More Than You Know (4 page)

The USB procedure was an interview with the CO, no more than that. Matt failed. The only non-public-school boy who passed was a grammar-school boy, who spoke what was known as BBC English. Matt was very upset and angry; Charles tried to comfort him.

“They probably didn’t like your ugly face. Doesn’t mean a thing, really.”

“Yes, it does,” said Matt bitterly. “Why else would that wanker Johnson get through?”

“Well.” Charles hesitated. “Well, I s’pose it was just luck.”

“No, it fucking wasn’t. It was because he’d been to fucking grammar school. Knew how to talk and that.”

“Oh. Matt, I’m sure—”

“No. And you know something? I could have gone to grammar school. I passed the scholarship. Only my parents couldn’t afford the uniform. Mum was really upset. I even ’eard them talking about borrowing the money from somewhere. I wasn’t having that. So I told them I didn’t want to go, wanted to go to the secondary modern with me mates. Complete lie; I wanted to go. And if I ’ad I’d be going off to do my Wosby with you. Not fucking fair, I tell you.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Charles, and was surprised to find how indignant he felt on Matt’s behalf.

Two weeks later, Charles was sent off to do his Wosby. Attending with him was Nigel Manners, who had been at Eton with him; on the last night they got mildly drunk together in the mess.

Manners said he seemed to remember Charles had a “jolly pretty sister,” and Charles said indeed he had. “I’m very fond of her. She had a rather successful season.”

“Really? Good for her. Quite a good lark, this, isn’t it?”

“It is. Find your basic training OK?”

“Oh—you know. Not bad. Better than school.”

They both laughed.

“Good chaps in your unit?” asked Manners.

“Some of them, yes. One really bright bloke. He should be here, really.”

“Yes? Why isn’t he?”

“Because he didn’t go to the right school,” said Charles. “And he’d be a bloody fine officer. Sometimes I think it’s not fair, all this stuff.”

Manners stared at him.

“Good lord! You’re not a pinko, are you?”

“No,” said Charles slowly, “but knowing Shaw has changed my mind about certain things. He’s a good bloke through and through.”

“Well, it’s jolly difficult, isn’t it? I mean, would you introduce him to your sister, for instance?”

“What—socially?” said Charles. “Oh, no, I don’t think I’d go that far.”

1959

M
ATT, THIS IS MY SISTER
, E
LIZA
. E
LIZA
, M
ATT
S
HAW, COMRADE AT
arms.”

“Goodness. How very military. How do you do, Mr. Shaw?”

“Fine, thanks,” said Matt, taking her outstretched hand. He stood there, staring at her; he felt an odd sense of disorientation, without being at all sure why. Tall, she was, Charles’s sister, with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and big blue eyes; she was wearing narrow black trousers and a black-and-white checked jacket, which swung open to reveal a black sweater, clinging quite closely to some extremely nice rounded breasts.

“I hope you’re not off to some battlefield now,” she said, taking back her hand, and he was aware that he had held on to it for just too long and felt foolish.

“No, not just yet,” said Charles. “Three days of serious relaxation for both of us; but Matt and I came up together from Warley, and I thought you might be able to drop him off at his place. I told him you were meeting me.”

“Well, of course I will. Where—”

“Really, it’s not necessary,” Matt said, pulling himself together, suddenly desperate to be away from them. “I can get the bus, easy—”

“Of course we’ll take you,” said Eliza, taking Charles’s arm, reaching up, giving him a kiss. “I’m taking Charles to see my new flat, so it’s fine. Where do you live, Mr. Shaw?”

“Matt, please. Well, Clapham, not too near your flat—Kensington, I think Chas said it was—”

“Chas! Is that what you call him? I like it!” said Eliza, and Matt felt slightly patronised. “No, honestly, I’d love to drive to Clapham; I’d take you up to Scotland if you wanted. I’ve got this heavenly new car; it’s a Fiat 500. I can hardly bear to get out of it even.”

“How on earth did you afford that?” said Charles.

“It was a present from Gommie. You know how she loves to spoil me—”

“Wish my godmother loved to spoil me,” said Charles. “What color is it? Come on, Matt, don’t look so nervous; she’s not that bad a driver …”

As if that was what he was nervous about, Matt thought.

The Fiat was parked just below Waterloo station, in the Cut; it was navy blue. “There she is,” said Eliza, “love of my life. What do you think, Charles?”

“I think you’re a lucky so-and-so,” said Charles. “Can I drive it?”

“No, you can’t; you can get in the back. Matt, you sit next to me.”

“No, really, look—there’s my bus. Goes right past my door. Thanks anyway; cheers, Chas, see you; bye, Eliza, nice to meet you.”

And he ran towards the bus as it was pulling away, seized the rail, jumped onto the platform, and then went upstairs so that he could watch the Fiat as it wove its way rather uncertainly in the opposite direction. He felt much better already.

He had still not got completely over his rage at not getting a commission, and he was depressed at the thought of Charles’s departure from Warley barracks. He had become, Matt realised, a genuine friend, and he was going to miss him. The three days’ leave marked their final separation. Charles was off to Mons, and the four of them, tough little Walton and Nobby Clark, the Geordie, had got very drunk the night before and sworn they’d stay in touch. Bloody likely, thought Matt, the three of them working-class lads and Chas the posho.

The other public school wallies were wallies indeed: “Thick as the proverbial,” he remarked to Nobby one night as they polished their boots. “I reckon we could get the better of ’em, you and I, Nobs, if we only got half a chance.”

