Letters for a Spy (13 page)

“Tell me,” she said. “In this life do you protect yourself?”

“I don’t know. I think I like to shift that onus onto God, give
him
the responsibility.” But I instantly remembered my having questioned Mannheim’s
carte blanche
in an attempt to establish a possible defence against failure. “Or let’s just say, I trust the two of us are working on it together.”

“What—you and God?”

“I know it sounds presumptuous. Since the beginning of time there must be countless millions who—apparently—haven’t received a lot of protection from him. Even since the beginning of this war…”

Then I quickly changed the subject; that aspect of it, anyway.

“But talking of self-protection, Miss Standish, did you tell your friends about all this?”

“About all what? Hollywood … and Lana Turner at the soda fountain in LA?”

“Yes, but slightly more to the point: about some stranger in the pub a little closer to home.”

“No.”

“
No
? Why ever not?”

“I’m afraid it’s very clear that
you
, Mr Redgrave, have never lived at close quarters with upwards of a dozen forthright women! I’m very fond of most of them. But, oh, the hoo-ha there’d have been if in fact I had told them!”

“Maybe so. But at the risk of sounding boring I still feel you should have. You’d never heard of me until today. For all you knew, I could have been a white-slave trafficker. White-slave traffickers don’t
always
come clean about their particular line of business—or, at any rate, not on the backs of postcards. You may be a little too trusting?”

The strange thing was: that although I’d guessed she wouldn’t mention it, part of me had still hoped I was wrong. Why?
I
knew I wasn’t a white-slave trafficker.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not like being a child and accepting sweets from a stranger.”

“Isn’t it? Why not?”

She pulled a face. “And, apart from which, the girls will all be getting onto the coach at any minute now. Off on their way to Black pool. So there’d be nobody left to worry about me by the time I got back. Or didn’t get back, as the case may be. Does that make sense?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s have another drink, to help us decide.”

I returned with our replacements.

“Something I was wondering about just now: how is it that you’re getting time off? It hadn’t occurred to me you’d all have understudies.”

“Oh, no. We don’t. Not in the regular way. What we do have is a stage manager who stands in for us whenever anyone gets ill or goes on leave.”

“Good grief! She must have the most incredible memory! I mean, thinking of the length of some of those parts…”

“She has. But she’d rather be Mrs Pembroke—even if she
does
have to grey up and remember twenty times as many lines—than stand about in her bra and panties doubling as one of the mannequins.”

“Not to mention doubling as
two
of the mannequins?”

Sybella smiled. She explained how in the event of more than one of the cast being sick at the same time—and if the women couldn’t juggle things amongst themselves, “because none of the parts is really
that
large!”—then ENSA had what they called a Lease-Lend department: a pool of unattached artistes who could be sent anywhere as substitutes, either at home or abroad, generally very willing and able substitutes.

“So, you see, I really don’t have to worry,” she said. “Nor do you, Mr Redgrave. There is often chaos at headquarters, but somehow—finally—we always manage to pull through.”

“Well, Miss Standish, you’ll never guess how immensely reassuring I find that small piece of information!” I allowed a little time to go by. “So—if you don’t mind my asking—how do you plan to be spending your few days off?”

“Oh, I shall be heading back to London. I share a flat there.”

“You aren’t going home, then?”

It was out before I realized. Not so important this time, but even so. I should really have to watch it.

“Home?”

“Sorry. I just assume that everyone has parents. Everyone, that is, of more or less
our
ages.”

“Yes, well, that’s true, I suppose. I do have parents and I love them dearly. All the same, this time it suits me better to return to London. Do you have parents, Mr Redgrave?”

“No, unhappily. They’re dead. Both of them.” And I apologized to my father even as I said it.

But before she had time to express any sympathy I hurried on. “I do have grandparents, however. They live near Shrewsbury. And at least you couldn’t find a nicer pair of proxies … not if you were to go searching for a hundred years or more.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. Then—after a pause—“I’ve never been to Shrewsbury.”

“It’s a nice place. I’m always happy there. Where does your own family live?”

