Past Caring (24 page)

“We’re both lucky, Winston , to have survived that summer of
1916.”

“That’s true, Edwin. But I’m especially glad to see you again.

You had to go through another two years of the beastly business.”

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“It was nearer eighteen months actually and they were spent in
an interesting post that was safer than most. I thought you might
have had something to do with that.”

“Perhaps, dear boy, perhaps.” He grinned as he spoke, then
grew serious. “But don’t misunderstand. Munitions movements were
vital at that stage of the war. We needed calm, reliable people—such
as yourself.”

“It’s kind of you to say so.”

“Not at all—it’s accurate. The public are quick to forget that
my ministry and the people who helped it shortened the war.”

“They’ve been reminded, Winston. I saw in the paper only a
few days ago that one of your suppliers has been knighted.”

“Well deserved, I’m sure.”

“I’m glad you’re sure, because I’m not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew Gerald Couchman when we were in South Africa together. You might have met him there yourself.”

“I don’t think so. But what of it?”

“My difficulty is that the idea of Gerald Couchman becoming
a knight of the realm makes my flesh creep.”

Churchill’s fork froze halfway between the plate and his mouth.

“Couchman’s a good man. It’s unlike you to play the traducer,
Edwin.”

“Perhaps I’m growing bitter in my old age.”

“You’re younger than I am.”

Which was true. And he was running to fat, whereas the war
had kept me in shape if nothing else. Nevertheless, I felt older than
he looked. I tried again. “Couch’s record in the Boer War was not
that of a white knight and I daresay his commercial career bears no
closer inspection.”

“This is shameful stuff, Edwin. Couchman was my best supplier. He’s done enough to put behind him any supposed shortcomings in the past. Some are better forgotten , you know.”

“I thought you deplored the public’s short memory.”

“I was talking about the war we’ve just won. Good service in
that deserves its reward. The women who worked in the factories
made us forget those who had thrown bricks and bombs, so now
we’ve given them the vote. Couchman’s own wife . . .”

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“Yes?”

My interruption made Churchill cautious. He continued
more slowly. “She worked as a voluntary nursing sister quite tirelessly, I’m told. She deserves the award as much as her husband.

That’s all.”

This mention of Elizabeth set me back somewhat. But I was determined to press on. “I stand corrected. But on the question of
memory, do you remember the request I made of you when you visited me in the convalescent home?”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Let me remind you. You agreed to contact one of the detectives
the Home Office uses—Palfrey—and ask him the state of some enquiries he was conducting for me.”

“I’m sorry, Edwin. I don’t remember that. But I may well have
forgotten—it was a hectic time.”

“So you didn’t contact Palfrey?”

“No. That’s something I wouldn’t forget. The party and the
country were in turmoil then , so I’m very much afraid it must have
slipped my mind.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that it slipped Palfrey’s mind
as well?”

“Not entirely. I daresay the war must have affected even Mr.

Palfrey.”

“It surprised me, Palfrey being an assiduous man of business.”

“It’s true that these men normally look after their interests with
great diligence.”

“Quite so.”

A silence fell between us and I announced that I would shortly
have to leave. I settled the bill and rose to go. Churchill lingered
with his coffee and cigars, wearing a hurt and puzzled expression.

He bade me adieu without rising.

“Farewell, Winston ,” I replied, drawing on my overcoat. “I
hope I’ve not spoiled your luncheon. Your comments about good
service compensating for past transgressions—if any—were interesting.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“They leave me wondering when such a rule might be applied
in my case.”

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I left before he had a chance to respond. What he had said had
told me less than what he had not said. For such a garrulous man ,
this was unusual, but his culpable forgetfulness where Palfrey was
concerned, taken together with Palfrey’s own renunciation of duties
which he had normally pursued so doggedly, betokened some form
of conspiracy. Had I known that much before the war, I would have
raged at their throats. Now, I was the subtle scout, in truth unable to
descry the route that I must thread through the shell holes of my
past. Only the reaction of others told me that there was one to follow.

It led, the following morning, to Woolwich and the Couchman
armament works: a vast, whale-backed brick building behind high
walls, overshadowing the smaller office building to which my attention was directed. I had arrived early, in steely rain , and mingled
with the workers plodding in at dawn to the summoning wail of a
siren. I had left them at the gates, reconnoitred the premises, which
backed onto railway sidings, then returned to patrol the frontage
and await the managing director.

