with an expression of deep regret that the post, after all, had sadly fallen through.
Now he was able to start afresh.
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Chapter Nine
Men and Women
1
Bob Mannion. How odd that he should come to mind. Roy cannot
recall any particular sense of sadness. It was all utility, the requirement for immediate response and action. Even today he is impressed
by his ability to corral his thoughts and proceed logically. And that winter. The coldest for over two hundred years. No one had thought
it would ever come to an end. For Bob it hadn’t.
Roy now feels, if not sorrow, a kind of regret at Bob’s death,
mindful at the same time that in dying Bob had delivered him a
route out of his plight, stranded on the Fens, left behind by the
floods. Having moved back to London, he had become submerged
in the metropolis, after a short time cautiously able to dip into the bank account he had opened in the name Robert Mannion with
Bob’s money, even occasionally to be Mr R. Mannion, indeed Roy
Mannion, when it served his needs.
Over the years the natural accretion of identity had occurred,
that circular evidencing and self- referencing that came to prove
beyond doubt that he was Mannion. The availability of an alterna-
tive persona, backed by official documents, has been more than
useful. At times the challenge had been to maintain the flickering
self that was Roy Courtnay. It is possible, though unlikely, that
shortly he may need again to take the wraps off Mannion and give
him one last lap of the circuit. Depending, that is, on how things go with Betty and how assiduous and litigious her family choose to
become.
Regrets? He’s had a few, especially when he and Vincent had had
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to do over Martin, Bernie, Dave and Bryn. Especially Martin, the
poor sod. But not really. Live by the sword et cetera, et cetera.
But Bob Mannion. Really. What has triggered that thought? The
strange chemistry of the brain.
To his surprise, he is crying. His reflection in the mirror confirms this. He sees his long, tired face, those eyes once fierce and now
merely mournful, and the streaks of tears running down sagging
cheeks. He places his razor carefully on the basin and grips its sides with both hands to steady himself as he sobs.
Bob was like all those others left behind, he tells himself. Once in the past they might as well be dead. Thinking about them: to him,
it’s a waste of time and energy. For him, they are dead anyway.
Maureen, he knows, is in the public eye. Formerly a junior minis-
ter in the Department for Education, she now pronounces from on
high in the House of Lords, a vociferous and rather irritating sup-
porter of the deprived and sundry minorities. Easy from such a
privileged vantage point. Perhaps he should have backed that par-
ticular horse for a little longer. It had, though, just been a fork in the road. For him she too is as dead as Bob, and has been since that day he walked out of their dingy Clapham flat.
Those sisters, all those years ago. They had needed a lesson too.
And received one. The elder ones had laughed at his gaucheness.
The younger one had humiliated him. They had all learned.
Lord Stanbrook’s son, Rupert, whom he once dandled on his
knee, is now the ailing fifth earl, with the scandal- beset feckless playboy son. Rupert’s own father, Charles, is long departed.
He hasn’t kept tabs on them. He’s picked bits up in the media and
the rest he’s just invented. It doesn’t matter. Dead. All dead. To him, leastways. And none to be grieved, save perhaps Bob. Bob was a
good lad, like Vincent is but in a different way, impressionable in the right way, malleable. And who could argue that Bob, in his death,
had not been extraordinarily helpful?
‘Fuck!’ he shouts loudly. There is yet fire in his belly. ‘Fuck.’
What is he doing? Rambling away like some muttering old pen-
sioner. Get a grip, man. At least now he knows when he’s drifting.
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The time may come when he doesn’t even realize it. Better dead
than gaga. But he knows he isn’t. He doesn’t forget. He remembers
everything. Dementia isn’t his problem; fixity of purpose is. Losing the will to strive is what he fears.
‘Fuck,’ he says again, more quietly as he regards the face in the mirror with a cold dispassion. He does not particularly like what he sees.
‘Roy?’ calls Betty from downstairs.
‘Yes?’ he replies.
‘I heard you shouting. Is everything all right? Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, my dear,’ he replies evenly. ‘I thought I’d cut myself
shaving. Not so nimble as I once was. But it’s all right. Sorry. ’Scuse my French.’
2
He has begun recently to call her ‘my dear’ more often. Too often,
really. At first it was occasional and hesitant; now it is close to automatic, especially when he chooses to be patronizing. Which is not
infrequently.
She is not sure whether this is a considered process of establish-
ing himself yet more prominently in her life, or whether it is entirely unconscious. Need she fear a proposal? The thought of his attempting to go down on one knee is almost enough for her to dial 999.
