A casual passer-by who chances this evening to be gazing in through the window of Kettner’s, the fashionable London restaurant in Romilly Street, or the less casual passer-by, weaving his way to his table and taking in the crack as he did so, might possibly notice three very different specimens of the genus Englishman, all similarly attired in the garb of their class, two old Harrovians and a Wykehamist, somewhat the worse for the copotation of alcohol. The first, a short, slightly stout man in his fifties, whose hair rises up in curly wisps – a long, almost pointed nose much beloved of caricaturists. This is the leader of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, the Right Honourable Hugh Gaitskell MP, a man said to be one of England’s great wits. Given that the next general election cannot be much more than a couple of months away, he is de facto, the Prime-Minister-in- Waiting. The second, a tall, sort of foreign-looking bloke, also in his fifties, thick, dark hair turning rapidly to salt and pepper, who is, should the passer-by be quite so nosy, found to be wearing odd socks – a lifelong bad habit of which his wife of twenty-five years has been quite unable to cure him. This is the Right Honourable Sir Rodyon Troy Bt, MP, DSO (and bar) DFC, the Shadow Home Secretary and a man said by his younger brother to ‘exude a terrible decency’. The third and last, a short, dark, demonic-looking elf of a man, aged about forty, with eyes like polished jet, a walking-stick propped against the side of his chair, his socks matching. This is Chief Superintendent Frederick Troy, ‘of the Yard’, as he is wont to remind us – a man without a Rt Hon or a medal to his name, a man described by his elder brother as ‘the most devious little shit in history’.
And they are all giggling like schoolboys who have found the cherry brandy.
‘He’s got to be joking,’ Gaitskell is saying, and not for the first time.
’Does Driberg joke?’ Rod asks.
’Most of the time,’ Troy replied. ‘But not this time.’
’What the bloody hell does he expect me to do? Put one of England’s most notorious buggers in the cabinet?’
’Wouldn’t be the first,’ Troy says, and the other two giggle like idiots, each silently drawing up a list of highly placed pederasts who have been of great service to their country by day and up dark alleys by night.
’It’s rich,’ says Gaitskell. ‘Rich.’
’You’ve got to admire his nerve,’ Rod says.
’Or,’ Troy adds, ‘his lack of self-knowledge.’
’Oh,’ says Gaitskell. ‘I think Tom knows himself very well. After all, what’s the first criterion of self-knowledge – of knowing what you are? It’s got to be knowing what you like.’
’And so few of us do,’ says Troy.
For reasons Troy cannot perceive, this sends his brother off into a spluttering fit that showers the table in a champagne rain.
’Did you hear the one about Tom at Buckingham Palace?’ Gaitskell says.
’No,’ Rod says, and Gaitskell and Troy look at him astounded.
’You should get out more, brer,’ Troy says, and it is Gaitskell’s turn to shower them in champagne. ‘Shall you tell him, Hugh, or shall I?’
Gaitskell waves him on, speechless with mirth.
‘I’m not sure exactly when this was, but Tom had dined with George VI at the Palace, so I suppose it wouldn’t be long after the war. On the way out he spots a guard on duty outside his box, busbied, upright, rifle, the lot – and the old urge seizes him. Knowing they are not permitted to move or speak while on duty Tom goes down on his hands and knees, unzips the chap’s flies and blows him. Right there, in the open air at the gates of Buck House.’
’I say again, you’ve got to admire his nerve.’
Rod pauses to refill his glass and let the heaving chests of his potential audience subside. Then he says, ‘Did you hear about Tom and Nye Bevan?’
Gaitskell and Troy look at him astounded.
Later – nearer midnight – the Troy brothers have poured the Leader of the Opposition into a cab and pointed him north towards home. They are in Troy’s house, trying with little success to make coffee. Neither of them can get the match to the flame for shaking with laughter. Rod sputters, the match blows out for the third or fourth time and Troy turns off the gas and says, ‘Forget it.’
’Forget it? Forget it? Can’t go home like this. She’ll fucking slaughter me. Gotta sober up.’
’Forget it. Let’s give Driberg the good news instead.’
Rod is all but rolling on the floor. Troy fears he might explode, but reaches for the phone anyway.
‘Tom? Tom?’
‘Troy? You make me sound like the piper’s son. Do you know what time it is?’
‘Haven’t the fogging fuckiest. Just got in from a drink with Gaitskell. He’s offering you a job next time round.’
Rod screeches. Troy shushes him.
‘What was that? Somebody with you?’
‘Just my brother. Listen, listen . . .’
‘I am.’
‘The job, the job.’
‘Yeeees?’
‘Arse . . .’
‘Eh?’
‘Arsh?’
‘Arshbishop of Canterbury.’
Rod howls. Troy cannot but join in. There is silence from the other end of the line. Then . . . ‘You pair of shits. You pair of drunken shits.’
And Driberg hangs up.
Troy puts down the phone. His brother is crying tears of joy. The phone rings. Troy reaches for it and says, ‘Tom, Tom, Your Grace.’
And the voice says, ‘No, it’s me, Jack. There’s been another body found. Whole this time. Can you get down to Limehouse?’
The jolt of sobriety ripped through him just as though he’d walked into a door. And normal service was resumed.