Room at the Top

18

Going home that evening I called at the chemist's for some razor blades. The owner of the shop, a tall thin man with an angry sergeant major's face, was talking politics with a customer, a fat woolman type. The chemist knew that I worked at the Town Hall, and greeted me by name. (He greeted most of his customers by name, which was one of the reasons for his prosperity.)

"'Evening, Mr. Lampton, and how are the town's finances?"

"We're solvent," I said.

"A damned sight more than can said for the country," said the woolman heavily.

"By God, but you never spoke a truer word, Tom." The chemist's face was nearly purple with anger. "Every damned thing rationed, not one promise kept. You might think that they were deliberately trying to ruin the businessman. Where's our freedom? Winnie was right, we're under a Gestapo."

The chemist's assistant finished wrapping a large parcel for the woolman. "That's right, Mr. Robbins," he said. "And look at the income tax ..." He was a big man, as tall as me, on the verge of forty. I remembered him telling me once that he'd been at Robbins's for twenty years. He was obviously the unqualified general mug who did all the rough work and worked the most awkward hours. His pale face was set in a fixed smile; the habit of submissiveness had rounded what had once been a fine pair of shoulders. "You're right, Mr. Robbins," he repeated. "Dead right." His smile widened, and he nodded his head to underline the point. The other two took no notice of him at all, though they were standing cheek-to-jowl.

I left the shop feeling a bit sick. How on earth did the assistant stand it? He'd sold himself, and what price had he got? Perhaps seven pounds a week, and not even any assurance of security; he was dependent for his daily bread on one man, and that man was ignorant, ill-mannered, and mean. Then I remembered my interview with Hoylake, and wondered how much difference there was between me and the assistant. True, I had more money, better working conditions, and security; but essentially our positions were the same. My master was better-mannered than Robbins, and had less power over me; but he was still my master. My price was a shade higher, that was all.

It was still raining; I caught the bus at the station. It smelled of wet clothes and stale tobacco, and there wasn't a seat vacant. I went to the front of the bus, and while I was thinking about all this, didn't notice the awkwardness of my position until we were nearly at Eagle Road. By the time I'd squeezed my way out of the bus I was breathless and ruffled. I walked up Eagle Road, turning my collar up and holding my hat against the wind and the rain, and saw Bob Storr's Austin disappear along St. Clair Road.

After tea I rang him up. "Want a baby-sitter again tomorrow, Bob?"

"I'm not sure ... Wait a moment, Joe." His voice was noncommittal.

"You said you did last week."

"Yes, of course. I'll have a word with Eva."

I waited, my heart beating fast with anger; I knew what was coming.

"I'm awfully sorry, old man," he said, "but Eva invited some friends up. Between you and me, for business reasons. She's been reading those articles on how to help your hubby to success. Personally I'd rather go out, they're crashing bores, but there it is. Some other time, eh? The weather's getting warmer now anyway." He laughed; I seemed to detect a gloating note. "Give my love to Sue," he said. "And Eva sends hers. Sorry if this has messed up your plans, Joe."

"That's all right," I said. "I hadn't really any plans."

"When I was younger, I used to go to the Folly. No one else ever visits the spot. Or if they do, they won't bother you." He laughed again. "It's hell to be young and passionate in a cold climate."

"How true," I said, "how true. I'll return to the delights of economics now, Bob. Goodbye."

I replaced the phone and went to the window. The ground was shiny with rain. The room was quiet. The Thompsons had gone to the theatre and wouldn't return till late. The fire was burning brightly and smelled faintly aromatic, as it had done the first time I'd been in the room. The quietness bit my sense of time like a Commando ear-box; I had to pick up the paper to reassure myself of the date. It was as if somehow I would find myself in yesterday with the knowledge that I would have to endure the interview with Hoylake and the phone call to Bob again.

I lit a cigarette and turned to Benham's Economics . Halfway through a chapter I stopped. I wasn't taking in a single word; the truth was that I'd already had a very stiff lesson in economics. We shall begin by examining Joseph Lampton. Born January 1921 at Dufton. Father John Lampton, occupation overseer. Educated Dufton Grammar School. Junior Clerk, Treasurer's Department, Dufton UDC, 1937. Sergeant-Observer, 1940. 1943-1945, Stalag 1000, Bavaria. Present post, Senior Audit Clerk, Warley UDC. Salary, APT Two. Resources, Ł800, from accumulated RAF pay, gratuity, and insurance on parents. Prospects: he might be the Treasurer of Warley one day. Shall we say a thousand a year at the age of forty if he's very fortunate? Lampton has risen remarkably high, considering his humble beginnings; but, in our considered opinion, he has not the capacity to succeed in our sense of the word. He lacks the necessary background, the poise, the breeding: in short, he is essentially vulgar, and possesses no talents which might compensate for this drawback.

We learn to our astonishment and horror that Lampton has entered upon a clandestine relationship with a young Grade Two woman. The young woman in question is of an ardent and impetuous nature and lacks the worldly experience which would enable her to deal firmly with a man of Lampton's type; it is, therefore, imperative that we intervene.

The impassable gulf between Grade Eight (at the highest) and Grade Two (at the lowest) is sufficient reason in itself for the immediate termination of the relationship. But there is yet a stronger reason: the existence of John Alexander Wales. Born at about the same time as Lampton, he has all the qualities which his rival so conspicuously lacks. He is at present studying for a science degree at Cambridge, acquiring not only the knowledge of technics which will qualify him ultimately for the position of Managing Director of Wales Enterprises Incorporated, but also the polish of manner, the habit of command, the calm superiority of bearing which are the attributes of - let us not be afraid to use the word - a gentleman .

