Letters for a Spy

by Stephen Benatar

Moreover, the stone beast over the entrance wore such a soppy grin he looked quite gaga.

  Our room also appeared somewhat lacking in nobility, although we’d been informed at reception that the guest list had included such luminaries as King William IV, Paganini, de Quincey and Jenny Lind. It was a further boast that Charles Dickens had written here about ‘the strangest little rooms, the ceilings of which I can touch with my hands’. Which therefore disposed of all petty ideas regarding plain pokiness: we’d be able to remind ourselves that we slept with majesty and music, with opium-eaters and nightingales, with Pickwick and Copperfield and Pip; not simply in some old coachinginn but in a house of well-known and most definitely appealing history. And, in that case, what modern guest would ever miss high ceilings, or space, or grandeur of design?

  We had decided, though, that after we’d explored the room and unpacked it might be better not to dawdle. Dalliance, of course, could only lead in one direction and no matter how tempting that direction, neither of us wanted to anticipate the night—especially since this would have meant, inevitably, our having to stay mindful of the time. Even as it was, we realized we had better postpone until the following morning any search for an engagement ring.

  However, on our way to the bus station we passed a jeweller’s with a window display sufficiently striking to make us feel we could perhaps spare a couple of minutes; and having been shown something we both considered attractive—and having remembered it was so often the first thing to take your fancy which finally drew you back—we walked out of the shop half an hour later with Sybella proudly sporting our new purchase, and her thin white gloves now relegated to her handbag.

  “So let the populace be dazzled!” she affirmed, in the manner of a town crier showing himself to be most generously disposed.

  It felt strange to be in Shrewsbury again. Four years … but it could have been scarcely four months. How familiar the castle and the old town walls and all those spires rising up over the rooftops! How familiar the ten bridges thrown across the Severn; the mediaeval and Elizabethan alleyways; the sharp-pointed timber gables! The countless oak-beamed pubs! I pointed out the Hen and Chickens standing so perilously close to the Cross Foxes: a thing I could remember being endlessly amused by as a child—my grandfather had made up all sorts of wonderful stories about why the foxes were cross, including one involving a day-long wait at the bus station.

  “Which was obviously prophetic,” I announced now, when we found that, since my last visit into Shropshire, the bus service to Acton Burnell had been quite seriously curtailed. Nothing to take us there until five o’clock.

  Five o’clock tomorrow!

  So we enquired about taxis. Yet because of the petrol shortage there weren’t any available—not for a journey of that distance … which was slightly over ten miles.

  But I then remembered there used to be an interesting old shop which hired out bicycles. The woman at the taxi company told us it was still there.

  “Well, just so long as you promise we shan’t be landed with penny-farthings,” remarked Sybella, the moment before we went in—having been impressed, not altogether favourably, by the distinctively Victorian shop front, in need of renovation.

  “Or a bicycle made for two … with me doing all the work.”

  Anyway, a tandem might have been difficult to manoeuvre along some of the narrow and twisty lanes awaiting us—for although Acton Burnell lay roughly in the path of Watling Street, which was obviously as dead straight as any other Roman road, I encouraged Sybella to choose the much prettier route of my boyhood, even in spite of knowing that our bikes were neither lightweight nor modern and that all of those alluring byways must add considerably to the length of our journey. I hoped I wasn’t being selfish.

  But what I’d failed to take into account was the quantity of dried mud we would encounter, much of it forming deep ruts; also, the fact that the afternoon had been growing increasingly oppressive, the sky murky.

  “I trust you’re good at mending punctures in the pouring rain!” shouted Sybella, behind me. I surmised she might have meant to mutter this lugubriously. But of course it was hard to mutter lugubriously over a gap of some seven or eight feet.

  Yet the banks we rode between were full of violets and forget-me-nots, cowslips, primroses and lady’s-smock; the hedgerows were dotted with wild parsleys; and behind those hedgerows Friesians grazed in fields where the grass was thick with buttercups. There was no sunshine but in all other respects the scene was close to perfect.

