Kit, turned-up collar and hands in pockets, sat on a bench in Kensington Gardens looking at Monsieur Poêle playing a flute. The Peter Pan statue was, like Brompton Oratory, a notorious pick-up point for spies. An icon of childhood innocence and wonder despoiled by dead drops, brush-passes, honey traps, agent handlers, hidden cameras and an umbrella or two with a ricin poison hypodermic hidden in its tip. His trade turned everything into shit.
Kit knew that Blanco had done exactly what he had wanted. He had pressed all the right buttons: his father’s death, Saigon – and that poison toad of paranoia that mocks with yellow eyes in the depths of Kit’s own soul. Blanco is master. He knows that every spy carries a sediment of self-loathing and self-doubt – and he knows how to stir it with a big spoon. Kit closed his eyes and imagined a map of London, England and Europe. He wanted to get up that very moment and start walking: across Westminster Bridge, down the Old Kent Road, Bexley, Dartford, Canterbury, Dover – ‘Foot-passenger, sir?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Single or return?’ ‘Single, please.’ At some point, he would meet up with other pilgrims on the way of Saint Jacques de Compostelle – but he wouldn’t tell them his secret. Nor would his pilgrimage stop there or at Gibraltar – or Tangier or the desert beyond. Not until every drop of poison – or life – had been sweated out.
There were voices behind him. It was not a language he knew, but it was guttural and full of hard consonants. One voice seemed angry, urgent and demanding; the other disdainful. Bombs no longer fell on London, but her streets were infested with spies who were crawling out of the rubble like vermin looking for fresh corpses. Kit felt an urge to tell the arguing men to shut up, but when he turned around they had started to walk away. Perhaps, he thought, they had gone to drown each other in the Serpentine. Kit got up to walk back to the embassy. ‘I must,’ he said aloud, ‘see about that boat.’
The Blackwater Sloop was heavier and more seaworthy than any boat Kit had ever sailed in the Chesapeake Bay. Kit liked the long keel and the big foredeck, plenty of room for hanking a jib or dealing with an anchor. ‘Let’s have a look down below,’ said Kit.
Billy Whiting stepped down into the cockpit, unlocked the hatch and lifted out the washboards. ‘She’s a bit mouldy,’ said Billy, ‘and the bilges need pumping out – rainwater mostly – she’s been laying ashore for two years.’
Kit slid the hatch cover forward, lowered himself into the cabin and sat on a side berth. There wasn’t enough headroom to stand up, but the below-decks were still spacious for a twenty-one foot boat. The brass fittings needed polishing, but the woodwork gleamed of dark varnish and white gloss paint. Everything was tidy and functional: a two-burner spirit cooker on gimbals, a folding chart table, a miniature coal stove, paraffin lamps, barometer, clock, a shelf for books and an old-fashioned brass voice hailer. Kit could already imagine lying at anchor in a remote creek during a still night: gentle tide trickle, curlew cry, the piping of oyster-catchers – ‘Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not’. Childhood. Kit longed for childhood – and all its wonder and clean innocence. He looked up into the cockpit. Billy, framed in profile against a perfect blue sky, was staring at something on the river. Kit stood up and stuck his head out of the companionway so he could see too. A Thames barge with brown sails was tacking through the narrow bend in the river where the Alde turns west. ‘Where’s she going?’ said Kit.
‘She’s taking London bricks up to Snape, then she’ll load up with sugar beet for Reedham.’
‘Doesn’t she have an engine?’
‘Not that one, if she needs to she can pick up a tow from Ralph Brinkley when she gets abeam of Iken. The river gets squiggly and narrow up there, but those barges can tack on their own length. They handle beautiful.’
Kit watched the barge tacking through the narrows. The low dark hull disappeared as she finally rounded the bend, but the sails were still visible above the riverbank. Meanwhile, a pair of American fighter jets were scoring the sky with vapour contrails. These British, thought Kit, who are they? They warm themselves by open coal fires, they relieve themselves in outside toilets, they still ship cargo under sail – and yet five miles away they are trying to build a hydrogen bomb. Kit watched the great tan sails gybe with the cool practised grace of a ballerina pirouetting into an arabesque. An hour ago the passing sails of that Thames barge had kissed the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment at Orford Ness with its wind shadow.
