Wilson. And he’d been Mittiavelli ever since. But if Rod was going to sit here and ruin Friday evening with a whinge about the
pair of them, there was an obvious question lurking in the wings.
‘You made them a gift of the leadership. Why didn’t you stand?’
‘Why not?’ Rod said. ‘Perfectly good reason when it came down to it. Do you remember what Jack Kennedy said in his inaugural?’
‘Yep, he said watch out, commies, we’re a-gonna blast yer.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Rod said softly. ‘Do you have to be quite so cynical? He said no such thing.’
‘Yes he did. Meet any challenge, fight any foe, zapany country, look out world. He’s a cold warrior, Rod. It was a speech of warmongering patriotic hokum.’
‘Freddie, I’ve met the man, you haven’t. He is not a—’
‘Yes I have.’
‘Have what?’
‘Met him.’
‘When?’
Rod looked at Troy in utter disbelief.
‘Just before the war. When his dad was the ambassador. You were busy doing your stint as the Post ’s man in Berlin. The old man invited the Kennedys out to Mimram. Jack was
this tall skinny thing, he’d be about twenty or twenty-one I suppose. I was not much older. The old man stuck us together on the assumption common age might yield common interest. Fat
chance.’
‘Oh? What did you talk about?’
‘We stood on the verandah. Nice sort of evening, sort of balmy, the kind of summer evenings we don’t get any more. He said, “Sho this is the English countryshide?” Not
exactly a conversation piece – all you can say is “yes”. “Sho,” he said, “what doesh a man have to do to get laid in the English countryshide?”’
‘You’re making this up.’
‘No, honestly—’
‘You know, cynicism will be the death of you.’
‘It’s true, all of it. I fixed him upwith Ted Driffield’s daughter.’
Rod’s voice rose to parliamentary peak, the polite bludgeoning of the House of Commons. How to shout down an opponent without getting slung out by the Speaker.
‘Cynicism and lies will be the death of you! The President of the United States does not come to rural Hertfordshire simply to get laid, and it’s got nothing to do with the
point I was trying to make!’
He ground to a halt. Lost for words.
‘What was I saying?’
‘Inaugrual speech,’ Troy prompted.
‘Right. What he said was something about let the word go forth, et cetera et cetera, the torch – that’s it – the torch has been passed to a new generation.’
‘So that’s why you wouldn’t stand? The torch has been passed to Harold Wilson? He’s the “new generation”? You’re mad.’
‘It was too late for me and I knew it. The party wasn’t looking for a man for the next couple of years, it was looking for a leader to take them into the seventies. By 1970
I’ll be sixty-two.’
‘So?’
‘Too old. I knew it in my bones. Time to pass on the torch.’
‘Maybe – but younger men? Wilson and Brown!’
‘They’re ten years younger than me.’
‘So? Wilson’s a bore and George is a liability. For God’s sake, Rod, Harold Wilson was born middle-aged!’
‘As a matter of fact, they’re both younger than you.’
Troy shrugged a silent ‘so what?’
‘Don’t you ever get the feeling that it’s time to pass on the torch, that your generation has had its chance?’
‘No.’
‘You will. Take my word for it.’
Rod lapsed into silence, giving Troy time to digest this. Troy silently spat it out. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
‘You going to answer that?’ Rod said at last.
Troy picked up the telephone and heard Anna’s voice for the first time in several weeks.
‘Troy. So glad I caught you. Look, are you free this evening?’
‘Depends,’ said Troy.
‘Don’t be so damn cagey. I was only trying to ask you out.’
Anna was an ex-girlfriend – a word that caused Troy on occasion to wonder how pertinent it could be when applied to a married woman of forty-three or four. She was also Troy’s
pair of them, there was an obvious question lurking in the wings.
‘You made them a gift of the leadership. Why didn’t you stand?’
‘Why not?’ Rod said. ‘Perfectly good reason when it came down to it. Do you remember what Jack Kennedy said in his inaugural?’
‘Yep, he said watch out, commies, we’re a-gonna blast yer.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Rod said softly. ‘Do you have to be quite so cynical? He said no such thing.’
‘Yes he did. Meet any challenge, fight any foe, zapany country, look out world. He’s a cold warrior, Rod. It was a speech of warmongering patriotic hokum.’
‘Freddie, I’ve met the man, you haven’t. He is not a—’
‘Yes I have.’
‘Have what?’
‘Met him.’
‘When?’
Rod looked at Troy in utter disbelief.
‘Just before the war. When his dad was the ambassador. You were busy doing your stint as the Post ’s man in Berlin. The old man invited the Kennedys out to Mimram. Jack was
this tall skinny thing, he’d be about twenty or twenty-one I suppose. I was not much older. The old man stuck us together on the assumption common age might yield common interest. Fat
chance.’
‘Oh? What did you talk about?’
‘We stood on the verandah. Nice sort of evening, sort of balmy, the kind of summer evenings we don’t get any more. He said, “Sho this is the English countryshide?” Not
exactly a conversation piece – all you can say is “yes”. “Sho,” he said, “what doesh a man have to do to get laid in the English countryshide?”’
‘You’re making this up.’
‘No, honestly—’
‘You know, cynicism will be the death of you.’
‘It’s true, all of it. I fixed him upwith Ted Driffield’s daughter.’
Rod’s voice rose to parliamentary peak, the polite bludgeoning of the House of Commons. How to shout down an opponent without getting slung out by the Speaker.
‘Cynicism and lies will be the death of you! The President of the United States does not come to rural Hertfordshire simply to get laid, and it’s got nothing to do with the
point I was trying to make!’
He ground to a halt. Lost for words.
‘What was I saying?’
‘Inaugrual speech,’ Troy prompted.
‘Right. What he said was something about let the word go forth, et cetera et cetera, the torch – that’s it – the torch has been passed to a new generation.’
‘So that’s why you wouldn’t stand? The torch has been passed to Harold Wilson? He’s the “new generation”? You’re mad.’
‘It was too late for me and I knew it. The party wasn’t looking for a man for the next couple of years, it was looking for a leader to take them into the seventies. By 1970
I’ll be sixty-two.’
‘So?’
‘Too old. I knew it in my bones. Time to pass on the torch.’
‘Maybe – but younger men? Wilson and Brown!’
‘They’re ten years younger than me.’
‘So? Wilson’s a bore and George is a liability. For God’s sake, Rod, Harold Wilson was born middle-aged!’
‘As a matter of fact, they’re both younger than you.’
Troy shrugged a silent ‘so what?’
‘Don’t you ever get the feeling that it’s time to pass on the torch, that your generation has had its chance?’
‘No.’
‘You will. Take my word for it.’
Rod lapsed into silence, giving Troy time to digest this. Troy silently spat it out. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
‘You going to answer that?’ Rod said at last.
Troy picked up the telephone and heard Anna’s voice for the first time in several weeks.
‘Troy. So glad I caught you. Look, are you free this evening?’
‘Depends,’ said Troy.
‘Don’t be so damn cagey. I was only trying to ask you out.’
Anna was an ex-girlfriend – a word that caused Troy on occasion to wonder how pertinent it could be when applied to a married woman of forty-three or four. She was also Troy’s
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