Finally, she supposes it is harmless and quite sweet in its way, if sweet were ever a term one might use in connection with him. And
she remains glad that he is still here.
They have had their sandwich lunch and she has lit the gas fire.
They sit together in the living room, she with her book and he with his hands in his lap, bored and irritable.
‘What do you really think of women?’ she asks, for want of some-
thing better to say.
Roy’s heart sinks. Not one of those interminable discussions that
come from nowhere, head in no direction that he can distinguish
and seem calculated to humiliate him. He’d had enough of that
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to last a lifetime from Maureen. But better not turn this into an
argument.
Men and women, he thinks. Two completely different species.
‘What do you mean, my dear?’ he asks civilly, but glaring.
It appears she is not going to be put off. ‘I suppose our genera-
tion’s accustomed to a different relationship between the sexes.’
Give me strength, he thinks. But he retains his composure.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says, treating the question as though it
were reasonable enough. ‘I’m not an expert on these things.’
‘You don’t have to be an expert, surely?’
‘Well, no. I didn’t mean that. I’ve known a few women in my life.’
He hopes the arch smile might do the trick.
‘Yes?’ says Betty.
‘And. And, well, I’ve always found that I get on with women. See
eye to eye with them. Lots of men don’t, you know. I like women.
Especially you.’
‘I understand that. But in general? The differences between men
and women?’
He thinks: they do like to talk, don’t they?
‘Well, I could ask the same question of you. What do you think
of men?’
‘Fair enough. I find men these days more insecure than they
were. There are plenty who seem utterly secure in themselves.
Rather more secure than they should be, in reality. But . . .’
He looks and listens.
‘ . . . overall men seem less . . . solid . . . than they were. And more full of spite. I suppose it’s only natural. As we’ve become “liberated”. Though I can’t say I feel especially liberated,’ she continues.
‘Before, our roles were clearly defined. But two wars have seen all of that change.’
History, he thinks. More history. She’s bloody lecturing me. Good
God. But he beams polite attention at her.
‘I suppose it’s only to be expected that men should feel unset-
tled and threatened. Not that women seem to be the winners,
particularly.’
‘Hmm,’ he says.
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‘One sees more extremes. Lack of confidence, but also aggres-
sion. Expressions of insecurity, both of them.’
‘I suppose so,’ he says. ‘I’ve never lacked confidence.’
‘No, but that’s you, isn’t it? You were taught to be in charge.
Simply because you’re a male. You were conditioned not to think of
things any differently.’
Saved a lot of bloody time too, he thinks.
She continues. ‘What I’m saying is that men no longer quite
know what they’re supposed to be.’
‘Weak, a lot of them. We’re pretty straightforward when it comes
down to it. No complications, no hidden emotions. Don’t think I’m
against women’s rights. But men who are unsure of their quote
unquote identity are drama queens. I just think we are who we are
and getting on with things is all we can do. Thinking too much can
get you into all kinds of grief.’
And talking.
‘So, women. What are we like?’
‘Where do I begin?’ he says, smiling. ‘Marvellous. Wonderful.
Confusing. Frustrating. Illogical.’
She says nothing. He knows he is striking the wrong note but
cannot find the right one.
‘What I mean is,’ he ventures, ‘I’m all for a bit of mystery between men and women. If I had it all worked out I’d be a much unhappier man.’
‘I thought you did have it all worked out,’ she says, smiling.
Good. We may be making our way back to terra firma.
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘Certainly not. Everyone has to have an answer
for everything these days. Not me. If we just lived a little, did what we were good at, toned down the thinking, we might all be a bit
better off.’
‘So a lack of knowledge is a good thing?’
‘Oh no. Of course not. But . . .’
‘You still haven’t answered my question. About women. About me.’
He ventures another sheepish grin.
‘Betty, I’ve nothing but respect for you. You’ve achieved so much
in your life. You leave me standing.’
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It is an unstoppable, pointless juggernaut. Roy is not concerned
about the sense of what he says; it simply fills the gaps. He hardly stops to consider whether his statements are comprehensible, let
alone cogent, still less whether he actually believes this garbage. It’s all just part of the game, he thinks: men and women.
He bestows on her a look of undiluted venom veiled by a benefi-
cent smile. She is too stupid to see it, he thinks.
He doesn’t realize I can see it, she thinks. She enjoys making him
squirm, in a way. He cannot, or will not, marshal an argument. He
is right that he is less intelligent than she is, so there is an element of cruelty in her tweaking him like this. It is good, though, to see him floundering, mildly discomposed and losing control. He is just bab-bling. It is a small vengeance, perhaps taken unwisely. She supposes she will later need to make it up to him, by saying the thing he
wants to hear.