“Yeah, well, maybe,” said Nobby, “but who’s going to give it to us, eh? I don’t see either of us being welcomed into the stock exchange where old Chas is going.”

“Maybe not,” said Matt. “Trick is to find a place where we could box clever, you know? I’m not going to be a builder like me dad; I want a cushy job, in an office, with a desk.”

“Yeah, and pigs flying past the window,” said Nobby.

Matt did actually have an idea about what he wanted to do, although he wasn’t sure how he could accomplish it. Before he went into the army, he had worked as an office boy for six months in a big insurance company. His sharp eyes had led him to where he was sure a lot of money lay: the world of property.

Big buildings were going up all over London: the company he was working for insured some of the smaller ones; Matt always read very carefully the memos he carried about from office to office, realising how much he would learn from them, and one of the girls who worked in the typing pool and who fancied him would supply—in all innocence—information on the figures she typed up all day during an evening at the pictures or in a coffee bar. She didn’t realise she was doing this, just found Matt’s interest in her work rather touching.

It was small-beer stuff, a few thousand here and there, but Matt would work out for himself how the thousands would multiply to the power of millions for the big boys behind the big buildings. And it wasn’t just the money; he felt a sense of genuine excitement as he travelled to work each morning on the bus—watching the buildings grow, watching London turn modern, as he put it, staring at the bomb sites that still scarred it, and wondering what might be growing shortly in their place. He had read in his
Daily Mirror
that the money spent on new buildings had almost doubled in the past ten years. It seemed very clear to Matt that this was the industry to go into.

When he left the army, he’d decided to get a job with one of the commercial estate agents that were multiplying almost daily; he could earn at least eight pounds a week just for starters. The sky towards which the
great towers soared could be literally the limit. And Matt would have a part of it.

That was his dream, at any rate.

“So—any news?” Charles said as they drove towards Kensington. “Got a job yet?”

“Not really,” said Eliza. “I mean, I’ve got one, but it’s not what I want; I’m just a secretary.”

“So, what do you want exactly?”

“Well, I’d like to get into the fashion business, work on a magazine maybe, but I haven’t quite got there yet.”

“Jolly good. I can’t say I quite understand, but—”

“It’s very simple. I want a career; I don’t just want to get married. Well, I do one day, but I certainly don’t see getting a rich husband as the be-all and end-all, even if it is what Mummy and Daddy hope for.”

“They’re struggling a bit, aren’t they?”

“I really think they are. And the house is a huge expense and worry, lovely as it is. Incidentally, I thought he was rather sweet, your Mr. Shaw. Awfully good-looking.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed. Eliza, do look out; you nearly knocked that chap off his bike. Now tell me about your flatmates. Anyone I know? And where are we going tonight? I’m ready for a bit of fun, I can tell you.”

Sarah took a deep breath; she had to broach this subject; she couldn’t leave it any longer.

“Adrian?”

He was deep in an article in the
Telegraph
. They were having breakfast outside.

“Interesting. They could start work on this Channel Tunnel in two years. I can’t believe it. Wonder if it’d be a good investment.”

“Adrian, please don’t talk about investment. We can’t afford to buy as much as a premium bond at the moment. And anyway, if—”

“If what, my love?”

She stopped somehow. She’d been about to say one of the unforgivable
things, about how Adrian’s investments had invariably left them worse off.

“If we did have any money, we’d need to spend it on Summercourt.”

“On what exactly? Seems fine to me.”

“It isn’t fine, Adrian. It needs painting, the whole house, outside, every door and window, and that would cost at least five hundred pounds. And there’s damp in the cornices of some of the top bedrooms; I think there’s quite a lot of water getting in. Really and truly we need a new roof, you know. Mr. Travers warned us about that last time he replaced the slates, said he couldn’t patch it all up indefinitely.”

“Now, darling, think of the money he’d make if he reroofed the whole of Summercourt. Of course he’s going to say that.”

Sarah took a deep breath.

“I don’t agree, Adrian. He’s a careful builder, a proper craftsman, and I would put a lot of faith in anything he had to say. And looking at those ceilings, I think the time has come.”

“But, sweetheart, we can’t afford it.”

“Well, we could if—”

“If what?”

“If we sold a bit more land.”

There. She had said it.

“But I wouldn’t even consider it,” he said. “We’ve always agreed that we’ve kept the absolute minimum necessary to ensure the place is safe, so there’s no risk of it being spoilt.”

“We need the money, Adrian; we really do. It only need be a few acres.”

And then it did all sound dreadfully bad, and she was horrified to find herself near to tears. He went over to her, put his arm round her shoulders. “Hey,” he said, “don’t cry. You know I can’t bear you to be upset. It’ll be all right, darling. Look, leave it with me; I’ll find someone to help us.”

“But, Adrian—”

“I’ll talk to Bert Chapman, see what he says. He’s a bit more realistic about these things than Travers.”

Bert Chapman was what her father would have called a spiv. He botched everything, cut corners, and employed people who had no real idea what they were doing.

She opened her mouth to say so, but Adrian was already moving into the next hideously predictable phase of the discussion.

“Oh, Sarah,” he said, his face suddenly infinitely sad. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve been pretty useless to you, haven’t I, in lots of ways. Never brought any money in.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Of course, she’d known when she fell in love with him that he had no money and only a modest job in the city. Which he’d given up on his fiftieth birthday, because he was finding it so exhausting doing the journey up there every day, and a friend of his had offered him a partnership in his company, selling guns and fishing rods by mail order. But that had gone bust, taking Adrian’s investment with it. Of course, he had a small pension. But he was terribly extravagant, spent a lot of money on shooting, on wine, clothes …