I stiffened. “What about George Aisgill?”

“He was most enthusiastic. That’s all I was going to say. Now, you’re not going to go on about something that’s dead and bur­ied long since, are you?”

“Dead and buried,” I said. “You’re right. Dead and buried.” My father-in-law didn’t only want a new yes-man; he wanted to tidy up the past. This could be a good way of doing it: instead of the triangle of lover, wronged husband and dead mistress there’d be those two respectable citizens Councillor Lampton and Coun­cillor Aisgill. Members of the same great party, that great party to which we have the honour to belong. Councillor Lampton and Councillor Aisgill are great friends. Councillor Aisgill is a widower. . . . It all fitted.

“You’d have to come up to the Club a bit more often,” Brown said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d have to do that.” It wasn’t any use fighting against him and it wasn’t any use avoiding George Aisgill. It was dead and buried; everything had changed, and what had hap­pened ten years ago was as ludicrous to contemplate as an old film. Councillor Lampton would drink with Councillor Aisgill at the Conservative Club. Councillor Lampton and Councillor Aisgill would sit on the Council together; seeing them together, who would believe the old story?

“You’ll let your name go forward?” Brown asked.

I nodded. “It should be interesting.”

He clapped me on the shoulders. “I knew you would, Joe. Be­lieve me, you’ll not be sorry. Lots of people jeer but the coun­cillor’s the backbone of England. By God, what’d they do with­out us?” He grinned maliciously. “Beside you’re just the chap to make things hum. It’s not many of us that’s worked at the Town Hall. That’ll make that bloody Clerk think twice!”

I grinned back at him. “Reformed poachers make the best game­keepers.”

He unlocked the cocktail cabinet. “This isn’t going to be a regular thing, mind. But let’s have a drink on it.” He poured out two large measures of Black and White.

“I may not get in,” I said.

“Never mind. We’ll have a drink on it just the same.” He looked at me with something like affection. “We’ll have a drink to celebrate you doing what I want for once.”

I lifted my glass to him; suddenly for no reason I felt sorry for him. It was a long time since I’d seen him so pleased about any­thing unconnected with his grandson; I began to wonder what the catch was. He couldn’t possibly care about whether I was nom­inated for the Council or not, he couldn’t possibly take it ser­iously. Then I saw from the smile on his face that he did. I’d only seen that smile twice: once when Harry was born and once when, after the birth of Barbara, I’d told him that Susan was out of danger.

It was a smile that made his red, heavy-jowled face surprisingly young; the harsh lines of power were still there, but they were warm without arrogance. For a moment I found myself almost liking him, I was almost able to persuade myself that I might find the flatulent mummery of local government as fascinating as he did.