‘I might have changed my mind,’ he said. ‘That would have been unfortunate.’
His voice, his whole expression, had gone tired. He had to force himself to speak again, to produce a spurt of vigour.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘to have got some of our friends into trouble.’ He was trying to speak with warmth, with intimacy: but he couldn’t do it any more. He tried again when he said: ‘I’m sorry to have done you harm.’
‘That’s nothing.’
‘I’m sorry.’
After that, he did not want to make another effort. He sat back, waiting to sit in that room alone. As I was leaving he said: ‘I shan’t be available for some time. I’m going away.’
46: Another Choice
My own choice was clear. Margaret and I dismissed it in half an hour and then, friction-free, stood ourselves a drink. It seemed to both of us that we might be on the eve of a holiday, cases packed and labelled, the car ordered for nine in the morning, the ship awaiting us, rest in the sun.
I waited three days. In that time, Roger’s resignation was announced and the name of his successor. It was all assimilated in the papers, Whitehall, the clubs, as though it had happened months before. I waited three days, then asked for an appointment with Hector Rose.
It was a quarter-past ten in the morning. In the Park below, the mist was clearing. On Rose’s desk a bowl of hyacinths breathed out the scent of other interviews, of headaching lunches long ago.
I said, the moment I sat down: ‘It’s time for me to go now.’
The elegant posturing was washed away; his concentration was complete.
‘You mean—?’
‘I mean, I’ve outlived my usefulness here.’
‘I should have thought,’ said Rose, ‘that that was overstating the case.’
‘You know as well as I do, that I’m identified with this debacle.’
‘To an extent,’ Rose replied, arms folded, ‘that is unfortunately true.’
‘It is entirely true.’
‘I don’t think, however, that you need to take it too tragically.’
‘I’m not taking it tragically,’ I said. ‘I’m just commenting, I have to do business for you with people we both know. In their view, I’ve backed the wrong horse. Fairly openly. It wouldn’t have mattered so much doing it openly, if it hadn’t been the wrong horse.’
Rose gave an arctic smile.
‘It’s simple,’ I said. ‘I should be no good with these people any more. It’s time to go.’
There was a long silence. Rose considered, his pale eyes still on me, unblinking, expressionless. At last he began to speak, fluently but with deliberation.
‘You have always had a tendency, if I may say so with respect, to permit yourself a certain degree of over-simplification. I can see that you have occasionally acted in a fashion which would have been, shall I say, unusual, if you had been a career civil servant. That has applied particularly in the matter of the unfortunate Quaife. But I might remind you that there have been other examples, during the course of your valuable activities. I think you should acknowledge that the Service is not so finicky as our critics are fond of telling us. The Service has been prepared to put up with what might be, by some standards, a certain trifling amount of embarrassment. It has been considered that we have gained through your having taken some rather curious liberties. In fact, we have formed the firm opinion that your presence was very much more advantageous than your absence. I dislike stressing the point, but we have expressed our appreciation in the only way open to us.’
He was referring to the Honours Lists.
I said, ‘You’ve treated me generously. I know that.’
He bowed his head. He considered, just as precisely: ‘I can see further that after these recent events, it wouldn’t be in your interests or ours for you to undertake certain commissions for us, including perhaps some which you would have carried through with your usual distinction. I suggest, though, that this is really not serious sub specie aeternitatis. It ought not to be beyond the wit of man to make a slight redistribution of your functions. We shall still retain the benefit of your services, at places where we continue to need them. And where, you will understand, though this isn’t an occasion for flattery, we can’t comfortably afford to dispense with them yet awhile.’
He was speaking with fairness, and perhaps with justice. He was also speaking as he might have done at any time during our twenty years’ connection. Within a few months he would himself be retiring from the Service — the Service which had not given him his full reward, certainly not his desire. If I left a vacant niche, it would soon be no concern of his. Nevertheless, he was still saying ‘we’, taking care of Service needs years ahead. He hadn’t, by so much as a flick, recognized that for a short time, for a few days and hours, we had been, not colleagues, but allies. That was wiped out. He was speaking with absolute fairness, but between us there had come down once more, like a curtain, the utter difference in our natures, the uneasiness, perhaps the dislike.
I thanked him, paused, and said: ‘No. But that doesn’t alter the position. I want to go.’
‘You really want to go?’
I nodded.
‘Why?’
‘There are some things I want to help get done. I thought we might do them this way, on the quiet. Now I don’t think we can. Or at least, there’s nothing more I can do on the quiet. I shall have to be a private citizen again.’
‘Will it be so very private, my dear Lewis?’ Rose was watching me carefully.
He asked: ‘I take it, there is no financial problem?’
I said no. He knew it in advance. He wasn’t above a dash of envy because I had been lucky. Himself, though he had been expensively educated, he had no money. When he retired, he would have to live on his pension.
‘You intend to go?’
‘Yes.’
He gazed at me. When it came to men’s actions, he was a good judge. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, it remains to us to make it as painless as possible.’
There was another silence, not a long one.
He said, without emphasis: ‘I should like to put one consideration before you. If you resign now, it won’t pass unnoticed. You are fairly conspicuous. There will be those who will be malicious enough to draw certain conclusions. They might even hint that your departure is not unconnected with recent differences of opinion. And it wouldn’t be altogether easy to prove them wrong.’
He went on: ‘That would be somewhat embarrassing for us. No doubt you will make your own view heard in your own good time. But I suggest you have some obligation to give us a decent interval. You’ve been working with us for a long time. It wouldn’t seem proper if you made matters awkward for us by a dramatic resignation.’
I did not reply. Rose went on: ‘I also suggest it wouldn’t be good for you. I expect it affects you very little. You have other things to occupy you. I understand that. But still, you’ve done your service to the state. It would be a pity to spoil it now. Whoever one is, I think it’s wrong to leave a job with hard feelings. It’s bad for the soul to leave under a cloud.’
I could not tell whether he was being considerate. His manner, which had become more than ever frigid, made the words sound scornful or artificial. Yet he was insistent.
I said: ‘How long should I stay?’
‘The end of the year? Is that asking too much?’
I said I would do it. Rose accepted the bargain, businesslike, without thanks. It was only when I went towards the door that he began to thank me profusely, not for meeting his wishes or accepting his advice, but for the somewhat more commonplace feat of walking along the corridor to see him.