When the Conservative government announced that they were abolishing free eye tests on the NHS in April 1988, Thomas phoned his brother Henry to tell him that they were making a big mistake: there would be a public outcry. Henry told him that he was overreacting. There would be a whimper of protest from the usual quarters, he said, and then it would all quietly die down.
‘And I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘I should have bowed to your political judgment, as always.’
‘Well, it’s quite simple, really.’ Henry leaned forward and threw another log on the fire. It was a cold, dark afternoon in early October 1989, and they were enjoying tea and muffins in one of the Heartland Club’s private rooms. ‘The trick is to keep doing outrageous things. There’s no point in passing some scandalous piece of legislation and then giving everyone time to get worked up about it. You have to get right in there and top it with something even worse, before the public have had a chance to work out what’s hit them. The thing about the British conscience, you see, is that it really has no more capacity than … a primitive home computer, if you like. It can only hold two or three things in its memory at a time.’
Thomas nodded and bit eagerly into his muffin.
‘Unemployment, for instance,’ Henry continued. ‘When was the last time you saw a newspaper headline about unemployment? Nobody gives a hoot any more.’
‘I know: and all this is very reassuring, old boy,’ said Thomas, ‘but what I really want is some concrete guarantee …’
‘Of course you do. Of course.’ Henry frowned and focused his mind upon the matter in hand, which was the case of Farzad Bazoft, a British journalist recently imprisoned in Baghdad on charges of espionage. ‘I understand your point entirely. You and Mark want to protect your investments: I can quite sympathize with that.’
‘Well, it isn’t even just Mark. We’ve got plenty of other clients besides Vanguard who are doing very nicely servicing Saddam and his shopping list. We’re all committed up to our necks, frankly.’
‘You don’t have to remind me.’
‘Yes, but look: this sounds to me like a very delicate situation. This man’s a British subject. Surely this new chap at the Foreign Office — Major, or whatever his name is — is going to come under a bit of pressure to get him released.’
Henry raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. ‘How could he possibly do that?’
‘Well, sanctions, of course.’
‘Really,’ said Henry, laughing out loud, ‘I’m amazed that you think we’d even contemplate such a thing. We’ve got a $700 million surplus with Iraq. Confidentially, there’s going to be another four or five hundred where that came from in a month or two. If you think we’re going to jeopardize all of that …’
He tailed off: the sentence didn’t need finishing.
‘Yes, but what about Mark’s little … line of business?’
This time Henry’s laughter was shorter, more private. ‘Put it this way: how on earth can we impose sanctions on something, when we’re not even selling it in the first place. Mm?’
Thomas smiled. ‘Well, I can see you have a point there.’
‘I know Major hasn’t been in the job for long and we’re all a bit worried that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s playing at. But take it from me — he’s a good boy. He does what he’s told.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘And besides, he might be moving again soon.’
‘What, already?’
‘It looks that way. Margaret and Nigel seem to be heading for a final bust-up. We suspect there’ll be a vacancy at Number Eleven pretty soon.’
Thomas tucked this information away at the back of his mind for future reference. It had considerable implications, which he would need to contemplate and examine at his leisure.
‘Do you think they’ll hang him?’ he asked suddenly.
Henry shrugged. ‘Well, he was a rotten chancellor, it has to be said, but that would be a bit drastic.’
‘No, no, not Lawson. I mean this journo character. Bazoft.’
‘Oh, him. I dare say they will, yes. That’s what happens if you’re silly enough to get caught snooping around Saddam’s arms factories, I suppose.’
‘Making trouble.’
‘Exactly.’ Henry stared into space for a moment. ‘I must say, there are one or two snoopers over here that I wouldn’t mind seeing strung up on Ludgate Hill, if it came to that.’
‘Nosey parkers.’
‘Precisely.’ Briefly a frown crossed his face, comprised half of malevolence and half recollection. ‘I wonder whatever happened to that scruffy little writer that Mad Tabs set on us a few years back?’
‘Him! Good God, that fellow got up my nose. What on earth she was thinking of …’ He shook his head. ‘Well, anyway: she’s just a poor witless old fool …’
‘You spoke to that chap, then, did you?’
‘Invited him up to the office. Gave him lunch. The works. All I got in return was a lot of impertinent questions.’
‘Such as?’
‘He had a bee in his bonnet about Westland,’ said Thomas. ‘Wanted to know why Stewards had been so keen to support the American bid when there was a European one on the table.’
‘What, and he supposed you were snuggling up to Margaret in the hope of a knighthood or something, did he?’
‘Even more devious than that, I’m afraid. Although, now you come to mention it, I seem to remember there was something promised …’
Henry shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I haven’t forgotten, Thomas, really. I’m seeing her tomorrow. I’ll bring it up again.’
‘Anyway, he’d got this absurd theory that Sikorsky had tied up some huge arms deal with the Saudis, and the only reason we all wanted to climb into bed with them was to get ourselves a slice of the cake.’
‘Preposterous.’
‘Outrageous.’
‘And so what did you say to that?’
‘I sent him packing,’ said Thomas, ‘with a few choice words once directed at myself, on one very memorable occasion, by the late, great and much lamented Sid James.’
‘Oh?’
‘I said — and here I quote from memory—“Do us all a favour, laughing boy: piss off out of it and don’t come back.” ’
And then the room echoed as Thomas attempted his own version of the comedian’s smoky, inimitable laugh.
It had happened in the late spring of 1961. Thomas arrived at Twickenham Studios at about lunchtime and made his way to the restaurant, where he spied three vaguely familiar faces at a corner table. One of them was Dennis Price, still best known for his leading role in Kind Hearts and Coronets twelve years earlier; another was the wizened, eccentric Esma Cannon, who reminded Thomas irresistibly of his mad Aunt Tabitha, still confined to a high-security asylum somewhere on the edge of the Yorkshire moors; and the third, unmistakably, was Sid James, one of the stars of the film currently in production — a loose comic remake of an old Boris Karloff feature, The Ghoul, under the new title What a Carve Up!
Thomas fetched himself a tray of corned beef hash and jam pudding, and went over to join them.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ he said.
‘It’s a free country, mate,’ said Sid James, indifferently.
Thomas had been introduced to all three actors a few weeks ago, but he could see that they didn’t recognize him, and their conversation, which had been lively, dried up when he sat beside them.