Letters for a Spy (27 page)

“Is
that
what I’m talking of? Mmm.”

But, despite the grin I gave, I was still feeling peeved by her earlier comment:
Ewen thinks of everything
! (It had been qualified, of course, but not seriously.) Oh, no, he doesn’t, I wanted to say.
Oh, no, he does not
!

Because—a case in point! He’d coached Sybella for roughly a dozen hours altogether. Why, then, hadn’t he coached Mr Gwatkin in the same manner, even if he’d had only the Friday morning in which to do it?

Although—to be fair again, tediously fair—perhaps he had. As with Sybella, that later conversation might have been more in the nature of a refresher course, a last-minute pep talk. And if he
hadn’t
, there could still have been a valid reason. That he had simply believed no sound purpose would be served by alarming Mr Gwatkin. He may have thought my investigations would confine themselves to Sybella.

Had he known, however, from where I had been telephoning his brother-in-law’s housekeeper, things would no doubt have been different. But she was the only one who might have traced that call and presumably she hadn’t thought of it in time. So Mr Gwatkin, who would surely have been supplied at some earlier stage with copies of any correspondence concerning McKenna & Co—as well as a codeword to use in the event of an emergency—had not been warned that a surprise visit could, just conceivably, be imminent. The thoroughness of any lone German spy had clearly been as underestimated as the thoroughness of the whole department which had sent him.

(Yet, on the other hand,
could
that call have been traced? If so, it would certainly explain the solicitor’s pretentious rigmarole woven around
The Importance of Being Earnest
.)

“But anyhow,” said Sybella, “moving on, if we
may
, from all that tiresome mockery, I seem to remember you asked me a question? The one about Ewen keeping in touch with me over the weekend.”

“I know—I hadn’t forgotten it.”

“Well, I’m not convinced you even deserve to be answered, but never mind; I have a lovely and forgiving nature. After that very long top-up yesterday morning I spoke to him again last night. He seemed pleased by what he heard and thought everything appeared to be going well. How was I to know that you’d already had such very grave misgivings?
Duplicitous
, indeed!”

She glared at me accusingly. Took my hand and placed a kiss upon the back of it. Then asked:

“Had you, in fact, already had such very grave misgivings? Rising now above cosmetics—if you’re capable.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I had.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, those love letters, for example. I can’t understand why they didn’t get you to write them yourself, wholly in your own style.”

She shrugged.

“I don’t even think I could have done it. They were written by a woman working in one of Ewen’s offices. He gave her complete freedom; only stipulated that the second of them should have a line or two relating to the theatre. In case—although he didn’t think it likely—in case anyone should ever come making enquiries about that incredible young beauty in the snapshot. Oh, and I assume he also wanted some mention of the diamond ring.”

“Of
course
you could have done it.”

“Well, anyway, I wasn’t asked. And this woman in the office was
there
. No messing about, you see.”

“All the same. I think it was an astonishing oversight. There were such grave issues at stake and so many lives being risked and everything dependent on his getting every detail right.”

“In theory,” she said.

“What do you mean: in
theory
?”

“As I’ve said, I don’t know anything at all about the issues involved, but I do know he never foresaw someone like yourself turning up. Turning up complete with bloodhound and magnifying glass and sweet little deerstalker! He never foresaw that it would get to be so complicated.”

“Well, that’s my point! He
should
have foreseen it; of course he should! That he didn’t do so—to my mind that’s not only arrogant but slapdash!”

She offered no reply; began to stroke my hair again.

“Arrogant and slapdash,” I repeated. “That’s how it appears to me.”

“Oh, but it would, wouldn’t it? You’re so thoroughly German and pedantic and repressed.”

Yet already I felt better. It had helped, being able to get all that out of my system. I turned my head and smiled.

“Why repressed?”

She answered airily: “No particular reason. I felt I needed a makeweight.”

Then she went on stroking my hair whilst she returned, in an indirect way, to the championship of her adoptive uncle. “And in any case we British always seem to muddle through—don’t ask me how!”

This sentiment, even on the lips of somebody I loved, didn’t suddenly acquire an unsuspected charm. Added to which, it was the second time that I had heard it from her.

