The Honourable Schoolboy

by John le Carré

  'Who employs you?' said Mr Pelling. 'That's what I'm getting at. Who says you're responsible?'

  'Nunc,' Mrs Pelling pleaded. 'Who says anyone is?'

  'Don't Nunc me! Give him some more tea. You're hostess, aren't you? Well act like one. It's high time Lizzie was rewarded and I'm frankly displeased that it hasn't occurred before now, seeing what they owe her.'

  Mr Pelling resumed his reading of Smiley's impressive green card. ' Correspondents in Asia, USA and Middle East. Pen friends I suppose they are. Head Office in South Molton Street. Any enquiries telephone bla bla bla. Who do I get then? Your partner in crime, I suppose.'

  'If it's South Molton Street he must be all right,' said Mrs Pelling.

  'Authority without responsibility,' Mr Pelling said, dialling the number. He spoke as if someone were holding his nostrils. 'I don't hold with it I'm afraid.'

  'With responsibility,' Smiley corrected him. 'We, as a company, are pledged to indemnify our customers against any dishonesty on the part of staff we recommend. We are insured accordingly.'

  The number rang five times before the Circus switchboard answered it, and Smiley hoped to God there wasn't going to be a muddle.

  'Give me the Managing Director,' Mr Pelling ordered. 'I don't care if he's in conference! Has he got a name? Well what is it? Well you tell Mr Andrew Forbes-Lisle that Mr Humphrey Pelling desires a personal word with him. Now.' Long wait. Well done thought Smiley. Nice touch. 'Pelling here. I've a man calling himself Oates sitting in front of me. Short, fat and worried. What do you want me to do with him?'

  In the background, Smiley heard Peter Guillam's resonant, officer-like tones all but ordering Pelling to stand up when he addressed him. Mollified, Mr Pelling rang off.

  'Does Lizzie know you're talking to us?' he asked.

  'She'd laugh her head off if she did,' said his wife.

  'She may not even know she is being considered for the post,' said Smiley. 'More and more, the tendency these days is to make the approach after clearance has been obtained.'

  'It's for Lizzie, Nunc,' Mrs Pelling reminded him. 'You know you love her although we haven't heard of her for a year.'

  'You don't write to her at all?' Smiley asked, sympathetically.

  'She doesn't want it,' said Mrs Pelling with a glance at her husband.

  The tiniest grunt escaped Smiley's lips. It could have been regret, but it was actually relief.

  'Give him more tea,' her husband ordered. 'He's wolfed that lot already.'

  He stared quizzically at Smiley yet again. 'I'm still not sure he's not Secret Service, even now,' he said. 'He may not be glamour, but that could be deliberate.'

  Smiley had brought forms. The Circus printer had run them up last night, on buff paper — which was fortunate, for in Mr Pelling's world, it turned out, forms were the legitimisation of everything, and buff was the respectable colour. So the men worked together like two friends solving a crossword, Smiley perched at his side and Mr Pelling doing the pencil work, while his wife sat smoking and staring through the grey net curtains, turning her wedding ring round and round. They did date and place of birth -'Up the road at the Alexandra Nursing Home. Pulled it down, now, haven't they, Cess? Turned it into one of those ice-cream blocks.' They did education, and Mr Pelling gave his views on that subject.

  'I never let one school have her too long, did I, Cess? Keep her mind alert. Don't let it get into a rut. A change is worth a holiday, I said. Didn't I, Cess?'

  'He's read books on education,' said Mrs Pelling.

  'We married late,' he said, as if explaining her presence.

  'We wanted her on the stage,' she said. 'He wanted to be her manager, among other things.'

  He gave other dates. There was a drama school and there was a secretarial course.

  'Grooming,' Mr Pelling said. 'Preparation, not education, that's what I believe in. Throw a bit of everything at her. Make her worldly. Give her deportment.'

  'Oh, she's got the deportment,' Mrs Pelling agreed, and with the click of her throat blew out a lot of cigarette smoke. 'And the worldliness.'

  'But she never finished secretarial college?' Smiley asked, pointing to the panel. 'Or the drama.'

  'Didn't need to,' said Mr Pelling.

  They came to previous employers. Mr Pelling listed half a dozen in the London area, all within eighteen months of one another.

  'All bores,' said Mrs Pelling pleasantly.

