Rachel threw a pile of newspapers on the sofa. ‘I can’t say these reports add much to the sum of human knowledge.’
Amiss picked up the three-week-old Independent, from the front page of which Jack Troutbeck’s photograph stared out defiantly. ‘Among the predictable rewards to the party-faithful and the generous captains of industry,’ said the report sniffily, ‘was the surprise announcement of a peerage for the Mistress of St Martha’s College, Cambridge. Miss Ida “Jack” Troutbeck, CB, (61), was a Deputy Secretary in the Department of Central Planning when she retired three years ago to become Bursar of St Martha’s, where last year she succeeded as Mistress in tragic circumstances. In only a short time she has acquired a reputation in educational circles as an outspoken critic of what she terms “fatuous liberal poppycock.”’
The Telegraph noted approvingly that in her sparse Who’s Who entry, under hobbies, Miss Troutbeck had put ‘enjoying myself’. The Guardian registered concern that in a recent speech to the Annual Conference of Heads of Colleges, she had poured scorn on ‘namby-pamby ill-thought-out educational fads’. Although she would not be taking the whip, she was a Conservative Party nominee, so it was probable, observed the commentator darkly, that the Tory Party was playing its usual trick of promoting the disadvantaged only when they were extreme right-wingers. Amiss wondered how the Guardian would react if they knew that under Jack’s mistress-ship a black bisexual had been appointed to the bursarship of St Martha’s; then, reflecting on Dr Mary Lou Denslow’s opinions, he realized that it would scarcely undermine their argument.
The tabloids, of course, had got hold of what the broadsheets had been too tasteful to discuss. Although Jack Troutbeck had been relegated to page two of the Sun, with the front pages being reserved for minor decorations for a long-serving soap star (‘our Lenny’), a popular comedian (‘“No, I never” Dwayne’) and a lollipop lady (‘Toddlers’ Angel’), the new baroness had two short paragraphs describing her as having been at the centre of a ‘Highbrow Double-Murder Saga’, which led to her getting the ‘Top Job’ in a ‘Snob College’. It had also got hold of a photograph of Jack looking murderous—if not highbrow—in gown and rakishly tilted Tudor cap on the occasion of her being conferred with an honorary doctorate.
Amiss finished the last of the papers and chucked it in the bin. ‘Drink?’
Rachel nodded.
‘Gin?’
Eyes closed, she nodded again.
As he reached for a couple of glasses from the kitchen cupboard, a familiar voice said, ‘Oh, no, sahib. It is inappropriate that you should demean yourself by entering the servants’ quarters. What is it that you want?’
A few days had been enough for Amiss’ spirit to have been broken by Ravi’s contemptuous subservience, arising from his view of Amiss as a guest, and therefore privileged, while being also an immoral parasite who shared the bed of the mistress of the house without having the common decency to make an honest woman of her.
‘Two gins and tonics, Ravi, and could you put in a lot of extra ice, please? Rachel is feeling the heat.’ Ravi assumed the expression of fastidious pain suitable to a servant hearing an employer spoken of informally. Amiss affected not to notice. If Ravi got his fun out of behaving like a stereotype from the last days of the Raj, that was Ravi’s problem.
‘Sahib.’
Amiss turned back. ‘Yes?’
‘There is no ice.’
‘Why not?’
‘There has been a calamity. Laxmi, that miscreant, has left the door of the refrigerator open and it has all melted.’
‘I don’t suppose you could get some anywhere?’
‘Oh no, sahib, there will be none by now, because, you see, it will all have gone.’
Amiss already knew Ravi’s almost infinite capacity for ensuring that what he didn’t want to do couldn’t be done. He strode over to the refrigerator, extracted two lukewarm cans of beer and marched out of the kitchen, his ears ringing with imprecations about the impropriety of memsahib drinking out of anything but a glass.
‘How can I leave you to the mercies of that old fraud?’
Rachel sat up wearily and took a swig out of the open can. ‘No choice.’
‘It’s just so unfair that you’re lumbered with him.’
‘There’s no point in going on about it, Robert.’ Rachel sounded rather testy. ‘He comes with the apartment, he’s got thirty-eight dependants, he’s worked for the High Commission for twenty years, and I’m stuck here until Personnel release me.’
‘In June,’ said Amiss hopefully.
‘Maybe. Now, would you explain to me what a middle-of-the-road, well-meaning liberal like you is doing taking up arms against the future with someone who makes Margaret Thatcher seem rather left wing?’
‘It’ll fill in the time while I’m looking for a job.’
‘Don’t give me that, Robert. You could fill in the time looking for a job by looking properly for a job.’
‘Anyway, she’s really a libertarian rather than a right-winger.’ Amiss realized he sounded defensive. ‘And, for as long as I’ve known her, I’ve always found that her enemies deserve to be enemies.’
‘You just can’t resist her.’
‘Who could?’
‘Lots of people, from all I’ve heard. All I can say is, “God help the House of Lords”.’
‘And all who sail in her,’ said Amiss gravely.
Rachel raised her beer can. ‘Let’s drink to a smooth voyage.’
‘There’s no point in wishing for the impossible. With Jack as skipper, I aspire only to disembark alive.’