THE INTERNATIONAL SMILE
Brian Aldiss
 
 
THE room, with its Spy cartoons and the oil of Chequers hanging on the chimney-breast like the promise of a better world, held a cluttered comfort. So did the two men slumped in easy chairs; they were tired. The woman also was tired, but her straight back and splendid coiffure did not admit the fact. She could have poured their tea with no more command had she been before the TV cameras.
 
As if aware of reason for guilt, both men straightened in their chairs when a tap sounded at the door and Tarver peered in.
 
The Prime Minister glowered from behind his cup and said, ‘What is it, Tarver? Can’t we have five minutes in peace?’
 
The butler of No. 10 said apologetically, ‘It’s Colonel Quadroon to see you, sir.’
 
‘The Governor of Pentonville Prison. More escapes, I sup pose—more questions in the House. Better show him in.’
 
The P.M. turned to Lady Elizabeth and the Foreign Secre tary in mock-resignation.
 
‘You remember you did make an appointment for him yesterday, Herbert,’ Lady Elizabeth said. She managed men as easily and gracefully as she managed herself. ‘The Colonel said it was of great national importance.’
 
‘I don’t doubt he did. Quadroon presumes too much, my dear. Just because I’ve been on his shoots a couple of—Oh, Colonel, good afternoon. Come in.’
 
The P.M. wiped his moustache and gestured irritably to a free armchair as Quadroon moved into the room. The Gover nor of Pentonville was a tall, sharp-featured man, Haileybury and Queen’s, O.B.E. He bowed stiffly to Lady Elizabeth and shook hands perfunctorily with Ralph Watts-Clinton, the Foreign Secretary.
 
‘I wouldn’t bother you, Prime Minister, if this was not a matter of the highest moment,’ he said.
 
‘I should hope not. No more rioting, I trust?’
 
‘The Opposition gave you a pretty stiff time in the House this afternoon, I hear.’
 
At that, the P.M. had the grace to smile.
 
‘Sorry, Colonel. Give the Colonel a cup of tea, will you, my dear? Well, what can we do for you?’
 
‘No sugar, thank you, Lady Elizabeth. In this instance, sir, it’s a matter of what we can do for you. I mentioned the Opposition just now. Has it ever occurred to you that the Opposition consists of unhappy men?’
 
Watts-Clinton guffawed.
 
‘It’s often occurred to us, Colonel. Take the debate on the Immigration Restriction Bill this afternoon—they were frankly miserable. Harold Gaskin almost wept crocodile tears over what he calls “the overworked and under-privileged in less fortunate lands”.’
 
‘Precisely.’ The Colonel balanced Lady Elizabeth’s Spode cup and saucer on his angular knee and said, ‘All that can be changed tomorrow.’
 
The P.M. made a noise he had been heard to make more than once in the House.
 
‘I have no idea what sort of political chicanery you have up your sleeve, Colonel, but let me put it to you beforehand that nothing can alter Gaskin’s jaundiced view of the enlightened measures we are proposing.’
 
‘Polyannamine could,’ said the Colonel.
 
After a cold and curious pause, Lady Elizabeth said, ‘I’m sure we are all three very impressed by your air of mystery and indeed, certainty—oh, mind you don’t upset your tea, Colonel. Perhaps you’d better put your case to us. I’m sure Herbert can spare you five minutes before he goes to prepare his Berlin speech.’
 
She embodied all the qualities needful in a Prime Minister’s wife: directness, indirectness, tact, and insolence.
 
Blowing his nose lustily, the Colonel said by way of pre amble, ‘You know I have always been a staunch party man. There can be few people in this country who do not recall the famous recruiting speech I made at East Moulton, when I was so narrowly defeated in the ‘45 election. This is why I have come straight to you, Prime Minister, as a staunch party man, to lay polyannamine at your feet.’
 
‘I know your record,’ said the P.M. testily. ‘Proceed.’
 
‘Well, to come straight to the point, you probably remember the unfortunate riots we had in Pentonville a couple of years back. The Beaverbrook Press made a lot of fuss about it— they love a prison story. Two convicts were killed, and three severely injured. One of the injured men was Joseph Branksome. Remember the name?’
 
‘We must all remember the name,’ said Watts-Clinton. ‘He was the member for Dogsthorpe East in Eden’s time.’
 
‘That’s it. Seven years for embezzling party funds—but a good man, all the same. A good party man. You’d never shake him. I know at the time of Suez he------’
 
‘Yes, yes, you were saying he was injured, Colonel.’
 
‘So I was. So he was. Injured in the kidney—nasty business. It was touch and go for several days; I had to have him trans ferred to Bart’s. They put a patch on his kidney; first time that particular op had been done at Bart’s, so they were telling me. Anyhow, it seemed to do the trick, and in a fortnight we were able to bring Branksome back to the prison hospital. He was still very feeble, but extremely cheerful. I went to visit him. Never met a man more full of happiness and optimism. He was the life and soul of that ward. Why, when Christmas came round------’
 
‘Branksome’s dead now, isn’t he?’ the P.M. said.
 
‘Eh? Dead? Oh yes. I was coming to that. His general air of cheer deceived us all. We thought he was fit again, although he lost a deal of weight. He was back at his old job—I had him on a pretty soft number in the prison library. Then one morning—this would be just over a year ago now—he col lapsed in the Do-It-Yourself section and was dead within an hour. Poor Branksome, he died laughing!’
 
Overcome by the tragedy of his tale, Quadroon sat in the chair, nodding his head sorrowfully. Lady Elizabeth rescued his cup.
 
With a touch, not to say load, of finality in his voice, the P.M. said, “Thank you very much, Colonel Quadroon, for coming along and------’
 
The Colonel held up a long and stringy hand, at which the others gazed with curiosity.
 