  'She was looking around,' said her husband airily. 'She was taking the pulse before committing herself. I made her, didn't I, Cess? They all wanted her but I wouldn't fall for it.' He flung out an arm at her. 'And don't say it didn't payoff in the end!' he yelled. 'Even if we aren't allowed to talk about it!'

  'She liked the ballet best,' said Mrs Pelling. 'Teaching the children. She adores children. Adores them.'

  This annoyed Mr Pelling very much. 'She's making a career, Cess.' he shouted, slamming the form on his knee. 'God Almighty, you cretinous woman, do you want her to go back to him?'

  'Now what was she doing in the Middle East exactly?' Smiley asked.

  'Taking courses. Business schools. Learning Arabic,' said Mr Pelling, acquiring a sudden largeness of view. To Smiley's surprise he even stood, and gesticulating imperiously, roamed the room. 'What got her there in the first place. I don't mind telling you, was an unfortunate marriage.'

  'Jesus,' said Mrs Pelling.

  Upright, he had a prehensile sturdiness which made him formidable. 'But we got her back. Oh yes. Her room's always ready when she wants it. Next door to mine. She can find me any time. Oh yes. We helped her over that hurdle, didn't we, Cess? Then one day I said to her -'

  'She came with a darling English teacher with curly hair,' his wife interrupted. 'Andrew.'

  'Scottish,' Mr Pelling corrected her automatically.

  'Andrew was a nice boy but no match for Nunc, was he, darling?'

  'He wasn't enough for her. All that Yogi-bear stuff. Swinging by your tail is what I call it. Then one day I said to her: Lizzie: Arabs. That's where your future is.' He clicked his fingers, pointing at an imaginary daughter. 'Oil. Money. Power. Away you go. Pack. Get your ticket. Off.'

  'A nightclub paid her fare,' said Mrs Pelling. 'It took her for one hell of a ride too.'

  'It did no such thing!' Mr Pelling retorted, hunching his broad shoulders to yell at her, but Mrs Pelling continued as if he weren't there.

  'She answered this advertisement, you see. Some woman in Bradford with a soft line of talk. A bawd. Hostesses needed, but not what you'd think, she said. They paid her air fare and the moment she landed in Bahrein they made her sign a contract giving over all her salary for the rent of her flat. From then on they'd got her, hadn't they? There was nowhere she could go, was there? The Embassy couldn't help her, no one could. She's beautiful, you see.'

  'You stupid bloody hag. We're talking about a career! Don't you love her? Your own daughter? You unnatural mother! My God!'

  'She's got her career,' said Mrs Pelling complacently. 'The best in the world.'

  In desperation Mr Pelling turned to Smiley. 'Put down reception work and picking up the language and put down -'

  'Perhaps you could tell me,' Smiley mildly interjected, as he licked his thumb and turned the page' — this might be the way to do it — of any experience she has had in the transportation industry.'

  'And put down' — Mr Pelling clenched his fists and stared first at his wife, then at Smiley, and he seemed in two minds as to whether to go on or not — 'Put down working for the British Secret Service in a high capacity. Undercover. Go on! Put it down! There. It's out now.' He swung back at his wife. 'He's in security, he said so. He's got a right to know and she's got a right to have it known of her. No daughter of mine's going to be an unsung heroine. Or unpaid! She'll get the George Medal before she's done, you mark my words!'

  'Oh balls,' said Mrs Pelling wearily. 'That was just one of her stories. You know that.'

  'Could we possibly take things one by one?' Smiley a
sked, in a tone of gentle forbearance. 'We were talking, I think, of experience in the transportation industry.'

  Sage-like, Mr Pelling put his thumb and forefinger to his chin.

  'Her first commercial experience,' he began ruminatively. 'Running her own show entirely, you understand — when everything came together, and jelled, and really began to payoff — apart from the Intelligence side I'm referring to employing staff and handling large quantities of cash and exercising the responsibility she's capable of — came in how do you pronounce it?'

  'Vi-ent-iane,' his wife droned, with perfect Anglicisation.

  'Capital of La-os,' said Mr Pelling, pronouncing the word to rhyme with chaos.

  'And what was the name of the firm, please?' Smiley enquired, pencil poised over the appropriate panel.

