only Tory he would vote for – the only one with any integrity – was Enoch Powell. But Powell had by now publicly distanced himself from the party, in protest at Britain’s entry into the EEC, and would not be standing in the election.
‘That man should be listened to,’ said Mr Warren, emphatically. ‘He’s a scholar and a visionary.’
Sam nodded. ‘And a Brummie to boot.’
Half an hour later, in the car home, Colin Trotter was still fuming silently at this new evidence of the British electorate’s terminal fecklessness. ‘Wilson!’ he would mutter, every so often, half to himself, half to his wife, but she took little notice. She was wondering why Benjamin, a bright enough boy in her opinion, had made so little impression on any of his teachers. The subject preoccupied her so thoroughly that they had almost reached Longbridge before she thought to tell Colin: ‘Oh: I invited the Chases to dinner next Saturday.’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, barely registering.
As they drove through the last few streets, he noticed that the windows of the grey, somnolent houses were uniformly darkened.
‘Another power cut,’ he said, his voice quiet and bitter with incredulity. ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody believe it.’
Neither did Benjamin, who they found a few minutes later reading back issues of Sounds by candlelight in his bedroom, combing them for references to Henry Cow. The electricity had failed at 8.45, shortly after he had packed his brother off to bed, a quarter of an hour before his film was due to start.
6
On the night of the dinner party, Lois was in a bad mood. It was the first time for many weeks that Malcolm had not taken her out on a Saturday, and although she could hardly find fault with his excuse (it was his best friend’s stag night), she still took it upon herself to feel poutingly, irrationally aggrieved. Now she would have to spend the evening sitting around the dinner table making polite conversation with two total strangers, not to mention this awkward, gangly friend of her brother’s who never seemed to take his eyes off her.
And Philip was, without doubt, behaving rather oddly. The truth was that for several weeks he had been nursing a minor crush on Lois, and the sight of her this evening, in a sleeveless orange dress which could only be described as low-cut, was putting him under a lot of strain. He had been placed opposite her at the dinner table, so that her breasts loomed large, white and goosepimpled, exactly in his line of vision. He knew that he was staring fixedly in their direction, his lips moist and parted, a look of besotted fascination etched on his face, but was powerless to do anything about it. As for conversation, his abilities in that area – always limited when there were girls around – had tonight deserted him altogether. He appeared to have forgotten most of the words in the English language. A simple request for the salt cellar had already emerged as gibbering nonsense, and he was terrified at the thought of attempting anything else. Now he and Lois had lapsed into a sepulchral silence compared to which, down at the other end of the table, the atmosphere seemed riotous. In what amounted, for him, to a fit of extravagance, Colin had bought not one but two bottles of Blue Nun to accompany the meal. Add to this the fact that the Chases, by some happy chance, had arrived with a gift of the very same wine, in a litre bottle no less, and the stage was set for a scene of almost orgiastic excess. All of which was small consolation to Philip, confined as he was to orangeade and unable to think of a single comprehensible remark to address to his dining companion, who was by now chatting quite freely with Sam Chase. Straining to overhear a few fragments, Philip glimpsed, at last, the prospect of an entry into the conversation, and took his courage in both hands.
‘What is the name of your goldfish?’ he asked.
Lois stared at him. Although nobody else
‘That man should be listened to,’ said Mr Warren, emphatically. ‘He’s a scholar and a visionary.’
Sam nodded. ‘And a Brummie to boot.’
Half an hour later, in the car home, Colin Trotter was still fuming silently at this new evidence of the British electorate’s terminal fecklessness. ‘Wilson!’ he would mutter, every so often, half to himself, half to his wife, but she took little notice. She was wondering why Benjamin, a bright enough boy in her opinion, had made so little impression on any of his teachers. The subject preoccupied her so thoroughly that they had almost reached Longbridge before she thought to tell Colin: ‘Oh: I invited the Chases to dinner next Saturday.’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, barely registering.
As they drove through the last few streets, he noticed that the windows of the grey, somnolent houses were uniformly darkened.
‘Another power cut,’ he said, his voice quiet and bitter with incredulity. ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody believe it.’
Neither did Benjamin, who they found a few minutes later reading back issues of Sounds by candlelight in his bedroom, combing them for references to Henry Cow. The electricity had failed at 8.45, shortly after he had packed his brother off to bed, a quarter of an hour before his film was due to start.
6
On the night of the dinner party, Lois was in a bad mood. It was the first time for many weeks that Malcolm had not taken her out on a Saturday, and although she could hardly find fault with his excuse (it was his best friend’s stag night), she still took it upon herself to feel poutingly, irrationally aggrieved. Now she would have to spend the evening sitting around the dinner table making polite conversation with two total strangers, not to mention this awkward, gangly friend of her brother’s who never seemed to take his eyes off her.
And Philip was, without doubt, behaving rather oddly. The truth was that for several weeks he had been nursing a minor crush on Lois, and the sight of her this evening, in a sleeveless orange dress which could only be described as low-cut, was putting him under a lot of strain. He had been placed opposite her at the dinner table, so that her breasts loomed large, white and goosepimpled, exactly in his line of vision. He knew that he was staring fixedly in their direction, his lips moist and parted, a look of besotted fascination etched on his face, but was powerless to do anything about it. As for conversation, his abilities in that area – always limited when there were girls around – had tonight deserted him altogether. He appeared to have forgotten most of the words in the English language. A simple request for the salt cellar had already emerged as gibbering nonsense, and he was terrified at the thought of attempting anything else. Now he and Lois had lapsed into a sepulchral silence compared to which, down at the other end of the table, the atmosphere seemed riotous. In what amounted, for him, to a fit of extravagance, Colin had bought not one but two bottles of Blue Nun to accompany the meal. Add to this the fact that the Chases, by some happy chance, had arrived with a gift of the very same wine, in a litre bottle no less, and the stage was set for a scene of almost orgiastic excess. All of which was small consolation to Philip, confined as he was to orangeade and unable to think of a single comprehensible remark to address to his dining companion, who was by now chatting quite freely with Sam Chase. Straining to overhear a few fragments, Philip glimpsed, at last, the prospect of an entry into the conversation, and took his courage in both hands.
‘What is the name of your goldfish?’ he asked.
Lois stared at him. Although nobody else
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