Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow

by Paul Gallico

  Blimey, Ada thought to herself, for a country that ain’t supposed to care about knick-knacks and gew-gaws and everybody ’aving no money, some of these Russians don’t do too badly for themselves. Cor, just look at this plyce.

  They had been ushered into the great hall of the Palace of Congress illuminated by gigantic chandeliers suspended from the two-storey high ceiling. There were golden chairs, silken curtains, a vast buffet table covered with troughs of caviar, whole sturgeons, meats and roast game birds of every variety with drinks to match. Somewhere unseen an orchestra was playing soft music and the room was aglitter with uniforms on the breasts of which gleamed stars and bars and rows of medals. There was a rustle from women’s dresses which had obviously not come from the shelves of the Gum store. From the cut of the clothes of many of those circulating the entire diplomatic corps must have been present. There was a roar of conversation, much laughter and a clinking of glasses. They couldn’t do a better job at Buckingham Palace, Ada thought, and guided by Liz who had produced the tickets and credentials for their entrance, they were moved along towards the centre of the great hall where there appeared to be a receiving line. She whispered, ‘We’d better go on the line first for you will wish to pay your respects after which we can have something to eat.’

  As they started off Mrs Harris felt a touch at her elbow and a voice she recognized saying, ‘ ’Ello, luv, what are you doin’ ’ere? Oh, I forgot, it’s a Commie country where charring rates tops in society.’

  Ada turned and saw that it was their erstwhile friend, Mr Rubin. He had a tumbler half filled with gin in his hand and was quite obviously half seas over. Ada trembled for fear he might give the game away but then realized that he would probably not even remember her name. ‘We’ve come because we were arsked, but what are you doin’ ’ere?’

  Mr Rubin’s face took on a most wily expression. He put one finger to the side of his nose and leaning close to Mrs Harris said, ‘I’m ’ere because I’m so bloody important they ’ad to ’ave me. I’m the most important bloke in the joint. I got a secret. It’s such a blowser I got three cops on me tail, but I’ve given ’em the slip.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mrs Harris. ‘ ’Ave you done some-fink?’

  ‘ ’Ave I done somefink?’ repeated Mr Rubin, who by then had imbibed enough to go cockney all the way. ‘Nuffink like this has ever ’appened before. A real blockbuster. You’ve ’eard of Top Secret. Well, this one’s topper than any of ’em. We’ve got a deal. They made up their minds. Wait till I tell you about it.’

  Mrs Harris had practically forgotten about Mr Rubin and his problems and inquired, ‘ ’Oo’s made up their minds to wot?’ and then she added, ‘If it’s so secret you ortn’t to tell me.’

  ‘Hah!’ snorted Mr Rubin. ‘If you arsk me it’s so bloody silly nobody would believe it if you did tell ’em. ’Ere’s to it.’ He raised his glass, swallowed half its contents and then leaning even closer to Mrs Harris whispered, ‘The biggest bulk sale of Rubin’s Grade A Soft-as-Silk toilet tissue – say “soft-as-silk and you know it’s Rubin’s” – in the history of the bloomin’ world. They’ve taken the lot. Three hundred and eighty million rolls. Every scrap we ’ad. Cleaned us out and put in an order for more. Top, top, top, top! Biggest secret.’

  Mrs Harris was pleased for the little man but the practical side of her was irritated and she said, ‘Oh, come off it with all that secret stuff. ’Ow you gonna keep a sale that big quiet?’

  Mr Rubin’s eyes, already incandescent with alcohol, now took on a reinforced glitter as he finished the tumbler, took Ada by the arm and pulled her close to him. ‘Birdseed,’ he whispered. ‘Me and my company’s agreed not never to let anybody know. It’ll be shipped into the country in containers labelled Fenway’s Bird Seed. Fenway’s is out of business so there’s nobody to squeak. Three hundred and eighty million rolls. How about that now?’

  Ada had a good look at Mr Rubin and saw that while he was not half but actually three-quarters seas over he was telling the truth. Curiosity made her ask, ‘What became of the other feller, the one that didn’t want to buy?’

