‘It’s quite fun,’ Emma said. ‘But very difficult. You don’t have to learn it if you don’t want to. It’s just I know you like languages.’
‘And Hugh and you learned it forty years ago?’
Emma smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you still speak it?’ Phil asked.
‘Chan eil fios agam. Faodaidh mi feuchainn.’
‘All right. I have no idea what that means. But I’ll give it a go.’
‘Good.’ Emma smiled. ‘I wasn’t sure . . .’ She seemed uncharacteristically uncertain.
‘No, it’ll be fun,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll take a look at it tonight.’ So he would be alternating War and Peace with Gaelic grammar over the next few weeks. That sounded a bit heavy. But he didn’t want to disappoint his grandmother.
‘No sign of your headache?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Emma replied, frowning.
‘You’ve seen a doctor about it in England?’
‘Yes.’
Phil wanted to find out more. He had been worried, and Emma had clearly been shaken.
‘Philip. I need to tell you something, something I haven’t told anyone else. But when I do, I will want you to do exactly as I ask, even though that may be difficult for you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Phil. Part of him was excited that he was being cut into a big secret. But actually, more of him was scared it was a big bad secret.
It was.
‘I have a brain tumour. That’s what gave me the headache last night. That’s what may give me a headache tomorrow night. Or it may not.’
‘Oh no! Grams! How long have you had it?’
‘Who knows how long it’s been sitting there, biding its time? I started getting headaches about three months ago, and I noticed I was having difficulty with my balance. Eventually my GP sent me to Plymouth for a brain scan, and they found a big fat tumour sitting there, in my cerebellum, which is the bit of the brain that controls co-ordination, motor control and balance. It’s growing: I’ll need regular scans to monitor it.’
‘Is there anything they can do? Can they chop it out?’
‘No. Nothing. They can’t chop it out because of where it is – they would do too much damage getting to it. They want to give me radiotherapy when I get back, but they don’t think it will help much. It’s going to kill me.’
‘Christ! When?’
‘I wish I knew. Tonight? Next month? Next year? Maybe two years. If it stops growing, I might be OK, but that’s unlikely.’
The news hit Phil hard. He bit his lip. Suddenly the wine and the scallops didn’t taste so good.
Emma reached across the table and grasped his hand. ‘I’m sorry to give you this news, Philip. I know it can’t be easy for you. I intended not to tell you. But that’s not fair, especially if I start getting more headaches. And especially if something sudden happens. My balance might get worse, or my ability to move properly. Tumours can affect judgement and mood. I might become erratic, so my doctor says, or bad-tempered, or socially inappropriate, whatever that means.’
‘I see,’ said Phil, dully.
‘That’s why I wanted to go on this trip now. It might be the last chance I’ll have, and I want to do it before I die. It’s also why I asked you to come and drive me. I need a companion, and someone with me if something goes wrong.’
‘But I’m only eighteen,’ Phil said. ‘Surely Mum would have been better? Or one of your friends?’
‘You underestimate yourself,’ said Emma with a grin. ‘And remember I asked you to do exactly as I asked?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I understand you are upset now. But I want you to put that out of your mind. I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want pity, and above all I don’t want us both to be miserable for the next couple of weeks. This will be my last holiday and I want to enjoy it. Your job is to help me enjoy it. I’m not sure your mother would be able to do that, but I think you can. Do you understand?’
Phil took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I understand.’ He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about his grandmother dying. So he wouldn’t.
He would do what she asked.
He opened his eyes, forced a smile and picked up his glass of wine. ‘To a wonderful holiday, Grams!’
His grandmother smiled back, a genuine smile of pleasure and gratitude. ‘Cheers, Philip.’
The journey to Paris from Pont l’Évêque was less cheery than the morning drive. Emma’s news had shaken Phil. He thought about the gun he had seen in Emma’s suitcase. Was she planning to use it on herself?
No. Phil was being paranoid.
