The censor, p.25
The Censor, page 25
‘Nothing binding you. You’re free, baby. Come back to New York with me and we’ll get the hell out of it from there. Go to some place where ...’
‘Where there are palm trees and open spaces, no bugs and no blue horrors? That’s nineteen-forties Hollywood. There isn’t anywhere like that, David. You’ve just said so in that book. Not any more. The world’s closing in.’
‘There are places. Come. I’m not a bargain. I’ve done just about every despicable thing a man is capable of. Mentally and certainly physically. But with you ...’
They were close. Time passed before she spoke again.
‘If I can tell him. If I can talk to him. Do it in peace and understanding. Wait, and it might work.’
David Askelon’s smile was like a whoop of wild joy.
They decided to go along to the Indian restaurant. It was near and easy. Talk was necessary. Talk of the future. As they reached the door, the telephone rang.
June nearly left it, but curiosity made her trip back into the room and pick up the receiver.
‘June?’ Freddy Cadogan sounded urgent. ‘Where can I get hold of John?’
‘Freddy? What’s the matter?’
‘His office is closed. I think I really should get hold of him tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Something’s come up. He should know about it.’
‘He’s in Ibiza on holiday.’
‘I know that.’
‘Is this serious?’
‘Not yet.’
‘To do with anything I know about?’
‘Spin.’
‘Oh.’ She paused, a second while her mind groped for the words, conscious that David Askelon was only a few paces away and that a new loyalty had formed before an old one was dead. ‘Should the author know?’
Hesitation. ‘He’ll have to know.’
‘Now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s here now.’
A long space. ‘Give me John’s number in Ibiza, then put David on.’
*
The hotel was hell. A concrete beehive plugged with identical cells, each a tiny unit furnished with mass produced fittings. Plastic. Wood. Chrome. The bees came and went in fortnightly batches: danced in on shrieking jets, arriving white faced and fragile; fed, allowed to lie near the pool, or on the gold sand, torturing flesh into pink painful burns before being sent back again to London, Manchester, Liverpool or Birmingham.
To John Sutton it was all predictably horrific. The hotel management appeared to resent his arrival, alone with two children and not in an organised, pre-packaged and dealt party. But, within a day, the whole thing fell into a pattern.
The dash for the deck chairs by the pool in the morning. Identification of the groups chattering about how last year it had been Tunis and they were thinking about the Safari holiday next year and Claud’s heat rash, Pat’s Ibiza tummy (which had been Tunisian tummy last year and Maltese gripe the year before), how super the trio was in the bar after dinner.
Lunch, like dinner, English-Spanish, not quite the real thing so that nobody would be offended. Palates are more easily offended than minds. Then the long, lazy afternoon stretching to the shower and dinner and drinks in the bar and the loud, loud trio blasting what was once placid, calm, almost uninhabited air. With careful planning, Sutton thought, the holiday industry should soon manage to make everywhere exactly the same. Like airports. Nothing truly distinctive.
The fears which had obsessed him in London slid from the mind to be replaced by new troubles in the shapes of Martha and Dominic. Martha’s sexual precocity alarmed. From their time of arrival she was integrated with a gaggle of teenagers, mostly a shade older than herself. By the third evening she wanted to have dinner with them, leaving Dominic and her father to eat alone. She would disappear for long stretches, leaving Sutton in a small agony of worry which he dared not fully define. One afternoon, Dominic also disappeared from the pool side. Sutton went in search to find him propping up the day bar with an eleven-year-old brunette, a cigarette between the fingers and a Babycham bubbling beside him.
At night, and during the long spells of inactivity by the pool, the longing for June swept into his being, transporting him from the catcalls, laughs and cacophony of shouts around the pool. In the day it was the simple fact of being apart from her. Of not having contact with the mental force which, so easily, calmed or unwound him: his other half, the trigger mechanism to much of his daily activity. The fact that it was missing created the nearest thing to mental pain that he had known.
