The censor, p.11
The Censor, page 11
Sitting alone in his office, Price thought about the case. Some aspects were already obvious, but he could not rid his mind of Sir Humphrey. The central point was not so much concerned with how Dorothy had evaded her husband’s moral wrath for so long; the question was why had Sir Humphrey turned a subconscious blind eye? Dorothy’s problem was serious, but classic, Price decided; Sir Humphrey might well turn out to be the sicker of the two.
Dorothy returned to The Hall, bathed and went to bed early, half watching television on the portable Sony placed strategically on her dressing table stool by the bed.
Humphrey called at ten. It was not usual and, strangely, it pleased her. She expected him to ask how she had got on with Price, but Humphrey did not mention the psychiatrist. He merely told her to make no private plans for the coming weekend.
‘Why?’ she asked, bridling a little.
‘Charles and Joan will be down for the weekend. Charles is only staying for Saturday, but Joan won’t go back to town until Monday morning.’
‘How splendid.’ She felt genuine pleasure. It was months since the children had been in the house together.
‘Pamela won’t be coming with Charles then?’ Pamela was Charles’s wife: a tall willowy girl with long dark hair thick enough to contain a hornet’s nest. Pamela was a girl, Dorothy suspected, with problems similar to her own, if not as advanced. There had been a great deal of resistance to the marriage.
‘Pamela will not be coming. I have to talk over some business with Charles. Oh and I won’t be back until very late tonight. There’s a three line whip out and I can’t leave the House.’ He was calling from his room in the House of Commons.
‘I see.’
‘Good. Then we’ll probably meet some time tomorrow.’
‘Probably.’ She was going to add more but he hung up abruptly and Dorothy was left alone with the television pumping out its little black and white images which seemed entirely unreal compared with the pictures that Price had disturbed in the depth of her mind.
There was indeed a three line whip out, making it obligatory for all sitting members of his party to be present at the Division, but before going into the Chamber of the House, Humphrey Carmichael had other work to do. Calling Dorothy had been a spontaneous action; he did not stop to reflect why he had done it, yet somewhere within him a deviation from the norm was registered. He could have told her about Charles and Joan in the morning; or left a note. That would have been more in keeping with his behaviour pattern.
But tonight Humphrey Carmichael was not wholly himself. He was the hunter taking up the scent of a big one; the academic seeing the tiny gleams of light which he knows will lead to great discovery.
Just before speaking to Dorothy, Humphrey had received a call. Like all men who crave power, he had long since established a network of informants in key situations: men who could either manipulate certain matters or simply keep him supplied with the life blood of power: reliable information. Over the years Humphrey had worked instinctively, doing favours for others and never forgetting that the time would come when he might ask for aid in return. On this occasion his caller had brought news of importance. That afternoon there had been a conference between John Sutton the publisher; David Askelon, the author of The Golden Spin; Askelon’s British agent, Frederick Cadogan; and Sutton’s Council, D’Arcy Harrington, QC.
Sir Humphrey’s informant had been able to pass on the outcome of that meeting.
Carmichael now had to draft a letter. A private and personal appeal that would be sent to ten close friends. For him, the ball was just beginning to roll.
*
John Sutton had returned to London as usual on Monday, though the weekend would not, at first, stay where it belonged: behind him, finished and done with for another week. It had been a black, brooding two days with skirmishes and pitched battles fought between Daphne and himself in every part of the house and garden. If it was not for the children’s eager faces and endless chatter the whole matter could easily be settled. Daphne nagged: about money, the children’s clothes, the house and what needed doing to it, John and his lack of interest. When she was not nagging then she cupped his ear with a flow of assorted trivia that made his head ring with the emptiness of it all: the village politics of bored people out of touch with reality; how Mr Beamish always gave her better joints of meat than Mr Holden, the butcher; the uninformed opinions of Joyce Wagstaff, wife of small-time industrialist playing it big, Peter Wagstaff. Peter did the trick by having to be abroad for six months of the year and, unlike the Sutton’s situation, Joyce revelled in it, ritzing around in the Bentley, seeing all the shows in town, knowing all the in gossip as long as it was third hand. By the time Daphne got hold of the latest titbit, John could always nod, having had the knowledge for at least two months.
