Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 32

  ‘What he means, Mr Oakley,’ Disvan translated, ‘is that the consequences haven’t arrived yet, but we await the day.’

  ‘The day of what?’

  My three companions suddenly brought fresh attention to the discussion.

  ‘The Republic!’ said Mr Disvan, proudly. ‘The Commonwealth, the “Good Old Cause”—call it what you wish.’

  I started to feel the sense of unease that was part and parcel of knowing Mr Disvan. I raised the usual ineffective barricade against further thought on the subject.

  ‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid,’ I said.

  ‘No matter, Mr Oakley. I’ll re-cap for you. Cromwell knew he was not long for this world. He knew he had no proper successor—not one worthy of him, anyway. He was also aware, given the nature of the Royalists and their lackeys, what was likely to happen to his body should they lay their hands on it. He took steps to prevent them achieving the victory they wanted.’

  ‘By which you mean...?’

  ‘By which I mean the negation of his work and cancellation of his memory. Being the man he was, he felt a continuing sense of responsibility for his countrymen and the Commonwealth of Everyman he had tried, however falteringly, to build. Therefore, he ensured that, in the right circumstances and in the right company—’

  ‘He’s alive, isn’t he?’ I interrupted, no longer able to contain myself. ‘That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? In that rotten box, Cromwell’s head is alive and—’

  ‘No, he’s not alive, Mr Oakley, not really,’ said Disvan, attempting to calm me. ‘That would be blasphemous and beyond the power of men to arrange. No, it’s truer to say that he merely maintains a link with us to see how we’re getting along. And, in the presence of sympathisers, he’ll even offer guidance.’

  It all seemed vaguely improper and distasteful to me, and so I naturally wanted to know more.

  ‘Guidance about what?’

  ‘Oh, most things. Politics, morals, religion, warfare; you name it—and it’s all good stuff. Whose shrewd judgement do you think Terence the solicitor followed to become a cabinet minister? Whose advice do you reckon Reggie Suntan followed to back the right side in all those little wars that made him rich?’

  I tentatively indicated back towards the college.

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Mr Disvan jubilantly. ‘Mind you, they had to pay handsomely for the consultation. That’s how we support the Scholarship fund—the students’ grants, the contribution to Sydney Sussex, the equipment costs and everything. Loath as we are to foster the likes of Terence, the Scholarship has to be self-financing.’

  ‘So,’ I said slowly, thinking as I went along, ‘that’s why you read him all the papers and let him listen to the news and have those videos and so on. The Binscombe Scholarship students are there to keep him up to date with what’s going on.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Disvan. ‘Well, in fact, one does that and the other provides security—but basically you’re right, yes.’

  ‘Every newspaper,’ added Thurloe, ‘every journal of opinion, scientific digest and new historical work. All the documentaries on TV and radio, Question Time on BBC 1, Channel 4 news and all that sort of thing. He’s also keen on The Sky at Night with Patrick Moore and Songs of Praise—but that’s purely for relaxation.’

  Most of the features of Binscombe life were like three-hundred-piece jigsaws of blue sky. This one was now almost complete but for the centre, which remained obstinately empty.

  ‘All this,’ I said, ‘just to provide advice for money? Has the “Enterprise Culture” captured Binscombe as well?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Mr Disvan, almost indignantly. ‘All that’s just a useful by-product, a necessary distraction. No, Mr Oakley, the Binscombe Scholarship is here to wait for the word.’

  I wondered whether to ask ‘what word?’ and decided not to.

  ‘What word?’ I asked, nevertheless.

  ‘The word!’ said Vladimir Bretwalda, stabbing his giant finger at me. ‘The word that the Lord Protector has lingered on and endured indignities to tell us. Word of the day of his return.’

  ‘Ah...’ I said, this being the best I could manage.

  ‘When conditions are right,’ said an equally animated Thurloe, ‘he’ll tell us and return. That’s the word we’re waiting for, Mr Oakley.’

  ‘He’ll be reborn to lead his people’ said Mr Disvan. ‘We may not all be here to see it, but one day we’ll have our Republic!’