At night, her absence was erotic. The visions uncomplicated: June in a white nightgown, absurdly diaphanous, the tender material slipping from her shoulders in slow motion, gradually revealing the swollen full breasts, nipples in close-up, brown as berries and sweet to the tongue; the handful of curved belly culminating in the defensive triangle of pappus; thighs and calves, her long legs, roadways to her secret system. Her walk, each move, the way she brushed her hair, bent to pick something from the floor, looked in the mirror, ate, slept, dressed and undressed, touched him.
On the fifth night, after the children had finally been coaxed to bed, John Sutton decided to get monumentally drunk, alone and maudlin.
He had not been in the bar for more than ten minutes when the tinkle of a call bell caused him to look towards the door. A small, uniformed bellhop, swarthy, a future waiter, carried a blackboard on a short pole. On the blackboard the name Mr John Sutton was chalked.
A minute later he was at Reception, a nervous quiver within, hoping that it was June on the telephone and again hoping it was not.
When he got to the instrument it was Freddy Cadogan talking about Sir Humphrey Carmichael’s son, Charles, and some plan to whip up a huge protest against The Golden Spin.
‘I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about,’ Freddy’s voice as clear as if on a line in London. Clearer. ‘I just thought you should know. I’ve talked to David. And June. The DPP isn’t going to take any notice of an organised protest, but I should see Harrington.’
‘I’ll be back at the end of the week. I’ll fix a meeting. Perhaps you and David would care to be there?’
‘Anything.’
When Freddy closed the line, Sutton put a call through to his London number. There was a two-hour delay, spent in the bar, feeding his new concern with alcohol. Since he made the decision to publish Spin as it stood, Sutton had done his best to keep the possibility of prosecution out of his mind, though small traces of worry had inevitably filtered in.
Now, the fissure opened up and the whole reality was revealed. A protest against Spin might indeed lead to prosecution. They had paid over the odds for the book. Cost of production was high. A successful prosecution would undoubtedly mean the end of William Sutton & Son. It had always been a gamble. What then of June? Of Daphne and the children?
When his call came through he was unsteady. He stood at the phone, listening to the static between him and London. At last the operator came on and told him there was no reply from that number.
He cabled June. A brief viciousness —
TRIED TO CALL YOU LAST NIGHT STOP NO REPLY STOP PLEASE GET SECRETARY ARRANGE MEETING WITH HARRINGTON EARLIEST ON RETURN STOP
LOVE JOHN
XV
THERE WAS A sense of well-being about Humphrey Carmichael. He could not put his finger on its course, but assumed it sprang from the fact that his scheme was solidifying.
Dorothy was more in evidence. A subtle change in manner which pleased him, almost a friendly attitude between them. For the first time in years she suggested that they should go out somewhere together — Why not the theatre? (careful to choose a negative play).
It was an evening he would remember for a long time. Not in any sentimental way. Sentiment did not come into Humphrey’s orbit. In fact they dined at some chichi place that Dorothy knew. But they actually talked. About politics and the world. The negotiable future. Decent, normal talk: Carmichael had long given up the idea of conversation. Whatever Humphrey’s doubts, that psychiatrist appeared to be earning his money. In the back of his consciousness came the nag which had started after his last visit and the eruption with Price. There was something else: as though a faded photograph, far away down the mind’s corridor, was attempting to reinstate itself; barely an outline, but there with a constancy that troubled him.
Then a long letter arrived from Irving Scholes. It was not quite what Carmichael expected. Scholes had already read the book. In fact he was doing a revision of his own work, Trends In The Modern Novel, updating it to include more recent fiction including The Golden Spin. He said nothing to indicate his feelings, but Humphrey got the impression that Irving Scholes admired Askelon’s work.
However, Scholes did want to meet and talk about the book. He would be in London, with his wife, on the fourth and fifth of September.
