by Ian Mcewan
‘So that’s been the American way and basically, since the Encounter affair, it’s a busted flush. When a Mr X pops up from some giant foundation offering a six-figure sum, everyone runs screaming. But still, this is a culture war, not just a political and military affair, and the effort’s worthwhile. The Soviets know it and they spend on exchange schemes, visits, conferences, the Bolshoi Ballet. That’s on top of the money they channel into the National Union of Mineworkers strike fund by way of …’
‘Peter,’ Tapp murmured, ‘let’s not go down that pit again.’
‘All right. Thank you. Now the dust is settling, we’ve decided to push ahead with our own scheme. Modest budget, no international festivals, no first-class flights, no twenty-pantechnicon orchestral tours, no bean feasts. We can’t afford it and we don’t want to. What we intend is pinpointed, long-term and cheap. And that’s why you’re here. Are there any questions so far?’
‘No.’
‘You might know of the Information Research Department over at the Foreign Office.’
I didn’t, but I nodded.
‘So you’ll know this kind of thing has a long history. IRD have worked with us and MI6 for years, cultivating writers, newspapers, publishers. George Orwell on his deathbed gave IRD a list of thirty-eight communist fellow-travellers. And IRD helped Animal Farm into eighteen languages and did a lot of good work for Nineteen Eighty-Four. And some marvellous publishing ventures over the years. Ever heard of Background Books? – that was an IRD outfit, paid for with the Secret Vote. Superb stuff. Bertrand Russell, Guy Wint, Vic Feather. But these days …’
He sighed and looked around the room. I sensed a common grievance.
‘IRD has lost its way. Too many silly ideas, too close to Six – in fact, one of their own is in charge. D’you know, Carlton House Terrace is full of nice hard-working girls like you, and when people from Six visit, some fool has to run ahead through the offices shouting, “Faces to the wall, everybody!” Can you imagine such a thing? You can bet those girls peep through their fingers, eh?’
He looked around expectantly. There were obliging chuckles.
‘So we want to start afresh. Our idea is to concentrate on suitable young writers, academics and journalists mostly, people at the start of their careers, when they need financial support. Typically, they’ll have a book they want to write and need to take time off from a demanding job. And we thought it might be interesting to have a novelist on the list …’
Harry Tapp cut in, unusually excited. ‘Makes it a little less heavy, more, you know, a bit of light-hearted fun. Frothy. Someone the newspapers will take an interest in.’
Nutting continued. ‘Since you like that sort of thing, we thought you might want to be involved. We’re not interested in the decline of the West, or down with progress or any other modish pessimism. Do you see what I mean?’
I nodded. I thought I did.
‘Your corner’s going to be a little trickier than the rest. You know as well as I do, it’s not straightforward to deduce an author’s views from his novels. That’s why we’ve been looking for a novelist who also writes journalism. We’re looking out for the sort who might spare a moment for his hard-pressed fellows in the Eastern bloc, travels out there perhaps to lend support or sends books, signs petitions for persecuted writers, engages his mendacious Marxist colleagues here, isn’t afraid to talk publicly about writers in prison in Castro’s Cuba. Generally swims against the orthodox flow. It takes courage, Miss Frome.’
‘Yes, sir. I mean, yes.’
‘Especially if you’re young.’
‘Yes.’
‘Free speech, freedom of assembly, legal rights, democratic process – not much cherished these days by a lot of intellectuals.’
‘No.’
‘We need to encourage the right people.’
‘Yes.’
A silence settled on the room. Tapp offered round cigarettes from his case, first to me, then to the rest. We all smoked and waited for Nutting. I was aware of Max’s eyes on me. When I met his look he made the slightest inclination of his head, as if to say, ‘Keep it up.’
With some initial difficulty, Nutting levered himself out of his armchair, went across to Tapp’s desk and picked up the notes. He turned the pages until he found what he wanted.