  ‘Diggin’ ditches somewhere up around the Harctic Circle. His doctor recommended exercise and a cooler climate. Yer carn’t afford to guess wrong in this country. When this shindig is over come up to room 701 and we’ll ’ave a drink on it.’

  As he released Mrs Harris’s arm and strayed off, three large uniformed Russians from whom he had apparently escaped for a minute appeared at his side, smiling, but Ada saw that they were crocodile smiles, and they took his empty glass away from him. They were obviously guarding him. It was true then that Mr Rubin had indeed become a highly important personage.

  The meaning of it all and the need for such stringent secrecy was not entirely clear to Mrs Harris except that the exile imposed upon the poor man who had guessed wrong added to the revulsion that had been building up against the cruelty and viciousness of those who held this country in their grip.

  At which point she felt her elbow taken again but this time it was Mrs Butterfield who was behind her in what now turned out to be the reception line that they had joined. Mrs Butterfield said, ‘I fink I’m going to faint,’ and then thought to add, ‘milady.’

  Irritably, since she was still under the spell of her anger, Ada said, ‘Oh for gawd’s sakes, Vi, what’s the matter now? Carn’t you keep your hair on for a minute?’

  Violet replied, ‘Tyke a look at ’oo we’re going to meet.’

  Mrs Harris did. The reception line about ten people ahead took a small curve to the right and, flanked on one side by a tall, greying man in striped trousers and black tail coat and on the other by a Russian general constructed on the lines of the well-known brick edifice and with so many medals they occupied both sides of his chest, stood a handsome, slender, blond, rather youngish looking man in a lounge suit.

  Ada turned to Vi and whispered, ‘Oh my gawd, Vi, you’re right. I might faint meself. It’s ’is ’ighness the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Philip. I’d forgot ’e was ’ere. ’Eaven ’elp us, Vi, what are we goin’ to do and say?’

  Mrs Butterfield replied, ‘I just ’opes I don’t fall over when I does me bobs and I ain’t sayin’ nuffink. You said you was going to do all the talkin’, milady.’

  The line moved up another ten feet. Three more ahead of them and they would be face to face with the husband of the Queen of all the British.

  And then Mrs Harris found herself standing before the pleasant looking man gazing into a pair of rather quizzical blue eyes and hearing herself announced as ‘Your Royal Highness, may I present Lady Ada Char from London.’ She was now staring straight into those eyes and something happened inside the Mrs Harris which was her, the only thing ever that she had been able to be and that was herself. She made her little bob and then blurted out, ‘Beggin’ yer ’ighness’ pardon but it ain’t really so. I ain’t no lady. I’m just ordinary Ada ’Arris from Battersea, ’ere on a ’oliday. Me work’s charrin’ and they got it muddled on me papers and I ’opes you’ll forgive me.’

  The Duke suddenly broke into a broad grin. ‘Ada Harris,’ he said. ‘Don’t I know you? Haven’t I seen photographs of you when you were elected to Parliament? I’m delighted to meet you,’ and he held out his hand genially.

  Ada warmed to him like an old friend. Suddenly the vast distance that separated them no longer seemed to exist and she said, ‘That’s right, your ’ighness, but I didn’t ought to ’ave done it. I’ve resigned and learned me lesson.’

  The Duke was grinning widely and said, ‘Yes, I remember it all now. Are you enjoying your stay in Russia? Are you being properly looked after?’

  And then it was that something else happened within Mrs Harris, triggered perhaps by the fact that out of the corner of her eye in another part of the room she caught sight of the KGB Colonel Dugliev now in dress uniform and amply bemedalled, but more from the fact that such a swift and homely rapport had been established between Prince Philip and herself. They understood one
another and she felt as though she had known him all her life. If there was anyone to whom she could explain about the indignities that had been heaped upon her who but the husband of the Queen of England? And, to the horror of the Director of Protocol and one or two other English-speaking dignitaries, it suddenly poured forth.

  ‘Properly looked after, your ’ighness? Properly treated like I was a criminal. Searched and followed and listened to, arrested on the ’igh street because some poor revivalist stuck a ’andbill in me fingers about being saved by the good Lord, carted off to a jail with me friend ’ere, Mrs Butterfield’ (Violet went into a violent series of bobs at this mention), ‘searched and shouted at by ’im over there in the corner with all those medals and called a spy. Me, a ’ard workin’ woman ’oo never so much as opened up a bureau drawer of any of me clients to see what was inside.’

