Such Men Are Dangerous (33 page)

Not to forgot the cavernous, bustling coach station only half a mile up the road? And so on and so forth. All right, that whole prodigious catch might take a little longer to land than anyone had allowed for, but what was so special, what was so sacrosanct, about November 30
^th
? The Scunthorpe contingent would doubtless be able to sleep in the coach while everybody else, if necessary, could look for modest accomodation funded by the common purse. And, in all honesty, the first day of December would actually make a better date. Dawn reminded everyone that December was the month in which our Saviour had been born and nobody, not even Josh, who in times gone by would certainly have come up with some fairly crushing response, did anything but nod in acquiescence. (Simon, at that time, was praying in the Abbey.)

And Geraldine added that, after all, at the beginning there’d been plenty of publicity; now all that people needed was to have their memories jogged and their curiosity refreshed. For now that the time had finally arrived, who wouldn’t be interested to see the effect on Mrs Thatcher of all those petitions about to be handed in? What’s more, there’d be a host of TV cameras in Downing Street. All right again, she would have supplied the media with the wrong date, but in matters of this kind the media wouldn’t quibble (too much) over a delay of twenty-four hours. She ended on an infectiously positive note. It was all so utterly feasible, she said.

They had their lunch; Simon had come back. The restaurant was large and it definitely became busy following its sudden influx of fifty-three (fifty-two of whom had been standing on the pavement, being addressed through the megaphone and already creating not just a major problem for pedestrians but at the same time no small degree of interest). At the last moment Josh said it might be better if they split up and spread their custom out over five or six other places but no one seemed to greet such a plan with enthusiasm—Simon appeared wholly indifferent—and by then several of the staff had gone to a lot of trouble to get all fifty-three seated; the suggestion was abandoned. Besides, what with the National Gallery and the British Museum and the Victoria and Albert, what with all the other spots where tourists congregated in their thousands, who really needed the few displaced customers from here or the few potential followers from other cafes nearby? (Even if tourists without any strict viewing schedule—and possibly uninformed up to now about what had allegedly taken place in Scunthorpe—might be interested to catch this quirky little insight into what made the British tick?) The fifty-three mostly ate pasta, followed by ice cream with chocolate sauce, then made a choice between coffee and tea. Josh footed the bill. His money was running pretty low.

While everyone was awaiting the arrival of these hot drinks Simon got up and went to stand behind Josh’s chair, lowering his head and speaking to him softly. “I want to go to check out what it’s like in Downing Street at this time of day and to discover, if I can, when Mrs Thatcher is most likely to be around. So you won’t mind if I leave you here to keep an eye on things?”

“No, of course not but—”

“In fact, I don’t know why I ask. It’s
you
who’ve been keeping an eye on things, anyway, almost from the start—you even more than Geraldine. Don’t imagine I’ve not been aware of it or that I haven’t felt incessantly grateful. As well as astonished!”

Josh wasn’t sure how to answer but in any case it wouldn’t have been easy to say much, not with Simon’s hands pressing down on his shoulders and, presumably, with no one else being meant to overhear.

“Don’t forget it’s tomorrow, not today, we’re now interested in. And even if she is there this afternoon—Mrs Thatcher—I doubt if anyone will let you know whether she’s going to be present or not tomorrow.”

“No, but I shall tell the policeman on duty there’ll be petitions to hand in and of course I’ll give my name and will confirm it’s God’s messenger I represent; so I would think that out of pure courtesy…I don’t mean towards me but towards God…” In spite of the fact he was talking quietly Simon spoke with dignity and his subdued tone suited what he had to say. “If God is doing his work, as obviously we know he is, always has and always will—that should doubtless bring Mrs Thatcher to the door whenever we need to have her there.”

Characteristically, Josh wondered if even God doing his work could quite accomplish it if the lady weren’t willing: surely the Prime Minister was an exponent of free choice if anybody was. But he refrained from making so trivial a comment.

“At any rate,” said Simon, “I need to be on my own for a while. It’s all been a bit noisy, this, hasn’t it?”

“After the relative calm of the wilderness? Yes, indeed it has. We’ll meet you back at the coach, then, or look for you in the Abbey.”

“Again, Josh, thank you. In the end there could have been nobody better to take charge.”

