Читать книгу The Postmaster-General - Hilaire Belloc - Страница 7

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Wilfrid Halterton, Postmaster-General in Mrs. Boulger’s second administration—that of 1960—sat before the wireless electric heater in the study of his new flat, at the top of the new Clarence block overlooking Hyde Park from the north. He was waiting for a visitor. He was waiting for McAuley, the younger McAuley, James (not his elder brother Andrew, the Attorney-General). The appointment had been made for five o’clock on that Tuesday afternoon, to give plenty of time for the Minister to come up after questions from the House of Commons to this flat north of the Park. There was nothing on but that eternal dull recurrent business of the Succession, and he could be free in the later afternoon.

He was a tall, patient-looking man in his fifty-fifth year, with a rather troubled face, long grey lax moustaches that drooped, and somewhat anxious about the mouth and eyes. He was looking rather more anxious than usual as he sat there. He half dreaded the interview which faced him—but it had to be gone through, and it was worth while doing. It was, of course, but one issue in the greater public affairs which a Postmaster-General controls. It was about a contract, and his own connection therewith was satisfactory enough.

Yet nervous he was. James McAuley—“J.,” as they called him in the City—was of a sort which Wilfrid Halterton had come to know well enough during his now long acquaintance with public life, yet his uneasiness in the presence of which he could never quite master: the decisive men, the men who knew beforehand what they were going to say, who have all their forces marshalled and their reserves well in hand. Yes, he was nervous, though he had grown intimate with James McAuley during the last few months, since the Socialist Party had come in due rotation to its regular term of office again under Mrs. Boulger, who had led it so long. The Anarchist Party were of course again in opposition, having for their most forcible personality, though not their leader, Lady Caroline Balcombe, the wife of “Posh” Balcombe the banker, the big noise in the Anglo-American.

James McAuley, “J.,” having a brother as Attorney-General in Mrs. Boulger’s Government was a familiar with both front benches, and a man of consequence; a financier who was the prime mover in a number of great commercial interests.

Nothing but good should come of close friendship with such a man, and Wilfrid Halterton had no reason to worry about the coming interview, so far as its fixed results for himself were concerned. He had already arranged them with “J.,” and there was nothing left to do but read over and sign the letter they had agreed upon.

Television, which had for long been an expectation, then an experiment, then a toy, had approached more and more during the past ten years to a commercial proposition. Television was already working at short ranges. It seemed just at the stage of being practicable over very long distances and having high commercial value.

Just before the Anarchists had gone out, some six months before the election designed to that effect, things were already ripe for the chartering of a television monopoly, and there had been talk of setting one up; but it was thought better to leave things over to the coming Socialist administration, which would have a clear run before it and plenty of time to organize the new public service.

Of course, the Television Service when it should be in working order would have to be under the control of the Government. It would, equally of course, have to be worked in connection with the Post Office. With the Post Office the decision would lie as to which of the two chief competing companies should be granted the monopoly.

Neither group had the least objection to Public Control. It was recognized as a necessity—and, what counts much more with public men—a duty. Each group therefore had negotiated with the permanent officials of the Post Office—pending the final decision of its political chief—on the basis of an arrangement with the authorities whereby whichever company worked the new system of Television as a monopoly should be granted a subsidy, the right to enforce rates fixed by themselves, to let out private machines at their own price, and to make whatever charges they thought fit for installation; with a guarantee from the Treasury against loss.

Whichever of the rival groups should obtain the management of this public service would also, of course, have the right to nominate its own directorship and management and to fill all posts. Finally, there was to be special legislation by schedule attached to the bill, providing that in case of dispute recourse could not be had to the ordinary Courts of Justice, but that the decision of an official of the Company called “the Arbitrator” should be final. To those few cranks who may quarrel with this system and complain that Public Control was imperilled by it, we have a self-evident reply, which is that we are not a logical people; we have a genius for compromise. The test of any system with us is not its theoretical perfection, but whether it works. This system of what may be called “modified Public Control” would certainly work by the only available test, which is the production of a profit for the monopoly which held the Charter.

