The Desolate Garden

by Daniel Kemp

  “They even named a military operation after 'him', you know. Operation Claret they called it, an intelligence lead incursion against the Indonesian forces. I was with the misinformation section, SIS by any other name, but that was what they called us then. We were spreading falsified rumours amongst the Chinese, stirring them up against the President principally. Anyway, it worked, and an opportunity arose to assassinate him; his name was Sukarno if I remember correctly. I led that operation, Harry. I saved the day, and saved Malaya becoming a communist extension of Indonesia,” Gerard told me.

  “It was 'he' who provided the funds from 'Annie's', then covered over the Government's connection and any trail leading back to the Foreign Office. It allowed BP to continue out there, and protected our rights to the rubber,” Phillip informed me.

  So the bank became pivotal to me and my interest deepened, leading to my knowledge about Saint George, and broadened my interest into lies and as Gerard had put it; misinformation.

  “You're fortunate, Harry, that you don't have the responsibility of the intricate nature of the bank. It's an elaborate affair, and only 'he' knows the full complexity,” one of them had added, but I forget exactly who.

  We were together, 'he' and I, on the first of August; three days after my ninth birthday and six and a bit years before his death. I recall the day well, because I was to make my debut in the Halls cricket match against the estate tenants. The house was fully staffed in those days and, with the stable hands, there were more than enough adults to fill the eleven needed. However, the day had coincided with the unexpected arrival of my grandmother's sister and her entourage, compelling most of the staff's withdrawal. I was to go in last and had received batting advice from Maudlin. Fortunately, my uncles Charles and Robert were making a good show of things, and with my grandfather standing as one of the umpires, I considered my position in the proceedings as being well protected. He used his shooting stick in my coaching as a bat and displayed the forward defensive stroke as practised by Jack Hobbs, a contemporary of his and an England and Surrey batsman.

  “Play a straight bat to everything young Harry, and play yourself in. Always give yourself time in any position in life before striking out. Cricket mirrors our lives in many ways, and that metaphor will stand you in good stead in both. I always found it best to keep something in reserve…to lure the bowlers in to believing you've nothing in your armoury then spring the trap, and dispatch them all over the place!” He swivelled his stick around imitating imaginary cricket strokes with agility and aplomb. “That's how I have survived for so long in this complicated world. Never let anyone know all there is to know about yourself my boy. And I'll tell you another thing, if you have a secret; bury it deep so even you don't know where to find it!”

  His conversations always captivated and meant a great deal to me as he usually spoke with such clarity and logic. With this one, in particular, I can recall his words clearly; they contained neither. I never understood what he meant by not being able to find your own secret, until now. Needless to say, none of these accurate recollections were related to Judith. The story that I told contained snippets of truth, mixed frugally with lashings of fiction. The exaggeration of dreamt happiness was not fabrication to me; it had become my reality. My lies had become my truth.

  I never, for example, mentioned the fact that her own grandfather had been a pallbearer at Maudlin's funeral. I hid the knowledge that I had discovered from the photograph, hoping she would bring that up, and not me.

  Chapter Five: Friday Crocus

  We ate breakfast from the arranged dishes set out in the dining room and, whilst I ate heartily of scrambled eggs and sausages, I marvelled at her small appetite; one piece of dry toast, a small bowl of cereal with imitation milk and an equally small bowl of pears. I felt obliged to eat more than I would have normally, as if to distance myself from her, and spare cooks concern.

  “I'll see Mrs Franks, the housekeeper, mid-morning and order dinner. That way, everyone knows who will be required and for how long. I prefer seven-thirty for dinner. I'll tell cook not to prepare so much tonight. Perhaps you would like to share my plate? It would save on the washing-up for the kitchen staff.”

  “I was about to compliment you, Harry, but your sarcasm is not welcome. I'm too polite to comment on your own pig like consumption. Are you jealous H, or is it that you're insecure in your own body?” With that now charismatic cant of not only her head, but rebuke, she chided me.

  “I'm perfectly content, thank you. I was worried about you and your obvious anorexia and how it is to affect my kitchen. I don't want cook going to all her efforts to feed you, when lettuce and a few radishes would suffice. Would that do you for tonight's dinner?”