  The four of us talked for a while and Mr Disvan braved going to the bar to buy another round of drinks. The afternoon wore on and, in a peaceful Cambridge wine-bar, we discussed the second—and final—English Civil War. Then, as a very special honour, I was escorted back to the college to read that day’s Financial Times to Oliver Cromwell.

  LET THE TRAIN TAKE THE STRAIN

  Normally, when I cross the threshold of the Argyll, I say something like ‘Hello everyone’. On the evening in question, however, by way of alternative, I growled and said, ‘Aaaargh!’ instead.

  Everyone looked suitably concerned. It was the sort of noise they associated with rabies and shot Germans in comic books.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mr Oakley?’ said Mr Disvan.

  ‘British—bloody—bastard—Rail!’ I spat out through gritted teeth while striding up to the bar.

  ‘Ah... I thought you were a bit late again. What would you like to calm you down?’

  It was child’s play for me to formulate an instant response.

  ‘I’d like... fifty fat, surly, unhelpful, inefficient BR employees, lined up in front of me and my finger on the trigger of a machine gun!’

  The landlord mimed looking along the length of his shelves before saying, ‘Sorry, I seem to be right out of those.’ But even he knew better than to grin when I was in the grip of a BR berserker fury.

  I was wisely left alone for a few minutes. The memories of empty track and cold stations began to fade along with the visions of slaughter. Each of the drinks I downed added centuries of civilisation back onto me, and in time I was in a fit state to rejoin society.

  ‘Better?’ asked Lottie the landlady, looking at me nervously.

  ‘Much, thank you.’

  ‘What was it this time?’ said Mr Disvan. ‘More cancellations?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s right, due to something called “Noguard”. They also threw in some leisurely, unexplained stops so we could stare at telegraph poles and the backs of buildings—those were fun too.’

  ‘You ought to pack this commuting in,’ rumbled Mr Bretwalda, ‘it’s putting years on you.’

  ‘And us,’ added the landlord.

  If all this had been a cartoon, a glowing lightbulb would have appeared over my head.

  ‘I’ve had an idea!’ I said.

  Mr Disvan frowned. ‘Retaliation is no answer, Mr Oakley. BR are doing their best.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant that I am going to give up commuting. I’m going to take my car in future.’

  The landlord guffawed. ‘Who’ll give me evens on a coronary within the year?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I protested, ‘I’m serious. If I leave early enough and duck and weave through the side streets once I’m off the motorway, I should miss the worst of the traffic. I can park at my firm’s place and come home when it suits me. It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?’

  The audience gave every sign of being underwhelmed by my argument—except Mr Disvan.

  ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘And if you do get stuck in a jam, you can at least listen to your flash car stereo.’

  ‘Exactly. And I won’t have to sit opposite people who pick their nose and talk to themselves.’

  Disvan was urging me on. ‘And no more unlawful detentions halfway between Vauxhall and Wimbledon.’

  ‘And no more “Noguard”.’

  ‘And you can give me a lift tomorrow.’

  The liberation chorus ended abruptly.

  �
��What?’

  ‘My car’s in the garage, Mr Oakley, having tinted glass put in. I need to be in London tomorrow morning and I don’t fancy the tender mercies of BR any more than you do.’

  I somehow felt that I’d been taken for a ride—in order provide a ride. The Argyll regulars were having a communal ‘smile-in’ at my expense. Obscurely aggrieved, I played for time.

  ‘What are you going to London for?’

  ‘To lobby my MP.’

  ‘Terence the solicitor?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He hasn’t paid this month’s blackmail. I’ll see you at your house, seven o’clock sharp, okay?’

  * * *

  ‘It’s very kind of you to give me this lift,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘but I suspect you’ll be back on the train tomorrow.’

  I suspected the same and had ground away a fair amount of tooth for that reason. From soon after leaving Binscombe, our progress had been painfully slow. Unless I was prepared to depart at 4 o’clock in the morning every day, it was clear my wonderful idea was a non-starter.