Durrant’s and Reynier’s were the popular names of the two competing groups. The so-called “Reynier crowd” had their names from the screen they used, which was the invention of the late Hector Reynier, an admitted genius who had died in great poverty. The other (which was more talked about) was the Durrant Imperial Television Company. It was so called after Durrant, the name of the original inventor, who had lately died in embarrassed circumstances; an admitted genius. Its finance was in the hands of James McAuley—James Haggismuir McAuley to give him his full name, which bore record of family distinction on his mother’s side.

Both Reynier’s lot and Durrant’s had manufactured short range private instruments for domestic use since 1953, each Company was well established and the shares of each stood at a premium; but when long-range Television was a fact—already arrived at experimentally over nearly a hundred miles and with prospects of indefinite extension—much larger developments were in prospect. The political—and City—interest of the movement centred upon which of the two rivals should obtain the contract and Charter.

Durrant’s Television shares were known as “Billies.” They had first been called “Tells,” then “William Tells,” then “Williams”; then Capel Court had settled down into this form of “Billies,” and “Billies” they now were and would remain. They stood on this Tuesday, March the 3rd, 1960, the £1 shares, at 23s. 6d.—24s.

A final decision upon the matter was still awaited—and one great difficulty stood in the way of such a decision. There was not much to choose between the Reynier system and Durrant’s so far as sending or receiving were concerned. The difficulty in deciding lay in who should ultimately prove possessor of a gadget called “Dow’s Intensifier.”

Dow’s Patent was the only Intensifier which had been found to work satisfactorily. With it you got tolerably clear reproductions. None of the other very numerous competing types had successfully solved what is, as everybody knows, the chief difficulty in the practical use of Television at long range; for with the experimental and unsatisfactory Intensifiers that were in use, though the picture was then all right, it was all but invisible.

Durrant’s used, and talked a lot about, a certain Murray’s Intensifier; but that was bluff (said the people in the know). It didn’t work and it couldn’t ever: it was on a false principle.

Dow’s was—to those who could judge—indispensable. Reynier had hitherto used the old Keeling Intensifier, which could not of its nature suit long ranges. But it was rumoured on all sides, it was even affirmed by a good many responsible people, that Reynier’s had a secret agreement which secured them Dow’s Patent for the future—or at any rate could take it for granted that they would get it once they had the charter. But the Dow’s Company (Dow, an admitted genius, had died two years before—financial embarrassment had hastened his end) always asserted their complete independence, and denied everything that was going about to the contrary.

None the less, the committee of experts which had been appointed by the Post Office to report on the two systems had reported in favour of Reynier’s. They had done so mainly because they were convinced that Reynier’s would mean Dow’s Patent. They were satisfied that Murray’s totally different system which Durrant’s talked of would never do. Dow’s alone could make the long-range Television practicable.

I have said that James McAuley was behind Durrant’s—one might put it more strongly and say that he was Durrant’s. He was the complete master of that group. And it was largely because of the trust men had in him that Billies stood thus at 23s. 6d.—24s. and were being talked higher, in spite of the Committee’s report in favour of their rivals. For, after all, the report of the Committee was as yet private, and, what was much more important, it could be overruled by the Secretary of State at the head of the department. One thing was certain, whichever got the charter—that is the monopoly—would have Dow’s at their service. For Dow’s could have no other market, and the new market would be immense. Even if Reynier’s did have already some pull or claim, they would have to sell it to Durrant’s if Durrant’s had the P.M.G. in its favour.

And there was Wilfrid Halterton sitting and waiting for James McAuley.

The Postmaster-General knew that this close but direct fellow McAuley was coming to complete a sound proposition; on that sound proposition Halterton had already been approached in a series of interviews from the first days of the session, of which conversations this coming one was to be the last and decisive. He had said as much to Halterton when they had met only twenty-four hours before in the Postmaster-General’s room at the House of Commons and arranged the last details by word of mouth—yet did that statesman hesitate and still dread what was coming. He was still in that mood when he heard the rumble of the lift, a discreet voice at the door asking if Halterton were in, and the light but determined step of his visitor in the passage.

He got up to receive the familiar figure as it entered: the short contained figure of a man much the same as himself in years—but how different in aspect: hands ready to grip, lips under firm control, eyes searching but fixed, and all this modified by a voice that was at once courteous and suave.

“You don’t find it cold, J., do you?” said the host. “If you do I’ll turn on the other one.”