‘At the inquest, a remarkable fact emerged. Owing to the injury it had sustained, Branksome’s kidney had been—what d’you call it?—malfunctioning. As far as I could make out from our prison specialist, Mark Miller—very capable chap— instead of making new tissue or whatever it was supposed to do, this kidney had been secreting a substance hitherto un known to science. Miller christened this secretion Polyannamine. Apparently it had circulated to Branksome’s endo—ah, endocrine glands and there had set up a sort of permanent imbalance if that’s not a contradiction in terms. Anyhow, this imbalance had the effect of keeping him happy even when he was dying painfully by inches.’
 
‘Hmm.’ The P.M., with a gesture familiar to millions of TV viewers, lit a briar pipe and sat with his nose almost hanging into the bowl. ‘And has this stuff been synthesized, Colonel?’
 
For answer, the Colonel drew from an inner pocket a small plastic tube. He performed the gesture with what, in a better actor, would have been a grand flourish.
 
‘There’s enough synthesized polyannamine in here, Miller informs me, to keep all your opposition happy for the rest of their lives.’
 
The P.M. cast an eyebrow at Watts-Clinton who, never at a loss, cast one back.
 
‘I think the Berlin speech might be given a miss till we’ve seen Miller. My old constituency wouldn’t like to think I let grass grow under my feet, eh, Ralph? Elizabeth, my dear, do you think------‘
 
‘Oh, Herbert, I really can’t, not again! I wouldn’t know what to put.’
 
‘Nonsense, pet. Usual stuff about standing fast, backing Adenauer to the hilt, Western solidarity, and all that, with the safety clause about striving for peace by all means within our power, and so on. By now you can do it as easily as I can. Tarver, the Bentley, please.’
 
* * * *
 
Traffic was thick about the gloomy facade of Pentonville Prison.
 
‘Visitors’ night tonight,’ Quadroon said gloomily. ‘Always draws the crowds.’
 
‘I must tell you how much I admire all your far-reaching reforms; the Home Sec. was telling me about them only the other day,’ Watts-Clinton said ingratiatingly; he had no special liking for the Colonel, but to be included on one of his shoots would be no bad thing.
 
‘Got Johnny Earthquake and the Four Corners playing tonight. Keeps the men happy.’
 
The P.M. looked shocked.
 
‘But the M.I. Massacre Man—what’s his name, McNoose, is due to be executed tomorrow. Surely-----’
 
‘That’s what’s drawn all this crowd tonight. Dodge in after that confounded Volkswagen, Chauffeur. We’re letting McNoose have a last request from Johnny Earthquake, for his mum and dad and all at 78 Montpelier Road, Camden Town.’
 
‘Very doubtful taste,’ the P.M. said.
 
‘You were the one who wanted the prisons to pay their way, sir.’
 
‘This is really no time to bring up old election promises.’
 
The three men lapsed into moody silence. At last a clear way showed itself, and the car swept into the front square and round beyond the bright lights and marquees to the Governor’s house. As they hurried up the steps, blaring loud speakers carried music and a nasal voice droned
 
Eva Bardy’s doiri it, doiri it, doiri it,
Eva Bardy’s doin’ it...
 
It was good to get inside. Quadroon showed them into his study and summoned a servant to fetch Mark Miller.
 
Impatiently, the P.M. looked about the solid dingy room. Trophies, lowering photographs, handcuffs, an amateur pencil portrait of John Reginald Halliday Christie, certificates, maps, a death-mask, and a pokerwork legend bearing the words ‘Stone walls do not a prison make’, surrounded them on all sides. The smell was one of tapioca with vegetable additives. Reluctantly, the P.M. selected the less horsy-looking of two horsehair chairs and gave it the benefit of his posterior.
 
‘Interesting place,’ Watts-Clinton said, in the manner of one volunteering information.
 
The Colonel himself looked shrunken by his surroundings.
 
‘I could put the fire on,’ he said. He coughed, rubbed his hands together, and added, ‘I ought to warn you, gentlemen, that Miller has injected himself with his own prescription; at first you may find him a little—ah, ha ha, ah, Miller, there you, ah, are! Come in.’
 
Miller was in. He swept in with his arms wide, smiling broadly, and shook hands with them all before he was intro duced.
 
‘So, gentlemen, you’re in at the birth of a new nation, in on the ground floor, eh? In fact, you’re in before the birth—on the underground floor, you might say. We’re all set to go into production, ready to transform the country, thanks to polyannamine, the new wonder drug that makes your body work for you instead of against you.’
 
Introductions were belatedly performed. Miller shook hands again exuberantly, remarked how tired the P.M. looked, and admired the quality of Watts-Clinton’s suiting. He was a tall thin man—almost as given to bony protuberances as the Colonel—with tufts of hair on his fingers and hands. In his late forties, he gazed cadaverously at the world from beneath the sheltering foliage of his eyebrows. Not, one would have estimated, a man given to mirth; yet his geniality flowed through the room like champagne into a footsore slipper.
 
‘The Government is very interested in your formula, Mr. Miller,’ the P.M. said, ‘but we should naturally require a con clusive test, under proper surveillance, of your discovery.’
 
Miller winked conspiratorially.
 
‘It’s in the bag. You’re laughing—or you will be. Why don’t you let me give you an injection? How about going down in history as Sir Herbert Macclesfield, the Smiling Prime Minis ter—no, the Primed Prime Minister? Don’t mind me, I’m only being funny. Believe me, I’ve never felt so good. Fallen arches? I’ve still got them; they don’t bother me. Bills, income-tax demands? They still pile up; they don’t bother me. I just don’t let the worries worry me, thanks to polyannamine.’
 
‘Can you control your obvious ebullience enough to tell us roughly how the stuff works?’
 
‘Tell you roughly? Nay sire, as I hope for an O.B.E., I will tell you gently. My prescription may be applied orally or intra venously or by inhalation; 10 c.c. only needed. Infallible! Guaranteed to cheer up even a TV comedian. No harmful side effects. No dimming of intelligence—I always looked this stupid, ha ha!’
 
‘I have a question to put to you, Mr. Miller,’ said Watts-Clinton, seeming to offer it transfixed on one stabbing finger. ‘You make large claims for this—er, medicament. Personally, I should be grateful if you would explain how it differs in any appreciable way from the tranquillizers and euphorics which have been on the market for some years.’
 