  We were idling gently along, bumper to bumper on the motorway, in a sterile bit of landscape that wasn’t any place in particular. In front of us was a school minibus, the vile occupants of which had been making faces at me for the last three interminable miles. Mr Disvan was greatly enjoying himself, taking the rare opportunity provided by our frantic 5 m.p.h. pace, to study the countryside, such as it was. Without deigning to ask for permission, he capped his contentment by unleashing his meerschaum pipe on me. Within minutes, the car was filled with fumes that even a police constable on his first week of duty couldn’t fail to identify.

  It was, therefore, almost with a sense of relief that I noted the red warning light flick into life on my dashboard. It somehow seemed in keeping with the spirit of the day. I immediately began to edge the car towards the hard shoulder.

  Much as he appeared to be otherwise engaged, Mr Disvan had noticed the new disaster.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Mr Oakley,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s probably just the fan belt gone. If you press on, there’s a garage only a few miles away.’

  ‘No chance,’ I replied. ‘Have you seen the temperature gauge? I’m pulling over.’

  ‘That may not be wise, Mr Oakley—and anyway, it’s only a company vehicle.’

  ‘Not wise? What do you mean?’

  By this time, I’d got onto the hard shoulder and stopped the car. The minibus of citizens-to-be thankfully moved on and out of my life, if not my memory, forever.

  Mr Disvan was staring straight ahead, up the endless length of the hard shoulder. Another casualty of the road, already parked a few hundred yards on, seemed to hold his attention.

  ‘I have a feeling,’ he said calmly, ‘that my meaning will shortly be made clear.’

  As if on cue, a man emerged from the halted car and stood beside it, looking intently at us. At that distance, I could see little of him but for the glint of light off his sunglasses. He briefly leant back into the car to say something to another person within and then strode purposefully towards us.

  Mr Disvan sighed heavily.

  ‘I did warn you, Mr Oakley. For safety’s sake, I suggest you bale out and head off across country.’

  ‘What?’ I questioned—but too late. Mr Disvan was out of the car and gone to meet the advancing stranger.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t so foolish as to take Disvan’s ‘advice’. I sat tight and watched the imminent encounter on the hard shoulder.

  Disvan came with in a few yards of the man and then halted. Closer to, I saw that he was a powerfully built figure, dressed in jeans and tee-shirt. Mirror shades reinforced the sinister image gratuitously placed on him by Mr Disvan.

  The man also stopped, and he and Disvan faced each other for a very long and silent minute. If anything had been said, I could not have heard it (for the ceaseless traffic continued to struggle by) but I was convinced that neither’s lips moved and no words were exchanged.

  For reasons that I would deny in other company, I began to feel that something actually was wrong. I wondered whether to sound my horn or wade in with the heavy spanner I keep handy in the car. As the thought patterns of the Dark Ages really got a grip, I even considered starting up the car and mowing the stranger down. Just in time, I remembered that this wasn’t the sort of thing that people like me were supposed to do.

  The hard shoulder encounter ended equally suddenly. First, the man took an involuntary step back, as if pushed by an invisible hand. Then he shrugged and peered round Disvan’s shoulder, casting a hungry look (or so it seemed) at my car—and me sitting helplessly within it. Finally, he whirled round on his heels and marched away.

  Mr Disvan returned, mopping his brow with a red handkerchief. I got out and went to meet him.

  ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘That could have been nasty.’

  I had a choice. I could go along with the growing signs of weirdness or else stick with safe normality. As usual, I tried to hang on to normality and, also as per usual, it was soon torn from my feeble grasp.

  ‘What do you mean, “nasty”?’ I said. ‘I expect he just wanted help.’

  Disvan chuckled to himself. ‘Well... in a manner of speaking, Mr Oakley.’

  ‘What’s so funny, Mr Disvan?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, I can see I’m to get no gratitude, so let’s find out if we can fix the car before another seeker of “help” turns up. If you’d kindly release the bonnet lock, Mr Oakley...’