‘Why didn’t you tell me then?’ Daphne would ask, in that strange, high-pitched voice consistently tuned to a note of hurt.
‘Because,’ he replied, ‘it’s of no real interest to me, and it shouldn’t be to you. Live and let live.’
‘But it’s nice to know. I was only saying to Joyce the other day ...’ And the stream continued unabated. The trivial round and comic task.
To add to the gloom, John had dreamed on Friday night. A nightmare, vivid and frightening. He lay naked, unable to move, in some awful and open place. A great snake, which he knew instinctively was deadly, began to glide up his body: startling colours and patterns on the creature. It moved up his chest and he could feel it, the tickling of its tongue on his throat, his hands held in a paralysis of fear. The nightmare remained with him for many days, corning to mind clearly and with a disturbing emphasis.
On Monday morning his Publicity Manager, Ed Coin, and Sales Manager, Tom Parker, came to see him as a sort of deputation. If things were not set in motion now, The Golden Spin would never be ready for Autumn publication, nor would it make the impact they needed to get into profit on the deal.
Ed Coin told it to him very convincingly. ‘Askelon’s here now. You don’t know how long he’s staying or if he’ll come back for publication. I could get him on The Wilfred Brookes Show next week. But what’s the point unless we can give Wilfred a copy of the book in the version we’re going to use?’
The Brookes Show topped the TAM ratings as the most popular British TV chat show. Wilfred Brookes was a highly intelligent and lucid young man who had taken care to learn and profit from all the best chat men, from Johnny Carson to David Frost. He leaped at every opportunity, and his popularity stemmed from the fact that nobody ever knew which way his programme would go until it was on the air. In two years he had gone through eight producers and three whole teams, including floor managers had retired from the battle, refusing to work with him because of his unpredictable brilliance.
On one famous occasion he gently led a particularly unpleasant and disliked politician into revealing that, in private, he was a great lover of jazz, and no mean pianist. The programme overran, turning into an extempore and magnificent solo concert.
During another session, Brookes winkled from a young, but undoubtedly blue-stocking, journalist that she had once been part of a black magic coven. On that night his other guests had included a vehement Methodist and a rabid Welsh poet who doubled as a Baptist minister. The resultant heated argument had all but fused the cameras.
Which ever way it went, John Sutton could see the advantage of getting some early mileage out of The Wilfred Brookes Show.
By tomorrow afternoon, he told Coin and Parker, there would be a decision.
He got back to Essex Place just before six. June was in the kitchen and the stereo wafted some very soft moody music. June sang quietly to herself and when he took her in his arms she seemed to cling a shade closer and a little tighter than usual.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Tendin’ the trout for my lord.’
‘Respect is what I need.’
‘Hard day down at the plantation?’ She popped the last foil-wrapped trout onto the baking dish, placed the dish in the oven and closed the door.
‘Never harder. The peasants are on the verge of revolt.’
‘Hang the ringleaders and flog the rest. Serfs need flogging from time to time.’
He let his eyes traverse her body from feet to hair. ‘Even serfs like you?’
‘Especially serfs like me. Don’t you read all the classy magazines for men? It’s all the rage. They tell me that out in the provinces you can’t sleep for the noise of marital lashings.’
‘Well that’s where it can stay: out in the provinces.’
‘You can get it here as well. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed those little cards in newsagent’s windows — Miss Cane. Governess. Disciplinarian. They’re all at it.’
‘You look dazzling.’ He changed the subject.
‘Ah, that’s ‘cos I’ve been out and about with my new fella all over the weekend.’
‘Oh yes. The minute my back’s turned.’ It was a game they often played.
