titled lady, wife of a former ambassador who was now a very senior man in London, spoke of how spouses
could contribute to their husbands’ careers and advised strongly against complaining. By the end of the course the audience was bored, bemused and mutinous. Patrick fell asleep during the
second afternoon and awoke only when the two books on his lap slipped to the floor with a double bang.
What Mr Formerly had called personal admin was indeed very tiresome. There were medical and insurance formalities, clothes to be bought, allowances to be claimed and spent, even a will to be
made. The allowances seemed very generous and it was soon clear that they were for many people the crucial aspect of any posting. Accommodation was furnished at public expense but each person was
given money for the tax-free purchase of washing machines, fridges, cutlery, crockery and any other necessary or unnecessary household goods. This applied only to the first posting but shipping
costs were paid for all postings. There was an allowance for moving, an allowance for being abroad and an entertainment allowance to be claimed once there. Petrol would be tax free. Patrick’s
bank account swelled overnight to undreamt-of proportions.
He had also to buy a car. For this there was an interest-free loan based on grade and repayable over two years. There was also diplomatic discount, no tax and no VAT. Shipping was free provided
the car was British. Patrick had never owned one and had never seriously thought about which kind he would like. He determined to avoid Fords because of the implication in Clifford Steggles’s
letter that he ought to have one. He tried Vauxhall but the model he wanted was not available in time; Talbot had something he liked but although theoretically British it had in fact been made in
Europe and was therefore ineligible for the loan; the Leyland man was still at lunch at half-past three and so, one wet afternoon, he slunk into the Ford export office and signed for one, still
unsure what it looked like.
During the last few weeks in London Patrick went to as many plays and films as possible on the mistaken principle that experience was entirely quantitative, to be stored and
drawn on later, like nuts. Since his father’s death his mother had lived in Chislehurst, a suburb of London flush with estate agents, riding schools and new Jaguars. He did not stay with her,
though, because at home his impending departure felt like an intimation of mortality. She was sad and anxious and he was tense; neither could enjoy the last few days because of the knowledge that
they were the last. He stayed instead with a friend in Southwark who worked for an American bank and spent half his time in New York.
On the last but one night he had dinner in Clapham with two other friends from Reading, Rachel and Maurice. He knew them through his former girlfriend, Susan. The acquaintance survived his
break-up with her probably for no better reason than habit. Rachel was on a BBC trainee producer scheme which, she said, took men and women in equal numbers no matter how many or what quality of
each applied. Maurice was training to be a solicitor. He hoped to specialise in trade union law and intended to stand as a local councillor at the next election. Rachel said that they would start a
family in due course but they were determined not to marry.
They sat on the bare floorboards of the large main room. The furniture was sparse and plain. Maurice was proud of a sofa with a broken arm which he had taken from a rubbish skip in the street.
He said he liked it because the colour of the stuffing matched his beard. A friend of Rachel’s had painted an abstract mural on one wall – angular shapes of black and white with a red
sun or football in one corner – which was reflected in a large Victorian mirror hanging above the bricked-up fireplace. Rachel explained that this came from her parents’ Cotswold
home.
They ate rice with meat of