  And—besides—Sybella might secretly have welcomed that extra delay caused by one of us getting a puncture; although preferably, she was soon to acknowledge, not in the pouring rain. She made this confession whilst we each stood—hands on handlebars, left foot on pedal—on the summit of a hill just minutes from our destination.

  For she had already mentioned that she felt nervous about meeting my grandparents. Chiefly, she was uncomfortable with the idea I hadn’t warned them we were coming.

  But although she couldn’t be properly reassured, at least she might be temporarily distracted. The sensation of coasting downhill—a long and winding road, in places fairly steep—was something that even on our roadsters proved to be as good as I remembered.

  “I hope you’re truly enjoying this,” I shouted. “I warn you! You’ll find the ride back won’t be so exhilarating.”

  “Oh, that’s encouraging,” she responded. “Thank you. Now I feel there’s something I can really look forward to.”

  Acton Burnell was a picturesque and prosperous looking village set deep in the heart of a wooded valley. My grandparents lived in a black and white, timber-framed house with an overhanging first floor and a roof of Welsh slate. The front garden was still beautiful and still had flowers—despite having been turned over, in the main, to the cultivation of vegetables.

  We dismounted and I took off my clips. But as I started to push my bike up the flag stoned path Sybella hung back.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll wait here by the gate. How do I look?”

  “You look adorable; and that’s precisely what you’re going to be—adored. Which you already are, anyway. But if it helps at all, I’m suddenly feeling nervous, too. So in the light of that … how do I look?”

  “Adorable. Though come back here a moment.” I thought she meant to remove a fleck of mud or a bit of twig or something; but instead she gave me a quick kiss. “And as a matter of fact it does help. But, even so, I still intend to stay here by the gate.”

  Yet her decision was rendered irrelevant. A woman in her mid-seventies came round the side of the house with a trug in one hand and a spade in the other. She was followed by a cocker spaniel.

  The dog saw me before the woman did and instantly hurled himself towards us at a speed which belied his initial appearance of a sedate and ponderous old age. I swiftly cast aside the bike; the dog had barely time to spring up and fall back before I’d joyfully scooped him to my chest and was being covered in exuberant licks that randomly ranged from chin to forehead.

  “Toby—you remember me! I’ve missed you, old thing. But, oh my word, haven’t you put on weight!”

  Nevertheless, I had been managing to move forward at the same time, and by then the woman had greatly shortened the distance. She had thrown down the trug and the spade.

  “Am I seeing things? Eric! Is this right? Can it possibly be you?”

  “Grandma, it can! It can!” I let the dog slip back to the ground then hastened towards her with my arms outstretched.

  “But how … oh, how? Either I’m dreaming it or else I’ve finally gone potty!”

  A hug that lasted fully a minute, because it kept on renewing itself, put an end to these speculations. Yet instantly gave rise to another. As she stood back and appraisingly held me at arm’s length she murmured:

  “Well, then, obviously the war is over. But how like them—they’ve completely forgotten to tell us!”

  “Oh, how I wish that could be true!”

&nbs
p; She turned her head slightly towards the house.

  “Neville! Neville! Come out here and be astounded! Come out here and be delighted!” But at the same time her eyes seemed scarcely to leave my face, not for a second.

  Until, that is, something made her step a little to one side and take a look behind me; and then for the first time she became fully conscious I hadn’t arrived here on my own.

  “But who’s this?” she asked me, gently.

  “Ah, Grandma, you must come and meet somebody very special. And she, too, must meet somebody very special.” I took my grandmother by the hand and led her the few remaining yards to the gate, where Toby had long since rolled over, panting optimistically, to present his stomach for a tickle—and, despite the awkwardness of the bicycle, was being plentifully indulged. “Sybella and I are engaged to be married.”

  “What!”