‘The very minute. He called on Friday night. Wanted you actually, but I soon got him to settle for me.’
John laughed, a smear of doubt in his larynx. ‘Who? Who’s your latest?’
She gave a heavy mock sigh. ‘Your famous David Askelon.’
‘David?’
‘Well don’t sound too surprised. I am attractive to other people you know. You haven’t bought total rights …’
‘I didn’t mean ...’ He stopped, realising it could come near to the kind of brawl often instigated by Daphne.
‘He called on Friday night to ask us out to dinner. You weren’t here, so he took me.’ June continued to tell him about Saturday and the Sunday visit to Hampton Court.
‘You needn’t worry though, it was all perfectly decent.’
‘Of course.’ John said gently. ‘I always said you ought to get out a bit more when I’m away.’ There was no acid in his manner or tone.
She held back the rage: the temper directed at him for his smugness; taking her for granted. It was always like this, as though he would almost welcome a third party to step in and remove the guilty decision from his shoulders: write in the answer to the equation.
During their evening meal she continued to smoulder, stamping down the fires of indignation as she picked through John’s favourite meal, trout filled with butter, black pepper and lemon juice, cooked gently and served with a mixed salad.
But John Sutton did not feel the indifference that she supposed. During most of the evening he was preoccupied with the legal problems of The Golden Spin roving round his mind. There had never been any reason to doubt or mistrust June, the arrangement was far from ideal, but they both benefited by it and, he believed, took mutual joy in each other’s company. At one point John had spent a great deal of time pondering the final solution. On three occasions the entire structures of their lives had nearly collapsed because they both felt the need to regularise the whole business. Each time, their emotions reached a high pitch and when the moment came John backed down, his children’s future and the possible present anguish always standing in the way. The answer was as elusive as the sun’s reflection. There was also the mutual feeling that if they moved close to it, they might both be destroyed.
As for Askelon, John Sutton had a liking for the man: a deep respect for his talent. He certainly did not see him as a threat where June was concerned, yet the fact that he had spent most of the weekend with her had a worrying professional aspect. He only spoke of it as they prepared for bed.
‘You like David?’ he asked, trying to make it sound casual enough to be answered directly.
‘Hmm. Jealous?’ June grinned.
‘Love, it’s got nothing to do with jealousy. I love you, remember? I love you, and that means trust.’
She sat at her dressing table, her face filmed with cleansing cream. ‘But what?’ She asked. ‘I can see a “but” coming up over the horizon like a damn great harvest moon. What sort of harvest is it going to reap?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t encourage David Askelon.’
She wiped the last cream from her face, stood up and turned towards him, still and quiet, the turmoil inside building to a head of rage. When she spoke it was the warning whisper of wind, the prelude to a storm. ‘You would rather I did not encourage David? Encourage him to what? Not encourage him to fuck me?’
‘Not encourage him to come here. To be close friends with us. With us.’
‘I see.’
‘No June, you don’t see.’
He was going to be infuriatingly logical. She knew him in this mood and bridled against it. John was a master of reason while June answered the more basic calls of emotion.
‘Why in hell’s name shouldn’t David become a close friend? The poor guy’s alone over here. You’re his publisher.’
He caught her arm. ‘Don’t be silly. How many of my authors have you met?’
She paused. ‘Three. Four if you count that weird lady who escaped from the nunnery.’
‘And how many are my personal friends? Close friends.’
‘How should I know. None I suppose. But what’s it got to do with David?’
He sat down on the bed and pulled her into a sitting position next to him. ‘It has everything to do with David. Authors are my bread and butter but there are times when I wish to god we could bypass authors. And a lot of publishers are the same. It isn’t a matter of economics: that authors are a financial burden, but, well you have to be nice to them. They’re your bread and butter, sometimes they’re even a bloody great mound of jam; and you have to be nice to them. That’s the kicker, you have to be nice to all of them, if you like them or if they’re slobs. If they pick their noses all over your desk and spit into your wastepaper basket you go on smiling because they just might have the key.’