  The smile vanished from the face of the Duke and the quizzical look was replaced by something deeper, reflective and slightly harder. He said, ‘I don’t quite understand but I suggest that you tell your story to Sir Harold Barry, Adviser on Russian Affairs to his Excellency our Ambassador here, and in the meantime let me repeat that it has been a pleasure to meet you.’

  Mrs Harris moved off in the direction of the dignitary the Prince had indicated who was standing to one side. Some five yards away from His Royal Highness, Mrs Butterfield was still bobbing.

  The Adviser to the Ambassador was an elderly gentleman likewise clad in the striped trouser diplomatic regalia. He had thinning white hair, a military moustache and huge horn-rimmed glasses which coupled with a beak nose gave him the appearance of a formidable owl and rather intimidated Mrs Harris. Without realizing she was doing so she had blown her top to the consort of the Queen. It had just come popping out in addition to which, and in the hearing of Liz, she had exposed her phoney aristocracy. But to come up with the details of all that had happened to them since their arrival in Moscow to this rather grand looking gentleman was something else again.

  However, she had an insight into British diplomatic staff work for as she stood before him the fierceness of his expression was replaced by a bland smile and he said, ‘How do you do. My name is Barry. I saw His Royal Highness tell you to have a word with me. Come, come, you mustn’t be afraid. Somebody tried to nobble your passport or put buckshot in your caviar? We’ll go over there with your friend and sit down and have a little chat.’ This chat, now that her fears were calmed and fortified with a couple of glasses of vodka which tasted enough like gin to be potable and some food, turned out to be rather a long one. Made aware of her identity, the muddle and all that, the diplomat asked a number of questions sufficiently pertinent for Ada to see that he was no fool. When the interview was finished he fell silent for a moment until brushing his moustache with a finger he said, ‘Rum lot some of these chaps. Not very bright, you know. They’re worse than we are at seeing Reds under the bed. More frightened of themselves than they are of anybody else. Well now, all this wants a bit of thinking about and perhaps a chat with one or two of them. In the meantime I suggest you go back to your hotel. What’s your room number? Where have they put you? In that monstrosity, the Rossia? Wait until you hear from me. They won’t like it when they find out they’ve made fools of themselves. Not to worry. Chin, chin, and cheers,’ and he raised his glass in what was simultaneously a toast and a dismissal.

  They held a whispered council of war clustered together by the open window with the radio full on, back in the sitting-room of their luxury suite of the hotel, Liz, Mrs Butterfield and Mrs Harris, or rather a council of love, which dealt mainly with what seemed to be the insuperable problem of uniting Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya with Geoffrey Lockwood.

  After what had happened, of course a letter was unthinkable. Mrs Harris would be able to take back verbal messages of undying affection and yearning but after that any further ideas of their being brought together turned out upon the face of things to be blocked at every turn.

  To begin with Mr Lockwood was persona non grata in the Soviet Union and while Liz had a solid job with Intourist for VIPs and was also a regular guide she was not that far trusted as to be allowed to be a member of the branch who made trips to the West. Somewhere along the line somebody had suspected that Liz had been more than a guide to a Western correspondent. Therefore even though her life and work in Moscow were not interfered with she was aware that she was under surveillance. One false move and she would be lost.

  The Soviet Union was probably the most gigantic jail in the world with several thousand doors to entry and exit, all of which could be locked instantaneously by the turn of one handle. Escape over a border was impossible since all the neighbours were Iron Curtain pals. To leave by any ordinary means of transportation called for enough documents to paper a room. The more questions Mrs Harris asked, the more fantastic sounding plans or likewise utterly simple ones she suggested, the more Liz was able to prove that she would be unable to leave the country much less reach England.

  And the tighter the doors appeared to be locked the more Mrs Harris refused to accept the impossibility of bringing together the lovers. She said, ‘Now, dearie, don’t you despair. I’ve always found that if you want something bad enough and keep on at it you can get it. I’ll fink of something.’