Miller squeezed his cheeks and mouth into a lemon face that aped the Foreign Secretary’s features with considerable success.
 
‘I have an answer to put to you, Mr. Clotts-Winton—er, Witts-Clunt------, er, Watts-Clinton, that I trust will answer your question. Polyannamine is permanent! It does not act directly on the endocrines. It goes straight to the kidney and there establishes a receptive area which begins immediately to secrete its own supply of polyannamine. From then on, the process is irreversible. It becomes part of the natural function of the kidney. Without impairing its other functions to any noticeable extent, the kidney will continue to secrete poly annamine until death does its part, and that polyannamine does its part in the endocrines from then on without stopping. In other words, one injection only of the synthetic solution is needed—for life.’
 
‘I see,’ said Watts-Clinton. Then his face burst into a slow smile. ‘By God, Herbert, if this is true. ...’
 
‘Just what I was thinking . . .’ said the P.M. ‘We’ve got to face the House with this second reading of the Capital Punish ment Bill in the morning. If only. . . .’
 
Bowing low, Miller produced a small object from a waist coat pocket. It looked like an anemone bulb, a cushion with a small spike on it. It was made of glass and contained a clear liquid.
 
‘If I catch your meaning, sir, you need a few dozen of these. If you sit on this, you get an injection of polyannamine—no trouble.’
 
The P.M. looked at Watts-Clinton. He looked at Quadroon. He looked at the pencil portrait of Christie. Then he looked back at Miller.
 
‘It’s worth a knighthood,’ he breathed.
 
Quadroon moved restlessly.
 
‘Two knighthoods,’ he corrected.
 
‘Two knighthoods,’ the P.M. agreed.
 
They all walked back together to the car. A bevy of con victs in evening dress were writhing to the voice of Johnny Earthquake.
 
In the big wide world I’m all alone,
They gone and left me on my own,
I’m shedding tears on tears to be
A Teenage Divorcee.
 
The P.M. looked up at the slow-moving grey smog of London overhead.
 
‘Beautiful evening,’ he said. ‘Beautiful evening. The pros pect is distinctly rosy.’
 
* * * *
 
Next day, Lady Elizabeth—wearing a tailored Italian cos tume that fitted her with mathematical exactitude—stood in her cosy room in Downing Street looking down pensively at the TV announcer.
 
The announcer, whose eyes were of an irreproachable blue, looked pensively back at Lady Elizabeth and said, ‘. . . case of horse-doping at Newmarket this month. Scotland Yard has been called in. This morning, the so-called M.I. Massacre Man, Gulliver McNoose, was executed at Pentonville Prison. Under the new dispensation, his girl friend was allowed to be with him in the condemned cell; she held his hand till the last, sing ing “Rock of Ages Rock”, the new religious pop song which was McNoose’s favourite tune. We hope to have pictures on our later bulletin. Meanwhile, capital punishment was the sub ject of debate in the House of Commons this morning.’
 
A view of Parliament came on to the screen as the an nouncer’s head dissolved; this did not prevent his continuing, ‘The Government were seeking to make unofficial strikers liable to the death penalty, and it was expected that they would meet lively opposition. Mr. Gaskin, however, who was to have spoken against the motion, appeared to be in excep tionally genial mood, says our Westminster correspondent, Geoffrey Dee. He rose and said that he felt compelled to admit unofficial strikes were a bit of a nuisance; he added that if the country was to get ahead it had better lose a few. The laughter, particularly on Mr. Gaskin’s side of the House, lasted for many minutes, after which the government measure was carried through without further discussion. Her Majesty the Queen, who is on a goodwill visit to the Isle of Man------’
 
Lady Elizabeth switched the set off. Her face did not relax into a smile.
 
‘You don’t look very pleased,’ her sister Nancy, the Honour able Mrs. Lyon-Bowater, said, pouting prettily. ‘Sounds jolly good to me. Of course, I know I’m only an old silly.’
 
‘Of course,’ Lady Elizabeth agreed. She did not enjoy her pretty younger sister’s visits. Since a certain nursery-days quar rel over a palomino pony, the sisters had never entirely seen eye to eye. ‘The passing of this Bill is a triumph for Herbert— a vindication of all he has been working for. Unfortunately, it must be counted as a minor triumph. Perhaps you don’t realize it, Nancy, but we stand on the brink of a third world war.’
 
‘Oh yes, isn’t it terrible? Still, we have for years, haven’t we? It’s all Towin ever talks about—that and his mouldy old shares.’
 
Lady Elizabeth sat down in the most graceful way on the very edge of her chaise-longue and said, ‘Nancy dear, this time it is rather different. There was a serious border incident in Berlin in the early hours of this morning.’
 
‘Politics is your business, darling, not mine; I prefer chihuahuas.’
 
‘This is everyone’s business, darling. You will remember the East Germans built a wall round their sector four or five years ago—or perhaps you won’t. Then in the American sector a huge tower was built, the New Brandenburg tower. We claimed it was for the new U.N. office; the East Germans claimed it was to spy into their territory. In retaliation they built huge screens behind their wall, so that nobody could see into their sector.’
 
‘As though anyone would want to see into their sector,’ said Nancy, lighting a cigarette with the elaborate ritual ges ture of a waiter about to scorch a crepe suzette in an expense account restaurant.
 
‘Be that as it may, Nancy, the screens were built. The Western Powers agreed in finding this an aggressive gesture; accordingly, they prepared a warning.’
 
‘Oh yes, if they do it, it’s a threat; if we do it, it’s a warning. I do know that much about politics.’
 
‘Well, our warning took the form of a big statue, two hun dred and five feet high and thus the highest in the world------’
 
‘Oh, you mean Buster!’
 
‘It’s official name is The Statue of Freedom. It is so large that even the poor East Germans can see it, especially as its eyes light up at night.’
 
‘It’s lovely, Elizabeth. Towin and I saw it when we were over there last year; they had some sort of a crisis on then, as I recall. It looked lovely—much more fun than the dreary old Eiffel Tower, and with this rather absurd crown on its head saying “Coca-Cola”.’
 