  'A distilling company,' said Mr Pelling grandly. 'My daughter Elizabeth owned and managed one of the major distilling concessions in that wartorn country.'

  'And the name?'

  'She was selling kegs of unbranded whisky to American layabouts,' said Mrs Pelling, to the window. 'On commission, twenty per cent. They bought their kegs and left them to mature in Scotland as an investment to be sold off later.'

  'They, in this case, being... ?' Smiley asked.

  'Then her lover went and filched the money,' Mrs Pelling said. 'It was a racket. Rather a good one.'

  'Sheer unadulterated balderdash!' Mr Pelling shouted. 'The woman's insane. Disregard her.'

  'And what was her address at that time, please?' Smiley asked.

  'Put down representative,' said Mr Pelling, shaking his head as if things were quite out of hand. 'Distiller's representative and secret agent.'

  'She was living with a pilot,' said Mrs Pelling. 'Tiny, she called him. If it hadn't been for Tiny, she'd have starved. He was gorgeous but the war had turned him inside out. Well, of course it would! Same with our boys, wasn't it? Missions night after night, day after day.' Putting back her head, she screamed very loud: 'Scramble!'

  'She's mad,' Mr Pelling explained.

  'Nervous wrecks at eighteen, half of them. But they stuck it. They loved Churchill, you see. They loved his guts.'

  'Blind mad,' Mr Pelling repeated. 'Barking. Mad as a newt.'

  'I'm sorry,' said Smiley, writing busily. 'Tiny who? The pilot? What was his name?'

  'Ricardo. Tiny Ricardo. A lamb. He died you know.' she said, straight at her husband. 'Lizzie was heartbroken, wasn't she, Nunc? Still, it was probably the best way.'

  'She wasn't living with anyone, you anthropoid ape! It was a put-up, the whole thing. She was working for the British Secret Service!'

  'Oh my Christ,' said Mrs Pelling hopelessly.

  'Not your Christ. My Mellon. Take that down, Oates. Let me see you write it down. Mellon. The name of her commanding officer in the British Secret Service was M-E-L-L-O-N. Like the fruit but twice as many l's. Mellon. Pretending to be a plain simple trader. And making quite a decent thing of it. Naturally, an intelligent man, he would. But underneath' — Mr Pelling drove a fist into his open palm making an astonishingly loud noise — 'but underneath the bland and affable exterior of a British businessman, this same Mellon, two l's, was fighting a secret and lonely war against Her Majesty's enemies and my Lizzie was helping him do it. Drug dealers, Chinese, homosexuals, every single foreign element sworn to the subversion of our island nation, my gallant daughter Lizzie and her friend Colonel Mellon between them fought to check their insidious progress! And that's the honest truth.'

  'Now ask me where she gets it from,' said Mrs Pelling, and leaving the door open, trailed away down the corridor grumbling to herself. Glancing after her, Smiley saw her pause and seem to tilt her head, beckoning to him from the gloom. They heard a distant door slam shut.

  'It's true,' said Pelling stoutly, but more quietly. 'She did, she did, she did. My daughter was a senior and respected operative of our British Intelligence.'

  Smiley did not reply at first, he was too intent on writing. So for a while there was no sound but the slow scratch of his pen on paper, and the rustle as he turned the page.

  'Good. Well then, I'll just take those details too, if I may. In confidence naturally. We come across quite a lot of it in our work, I don't mind telling you.'

  'Right,' said Mr Pelling, and sitting himself vigorously on a plastic-covered dumpty, he pulled a single sheet of paper from his wallet and thrust it into Smiley's hand. It was a letter, handwritten, one and a half sides long. The script was at once grandiose and childish, with high, curled I's for the first person, while the other characters appeared more cautiously. It began 'My dearest darling Pops' and it ended 'Your One True Daughter Elizabeth', and the message between, the bulk of which Smiley committed to his memory, ran like this: 'I have arrived in Vientiane which is a flat town, a bit French and wild but don't worry, I have important news for you which I have to impart immediately. It is possible you may not hear from me for a bit but don't worry even if you hear bad things. I'm all right and cared for and doing it for a Good Cause you would be proud of. As soon as I arrived I contacted the British Trade Consul Mister Mackervoor a British and he sent me for a job to Mellon. I'm not allowed to tell you so you'll have to trust me but Mellon is his name and he's a well-off English trader here but that's only half the story. Mellon is Dispatching me on a mission to Hong Kong and I'm to investigate Bullion and Drugs, pretending otherwise, and he's got men everywhere to look after me and his real name isn't Mellon. Mackervoor is in on it only secretly. If anything happens to me it will be worth it anyway because you and I know the Country matters and what's one life among so many in Asia where life counts for naught anyway? This is good Work, Dad, the kind we dreamed of you and me and specially you when you were in the war fighting for your family and loved ones. Pray for me and look after Mum. I will always love you even in prison.'