The pressure on his shoulders changed to an affectionate squeeze. Momentarily Josh laid his own right hand over Simon’s. Then unhurriedly Simon moved across to the other side of the table, where Dawn and William and Michael were sitting. The pride on Dawn’s face was unmistakable. Her air of happiness, and perhaps also the different way in which her hair was styled, made her look surprisingly good—youthful, pretty. “Obviously,” Simon said, “if it hadn’t been for you three, none of us would be sitting here today.”

He spoke to them for less than a minute. But it was enough. When he’d moved off, Dawn glanced at Josh as if to tell him life could scarcely be more wonderful.

Simon then walked across to Geraldine and thanked her, as well, for everything she’d done and for everything she’d wanted to do.

“Oh, any time!” she replied, swivelling round in her seat and smiling up into his face. “I hope I’m going to be given lots more opportunity!”

He hesitated. “If only we could have met five years ago…”

“Yes, that would have been good. But you, better than most, should realize God usually gets his timings right!”

“Usually?”

She laughed; she had decided to be brave. “And at present he’s saying it’s absolutely the right time for you to get rid of that beard—it really doesn’t suit you! He’s wondering whether there isn’t a barber nearby whom you can patronize before you pluck up the courage to invite me on a date.”

He smiled but didn’t answer. It was one of those faintly ironic, rather twisted smiles that lately seemed to have been growing more habitual. But Geraldine didn’t care. Pleased with the effect of her daring, she felt that things were going to turn out as she wanted, although she knew she would have to be patient. She was only sorry that she wouldn’t be the one chiefly in charge of giving him plenty of rest, plenty of good meals, to take that haunted look out of his eyes (albeit eyes frequently ablaze) and to put some of the flesh back onto his bones. She watched as he had brief conversations with Elsie and Mrs Lorrimer, with Dulcie and Alison, then with Paula and Paula’s mother, all of whom were sitting fairly close to one another—she hadn’t met three of them and remembered the name only of Paula. (And she remembered that mainly because of the gentle laughter occasioned by her hymn sheets—how very long ago
that
seemed, part of a different age!—and because of the chocolate she had given Simon, to take the place of the Kendal Mintcake she had really set her heart on.) She then watched as he made his way back to the spot where he’d commenced his wanderings. At the table where Geraldine would have chosen to be if the initial confusion hadn’t somehow prevented her, there was a vacant chair beside Mrs Madison, the chair on which Simon himself had been sitting; but now, almost as if scared of having to make too much eye contact, he appeared to have grown more comfortable with standing behind the person he addressed. This final conversation was also pretty brief but ended with Simon putting his arms around his mother’s neck and kissing her on the cheek. When he left she turned her head to watch, with ill-concealed anxiety, as he walked out of the restaurant—his having nodded a thank-you to the man and woman who had chiefly served them. In addition to seeing her anxiety Josh thought he saw the sheen of tears.

Because he had to make two stops along the way, one at a hardware store, the other at a public convenience (and the former being in a side street, he found it difficult to get directions), it took more than half an hour for Simon to reach his destination. But God
was
doing his work. This afternoon, Mrs Thatcher was indeed at No 10—in Simon’s mind it had never been relevant, that talk about tomorrow—and when eventually she was summoned by her staff she did graciously consent to come to the front door.

Regal. Soignee. Smiling.

Actually, at this instant, he felt extremely sorry for her…and for everybody else who’d been picked to be a witness; he fleetingly prayed for her, and for them. But it had to be done. These next minutes had to be got through. He hoped he wouldn’t scream. Naturally he prayed that he wouldn’t, that somehow it wouldn’t even be necessary, but as, with shaking hands, he finally managed to strike a match—the first two had broken—before applying it to his wet, still dripping, underwear (quantities of methylated spirit having been poured down both its back and front and onto his jumper and socks as well, but not elsewhere, since he’d had to reduce the risk of its being too easily smelt…as he struck the match before applying it, his thoughts were as much with Ginny as they were with God—for the moment the two were indivisible. In his heart, he was reaching out his hand to Ginny.

Swimming with William

A Play in Two Acts

The action of the play is set during an evening in February 1985. It takes place in the sitting room of the Freemans’ house in Scunthorpe.

Characters:

William Freeman…middle-forties.

Norah Freeman…similar.

Tom Freeman…seventeen.

Linda Freeman…nineteen.

Trevor Lomax…twenty-one.

Act One

The time is about 8pm, on a Friday in February. A sitting room.

Lamps are lit, the curtains drawn. Some five or six armchairs.

He puts down file and crosses to bookcase. NORAH comes in, carrying cups of coffee on a tray. WILLIAM takes his; she sets one down for TOM.