But if not herself, whom was she planning to use the gun on? Old English ladies didn’t usually pack heat to protect themselves.
Was she planning to shoot him? No, that really was ridiculous.
Could it have something to do with that little chat with his French teacher’s friend Mr Swann in the Three Castles earlier that week?
Possibly.
He recalled the conversation. Swann leaning forward to sip his pint as he fixed Phil with his calm brown eyes, the soft yellow pub lighting reflecting off his smooth forehead.
‘This is what I want you to do, if you are willing,’ the mysterious civil servant had said.
Phil nodded.
‘I know about your grandmother’s trip. I believe she plans to revisit old haunts. Places she lived before the war. And she intends to see people she knew then.’
‘That’s the impression I got.’
‘One of them may be a man called Lothar. Lothar isn’t his real name; it’s a code name. He used other aliases. Bruno Fleischmann. Anton Bartkowicz.’
‘Is he some kind of spy?’
Swann nodded. ‘Or at least he was. A long time ago. We don’t know very much about him, or where he lives now. If your grandmother finds him, we would like to know about it. We would like to know where he is.’
‘If you can’t find him, how do you think my grandmother will?’
Swann grinned. ‘I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, Phil, but your grandmother is a very intelligent lady.’
‘Why don’t you ask her directly?’
‘We have.’
‘And she said no?’
Swann nodded.
‘Yet you want me to tell you where this Lothar is behind her back?’
‘Yes. It’s very important to us. To our country.’ Swann hesitated. ‘To your country.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘I can. But when I do, you will realize why I insist that you keep quiet about this conversation to everyone, especially to your grandmother.’
Phil swallowed. He felt a little as if he was betraying Grams by just listening to this. On the other hand, it intrigued him. How could he not listen to it? There were few people he trusted more than Mr Parsons, and Eustace had vouched for this man.
‘OK.’
‘We believe that Lothar knows of the identity of a spy. Someone who has been working for the Russians since before the war. Someone who is now high up in our government or the intelligence services.’
‘You mean like Philby?’
‘Yes. Like Philby. Or Maclean or Burgess. And a number of others whom the public doesn’t know about.’
‘A mole?’
Swann grinned. ‘I see you have read your le Carré. We don’t call them moles, but yes, that’s exactly the kind of person we are looking for.’
‘And this Lothar can tell you the identity of your mole?’
‘We believe so. It’s even possible that you might come across some clues as to who this man might be. Keep your eyes and ears open and your wits about you. And Phil?’
‘Yes?’
‘I meant what I said about not telling your grandmother. It’s for her own safety – and yours. I’m sure you know how wilful she is. If she thinks that we are looking for Lothar, she might do something she will later regret. Something that puts her in danger.’
‘Like what?’
‘I ca
n’t be specific. Just trust me.’
‘What do I do if we find Lothar? Or I discover who your mole is?’
‘How good is your memory?’
‘Pretty good.’
‘All right. Here is a telephone number.’ He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a simple file record card, on which a number was written in clear pencil. ‘Memorize it and then rip up this card. If you come across any information that might be useful, ring this number, reversing the charges if necessary, and ask for me by name.’
‘Mr Swann?’
‘That’s correct. Whoever answers the phone will know who you are, and put you through to me if they can. Otherwise, leave a message.’
Phil took the card.
‘Will you do that?’
Phil was eighteen. This was exciting. There was some risk – that was exciting too. He would be working behind his grandmother’s back, but he would also be doing something for his country. Phil was well aware that young men his age had done a lot more for their country in the past than travel around Europe with their grandmothers and make phone calls, even ones where you had to reverse the charges in a foreign language.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, Mr Swann. I’ll do it.’
Chapter 10
Emma was watching him. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew he was thinking something.
Phil remembered he was supposed to be cheering her up. He forced a small smile. Then with a supreme effort of will, he transformed it into a big grin.
