The Big Day Read online

  ‘From behind? No, I don’t think so.’ Dishevelled, unpunctual, smelling of drink, that was the count against Mafferty. He was to be interviewed that morning.

  Raising himself a little and turning his wrist at the side of Lavinia’s head, Cuthbertson checked the time: it was eighteen minutes past seven. Mafferty was to be interviewed in … three hours and twenty-seven minutes precisely. He had found it increasingly necessary of late to keep times firmly fixed in his head, otherwise the day slid away, lost form.

  ‘Thank you all the same,’ he said, with absent-minded politeness. Suddenly, and with irrepressible pride, he was aware of the quiet house all about him, with its many rooms, hushed and prepared for the students; the gardens beyond neat borders, clipped hedges, straight alleys of shrubs. Himself at the centre. But not as he should be, not in masterful repose. It was as if the centre was sticky somehow, and held him, faintly twitching … The feeling of being in the toils of something began to descend on Cuthbertson, and with it some return of the fear that woke him daily, the terrible need for circumspection.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lavinia said, with a sort of muffled, gloomy sarcasm, ‘perhaps you would like to wear my clothes? My knickers, for example.’

  ‘I don’t think you ought to refer to them in that way,’ Cuthbertson said, his hearing again affected. ‘It could give offence.’

  ‘Any way you like.’

  ‘Blacks would be a better term. In my line of business I come across a good number.’

  ‘Do you indeed? Well, if that is the colour you like best – ‘

  ‘No, no,’ Cuthbertson said, ‘I have a great deal of sympathy for Africans, as for all emergent peoples, but I prefer my own pigmentation, basically.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Donald? I asked you if you would like to wear my knickers.’

  ‘Knickers?’ Cuthbertson was silent for some moments, then he said slowly. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ These suggestions, coming from so close beside him, were beginning to seem strangely like promptings from his own lower nature. He raised himself slightly and looked at his wife’s face. Her large blue eyse regarded him unblinkingly. ‘I thought you were comparing me with negroes,’ he said. Suddenly he was stricken by doubts as to whether he had remembered to instruct Bishop, his Senior Tutor and Administrative Officer, to post up the examination results. No one who had paid the fee ever failed, of course, if conduct had been satisfactory, but it was vitally important to keep to the forms …

  ‘What about a mirror in the ceiling?’ Lavinia said.

  Feverishly Cuthbertson sought in his mind among the mass of directives, notes, memoranda he had issued in the last few days. He could remember nothing relating to examination results.

  ‘In a gilt frame,’ Lavinia said, ‘Who would you like to do it with?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘If it wasn’t me, who would you like to be doing it with?’

  ‘You are the only – ‘

  ‘Yes, but who, who?’

  ‘Miss Naylor,’ Cuthbertson said at random.

  There was a short silence. Miss Naylor was his secretary. She was young, only twenty, and she had a very beautiful figure.

  ‘No, no,’ Lavinia said judiciously. ‘Do it with Mrs Binks.’ Mrs Binks, the wife of a member of his staff, was in her fifties and had a grim, large-jawed face, and a baying, rather blood-curdling laugh. The thought of sexual congress with Mrs Binks was not attractive to Cuthbertson.

  ‘I don’t really think – ’ he began.

  ‘Mrs Binks, Mrs Binks,’ Lavinia said, ‘Mrs Binks.’

  ‘Very well, my dear,’ Cuthbertson said hollowly. ‘Mrs Binks let it be.’

  Lavinia waited some moments, as if to let thoughts of an unclothed Mrs Binks do their work. Then, as he made no further movement, uttered no futher sound, she sat up a little in the bed and turned her head accusingly towards him. ‘You really are hopeless, Donald,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how long we can go on like this.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Cuthbertson said. He felt very little emotion, however, only a kind of generalized anxiety. He was aware of potential for sorrow deep within, but there was a thick wadding or padding around it, made up of all the things he had to worry about. His thoughts returned now to Mr Honeyball, and the threat of being taken over by the State.

  ‘You ought to read the Karma Sutra,’ Lavinia said.

