The long lines of watch-towers stretching endlessly from one horizon to the other reminded him that he could soon expect to receive the Council’s ‘directive’ — Hanson would not have mentioned it by accident — and it was always during the lulls that the Council was most active in consolidating its position, issuing a stream of petty regulations and amendments.
Renthall would have liked to challenge the Council’s authority on some formal matter unconnected with himself the validity, for example, of one of the byelaws prohibiting public assemblies in the street — but the prospect of all the intrigue involved in canvassing the necessary support bored him utterly. Although none of them individually would challenge the Council, most people would have been glad to see it toppled, but there seemed to be no likely focus for their opposition. Apart from the fear that the Council was in touch with the watch-towers, no one would stand up for Renthall’s right to carry on his affair with Mrs Osmond.
Curiously enough, she seemed unaware of these cross-currents when he went to see her that afternoon. She had cleaned the house and was in high humour, the windows wide open to the brilliant air.
‘Charles, what’s the matter with you?’ she chided him when he slumped inertly into a chair. ‘You look like a broody hen.’
‘I felt rather tired this morning. It’s probably the hot weather.’ When she sat down on the arm of the chair he put one hand listlessly on her hip, trying to summon together his energies. ‘Recently I’ve been developing an ideefixe about the Council, I must be going through a crisis of confidence. I need some method of reasserting myself.’
Mrs Osmond stroked his hair soothingly with her cool fingers, her eyes watching him silkily. ‘What you need, Charles, is a little mother love. You’re so isolated at that hotel, among all those old people. Why don’t you rent one of the houses in this road? I’d be able to look after you then.’
Renthall glanced up at her sardonically. ‘Perhaps I could move in here?’ he asked, but she tossed her head back with a derisive snort and went over to the window.
She gazed up at thea nearest watch-tower a hundred feet away, its windows closed and silent, the great shaft disappearing into the haze. ‘What do you suppose they’re thinking about?’
Renthall snapped his fingers off-handedly. ‘They’re probably not thinking about anything. Sometimes I wonder whether there’s anyone there at all. The movements we see may be just optical illusions. Although the windows appear to open no one’s ever actually seen any of them. For all we know this place may well be nothing more than an abandoned zoo.’
Mrs Osmond regarded him with rueful amusement. ‘Charles, you do pick some extraordinary metaphors. I often doubt if you’re like the rest of us, I wouldn’t dare say the sort of things you do in case—’ She broke off, glancing up involuntarily at the watch-towers hanging from the sky.
Idly, Renthall asked: ‘In case what?’
‘Well, in case—’ Irritably, she said: ‘Don’t be absurd, Charles, doesn’t the thought of those towers hanging down over us frighten you at all?’
Renthall turned his head slowly and stared up at the watch-towers. Once he had tried to count them, but there seemed little point. ‘Yes, they frighten me,’ he said noncommittally. ‘In the same way that Hanson and the old people at the hotel and everyone else here does. But not in the sense that the boys at school are frightened of me.’
Mrs Osmond nodded, misinterpreting this last remark. ‘Children are very perceptive, Charles. They probably know you’re not interested in them. Unfortunately they’re not old enough to understand what the watch-towers mean.’
She gave a slight shiver, and pulled her cardigan around her shoulders. ‘You know, on the days when they’re busy behind their windows I can hardly move around, it’s terrible. I feel so listless, all I want to do is sit and stare at the wall. Perhaps I’m more sensitive to their, er, radiations than most people.’
Renthall smiled. ‘You must be. Don’t let them depress you. Next time why don’t you put on a paper hat and do a pirouette?’
‘What? Oh, Charles, stop being cynical.’
‘I’m not. Seriously, Julia, do you think it would make any difference?’
Mrs Osmond shook her head sadly. ‘You try, Charles, and then tell me. Where are you going?’
Renthall paused at the window. ‘Back to the hotel to rest. By the way, do you know Victor Boardman?’
‘I used to, once. Why, what are you getting up to with him?’
‘Does he own the garden next to the cinema car park?’
‘I think so.’ Mrs Osmond laughed. ‘Are you going to take up gardening?’
‘In a sense.’ With a wave, Renthall left.
He began with Dr Clifton, whose room was directly below his own. Clifton’s duties at his surgery occupied him for little more than an hour a day — there were virtually no deaths or illnesses — but he still retained sufficient initiative to cultivate a hobby. He had turned one end of his room into a small aviary, containing a dozen canaries, and spent much of his time trying to teach them tricks. His acerbic, matter-of-fact manner always tired Renthall, but he respected the doctor for not sliding into total lethargy like everyone else.
Clifton considered his suggestion carefully. ‘I agree with you, something of the sort is probably necessary. A good idea, Renthall. Properly conducted, it might well provide just the lift people need.’
‘The main question, Doctor, is one of organization. The only suitable place is the Town Hall.’
Clifton nodded. ‘Yes, there’s your problem. I’m afraid I’ve no influence with the Council, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I don’t know what you can do. You’ll have to get their permission of course, and in the past they haven’t shown themselves to be very radical or original. They prefer to maintain the status quo.’
Renthall nodded, then added casually: ‘They’re only interested in maintaining their own power. At times I become rather tired of our Council.’
Clifton glanced at him and then turned back to his cages. ‘You’re preaching revolution, Renthall,’ he said quietly, a forefinger stroking the beak of one of the canaries. Pointedly, he refrained from seeing Renthall to the door.
Writing the doctor off, Renthall rested for a few minutes in his room, pacing up and down the strip of faded carpet, then went down to the basement to see the manager, Mulvaney.
‘I’m only making some initial inquiries. As yet I haven’t applied for permission, but Dr Clifton thinks the idea is excellent, and there’s no doubt we’ll get it. Are you up to looking after the catering?’
Mulvaney’s sallow face watched Renthall sceptically. ‘Of course I’m up to it, but how serious are you?’ He leaned against his roll-top desk. ‘You think you’ll get permission? You’re wrong, Mr Renthall, the Council wouldn’t stand for the idea. They even closed the cinema, so they’re not likely to allow a public party. Before you know what you’d have people dancing.’
‘I hardly think so, but does the idea appal you so much?’
Mulvaney shook his head, already bored with Renthall. ‘You get a permit, Mr Renthall, and then we can talk seriously.’
Tightening his voice, Renthall asked: ‘Is it necessary to get the Council’s permission? Couldn’t we go ahead without?’
Without looking up, Mulvaney sat down at his desk. ‘Keep trying, Mr Renthall, it’s a great idea.’
During the next few days Renthall pursued his inquiries, in all approaching some half-dozen people. In general he met with the same negative response, but as he intended he soon noticed a subtle but nonetheless distinct quickening of interest around him. The usual fragmentary murmur of conversation would fade away abruptly as he passed the tables in the dining room, and the service was fractionally more prompt. Hanson no longer took coffee with him in the mornings, and once Renthall saw him in guarded conversation with the town clerk’s secretary, a young man called Barnes. This, he assumed, was Hanson’s contact.