I knew, of course; and I supposed she must have had some pretty special reason for choosing London over Marlborough—and all the more so during this present spell of fine weather—since Marlborough itself wasn’t actually that far from Aldershot.

My comment, however, was only indirect.

“Have your parents come to see the play yet?”

“My parents? Oh, not simply my parents! My sister. My granny. A multitude of uncles, aunts and cousins.” She laughed. “In fact, my mother’s seen it so many times
she
could be employed as my understudy—I think I must suggest it to Lease-Lend. Mr Redgrave? May I ask you something personal?”

“Like why aren’t I in uniform?”

“Mmm.”

“Two reasons. Asthma and a perforated eardrum. Neither of which is very serious. I’m hoping that the medical board will shortly change its mind; decide to take me in.”

“Ah.”

“But since we’re talking about taking people in…”

I paused. We looked at one another. Her look was understandably expectant.

I grinned.

“Only, Miss Standish, I think it’s now the moment to take you into the dining room. I hope you’re feeling hungry? Remember—you had no time for breakfast.”

17

Indeed, we were both feeling hungry.

Yet our appetites in no way interfered with our conversation.

To begin with, we talked mainly about
Laura
. Then we discussed films in general, and what experience she had so far picked up in the theatre. She asked me to use her first name; I naturally did the same. We spoke of our families. She hesitantly enquired how my parents had died. I dispatched my father in a car crash—back in 1938, before our falling out over
Kristallnacht
—but, outside of anything to do with place-names or the film world, this was the only time I actually needed to lie. She very gently pursued the question … and my mother? I told her that my mother, who had been a VAD when she’d nursed my father back to health in England during the last war (and who had married him quietly at the beginning of 1919, also in England, with a boy of some thirteen months wriggling in her arms), that my mother had then, so ironically, had to struggle for more than eight years in order to become pregnant again—whereupon, to compound the irony, she had finally died in childbirth … leaving her nearly ten-year-old son desperately stupefied and missing her forever.

The single thing I omitted was any emphasis on setting; Sybella would have taken the setting of my early life for granted. I didn’t believe I was being disloyal in speaking candidly about my parents’ first union (and certainly I didn’t feel in any way embarrassed or ashamed) but evidently I couldn’t have sounded quite so matter-of-fact as I’d intended; I saw the tears well up in her eyes. We were by then drinking our ersatz black coffee, after what had otherwise been a remarkably good meal, and I had to look around the pub’s emptying dining room with an air of immense diligence. Instinctively, it seemed, she laid her hand on mine, in mute commiseration, but an instant later appeared to realize what she’d done, and awkwardly drew back. I, too, felt awkward.

“So what would you say if I settled up now and we went out in the sun for a bit?” I was aware that my question had sounded stilted and abrupt.

For the most part we got our sunshine in the park. A mum and her two sons were flying a garishly-coloured kite. We watched for a while: the way that the kite strained, the expressions of excitement on the boys’ faces. The older one was probably about seven; you could see his pride and his absorption in the whole of the shared experience. I remarked unthinkingly, “It must be marvellous having a brother,” then hoped that I hadn’t sounded pathetic—I had mentioned earlier that my mother’s stillborn child had been a male. Luckily, she didn’t reply.

We wandered on. There were several dogs being exercised, and a couple of makeshift games of football; but a key element to a normal family Sunday in the park was missing: the participation of fathers. This made things look surprisingly unbalanced despite the fact that with Aldershot being a garrison town we frequently saw pairs of soldiers, or else small groups of them—obviously perspiring on account of their uniforms. But I still felt obtrusive … me in my grey flannel suit. Even if I didn’t see them (and I assuredly wasn’t on the watch) I imagined I might be getting many of what my grandmother used to refer to as speaking glances; and particularly getting them from women of about my grandmother’s own age.

“At any minute,” I told Sybella, “I feel that someone’s going to thrust a white feather into my hand!”

She had been strolling beside me in a reverie.

“Just let them try!”

But then she rather spoilt that fine spontaneous cry of indignation by mumbling lamely that in any case it could easily be herself to whom the feather would be given. “Do you remember all that fuss about Faith Brook?”