  Ordinarily such apparently blockheaded optimism in the face of all the unbreachable stone walls, locked doors and iron curtains that Liz had revealed might have irritated her and even angered her, notwithstanding her misery and despair, but there was something in Mrs Harris’s unquenchable optimism which could not be denied.

  Mrs Harris did not know herself whence it came except that she remembered how powerful her fantasy had been when first Mr Lockwood had broached the subject, that one day she would be ringing his doorbell and saying, ‘Mr Lockwood, ’ere’s a friend of yours come to see you.’ This dream had crystallized into such a reality that it appeared almost unthinkable for it not to happen. And then there was something else. All the time that Ada was putting forth her schemes something was rattling around at the back of her head and she couldn’t get it out or remember what it was. But she knew that it had been something the Adviser to the Ambassador, Sir Harold Barry, had said and which if she could only remember it might prove the key that would open all the thousand doors as if by magic. But what it was she could not catch.

  The tears were still falling from the eyes of Lisabeta plop, plop upon the documents that identified Ada Harris as that sprig of high London society, Lady Char.

  ‘And even this isn’t true now,’ Liz sobbed. ‘Don’t you see, you aren’t even a real lady. Oh dear, I don’t mean that. You are a darling to want to help me but you see if you had really been Lady Char as it is here they might have listened to you.’

  Ada said, ‘Now don’t you worry about that one bit,’ and suppressed a smile as she looked down upon her photograph identifying her as one of the important blue-bloods of Mayfair. ‘Plain old Ada Harris who washes up for the nobs, scrubs their floors and keeps their clothes in order has seen a lot more of life than you would think and maybe could wind up in the end doin’ a lot more for you than that old bag with ’er title.’

  What was it that Sir Harold had said? Something so short and simple; if she could only remember.

  There came a knock on the door and, when they said ‘Come in’, it produced a most handsome, blond, pink-faced young man in striped trousers and short black jacket. He said, ‘I’m Byron Dale, from the British Embassy, and Sir Harold Barry sent me over to say that he felt that you and your friend might be better off if you came and stayed at the Embassy until your departure. I see you haven’t unpacked your bags yet. That’s good. He thought you ought to come right away.’

  Ada understood. Whatever dangers had threatened them since their entry into the Soviet Union were not yet over and, now that Liz had so violently defied the KGB on their behalf, she too was involved. She said, ‘I won’t go unless Liz ’ere can come too.’

  The young man looked doubtful
for a moment and then, having regarded Liz, lost his doubts rather quickly. He said, ‘All right. No one said she was not to come but I think the main thing is that we ought to hurry. I have a car downstairs.’ He picked up the two bags and the three followed him out of the room. Halfway down the corridor Mrs Harris suddenly shrieked, ‘Eureka!’ and as Liz and Mrs Butterfield looked at her as though she had gone mad she said, ‘I’ve suddenly remembered what it was Sir ’Arold said. We’ll ’ave you in the British Isles yet, my girl.’ They went down in the elevator and were driven away in the Embassy car.

  Their good fortune was that the delegation from the KGB chose elevator Number Seven to rise to the level of the floor of Lady Char’s suite. Number Seven elevator had been cranky and not feeling well for days. Now, loaded with the KGB operatives, it gave up between the third and fourth floors. By the time a cure had been effected and they reached their objective there were no more birds in the nest of the pseudo Lady Char who was about to be arrested for impersonation and half a dozen other crimes they would manage to fasten upon her.

  15

  Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky, Vice Foreign Minister, who for eight years had been Russian Ambassador to England, and Sir Harold Barry, Adviser on Russian Affairs to the British Ambassador, were old friends, tennis opponents when the weather was fine, enthusiastic figure skaters in the winter and occasionally bridge partners, and so they were on first-name terms. Easy and relaxed with one another as well as understanding, except when it came to business when each retired to his side and colour of the diplomatic chess board, black or white, depending on who thought he was right. From then on, still quietly, but with only thoughts of the problem at hand to the benefit of their countries, moves were made and the impasse quietly discussed. One such session now took place.