  “Oh, darling, you do spring things on people!” exclaimed Sybella, straightening up and now transferring her grip from the crossbar to the saddle. “Good afternoon, Mrs Baxter; I’m very pleased to meet you.” They shook hands across the bike just as my grandmother was saying—but in a fashion decidedly dazed:

  “I think he means to give me a heart attack!”

  But then she added immediately: “Oh, no, that sounds rude! I really didn’t mean…! You speak very good English, my dear.”

  “Grandma, that’s because she is English. And being English she’d probably think that a nice cup of tea would go down a real treat right now.”

  Yet by this time my granddad was hurriedly advancing. He was of medium height and, just like Grandma, white-haired, blue-eyed and still amazingly youthful. Indeed, they had almost grown to look alike, as well as act alike—well, act alike for much of the time, anyway. And certainly on this particular afternoon their astonishment expressed itself in very similar phrases. Their hugs lasted every bit as long. The welcome each extended to Sybella was equally as warm.

  But it was Grandma who broke the news to him, not I.

  “She’s going to be your new granddaughter-in-law. So try hard to make a good impression.”

  “Oh, he already has,” said Sybella. “Before we arrived I was feeling slightly scared. Now I can see how foolish that was.”

  “That’s because we’re still standing at the gate and you believe you can make a rapid getaway. Neville, you take Sybella’s bicycle, and I’ll hold her firmly by the arm, and we’ll all go and have our cup of tea—then you and I can hear what staggering events have brought about this joyous miracle.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” I remarked to Sybella. “My grandmother can be a trifle overwhelming on occasion. She’s not the type to brook any nonsense. You’d better do exactly as she says.”

  37

  Well, first and foremost there was their admiration of the ring.

  But then, of course, came all the questions. When and where had I arrived in England and why hadn’t I got in touch much sooner—last Thursday, for instance, straight after disembarking at Holy head—and what in the name of everything wonderful was I doing over here in the first place? And why hadn’t I rung up yesterday, or even this morning, to say we were coming and ensure at least some faint chance of rounding up the family and preparing a meal that such a celebration so obviously deserved: a meal as worthy of the prodigal grandson, and of his bride-to-be, as wartime conditions were ever likely to permit?

  “Whoa,” I laughed. “Whoa there! Slow down. Take pity.”

  I had already answered the first question but now I decided to leapfrog the next two and concentrate upon the last.

  “To begin with,” I said, “I wasn’t certain until last night that I’d be able to see you. And then, when I was, it would have been far too late to telephone. I mean, if I had phoned, I’d not only have woken you but probably have put paid to your getting back to sleep. Added to which, I knew you’d have gone to masses of trouble to make Sybella and me feel welcome—and that wasn’t what I wanted at all. No, what I wanted was to be here and actually to witness your amazement. That’s why I didn’t even ring today. I hoped to keep the whole thing simple and I wanted you both to be as you usually are … not all at sixes and sevens and running around in circles feeling totally exhausted.”

  “Hmm,” said my grandmother, gravely, to her husband. “Do we think that that stands up to close inspection?”

  He considered the situation with matching gravity.

  “Well, perhaps we should try to give it the benefit of the doubt, old girl?”

  I smiled. “And it truly wouldn’t have been such a good idea, either, having the whole family round when I introduced Sybella, because—well, like I say—you two are quite overpowering enough, without any reinforcements. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

  I had added this on impulse, having just happened to look down at her as she knelt in front of the sitting-room fire and skewered another thick slice onto the toasting fork.

  “Oh, Eric, don’t,” she said. “Now you’re making me go all red!”

  “Good. You deserve it. Spike your guns a bit when you’re talking to Greer Garson.”

  “And, anyhow, why does it have to be my rear view that’s being held up for everyone’s assessment?”

  (“Everyone!” I said. “She does like to exaggerate!”)