  I did so, happy to leave the previous unsettling topic of conversation alone.

  ‘Sure enough,’ came Disvan’s voice from between the car’s gaping jaw, ‘it’s the fan belt.’

  I walked round to join Disvan where the action was (or wasn’t) and supplied a sympathy look into the mouth of the vehicle.

  ‘Blast it, I haven’t got a spare with me.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Oakley, a lady’s stocking or pair of tights will do to get us to the nearest garage.’

  I stared at the side of Disvan’s innocent, unperturbed face and allowed just a hint of sarcasm to hitch a ride on my reply.

  ‘Well, odd as it may seem, Mr Disvan, I don’t happen to be wearing stockings or tights today.’

  Anything more subtle than a punch in the eye was lost on Disvan when he so chose.

  ‘Glad to hear it, Mr Oakley. No, what I was referring to was that one of the myriad, transient lady friends that pass through your hands and car, might have left such a nether garment behind.’

  I was already late for work and pretty fed up. Now, insults about my lifestyle were being added to injury.

  ‘I’m going off to ring for the AA, Mr Disvan. You stay here, okay?’

  Disvan looked up and down the length of the hard shoulder as if deciding something.

  ‘It seems clear,’ he said, ‘so you should be safe. All right, off you go.’

  I could have said I was going whether he liked it or not, but something more interesting pre-empted it. I noticed that both the man with the mirror shades and his car had gone. That was slightly strange since, despite the constant traffic, I felt sure I would have heard him drive away. Clearly I’d been mistaken and, despite the fact that he was not my favourite human being at the moment, I mentioned this to Mr Disvan.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘he vanished a little while ago.’

  ‘So, his car couldn’t have been broken down after all.’

  Disvan looked up from pondering upon my cold and silent motor and gave me a puzzled look.

  ‘His car?’ he said. ‘What’s his car got to do with it?’

  That was the final, enigmatic straw. I walked off in search of an emergency telephone.

  It took only a few minutes of ambling along the hard shoulder to block out, and then forget, the passing cars. Amid the unending noise and tumult, I felt curiously alone and, as my own car gradually dwindled into the distance, a sense of liberty descended upon me. I was a pioneer in this ra
rely visited, linear creation, I thought, and, for once, a free agent. I was free of thoughts about work and love and anything much at all beyond the next five minutes. That was a rare holiday in my existence: an intoxicating concept, or possibly the effect of carbon monoxide poisoning. I recalled some lines of poetry from prep school:

  ‘What is this life, if full of care,

  we have no time to stop and stare?’

  It seemed to me there was some truth in that (unlike so much else I’d learnt there). Under the influence of such silly feelings, I stopped to study the wider world about me.

  On the side away from the motorway, the ground dipped down steeply into a sad landscape of conifer plantations and neglected fields. I wondered whether anyone visited these places from one year’s end to the next.

  It was true that there were fences and gates to be seen, so someone must have been by to place and repair them. However, apart from these tokens, if one faced the right direction, the land was free of life—and looked fit to remain so forever. The motorway had cut off these fields from what they had been before and turned them into obscure borderlands. Now they were visited only with difficulty, by those with strong reason to go there—or else flotsam and jetsam of the road like me.

  I considered what strange things and evil deeds might be hidden in such a landscape, as remote and unwalked in its way as any Scottish mountain. There were great caverns of darkness amid the trees capable of holding any enormity, just a few yards from Mr and Mrs Average driving from normal A to normal B.

  After a fair while, I came to an emergency phone. The pseudo-solitude was becoming oppressive now, and I was looking forward to the sound of a human voice. I spoke to a very nice young lady at the AA and made the necessary arrangements without difficulty. I could hear chatter and clatter behind her in the office and felt reunited with the world of man. Then she replaced her receiver and left me, once again, alone and exposed.

  I happened to glance at the telephone while cramming it back into its receptacle. Someone had gouged two great slivers out of its plastic head. I thought about these and was sure that my very best efforts wouldn’t leave so much as a scratch, let alone huge, white scars.