“Nay! Not cold!” said McAuley. “I’ve been walking. A man ought to walk this weather. I’m thinking I’m a touch late,” he added. He pulled out his watch. “I’d hate to be late.”

Then he sat down, and with a lack of preliminaries that was native to him sharply pulled out a bunch of papers from his pocket, looked at one of the sheets, and spread it out before him on the table. It was a large quarto sheet of the best thick paper, with the Royal Arms on it and the heading of the Postmaster-General’s Office. It had on it perhaps twenty lines of clear typescript.

The Postmaster-General had always heard that in critical moments of negotiation it was important to stand up and make the other man sit down. He had always heard that it gave one a dominating position. It was part (he had been told) of the A B C of success. But all this knowledge, though sound enough, availed him nothing; for McAuley said, gently enough, “Sit ye down, Wilfrid. Ye can read it the better so. We can run through it together in a trice.”

So Halterton sat down, drew up his chair, and joined his visitor in studying that typewritten sheet. It was addressed to the Directors of the Durrant Imperial; it began, “Gentlemen,” and it ended, “Your obedient servant.”

When Halterton had read the letter he sighed, and McAuley, by way of contrast, gave a sharp little cough—a cough of half-insinuating command.

“All the main points are there, ye’ll be noting,” he said. “All the main points. ’Tis quite simple. Just a word o’ memorandum. Now ye’re agreeing to give us the contract—oh! quite general. And it’s sufficient—oh! we shall be quite content with that to go on with.”

“Yes,” answered Halterton. “Yes.... Yes.... I think I shall see better with my glasses.”

He pulled out his spectacle case, rubbed the lenses carefully with his handkerchief, put them on, took them off again, rubbed them over a second time, once more put them on very carefully, got the right hook wrong and spent quite a second or two curling it round his ear, while his visitor chafed restrainedly. Then Wilfrid Halterton settled down, not too certainly, to business.

“Yes, it’s quite clear,” he said. “All that you were saying yesterday; it’ll be quite enough for you to act on ... when I’ve signed it.” And he sighed again. Then he got up slowly and began pacing the room, keeping his eyes vaguely as he did so on the sheet which McAuley still held down before him with a careful but firm hand and with watchful eyes fixed on the other’s face.

“You see, J.,” said the Postmaster-General, “the Committee have decided against you ...”

“We’ve had that out before,” took up McAuley quietly and not unkindly. “We’ve had that out several times already.”

“Of course, the Committee’s report in favour of Reynier’s isn’t public yet ... not public....”

“Well, well, it was public enough to make t’other lot jump a shilling the day.” And Mr. McAuley laughed a subdued laugh.

“Well, what I mean.... The way I want to put it,” said Halterton, “is that ... of course you’ve pretty well convinced me, but what I mean is, if I decide to go against the Committee.... No, what I mean is, if we, the Department, should finally decide to go against our own Committee ... why....”

J. McAuley pulled out his watch again.

“It’s a pity to waste time over these things, Wilfrid,” he said shaking his head, but without emphasis. “Ye’ll not hear anything more, I think, for there’s even nothing more to add. I take it, ’tis settled. Have you got it on the Order Paper yet?”

“It goes in to-night,” said Halterton.

“Well! There ye are! Didn’t I tell ye it was settled?”

“Yes, but one could always hold it up ... delay debate, I mean.”

“Oh! Come man!” said McAuley, still gently, “all this is great waste o’ time, surely. ’Twas all fixed yesterday.”

“McAuley,” said the Postmaster-General, sitting down again and putting his spectacles away, and looking towards the door a moment, “have you brought anything in writing? I mean ... something for me? We’ve had nothing in set terms as yet, you know. Not on that point. My point.”

“No ... no,” said J., more slowly than he had yet spoken. He sifted his papers a moment, and then turned again to the sheet of paper on which stood those twenty lines of typescript with the Post Office heading at the top. “This note from you to us is what comes first, naturally,” he continued.

“I say, J....”—the Postmaster-General gave a little nervous laugh—“you ought not to have written it on the official paper, you know. You should have left me to do that.”

“Eh, man, but ye do beat about the bush!”—there was a faint hint of irritation in McAuley’s even voice—“what would ye have me write it on? ’Twas no good making another draft for a simple thing like that, and it saved time to put it on your paper, from the office there. I took some with me last time I saw ye.”