  ‘Mr Honeyball is coming to tea this afternoon, isn’t he?’ Cuthbertson said. ‘Be nice to him, won’t you? I believe he has a good deal of influence.’

  This Honeyball, who occupied a place in the thoughts of both Donald and Lavinia, was at this moment making a confidential report to a man named Baines. They were sitting in the small, meagrely furnished bed-sitting room rented by Baines on a weekly basis. Honeyball spoke rather quickly, not opening his lips very wide, not looking often at Baines, referring from time to time to a small pocket-book. He had called on his way to work, as he did Mondays and Thursdays, when Baines was in town. Any oftener than this, Baines thought, might be regarded as suspicious. Mr Honeyball was an official of the local branch of the Ministry of Education, in the Inspectorate Department, whose offices were in the centre of town.

  The room was small and airless, with one narrow window looking out on to a blank wall. Baines was sitting at the table, before him a newspaper and an empty white plate. He was wearing dark blue pyjamas and a voluminous, tawny-coloured dressing-gown, which had moulted here and there, giving him a mangy look. However, he wore it with considerable style. He had tied a blue, polka-dotted cravat round his thick neck, and from his breast pocket there protruded a careless brown silk handkerchief. He kept his large, blue-featured face turned steadily towards Honeyball all the time the latter was speaking. When the report was finished there was silence for a while, with Honeyball looking modestly down at his sharply creased trousers, and Baines appearing to meditate.

  ‘Is Kenneth getting the best of everything?’ Baines said at last. His voice was deep, deliberate, curiously plangent, as if produced in an atmosphere different from that of his hearer. He was glancing, as he spoke, at the front page of his newspaper, at a picture of carnage and devastation, uniformed persons picking their way. Another bomb. Strange, he thought, perhaps a good omen, on this day of all days, when the Party was to explode its own smaller, obscurer bomb in the town, that there should be this national focus of outrage and indignation. The Party, of course, was aiming at property, not human lives. Not like these anarchist shits … Though listening to his underling Honeyball with a composed face, Baines felt exhilaration gathering deep within him at this patch of chaos in the newspaper, portent of that universal chaos they were aiming at, working for, in which amid blood and debris nations wheel and reform, from which all great cleansing, purifying movements are launched, the womb of –

  He checked these thoughts, out of the long habit of conspiracy, and stared suspiciously at Honeyball, who knew nothing about the bomb plans.

  ‘– been to see him in hospital,’ Honeyball was saying. ‘He seemed all right. He can’t talk very well.’ Aware of Baines’ scrutiny, he moved his slender neck inside its restricting collar, in a restless movement habitual to him. Then Baines averted his face, and Honeyball was looking with awe at the profile of a Regional Controller, one of the Party’s full-time officials.

  ‘His face is still bandaged, of course,’ he said. Kenneth had suffered a formidable blow in a street fracas two nights previously, when his nose and jaw had been broken.

  ‘Has he any idea who did it?’

  ‘None at all. He was with three others. They had succeeded in pulling the speaker down from his box, but then some people got in the way. Some of his own people I think. He did get hurt, actually. The speaker I mean. Ronald saw him being kicked. But it wasn’t one of our men – it happened before they could get to him. It was late in the evening, you know, and several of the people in the crowd were drunk.’ Honeyball paused, thinning his lips with distaste at this animality.


  ‘You say the speaker is known to us?’

  ‘Yes. He lives here in the town. It is the W.F.S., you know. Workers for a Free Society. Local branch.’

  ‘Trotskyite scum,’ Baines said mildly. ‘Semites not far to seek there, old boy. Don’t be taken in by this local branch jargon. They’ve got no national organization to speak of. I doubt if they could muster a hundred members.’

  ‘Not like us,’ Honeyball said, with immediate contempt for such weakness.