Billy had stopped watching the barge; he had found an old rag and was polishing a brass cleat. ‘All this stuff,’ he said, ‘will come up pretty fine with a bit of Brasso.’
‘What do you think of this boat, Billy?’
Billy paused and ran his hand over a coaming. ‘She’s one that Webb built in the 1930s at Pin Mill. These boats just feel right.’
‘She’s not bad, but she’s got two cracked frames that need replacing. I want rock elm planks – which might not be easy to find.’ Kit looked at the boy. He could see him weighing everything up. ‘How handy are you, Billy?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Have you ever bent planks with a steam box before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Can you learn how?’
Billy paused, then nodded his head.
‘Good. Don’t take any short cuts. I want this boat to be perfect. OK?’
Billy slowly nodded, his eyes bright with pride.
‘And when you’ve finished that, I want all the seams re-caulked.’
Billy smiled, ‘I’ve done lots of caulking – and I’ll tidy up the rigging and brightwork too.’
‘Are you sure you’ll have time – with school and,’ Kit paused because he sensed it was something he shouldn’t mention, ‘your singing lessons?’
Billy turned away and looked out to sea. ‘I used to get a lot of stick about it at school – I had to use my fists to put them right on more than one occasion. But now the whole school – and the little kids from the primary too – are going to be in Mr Britten’s new one. Hardly any adults, just kids.’ Billy laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘This new opera sounds like it’s going to be a right mess. The littlest ones are going to be bashing about with hand bells, sandpaper blocks and slinging mugs around. Meanwhile the rest of the kids are going to be singing, playing recorders and blowing bugles. I expect all the dead fishermen will come out of the sea and walk up Aldeburgh beach to see what all the racket’s about.’
‘What’s it going to be called?’
‘Noye’s Fludde, but it’s nowhere near finished.’
‘Sounds like the story out of the Bible.’
‘Some might think that, but there’s been other floods too.’
‘You had a bad flood here, didn’t you?’
Billy’s eyes narrowed and became hard: another raw nerve.
Kit ignored the warning sign to keep off. ‘I’ve heard about that ’53 flood. How bad was it here?’
At first Billy ignored the question and concentrated on polishing the brass. Then he said, without looking up. ‘It drowned my big sister – and her baby. She got confused in the night and must have run the wrong way. We found her and buried her – but the little one,’ Billy swept his arm across the North Sea horizon, ‘is still out there somewhere.’
‘Her husband survived?’
‘Louise didn’t have a husband. She got up the duff when she was sixteen. The father was some Yank from the airbase. He’d cleared off long before Louise had the baby. No one ever told him what happened.’ Billy paused, then said in flat tones, ‘And we don’t want him to know. It’s nothing to do with him.’
Kit sensed the topic was closed. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘we’d better tell Mr Gardiner that I’ll buy the boat.’
After climbing down to the ground, Kit walked around the stern of the boat for one last look before setting off. For the first time he noticed the carved nameplate bolted on to the transom: Louise of Ipswich.
‘Have you done much sailing, Brian?’ Kit found making small
talk with Jennifer’s husband excruciating. Even the most innocent remark seemed to give offence.
‘Not very much, in fact none at all. Manchester is not famous for its yachting.’
‘But,’ said Jennifer, ‘you are going to take it up – you’ll love it.’
Brian put his drink down and got up to stir the fire. Kit detected a scowl. Brian hadn’t been brought up to feign enthusiasm or hide feelings. He’d be a lousy diplomat – or spy.
Jennifer got up and massaged the back of Brian’s neck as he tended the fire. ‘Poor thing, you’re so tired.’
