At this point Miss Sumpter’s voice failed again. I kicked the console with my elderly sneakered foot, longing not for the first time for the strength and Dr Martens of my youth. But violence made no difference (of course not) and I despaired altogether of Replay Temple No 5, and with it a religion which so begrudged spending money where it most mattered. But when were things ever different? When was money ever spent where it was most needed? When did administrators ever go short, or scientists and artists ever have enough?
Discovering that my favoured colleague in No 3 had already left for the day – to play tennis, I was assured, not for his own amusement – I re-laced the Sumpter tapes on the better machine, and settled in to work late. I presently began to suspect, however, that the failing was more in Miss Sumpter’s will than in the Technology of Truth, for even on the more sensitive and reliable audio re-call of No 3 the voice tended to come and go, like the powerful swirls of waves as they race for the shore, and the plaintive fading rattle of shingle as they recede.
Perhaps she doubted the truth of what she was saying? Perhaps after death lies and self delusion become difficult: sufficient energy cannot be mustered to break the natural, easy flow of truth, the accurate version of events? Or perhaps she did indeed believe sincerely in what she said, and was just, simply, wrong about many things?
I said as much to Honor later that evening, when the family gathered at Victoria Bus Station to wave our grand-daughter goodbye, in the physical sense.
‘In spite of what the pinner priests may say,’ I said, ‘to be dead is not necessarily to be wise. The voice from the grave may mislead.’
‘Please try and concentrate,’ she said, ‘and forget Miss Sumpter at least for an hour or so. And please, my dear, don’t use that word. Especially not on an occasion like this.’
I apologised. Tears and happiness mixed, as they always do at Victoria these days. The very best, the finest, the most energetic and the most passionate, the very flower of our youth, depart on the long distance buses, to live their life freely amongst their own kind. It is seen as quite a privilege to be amongst them; pride mingles with sorrow in the parental heart. As a result of the new isolation laws, trains out of London can go no further than the lopsided circle made by Watford Junction, Reading, Deptford and Hatfield. Long distance travel is done by licensed coach, and very comfortable they are. After the departure ceremony, very ably performed by a colleague a little senior to me, the rest of the family went to the pub: Honor and myself walked home. We do not drink alcohol.
‘After all,’ said Honor, ‘your Miss Sumpter saw life from the balcony of a St John’s Wood villa. You can hardly expect her to get everything right.’
But what did Honor know about life, or its passions? She is a fine, brave, interesting woman and the very model of sexual propriety. She would be ashamed to live as Miss Sumpter did, by the favours of men.
‘From the sound of it,’ said Honor, ‘your Miss Sumpter never even had a job, not in all her life. Too vulgar and demanding, I suppose!’
I had noticed a trace of acerbity break into Honor’s voice, of late, as we talked about Miss Sumpter. Your Miss Sumpter, as she would say. Honor works as a teaching botanist in one of the Botany for Pleasure and Leisure centres, and is very conscious of the social values of her work. The whole concept of ‘retirement’ has thank heaven been abandoned, or she and I would have been put out to grass long ago. The country needs the skill and knowledge of its older citizens. If Honor has a fault, it is her tendency to self-congratulation, but I understand how it comes about. To be the wife of even a pulp priest of the GNFR is to enjoy great status in our community. She has no reason to be jealous of the attention I pay to Miss Sumpter: Gabriella Sumpter is dead and in her grave, her beauty a thing of the past. And although once I daresay Honor was all too conscious of her own lack of beauty, and her own, how shall I put it, straightforwardness, so different from anything in Gabriella’s complex nature, the time for such regrets are surely long past.