This boy, the Minister, had been picked because he smelt like a political virgin: he was fresh, oven-ready, blatant with coal tar and Old Spice; bubbling, enthusiastic, popping up everywhere with endorsements that kept him spinning dizzily around the outer circle; never quite ‘one of us’, but very useful as a fag and disposable messenger. He had been rewarded, as Minister of Sport and Recreation, by being given in addition the very minor Arts portfolio. (In his spare moments he was supposed to sort out the weather.) But he remained, basically, a whipping boy: buoyant enough, and stupid enough, to deflect heat-seeking missiles from such entrenched citadels of the left as the Church of England, the Royal Opera House, and the Sunday Telegraph.
‘Your decision, gentlemen — and, excuse me, Madame,’ (he smacked his lips in a dingy-inflating pout) ‘if you please,’ the Minister trilled, grinning bravely about the placard-sized identity card pinned to his lapel, as if he was still an evacuee. (Without it, civil servants kept ‘losing’ him. And he wasn’t allowed in to the premières of grown-up films.) ‘I’m obliged to show my face at the First Round Losers’ Cup Second Replay at Plough Lane. Now we’ve got rid of those beastly beer-swilling spectators they expect a few celebs to make the broadcast a bit sexier.’
A show of hands was called for: all reached dutifully in high salute — except Professor Catling who was fully occupied with the cheese cutter and a brace of ripe walnuts.
‘Of course, Minister, we give our unqualified support to the scheme as outlined.’ The Chair ritualized the verdict.
‘But no scheme has, actually, ever been outlined, has it?’ said the Laureate’s Wife, to subdued titters.
The Minister, superbly, without a trace of self-consciousness, performed his smiling-at-the-ladies smile. He snapped open the steel skin of his attaché case and produced packs of hi-tech brochures. They had the heavy paper and the gloss finish of the best international art magazines. There were photographs, half-tones, tints, bleeds, elevations, concertinaed maps, detachable numbered etchings: all the tricks that disguise the thinnest dribble of text. The margins were so generous that modernists might have imagined themselves holding a set of one-word columns from Tom Raworth.
‘We’re going to take off from the defunct Crosby/Sandle “Battle of Britain Monument” projection. That’s been our inspiration. It’s a definite mover. It’s got all the elements — in fossil form, naturally. But the bottom line is that we, as a Government, have the guts to sink our dosh in an uninhabited swamp. We must summon up the courage of the Dutch, when they built their polders against chaos, or helped us design the great fortress at Tilbury, repulsing the Spaniards and extinguishing for ever the fires of the Inquisition.’
He bowed, held his breath for the statutory forty seconds, waiting for applause — while the committee members scrambled frantically through the brochures, attempting to convey, by coughs and significant nods, the impression that they had heard of (and wholeheartedly approved) this cracker-barrel pitch.
‘Crosby has grasped the salient point: the first duty of any decent monument is to pay its own way, and not to simply stand around for a few hundred years waiting for history to kiss its ass.’ He had the grace to blush, most becomingly. ‘You art wallahs can sort out all the retrospective justifications. I can promise you prime-time television and the best crews available (none of that hand-held stuff, straight from the ad agencies). Make this clear: Crosby’s underlying theme is absolutely spot on — celebration! It can’t be shameful to rejoice in our God-given victories; and our joy will take the specific form of a stepped pyramid, bathed in banks of coloured light. The very beams that once swept our London skies, seeking out pirates and invaders, will now illuminate a transfixed block of time; in which a Heinkel bomber plunges to its doom beneath a brave little Spitfire. Gentlemen, we’re going to top the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Colossus of Rhodes in one hit.’
‘And where would this monument be sited, sir — exactly?’ enquired the Architect, with lapping khaki tongue.
‘Here! Where else?’ The Minister allowed his impatience to show by tapping his black brochure on the tabletop. Someone had not done his homework.
‘I’m sure,’ he continued, uncreasing a disfiguring scowl, ‘our friend from the cinematograph can help us to stress the value of a professional presentation. Wall-to-wall sound systems, the right choice of themes… Chariots of Fire, Dam Busters, Kwai, Elgar, Paul McCartney. Nothing too sophisticated, nothing rabble-rousing. No German melancholy.’
The Producer nervously groomed his beard, searching for his mouth, which had dried and contracted to a useless ring of gristle. ‘Yankee names above the titles, home-grown technical facilities, plus Jap finance (with maybe a Colombian top-up). Am I close? Logos from brand-leaders tactfully showcased in positions of maximum visibility — right?’
‘Right? You’re in Disneyland, baby. We’re not pitching for a Cola franchise, or a sweetener from Virgin Atlantic. Think Armada, Festival of Britain, Churchill’s funeral. We’re talking heavy ritual here. Leo Von Klenze, the Egyptians, the Mayans. What does Crosby call it? “A place of pilgrimage… a viable commercial investment… with side-effects which are unpredictable.”’ He rapped imperiously at the window, causing three of his goons to flash for their shoulder holsters. ‘The monument will be sunk in that dock. Work to commence immediately, contracts tendered and awarded.’
A modest smile crossed the Chairman’s face: as a director of both the firms involved he could not lose. He had ruthlessly undercut himself, juggling the tax concessions and the Enterprise Zone allowances.
The Minister was inspired: a vision appeared to him on the face of the waters. He saw things as they ought to be, he believed. ‘Visitors will enter through a maze of submarine pens, based on Sandle’s preliminary drawings. They will be “mood-graded” by a discreet soundtrack, quoting from those wonderful films of our boyhood, Above Us the Waves, Sink the Bismarck… Johnny Mills, Jack Hawkins, John Gregson, Ordinary Seaman Bryan Forbes… all that bleep-bleep, glug-glug, Up Periscope stuff. On through glass-walled tunnels, from which the humbled punters glimpse phantom U-boats, white sharks, limpet mines — maybe a hologram Belgrano. Gotcha!’
He whacked his hands together. The lady screamed. And the chief goon shot himself in the foot. And was carried, bleeding, to the chopper.
‘Then it’s into the pyramid itself, a Cave of Remembrance. Sober. Solemn music. On the walls could be carved elevating sentiments from the great philosophers and leaders. We considered using that Scotsman who is, apparently, something of a whiz with a chisel (to show we don’t harbour grudges and also to do our bit for unemployment north of the border). But now we’re informed the chappy is an over-sensitive, litigious blighter. The frogs are quite convinced he’s a card-carrying Nazi.’
‘That’s a cross we all have to bear,’ murmured the Chairman.
The Minister was not to be diverted. ‘A continuous frieze of speeches by Winston and Margaret will remind us of our duties as citizens, prepare us for the tapes of ack-ack guns over Dagenham, cones of concentrated fire, tracer shells. White parachute discs over the Isle of Grain. A distant thunder from the Thames Estuary. Stamping jackboots. Criss-crossing searchlights wind-milling above the dome of St Paul’s. Vast processions. Boy scouts, landgirls, aviators. Cheering. Travelling camera. Flashing bulbs. Cheering and clapping to the rhythm of a beating heart; clapping and stamping; cheering building to a soul-purging climax. Yes! All the razzamatazz of Nuremberg, without any of the chthonic excesses. The showbiz side, if you like. They certainly knew how to throw a party!’