The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

CHAPTER THREE

THROUGHOUT THE MONTH of October the health of the pound sterling was a topic of universal, if melancholy, interest. Its effective devaluation against the dollar and against other European currencies was solemnly reported (to two points of decimals) in every radio and TV news bulletin: the pound had a poor morning, but recovered slightly in later dealings; the pound had a better morning, but was later shaky against its Continental competitors. The pound, it seemed, occasionally sat up in its sick bed to prove to the world that reports of its death had been somewhat exaggerated; but almost invariably the effort appeared to have been overtaxing and very soon it was once more lying prostrate, relapsing, slipping, falling, collapsing almost — until finally it struggled up on to its elbow once more, blinked modestly around at the anxious foreign financiers, and moved up a point or two in the international money market.

Yet although, during that autumn, the gap in the balance of payments grew ever wider; although the huge oil deficit could be made up only by massive loans from the IMF; although the number of the unemployed rose sickeningly to unpredicted heights; although the bankruptcy courts were enjoying unprecedented business; although foreign investors decided that London was no longer a worthy recipient for their ever-accumulating cash surpluses — still, in spite of it all, there remained among our foreign friends a firm and charming faith in the efficiency and efficacy of the British educational system; and, as a corollary to this, in the integrity and fair-mindedness of the British system of public examinations. Heigh-ho!

On the night of Monday, 3rd November, many were making their ways to hotel rooms in Oxford: commercial travellers and small business men; visitors from abroad and visitors from home — each selecting his hotel with an eye to business expenses, subsistence allowances, travellers' cheques or holiday savings. Cheap hotels and posh hotels; but mostly of the cheaper kind, though they (Lord knew) were dear enough. Rooms where the cisterns groaned and gurgled through the night; rooms where the window sashes sagged and the floorboards creaked beneath the flimsy matting. But the five emissaries from the Sheikdom of Al-jamara were safely settled in the finest rooms that even the Sheridan had to offer. Earlier in the evening they had eaten gloriously, imbibed modestly, tipped liberally; and each in turn had made his way upstairs and slipped between the crisp white sheets. Domestic problems, personal problems, health problems — certainly any or all of these might ruffle the waters of their silent dreams; but money was a problem which worried none of them. In the years immediately after the Second World War, oil, of high quality and in large accessible deposits, had been discovered beneath their seemingly barren sands; and a benevolent and comparatively scrupulous despot, in the person of the uncle of Sheik Ahmed Dubai, had not only secured American capital for the exploitation of the wells, but had immeasurably enriched the lives of most of the inhabitants of Al-jamara. Roads, hospitals, shopping centres, swimming pools and schools had not only been planned — but built; and in such an increasingly westernized society the great demand of the wealthier citizens was for the better education of their children; and it was now five years since the first links with the Foreign Examinations Syndicate had been forged.

The two-day conference started at 10.30 a.m. on Tuesday, 4th, and at the coffee session beforehand there was much shaking of hands, many introductions, and all was mutual smiles and general bonhomie. The deeply-tanned Arabs were dressed almost identically in dark-blue suits, with sparklingly laundered white shirts and sober ties. Quinn had earlier viewed the day with considerable misgivings, but soon he found to his very great relief that the Arabs spoke a beautifully precise and fluent brand of English, marred, it was true, by the occasional lapse from purest idiom, but distinct and (to Quinn) almost childishly comprehensible. In all, the two days passed rapidly and delightfully: plenary sessions, individual sessions, general discussions, private discussions, lively conversations, good food, coffee, sherry, wine. The whole thing had been an enormous success.

