The Shrapnel Academy is an institution dedicated to the memory of that great military genius, Henry Shrapnel – he who in 1804 invented the exploding cannonball. Bella Morthampton spent a weekend at this interesting and curious place last January. She went in the company of her lover, General Leo Makeshift, who was to give the annual Wellington Lecture; his subject was to be ‘Decisive Battles of World War II’. Bella and he travelled down to the Academy on the Friday evening. Their car was a chauffeur-driven black Rolls-Royce, so plumply upholstered within it might have been a padded cell. For much of the journey the General’s hand was upon Bella’s knee. The interior fitments of the limousine were embossed wherever possible with the emblems of the Ministry of Defence; its windows were darkened and bullet-proof. It was surprisingly quiet inside, as is a church in a noisy city centre. Those outside, of course, could not see those inside at all; who it was who travelled in so grand and mysterious a way, though who could doubt that whoever it was had the future nicely at their fingertips. And as for the view from within, well, that was distorted by the thickness of the toughened glass panes, so that the world passed by, as intended, as if it had almost nothing at all to do with Bella or the General; neither the noble broadwalks of the central city, not the humbler, messy suburbs, nor the stark and unleaved country lanes the limousine presently manoeuvred – the Shrapnel Academy was situated in the rural heart of the country – but of course it had: it had very much to do with them, and they with it.
Bang! Bang! as the children say to each other. Bang, you’re dead!
Bella posed as the General’s secretary, at his request. He wished to live comfortably with his wife – an innocent and elderly soul – and avoid scandal, and why should he not? Bella wore a tight black skirt and seamed tights and did her best to keep her knees decorously together. She held a briefcase in her lap. She pursed her crimson mouth, as if it opened only to eat or speak, and then with discretion. Her fingers were long and tapering; she pressed them together until they were bloodless, and she had filed her nails prudently square. She even went without rouge. But what was the use? Whatever she did to herself she remained beautiful, and looked more like a mistress than a secretary. Keep her eyes downcast as she might, whenever she raised them it could be seen that she was everyone’s and anyone’s. So she did not expect to deceive guests and members of the Shrapnel Academy for long as to the true nature of her relationship with the General – but was prepared, for his sake, to try to do so. She was as fond of him as she had ever been of anyone. Over seventy he might be, but Bella had never been averse to the love of old men. She generated her own desire: the limbs and lips of young or old would do for her.
In the briefcase were the notes for the General’s lecture and, should Bella pall, some whisky for his further pleasure and some magazines for his further entertainment. The whisky was Laphroaig and the magazines included Fortune, Fealty, Nature and Insignia, this last distributed free by American Express to those with half-way decent credit ratings. On its heavy pages were advertisements for the most expensive cars in the world, accounts of gourmet dinners in spectacular places and photographs of thin model-girls vivid against Ethiopian sands. Readers were not so much expected to buy, or share, or wear: as to remember that the rewards of the world are always there and worth the fighting for. Theirs not to wonder why, theirs just to do and buy! Zoom! Whee! Is that a missile I see before me? Reader, you will have to forgive me. You know what fiction is; it will keep bursting over into real life, and vice versa.
‘Bella,’ said the General, loudly, into the baffling silence – he meant to speak softly, but at seventy it is sometimes difficult to control the vocal chords – ‘you will have your own room at the Academy, being a member of my staff, but you will come and visit me tonight, won’t you, and be kind to me?’
‘Of course,’ she said. That was what she was there for. Everyone needs someone to be kind to them: in a perfect world we should all take turns, giving and receiving kindness. Bella’s voice was soft and low, her lips were thin: her outside and her inside only narrowly divided, so that an approach to the outside implied sudden violent access to the inside. The General’s hand tightened on her knee: the sinews from his knuckles to his wrist stood out taut and mauve, strong raised highways above pale valleys and dips of papery skin – his fingers hooked beneath her tight black skirt and pulled the fabric up her widening thighs so she feared a seam might fray and split; he elbowed the briefcase onto the floor, and pushed her back upon the velvety seat, and struggled and heaved with her flesh and his own, his khaki gaberdine and her secretarial crimplene much embarrassing them both – and so they travelled down to the Shrapnel Academy – General Leo Makeshift and Bella Morthampton.