My work in local government brought me a sufficient wage, though I enjoyed it less than Dad enjoyed his. My department gave permission to demolish old properties and build new ones, delaying the process until applicants found discreet ways of bribing us. I intended to be honest at first, like the coal miner who the Labour Party made Lord Mayor of Manchester. He refused to take bribes and died in a common council house. In the 21st century local governments have legalized bribery by frankly saying that only those who pay extra money to the administration will have their business handled swiftly and efficiently. In my time civil servants were just starting to become property owners. Had I refused brown envelopes of banknotes I would have become an unpopular lad who thought himself superior to his colleagues, so would never have been promoted. I helped some poorer folk who could not bribe me, but my hobby needed the extra money. I was saving and searching for my ideal retirement home, a peaceful place in the country. A conversation had given this common British ambition an unusual twist.
A man seeking permission to make structural changes to his house invited me to discuss the matter over a meal in a posh restaurant, which suggested he had something to hide. The house had been the branch office of a bank, still had safety vaults in the basement, and he wanted planning permission to let a foreign firm convert these into deep-freezers — Swedish, Danish or American, I forget which. He wanted this done secretly because (he said) the cost of food is increasing faster than ordinary wages, so by laying in stocks of it now you will always save money in future. Yes, but why the secrecy? This came out as we relaxed with malt whiskies after an excellent dinner. A business acquaintance had recently flown him by private helicopter to a weekend in a remote country house. The house was protected by lethal security devices and a staff of well-paid servants with military training. The larders were stocked with enough frozen food to feed his host, guests and staff for a lifetime. My man said, “I’m not a millionaire but I want some of that security.”
He told me that the world is heading for disaster, and powerful folk will do nothing to stop that, because it would make them poorer. They know that money will slowly or suddenly lose value as rising oceans flood the land and more disasters reduce food supplies, so when famine hits the cities, mobs of looters will take over. Millionaires are preparing for this. I said, “It won’t happen in our lifetime!” He said, “Perhaps, but it will come sooner or later.”
I am no connoisseur of disaster movies but nodded and hid a smug little smile. I helped the man to get the refrigeration he wanted quietly installed, but knew that if starvation became general, nobody in a town could keep a steady, private food supply a secret from the neighbours.
I was sure civilization would not collapse before I did, but liked the idea of being self-sufficient as prices increased. I looked for a derelict building in an unfashionable district, large enough to be made comfortable but not conspicuous and at least a quarter-mile away from any other home, unless it was a farmhouse. It should have its own discreet source of energy in case electrical supply companies failed. Wind vanes are conspicuous, so water was the answer. At the start of the 20th century every community, large or small, had a mill to grind grain for flour. Robert Louis Stevenson (a great walker) said that leaving Scotland for England was leaving a land of mills powered by rushing streams for one of windmills clacking on hilltops. Imported grain put an end to all those mills, leaving Milton (from mill town) a frequent place name. I spent unhurried years searching for and listing old mill houses before discovering the right one in a wooded glen. A swift burn flowed past from a moor above, and (amazingly) a narrow steep country road ascended to it from the outskirts of the city where I lived and worked! In less than ten minutes a downhill bike ride could have brought me to a suburban shopping centre. Returning that way would have been nearly an hour-long slog, but by car only five minutes. This little road joined a motorway along which, on sunny weekends, thousands from the city drove miles to visit famous beauty spots, never guessing the quiet beauty so close to them. This was the place for me.
Gradually I had it re-roofed, made waterproof and rot-proof, had the inner walls plastered and painted. After linking it to the national grid I installed an undershot millwheel that, when connected to an electric turbine, could give all the light and central heating I might one day want. I brought my partners to see the place as I improved it, saying this would be my retirement home — an independent kingdom like those I had planned from the contents of the Button Box. They thought this an eccentric hobby, said they could never imagine living there, so I was womanless for two or three years before retirement. In that time I had the living rooms and bedrooms furnished with old-fashioned carpets and wallpapers, installed a modern kitchen and lavatory, filled big cupboards in the cellars with enough light bulbs, toiletries, shoes and other supplies to last if I lived to be a hundred. These stocks meant I would no longer be bothered by expenses or shortages, except in the matter of food. I did not start stocking my large deep-freezers with food because I was seeking a new, more agreeable woman partner than any I had hitherto known, and thought that (whoever she was) she might want a say in our choice of diet. I was sure that such a partner would not be hard to find if I gave the problem as much attention as the preparation of my final home.
Half a year before retirement, I saw that my secretary appeared to be holding back tears. This was surprising. Like earlier secretaries she had been so quietly efficient that I had seldom noticed her. As in most offices, females in mine were generally younger than the men, but for me work and sexual adventure were not connected — my female partners had all been met in pubs when I was slightly drunk. My reaction to my secretary’s grief was unusual. I said gently, “Man trouble, Miss Harper?”
She murmured, “Something like that.”
As easily as if I had drunk a couple of malts I said, “Come for a meal with me tonight. I’ll try to cheer you up without asking questions about your private life, or telling you about mine, which hardly exists. We can talk about films or music or books or childhood memories, but silence won’t embarrass me. What do you say?”
For a long moment she stared at me, obviously surprised, then nodded and said yes.
After agreeing on a restaurant and time to meet we completed our office work and separated as usual, but I was hopefully excited. Finding a woman I might marry in the office was like finding the house I had wanted so near the city where I lived. My partnerships with earlier women had started soon after we first bedded each other, as is frequent nowadays. I sensed that this love affair (if it became one) must advance more cautiously. At our meal that evening she left the talking to me, seeming quietly amused by what I said while maintaining a reserve I respected. As I paid the bill she thanked me in a short, sincere-sounding phrase. I said, “Shall we dine out again next week?”