Kit turned away, embarrassed by the intimacy. Supper had been a strained experience too, but he could hardly have avoided accepting the invitation. He also loathed the idea of sleeping under the same roof – and knowing what might be taking place less than half a dozen paces from his own bed. Kit knew it would for him be a sleepless night – lying there listening and afraid to listen. He cursed himself for not having bought a packet of barbiturates. They were knock-out powders intended for slipping into the drinks of enemy agents – and on nights like this, Kit’s imagination was the worst enemy of all. He looked at Jennifer. She was sitting in a deep armchair with her eyes half-closed. The firelight softened her features. Her face seemed more relaxed and content than it had for years. Kit forced his mind into double-think. He could love her happiness, but still hate the reason for it. Double-think was how you survived: his job had taught him that. The ones who couldn’t do double-think were killed – like Peter – or went loopy. There was even a special hospital, Sheppard Pratt, for intelligence agents who cracked up. You couldn’t risk them mouthing off secrets to ‘normal’ loonies from outside the Agency.
Kit sensed Jennifer was about to say something. It was an extrasensory thing they had shared since early childhood. She began to speak without moving or even opening her eyes. ‘There’s something I’ve always wanted to know,’ her voice sounded like a spirit speaking through a medium, ‘but until now I’ve never felt strong enough to ask.’
Kit knew what was coming. ‘Don’t, Jennie, don’t.’
‘No, Kit, I want you to tell me. How did Peter die?’
Kit wanted help. He looked at Brian who was staring at the fire with his hands folded. Why, Kit thought, don’t you do something? Get up and put your strong protecting husband arm around her and say, ‘Not now, dear.’ Or even take her off to bed and do your lousy things. Kit felt nothing but rage and loathing. He wanted to pick up the fire poker and bring it down on Brian’s dense head. Kit turned to Jennifer. ‘You already know the facts. What more can I tell you?’
‘Was the sun shining? What was Peter wearing? When was the last time he smiled? Lots of things, I want to know them all.’
Kit stared at the carpet. It was an Indian carpet, a moth-eaten and worn relic of the Raj. It brought back Gracey, his Ghurkas, the confusion and mess. ‘It was,’ said Kit, ‘an unsettled day. There were lots of clouds, but the sun kept breaking through. The countryside around the airport was totally flat and bleak – so empty, it was almost ghostly.’
‘And Peter?’
‘Peter wasn’t in a smiling mood. He was still furious about being PNG’d – and on top of all that, his expatriation flight from Tan Son Nhut had already been cancelled twice. After the second cancellation, we went back to the Villa Fevier, our local HQ, for lunch and a beer. Peter was restless. He felt like he was in limbo and just wanted to get going. Meanwhile, everything seemed to be falling apart. There was gunfire and columns of smoke from the villages around Saigon.’ Kit turned to Brian, ‘As you know, General Gracey had released and re-armed Japanese prisoners of war who were now burning Vietnamese villages.’
‘Gracey had to restore order.’
‘Well, Brian, he wasn’t doing a very good job on that particular afternoon, because the Viet Minh retaliated by burning French warehouses on the docks and had set up so many roadblocks that travel without a military escort was impossible.’
‘Tell me,’ said Jennifer, ‘about Peter.’
‘After lunch we set off back to the airfield because there was finally word of a flight out. I’d been driving up until then, but Peter said he’d take over because he knew a short cut through the golf course. It was a dirt road, very bright red dirt, with drainage ditches on either side. Peter was wearing an ironed khaki uniform with his major’s oak leaf on his collar. He’d grown a moustache – and it suited him.’
‘I know. He sent Mom and Dad a photo. We all thought he looked like a film star.’
‘Well, I remember thinking at the time, this is a bit like being in a film. We hadn’t gone far – maybe four hundred yards – when we saw the roadblock. It seemed stupid. Why were they blocking a road like that? The only people who used it were probably the golf course greenkeepers. It wasn’t much of a roadblock, just underbrush and saplings. Peter might have thought we could drive straight through it. There were kids – maybe fourteen or fifteen years old – on his side of the Jeep. Peter shouted at them to get out of the way. Of course, his French was so damned good he sounded like the real thing. I think he realised his mistake – even before he realised the kids had guns. You see they would never have shot at an American – we were the good guys back then. And because of that, a lot of French officers had taken to wearing American uniforms to protect themselves. I suppose the kids were really pissed off, thinking that Peter was one of those fake Amerloques.’ Kit paused and smiled. ‘You know for a second, it was really kind of funny. Sometimes things are so bad they cease to be tragedy and turn into farce. Do you know what I mean?’