‘The people we’re looking for will be of your generation. They’ll cost us less, that’s for sure. The sort of stipend we’ll be offering through our front organisation will be enough to keep a chap from having to do a day job for a year or two, even three. We know we can’t be in a hurry and that we’re not going to see results next week. We’re expecting to have ten subjects, but all you need to think about is this one. And one proposal …’
He looked down through half-moon specs that hung by a cord around his neck.
‘His name is Thomas Haley, or T.H. Haley as he prefers it in print. Degree in English at the University of Sussex, got a first, still there now, studied for an MA in international relations under Peter Calvocoressi, now doing a doctorate in literature. We took a peek at Haley’s medical record. Nothing much to report. He’s published a few short stories and some journalism. He’s looking for a publisher. But he also needs to find himself a proper job once his studies are over. Calvocoressi rates him highly, which should be enough for anyone. Benjamin here has put together a file and we’d like your opinion. Assuming you’re happy, we’d like you to get on the train to Brighton and take a look at him. If you give the thumbs up, we’ll take him on. Otherwise, we’ll look somewhere else. It’ll be on your say-so. You’ll precede your visit, of course, with an introductory letter.’
They were all watching me. Tapp, whose elbows rested on his desk, had made his own finger-steeple. Then, without parting his palms, he drummed his fingers together soundlessly.
I felt obliged to make some form of intelligent objection. ‘Won’t I be like your Mr X, popping up with a chequebook? He might run at the sight of me.’
‘At the sight of you? I rather doubt it, my dear.’
Again, low chuckles all round. I blushed and was annoyed. Nutting was smiling at me and I made myself smile back.
He said, ‘The sums are going to be attractive. We’ll channel funds through a cut-out, an existing Foundation. Not a huge or well-known outfit, but it’s one where we have some reliable contacts. If Haley or any of the others decides to check, it’ll stand up nicely. I’ll let you know its name as soon as it’s settled. Obviously, you’ll be the Foundation’s representative. They’ll let us know when letters come for you. And we’ll get you some of their headed paper.’
‘Wouldn’t it be possible to simply make some friendly recommendations to the, you know, the government department that hands out money to artists?’
‘The Arts Council?’ Nutting let out a pantomime shout of a bitter laugh. Everyone else was grinning. ‘My dear girl. I envy your innocence. But you’re right. It should have been possible! It’s a novelist in charge of the literature section, Angus Wilson. Know of him? On paper just the sort we could have worked with. Member of the Athenaeum, naval attaché in the war, worked on secret stuff in the famous Hut Eight on the uh, at, well, I’m not allowed to say. I took him to lunch, then saw him a week later in his office. I started to explain what I wanted. D’you know, Miss Frome, he all but threw me out of a third-floor window.’
He had told this story before and delighted in telling it again, embellished.
‘One moment he was behind his desk, nice white linen suit, lavender bow tie, clever jokes, the next his face was puce and he had hold of my lapels and was pushing me out of his office. What he said I can’t repeat in front of a lady. And camp as a tent peg. God knows how they let him near naval codes in ‘forty-two.’
‘There you go,’ Tapp said. ‘It’s filthy propaganda when we do it, and then they’re sold out at the Albert Hall for the Red Army Chorus.’
‘Max here rather wishes Wilson had tossed me out of the window,’ Nutting said, and to my surprise winked at me
.
‘Isn’t that right, Max?’
‘I’ve had my say,’ Max said. ‘Now I’m on board.’
‘Good.’ Nutting nodded at Benjamin, the young man who had shown me in. He opened the folder on his lap.