  “If your questionable humour would take a break for a while, and if you are asking what I would like to eat at dinner, then pork would be lovely with loads of crackling and all the trimmings. Then, if I am unable finish it all, I can at least imagine you there wallowing in the gravy. But, have no fear Harry. I will be hungry by eight, ravenous like a horse!” I had not missed the emphasis on the eight. It was the beginning of the bantering between us; however, Judith normally got her own way.

  I sought out Mrs Franks and ordered tea, coffee for Judith, a light lunch of vegetable soup for her and beef and pickle sandwiches for me at eleven, and dinner, as instructed, at the revised time. I then joined my uninvited guest in the library to face my inquisition.

  “Before we start, and before I switch on all this equipment I would like to say something off the record Harry, by way of introduction, as it were. I believe your father was murdered and not killed by accident whilst disturbing a burglar, or anything like that. I know that this is what the enquiry is meant to find out and I shouldn't decide its outcome before we have looked at everything and every possibility; however, I wanted to take this chance to tell you where I'm coming from, and where my questions are leading. I suspect that you believe the same as I do. This is our way of eliciting from you all the names that are hidden from us and temporarily out of your mind, bringing them back into the spotlight, so to speak. Then, of course, your thoughts on how he was murdered and by whom, okay?”

  In my experience there is nothing 'off the record' when dealing with the Service. Even how you wipe your nose can be important; if you change from using a paper tissue to a cotton handkerchief it can have repercussions, and probably investigations into your bank account! I nodded my commitment to the cause, and lit my first cigarette of the day.

  “Do you mind if I join you in that habit, H? I resisted last night when you smoked I'd given up for Lent but I just can't do it, not with you indulging. I'm afraid I've come with none. Didn't know you smoked. Anyway I've got none myself, hate to be a ponce and all that, but I'm going to have to be.” She could be as incessant in speech as she was in gestures, her hands forever brushing away imaginary specks or stroking her hair or brushing against her lips, all seemingly involuntary. She hadn't read my file very well. I'd been a smoker since university, and that would have been there in the notes, if only for the life-covering insurance that comes free in the security business.

  “Feel free. I'll add it to the bill for board and lodgings unless you think of a way to repay my hospitalities…just joking. Throwing it up in the air, seeing where it lands,” I gave her the most artificial, contrived smile I could manage.

  She mimicked it and returned it with interest. In a more effective way, cute and quick, she replied, “That reminds me…you must show me your bedpost before I can eventually leave this place and get away from you, I would love to count the notches. I seriously doubt there are any, especially if the repayment of hospitalities is what you rely on for seduction. You must save thousands on the heating bill; ever thought of turning it on?”

  “Now who's being sarcastic? I've had to replace all four bedposts twice, I'd run out of room for any more notches.” My reply fell on unimpressed ears, as she showed her disinterest with a simulated yawn and the feigning of sleep, ang
ling her head to her touching slender hands.

  “As to the heating, well normally, there's someone close by to keep me warm.”

  “Hmm, as shallow as I thought. Let's get down to work shall we? I want to start with you, Harry. Run me through your file. Start at Cambridge. Were you approached, or did your family connections lead you to us? Were we something you stumbled upon or was that your goal from the beginning?”

  I told of my military career in the Guards, citing the boredom and inability to react to situations spontaneously as the factors leading to my retirement, and how great uncle Gerard's experiences had influenced my choice of offering myself to the SIS.

  “So you came to us, then. Tell me what you expected, and then lead me into how you first got involved. Last night's summary of your upbringing was good; most concise I thank you for it. This time I want you to be more expansive, more detailed, right up until the time you were approached in Moscow three years ago.” She had done some homework, if not all.

  “I left the brigade in 2003, in the June of that year. When I left Cambridge I went straight to Sandhurst, in Surrey, having decided upon that at Uni. It wasn't a vocational calling or anything like that…my first love lay in the science of Chemistry. I just felt the need to do my bit, if that doesn't sound too silly. I did the full forty-four-week course, and was presented with the Sword of Honour on its conclusion.”