‘But David’s a nice fellow. It’s not difficult to be nice to him.’
‘No, not difficult at all. As I was saying, you have to be nice to them, but the first rule in publishing these days is never get really involved with them.’
‘Darling, this is ridiculous, there’s no need for you to make up absurd excuses. Just tell me you don’t fancy smart Mr Askelon sniffing around your kept woman. After all it’s your money we’re both using.’
John did not pause, he certainly was not deflected. ‘And why don’t you get involved? Look at the published lives, the biographies, of authors. What is their great talent, whether they are part of the literary mish-mash, or good solid commercial types, or non-talents? What do they all do? They eat people, June. Ask anyone involved, authors are a breed of cannibals. They take you and either charm or bore the pants off you. Then they begin to nibble. They need your advice; they have to talk to somebody, about themselves of course; and slowly, insidiously, they begin to eat They chew and chew. Then they spit you out.’ His mind filled with a running montage of professional life: a mixture of endless editorial meetings where people always seemed to be saying, ‘Why don’t we do this one like we did that other book about ...?’ Someone else would reply, ‘Have you read the final breakdown on that other one?’ Shaking his head sadly. There were invoices, proof copies, arguments about type faces, blurb, the look of a page of mock-up advertising, not that anyone had yet proved advertising assisted the book trade, but you had to do it; there had to be the campaign, but how did you measure it? In column inches? Or in some incalculable form, offsetting a portion of books sold against goodwill to the author? There were manuscripts, bundles of words, tied up between cheap green or black folders, or arriving in neat typing paper boxes decorated by mystic symbols, 8X10 One Ream. S/O 16 ½ x 21 18lb. 500’s 73 g/m².
Reader’s reports, ferocious as Gatling guns or thudding with the heavy horror of a land mine, sometimes consuming as napalm and leaving in its wake the same destruction. All the time the ebb and flow of correspondence and the hell bell of the telephone with the same voice at the other end. Lists, publication dates, internal politics, the game of author trapping. Somebody long ago had done a prototype dice, board and counters game called Publishing. It had, he remembered, refreshed an office party when Ed Coin flagrantly seduced five authors from Cape, two from Collins and one from Cassell. Coin was Heinemann during that game. But after a time the whole thing bore a near relationship to a really vast game played on an International board. Providing another inexpert Labour Government did not perform rape upon the publishing houses, or the great anti-technological revolution fail to topple Britain into stagnation, then John dared not think where the next twenty years would lead. The toll on health and nerves; the day trip to New York for contract negotiations. The total computerisation. All had stimulation and made some blood pump faster, but to men of Sutton’s age and background, that kind of progress sniffed of the grave.
‘Trust me June. They do eat you. I just don’t want to see a course of June Rabel served with game chips and onions in white sauce for David. He wouldn’t mean it but ...’
‘What a marvellous idea for a party game.’ She rose from the bed and began the final stages of undressing for the night. ‘You write down the names of the famous and infamous and players have to make up menus of what they would serve with each. Cannibals and chips we’d call it. What would you serve with President Nixon for example?’
John did not even think. ‘Mashed potatoes, a shade watery, and cabbage.’
‘And with the Burtons? Leeks, truffles and chips?’
They laughed and John began to undress. A silence between them, during which, John realised that she had succeeded in performing a deft and quick parry to the truthful sting of his appeal.
Later, in the darkness, June stretched out and smiled. When they had come up tonight she was pretty certain that John had no intention of making love to her, but he had done so and even when he was tired and distracted, as tonight he certainly was, there was something about his physical possession of her that was unlike any previous sexual experience. Perhaps, she thought as the rumble of far off traffic fluttered the window, he was staking his claim. The expression amused her. John was out cold, satisfied: she relished the glow they had made in the short hot straining moments.