“Well, to me that sounds both woolly and fat-headed,
especially
in view of the circumstances. I hope you don’t mind my being so frank?” Plainly, a good time for getting rid of all my grievances. Probably mentioned as such in that day’s horoscope.

“Oh, no, it’s a free country,” she answered calmly. I wondered if she meant to draw comparisons.

“Thank you. As that’s so, may I ask another question? When will you next be talking to Ewen?”

“Tonight,” she said. “We’ve never been so close; I’ve already spoken to him once today.”

“You have? And what did you tell him?”

“Simply that everything was fine. In fact, I didn’t tell him just
how
fine! Didn’t happen to mention that I’d gone and lost my heart. Nor about the man I’d lost it to being so pedantic and repressed. But perhaps I’ll acquaint him with all of that this evening. I said I’d give him the latest update when I got home. After the show.”

“After the show which you won’t have seen.”

“Not tonight; not ever. I know that’s very slapdash.”

“Not ever? Do you know—stupidly, that hadn’t occurred to me?” I brought up my wrist. “Oh, but come on; we could easily make the second half!”

“Could we?”

“And what’s more we’ll now be in the mood for it! I mean,
really
in the mood for it!”

“
I
would have been in the mood for it, anyway. Until sometime around a quarter to five!”

Her tone might have sounded reproachful, but she was already standing up and putting on her hat.

“Tell me,” she asked, “does that look okay? And—oh, God, I hadn’t thought—how my mascara must have run! And my nose is probably all shiny. Why can I
never
find my compact when I’m most in need of it?”

I suggested she should empty her things out on the bench. She did so and the compact turned up. I also saw my fountain pen but didn’t allude to it. She repaired her make-up without fuss, put a comb to the back of her hair, smoothed down her skirt and jacket. I brushed her possessions back into her handbag and snapped shut the heavy clasps.

“You look wonderful,” I said.

“And so do you. By the bye, I was lying. I don’t think you’re so thoroughly German.”

“Never mind. Don’t give up hope. We’ll work on it.”

34

We cut up Villiers Street, where we stopped off briefly for our seriously delayed cup of tea and a very necessary—well, in my case, anyway—cheese-and-pickle sandwich (I had two; plus a cake). We then skirted Trafalgar Square, heading towards Coventry Street and the theatre. “By the way,” I said casually. “Have you seen your flatmate Lucy since you got back?”

“Lucy? No-o-o! Now what the dickens do
you
know about Lucy?”

“Actually very little. Only that she has a boyfriend named Reggie who was somewhat out of favour when I spoke to her on Friday night. Oh, yes—and I suppose as well—that she’s now fully aware of your being engaged to a fellow called Bill Martin. Major Bill Martin of the Royal Marines. I mention this simply because I feel you ought to be prepared.”

“Oh, no!” She gave a groan. This groan was undoubtedly more genuine than the one she had given yesterday on hearing the name of the film now being shown at the Aldershot Ritz.

“I really am sorry,” I said. “But can’t you merely say you were asked to keep it secret? And just leave her to imagine it was Bill who did the asking.” I realized I was again talking about him, and even thinking about him, as if indeed he had been real.

“But a man I never mentioned? Not even once?”

“Yes, she did suggest you’d been a little cagey.”

“Hmm.”

“Furthermore I’ll bet Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montague, or someone, was also being a little cagey when enquiring where you’d be playing on Friday and Saturday and whether she’d recently had anybody else asking that same question. Which might also demand a spot of explanation.”

“You’re quite enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, come now! Me? But in any case whoever was making those enquiries could easily have got the first of those answers from Drury Lane. Depending on whether Lucy was at home on Thursday night.”

She looked at me as if to say: And do you really think
that
is going to make things better?

“Lucy or your other flatmate,” I added, comprehensively.

“Anything else you feel I ought to know?”

“No. I believe that’s it for the present. Though, naturally, if anything
does
spring to mind I shan’t hesitate to pass it on.” Momentarily I watched the excitement of a child in schoolcap, blazer and short trousers who’d just had a pigeon alight on his head; and the disappointment of his young friend who hadn’t been similarly earmarked for distinction. “As a matter of fact, you know, a further thing
has
just sprung to mind. I am sorry.”