Carmichael thought it was worth the risk. A small tribute to Dorothy and the obvious progress she was making.
‘How do you fancy a quiet dinner party here?’ Carmichael asked her.
She looked up from her book. It was early evening and Humphrey had just returned from making more money by running Carmichael Properties with a ruthless hand before his copy of Children’s Games. A warm day, letting you know, now at six-thirty, that the summer was finishing its drift and slowly autumn emerged.
Dorothy smiled. ‘We haven’t done that for years. What sort of party?’
‘I have to talk with an academic from Cambridge. Professor of English. He’s going to be in town with his wife on the fourth and fifth. Thought it might be an idea to have them out here. You could get those catering people in. The ones who provide the black butler.’
Only a man like Humphrey Carmichael could be concerned about showing off a hired black butler. Dorothy began making preparations. Humphrey fixed the date for the fifth. She did not even bother to ask the name of the guests.
*
By the time John Sutton got back to England, deposited the children at Guildford, and returned to London, Gavin Herod had met Humphrey Carmichael. The relentless wheels of intrigue turned, and Herod passed on details of his meeting to Charles Carmichael, who, in line with their arrangement, dined with Freddy Cadogan.
On September the first, Sutton, Cadogan and David Askelon met D’Arcy Harrington at his chambers in the Inner Temple.
The opening conversation was acutely depressing for both Sutton and Askelon. Freddy Cadogan revealed that Carmichael’s plan involved a very large and seemingly, spontaneous, protest against Spin. Carmichael, of course, would be making wordy, independent statements to the Press. But he did this on an average of four times a year anyway.
This time, however, it would be different. He would be backed up by hundreds of tangible protests. Harrington was given the list of names to whom the original letter had been sent, together with a copy of the letter received by Herod.
‘There’s very little we can do with this,’ Harrington commented. ‘The Director is not involved. Sir Humphrey is quite within his rights to organise a protest. In the last resort, if we were prosecuted, it would be difficult to prove that action taken by the Director’s office was motivated by a large, organised and biased operation. Technically the Director is only swayed by numbers if the protests are unrelated so it might be as well to keep this information. We may be able to use it. I might need a deposition from Mr Herod.’ He glanced at Freddy Cadogan, ‘Would that be in order?’
‘I’ll find out. I should think so.’
‘Then I suggest John instructs his solicitor accordingly. There have been plenty of cases where large protests have ended up as so much mist, so I shouldn’t worry.’
‘It’s all a screwed up complicated game they’re playing,’ said David angrily as they left the chambers. ‘This is ridiculous. It’s all too unimportant to be taken seriously, But it’s my livelihood they’re playing with.’ He turned to Cadogan, ‘Freddy, don’t get me wrong, I think you’re a great guy, but I’m asking Joe Tireling to come over for publication.’
‘He’s the agent you know best, Dave. I understand.’
That night, Askelon called Joe Tireling in New York. He was not too keen to come over. September was a busy time, but Joe kept his promises.
With In The Hair Of My Children completed, David Askelon felt restless, he wanted to get the publication of Spin over and done with. He wanted to be up and away with June who strangled his waking thoughts as no woman before. The post-labour period can be like death and Askelon felt himself more aware of what was going on around him. In the beginning, London had not attracted him, yet he now loved the city and was anxious for it. The signs of change were already stirring in the melting pot. Not as violent as the reaping change in New York or Los Angeles, but the flower children were long gone, replaced by the sullen, humourless, politically immature phalanx speckled with junkies. The frightened, dead faces were everywhere, so were the angry ones. Two years. Maybe three. Then the city would see real trouble. This, the silting up round Eros in Piccadilly Circus, was only a tiny start towards the agony. He would constantly remind himself that London was not the whole country. But it might just as well be, for the rot would spread outwards from the burning centre.
At the weekend, he telephoned June.
‘Have you told him yet?’
‘How can I David?’