‘Yes. The Western Powers had some trouble among them selves about that. The crisis to which you refer was of course caused by the Russian insistence on regarding Buster—mm, the Statue of Freedom as a provocative act. We should have had a war then but for Herbert’s personal intervention. He flew over to speak to the Russian Premier, Nikita Molochev. Instead of declaring war, the East Germans built a statue themselves.’
 
Nancy burst into bored laughter and coughed over her cigarette.
 
‘Even I know about that, darling. It made me pro-Com munist on the spot. Such a delightful sense of humour!’
 
‘Really, Nancy, you are too frivolous. Not only is it a statue representing a very ugly worker, but it is higher than Buster; and it is thumbing its nose at Buster. As President Kennedson said, quite rightly, it is an aggressive act—as well as a threat to Western air space.’
 
‘At least it was his idea to call it Nikko.’
 
‘Last night, Nancy, at three o’clock Central European Time, a daring gang of West Berliners blew Nikko’s head off with explosive shells.’
 
‘Good heavens, I shouldn’t have thought it possible!’
 
‘Well, Nikko lost his nose, anyway. The full extent of the damage is not clear yet; there are conflicting reports. Unfor tunately the East Germans and Russians have chosen to re gard this innocent prank as a threat to their security.’
 
‘So—we’re on the brink of war again. Ho hum. And what is dear Herbert doing about it?’
 
‘He’s making a conciliatory speech in the Guildhall, at the bi-annual luncheon of the Ancient Order of Swan-Uppers and Down-Pluckers,’ said Lady Elizabeth. She stood up with a grace that rested on a firm foundation and began pacing the room daintily. ‘The unfortunate part is, that he is reading a speech I wrote for him. At least, I put in bits from several of his old speeches, but it is mainly my work. I feel the future of the world rests in my hands—the Russians and Americans seem so eager to have this war.’
 
‘Perhaps they feel it would be best to get it over with. It is awkward for us, being in the middle, so to speak. Well, darling, I must go. I hope the Swan-Uppers give Herbert a good lunch, anyhow.’
 
‘I hope I haven’t bored you. Being a woman in a position of responsibility can be so difficult.’ Lady Elizabeth took her younger sister’s hands and gazed into her eyes.
 
‘How fortunate then that you are a woman of determina tion,’ Nancy said, disengaging herself to assume her gloves, ‘as you proved long ago over the palomino.’
 
The noise of voices in the hall made them both pause. Lady Elizabeth raised a humorously quizzical eyebrow.
 
‘Sounds like a regiment out there.’
 
‘A regiment plus Herbert!’
 
Lady Elizabeth went to see. The P.M. was being abstracted from his coat by Tarver; from his flushed look she could tell at once that the luncheon had been (a) good and (b) televised. Knowing the quality and extent of the Guildhall cellars, Lady Elizabeth resolved to get black coffee to him as soon as pos sible. Struggling with their own coats were Ralph Watts-Clinton and Lord Andaway, the Home Secretary; they too bore the Swan-Upping insignia in their cheeks.
 
Surprisingly, Miller was also there, grinning broadly at all that went on. Balancing a large carton on one hip, he waved cordially to Lady Elizabeth.
 
‘Here’s your wandering boy, Your Ladyship,’ he called. ‘I met him on the doorstep as I was about to deliver the goods.’
 
‘Who’s he? Did he lose his way to the tradesmen’s en trance?’ the Hon. Mrs. Lyon-Bowater asked, in a steamily sotto sort of voce in her sister’s ear.
 
Behind Miller, lined up like discarded gravestones, were three dark and solemn men. One she recognized as Bernard Brotherhope, the secretary of the Transit and Gradual Workers’ Union. By their air of non-denominational piety and their collars, Brotherhope’s companions were recogniz able as union leaders. They stood patient, strong, unblinking, with their hats in the on-guard position; as Brotherhope nodded curtly over the heads of the others to Lady Elizabeth, a line of Hilaire Belloc’s about hating the Midlands which are sodden and unkind rose impertinently to her mind.
 
‘Take these gentlemen into the visitors’ room, Tarver,’ the P.M. said. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will join you in a minute. Oh, Miller, I want you.’
 
‘What sweet men, Herbert!’ Nancy exclaimed from her corner as the others filed into the front room, each anxiously offering precedence to his companion.
 
‘Oh, you’re here, Nancy,’ the P.M. said glumly.
 
‘It must be such fun being P.M. You meet all sorts of people you wouldn’t otherwise, don’t you?’
 
‘You remind me to inquire after your husband.’
 
Unabashed, Nancy said, ‘Still living, I suppose.’
 
The P.M. pushed past her into the cosy room and subsided slowly into the chaise-longue, letting his heavy lids fall as he went.
 
‘Coffee’s coming, my darling,’ Lady Elizabeth said. ‘You’ll have some too, Mr. Miller, or are you not stopping?’
 
She successfully outstared him. Miller’s eyes retreated like little wet animals under his eyebrows and he laughed in admission of defeat.
 
‘Don’t want to intrude on the old family circle, you know. That is one circle of which there’s never enough to go round! Anyhow, here’s a supply of polyannamine as promised. Why not give your husband a shot? He looks as if he needs it.’
 
‘Thank you for your advice. Tarver will show you the door.’
 
‘That’s very good of him. I must say I admire that door more every time I see it. You must come up and see mine some day, Lady Elizabeth.’
 
As he was passing her, she thought for a dreadful moment that he was reaching out to kiss her. Instead, he whispered something in her ear. Her features relaxed; she smiled and nodded. When he had tiptoed, all comically conspiratorial, from the room, she went over and knelt by Herbert. Un noticed, Nancy moved to look into Miller’s carton.
 
‘How did the speech go, Herbert?’ Lady Elizabeth asked tenderly.
 
The P.M. patted his brow and groaned.
 