“Oh, did you?” said the statesman. “All right.”

Then he put his spectacles on again with deliberation and slowly read the matter before him. He looked up.

“Oh, I say, this isn’t quite what I meant. This to be from me—of course?”

“Aye, of course,” said McAuley, “what else should it be? And if ye’ll just sign ’twill all be right and ready and we can all go ahead.”

“Well, no doubt sooner or later there will have to be some memorandum of this kind ... but after all, it was for me to write it, wasn’t it?”

McAuley was so provoked that he went too far; clicked his tongue impatiently.

“Ye’re difficult, man!” he said, “very difficult!” He half frowned as he said it. “Come now,” more cheerfully, “I canna get to work till ye’ve signed; we settled that yesterday, didn’t we?”

“All right,” said Halterton, “all right.... But I want to put it this way. I think we ought to exchange memoranda, eh? Simultaneously, eh? Don’t you?”

“What d’ye mean—exactly?” said McAuley doubtfully.

“Why,” answered Halterton, “when I give you this acceptance of the proposal ... if I sign ... why that’s giving you the contract, isn’t it? ... Virtually? You’ve put it clear enough.”

“Of course it’s enough for us to start work on the strength of it. That’s why I brought it.”

“Yes, but.... But there’s the other side to it, you know.”

“Oh,” said J. genially, leaning back for the first time in the conversation, “ye mean that ye’d have me to put down in writing here and now what I’ve been saying to you lately about y’r own position in the Company—if so happen ye should resign and go into the City, for instance?”

“Well ... yes ... Something of that kind, you know ... something of that kind.”

“Hey! ’Tis not the time for that yet! Ye’re still in office, ye know. See now that it’s all right, before you sign, I’ve to-day’s date on it.”

“Yes, I know, I know. Quite. But still, I should feel ... what shall I say... ? I should feel a little more ... regular.” He stood up with this and watched the talker.

“Oh, regular!” admitted the persuasive J., still seated, and he gave a very slight half-smile. He sat silent for a moment, still keeping that half-smile and rapidly considering the full consequences. It would tie him. It would leave a record to have the Postmaster-General’s share in the arrangement written and undersigned by J. himself. It would give Halterton a hold on him. But then, Halterton seemed to insist, and it was necessary to have Halterton’s signature now, at once.

“Very well,” he said at last. “It might have been better to leave that part of it as a gentleman’s agreement, and verbal, but perhaps you’re right.”

He drew out from among the papers a blank sheet, headed it with no date or address of any kind, and with the fine, hard nib of his neat fountain pen—symbolic of the man—he wrote rapidly for several minutes, covering the large sheet of paper with his stiff handwriting. Then he pushed the note over to the Minister. Halterton took it up and read it slowly, half aloud:

Mr. James McAuley, financier, makes everything regular for Mr. Wilfrid Halterton, Statesman and Postmaster-General.

“My dear Halterton....”

“I put it like that, Wilfrid,” interrupted J., “it’s not likely that they’ll give ye more than a Baronetcy and of course I couldn’t call ye Wilfrid. And whether you choose to be Sir Wilfrid or whether you don’t, ’t’ll work either way.”

“All right,” sighed Halterton, and he began reading again:

My dear Halterton,

I am going to approach you with a proposition which I do sincerely hope you will smile on. I know what a modest view you take of your own talents, especially in the business line; but you are the only man in England who does; and what is more, your administration while you were at the Post Office not only gave you just the kind of experience we want, but earned you the respect and admiration of everybody. So what I want to ask you is simply this: “Would you, now that you are out of public life, and I suppose enjoying plenty of leisure, consent to take up the Managership of our Corporation?” Since my appointment as Chief Permanent Commissioner was settled there has been a great deal of discussion on the board as to who should be called in; but I don’t like these long discussions, and I don’t like a vacant place. Still less do I like having to do two jobs at once. I need hardly tell you that when your name was mentioned we were unanimous about it. The only trouble was whether you would consent. For we know how you value your leisure. But do say yes! It would be a personal favour to me; and, what I am afraid I value even more, you would make all the difference to what is now a great public service. I am putting my whole heart into this, and I do beg you not to refuse.