‘I’m sure this is everything he’s published. Not easy to track down, some of it. I suggest you look at the journalism first. I should direct your attention towards an article he wrote for the Listener, deploring the way newspapers romanticise villains. It’s mostly about the Great Train Robbery – he objects to the word “great” – but there’s a robust aside about Burgess and Maclean and the number of deaths they were responsible for. You’ll see he’s a member of the Readers and Writers Educational Trust, an organisation that supports dissidents in Eastern Europe. He wrote a piece for the Trust’s journal last year. You might look at the longish article he wrote for History Today about the East German uprising of ‘fifty-three. There’s a goodish piece about the Berlin Wall in Encounter. Generally, the journalism is sound. But it’s the short stories you’ll be writing to him about, and they’re his thing. Five in all, as Peter said. Actually, one in Encounter, and then things you’ve never heard of – the Paris Review, the New American Review, Kenyon Review and Transatlantic Review.’
‘Geniuses with the titles, these creative types,’ Tapp said.
‘Worth noting that those four are based in the States,’ Benjamin went on. ‘An Atlanticist at heart. We’ve asked around and people describe him as promising. Though one insider told us that’s a standard description for any young writer. He’s been turned down three times by a Penguin short-story series. He’s also been turned down by the New Yorker, the London Magazine and Esquire.’
Tapp said, ‘As a matter of interest, how did you come by all this?’
‘It’s a long story. First I met a former …’
‘Keep going,’ Nutting said. ‘I’m due upstairs at eleven thirty. And by the way. Calvocoressi has told a friend that Haley’s a personable fellow, decently turned out. So, a good role model for the young. I’m sorry, Benjamin. Carry on.’
‘A well-known publishing house has said they like the stories but won’t publish them in a collection until he comes up with a novel. Short stories don’t sell. Publishers usually do these collections as a favour to their well-established authors. He needs to write something longer. This is important to know because a novel takes a while and it’s hard to do when you’ve got a full-time job. And he’s keen to write a novel, says he has an idea for one apparently. Another thing, he doesn’t have an agent and is looking for one.’
‘Agent?’
‘Altogether different fish, Harry. Sells the work, does the contracts, takes a cut.’
Benjamin handed me the folder. ‘That’s about it. Obviously, don’t leave it lying around.’
The man who had not yet spoken, a greyish shrunken-looking fellow with oily centre-parted hair, said, ‘Are we expecting to have at least a little influence over what any of these people write?’
Nutting said, ‘It would never work. We have to trust in our choices and hope Haley and the rest turn out well and become, you know, important. This is a slow-burn thing. We aim to show the Americans how it’s done. But there’s no reason why we can’t give him a leg-up along the way. You know, people who owe us a favour or three. In Haley’s case, well, sooner or later one of our own is going to be chairing this new Booker Prize committee. And we might look into that agent business. But as for the stuff itself, they have to feel free.’
He was standing up and looking at his watch. Then he looked at me. ‘Any more background questions, Benjamin’s your man. Operationally, it’s Max. The codename is Sweet Tooth. Right then? That’ll be all.’
I was taking a risk, but I had begun to feel indispensable. Over-confident, perhaps. But who else in this room apart from me had ever, as an adult, read a short story in his leisure time? I couldn’t hold back. I was eager and hungry. I said, ‘This is a little awkward for me, and no offence to Max, but if I’m working directly to him, I wonder if it might be helpful if I could have some clarification of my own status.’
Peter Nutting sat down again. ‘My dear girl. What can you mean?’
I stood in front of him humbly, as I used to in front of my father in his study. ‘It’s a great challenge and I’m thrilled to be asked. The Haley case is fascinating, and it’s also delicate. You’re asking me, in effect, to run Haley. I’m honoured. But agent-running … well, I’d like to be clear then about where I stand.’
There followed an embarrassed silence of the sort only a woman can impose on a roomful of men. Then Nutting muttered, ‘Well, yes, quite …’
He turned in desperation to Tapp. ‘Harry?’
Tapp slipped his gold cigarette case into the inside pocket of his jacket as he stood. ‘Simple, Peter. You and I will go downstairs after lunch and talk to Personnel. I don’t foresee any objection. Serena can be made up to assistant desk officer. It’s time she was.’