On Wednesday evening the Arabs had booked the Disraeli suite at the Sheridan for a farewell party, and all the Syndicate's permanent staff, together with wives and sweethearts, and all the Syndicate's governing council, were invited to the junketing. Sheik Ahmed himself, resplendent in his middle-eastern robes, took his seat beside a radiant Monica Height, exquisitely dressed in a pale-lilac trouser-suit; and Donald Martin, as he sat next to his plain-looking little wife, her white skirt creased and her black jumper covered with dandruff, was feeling progressively more miserable. The Sheik had clearly commandeered the fair Monica for the evening and was regularly flashing his white and golden smile as he leaned towards her — intimate, confiding. And she was smiling back at him — attentive, flattered, inviting. Quinn noticed them, of course, and as he finished his shrimp cocktail he watched them more closely. The Sheik was in full flow, but whether his words were meant for Monica alone, Quinn was quite unable to tell.

'As one of your own Englishmen told me one day, Miss Height,

"Oysters is amorous,

Lobsters is lecherous,

But Shrimps — Christ!" '

Monica laughed and said something close beside the Sheik's ear which Quinn could not follow. How foolish he had been to harbour any hope! And then he was able to follow another brief passage of their conversation, and he knew that the words must certainly have been whispered pianissimo. He felt his heart beat thicker and faster. He must surely have been mistaken.

Towards midnight the party had dwindled to about a third of its original number. Philip Ogleby, who had drunk more than anyone, seemed the only obviously sober one amongst them; the Martins had left for home some time ago; Monica and Sheik Ahmed suddenly reappeared after an unexplained absence of over half an hour; Bartlett was talking rather too loudly, and his large solicitous wife had already several times reminded him that gin always made him slur his words; one of the Arabs was in earnest negotiation with one of the barmaids; and of the Syndics, only the Dean, Voss, and Roope appeared capable of sustaining the lively pace for very much longer.

At half past midnight Quinn decided that he must go. He felt hot and vaguely sick, and he walked into the Gentlemen's, where he leaned his head against the coolness of the wall mirror. He knew he would feel rough in the morning, and he still had to drive back to his bachelor home in Kidlington. Why hadn't he been sensible and ordered a taxi? He slapped water over his face, turned on the cold tap over his wrists, combed his hair, and felt slightly better. He would say his thank-yous and goodbyes, and be off.

Only a few were left now, and he felt almost an interloper as he re-entered the suite. He tried to catch Bartlett's eye, but the Secretary was deep in conversation with Sheik Ahmed, and Quinn stared rather fecklessly around for a few minutes before finally sitting down and looking again towards his hosts. But still they talked. And then Ogleby joined them; and then Roope walked over, and Bartlett and Ogleby moved away; and men the Dean and Voss went across; and finally Monica. Quinn felt almost mesmerized as he watched the changing groupings and tried to catch the drift of what they were talking about. He felt a simultaneous sense of guilt and fascination as he looked at their lips and followed their conversations, as though he were standing almost immediately beside them. He knew instinctively that some of the words must have been whispered very quietly; but to him most of them were as clear as if they were being shouted through a megaphone. He remembered one occasion (his hearing had been fairly good then) when he had picked up a phone and heard, on a crossed line, a man and his mistress arranging a clandestine rendezvous and anticipating their forthcoming fornication with lascivious delight.

He felt suddenly frightened as Bartlett caught his eye and walked over, with Sheik Ahmed just behind him.

'Well? You enjoyed yourself, my boy?'

'Yes, indeed. I–I was just waiting to thank you both—'

'That is a great pleasure for us, too, Meester Queen.' Ahmed smiled his white and golden smile and held out his hand. 'We shall be meeting you again, we hope so soon.'

Quinn walked out into St. Giles'. He had not noticed how keenly one of the remaining guests had been watching him for the past few minutes; and it was with considerable surprise that he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face the man who had followed him to his car.

'I'd like a word with you, Quinn,' said Philip Ogleby.

At 12.30 the following day, Quinn looked up from the work upon which, with almost no success, he had been trying to concentrate all morning. He had heard no knock, but someone was opening the door. It was Monica.

'Would you like to take me out for a drink, Nicholas?'