“Oh, no!” she said again. “Please not.”

“But what can I do?”

She sighed. “Well, I suppose you’d better break it to me.
Very
gently.”

“All right. It won’t be easy. And I shan’t be saying this with Teutonic presumptuousness, you understand. More with Uriah Heep humility.”

Despite a certain flippancy in the words the feeling which prompted them was very far from flippant.

“You see, I’m asking you to marry me.”

She came to a standstill. We both did. But whereas, for the moment, the situation had clearly deprived Sybella of speech—one of those old platitudes that can so frequently prove true—my own problem (as usual) appeared to be precisely the opposite.

“Not that Uriah Heep was genuinely humble—I realize that. But
I
am. Right now I would willingly go down on one knee if you liked. I
would
say both knees, but being repressed only allows me to do things by halves.”

“Oh, you idiot.” At last she had found her voice. “But you surely weren’t being serious, were you?”

“What do you mean … about marriage or about knees? About marriage, never more so. All right, about knees as well, if that would really make a difference. At least the pavement’s dry.”

We were now standing very close to one another. The evening crowd surged around us tolerantly. Well, for the most part tolerantly.

“Okay, then,” I said. “Even if the pavement were wet. It seems to me you drive a hard bargain.
And
covered in birds’ droppings … which actually, on closer inspection, I discover that it is. (Oh,
now
you should be happy!) And yes—very well, I give in, I give in—down on both knees … ‘all or nothing’ is sometimes in my nature, too. Because I love you and I know for a fact that I shall never meet anybody half so wonderful. And because it would help me, help me immeasurably—oh, how self-centred can a person get?—if through all the months or years we’ve got to be apart I knew I truly had something to live for—
someone
to live for—a woman whose presence in my world would make the whole earth seem so beautifully radiant. Would send down a soft and cleansing rain and spread bluebells and daffodils and make the angels sing.”

She said, “Darling, you
are
being serious, aren’t you?”

I answered, “Darling, I am.”

“You may be marginally unbalanced, too.”

“Well, if that’s so, I’m hoping you can match it.”

“I’m very much afraid I can. Besides. I’ve always been a sucker for cheap poetry, flowery speeches, romantic gobbledegook.”

“You can be cutting as you like. But does this mean we’re engaged?”

“I rather think it does.”

We kissed.

People still continued—by and large—to be tolerant. Even encouraging. “Go for it, mister! Don’t be shy!”

At least spectators kept on walking. There was no smiling ring of onlookers, no small outburst of applause, as might well have happened in the movies.

“Therefore if we’re engaged,” I said, after we had finally drawn apart (“We’re engaged!” I told a woman who was passing by at the moment we separated—at first I didn’t notice she was dragging a reluctant child. “Bad
luck
!” she responded, with a lot of feeling), “if we’re engaged, then tomorrow we shall choose you the finest engagement ring in all of Britain. Of course, it might be scandalously extravagant, but I know how you adore diamonds.”

“Stop it,” she warned. We were now waiting by the traffic lights to cross onto the pavement alongside the National Gallery.

“All right,” I said, “but I’ve got to make one small stipulation. Whatever the ring, you won’t let Lucy see it, will you? You won’t even tell her we’re engaged? I fear I’m with the woman in the train on this: you’ve just got to be a little more discreet!”

She smiled and shook her head.

“You may think you’re being very funny,” she remarked, “but the damned thing is…! And how the hell shall I ever get through life without being able to talk about you? Somehow I never felt the same compulsion to burble on about my
last
fiancé.”

“Poor old Bill,” I said.

“Though that’s beside the point. The point is they’re never going to forgive me, those two, when eventually they do find out. And I know that I’ll be feeling like a heel. I’m fond of both my flatmates; they’ve been good to me.”

“But one day, of course, you’ll be able to explain.”

“Oh yes … one day … one day! And just now you spoke about
years
, not simply months. Oh, darling, do you really feel it’s going to take that long? I’m not certain I can stand it. And we’ve only been engaged for three short minutes. I think we’d better call the whole thing off.”