‘There you are, Miss Frome.’
‘Thank you.’
We all stood. Max was looking at me with what I thought was new respect. I heard a singing sound in my ears, like a polyphonic chorus. I had been in the Service only nine months and even if I was among the last in my intake to be promoted, I’d reached as high as any woman could go. Tony would have been so proud of me. He would have taken me out for a celebratory dinner at his club. Wasn’t it the same as Nutting’s? The least I could do, I thought, as we filed out of Tapp’s office, was to phone my mother and let her know how well I was doing at the Department of Health and Social Security.
8
I settled myself into my armchair, angled my new reading lamp and took up my bookmark fetish. I had a pencil at the ready, as though preparing for a tutorial. My dream had come true – I was studying English, not maths. I was free of my mother’s ambitions for me. The folder was on my lap, buff coloured, HMSO, closed with loops of string. What a transgression, and how privileged I was, to have a file at home. It had been hammered into us in our early training – files were sacred. Nothing was to be removed from a file, no file was to be removed from the building. Benjamin had accompanied me to the front entrance, and was made to open up the folder to prove that it wasn’t a Registry Personal File, even though it was the same colour as one. As he explained to the P Branch duty officer on the desk, it was mere background information. But that night it gave me pleasure to think of it as the Haley file.
I count those first hours with his fiction as among the happiest in my time at Five. All my needs beyond the sexual met and merged: I was reading, I was doing it for a higher purpose that gave me professional pride, and I was soon to meet the author. Did I have doubts or moral qualms about the project? Not at that stage. I was pleased to have been chosen. I thought I could do the job well. I thought I might earn praise from the higher floors in the building – I was a girl who liked to be praised. If someone had asked, I would have said we were nothing more than a clandestine Arts Council. The opportunities we offered were as good as any.
The story had been published in the Kenyon Review in the winter of 1970 and the whole issue was there, with a protruding purchase slip from a specialist bookshop in Longacre, Covent Garden. It concerned the formidably named Edmund Alfredus, an academic teacher of medieval social history who becomes in his mid-forties a Labour MP in a tough east London constituency, having been a local councillor there for a dozen years. He’s well to the left of his party and something of a trouble-maker, an intellectual dandy, a serial adulterer and a brilliant public speaker with good connections to powerful members of the Tube train drivers’ union. He happens to have an identical twin brother, Giles, a milder figure, an Anglican vicar with a pleasant living in rural West Sussex within cycling distance of Petworth House, where Turner once painted. His small, elderly congregation gathers in a pre-Norman church whose pargeted uneven walls bore the palimpsests of Saxon murals depicting a suffering Christ overlaid by a gyre of ascending angels, whose a
wkward grace and simplicity spoke to Giles of mysteries beyond the reach of an industrial, scientific age.
They are also beyond the reach of Edmund, a strict atheist who in private is scornful of Giles’s comfortable life and improbable beliefs. For his part, the vicar is embarrassed that Edmund has not outgrown his adolescent bolshevik views. But the brothers are close and usually manage to avoid religious or political disputes. They lost their mother to breast cancer when they were eight and were sent away by their emotionally remote father to boarding prep school, where they clung to each other for comfort, and so were bound for life.
Both men married in their late twenties and have children. But a year after Edmund takes his seat in the House of Commons, the patience of his wife, Molly, breaks on account of one affair too many and she throws him out. Looking for shelter from the storm of domestic ruin and divorce proceedings, and nascent press interest, Edmund heads to the Sussex vicarage to spend a long weekend, and here is where the story proper begins. Brother Giles is in distress. That Sunday he is due to deliver the sermon in his church in the presence of the Bishop of Ch—, well known for being a prickly, intolerant sort. (Naturally, I projected my father into the role.) His Grace will not be pleased to be told that the vicar, whose performance he intends to inspect, has come down with a bad dose of flu complicated by laryngitis.