  “Very beautiful,” proclaimed my grandparents in unison. And then: “Sybella, do you know Greer Garson?” from the one, while from the other: “Well, if it’s true you think I don’t brook any nonsense, then ’d better live up to my reputation and demand to know precisely how you met and where and at what time and what both of you said and what both of you said immediately after that. And so on. And so on. I warn you—I intend to be relentless.”

  “Yet, Grandma, we’ve only got an hour or two. How can we possibly hope to do it justice in only an hour or two?”

  “Oh, what nonsense! You’ll be spending the night here! Even if it’s no more than beans on toast that you’ll be getting for your supper.”

  “But we can’t,” I said. “We’ve left all our things at the Lion. And remember we’re on bicycles, so we oughtn’t to—”

  “Your grandfather and I can lend you everything you need. And you, darling, can have your old room and Sybella the guest room—you must be crazy if you think that after four long years we could ever be satisfied with just an hour or two!”

  Sybella, who was sitting back on her heels, turned her head and smiled, first at myself and then at my grandmother.

  “That would be wonderful,” she said, “if you’re sure it really isn’t too much trouble.”

  And I thought that I might have read something else in the look which she had directed towards me: that my own room and the guest room surely couldn’t be so very many miles apart? Therefore I gave in with as good a grace as she herself had shown. (I hoped I would have done so, anyway.)

  What’s more, for the time being at least, the questions had stopped and the answer to that last demand for information could wait until my grandmother had poured the tea and my grandfather had collected the biscuit tin. (“We must have been warned in some strangely mystic way—only this morning your grandmother baked some Banbury Cakes; her first batch for weeks!”) The answer could wait, indeed, until that last piece of toast, fresh off the fork and smelling faintly of wood ash, had been thickly spread with homemade raspberry jam.

  Even Toby was treated to a Banbury Cake—which for the sake of his figure he shouldn’t have been.

  And what about that answer? Happily, it was a joint effort, Sybella providing it one minute, me the next, but often with the other butting in. When we had conferred on the train that morning, neither of us had seen any reason to depart too wildly from the externals of our meeting (my having seen her in the play; our subsequent encounter in a pub), nor be coy about the time which we had later spent together. What could there be in any of that to require concealment? Naturally there was no need to say anything of Major Martin nor of the major’s mission. And of course, a
long with mythical fiancés, we made no reference to Somerset House; and, in fact, didn’t even allude to the Victoria Embankment Gardens.

  Which meant that in the end—despite our general faithfulness to the essential spirit of the story—our account was a little more fudged, perhaps, than factual.

  Though, even so, not quite so fudged as common sense might have dictated.

  “Then you’re saying you’ve only known each other for three days?” My grandmother gazed at me in consternation.

  “Three very full days,” I said, without drawing her attention to the fact that it was actually more like two and a half. I was sitting with Sybella on a sofa which faced my grandparents’ chairs and which was covered in the same chintz. “And I realized after only three hours, practically, that this was the girl with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.”

  “But what will your father say?” It was the first reference to my father since we had arrived.

  “Oh…” I looked thoughtfully at the row of copper saucepans hanging in decreasing sizes from a beam above the mantel. “Oh, doubtless he’s going to be a little old-fashioned about it. Or should I put it another way? Doubtless he’s going to be exceedingly old-fashioned about it.”

  “And I imagine your other grandparents will certainly follow his lead?”

  “Yes, bound to.”

  “Mmm. Hardly unexpected, one might say, from the little one knows of them.”

  Ironically, the one person she’d left out was the one person most likely to show genuine pleasure and excitement (even if these would probably be expressed only in the absence of my father). Which might well, indeed, have been the reason for her omission. Yet my stepmother had never been a great deal mentioned in this house—not so far as I knew—unless I myself had been the one to mention her.

  Even so, I tried to be as fair as I could, to both my father and his parents.

  “Of course, the fact of Sybella’s being British would scarcely cause anyone back home to congratulate me at the moment.”

  (Excepting again—in all likelihood—Gretchen.)