He arrived at ten o’clock, by which time the rain had stopped in
his honour and the factory was humming with activity. He swept in
at the wheel of a sleek blue Bentley, heedless of an overcoated figure
by the gates. But I took careful stock of Couch as he stepped from his
car with a jaunty spring, immaculately dressed, hair smoothed
down , cigarette in a holder, white scarf and gloves, a hint of a swag-ger as he strode up the steps towards his office. It was odd to see him
again after so many years, still essentially the same but altered forever in my eyes by his trespass upon what was mine. The devil-may-care hedonist had transformed himself into a man of wealth
and substance. I hated him in that moment for his success in all the
fields where I had failed. Honour, not disgrace, had rewarded his
endeavours. The war had made, not broken him; Elizabeth, not
lonely introspection , had become his wife.

We were the same age, yet Couch bounded up the steps like a
younger, more confident man. It was not just a game leg that sapped
my energy but I was not, for all that, a spent force. I called him back
as he reached the doors.

“Couch!”

He stopped dead, then turned slowly. There was no recognition
in his gaze down at me, but puzzlement.

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“I haven’t been called that in years,” he said. “Do I know you?”

I walked to the foot of the steps. “I think so.” I removed my hat:
a functional act to aid his memory, neither friendly nor deferential.

I looked up at him without smiling and some of the assurance
drained from his features. He knew me.

I joined him at the top of the steps. “I’d appreciate a few words
with you, Couch.”

“All right. Let’s go into my office.” Even as he spoke he recovered himself somewhat. He led the way into the building. The foyer
was dark, but richly decorated, with a leather settee, chairs and potted plants at the foot of a broad staircase. To the right, behind a
counter, an earnest young lady in spectacles was perched by a telephone switchboard. The hall beyond ended in double doors, one of
which stood open to a large room full of clerks and stenographers.

“Good morning, Mr. . . . Sir Gerald,” said the bespectacled young
lady. Couch did not respond, but led me up the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the young lady pout with annoyance. At the
top, we went straight into a secretary’s office. “No interruptions,
Dorothy,” was all Couch said to the lady behind the desk—who
looked startled by his curtness—before carrying on into his office
and closing the door behind us.

It was a large, airy room, thickly carpeted and hung with oil
paintings of whiskery old men. There were several framed certificates of technical excellence and a world map covering one wall.

Behind Couch’s desk, windows overlooked the rear of the factory:
the loading bay and railway sidings. Beyond them loomed the
cranes and gantries of Thameside wharves.

“Sit down , Edwin ,” said Couch. “You look as if you need to.”

I sat in a leather armchair in front of his desk. “My leg tends to
stiffen up if I stand on it too long,” I explained.

Couch sat behind his desk facing me. “A war wound?”

“Yes. The Somme.”

“Sorry to hear it . . . you were standing a long time waiting
for me?”

“Some hours.”

“You must have something important to say, then.”

I had been simmering as we minced through these false salutations and this last remark took me over the top. “Of course I’ve
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something important to say, Couch. You’ve helped to ruin my life.

Isn’t that important?”

“Need we be melodramatic, old man?”

There was one advantage a lame war veteran had over a
contemporary softened by success: a sinewy strength heightened
now by anger. I rose, reached across the desk and pulled him out of
his chair by the collar of his pinstriped jacket.

“We certainly can be melodramatic . . . old man , if you require
it.” With that, I let him fall back into his chair. He looked unnerved
by this sudden show of force.

“All right,” he said breathlessly. “Cards on the table. What do
you want of me?”

“An explanation.”

“What’s there to explain? I’ve prospered, you haven’t. It’s the
luck of the draw.”

“Just tell me about Elizabeth.”

“It was all over between you and Elizabeth before I ever
met her.”

“How did you meet?”

“Through some mutual friends—the Lambournes. I courted
Elizabeth because I realized how good she would be for me. Eventually, I was lucky enough to persuade her to marry me.”

“When did all this take place?”

“We first met, let me see, late in 1910 or early in 1911. I forget
precisely when.”

“Strange you should be so vague.”

“I was never too hot on dates.” He smiled weakly, then caught
himself and stopped.

“You were married on 20th June 1914. I’ll be precise if you
can’t.”

“That’s one date I remember.”

“Good. What about all this?” I gestured expansively at the office and the works beyond.

“Another spot of luck.” His words were invested with less relish
than would normally have been the case, but he knew no other form
for them. “My father died the year before we married. I hadn’t seen
the old man for ages, but he left me quite a nest egg. Elizabeth had
taught me not to squander my advantages, so I invested some of it in

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this place. Bought out a small-timer named Pound, who made fire-works would you believe. Ploughed a lot into the plant—new ma-chinery for shell casings and the like. Turned out to be just the right
time.”

“The war was quite a windfall for you, then.” He detected my
sarcasm.

“As it happened. But somebody had to make the bloody stuff
and we did it well. I bid for all the contracts, got a lot of business
once Lloyd George had gingered up supply, expanded no end. We
met the deadlines and produced reliable munitions. The military
thanked me for our contribution to the war effort.”

“Don’t expect me to add my thanks.”