Antonia’s house, watching the others help themselves to the buffet Antonia had prepared. Neither of the two men had felt hungry.
‘You might not be saying that when the refugees come back from Australia,’ Fergus said sourly. Kenneth glanced at him, then looked round for Lachlan Watt; he was sitting on a distant chair, a plate of food balanced on his knees, talking to Shona Watt, his sister-in-law.
Kenneth laughed as Fergus refilled his glass from one of the whisky bottles on the drinks trolley behind them. ‘Fergus, you’re not talking about the Domino Theory by any chance, are you?’
‘Don’t care what you call it, McHoan; not saying it’ll be next, either, but you just watch.’
‘Fergus, for God’s sake; not even that asshole Kissinger believes in the Domino Theory any more. The Vietnamese have finally got control of their own country after forty years of war; defeated the Japs, the French, us, and the most powerful nation in the history of the planet in succession, with bicycles, guns and guts, been bombed back into the bronze age in the process and all you can do is spout some tired nonsense about little yellow men infiltrating the steaming jungles of the Nullarbor Plain and turning the Aussies into Commies; I think a Highland League side winning the European Cup is marginally more likely.’
‘I’m not saying they won’t pause to draw breath, Kenneth, but I can’t help feeling the future looks black for those of us interested in freedom.’
‘Fergus, you’re a Tory. When Tories say freedom they mean money; the freedom to send your child to a private school means the money to send your child to a private school. The freedom to invest in South Africa means the money to invest there so you can make even more. And don’t tell me you’re interested in freedom unless you support the freedom of blacks to come here from abroad, which I know you don’t, so there.’ Kenneth clinked his glass against Fergus’s. ‘Cheers. To the future.’
‘Huh,’ said Fergus. ‘The future. You know, I’m not saying your lot won’t win, but I hope it doesn’t happen in my lifetime. But things really are going to the dogs.’ Fergus sounded genuinely morose, Kenneth thought.
‘Ah, you’re just peeved your lot have elected a woman leader. Even that’s good news ... even if she is the milk snatcher.’
‘We got rid of an old woman and replaced him with a younger one,’ Fergus said, mouth turned down at the corners, staring over his whisky tumbler and across the room to where his wife was talking to Antonia. ‘That’s not progress.’
‘It is, Fergus. Even the Tories are subject to change. You should be proud.’
Fergus looked at Kenneth, a wealth of sombre disdain in his slightly watery-eyed look. Kenneth gave him a big smile. Fergus turned away again. Kenneth looked at the other man’s heavily jowled, prematurely aged face and shook his head. Chiang-Kai-Shek and Franco dead, Angola independent, Vietnam free at last ... Kenneth thought it had been a great year. The whole tide of history seemed to be quickening as it moved remorselessly leftwards. He felt vaguely sorry for Fergus. His shower had had their reign, he thought, and grinned to himself.
It had been a good year for Kenneth personally, too. The BBC, bless its cotton socks, had taken some of the stories from his first collection; a whole week of Jackanory to himself, just six weeks before Christmas! At this rate he could start thinking about giving up teaching in a year or two.
‘I wish I shared your enthusiasm for change.’ Fergus sighed, and drank deeply.
‘Change is what it’s all about, Ferg. Shuffling the genes; trying new ideas. Jeez, where would your damn factory be if you didn’t try new processes?’
‘Better off,’ Fergus said. He looked sourly at Kenneth. ‘We’re just about making enough from traditional paperweights to keep the Specialist Division afloat. All this hi-tech stuff just loses us money.’
‘Well, it must be making money for somebody; maybe you weren’t able to invest enough. Maybe the big boys’ll take over. That’s the way things go; capitalists all want to have a monopoly. Only natural. Don’t get depressed about it.’
‘You won’t be saying that if we have to close the factory and put everybody out of work.’
‘God, Ferg, it isn’t that bad, is it?’
Fergus shrugged heavily. ‘Yes, it is. We’ve told them it might come to that; the shop-stewards, anyway. Another strike, or too big a pay rise, and we might go under.’