An illuminating insight into the characters of the two men may be obtained by examining the parts which they played in the Second European War. Mr. Wales had a distinguished RAF career, which was doubly distinguished by his escape from Camp 2001 in 1942. Mr. Wales is too modest to wish his exploit to be discussed, but it is sufficient to say that it reflects the greatest credit on his ingenuity, courage, and resourcefulness. It will be noted that Lampton, in the same position, made no attempt to escape, but devoted his attention to his studies, passing his main accountancy examination while actually a prisoner. This proves - we are anxious to be fair - that he possesses an admirable pertinacity of purpose, since it must have been extremely difficult to study under prison camp conditions. It does not, however, say much for his manhood or patriotism.

Mr. Wales was a squadron-leader at the end of hostilities, and wore a DSO and bar, and also a DFC. Lampton has no decorations apart from those which all servicemen who served his length of time are given, as they say, with the rations. And Lampton was, of course, merely a sergeant-observer from start to finish. He is not, it may be seen, officer material. We might feel differently about him if he were.

The friendship between Mr. Wales and Miss Brown (the young woman who is entangled with Lampton) is one of long standing. Mr. Alexander Wales, the head of Wales Enterprises Incorporated, has long had a close friendship with Miss Brown's father. They have felt of late that a closer business association - possibly to the extent of a merger - might be to their mutual benefit. If Mr. Wales's son and Mr. Brown's daughter should also decide to effect what we may term a permanent merger, this would, as it were, underline their parents' business relationship. Such happy coincidences are the foundation of British business, which is not, as certain people appear to believe, a jungle in which the weakest go to the wall, but simply a civilised and harmonious way of earning one's daily bread.

There is no wish to coerce the young people into marriage against their will, but it is most strongly felt by those who have their best interests at heart that they are perfectly suited to each other, and that Miss Brown's love (or what she imagines to be love) for Lampton will be of short duration. Lampton is not of her class, and the disparity is far too great to be bridged. Should he object to this, one might point out that there are many young women, perfectly respectable and of reasonable intelligence and attractiveness, whom Lampton himself would not dream of marrying - purely on social grounds. He would not demean himself by marrying a millhand or shop girl; why should Miss Brown demean herself by marrying a minor municipal official?

It has come to our attention that Lampton has spent several evenings alone with Miss Brown in the house of a local businessman. It is not suggested that anything beyond a few embraces has transpired; we do not believe that either of them is totally lacking in restraint or discretion. But as her grandfather used to remark: "Where a man and a woman are alone together, the Devil makes a third." Mr. Brown's business interests extend to the wool trade, and he has a great deal of influence both in Warley and Leddersford; it must be pointed out tactfully to this businessman that it would be unwise to antagonise a man who can help him substantially both in business and in his ambition to occupy a place on the Warley Council.

We are not living in the Middle Ages; it would be unwise to forbide Miss Brown to see Lampton and, strictly speaking, impossible to forbid Lampton to see Miss Brown. In any case, Miss Brown is a girl of spirit nearly twenty years old; it is not inconceivable that tactless handling of the situation might result in an elopement. It would be as well, though, if Miss Brown were gently discouraged from seeing Lampton; it would be wise for her to abandon her connection with the Warley Thespians, for instance. She has been seeing Lampton on the pretext of attending meetings of the Thespians and of going out with friends of her own sex; it would be as well to reproach her gently on this score. A holiday abroad and a visit to Bond Street and the Ivy and the Savoy Grill and Goodwood would also be helpful. However, countermeasures against Lampton may safely be left in the hands of Fred Hoylake, the Warley Treasurer, a man of sterling worth, whose cousin, Mr. Squire Oldroyd, is, incidentally, a valued member of Mr. Brown's sales staff ...

"You fool," I said aloud to myself, "you bloody fool. Why didn't you see it before? The whole of Warley's ganged up against you." I looked at myself in the mirror above the mantelshelf. Good-looking enough, but the suit was my de-mob Utility. And I was wearing my shirt for the second day. I had the working-class mentality; anything was good enough for work. I might as well face facts: goodbye Susan, goodbye a big car, goodbye a big house, goodbye power, goodbye the silly handsome dreams. I looked around the room; it had never seemed so attractive. It might even be goodbye to Warley, the spindle-legged furniture, the gold-and-white paper, the hot bath at evening, the trees and the river and the moors, the winding cobbled streets of the eastern quarter with their elegiac cosiness. And goodbye to Alice. But we had already said goodbye; why did I still think of her in the present tense, why had I, in the morning, instinctively thought that Hoylake had found out about Alice, why had I felt that the dead relationship with a woman almost ten years older than myself was the most important? I could see her now, screaming at me like a fishwife, naked, with her figure beginning to submit to middle age, I could remember her tobacco-stained fingers, the upper left grinder which needed filling. And none of it made any difference.

I swore aloud to myself, using the old RAF obscenities that I'd almost forgotten the sound of. Then I went over to the telephone. I stopped with my hand on it, and returned to the armchair and Benham. At first I kept thinking of Alice with every page; I would master a concept, then it would end with her name. I didn't dare think of what she had done in London - but that was there too, like a toothache masked with aspirin. And then I stopped the attempt to suppress it and set myself the task of doing twice as much as I did normally. After a while her name came up neutral as a page number or chapter heading as I got into the rhythm of concentration.