Yrs. ever,

Jas. Haggismuir McAuley

It was a fine clear signature, worthy of the man whose mother had been born a Haggismuir of Haggismuir.

Mr. Wilfrid Halterton finished his reading of it, and looked up. There was, what is odd in a man well over fifty, and especially in a man over fifty whose genius had raised him to one of the greatest public positions in the world, a faint tinge of colour upon either cheek.

“I think, J.,” he said, “I think it would be more ... er, regular, wouldn’t it, if you were just to write a ... a postscript with a word or two about ... well, about the salary?”

“Regular again, Wilfrid!” said J., with that same faint momentary half-smile of a few minutes before. “All right. What was it I said the other day?”

There was a long pause. At last, almost in a whisper, came the words:

“You said ten thousand, J.” Then, in a still lower tone, “Free of tax.”

“All right, Wilfrid,” replied J., in a cheerier tone than he had yet used. He scribbled off the postscript, and after that the figures, then the phrase, “Free of tax,” he added, “and official residence, of course, if you care to use it.” And the neat initials followed: “J.H.M.”

The Postmaster-General was not quite sure; he had always understood that an initialled addendum to a memorandum or habendum ridendum, or any other official binding thing, “went,” as the saying goes. At any rate, he felt he could not ask for anything more.

“Now,” said J., in a more business-like tone than he had yet used, “ye’ll keep that—and date it when the time comes.”

“I suppose it will need some address, won’t it?” asked Halterton.

“Hey? What does that matter? Ye can add it. Ye can write in whatever you like. That’s not what counts. ’Tis my name at the end that counts. Ye can write in wherever I happen to be at the time.”

“Very well, very well,” said Halterton.

James Haggismuir McAuley got up and stretched himself. He also yawned, which, with him, was a gesture of satisfaction and completeness: but he was careful to put his hand in front of his mouth.

“Now,” said he, “we must get them in their envelopes, and we’ll each take his own.... I’ve brought the envelopes to fit—not that it matters much. Do you sign yours—your typewritten one.”

Wilfrid Halterton brought out his little fountain pen mounted in gold and slowly inscribed his name. McAuley blotted the same: folded the fateful document which gave the contract, stuck it in the open envelope; gummed it carefully down and put it in the inner pocket of his coat.

Halterton, always influenced by example, more slowly pocketed James McAuley’s generous and as yet undated offer. But he added something of his own, under a vague feeling that it rendered him more secure. He took up a pencil and wrote, in his rather straggling hand, across the top of the paper which James McAuley had given him:—

“James McAuley’s letter. Handed to me March 3, 1960. W.H.”

He could always rub it out when the time came to use it, and meanwhile there it was as a sort of record. McAuley watched him as he wrote and folded it with too much deliberation, and put it into its corresponding envelope, making only one boss shot. Then, licking the flap and pressing it down, to keep state secrets hidden from all profane eyes, Wilfrid Halterton, Postmaster-General, put the envelope into the pocket of the morning coat he was wearing—the side-pocket away from Mr. McAuley.

“Now,” said that great captain of industry—or, at least, of applied science—or anyhow, of finance; “I must be off.” He looked at his watch for about the fourth time. “Aye, man! I must be off. I’m in a hurry—I shall be late.”

He shook hands warmly with his host as the Postmaster-General showed him to the door, walking at his side. James Haggismuir McAuley stopped a moment in the passage, looked up at the wall, and said:

“That’s a fine etching, Wilfrid!”

Wilfrid turned his long thin neck round to follow the connoisseur’s gaze. As he did so, in the tenth of a second James Haggismuir McAuley had removed the envelope from the side-pocket, passed it in a flash round his back into his other hand, and got it into that breast-pocket of his where its little brother already lay.

Mr. James McAuley, financier, effecting a conveyance of property from Mr. Wilfrid Halterton, Statesman and Postmaster-General.

That business transaction did not take five seconds all told. It had taken Wilfrid Halterton ten to move his neck.

He began the story of the etching, of its value, of its acquirement by him, when he felt his hand warmly grasped again by his friend from the outer, non-political world; he heard the door slam; he sighed, stooped his head somewhat forward, and shuffled back into his study.