The Rose and the Yew Tree. Агата КристиЧитать онлайн книгу.
was it, sincerity.
You felt—yes—that he cared. He cared about housing, about young couples who couldn’t set up housekeeping—he cared about soldiers who had been overseas for many years and were due home, he cared about building up industrial security—about staving off unemployment. He cared, desperately, about seeing his country prosperous, because that prosperity would mean the happiness and well-doing of every small component part of that country. Every now and then, quite suddenly, he let off a squib, a flash of cheap, easily understood humour. They were quite obvious jokes—jokes that had been made many times before. They came out comfortingly because they were so familiar. But it wasn’t the humour, it was his earnestness that really counted. When the war was finally over, when Japan was out of it, then would come the peace, and it would be vital then to get down to things. He, if they returned him, meant to get down to things …
That was all. It was, I realized, entirely a personal performance. I don’t mean that he ignored the party slogans, he didn’t. He said all the correct things, spoke of the leader with due admiration and enthusiasm, mentioned the Empire. He was entirely correct. But you were being asked to support, not so much the Conservative Party Candidate as Major John Gabriel who was going to get things done, and who cared, passionately, that they should get done.
The audience liked him. They had, of course, come prepared to like him. They were Tories to a man (or woman), but I got the impression that they liked him rather more than they had thought they would. They seemed, I thought, even to wake up a little. And I said to myself, rather pleased with my idea, ‘Of course, the man’s a dynamo!’
After the applause, which was really enthusiastic, the Speaker from Headquarters was introduced. He was excellent. He said all the right things, made all the right pauses, got all the right laughs in the right places. I will confess that my attention wandered.
The meeting ended with the usual formalities.
As everyone got up and started streaming out, Lady Tressilian came and stood by me. I had been right—she was being a guardian angel. She said in her breathless, rather asthmatic voice:
‘What do you think? Do tell me what you think?’
‘He’s good,’ I said. ‘Definitely he’s good.’
‘I’m so glad you think so.’ She sighed gustily.
I wondered why my opinion should matter to her. She partially enlightened me when she said:
‘I’m not as clever as Addie, you know, or Maud. I’ve never really studied politics—and I’m old-fashioned. I don’t like the idea of MPs being paid. I’ve never got used to it. It should be a matter of serving your country—not recompensed.’
‘You can’t always afford to serve your country, Lady Tressilian,’ I pointed out.
‘No, I know that. Not nowadays. But it seems to me a pity. Our legislators should be drawn from the class that doesn’t need to work for its living, the class that can really be indifferent to gain.’
I wondered whether to say, ‘My dear lady, you come out of the Ark!’
But it was interesting to find a pocket of England where the old ideas still survived. The ruling class. The governing class. The upper class. All such hateful phrases. And yet—be honest—something in them?
Lady Tressilian went on:
‘My father stood for Parliament, you know. He was MP for Garavissey for thirty years. He found it a great tax upon his time and very wearisome—but he thought it his duty.’
My eyes strayed to the platform. Major Gabriel was talking to Lady St Loo. His legs were definitely ill-at-ease. Did Major Gabriel think it his duty to stand for Parliament? I very much doubted it.
‘I thought,’ said Lady Tressilian, following the direction of my eyes, ‘that he seemed very sincere. Didn’t you?’
‘That was how it struck me.’
‘And he spoke so beautifully about dear Mr Churchill … I think there is no doubt at all that the country is solidly behind Mr Churchill. Don’t you agree?’
I did agree. Or rather, I thought that the Conservatives would certainly be returned to power with a small majority.
Teresa joined me and my boy scout appeared, prepared to push.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ I asked Teresa.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘What do you think of our candidate?’
She did not answer until we were outside the Hall. Then she said, ‘I don’t know.’
I met the candidate a couple of days later when he came over to confer with Carslake. Carslake brought him in to us for a drink.
Some question arose about clerical work done by Teresa, and she went out of the room with Carslake to clear the matter up.
I apologized to Gabriel for not being able to get up, and directed him where the drinks were, and told him to get himself one. He poured himself a pretty stiff one, I noticed.
He brought me mine, saying as he did so:
‘War casualty?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘Harrow Road.’ It was, by now, my stock answer, and I had come to derive a certain amount of amusement from the various reactions to it. Gabriel was much amused.
‘Pity to say so,’ he remarked. ‘You’re passing up an asset there.’
‘Do you expect me to invent a heroic tale?’
He said there was no need to invent anything.
‘Just say, “I was in North Africa”—or in Burma—or wherever you actually were—you have been overseas?’
I nodded. ‘Alamein and on.’
‘There you are then. Mention Alamein. That’s enough—no one will ask details—they’ll think they know.’
‘Is it worth it?’
‘Well,’ he considered, ‘it’s worth it with women. They love a wounded hero.’
‘I know that,’ I said with some bitterness.
He nodded with immediate comprehension.
‘Yes. It must get you down sometimes. Lot of women round here. Motherly, some of them.’ He picked up his empty glass. ‘Do you mind if I have another?’
I urged him to do so.
‘I’m going to dinner at the Castle,’ he explained. ‘That old bitch fairly puts the wind up me!’
We might have been Lady St Loo’s dearest friends, but I suppose he knew quite well that we weren’t. John Gabriel seldom made mistakes.
‘Lady St Loo?’ I asked. ‘Or all of them?’
‘I don’t mind the fat one. She’s the kind you can soon get where you want them, and Mrs Bigham Charteris is practically a horse. You’ve only got to neigh at her. But that St Loo woman is the kind that can see through you and out the other side. You can’t put on any fancy frills with her!
‘Not that I’d try,’ he added.
‘You know,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘when you come up against a real aristocrat you’re licked—there isn’t anything you can do about it.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘that I understand you.’
He smiled.
‘Well, in a way, you see, I’m in the wrong camp.’
‘You