Mary slipped her fur coat off her shoulders, wincing slightly as she did so. Because of her shoulder she had worn it, slung casually round her throughout the service. Now it slipped unheeded onto the floor.
“No, leave it—and do sit down. There are one or two things I must say.” She handed him a drink, and he did as he was told. For a moment or two she walked slowly round the room, took a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece. John looked elsewhere, his gaze fell on the Tanagra figurine in its alcove. When he looked again at Mary, she was removing her hat, giving that same slight shake of the head to free her hair which he had seen Julia do so often. That also seemed long ago …
Mary sat down opposite him. Her face looked brown in contrast to the white strip of sticking plaster on her forehead.
She returned his gaze, smiling faintly at his barely concealed anxiety. “Poor John! All the cares of state, and now—” She shrugged and winced. “No, I’m all right.” Again she paused, and looked reflectively in her glass, swirling the drink gently. “It’s difficult to know how to put this, so that you will not misunderstand. On the other hand, it is only fair to tell you, so that you don’t waste your sympathy on one who really doesn’t deserve it.” She gulped at her drink and got up to refill her glass, and spoke with her back to Bart. “You see, it’s quite simple. Roger is dead, and I am terribly shocked. He was incredibly alive, vital. Death and Roger were unthinkable partners, yet he is dead. He gave me everything, spoilt me, protected me.” She turned and stared squarely at Bart. “And I did not love him. At times I felt guilty—and feel a lot worse now. He knew I did not really love him—no man who is not a fool can be deluded on that point unless he deludes himself—and Roger was not a fool, nor given to self-deception.”
“My dear,” began Bart, “you must not—”
“No, let me finish. I have to. I was a lot younger when we met—even younger emotionally. He dazzled me, but not, I think, intentionally. God! But all that is past; it does not matter any more. We were happy, contented. I was a good wife to him, perhaps a better one for the very reason—”
Bart made a halfhearted attempt to speak. She held up a hand to stop him.
“It was a bargain, although it did not set out like that. He loved me, and kept his part. I was fond of him, respected him, and I kept mine. Now he is gone. I am sad, hopelessly at sea, and missing him, but do not imagine I am distracted. God! What a heartless bitch you must think me!”
“No. I admit I am surprised—you always seemed an ideal couple.”
“Perhaps we were. Love is not everything.” She looked at him intently, “Or would you disagree?”
“I don’t know,” Bart sighed. “I really don’t know.”
Mary smiled at him. “Poor John. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I was not in extremis. You have enough without misplaced sympathy.” She stood up. “You must be dying to be off back to work. No, I know you a good deal better than you think.” She picked up his coat. “One thing I would ask. Give me a ring, will you—please?”
The National Schools were proving a much thornier problem than the Homes. Bereft parents, chiefly mothers, were hell. Many were content to write letters, pointing out that their sons—daughters got less attention—were delicate, and needed properly aired clothes. Just now, Bart was concerned with the more militant section, a small group of mothers, now sterile, who tried to break into a School in non-visiting hours. One mother was badly injured in a scuffle, and it took his personal intervention to keep that out of the press.
Miss Parkins, who in a coldly efficient way, mothered and protected him, also made sure he did not miss anything. Now she produced, with a cup of coffee, a thick report. Bart knew the; signs, and groaned.
“Oh no, don’t tell me I must read it!”
Their association varied from the stiffly formal, to a curiously intimate mother-and-son relationship. Just now it was that end of the scale. She looked sternly at him. “Yes, you must.” She marched back to her own office. “I’ll see you are not disturbed.”
Bart found she was right. It was the first report of the recently formed Ministry of Advanced Planning, a small brain-bank ordered to consider what measures would be needed to maintain a reasonable national economy under future conditions. With the world birthrate plummeting, trade would become chaotic, and the only prudent course would be to aim at self-sufficiency. This was self-evident and the report dealt with the various imports that would not be available, and how they might best be met at home. Some items needed immediate action if the country was to be ready in time. For example, even the very reduced demand expected for timber could not be met from home resources, and a big reforestation scheme was proposed. Several thousand acres should be planted yearly, starting at once … Plastics, already ousting iron and steel in many fields, must be further developed … Atomic energy would have to supply all grid power—coal was much too precious for chemicals to be used for fuel. Renewed and intensive effort was needed to perfect an electric battery-powered vehicle, since petroleum products would be scarce. Fortunately, the large natural gas finds of the sixties would ensure national domestic heating and cooking supplies. Meat would be a problem; large-scale sheep farming was envisaged … PROLIX did not have broad-band effectiveness, there were many gaps, inexplicable gaps. Mice were susceptible, rats were not. Wild-fowl, residents of so many reservoirs, had virtually disappeared. Rabbits, still thin on the ground after the ravages of myxomatosis, seemed to have been wiped out. On the credit side, the gray squirrel had been heavily hit, and the wild mink, curse of the chicken farmer, had, in areas around most reservoirs, been severely depressed.