Jennifer nodded, her face sensual in the firelight and a tear tracking down her cheek. Brian was stationary in the shadow.
‘And Peter knew it too. His face curved into the broadest smile that I’ve ever seen – and then he started to laugh. The sound was like a million church bells on an Easter morning. He was still laughing when the back of his head flew off in fragments.’
Brian got up, severe in the shadows. ‘I think you’ve said enough.’
‘Shut up.’
‘How dare you speak to me like…’
Jennifer was up now too, her calming hands on her husband’s shoulders. ‘It’s my fault, Brian, I wanted to know. Please, let Kit finish.’
Kit stood up and offered Brian his hand. ‘I apologise. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.’ They shook hands. Kit found Brian’s hand as large and hard as seasoned oak.
Jennifer was sitting again and staring into the fire. ‘There was no hope then.’
‘And no pain either, there are a lot worse ways to go.’
‘And what happened to you, poor Kit?’
‘The Jeep veered off the road and into the ditch. I was thrown clear. As soon as I got up, I started shouting in bad Vietnamese, “Khong ban – don’t shoot, I’m American, not a Frenchman.” It seemed to confuse them – and I managed to run halfway back to the Villa Fevier before they started shooting. If I wasn’t such a coward, Jennifer, I would have stayed with Peter.’
‘There was nothing you could have done.’
‘But we might not have lost his body.’
‘Was there ever any news?’
‘Only rumours and dozens of exhumed graves. All pointless. We’ll never find him.’
Brian was still looming in the shadows. ‘Do you blame us for what happened?’
‘I blame Gracey and the people who let him get away with it. He refused to let us fly US flags from our Jeeps – and he was personally responsible for ordering Peter out of the country.’
‘Why was he ordered out?’
‘Peter made contact with the Viet Minh. He wanted to broker a peaceful handover of the Saigon region to a Vietnamese government. We thought we were following anti-colonial US policy. General Gracey, on the other hand, saw his job as holding the fort until the French could get back.’
‘So you were on the side of the communists?’
‘Some people might put it that way, but Peter thought we were on the side o
f the Vietnamese. That’s the horrible irony. Peter was killed by the very people whose cause he supported.’
Brian emerged into the light. ‘You make it all sound very innocent and idealistic. But, Kit, we all know the truth. Would you like a top-up?’
Kit offered his glass.
‘The truth is,’ Brian poured the whisky, ‘you want to push us old fogeys out of the way so the world can be America’s own playground. You want it all your way – and some of us don’t want that to happen.’
Kit smiled. ‘National interests, even of close allies, do not always coincide.’
Jennifer started to bank up the fire so it would keep in until the morning. ‘I hope you two have finished talking foreign policy. I grew up with it.’
‘Sorry, Jennifer,’ said Brian. ‘I just think it odd that Kit felt so strongly about the foreign occupation of Vietnam, but won’t admit that Britain is an occupied territory too.’
‘You’re quite wrong, Brian, I do admit it.’
Kit lay awake in the spare room listening to the plumbing as the other two prepared for bed. The last plumbing noises ceased and the bedroom door gently shut. This was going to be the hardest hour. Those large firm hands troubled Kit. The fingers weren’t tapered and graceful like a musician’s, but strong and rough like a blacksmith’s. Brian’s fingers were made for tearing and poking. Kit tried to stop the obscene images from turning in his mind, but they kept coming. His brain had become a porn film that wouldn’t stop: sometimes rewinding, sometimes fast-forwarding – then slow motion, grinding to a still. Jennifer: wide-eyed, panting and penetrated. And worst of all, enjoying it.
Kit covered his head with a pillow; he was so afraid of hearing something. Then he took the pillow away, sat up and listened to the dark watches of the night. There were owl noises in the garden. He prayed that there would be only silence from the marital bedroom. But there wasn’t. It wasn’t the noise of bedsprings, but the noise of the bed frame itself – as if the wood and joints were being strained. Then quiet again. Kit counted the minutes longing for the silence to remain unbroken. The noise was very faint at first: a soft mewing sound, then it became louder, but more muffled. It sounded like someone being hurt. He knew it was Jennifer.
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