  ‘Our strength is in the public, in public support and sympathy,’ Baines said. He stood up, a tall, broad-shouldered, imposing figure, despite the mangy dressing-gown. ‘We are not politicians,’ he said. ‘We are old-fashioned patriots. And that is not such a rare breed as these anarchist shits try to make out. There are millions of us, typical, inarticulate English men and women, waiting for someone to give them a lead, voice their deepest feelings. They can see what is happening to this country, Honeyball, and they are waiting. That patience, that courage, it still exists, Honeyball, in the bosoms of countless men and women throughout this country. Those are the things that made us great.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Honeyball said.

  ‘When we have finished our game of bowls,’ Baines said, ‘we shall deal with these people who are trying to bring this country to its knees, and the reckoning will be heavy. It sounds like a loaded stick that was used on Kenneth. Something that was laid right across his face.’

  ‘It does sound like that, yes.’

  ‘He shall have a citation,’ Baines said. ‘As soon as he is sufficiently recovered. I will see to it personally. Here would probably be the best place for the ceremony. A simple bar, you know, for gallantry in the face of the enemy. For the moment, of course, it is merely a token, but one day, and that day is coming sooner than a lot of people think, our boys will be able to wear their insignia publicly and with pride. Tell him, will you?’

  ‘I will, yes.’ Honeyball felt a deep pang of jealousy and hostility towards Kenneth, now so contemptibly weak and disabled. His position as Branch Secretary precluded front line activities on his part.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Baines said. ‘I’ll tell him myself. I think I can get along to the hospital later on this morning.’ He paused for a moment or two, considering. He thought of the little brown bag under his bed. He had things to arrange today which had to be kept very quiet – even from the local party membership, and that included Honeyball. Besides, he hated hospitals and all evidence of sickness. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I can fit it in. There is this wretched costume to hire, too, isn’t there?’

  ‘For Mrs Cuthbertson’s party. Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Well,’ Baines said, ‘it’s got to be done, I suppose. You will take care of those papers, won’t you? The Contingency Plans.’

  ‘Yes, of course. They are safe in my brief-case. As soon as I get home tonight I’ll put them under lock and key.’

  ‘Good man. Absolutely fatal if they got into the wrong hands. It’s not so much our own people, but various other groups – small concerns, but they are important collectively. Lots of little armies, you might say. Some more military than others, of course. Some not military at all. They must be kept in a state of resentment, Honeyball. At present it is the only unity they possess. That is the thinking up at Head-quarters and I think it is sound thinking.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Good man. Well, as I say, it would be fatal to let the Press, for example, get hold of them. There are no names mentioned, but these are fairly detailed plans of what might be done, on a local basis, in the event of a breakdown, should the government prove ineffective.’ Baines paused a moment, smiling. ‘And it will,’ he said. ‘It will prove ineffective.’

  ‘I know it will.’

  ‘Good man. Well, it would reveal the political involvement, you see. I mean, all these people, there is no ideology in common, we must provide that, but they would be ready to act if things got to a certain stage… That is what we need, that sort of vigilante spirit, but not identified with a party …’

  ‘That would come later.’ Honeyball said, with a little, coughing laugh.

  ‘Exactly,’ Baines said. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better start getting dressed.’

  ‘I’ll be on my way then,’ Honeyball said, looking modestly aside.

  ‘You have some time left, haven’t you?’

  Honeyball looked at his watch. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is only seven-thirty.’

  ‘I thought we might have a talk about this Cuthbertson chap,’ Baines said.

  Without his glasses Cuthbertson couldn’t see the farther reaches of his wife’s room very clearly. The dressing-table and the clutter of objects upon it were indistinct, as was the large white and gilt wardrobe nearby. The brown and gold pansies on the wallpaper ran together.

  He rose, and padded softly back over the thick carpet to his own room. Once there, he went to his bedside table, found his glasses and put them on. At once the blurred world resettled into clear images. The house took shape around him, assumed the day’s business and purposes. His own room, as always, pleased him by its order and simplicity: single, iron-framed bed, plain oak chest of drawers, narrow wardrobe, white-shaded lamp. Standing there, looking round, Cuthbertson, strove to reassure himself by an elementary process of logic: this room, of which I am the owner, demonstrates beyond doubt its owner’s competence and control … Everything is all right, he thought. It is perfectly obvious that everything is all right. Why do I worry about lists, about persons like Honeyball and Mafferty? Everything emanates from me. In my capacity as Principal I cannot be wrong. Every directive issuing from me is at once transformed into the corporate reality of the School…

