"Edward," Slater sighed, "I think there's a place on the Editorial Board of The Economist just waiting for you."
"Well, you can come out with all these smart answers," Ed said, still reading, or at least looking at the paperback, "but most people just don" see things the way you do."
"Yes," Slater said, hissing. "Well, there's an open sewer at the bottom of Chancery Lane you can blame for that."
Ed looked puzzled. He looked round at Slater. "What's that, then?"
"Oh, good grief," Slater said. He collapsed back in the grass melodramatically, but left his hand holding the champagne sticking up. "Bingo!" he gasped.
The general election was in a few days. Slater couldn't believe that people really were going to vote the Conservatives back in. Graham wasn't so sure it was such a bad thing, but he kept this private; Slater would have exploded. Graham agreed slightly with Ed; he didn't think anybody could do very much about the economic situation of the country. Certainly he thought the Tories spent too much on arms, especially nuclear weapons, and maybe they should spend more on things like the Health Service, but he admired Mrs Thatcher a little, and she had had a famous victory in the Falklands. He knew it was all rubbish, but he had felt a sort of grudging pride when the Army marched into Port Stanley. Ed didn't seem bothered about letting Slater know what he thought; Graham wasn't sure whether to admire him or feel sorry for him.
He felt somewhat put out when he realised that Ed probably wouldn't care what he thought.
Ed stood up. "Well, I think I'll go an" hire a boat. You want to come?" he looked at Slater, then Graham, then Sara, who shook her head. Slater lay on the grass while Graham looked at him.
"There's a terribly long queue," Slater said. They had already discussed hiring a boat.
"If we don" queue we won" get a boat," Ed shrugged. He stuffed the paperback into the rear waist of the denim shorts, against the small of his back. Slater said nothing, stared at the sky. "Well," Ed said, "I can queue anyway. You come down later when I'm nearer gettin" a boat, if you like." He stood there.
"Sometimes," Slater said, addressing the sky, "I think it would be nice if they just got the war over with now. One ten-megaton over Westminster now, and we'd hardly know a thing... just vaporised dust mixed up with the grass and the soil and the water and the clay and the rock..."
"You're a right bleedin" pessimist," Ed said. "You sound like some of them C.N.D.-ers sometimes, you do." He nodded down at Slater, hands on hips.
Slater kept staring at the sky. Then he said, "I do hope you're not now going to tell me once again what a fine bunch of lads you met in the Army."
"Shit." Ed turned away, shaking his head, and started walking off towards the Serpentine and the boat houses. "Well, if you don" want to fuckin" defend yourself..."
Slater lay there for a moment, then jerked upright, spilling a little of his champagne. Ed was about ten yards way. Slater shouted after him, "Well, when it does fall, and you do fry, I just hope you remember what a fucking wonderful idea you thought it was!" Ed didn't react. People in nearby deckchairs and other groups of people also sunning themselves did, though, looking over.
"Sh," Sara said lazily. "You won't do any good shouting at him like that."
"He's an idiot," Slater said, collapsing back on the grass.
"He's entitled to his views," Graham said.
"Oh, don't be stupid, Graham," Slater snapped. "He reads the Sun on the bus every morning going to work."
"So?" Graham said.
"Well, my dear boy," Slater said, talking through rictused lips, "if he spends half an hour each day shovelling shit into his brain, you can't expect his ideas to do anything else but stink, can you?"
"He's still entitled to his views," Graham said, feeling awkward under Sara's gaze, her cool regard. He played with a few blades of grass, twisting them in his fingers. Slater sighed.
"If he had any of his own, I might allow you that, Graham, but the question is: are the proprietors of Fleet Street entitled to Edward's views? No?" He came more upright, leaning on one elbow and looking at Graham. Graham made a face and shrugged.
"You expect too much of people," Sara told Slater. He looked at her through hooded eyes, one eyebrow raised.
"Do I indeed?"
"They're not all like you. They really don't think the way you do."
"They just don't think, period," Slater snorted. Sara smiled and Graham was glad she was talking; it let him look at her, drink her in, without either of them feeling embarrassed.
"That's just it," Sara smiled. They do, of course they do. But they believe in different things, they have different priorities, and a lot of them wouldn't want some perfect socialist state even if you could bring it about." Slater snorted with derision at this.
"Great, so they're now getting ready to vote themselves five more years of cuts, poverty and exciting new methods of incinerating millions of our fellow human beings. Certainly a long way from your ideal socialist state; what is this, the de Sade school of political sociology?"
"So they get what they deserve," Sara said. "Why do you pretend to care so much more about them than they do themselves?"
"Oh, fuck," Slater said, "I give in." He collapsed back on the grass. Sara looked at Graham, smiled and raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. Graham laughed quietly.
She hurt his eyes. She sat in the shadow of the tree, but the whiteness of her skin, the bright shoes and stockings and dress and the hat all reflected sunlight from the brilliant sky, and he could hardly look at her for the glow which struck his eyes.
He drank his champagne. It was still cool; Slater had brought the bottle inside a cool-bag, and it lay by the tree trunk, in shadow like Sara. Slater had been genuinely offended when Graham, told to bring glasses, turned up with only plastic cups. He thought Graham would understand.
Graham had been a bit worried about Slater meeting Sara; the last time either of them had seen her had been earlier that same week, and he thought Slater might have mentioned it. They had gone together up to Half Moon Crescent, on a day when Sara had suddenly cancelled their afternoon walk along the canal. She'd been abrupt, even distressed over the phone, and he had been worried. He had decided to walk up that way anyway, just to be there, in case there was anything obviously wrong. Slater had been concerned, too, both at Graham's obvious agitation, and at Sara's state as Graham described it. Graham didn't mind his friend coming along: he was glad of the company.
They started out walking, but then on Theobald's Road Slater insisted on getting a bus. Graham pointed out that a 179 only went as far as Kings Cross, which wasn't very far and not even in exactly the right direction. Slater said it was in roughly the right direction, and anyway his new shoes were tight and he didn't want to walk all that way. At King's Cross he got them a taxi. Graham said he couldn't really afford... Slater told him not to worry; he'd pay. It wasn't far.
In the taxi. Slater suddenly remembered something; he had a present for Graham. He dug into his jacket pocket. "Here," he said, and handed Graham something hard wrapped in tissue paper. Graham unwrapped it as the cab went up Pentonville Road. It was a small glazed china figurine of a woman, naked, with large breasts and her knees bent, feet under her buttocks, legs spread out. Her tiny face was set in an expression of ecstasy, her shoulders were thrown back as though she was forcing her conical breasts higher, and her hands were down at her hips, open and delicate, each finger carefully moulded. Her genitals, in the quick glance Graham gave them, seemed rather exaggerated.
"Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?" he said to Slater.
Slater took the figurine back with a grin and produced a pencil from his inside pocket, "No," he said, "it's a pencil sharpener; look," and he inserted the pencil between the model's legs.