much more sophisticated; he could benefit greatly from some personal attention.
“Right,” says Charlotte. “Let’s have Anton then.”
She makes a successful foray to the garden gate, her spirits lifted. Now she has a purpose, something to do, she can be useful.
Henry does not have anything to do. Or rather, he does not have that essential something. He has not identified a way of reestablishing his name, grabbing the attention of academia—no, of the cognoscenti generally. Restlessly, he sifts through his papers, in the service of the memoirs, in order to keep busy; all those files and boxes, in which are interred reputations, disputes, scholarly scandals. Could it be that the answer lies here?
He finds it on a Thursday morning, at around ten-thirty. He tips out the contents of an unpromising-looking wallet file without a label,and flicks through the pile of papers. Letters. Letters that have never been sorted and filed. Letters from a while ago, from way back; he is looking at the late 1960s here, when he was not yet forty, the rising star of academia, the clever young man who knew everyone, whom everyone wanted to know. He picks up a letter with House of Commons heading, glances at the signature. Ah. John Bradshaw—Labour elder statesman cultivated by Henry and who had taken Henry up, got him into that think tank, wined and dined him and fed him tidbits of political gossip.
Henry reads the letter, which is a quick note proposing a lunch and throwing out some digs at Harold Wilson, with whom Bradshaw is currently on bad terms. Not of great interest. Here’s another—what’s this one about?
Bradshaw is long dead. Henry has not much thought of him in years. He had quite forgotten he had those letters. He reads the second letter, with growing attention. What’s this? Bradshaw is pushing an issue he wants taken up by the policy unit, and is talking about Hall, a fellow minister. “Hall agrees entirely about this—incidentally (strictest confidentiality here) he admitted to me that he’s dead worried because he’s been having an affair with Lydia Purkis. Of all people! Is trying to break it off—all very painful, deeply fond of her etc. Silly ass! My god, if the press get hold of this…Sleeping with the enemy and so forth, they’d go to town on it. We have to see they don’t.”
Henry had forgotten all about this choice nugget, buried here. Lydia Purkis was the wife of a Tory grandee, hence the shame of it—crossing party lines—though to be caught sleeping with anyone’s wife, enemy or not, would be a resignation matter, probably, for a cabinet minister. But this never was. The press never did get on to it, the whole thing was whisked under the carpet, and all concerned are now dead.
Well, well. Henry sits with the letter in front of him, his mind ticking. A suppressed scandal, but the names are still familiar—there could still be an interest. Suppose…It occurs to Henry that there is a nice contrast here with misdemeanor in eighteenth-century highsociety—politicians, royalty—and the way in which it was lampooned by the pamphleteers and the cartoonists. Gillray, Rowlandson, Hogarth. Exposure was an art form; today it is the heavy hammer of the gutter press. This particular scandal never reached the red tops, but if it had the headlines would have screamed.
Henry has it. The idea. The answer.
An article for one of the broadsheet Sundays. An article ostensibly contrasting the eighteenth century’s way of outing the misbehavior of the great and the good as opposed to the practices of today. A scholarly piece, which would cite instances from both periods, but which would slip in—quite offhand, as it were—this intriguing instance of a scandal that got away: “…a letter in my possession.” Furthermore, this will be a trail for the memoirs—a hint of further interesting revelations.
Now—how to handle this?
Anton arrives for his first session a couple of days later. Charlotte had
“Right,” says Charlotte. “Let’s have Anton then.”
She makes a successful foray to the garden gate, her spirits lifted. Now she has a purpose, something to do, she can be useful.
Henry does not have anything to do. Or rather, he does not have that essential something. He has not identified a way of reestablishing his name, grabbing the attention of academia—no, of the cognoscenti generally. Restlessly, he sifts through his papers, in the service of the memoirs, in order to keep busy; all those files and boxes, in which are interred reputations, disputes, scholarly scandals. Could it be that the answer lies here?
He finds it on a Thursday morning, at around ten-thirty. He tips out the contents of an unpromising-looking wallet file without a label,and flicks through the pile of papers. Letters. Letters that have never been sorted and filed. Letters from a while ago, from way back; he is looking at the late 1960s here, when he was not yet forty, the rising star of academia, the clever young man who knew everyone, whom everyone wanted to know. He picks up a letter with House of Commons heading, glances at the signature. Ah. John Bradshaw—Labour elder statesman cultivated by Henry and who had taken Henry up, got him into that think tank, wined and dined him and fed him tidbits of political gossip.
Henry reads the letter, which is a quick note proposing a lunch and throwing out some digs at Harold Wilson, with whom Bradshaw is currently on bad terms. Not of great interest. Here’s another—what’s this one about?
Bradshaw is long dead. Henry has not much thought of him in years. He had quite forgotten he had those letters. He reads the second letter, with growing attention. What’s this? Bradshaw is pushing an issue he wants taken up by the policy unit, and is talking about Hall, a fellow minister. “Hall agrees entirely about this—incidentally (strictest confidentiality here) he admitted to me that he’s dead worried because he’s been having an affair with Lydia Purkis. Of all people! Is trying to break it off—all very painful, deeply fond of her etc. Silly ass! My god, if the press get hold of this…Sleeping with the enemy and so forth, they’d go to town on it. We have to see they don’t.”
Henry had forgotten all about this choice nugget, buried here. Lydia Purkis was the wife of a Tory grandee, hence the shame of it—crossing party lines—though to be caught sleeping with anyone’s wife, enemy or not, would be a resignation matter, probably, for a cabinet minister. But this never was. The press never did get on to it, the whole thing was whisked under the carpet, and all concerned are now dead.
Well, well. Henry sits with the letter in front of him, his mind ticking. A suppressed scandal, but the names are still familiar—there could still be an interest. Suppose…It occurs to Henry that there is a nice contrast here with misdemeanor in eighteenth-century highsociety—politicians, royalty—and the way in which it was lampooned by the pamphleteers and the cartoonists. Gillray, Rowlandson, Hogarth. Exposure was an art form; today it is the heavy hammer of the gutter press. This particular scandal never reached the red tops, but if it had the headlines would have screamed.
Henry has it. The idea. The answer.
An article for one of the broadsheet Sundays. An article ostensibly contrasting the eighteenth century’s way of outing the misbehavior of the great and the good as opposed to the practices of today. A scholarly piece, which would cite instances from both periods, but which would slip in—quite offhand, as it were—this intriguing instance of a scandal that got away: “…a letter in my possession.” Furthermore, this will be a trail for the memoirs—a hint of further interesting revelations.
Now—how to handle this?
Anton arrives for his first session a couple of days later. Charlotte had
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