  Almost at once, however, even as he was reaching for his dressing-gown behind the door, he experienced a fresh wave of panic. He had suddenly remembered that today was Degree Day. This ceremony took place every six weeks and was an important and colourful occasion. His fear was due to the fact that only now, when he had been awake several hours, had it come into his mind. He had been in danger, therefore, all this time, of forgetting it completely … In an attempt to steady himself he began to utter incantatory phrases in his mind. It falls to my lot… It must surely be apparent to you all … If that is the general feeling of the meeting … Far be it from me …

  This worked, as it sometimes did, and after a moment or two he was able to go back to the door and look in on his wife again. She had hoisted the pillow up, thus raising the angle of her head. He saw her face and met her eyes. For a moment or two they regarded each other in silence and to each of them during those moments the other seemed curiously typical: Lavinia with the flush of her excitement still lingering on her broad, fair-browed, guileless-looking face, at home in this room, her natural habitat, where shades of pink and brown struggled for supremacy, where almost everything was fringed or frilled, from shocking pink lamp shade to brown velvet cushions; and he with that sad doggedness, head up and shoulders braced, after his lamentable failure, thick dark eyebrows above horn-rimmed glasses, the heavy body and the heavy face.

  ‘I don’t know how long we can go on like this, Donald,’ she said. ‘You won’t seek advice.’

  Cuthbertson walked to the bed, one hand going to his dressing-gown pocket. The simple pleasure of being about to give Lavinia something excluded everything else from his mind. ‘This is for you,’ he said. ‘A token of my – ‘

  The pocket, however, was empty. His fingers curled softly, unbelievingly round in it.

  ‘A small gift,’ he said, thrusting his hand hastily into the other pocket. There was nothing there, either. ‘I trust that over the years,’ he said, his desire to make a speech surviving the shock by a few seconds. Then he stopped. ‘But I … It must be …’ he said. He felt his knees begin to tremble. Panic again threatened, and he fought against it, opening his mouth and taking deep breaths. ‘My God,’ he said. He strove to remember himself actually putting the jewel box there, but could recall only the lumi
nous intention, and the shape and glisten of the locket itself, in his hand. He had taken it out to look at it, yes. But in that case … ‘My God,’ he said again, appalled at his inability to remember.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Donald?’

  Through a mist he saw Lavinia sitting up in bed, regarding him alertly. Caution came to him, the need for concealment.

  ‘Silly of me,’ he said, twitching his mouth into a smile. ‘I had something for you. I must have …’

  ‘You probably left it downstairs somewhere,’ she said. ‘Never mind, it will be something to look forward to. Don’t tell me what it is, will you? I’d like it to be a surprise.’

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘You are silly, Donald.’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ Cuthbertson said, normal speech miraculously continuing to proceed from him in spite of the sickening chaos this miscarriage of plan had thrown his mind into.

  ‘You should not be so set in your ways,’ she said. ‘There are books, manuals, which give details.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Cuthbertson said.

  ‘Take the Karma Sutra, for example.’

  Suddenly he realized that she had reverted to the former topic. ‘The Karma Sutra?’ he said. ‘Do you really expect me, at my time of life, to imitate natives?’ The sense of outrage cleared his mind. The rhetorical impulse, always strong in him, became imperious. The moment to assert himself had arrived. ‘Of all the ways,’ he began, in commanding tones, and then paused, looking down at her, marshalling his thoughts.

  ‘You could take a leaf out of their book,’ Lavinia said.

  ‘Distinguishing human beings, I say of all the ways distinguishing human beings from the … from animals, the rest of the animal kingdom, let me put it that way …’

  ‘More than one, several,’ Lavinia said.

  ‘No, no,’ Cuthbertson said, loudly and vehemently. ‘It is in the methods in connexion with copulation, copulatory methods, to put it … Therein lies the distinguishing feature. Human beings make love face to face. Lavinia, we have developed a frontal style.’