Keith was back at the garage by a quarter to eight the following morning, but the man who spoke English didn’t appear until 8:13. He walked round the MG several times before offering an opinion. ‘One week before I can get it back on the road,’ he said sadly. This time Keith passed over a pound.
‘But perhaps I could manage it in a couple of days... It’s all a matter of priorities,’ he repeated. Keith decided he couldn’t afford to be a top priority.
As he stood on a crowded tram he began to consider his funds, or lack of them. If he was to survive for another ten days, pay his hotel bills and for the repairs to his car, he would have to spend the rest of the trip forgoing the luxury of his hotel and sleep in the MG.
Keith jumped off the tram at the now familiar stop, ran up the steps and was standing in front of the counter a few minutes before nine. This time he was kept waiting for twenty minutes, with the same newspapers to read, before the director’s secretary reappeared, an embarrassed look on her face.
‘I am so sorry, Mr. Townsend,’ she said, ‘but Captain Armstrong has had to fly to England unexpectedly. His second in command, Lieutenant Wakeham, would be only too happy to see you.’
Keith spent nearly an hour with Lieutenant Wakeham, who kept calling him ‘old chap,’ explained why he couldn’t get into Spandau and made more jokes about Don Bradman. By the time he left, Keith felt he had learned more about the state of English cricket than about what was going on in Berlin. He passed the rest of the day in the American sector, and regularly stopped to talk to GIs on street corners. They told him with pride that they never left their sector until it was time to return to the States.
When he called back at the garage later that afternoon, the English-speaking mechanic promised him the car would be ready to pick up the following evening.
The next day, Keith made his way by tram to the Russian sector. He soon discovered how wrong he had been to assume that there would be nothing new to learn from the experience. The Oxford University Labor Club would not be pleased to be told that the East Berliners’ shoulders were more hunched, their heads more bowed and their pace slower than those of their fellow-citizens in the Allied sectors, and that they didn’t appear to speak even to each other, let alone to Keith. In the main square a statue of Hitler had been replaced by an even bigger one of Lenin, and a massive effigy of Stalin dominated every street corner. After several hours of walking up and down drab streets with shops devoid of people and goods, and being unable to find a single bar or restaurant, Keith returned to the British sector.
He decided that if he drove to Dresden the following morning he might be able to complete his assignment early, and then perhaps he could spend a couple of days in Deauville replenishing his dwindling finances. He began to whistle as he jumped on a tram that would drop him outside the garage.
The MG was waiting on the forecourt, and he had to admit that it looked quite magnificent. Someone had even cleaned it, so its red bonnet gleamed in the evening light.
The mechanic passed him the key. Keith jumped behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It started immediately. ‘Great,’ he said.
The mechanic nodded his agreement. When Keith stepped out of the car, another garage worker leaned over and removed the key from the ignition.
‘So, how much will that be?’ asked Keith, opening his wallet.
‘Twenty pounds,’ said the mechanic.
Keith swung round and stared at him. ‘Twenty pounds?’ he spluttered. ‘But I don’t have twenty pounds. You’ve already pocketed thirty bob, and the damn car only cost me thirty pounds in the first place.’
This piece of information didn’t seem to impress the mechanic. ‘We had to replace the crankshaft and rebuild the carburetor,’ he explained. ‘And the spare parts weren’t easy to get hold of. Not to mention the bodywork. There’s not much call for such luxuries in Berlin. Twenty pounds,’ he repeated.
Keith opened his wallet and began to count his notes. ‘What’s that in Deutschemarks?’
‘We don’t take Deutschemarks,’ said the mechanic.
‘Why not?’
‘The British have warned us to beware of forgeries.’
Keith decided that the time had come to try some different tactics. ‘This is nothing less than extortion!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll damn well have you closed down!’
The German was unmoved. ‘You may have won the war, sir,’ he said drily, ‘but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay your bills.’
‘Do you think you can get away with this?’ shouted Keith. ‘I’m going to report you to my friend Captain Armstrong of the PRISC. Then you’ll find who’s in charge.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if we called in the police, and we can let them decide who’s in charge.’
This silenced Keith, who paced up and down the forecourt for some time before admitting, ‘I don’t have twenty pounds.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll have to sell the car.’
‘Never,’ said Keith.
‘In which case we’ll just have to garage it for you — at the usual daily rate — until you’re able to pay the bill.’
Keith turned redder and redder while the two men stood hovering over his MG. They looked remarkably unperturbed. ‘How much would you offer me for it?’ he asked eventually.
‘Well, there’s not much call for secondhand right-hand drive sports cars in Berlin,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I could manage 100,000 Deutschemarks.’
‘But you told me earlier that you didn’t deal in Deutschemarks.’
‘That’s only when we’re selling. It’s different when we’re buying.’
‘Is that 100,000 over and above my bill?’
‘No,’ said the mechanic. He paused, smiled and added, ‘but we’ll see that you get a good exchange rate.’
‘Bloody Nazis,’ muttered Keith.
When Keith began his second year at Oxford, he was pressed by his friends in the Labor Club to stand for the committee. He had quickly worked out that although the club had over six hundred members, it was the committee who met Cabinet ministers whenever they visited the university, and who held the power to pass resolutions. They even selected those who attended the party conference and so had a chance to influence party policy.
When the result of the ballot for the committee was announced, Keith was surprised by how large a margin he had been elected. The following Monday he attended his first committee meeting at the Bricklayers’ Arms. He sat at the back in silence, scarcely believing what was taking place in front of his eyes. All the things he despised most about Britain were being re-enacted by that committee. They were reactionary, prejudiced and, whenever it came to making any real decisions, ultra-conservative. If anyone came up with an original idea, it was discussed at great length and then quickly forgotten once the meeting had adjourned to the bar downstairs. Keith concluded that becoming a committee member wasn’t going to be enough if he wanted to see some of his more radical ideas become reality. In his final year he would have to become chairman of the Labor Club. When he mentioned this ambition in a letter to his father, Sir Graham wrote back that he was more interested in Keith’s prospects of getting a degree, as becoming chairman of the Labor Club was not of paramount importance for someone who hoped to succeed him as proprietor of a newspaper group.
Keith’s only rival for the post appeared to be the vice chairman, Gareth Williams, who as a miner’s son with a scholarship from Neath Grammar School certainly had all the right qualifications.
The election of officers was scheduled for the second week of Michaelmas term. Keith realized that every hour of the first week would be crucial if he hoped to become chairman. As Gareth Williams was more popular with the committee than with the rank and file members, Keith knew exactly where he had to concentrate his energies. During the first ten days of term he invited several paid-up members of the club, including freshmen, back to his room for a drink. Night after night they consumed crates of college beer and tart, non-vintage wine, all at Keith’s expense.