The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [213]
They were alone in their office save for a gruesome young woman. The Minister of Rest and Culture said: “Ease your feet, lad” and indicated a large leatherette armchair.
“Not such a happy occasion, alas, as our last meeting,” said the Minister of Welfare.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miles. He was enjoying the outing.
“The tragedy at Mountjoy Castle was a grievous loss to the cause of penology.”
“But the great work of Rehabilitation will continue,” said the gruesome young woman.
“A greater Mountjoy will arise from the ashes,” said the Minister.
“Those noble criminal lives have not been lost in vain.”
“Their memory will inspire us.”
“Yes,” said Miles. “I heard the broadcast.”
“Exactly,” said the Minister. “Precisely. Then you appreciate, perhaps, what a change the occurrence makes in your own position. From being, as we hoped, the first of a continuous series of successes, you are our only one. It would not be too much to say that the whole future of penology is in your hands. The destruction of Mountjoy Castle by itself was merely a setback. A sad one, of course, but something which might be described as the growing pains of a great movement. But there is a darker side. I told you, I think, that our great experiment had been made only against considerable opposition. Now—I speak confidentially—that opposition has become vocal and unscrupulous. There is, in fact, a whispering campaign that the fire was no accident but the act of one of the very men whom we were seeking to serve. That campaign must be scotched.”
“They can’t do us down as easy as they think,” said the Minister of Rest and Culture. “Us old dogs know a trick or two.”
“Exactly. Counter-propaganda. You are our Exhibit A. The irrefutable evidence of the triumph of our system. We are going to send you up and down the country to lecture. My colleagues have already written your speech. You will be accompanied by Miss Flower here, who will show and explain the model of the new Mountjoy. Perhaps you will care to see it yourself. Miss Flower, the model please.”
All the time they were speaking Miles had been aware of a bulky, sheeted object on a table in the window. Miss Flower now unveiled it. Miles gazed in awe.
The object displayed was a familiar, standard packing case, set on end.
“A rush job,” said the Minister of Welfare. “You will be provided with something more elaborate for your tour.”
Miles gazed at the box.
It fitted. It fell into place precisely in the void of his mind, satisfying all the needs for which his education had prepared him. The conditioned personality recognized its proper pre-ordained environment. All else was insubstantial; the gardens of Mountjoy, Clara’s cracked Crown Derby and her enveloping beard were trophies of a fading dream.
The Modern Man was home.
“There is one further point,” continued the Minister of Welfare. “A domestic one but not as irrelevant as it may seem. Have you by any chance formed an attachment in Satellite City? Your dossier suggests that you have.”
“Any woman trouble?” explained the Minister of Rest and Culture.
“Oh, yes,” said Miles. “Great trouble. But that is over.”
“You see, perfect rehabilitation, complete citizenship should include marriage.”
“It has not,” said Miles.
“That should be rectified.”
“Folks like a bloke to be spliced,” said the Minister of Rest and Culture. “With a couple of kids.”
“There is hardly time for them,” said the Minister of Welfare. “But we think that psychologically you will have more appeal if you have a wife by your side. Miss Flower here has every qualification.”
“Looks are only skin deep, lad,” said the Minister of Rest and Culture.
“So if you have no preferable alternative to offer . . . ?”
“None,” said Miles.
“Spoken like an Orphan. I see a splendid career ahead of the pair of you.”
“When can we get divorced?”
“Come, come, Plastic. You mustn’t look too far ahead. First things first. You have already obtained the