‘That confounded port. . . . Either I’m getting too old for it or it’s getting too old for me. And then I arrive back here to find a delegation from the T.U.C. awaiting me; I shall have to go and see them. Where’s that coffee?’
 
‘It’s coming. . . . Here it is. Thank you, Jane, I’ll take it here. How did the speech go, darling?’
 
As she took the coffee tray and began to pour, Nancy said, ‘It’s none of my business, Herbert, but can’t you put the T.U.C. chappies off? What’s the fun in being P.M. if you have no power?’
 
“There’s no fun. . . .’ He took the cup in trembling hands and sipped through his moustache. ‘We’re in trouble there, Elizabeth. I can’t think how I can have been so short-sighted. We romped home with the Capital Punishment Bill this morn ing, thanks to Miller’s polyannamine, but of course the trade unions are on to us now like a ton of nationalized bricks. They’ve threatened a general strike if we don’t retract. ... I must go and see Brotherhope. The coffee was lovely.’
 
Wiping his moustache, he rose and squeezed her upper arm. Having long ago trained herself not to respond with disgust to this old man’s gesture, Lady Elizabeth merely said, ‘Take this polyannamine capsule in with you; Miller advised it in case you had any trouble. How’s the head now?’
 
‘Better for your coffee, my dear. Have some yourself.’ He pocketed the capsule, adjusted his tie, and shuffled out of the room.
 
Elizabeth sighed deeply, passed a hand over her forehead, and turned towards her sister.
 
‘Nancy, I fear I must turn you out now, unless you came for anything in particular?’
 
‘Can you tell me what polyannamine is?’
 
‘Just a sort of tranquillizer; nothing to be curious about. Shall I get Tarver to let you out?’ She turned her back on Nancy and commenced to pour herself coffee.
 
‘Damn your conceit, no, Elizabeth! I came for something in particular and you may as well hear it. I want—I need—a divorce from Towin.’
 
Lady Elizabeth forgot her coffee.
 
‘But Towin is Secretary of State for Air!’
 
‘You don’t have to remind me of the dangers of nepotism.’
 
‘Spite always did improve your repartee. You know you can’t have any fuss in public at present, Nancy. The General Election is only two years away.’
 
‘The Last Trump may precede it.’
 
“The Last Trump will scandalize the British public less than a ministerial decree nisi. You’re in some sort of a mess, aren’t you?’
 
‘How you adore your euphemisms and your clichés! Yet how else could you bear to be married to Herbert? You’ll be talking next about washing dirty linen in public.’
 
Lady Elizabeth rose and said, with the glacial courtesy of anger, ‘You’re in some sort of a mess, aren’t you?’
 
‘Yes, I am, if you must know. I am having, ducky, a rather hot affair with a pop singer called Johnny Earthquake.’
 
They faced each other lividly, hate and love running to gether like a spilt Irish coffee. Finally Lady Elizabeth turned away and marched over to the door saying, ‘The Prime Minister’s sister-in-law involved with a pop singer----Govern ments have fallen for less.’
 
Deftly, while her sister’s back was turned, Nancy knocked the nipple off one of the polyannamine capsules she had pocketed, and poured the contents into Lady Elizabeth’s coffee. Then she marched towards the door. Again the two were face to face.
 
‘A pop singer!’
 
‘He makes me feel horribly democratic!’ With an angry leer, Nancy swaggered out.
 
* * * *
 
For some minutes, Lady Elizabeth stood inside the cosy room, clutching her temples.
 
Then the phone rang.
 
Her voice when she answered gave no hint of her feelings.
 
It was an agitated young secretary to an under-secretary, Rupert Peters, phoning from Whitehall. Lady Elizabeth knew him well, and admired him; the feeling was reciprocated—as she had perceived.
 
‘This is a horribly informal way to come through to you, as Your Ladyship knows; I can only plead in extenuation a grave emergency. Would it be at all practicable for me to have a word with Sir Herbert?’
 
‘He has the T.U.C. on his back at present.’
 
‘Jolly! Well, look, we’ve got the Ambassador to Russia speaking on a scramble call from Moscow. He has just had an extremely abusive note handed to him from Nikita Molo chev. We’re going to be at war before morning unless some thing happens fast.’
 
‘Rupert! But this is unprovoked!’
 
‘Within the contemporary usage of the term, not entirely.’ Rupert paused. She sensed his embarrassment down the other end of the line.
 
‘What do you mean, “not entirely”?’
 
‘I’m afraid it was that remark of Sir Herbert’s in his Guild hall speech.’
 
A cold hand with ill-manicured nails wrapped itself round Lady Elizabeth’s heart. She sat down on the chaise-longue. Her coffee stared coolly up at her.
 
‘What remark?’ she managed to ask.
 
‘Sir Herbert said—and Your Ladyship must realize I quote from memory—that after prolonged consideration he had con cluded that President Molochev was a disagreeable sight that should be abolished.’
 
She made an inarticulate noise in her throat.
 
‘Not, one must admit, the year’s most tactful political utterance,’ Rupert said. ‘As I say, it seems in the present in flamed state of world affairs that it may precipitate hostilities, unless speedily retracted or ameliorated. I would like to ask Sir Herbert if we should offer the Russians a complete denial. Would you, Lady Elizabeth, in view of the emergency, detach him from the embrace of the T.U.C.?’
 
Lady Elizabeth sat back, pale with horror. Clearly before her mind’s eye floated the typescript pages of the speech she had prepared for the Guildhall. Page five, dealing with the Berlin question, had had the P.M. saying that after prolonged consideration he had concluded that President Molochev had historical logic but not contemporary logic on his side in his demand for an East German peace treaty. Such little meaning as this statement possessed had then been obliterated in succeeding paragraphs, into which, by the bottom of the page, a reference to the statues Buster and Nikko had been introduced. Of these, the speech only said that the two figures confronting each other formed—and here one turned to page seven—a disagreeable sight that should be abolished.
 
Beyond a doubt, Lady Elizabeth knew what had happened. In the jocular hurly-burly of Guildhall wine and food, Sir Herbert had dropped page six, and read on without noticing the omission.
 
