‘And you’re familiar with it, Eliot?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Sir Philip suddenly snapped: ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with the fellow. No good can come of it. I won’t touch anything he’s concerned with.’
Anxiety and hope had made his temper less equable.
‘I concur in your judgement,’ said Mr March. ‘The fellow is a pestilential nuisance.’
‘I want to stop his damned suggestions,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Where are they? Why isn’t the file here?’
He pushed the button on his desk, and the secretary entered. Sir Philip was just asking for the Getliffe file when in the outer office the telephone rang. ‘Will you excuse me while I answer it, sir?’ said Williams officiously, once more excited. After he went away, we could hear his voice through the open door. ‘Yes, this is Sir Philip March’s secretary… Yes… Yes, I will give him that message… Yes, he will be ready to receive the letter.’
Williams came in, and said with formality: ‘It was a message from the Prime Minister’s principal private secretary, sir. It was to say that a letter from the Prime Minister is on its way.’
Sir Philip nodded. ‘Do you wish me to stay, sir?’ said Williams hopefully.
‘No,’ said Sir Philip in an absent tone. ‘Leave the Getliffe file. I’ll ring if I need you.’
As soon as the door was closed, Mr March cried: ‘What does it mean? What does it mean?’
‘It may mean the sack,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Or it may mean they’re offering me another job.’
At that instant Mr March lost the last particle of hope.
Sir Philip, meeting his brother’s despairing gaze, went on stubbornly: ‘If he is offering me another job, I shall have to decide whether to turn it down or not. I should like a rest, of course, but after this brouhaha I should probably consider it my duty to accept it. I should want your advice, Leonard, before I let him have his answer.’
Mr March uttered a sound, half-assent, half-groan.
The morning had grown darker, and Sir Philip switched on the reading lamp above his desk. The minutes passed; he looked at the clock and talked in agitation; Mr March was possessed by his thoughts. Sir Philip looked at the clock again, and said irritably: ‘Whatever happens to me, I won’t have this fellow Getliffe putting a foot in. I won’t find a penny for his wretched case and I want to warn him off the business altogether.’
Mr March, as though he had scarcely heard, said yes. Knowing Getliffe better than they did, I said the only method was to prove to him that any conceivable case had a finite risk of involving the Pauls, and in the end himself. I thought that that was so, and that I could convince Getliffe of it. Sir Philip at once gave me the file, and Mr March asked me to go home with him shortly and pick up the last letter. They were tired of trouble. They forgot this last nuisance as soon as the file was in my hand.
The minutes ticked on. Sir Philip complained: ‘It can’t take a fellow all this time to walk round from Downing Street. These messengers have been slackers ever since I’ve known them.’
At length we heard a shuffle, a mutter of voices, in the secretary’s room. A tap on the door, and Williams came in, carrying a red oblong despatch box.
‘This has just come from the Prime Minister, sir.’ He placed it on the table in front of Sir Philip. The red lid glowed under the lamp.
Sir Philip said sharply: ‘Well, well, where is the key?’
‘Surely you have it, sir?’
‘Never, man, I’ve never had it. I remember giving it to you the last time a box arrived. After I opened it, I remember giving it to you perfectly well.’
‘I’m certain that I remember your keeping the key after you opened that box, sir. I’m almost certain you put it on your key ring—’
‘I tell you I’ve never had the key in my possession for a single moment. You’ve been in charge of it ever since you’ve been in that office. I want you to find it now—’
Williams had blushed to his neck and ears. For him that was the intolerable moment of the morning. He went out. Sir Philip and Mr March were left to look at the red box glowing under the light. Sir Philip swore bitterly.
It was some minutes before Williams returned. ‘I’ve borrowed this’ — he said, giving a small key to Sir Philip — ‘from Sir —’ (the Cabinet Minister).
‘Very well, very well. Now you’d better go and find mine.’ Williams left before Sir Philip had opened the box and the envelope inside. As soon as he began to read, his expression gave the answer.
‘It’s the sack, of course,’ he said.
He spoke slowly: ‘He’s pretty civil to me. He says that I shan’t mind giving up my job to a younger man.’
He added: ‘I didn’t bank on going out like this.’
Mr March said: ‘Nor did I ever think you would.’
Then Sir Philip spoke as though he were recalling his old, resilient tone. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a good deal to clear up today. I want to leave things shipshape. You’ll look after that fellow Getliffe, Eliot? We don’t want any more talk. This will be in the papers tonight. After that they’ll forget about me soon enough.’
In the middle of this new active response, he seemed to feel back to his brother’s remark. He said to Mr March with brotherly, almost protective kindness: ‘Don’t take it too much to heart, Leonard. It might be worse.’
‘I’m grateful for your consideration,’ cried Mr March. ‘But it would never have happened but for my connections.’
‘That’s as may be,’ said Sir Philip. ‘That’s as may be.’
He spoke again to his brother, stiffly but kindly: ‘I know you feel responsible because of Charles’ wife. That young woman’s dangerous, and we shan’t be able to see much of her in the family after this. But I shouldn’t like you to do anything about Charles on my account. It can’t be any use.’
Mr March said: ‘Nothing can be any use now.’
Sir Philip said: ‘Well, then. Leave it alone.’
Mr March replied, in a voice firm, resonant, and strong: ‘No. I must do what I have to do.’
44: Compensation
As soon as we left the office, Mr March reminded me that I was to come home with him to get Getliffe’s last letter. He was quick and energetic in his movements; the slowness of despair seemed to have left him; outside in the street, he called for a taxi at the top of his voice, and set off in chase of it like a young man.
We drove down Whitehall. Mr March remarked: ‘I presume this is the last occasion when I shall go inside those particular mausoleums. I cannot pretend that will be a hardship for me personally. Though for anyone like my brother Philip, who had ambitions in this direction, it must be an unpleasant wrench to leave.’
I was amazed at his matter-of-fact tone, at the infusion of cheerfulness and heartiness which I had not heard in him for many weeks. He had spoken of his brother with his old mixture of admiration, envy, sense of unworthiness, and detached incredulity, incredulity that a man should choose such a life. He had spoken as he might have done in untroubled days. It was hard to remember his silent anguish an hour before in Sir Philip’s room. He said: ‘I shall want to speak to my son Charles this morning.’
His tone was still matter-of-fact. He said that he would ring Charles up as soon as he got home. Then he talked of other things, all the way to Bryanston Square. The end had come and he was released. He was flooded by a rush of power. He could go through with it, he knew. He could act as though of his own free will. It set him speaking cheerfully and heartily.
He took me into his study. He gave me Getliffe’s letter and said casually: ‘I hope you will be able to settle the fellow for us.’ Then he asked: ‘Are you sufficiently familiar with my son’s efforts as a practitioner to know where he is to be found at this time in the morning?’ It was ten past twelve.