The Final Cut. Michael DobbsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER FOUR

       If ignorance is bliss then Parliament must be filled with happy men.

      As individuals most were modest, middle class, often dull. And proud of it. Collectively, however, they shared a blood lust of animalistic intensity that found expression in waves of screamed enthusiasm which were sent crashing across the court.

      ‘Changed, hasn’t it?’ Sir Henry Ponsonby mused, his thin face masked by the shade of a large Panama. He didn’t need to add that in his view this could not have been for the better. As Head of the Civil Service, he took a deal of convincing that change was anything other than disruptive.

      ‘You mean, you remember when we English used to win?’

      ‘Sadly that’s ancient history of a sort that isn’t even part of the core curriculum any more.’ He sniffed. ‘No. I mean that every aspect of life seems to have become a blood sport. Politics. Journalism. Academia. Commerce. Even Wimbledon.’

      Down on the court the first Englishman to have been seeded at the All England Tennis Championships for more than two decades scrambled home another point in the tie-break; a further two and he’d survive to fight a deciding set. The crowd, having sulked over the clinical humiliation of its national hero throughout the first hour and a half, had woken to discover he was back in with a chance. On the foot-scuffed lawn before them, a legend was in the making. Perhaps. Better still, the potential victim was French.

      ‘I may be an academic, Henry. Even an international jurist. But deep inside there’s part of me that would give everything to be out there right now.’

      Sir Henry started at this unanticipated show of emotion. From unexceptional origins, Clive Watling had established a distinguished career as an academic jurist and steady hand, QC, MA, LLB and multiple honorary distinctions, red-brick reliable, a man whose authority matched his broad Yorkshire girth. Flights of physical enthusiasm were not part of the form book. Still, everyone was allowed a touch of passion, and better tennis balls than little boys.

      ‘Well, that’s not exactly what we had in mind for you, old chap,’ Sir Henry began again. ‘Wanted to sound you out. You know, you’ve established a formidable standing through your work on the International Court, widely respected and all that.’

      Another point was redeemed for national honour and Watling couldn’t resist an involuntary clenching of his fists in response. Sir Henry’s thin red line of lips closed formation. The mixture of tension and heat on Number One Court stifled any further attempt at conversation as the tennis players squared up once more.

      A blow. A flurry of arms and fevered shouts. Movement of a ball so fast that few eyes could follow while all hearts sailed with it. A cloud of English chalk dust, a cry of Gallic despair, and an eruption of noise from the stands. The set was won and from the far end of the court came the sound of hoarse voices joined together in the chorus of ‘Rule Britannia’. Sir Henry raised his eyes in distaste, failing to notice his companion’s broad grin. Sir Henry was a traditionalist, unaccustomed to expressing emotion himself and deprecating its expression by others. As he was to express to others in his club later that week, this was scarcely his scene. They were forced to wait until the inevitable Mexican wave had washed across them – good grief, was Watling actually flexing his thighs? – before being allowed to resume their thoughts.

      ‘Yes, I’ve been fortunate, Henry, received a lot of recognition. Mostly abroad, of course. Not so much here at home. Prophet in his own country, you know?’ And grammar-school achiever in a juridical system still dominated by Oxbridge elitists. Like Ponsonby.

      ‘Not at all, my dear fellow. You’re held in the very highest regard. We English are simply a little more reticent about these things.’

      Sir Henry’s words were immediately contradicted by an outburst of feminine hysteria from behind as the players resumed their places for the final set. It was noticeable that the many expressions of patriotic fervour emerging from around the stands were becoming mixed with vivid Francophobia. Such naked passions made Ponsonby feel uncomfortable.

      ‘Let me come straight to the point, Clive. The Cypriots want to settle their domestic squabbles. Shouldn’t be beyond reach, both Greeks and Turks appear to be suffering an unaccustomed outbreak of goodwill and common sense. Maybe they’ve run out of throats to cut, or more likely been tempted by the foreign aid packages on offer. Anyway, most of the problems are being resolved, even the frontiers. They both know they’ve got to make a gesture, give something up.’

      ‘Are their differences of view large?’

      ‘Not unduly. Both sides want the barbed wire removing and most of the proposed line runs through mountains, which are of damn all value to anyone except goatherds and hermits.’

      ‘There’s offshore through the continental shelf.’

      ‘Perceptive man! That’s the potential stumbling block. Frankly, neither side has any experience of sea boundaries so they want an international tribunal to do the job for them. You know, give the settlement the stamp of legitimacy, avoid any loss of face on either side. All they need is a little bandage for national pride so they can sell the deal to their respective huddled masses. They’re already surveying the waters, and they’ve agreed an arbitration panel of five international judges with Britain taking the chair.’

      ‘Why Britain, for God’s sake?’

      Ponsonby smiled. ‘Who knows the island better? The old colonial ruler, the country both Greeks and

      Turks mistrust equally. They’ll choose two of the judges each, with Britain as the impartial fifth. And we want you to be the fifth.’

      Watling took a deep breath, savouring his recognition.

      ‘But we want it all signed and sealed as soon as possible,’ Ponsonby continued, ‘within the next couple of months, if that could be. Before they all change their bloody minds.’

      ‘Ah, a problem.’

      ‘Yes, I know. You’re supposed to spend the summer lecturing in considerable luxury in California. But we want you here. In the service of peace and the public interest. And, old chap, His Majesty’s Government would be most appreciative.’

      ‘Sounds like a bribe.’

      A double fault, the crowd groaned. Ponsonby leant closer.

      ‘You’re long overdue for recognition, Clive. There’s only one place for a man of your experience…’ He paused, tantalizing. ‘You’d make a tremendous contribution in the House of Lords.’

      Ponsonby offered an impish smile; he enjoyed dispensing privilege. Watling, by contrast, was trying desperately to hide the twitch that had appeared at the corner of his mouth. As a boy, he’d dreamed of opening the batting for Yorkshire; this ran a close second.

      ‘Who else will be on the panel of judges?’

      ‘Turks have nominated a Malaysian and some Egyptian professor from Cairo…’

      ‘That would be Osman. A good man.’

      ‘Yes. Muslim Mafia.’

      ‘He’s a good man,’ Watling insisted.

      ‘Of course, they’re all good men. And so are the Greek lot. They’ve chosen Rospovitch from Serbia – nothing to do with him being Orthodox Christian, I hasten to add. The thought would never have entered a Greek mind.’

      ‘And the fourth?’

      ‘Supplied by Greece’s strongest ally in Europe, the French.