  Smiley handed back the letter. 'There's no date,' he objected flatly. 'Can you give me the date, Mr Pelling? Even approximately?'

  Pelling gave it not approximately but exactly. Not for nothing had he spent his working life handling the Royal Mails.

  'She's never written to me since,' said Mr Pelling proudly, folding the letter back into his wallet. 'Not a word, not a peep have I had out of her from that day to this. Totally unnecessary. We're one. It was said, I never alluded to it, neither did she. She'd tipped me the wink. I knew. She knew I knew. You'll never get finer understanding between daughter and father than that. Everything that followed: Ricardo, whatever his name was, alive, dead, who cares? Some Chinaman she's on about, forget him. Men friends, girl friends, business, disregard everything you hear. It's cover, the lot. They own her, they control her completely. She works for Mellon and she loves her father. Finish.'

  'You've been very kind,' said Smiley, packing together his papers. 'Please don't worry, I'll see myself out.'

  'See yourself how you like,' Mr Pelling said with a flash of his old wit.

  As Smiley closed the door, he had resumed his armchair, and was ostentatiously looking for his place in the Daily Telegraph.

  In the dark corridor the smell of drink was stronger. Smiley had counted nine paces before the door slammed, so it must have been the last door on the left, and the furthest from Mr Pelling. It might have been the lavatory, except the lavatory was marked with a sign saying 'Buckingham Palace Rear Entrance'. He called her name very softly and heard her yell 'Get out.' He stepped inside and found himself in her bedroom, and Mrs Pelling sprawled on the bed with a glass in her hand, riffling through a heap of picture postcards. The room itself, like her husband's, was fitted up for a separate existence, with a cooker and a sink and a pile of unwashed plates. Round the walls were snapshots of a tall and very pretty girl, some with boy friends, some alone, mainly against oriental backgrounds. The smell was of gin and cat.

  'He won't leave her alone,' Mrs Pelling said. 'Nunc won't. Never could. He tried but he never could. She's beautiful, you see,' she explained for the second time, and rolled on to her back while she h
eld a postcard above her head to read it.

  'Will he come in here?'

  'Not if you dragged him, darling.'

  Smiley closed the door, sat in a chair, and once more took out his notebook.

  'She's got a dear sweet Chinaman,' she said, still gazing at the postcard upside down. 'She went to him to save Ricardo and then she fell in love with him. He's a real father to her, the first she ever had. It's all come out right after all. All the bad things. They're over. He calls her Liese,' she said. 'He thinks it's prettier for her. Funny really. We don't like Germans. We're patriotic. And now he's fiddling her a lovely job, isn't he?'

  'I understand she prefers the name Worth, rather than Worthington. Is there a reason for that, that you know of?'

  'Cutting that boring schoolmaster down to size I should think.'

  'When you say she did it to save Ricardo, you mean of course that -'

  Mrs Pelling let out a stage groan of pain.

  'Oh you men. When? Who? Why? How? In the bushes, dear. In a telephone box, dear. She bought Ricardo his life, darling, with the only currency she has. She did him proud then left him. What the hell, he was a slug.' She took up another postcard, and studied the picture of palm trees and an empty beach. 'My little Lizzie went behind the hedge with half of Asia before she found her Drake. But she found him.' As if hearing a noise, she sat up sharply and stared at Smiley most intently while she straightened her hair. 'I think you'd better go, dear,' she said, in the same low voice, while she turned herself toward the mirror. 'You give me the galloping creeps to be honest. I can't do with trustworthy faces round me. Sorry darling, know what I mean?'

  At the Circus, Smiley took a couple of minutes to confirm what he already knew. Mellon, with two l's exactly as Mr Pelling had insisted, was the registered workname and alias of Sam Collins.

  Chapter 11 — Shanghai Express