Riddle, who had been sitting perched on the edge of Mrs. Plushkov’s desk with one laddered knee only a few inches away from Mrs. Plushkov’s face, got off, and began to stride up and down the laboratory with her hands behind her back. One watched her, One’s spiritual development furthered by every aspect of the scene. There were three large grease-spots on the lapel of Riddle’s jacket, and an unidentifiable hardened greenish stain down the back of her skirt. Her spectacles were so dirty as to be almost opaque, and her ferociously permed hair appeared to be held in place by several paper-clips and a rubber sealing band from the inside of a tobacco tin. A cigarette – or, as Riddle always called it, a fag – hung permanently from the corner of her mouth, making her perpetually choke and cough. The smoke rising from it made her eyes water, and the ash and red-hot fragments falling from it scattered liberally over the vases of flowers, silver paper-knives, petit-point computer covers, and other civilising touches with which One had brightened One’s laboratory.
‘I mean,’ said Riddle, gasping in air through her teeth, ‘you know my view. I regard the whole undertaking as a load of complete bloody balls from beginning to end.’
One smiled. Perhaps, Mrs. Plushkov was thinking, Riddle was completely unlobbyable. Perhaps even attempting to lobby her was nothing but spiritual selfishness – merely making use of her as a rack on which to grow in grace. Mrs. Plushkov attached a great deal of importance to lobbying. She had had all the Heads of Departments to tea in her laboratory one by one, sounding them out, soliciting their support for this against that, arranging caucuses to stop rival caucuses. This, as One knew from a wide reading of the appropriate literature, was the way these things were done on the High Table of an academic institution.
‘Another cup of tea,’ she suggested, taking the little kettle off the spirit lamp on her desk and recharging the silver teapot. Riddle grasped the delicate porcelain cup in her fist and held it out, breathing hard, and bringing two or three large flakes of ash down to float in the cream jug.
‘That’s another thing,’ she gasped. ‘Tea. The Committee voted to offer the Queen a cup of tea. I know – I was there. Now I hear we’re going to provide a whole running buffet.’
Mrs. Plushkov sighed almost imperceptibly. When she had been asked to make the arrangements for the Queen’s visit, she had been supplied with an Organising Committee to assist her, to which all the Heads of Departments were appointed. The existence of the Committee had of course greatly increased her work. One knew about committees; One could not allow matters to go into the public glare of open committee until they had been thoroughly settled behind the scenes. If the Committee were allowed to become a forum of debate instead of a ceremonial organ for formalising decisions already taken, the most ungraceful scenes could occur. People might lose their tempers, haggle, shout, be driven into extreme positions, bring things up which never should be brought up in public, and generally make an unappetising spectacle of themselves. So she had undertaken her labour of patient lobbying.