floral-print armchair, lighting a cigarette. I reckoned I had just earned myself at least a thousand quid if the standards set in Richmond Park were any guide. I toyed with the idea of getting a first class ticket on the Orient Express.
As the week progressed a doubt arose about whether the party would go ahead; it was part of the larger doubt about whether the human race would continue. The Cuba Crisis, as it was now called, had been steadily developing since The Bay of Pigs, but round about the end of August it had shifted up a gear and by late October it was in overdrive. In counterpoint, with Athens and the Greek Islands now in my sights, I began to relax, the pressures were receding. I no longer drank desperately but calmly, savouring the flavour, giving the palate a chance.
One night the whole town went to bed talking about the Vassall case, he’d been found guilty and given eighteen years, we woke up to find that Kennedy had made the toughest presidential speech since Roosevelt had declared war in 1941. Prices on Wall Street and in the City crashed, people with yearly season tickets suddenly felt cheated. I rang Toby, who earlier in the month had deigned to give me his number. As I expected he was bouncing off the walls to such an extent that I found it impossible to get any sense out of him. For some strange reason his fury focused on the fact that the NATO allies had not been consulted prior to the speech. I found this concern on behalf of the Western Alliance touching coming from Toby but he was not to be placated. His euphoria of two days previously when I had informed him of my coup had completely vanished.
I went out and bought the papers. The Daily Worker was playing it down, it restricted itself to commenting that the only foreign base in Cuba was owned by the U.S.A. But the adverts page was full of Pro-Cuba rallies. They were planning a big one in Trafalgar Square for the coming Sunday, or for any of the South London Chapter who couldn’t make it, there was one at Mitcham Baths on the Friday evening. I lit another cigarette and tried to imagine Battersea Park without any grass.
I’d arranged that Pascale and I would go down with Christopher in his Daimler on the Saturday morning. I’d agreed on the phone with Toby that I would meet her at ten thirty outside Sloane Square Underground. It was a sunny day and I was leaning on a railing watching pedestrians and motorists disputing possession of the road when she arrived. She came up behind me and pinched my bum.
“The Gents’ Lavatories are across the street. Be in the end cubicle in five minutes,” I said without turning round. She said hello. She was wearing a long leather coat and boots, so she looked different from most of the other women in the square who like ducklings still hadn’t shed their fluffy woollen coats at the diktat of the politburo of high fashion. Her dark hair cascaded round her shoulders and the look in her eyes was friendly and coquettish. I instantly felt that spontaneous internal surge that many people describe as a symptom of love. I was pleased she was doing herself justice because I knew Christopher would be impressed and also because it’s always nice to be in the company of a good looking woman. I’d already noticed men looking at her and then looking at me. Partly for their benefit I accentuated the image of our rapport by playing gently with her hair and giving her the smile that has a twinkling star in each eye. I didn’t mention the Cuba business although the news was mixed: U.S. Coastguards had boarded a Senegalese ship, but after searching it had let it continue on its way; a moderating voice in the White House had said that Russian bases in Cuba would be smashed up by force. Russia had mobilised her army, Chou En-Lai had addressed a hysterical anti-American crowd in Peking and the U.S. Embassy in Moscow had been attacked by angry mobs. As a supporting feature China and India were preparing to go to war.
As the week progressed a doubt arose about whether the party would go ahead; it was part of the larger doubt about whether the human race would continue. The Cuba Crisis, as it was now called, had been steadily developing since The Bay of Pigs, but round about the end of August it had shifted up a gear and by late October it was in overdrive. In counterpoint, with Athens and the Greek Islands now in my sights, I began to relax, the pressures were receding. I no longer drank desperately but calmly, savouring the flavour, giving the palate a chance.
One night the whole town went to bed talking about the Vassall case, he’d been found guilty and given eighteen years, we woke up to find that Kennedy had made the toughest presidential speech since Roosevelt had declared war in 1941. Prices on Wall Street and in the City crashed, people with yearly season tickets suddenly felt cheated. I rang Toby, who earlier in the month had deigned to give me his number. As I expected he was bouncing off the walls to such an extent that I found it impossible to get any sense out of him. For some strange reason his fury focused on the fact that the NATO allies had not been consulted prior to the speech. I found this concern on behalf of the Western Alliance touching coming from Toby but he was not to be placated. His euphoria of two days previously when I had informed him of my coup had completely vanished.
I went out and bought the papers. The Daily Worker was playing it down, it restricted itself to commenting that the only foreign base in Cuba was owned by the U.S.A. But the adverts page was full of Pro-Cuba rallies. They were planning a big one in Trafalgar Square for the coming Sunday, or for any of the South London Chapter who couldn’t make it, there was one at Mitcham Baths on the Friday evening. I lit another cigarette and tried to imagine Battersea Park without any grass.
I’d arranged that Pascale and I would go down with Christopher in his Daimler on the Saturday morning. I’d agreed on the phone with Toby that I would meet her at ten thirty outside Sloane Square Underground. It was a sunny day and I was leaning on a railing watching pedestrians and motorists disputing possession of the road when she arrived. She came up behind me and pinched my bum.
“The Gents’ Lavatories are across the street. Be in the end cubicle in five minutes,” I said without turning round. She said hello. She was wearing a long leather coat and boots, so she looked different from most of the other women in the square who like ducklings still hadn’t shed their fluffy woollen coats at the diktat of the politburo of high fashion. Her dark hair cascaded round her shoulders and the look in her eyes was friendly and coquettish. I instantly felt that spontaneous internal surge that many people describe as a symptom of love. I was pleased she was doing herself justice because I knew Christopher would be impressed and also because it’s always nice to be in the company of a good looking woman. I’d already noticed men looking at her and then looking at me. Partly for their benefit I accentuated the image of our rapport by playing gently with her hair and giving her the smile that has a twinkling star in each eye. I didn’t mention the Cuba business although the news was mixed: U.S. Coastguards had boarded a Senegalese ship, but after searching it had let it continue on its way; a moderating voice in the White House had said that Russian bases in Cuba would be smashed up by force. Russia had mobilised her army, Chou En-Lai had addressed a hysterical anti-American crowd in Peking and the U.S. Embassy in Moscow had been attacked by angry mobs. As a supporting feature China and India were preparing to go to war.
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