‘Come on, Grams, let’s have some French pop.’
‘French pop? And where would I find that?’
‘On the radio.’
Emma twiddled the knobs and soon loud French punk music filled the car.
Or not exactly French. Phil recognized the song. ‘This is Plastic Bertrand, you know, Grams,’ he said.
‘Oh really?’
‘Yeah. But he’s not French, he’s Belgian. Not many people realize that. Or not English people anyway. I just wanted to impress you with my musical knowledge.’
‘I am impressed,’ said Emma. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I do,’ Phil admitted. ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell Mel. It will ruin my street cred.’
‘And what’s your street cred?’
‘That is a very good question.’
They drove along listening to ‘Ça plane pour moi’ belting out across the Norman countryside.
When the song had finished, Emma spoke. ‘Not really my cup of tea, Philip. I think I agree with your sister.’
‘That is your right.’
‘Also – I think you’ll find that although Monsieur Bertrand was born in Belgium, his father was in fact French. Am I correct? I read an interview with him in The Times a couple of years ago.’
Phil shot his grandmother a quick glance. Her eyebrows were raised in serious curiosity.
Phil shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Grams. Somehow I suspect you are correct.’
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Embassy. She lit one.
‘I didn’t know you smoked?’ said Phil.
‘I gave up nearly ten years ago. But now . . . what the hell? Want one?’
‘No thanks,’ said Phil.
‘Very wise.’
The driving became much trickier as they entered Paris. The traffic was heavy, which was probably a good thing because it slowed everyone down. Nevertheless, Phil seemed to attract more than his fair share of blasts from other drivers’ horns.
Emma navigated flawlessly from some map in her head. She said she knew exactly where their hotel was. Soon they were driving along the Seine, on the north bank as far as Phil could tell, although he couldn’t remember whether north was ‘left’ or ‘right’.
The traffic moved in fits and starts involving rapid gear changes, hooting and acceleration and then braking and more hooting. Phil had never been to Paris before, but he recognized the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. They crawled down the Champs Élysées with its glitzy cafés and cinemas and approached a maelstrom of metal with a big stone needle in the middle of it.
‘This is the Place de la Concorde,’ said Emma. ‘Keep up your speed, don’t look in the mirror and go for it.’
Phil did his best. Swarms of Deux Chevaux and tiny Renaults driven by lunatics buzzed around the poor TR6, horns blaring, but somehow they all missed him.
Phil was spat out on to a smaller street. ‘Jesus! We won’t have to do that again, will we?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Emma. ‘Once we get to the hotel, they will take care of our car for us. We’ll take taxis around the city – or the Métro.’
‘Thank God for that.’
They plunged deeper into the heart of Paris, turning into a cobbled square with some kind of obelisk in the middle.
‘Just here, Philip.’
‘Are you sure?’ Phil drew up beside a pair of grand doormen guarding an elegant facade from which white awnings proclaimed one word: Ritz.
Phil was wearing jeans and his David Bowie T-shirt. Lady Meeke looked appropriately elegant in her light blue suit. The scary doormen were clearly entirely used to elegant English ladies arriving with scruffy grandsons. As Emma had promised, a lesser, smaller flunkey whisked the car away somewhere and they entered the grandest hotel lobby Phil had ever seen.
Emma glanced at her grandson.
‘I think you and I might be going shopping tomorrow, Philip.’
Clothes shopping with your grandmother is always going to be excruciating, but Emma approached the problem sensibly, and Phil ended up with two jackets, a couple of shirts and a pair of nice trousers, to go with the black cords and beige V-necked sweater he had stuffed into his rucksack for smart occasions. All paid for by her. He also got his hair cut.
All in all, he didn’t look too bad, he was surprised to acknowledge.