‘You open your mouth and let the vocal …’
‘Oh cut it, love, he’s in a terrible state. I can’t do anything with him until we know Spin’s in the clear. Do you realise the whole of his business could go?’
Later, at dinner, David asked her, ‘Is that true? Really true? That John’s firm could be wiped out?’
‘That’s what he says. He’s terribly depressed. I’ve never seen him like this. So I must hold up until we’re certain. Christ, it would kill him if I left now.’
David nodded sombrely over his soup. ‘Yes. Particularly if you left him for me.’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘I understand, baby. Let’s just not leave it too long though.’
‘You’re going to kill me. David. But I still don’t know what’s for the best. I need the decision taken from me now.’
‘I’ve taken it, June. You’re coming with me. Right?’
June’s eyes filled. There was the trace of a small, almost imperceptible head movement. An involuntary affirmative. Within the deep, silent centre of her being she knew that it was time to move on; that she could give no more to John Sutton, nor he to her; that his place was with the people he claimed to detest; that there would be pain in the memory for a long time, and that, for Sutton, there might even be a kind of dying.
*
It was months since Dorothy Carmichael had prepared even a small dinner party. She had never been a housewife, in the sense of doing daily cleaning, cooking, shopping and the dozen and one things which attack, hold down and dismay any woman who allows herself to slide into that way of life that turns her into a house-proud, house-running, house-orientated, semi-automaton.
Dorothy had always been in a position to have the endless stream of duties performed for her. Nannies, daily woman, cook generals, catering services floated through the backdrop to her life. Even so, in the past few months the house seemed to run itself and she had ceased to engage herself in the relatively simple tasks of making decisions and giving instructions. The truth was that Humphrey made certain that Mrs Hyams, the daily woman, was not simply a daily woman: she was a housekeeper who lived out. Loyal and completely devoted after eight years with the Carmichaels.
Now, faced with the task of organising a dinner party for four people, Dorothy gradually became conscious of the truth. She was almost an anachronism, holding reality at bay, drifting through the soft world of her sexual urges and the peaks and valleys of her anxieties, not really understanding that which she half read in newspapers, or partly saw on television. Her recent life had been lived apart. Not of this world, but of a twilight within.
She rang the caterers who immediately asked her about the menu. This threw her mind into a fumble of undigested ideas. In the end, the catering manager took over, making suggestions which she accepted with thankful pleasure. Scampi, followed by Poulet Sauté a la Bordelaise; a sorbet to complete the meal. She even left the choice of wine to the catering manager and it was only after she put the phone down that Dorothy suffered the first anxieties. Would Humphrey approve? Would the guests have allergies to scampi or something else? Irrational doubts.
But the fears were small and localised. Tweaking little worries like the occasional twinge of toothache, rising to a pitch on the afternoon of the fifth. Indeed, the rise of anxiety was so steep that, around six in the evening, Dorothy had to deaden herself with a couple of heavy doses of gin. She took an intolerable time to bathe and dress. As a result, she was only just coming down the stairs as the Rolls pulled up outside the front door. She hurried into the drawing room, where Humphrey waited, taking a last look at papers in his briefcase, using every moment of time available.
‘I think they’re here.’ She tried to disguise her tardiness.
‘That was the car.’
A sudden incongruity struck her. ‘Humphrey, who are they? You’ve never told me.’
‘I think I have.’ A cold edge. ‘He’s a Professor of English at Cambridge …’
‘No. No, the name. What’s their name?’
‘Dr and Mrs Irving Scholes.’
She heard nothing more. Moving like some robot, the mind searching for escape, frantic signals pouring through the nervous system. Humphrey going to the door; following. The hall. A small, dumpy woman in navy; hair dark, an untidy fringe, too many teeth, like fangs when she smiled. Humphrey’s voice, far away, doing the introductions. Irving Scholes’ face registering recognition, then the shock and panic which had exploded inside her. But he seemed to compose himself, quickly and with ease.
