‘Well, shall we finish those drinks?’
He got up and tossed away the stick he was holding. As he did so he struck his hand — the hand with the bandaged finger — against the rim of the incinerator. He winced and clutched the injured finger. ‘The cats,’ he explained. ‘Little beasts. They quite often bite me. Do you like Siamese, Prentis? Just a little bit on the wild side, a little bit devious — you won’t ever show them you’re the boss. I think that’s why I’ve got them.’ A sly look entered his eye. ‘You see, I like animals, but I’m not sure I believe in keeping pets. Don’t you think if you keep pets they should be free to rebel whenever they like?’ He waved the bandaged finger. ‘Come to think of it, they’ll be wanting their supper now.’
We walked back across the lawn. I watched Quinn’s limp. The cats were prowling round the door of the conservatory. When Quinn went in they followed him.
He reappeared after a minute or so with a large bowl of cat-food and another of milk which he put down on the edge of the lawn. The cats began lapping and nibbling at once. Quinn squatted amongst them and stroked the neck of one of them as it ate. It twisted and rubbed its head against Quinn’s hand, but whether out of pleasure or annoyance I could not say.
‘By the way, you’ll be getting official notice of your promotion tomorrow. Starting from when I leave, of course.’
He said this as if it were something merely minor and incidental but at the same time logical and expected. And, at first at least — until I had left Quinn’s and was returning home — this was just how I received it. I nodded, smiled. So much else had happened.
I stayed only another five or ten minutes. We finished our drinks, the cats licking and preening themselves at our feet. Most of the time we talked about animals and pets, and, almost as a natural course, about children.
He walked with me to the front of the house to see me off. At the foot of the basement steps he said — and not at all in a voice that carried any of the double meanings and undertones the words might have had in the context — ‘I do hope your father’s condition improves’; and he extended his hand, to grip my own or perhaps to grasp my shoulder. But I had already begun to mount the steps, and when I turned at the top I saw him standing at the bottom, his right hand dropping awkwardly to his side. This was the last image I took away of Quinn. I say ‘last’ as if I never saw him again — which isn’t true. But I have never seen again the figure in sandals and baggy, opened shirt, the figure with his watering-can and Siamese cats, or the figure who ran, to save his skin, in Normandy. For most of the time, you never know the real person. And then there was something about the sight of Quinn, standing, alone, on the front path as I started the car and waved to him from the window, that made me think: he looks like a man you will never see again.
I drove back scarcely conscious of my route. I should have been thinking of Dad, of X and Z, of Shuttlecock, of those three agents who were shot in Mulhouse … And then suddenly — as if I really had been hypnotized and the hypnotist’s fingers had been snapped before my eyes — the reality of Quinn’s words struck me: I was going to be promoted — officially; I was going to get Quinn’s job. And I had this sudden urge to get drunk.
I stopped off at the pub I knew, by Wimbledon Common. I was already tipsy from the gins I’d drunk. I hadn’t eaten all evening and it was by now past the time when, had I been to see Dad as usual, I would have returned home for the supper Marian kept for me. But I stopped at the pub, ordered a large gin and tonic and took it outside to drink. People were sitting at wooden tables, chatting and laughing. It seemed I’d emerged out of some confinement. Perhaps the people were happy because of the warm summer twilight wrapping round them and making the world grow soft and dim. Perhaps it was all a case of the pathetic fallacy. Then I thought: these people are happy because of what they don’t know.
When I got home Marian said: ‘You’re drunk.’ (I’d had more than one drink at that pub.) ‘You’re drunk. You’re late, and your dinner’s spoilt.’ It was like a scene in some hackneyed domestic comedy. I could see in her face her worry about where I had got to; and I could see that she thought the moment gave her a right to wield a little authority over me, to scold me, to have the upper hand. But I could see too that, despite her efforts, she was afraid to do this. She was afraid because I was drunk (I’m not often drunk, as a rule; I’m not a man who goes in much for big drinking) and because I was drunk I might hit her. (Though I won’t hit Marian again, no, never.) But she was afraid, in any case, that if she attempted to scold me I would make her suffer for it. I could see this fear and this desire to have a little power struggling in her face and so I hugged her, kissed her and said, ‘It’s all right.’ She was so surprised at this (it’s a long time since I’ve given Marian a hug on my return home) that she became subdued, even wary. Her blue-green eyes flickered. ‘How’s Dad?’ she said. Then I realized what she might be thinking: Dad’s recovered, Dad’s spoken again. That’s why I’ve gone and got drunk. I thought: in a way that’s just what’s happened. She looked suddenly alarmed. And so I kissed her again. ‘Dad’s fine,’ I said, ‘fine, fine.’ And then I said: ‘I’m going to be promoted. I’m going to get Quinn’s job.’
[33]
It is over six months now since Quinn left our office. His departure was marked by the minimum of ceremony. A gathering of senior staff in one of the offices upstairs, to which, of course, myself, Vic, Eric, Fletcher and O’Brien and most of our junior ancillary staff were duly invited. Drinks and little sausages on sticks. The presentation of a gift for which I took the initiative for collecting contributions, and which for some time remained a problem until I remembered the battered golf bag I’d seen in Quinn’s conservatory. Golf-clubs are not cheap, and I don’t mind saying that I myself forked out in secret an extra large donation in order to buy the set, complete with bag, that the man in the sports shop assured me was the best. Speeches. A short valediction in which Quinn kept strictly within the emotional limits prescribed by such occasions, not allowing any undue warmth to melt, at the last moment, his traditionally chilly manner; and in which he wished, with no hint of special sentiment, ‘every success to my young and able successor’ in the seat which was ‘by now’ (dutiful ripple of amusement) ‘nicely warmed’. A breaking-up into general drinking, chit-chat and hypocritical well-wishing from which Quinn himself slipped away, scarcely noticed, not deigning to join us in the session which followed in the pub around the corner. I too slipped away from this second bout of drinking while it was still in its early stages, to learn later, from Vic, that it had developed into an orgy of Quinn-bashing, and from Eric — with whom, being now his superior, I found I could not listen to such things without making vague signs that he was being over-familiar — that this same session had led to another in which he had positively and completely explored all the remaining hidden charms of the tantalizing Maureen.
And so to the next Monday morning, and to sitting in that leather chair, which was not warm but distinctly cool (October; the office heating not yet coaxed into life), and which seemed, and still seems, I might add, too big for me.
I haven’t seen or heard of Quinn since. No phone calls or invitations. No chance, passing visits back to his old office. I imagine that is how he wishes it to be. We will cease to associate, like old accomplices who have done the deed and gone to ground. Our mutual silence will be as constant as Dad’s.