“Halifax has been in since Chamberlain died in ’44,” the first American now said. “The papers say he wants some guy called Butler to follow him. He’s the Chancellor of the Exchequer—which is something like a Finance Minister. This is a big surprise, as number two in the Government is Harold Macmillan—he’s their Foreign Secretary. He’s the one with an American mother.” The first man nodded vaguely. I had found Macmillan’s American connection occasionally useful out there when dropping his name. Most Americans, of course, knew nothing of our politics beyond Lord Halifax. This one was of the ignorant variety.
“But it will be Butler,” the first man was saying with the condescension of the foreigner who knows something about the country where he is living. “Richard Butler’s his full name. He’s got the full trust of the Tory Party, and the country sees him as a safe pair of hands. You just can’t say the same for Macmillan. He’s got a superficial popularity with the working classes—they call him ‘Big Mac’. But for every ten who like him, I’ll bet there are only three who trust him.
“It’s Butler, then. And, once Halifax is gone, it will be the knife for Big Mac. He’ll be out. So will Heath, who’s Home Secretary. He’s too close to Macmillan. There’s a couple of other young men about him. They’ll all be out as well. If Butler wants youth in his Cabinet, his own man is Powell at the India Office—Enoch Powell, that is. He used to teach Greek or something in Australia. He’ll soon be in line to take over as Prime Minister when Butler finally steps down.
“Never a truer word you’ve said, Kennedy. They sure do things the old-fashioned way, these Limeys!”
The men were now moving to the real purpose of their meeting, which was an elaborate fraud connected with grain shipments from New Orleans. In better days, I’d have sat there very still, taking in its details so I could run straight off to my broker with instructions to play the futures markets. But these were by no means the best of times. I’d had enough. I got up. I dropped a sixpence on the table and walked out of the tea shop. I got onto the moving stairs, and made my way past the crowds and the brightly-lit merchandise towards the exit back into Westbourne Grove.
“Could you possibly spare a minute of your time, Sir?” someone called as I walked past one of the moveable stands. Normally, I’d have shaken my head and continued walking. Today, there was something just sufficiently authoritative in the salesman’s voice to remind me of the Police. It was a feeling that passed almost before I’d stopped. By then, it was too late. Like the Wedding Guest, I was held immovably fast. I looked at the mass of dark curls and the cheap suit and sighed inwardly. To call this worse than anything else that had happened since getting out of my bath would be absurd. In its own way, though, it was no less unwelcome.
“Did you know, Sir,” he opened in a confidential and doubtless well-rehearsed patter, “that the average electric bill—for those who still have them—is £2 a year? That’s almost a factory worker’s weekly earnings.” I saw my chance and told him about my Hotpoint Home Generator. No good. He smiled and changed his angle of attack. He led me over to his counter and showed me a light bulb that was glowing away under a glass cover. He put both his hands over a black surface about one foot square and looked at me as I watched the bulb dim and go out.
“It’s photovoltaic cells,” he explained—“to you and me, electricity from light. It can be sunlight. It can be daylight. It can be your neighbour’s own electric lights. The Germans have got them up to thirty eight per cent efficiency and a payback time of two years. By 1965, Sir, every house in Germany will be powered by these.” He took his hands off the panel and the light came back on. “No messy reagents here. No annual maintenance. Just one payment down, and, after your first two years, all the free electricity you can ever use. Looked at another way, it’s six kilowatt hours to the half farthing. Your Hotpoint won’t beat that, Sir.”
“Sounds attractive,” I said—and, to be fair, it did. “But you’ve got to me a year too late. I’ve gone with Hotpoint, and I’m in no current position to think of changing.” No good again. The salesman was now unrolling a large coloured poster of a grinning driver parked in the countryside, a large glass of spirits in his hand.
“Just think of it, Sir,” he urged—“all the flexibility of petrol, but at a cost of farthings in the pound. Eighty seven per cent of drivers nowadays have electric cars. These are good enough so long as you stay within the web of charging points in the towns, or along the trunk roads. If you want to get out, though, and see the real England, it’s so far been a question of petrol at 10s the gallon. With our Photovoltaic Conversion Kit, one hour of charge will give you forty miles of driving. From the last charging points in Bromley, you can get to places like Ashford with that.”
If I’d been a driver, I’d have signed up on the spot. As it was, I let him chatter away, loading me with more and more of his brochures and the facts and statistics he delivered with expert ease. All around, the crowds of late afternoon shoppers streamed or dawdled. Self-moving irons, washing up machines, filmless cameras, massage devices explained by young women so prim that none dared snigger openly at the device shapes—yes, I’d been button holed in the New Age departments of the shop. Twenty feet above, the lights glared down at us. The noise and bustle about us was suffocating. I reached up to loosen my collar. It was no longer a matter of finding somewhere to think. It wasn’t even a matter of feeling safe. I needed just to get out and breathe.
CHAPTER NINE
Normally, I’d have have been pushing things, but still on time. This was Tuesday afternoon, though, and the Boots in Westbourne Grove had closed early for staff training. My overcoat pulled up and my hat down, I looked into the brightly-lit window. One of the young men—the one who always served me with a smile—looked back at me as I stood in the pool of light. He was rearranging things on the shelves. Headphones clamped over both ears, he was jiggling about to some rhythm from the cassette player that was hooked to his belt. He pointed at his wristwatch and then at the closed sign in the door. I nodded and continued looking at the advertisement for diet pills. Combined with drink, these were useful for getting things written late at night. I hadn’t gone there, of course, for stimulants. The plan had been to wheedle as much morphine as the pharmacist on duty felt inclined to dispense. Failing that, I’d have bought a few grains of codeine. But I was too late. I looked a while longer at the young man. Though slim, how he’d got himself into those tight trousers was a mystery that almost took my mind off the horrors of the morning.
“Of course, you’re younger than I am, dear boy,” I heard a voice drone behind me. “But do even you really understand the mind of the generation now rising in England?” I turned and looked Stanhope in the face. Wearing an old sports blazer, he stood a few feet away. He’d got out of a taxi that was still ticking away by the kerb.
“Who are you?” I whispered. I looked round. Apart from a few smartly-dressed women staring into the hat shop next to Boots, we were alone on the pavement. I pulled myself together. “Who were those men you killed in my flat?” He shrugged and sucked hard on his pipe.
“Two generations of peace and prosperity,” he continued as if he’d not heard me, “and the young just don’t worry about anything nowadays but their funny clothes and music. See that boy in there?” he asked with a sudden shift of tone. He pointed through the Boots window. “Apart, naturally, from sexual intercourse, do you suppose there’s much more on his mind than gyrating his hips in some smoke-filled basement where, all night long, darkies play their trumpets and guitars?