After lunch in a small bistro, they walked along the smart Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré until they came to a high stone archway from which a Union Jack fluttered proudly. Emma had a word with the porter at the lodge by the gate, and they strolled through a courtyard into the impressive building itself. A secretary with a pleasant Yorkshire accent, which seemed oh-so-English in the Parisian surroundings, led them to a small room dotted with ornate green and gold furniture. Impressively bewhiskered and besashed Englishmen looked down on them from large oil portraits in heavy frames.
‘That one was the ambassador when I was here,’ said Emma, pointing to a distinguished if slightly raffish-looking grey-haired gentleman with a trim moustache and a monocle. ‘Sir George Clerk. Very charming, but a bit of a plonker, as you might say.’
‘Might I?’
‘Emma!’ They turned as a sleek man with a dark grey suit and thick, light grey hair swept into the room.
Emma rose to her feet and accepted his kiss on the cheek.
‘How lovely to see you!’ the man gushed. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t give you lunch – my lunches are spoken for weeks in advance these days. But you will have a cup of coffee with me?’
‘This is my grandson, Philip. Philip, this is Sir Cyril Ashcott, the ambassador.’
‘And former third secretary, a long time ago,’ said the ambassador with a grin.
‘You have done very well for yourself,’ Emma said. ‘The Paris ambassadorship is the plum posting, you know,’ she said to Phil.
‘I had a slight hiccup in my career here before the war,’ Sir Cyril explained to Phil. ‘But thanks to your grandfather, and your grandmother here, I survived. And prospered.’
‘I understand there is a Lady Ashcott?’ said Emma.
‘Yes, there is,’ said Sir Cyril with a grin. ‘And very happy she is too.’
‘Really? I am surprised.’
His grandmother’s rudeness shocked Phil, but Sir Cyril took it in his stride.
‘As blunt as always, I see, Emma. Have you never met Penelope? We’ve been married ten years now.’
‘No, I haven’t. I th
ink Roland did.’
‘Sure to have. Perhaps we can rectify that while you are here. Where are you staying?’
‘The Ritz.’
‘Jolly good. I’ll be in touch. I am sorry about Roland. And that I wasn’t able to attend the funeral. I think I was in BA at the time.’
Emma smiled.
‘Your grandfather was a fine man,’ said Sir Cyril to Phil. ‘Are you thinking of joining the diplomatic service?’
Phil looked confused. He had no clue what he wanted to do after university, beyond ensuring it wasn’t insurance. He suddenly realized this was ‘the old boy network’ in action, and was a bit surprised to see it involved him.
‘Oh, don’t worry about Philip,’ said Emma. ‘He can find his own job when the time comes. That’s not why we’re here. I just wanted to look around the place again. It was an interesting time.’
The ambassador examined Emma carefully. Then he smiled. ‘It was certainly that.’
They spent half an hour chatting about people in Paris in the 1930s, before the ambassador took his leave. But he suggested that they wander around the embassy, accompanied by Miss Stott, who, it turned out, was not just a secretary, but a modern-day third secretary. She was blonde and long-legged, and really quite attractive, Phil couldn’t help noticing. Twenty-five, at least. Way out of his league, obviously.
Miss Stott immediately realized, diplomatically, that Emma wanted to do the explaining, and kept quiet and listened as they walked around the embassy.
It was extraordinarily elegant, if not opulent. Known as the Hôtel de Charost, it had been purchased in the early nineteenth century by the British government from Napoleon’s sister, Pauline Borghese, and still retained the ambience of a city palace, imperial rather than royal. The overall effect was a mixture of French grandiosity and British pomposity, which Phil found overwhelming. Everywhere you looked there were delicate chairs, ornate lamps, brilliantly polished tables, extravagant flower arrangements, grand portraits of grand diplomats and melodramatic classical landscapes. The prevailing colours were gilded yellow, polished brown, and green and crimson fabric. The Hôtel de Charost had been home to a succession of peers and knights of the realm, in a line from the Duke of Wellington to Sir Cyril, all of whom had dined for England.
The Diplomat's Wife Page 6