3
He is in the lavatory, in some difficulty. The stomach cramps have
arrived again with no notice and he has had to rush upstairs, speedily dropping his trousers and underpants and settling on to the thing with a momentary sigh of relief that there had been no preliminary
mishap before the onslaught. A painful and troubling series of detonations rock the core of his body with shots of kerosene fire,
followed swiftly by a noxious cascade of liquid during which his
entire being seems to be sluicing into the bowl. He is alarmed by the explosive force of the action. He bends forward, his every muscle
tensed in a vain effort to gain mastery. The smell, sulphur and rotting innards, is unspeakable; he is close to gagging.
He sits there and lets it happen. He has no choice. It is involuntary –
it seems almost as if a valve has blown and he is being rid of
badness – yet it is also effortful. His organs and reflexes are no longer his to govern. This is happening to him in the most intimate fashion, yet he has no say in how he responds. He is afraid, both of the 113
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moment and of a near future of which this may be a waymarker. It
is the loss of control that he fears most, not the pain, not the indignity. He whimpers quietly.
When he is, finally, null and void, he is exhausted. He remains
seated awhile to steady himself, trembling and wheezing, anxious,
unduly hot, mind racing. Having cleaned himself as best he can and
holding his trousers up by a shaky hand, his braces dangling and his shirt tail untucked, he shuffles slowly through to his bedroom, using his free hand to support himself against the wall. Eventually he
flops on to the bed and there is an audible twang from the springs.
Exhausted still, his sphincter burning sore, he stares at the ceiling and forces himself to think.
Betty has proved something of a disappointment in a way. So gul-
were only secondary reasons for this whole enterprise. More
importantly she is, to use the phrase in vogue these days, minted.
The letters from her fund manager that he reads at his leisure when he goes through her bedroom while she is out tell him that. And if
her complacency and gullibility mean less challenge in the game, it may be no bad thing. If this adventure has shown him one thing it is that you become less agile in every way as you age. Once this one is over that will be it for him. A sad thought, but there you are.
She calls from downstairs, ‘Are you all right, Roy?’
‘I’m OK,’ he replies weakly.
She comes upstairs and enters the bedroom. ‘Oh dear,’ she says,
seeing him spreadeagled in unkempt disarray on top of the coun-
terpane. He is flushed and agitated. ‘You don’t look too well.’
‘I’m fine,’ he says with a small confiding smile. ‘Just taken agin
something I’ve eaten. I’m all right really.’
She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you sure?’ she asks, her brow furrowed in a particularly attractive way. If only he had known her in her youth. And his.
‘I’m quite all right, thank you, my dear,’ he says, kindly smile still intact. He pats her hand.
‘I’ve been thinki
ng, Roy . . .’
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‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps I could benefit from reviewing my investments. But I
don’t know where to begin.’
He is at once alert and with difficulty props himself up on one
elbow.
‘Surely you have someone who handles your portfolio?’
‘Well, yes, this company . . .’
‘Company? Ah.’
‘What is it, Roy?’
‘I’ll wager they take a large commission each year for doing very
little. I suppose they write to you every so often. Do you know anyone there by name? Have you ever spoken to anyone there?’
‘Well, no. The funds were invested so long ago and I wouldn’t
know who to ask for. They seem all right from the letters.’
‘I’m sure they are. In their own way. But . . .’
‘They lack, I suppose, well, the personal touch.’
‘Hmm.’
He waits. She must say it, not he.
‘I was wondering . . .’
‘Yes?’ Not too quick.
‘You mentioned you knew someone . . .’
‘Vincent, you mean?’
‘Yes. Your friend.’
‘Oh, Vincent’s not so much a friend as a professional. Though I’d
trust him with my life.’
‘Do you think he’d be prepared to talk to me about my
investments?’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure he would. On a non- commitment basis of
course. If I put a word in I’ve no doubt he’d be happy to speak
with you.’
Easy. Much easier than he had imagined. The pain in his stomach
seems to have dissipated a little.
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Chapter Ten
August 1957
Never Had It So Good
1
They would have to make a rapid and discreet departure. This meant
the sprinkling of thousands of francs among those who would facili-
tate it: first and foremost the hotel manager and down the hierarchy through the head concierge, the desk clerk, all the way to the lift boy.
He formed neat piles on the desk as he calculated the exchange rate.
They had completed the packing, admittedly rather haphazardly
and frantically, and Roy rang down to the front desk. When he was
put through to the manager he said quietly, ‘We’re ready.’