“No, I don’t think so. Remind me.”

“It was while she was playing at Bristol in
Aren’t Men Beasts?
There were headlines like, ‘Why hasn’t she joined up? This woman ought to be fighting for her country!’”

Suddenly, she sounded angry.

“And, believe it or not, the matter was even raised in Parliament! Although, as it turned out, she had already applied to ENSA. Aren’t
people
beasts?”

“Yes, I remember now. I’m not sure what happened.”

Almost, her anger seemed to transfer itself to me. It very nearly sounded, I thought, as if she had recognized my lie.

“What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Before you could say Jack Robinson—or in this case Robertson Hare—she was bundled into the ATS! I hope you haven’t
also
forgotten who Robertson Hare is?”

“No, of course not.”

I felt sure that it was in her mind to call my bluff. But at the last moment she restrained herself, presumably took pity on me. Shame. I would undoubtedly have followed my hunch and said he was an actor—was it possible I could ever have heard my grandparents discussing him?—and even that he had been Miss Brook’s co-star in Bristol. (Naturally I found it extremely galling when later enquiries revealed I’d have been right!)

“But at least the story has a happy ending,” Sybella observed. “She was afterwards transferred to Stars in Battledress, which is pretty similar to ENSA.” Her tone had softened a little.

“Anyway. Thank you for offering to spring to my defence if some old biddy
should
come bobbing and weaving at me, wielding a white feather.”

“I spoke without thinking,” she said. Her tone hadn’t softened
that
much.

But she added after a few seconds, “I mean, I consider you fully large enough to deal with such a thing on your own.”

“You recommend I sock ’em on the jaw?”

Yet it was puzzling. No smile—not even a glimmer. I wondered if I might have said or done something to offend her.

But then I remembered. What
was
the matter with me? Why did I keep on forgetting how recently she had lost the man she had become engaged to? Her anger at life clearly had to be channelled somewhere. And for the moment it was I who was handy.

“All the same, Sybella, it was instinctive and I still value it, even if you’ve now decided to retract.”

“Why did you come to Aldershot?” she asked, sharply.

Just like that. Without preamble.

Admittedly, I got the feeling that as soon as she had spoken she might have wished she hadn’t.

“Oh, well,” I said. “It was on account of a cousin being transferred to the barracks here. He wasn’t looking forward to it and I thought that if I turned up unexpectedly it might give him a bit of a lift. But I got the dates wrong; it’s next week he arrives!”

Even if it were justified I should never have been happy to award myself such credit. I hoped she wouldn’t comment.

And she didn’t. She didn’t say anything. Not for a while. But shortly she appeared to rally. I admired her for this; admired her enormously. If I myself had lost somebody I was in love with, I believed it might have taken me weeks to recover, weeks, even months. To recover just the ability to cope; just the ability to get dully through the days. And yet here was she, maybe up and down a little, yes, but really doing her utmost to be brave—to be brave and to be buoyant. I found it very humbling.

We left the park and visited the Prince Consort’s Army Library. This contained a large assortment of military books and maps and models. We also looked in at the Royal Army Dental Corps Museum. But after seeing the tooth-key allegedly used to extract the molars of Napoleon we decided that perhaps we felt a mite too squeamish to remain. A mustachioed attendant—almost certainly a retired military man himself—told us that soldiers had once required exceptionally strong teeth in order to make ready their muskets.

“Having to bite right through
them
, don’t you see?” He was pointing out the paper cartridges and tapping insistently against the glass case.

“Pretty bad luck,” I said, “for those whose gums weren’t up to it?”

“Quite right, young man. Quite right. Which of course illustrates one of the many links still existing between dentistry and the Army.”

“
Still
?” I exclaimed.

Outside again—I didn’t know how it happened, it shouldn’t have happened, either in Sybella’s situation or my own—we succumbed to a fit of the giggles. Not because of anything truly funny: only because of the attendant’s Lord Kitchener moustache and military bearing and the parade-ground satisfaction with which he had articulated, “Quite right, young man. Quite right.”