‘Lady Elizabeth, could you get him?’
 
The tinny voice of Rupert recalled her.
 
‘Just a minute,’ she said.
 
Limply she rose and went to fetch her husband. As she passed the hideous daguerrotype of Gladstone, she heard sing ing—singing at 10 Downing Street!—but Lady Elizabeth was beyond surprise. Opening the front study door, she discovered Bernard Brotherhope with his arms round his two supporters. Their hats were on their heads at a rakish angle, and with verve they executed a few lively unison steps to their own version of ‘Rule, Britannia!’
 
Not only that. The Foreign and Home Secretaries were con ducting the trio, singing heartily with them as they did so.
 
Rule, Britannia, two tanners make a bob;
Three makes one and six, and four two bob.
No Common Market shall rule the Common Man
While two bob buys us booze throughout the lan’—
/ don’t mean maybe—
Buys us booze throughout the la-a-a-a-n’.
 
They went smartly into a reprise; no attention was paid to Lady Elizabeth, beyond a suggestively raised eyebrow from Watts-Clinton. The P.M. sat feebly by the drinks cupboard, emitting an inconstant smile; here, thought Lady Elizabeth with a gush of sympathy, was a man who had had greatness thrust upon him. She beckoned and he came at once.
 
‘Strike’s off,’ he said, as they went into the corridor, closing the door behind them. ‘Do you know what Brotherhope said to me? “Between you and me, I’m more interested in the power than the glory.” Slipping polyannamine into the sherry did the trick.’
 
‘But Herbert, you’ve given it to Andaway and Watts-Clinton too!’
 
‘Couldn’t be helped—emergency. I had to pour the stuff into the decanter. Of course I refrained from drinking it myself. It’s a pity about Ralph, but after all he is happy; he’s got no worries, whereas we’ve got plenty.’
 
‘You don’t know how many, my dear.’
 
‘It occurred to me that by spraying polyannamine over London and other big cities, we could face the next election with equanimity; I instructed Miller accordingly. Has the fellow gone?’
 
‘Yes, and we are in trouble, Herbert. The British Embassy in Moscow is on the line.’ And she told him what had happened.
 
‘My God!’ he said. They were into the cosy room by now; the jazz version of ‘Rule, Britannia!’ was silenced as Lady Elizabeth closed the door. The P.M. sank down on the nearest chair and stared unseeingly at Lady Elizabeth’s coffee. ‘How absolutely ghastly! You know, now you mention it I recall thinking that something dropped just as I rose to make my speech. It must have been page six. It must have gone under the table.’
 
‘If only you’d read the speech through first!’
 
‘I didn’t have time.’
 
‘Didn’t you notice what you were saying?’
 
He hid his face in his hands. She saw, through his thinning grey hair, freckles on his skull.
 
‘You know how it is after a heavy lunch. ... I just read in a stupor, I’m afraid—though I do remember everyone clap ping and laughing unexpectedly. . . . Oh, my country!’
 
Feeling only compassion, Lady Elizabeth patted his shoulders.
 
‘You’d better speak to Rupert Peters. All is not lost yet.’
 
‘How can I face anyone, after making such a fool of my self?’
 
‘Because it is your duty to,’ she said composedly to his bowed head. She picked up the phone from the side table.
 
‘Rupert, are you there? . . . Hello, Rupert? . . . Whitehall? I think we’re cut off. Oh, hello, Rupert; I thought we were cut off.’
 
The young secretary’s voice had a new note of tension in it.
 
‘Lady Elizabeth, I’m afraid the situation is more desperate than we at first thought. We’ve been cut off from the British Embassy in Moscow; that line is dead. The last word we had was that it was surrounded by an angry mob who were trying to break in. Meanwhile, the Kremlin has come through to us on another line. Is Sir Herbert there?’
 
‘He’s here and he will speak.’
 
‘Praise be. Tell him I am in a position to switch him straight through to Zagravov, Molochev’s Deputy. The man is in a flaming temper and claims that Sir Herbert has committed an act of personal persiflage that is tantamount to a declaration of war. Impress on Sir Herbert that Zagravov will need very delicate handling.’
 
‘I understand.’
 
Her face was pale as she turned to Sir Herbert. He had just finished draining her cold cup of coffee.
 
‘I feel a bit more cheerful for that,’ he said.
 
‘You have need to be.’ Gravely she told him what Rupert had said. The P.M. got up and paced the room as he listened. When she had finished, she added, ‘You’ll have to explain to Zagravov about page six as tactfully as possible.’
 
To her astonishment, the P.M. burst into laughter.
 
‘It’s all so terribly funny, when you think of it,’ he said. ‘And after all, President Molochev is a disagreeable sight that should be abolished! These miserable diplomats have no sense of humour. Give me that phone. Let me try and make old Zagravov see the joke.’
 
‘Herbert!’
 
Lady Elizabeth backed away in horror as the P.M., smiling broadly, seized the phone and began to tell Moscow exactly what he thought of Russian statesmen.
 
* * * *
 
Nancy, the Hon. Mrs. Lyon-Bowater, second wife of Towin, the Rt. Hon. Lord Lyon-Bowater, Secretary of State for Air, vigorously embraced Johnny Earthquake as their taxi carried them south through the patchily-lit streets of London after dark.
 
‘How was the show, Honey?’ he asked at last, gasping for breath.
 
‘You were great, Johnny. “Teenage Divorcee” was an abso lute gas, if I have the phrase right.’
 
‘They were really rolling! Think that new number, “Ever-lovin’ Friendship” is going to be a winner?’
 
‘It’ll be a stampede, Johnny, with the pushing you give it. At one point I thought you were going to crack the echo chamber.’
 
Thus discoursing on matters of art, they arrived at one of the more drearily respectable sectors of Croydon. Johnny hopped out and dealt the taxi driver two notes from the pack of pounds he carried. Nancy was still thrilled by the way he never thought to hold a door open for her; how wonderful, she reflected, it must be to be so natural.
 
Johnny Earthquake’s father, Mr. Ian Quaker, owned a small chemist’s shop specializing almost entirely, if the evidence of its one window was to be believed, in very large bottles and very small packets. Glancing through the window, they could see Mr. Quaker’s tonsure bobbing about in his tiny dispensary.
 
Pushing through the back door, they entered the living-room, the centre of which was at present filled by a piebald wardrobe. Mrs. Quaker, secure behind the fortress of her embonpoint, entered from the kitchen and raised an eyebrow at them, though she greeted them civilly enough.
 
‘First time we’ve seen you this week,’ she said.
 
‘You know how it is, Mum. My publicity agent insists I keep up this pretence of being the son of a sea cook who lives in the East End. It’s good for sales. If my fans found out I was really respectable middle class, I’d be out of the running.’
 
‘What’s all that to do with coming home?’
 
‘I have to watch my chance. I can only come when nobody’s looking.’
 
Mrs. Quaker sniffed.
 
‘He went over very well tonight, Mrs. Quaker,’ Nancy said.
 
‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that, I must say. We’d better have a sherry. Ian! Ian! Your father’s about somewhere.’
 
Manoeuvring round the wardrobe, she stooped to the side board and began to rifle through a selection of bottles, each of which was thrust in turn between her squinting eye and the light. Their net alcoholic yield, judging by Mrs. Quaker’s expression, was dismally slight.
 
‘What we came for really was to have Mr. Quaker analyse a liquid for us,’ Nancy said. ‘Don’t worry too much about the drink, thank you.’
 
The conversation, if that is not too grand a word for the exchange, was cut short by a steaming sheet of formica. It issued from the shop at a run and was slapped against one of the panels of the wardrobe, revealing a gasping Mr. Quaker, who began to thump against the edges of the panel as if his life depended on it.
 
‘I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t stick this time,’ he said gloomily. His face was well-equipped to express gloom. The scanty hair motif given such generous play about his scalp was echoed lower down by his features: his mouth, his moustache, his nose, and his eyes were the scantiest available. These features congregated now in the centre of his face, in an expression of gloom that was not mitigated by the sight of Johnny and Nancy.
 
‘You’re here, are you? Still chasing married women, a kid your age? You ought to be learning a trade, young man, same as I did, not singing pop records. You can’t imagine me sing ing in front of a mike, can you?’
 
‘No, I can’t,’ Mrs. Quaker said genially, splashing sherry. ‘And don’t nag the poor boy directly he comes in,’
 
‘What’re you doing, Mr. Quaker?’ Nancy asked.
 
‘Doing? I’m veneering this wardrobe, that’s what I’m doing. Nobody wants these old walnut suites these days. I don’t know if you’ve an eye for this sort of thing, but it will look good, if I can get the veneers to stick. The glue’s my own mixture.’
 
‘We wondered if you could analyse something for us. A liquid.’ Nancy produced one of the bulbs of polyannamine she had taken when her sister’s back was turned.
 
‘What is it? Where did you get it?’ Mr. Quaker’s eyes came together as he lifted it to the light.
 
‘We don’t know what it is, but it’s called polyannamine and I found it at 10 Downing Street.’
 
Father and Mother stared suspiciously at her. If there was one thing they regretted more than Johnny’s connection with Nancy, it was Nancy’s connection with the Government.
 
‘It’s all right, it’s harmless,’ Nancy said, smiling. ‘It was suggested that some be given to the P.M. to cheer him up, but they were so odd about it that I thought I’d like to know what was going on.’
 
‘Ten Downing Street!’ said Mr. Quaker, in what the Press would have referred to as a hushed whisper. Still bearing the bulb at eye level, he backed away in the direction of the shop. Taking advantage of his departure, the gay tartan veneer began to peel off the wardrobe.
 
‘Well, at least we do see life,’ Mrs. Quaker commented. ‘Ten Downing Street! I like that!’ She brought the sherry forward, and for the next quarter of an hour regaled them with it and an account of the matrimonial misadventures of her dentist. But Nancy’s regaleability was at what, for want of a worse phrase, might be termed a new all-time low; throughout life she had enjoyed being perverse, and it was not that she in tended to blot her record with regret this late in the day; but she saw that by being spiteful to her sister, Lady Elizabeth, she was only stirring up trouble for herself later . . . and there was the thought that she did not know quite how Elizabeth’s coffee might have taken her. Excusing herself, she slipped into the back of the chemist’s shop to the phone, and dialled No. 10 on a private line.
 
It was a long time before a distraught Tarver managed to bring a distraught Lady Elizabeth to speak.
 
‘I can’t talk to you now, Nancy. Poor Herbert’s in a terrible state.’
 
‘Dying?’
 
‘No, I’ve never seen him more cheerful, unfortunately. Somehow he has taken a ghastly drug called polyannamine, and nobody can get-----’
 
‘Are you all right?’
 
‘Of course I am, but I’m distraught, Nancy, absolutely dis traught! I can’t stay talking. Herbert has insulted Molochev, and unless they get a full apology from him by 2 a.m. to morrow morning—that’s 6 a.m., Moscow time—they are going to declare a state of war with Britain.’
 
‘Elizabeth!’
 
‘The world’s gone mad! I can’t stand talking. God bless you, Nancy, whatever happens.’
 
The line went dead.
 
It was just after ten o’clock. The pubs would be closing.
 
With the blood drained from her face, Nancy stood where she was, staring into the dark shop. Slowly she replaced the receiver on its cradle. Slowly, her face still pale, she walked back into the living-room—to be confronted by her husband, Lord Lyon-Bowater.
 
Accompanying him, standing by the wardrobe like a sentry by his box, was a small man in a tightly belted mac.
 
‘There she is, sir. That’s her,’ this individual told Lord Lyon-Bowater.
 
‘Do you think I doubt it? Nancy, we have followed you: we saw you through the window. What have you to say for yourself?’
 
‘Oh, Towin!’ She burst into tears. Even as she did so, she saw to her shame that Johnny was attempting to hide from the intruders; the tail of his bright satin jacket protruded from the wardrobe.  
 
* * * *
 
Five minutes later, Nancy had controlled herself enough to tell her story to a shocked audience, her husband, the private detective, Mrs. Quaker, and Johnny. They received her news in silence; Mrs. Quaker was the first to speak.
 
‘War! So it’s come at last—what us innocent people have been dreading ever since the last one!’ exclaimed Mrs. Quaker.
 
‘England don’t stand a chance this time,’ the detective said, lugging at his belt to gird himself against an invisible foe. ‘It’ll be the end of most of us.’
 
‘Nonsense,’ said Lord Lyon-Bowater, but a roar of laughter had greeted the detective’s remark. They turned to see Mr. Quaker cackling helplessly by the door. He pointed at Nancy, his finger shaking with his mirth, his tiny features huddling in the centre of a convulsed area of cheek.
 
‘That’s the funniest thing I heard for years, Nancy. Really funny. I don’t know when I laughed so much. For years, we’ve all been saying we’d like to tell Molochev what we thought of him; it’s only fitting it should be the P.M. who finally does it. By gosh, really funny! Really—Worth a few H-bombs, I’d say. Long live free speech!’
 
Johnny grasped him by the shoulders and shook him.
 
‘Pull yourself together, Dad. This isn’t a laughing matter and you know it. You’re hysterical.’
 
‘Oh, no, I’m not, my little teenage divorcee. I just tasted that solution your fancy woman gave me to analyse, and believe me it’s a real cure for any sort of misery.’
 
He went into a fresh peal of laughter. Johnny smacked him across the face.
 
The laughter stopped, but Mr. Quaker said amiably, ‘You only did that because you’re unhappy and frightened------’
 
‘ ‘Course I’m frightened——’
 
Meanwhile, Lord Lyon-Bowater had come to life. He rammed his hat on to his head, seized his stick and gloves, and thrust his chin forward.
 
‘I can’t wait about here any longer. My post is at the Air Ministry. The country’s full defensive forces must be mobilized immediately. Nancy, you’d better come with me.’
 
But it was Johnny Earthquake who stepped forward.
 
‘If you want to defend the country, sir, here’s the ideal way,’ he said excitedly. ‘Drop this stuff over Russia, over Moscow, and you’ll have ‘em all as merry as crickets in no time. It would save anyone bashing anyone.’
 
‘Oh, the boy’s got a lovely idea!’ exclaimed his mother.
 
‘It’s a wonderful idea!’ exclaimed Nancy. ‘What do you say, Towin?’
 
The Secretary of State for Air looked at his watch.
 
‘Where do we get hold of this stuff?’
 
‘From a man called Miller,’ Nancy said. ‘He lives—well, according to the label on his box, he lives in Pentonville Prison.’
 
‘Mark Miller!’ exclaimed Johnny. ‘I was introduced to him when we played at Pentonville last night. I know where his lab is. Come on! What are we waiting for?’
 
His Lordship looked him straight in the eyes. Then he grasped his shoulder.
 
‘Why not, by George? Johnny, my boy, you’re on. You and Nancy go and collect as much of this drug as you can lay your hands on and bring it round to me at the Air Ministry. I’ll be seeing that a ground-to-air missile is readied. We can pack the solution into a warhead and explode it over the Kremlin. On your way!’
 
‘Be seeing you!’ Johnny said, grabbing Nancy’s hand; he dragged her towards the door, with a farewell wave at his mother. His Lordship, the detective still keeping him com pany, followed close behind. In a minute, Mr. and Mrs. Quaker were left alone.
 
‘If only they can make it in time!’ Mrs. Quaker said. Her hands were shaking. She turned eagerly to the sherry.
 
‘Old wardrobe looks as if an H-bomb’s hit it already!’ Mr. Quaker said. He began to laugh again.
 
* * * *
 
It was a week later that Joseph Kennedson, President of the U.S.A., paid his historic visit to Great Britain. During his two-day stay at Chequers, he and Lady Elizabeth Macclesfield sat in the Green Lounge and watched on a monitor screen while Sir Herbert, in the room next door, had an unscripted ex change of insults before the TV cameras with Nikita Molochev in Moscow. The show was a partial failure: it had to be stopped before the end because both Molochev and Sir Herbert were laughing too much to go on.
 
‘Oh, that was wonderful,’ exclaimed Lady Elizabeth. ‘You can see now, Joseph, why the war collapsed. Once our missile exploded over Moscow, the Russians were too busy being happy to care about war.’
 
‘Too bad that young Johnny Earthquake set fire to Miller’s lab, though, so that all his notes were destroyed. Now we may never be able to synthesize polyannamine again.’
 
Lady Elizabeth started laughing once more.
 
‘Who cares? It did the trick. And they had a wonderful blaze at Pentonville.’
 
The P.M. entered. He wore only vest and trousers, and was towelling himself.
 
‘Phew, it was hot under the searchlights,’ he exclaimed, grinning at the President. ‘Talk about sweated labour, what price sweated Tory?’
 
‘You were marvellous, darling,’ Lady Elizabeth said, laugh ing and kissing him. ‘You ought to be on TV.’
 
‘I’ll think about it, sweetie. We’d better see how the election goes first, eh, Joseph!’
 
When the Macclesfields had somewhat lapsed into sobriety, the President said, ‘One point about this affair that interests me. Happiness is naturally a highly desirable state, yet nobody had taken polyannamine voluntarily; curious, isn’t it?’
 
‘None of us wants change—except small change.’
 
‘I mean that I didn’t know—well, the rest of the world doesn’t know—whether or not to envy you.’
 
The P.M.’s eyebrows rose towards his thinning hair.
 
‘You soon will.’
 
‘How’s that?’
 
Both the P.M. and his wife began to laugh again.
 
‘Of course you wouldn’t have heard—we only discovered it yesterday,’ Lady Elizabeth said. ‘The effects of polyannamine are not only irreversible: they’re contagious and infectious.’
 
The President stared at her open-mouthed. He scratched his head. Then he began to smile.
 
Then he too began to laugh.