  She interrupted me. “What's the significance of the sword Harry? What's it for?”

  “Best Officer Cadet on the course,” I answered.

  “What rank were you on leaving?”

  “Captain, but I was promoted after Bosnia, before my first tour in Afghanistan. Too many Captains and not enough Majors, I suppose.”

  “Really, go on, please. Why us?” She was making notes in shorthand, and I hoped that the reference to being a Major did not bring back painful memories of a lost husband. I had honestly forgotten and should not have added the silly joke at the end, but I chose to leave it, and not apologise.

  “I got an invitation to see Trimble at the Joint Intelligence Committee rooms in Derby Gate, in the Old Scotland Yard building, that September.”

  She interrupted again. “Develop it more, H. What did you do from June until September who invited you to meet 'C,' or was he 'C' then? No, it was Fleming as Chief. Peter has sat in the chair from December 2007.”

  “I mooched around. All right…I'm sorry.” I saw her raise her pen in protest, ready to admonish me for my brevity. At that moment she reminded me of the piano teacher who taught my two sisters to play. They were three years apart, Maurice coming between them, so I had ample opportunity to see her at work. She was also a tiny woman, at least, that's how she appeared to be to me then with equally graceful, slender long fingers that she would raise and wave in time with the metronome, balanced on a sideboard, in the music room, before bringing them down when she required the lesson to begin.

  “I spent time here. Elizabeth was still at home. Rose had married the year before and I had missed the celebrations, so I visited them in London and stayed a few days, they had a house in Rutland Gate. Came back here, did a bit of riding, worked around the place…that sort of thing.”

  “Too brief, again. Remain celibate throughout all this time did we?” She asked, with a hint of annoyance in her voice.

  “I wouldn't have thought so, no,” I replied.

  “Nor would I. I want everything, Harry, even the dirty bits. I promise I won't blush. If it helps, and if you kept them, refer to diaries. Did you keep them?” She asked, astutely.

  “Yes, I did, they're in my private office. Please, Miss, can I leave the room and fetch them?” I raised my own arm and childishly asked to be excused.

  “Do be a good boy and hurry back, I'm on fire with anticipation. Oh, and could I have a coffee and perhaps a couple of chocolate digestives? No, wait…make it one, or I might shatter that illusion you have of me being reputable and selective,” she asked, with a very seductive smile.

  We went through those written records of the missing months in fine detail, taking hours over its deliverance and scrutiny eating lunch as we did so. When names appeared she made separate notes in a black and red hard-backed book, stopping me for the spellings and addresses. I went on to describe how it was that Trimble had invited me to London and the interview that took place between the Ministry of Defence and the Houses of Parliament after he had travelled up to Harrogate with my father and two others: an Antony Willis from the Foreign Office, and Donald Howell, a Cabinet Office official. Judith showed great interest in these names, nodding her head vigorously and confining them to that 'soon-to-become holy' book of hers.

  They had come for a shooting weekend as the boxed guns unlocked from home lockers, or retrieved from Asprey's, the Royal Jeweller's private gun cabinets, bore evidence to. The opening of the season had been delayed that year from the twelfth, because of the extreme severity of the preceding wet winter which had depleted the stock of grouse and woodcocks, so a later start had been decided upon. It was a Thursday, the day of their arrival, Elliot always shut up shop at lunch time on Thursdays; that's if he went to 'Annie's' at all that day, as it was earlier than his normal time of arrival.

  It was the following day, before the first drive, that Peter spoke to me. “I hear you're at a bit of a loose end nowadays, old boy.” He handed me a piece of paper.

  'Come to this place, on this date and time that I've written down for you, and I'll see if I can find somewhere you can hang your hat.'

  “That was his approach, and how I came to offer myself up.”

  “Did you speak to Peter or the others in that party much over that weekend, Harry?” Judith enquired.

  “Not much, no. We exchanged shooting stories and all that sort of thing. I think one of them mentioned the Army, but it wasn't Peter…must have been Donald. I seem to remember he had served in Second Para in the Falklands, now I think about it.”

  “Was the topic of the UN's role in Bosnia ever brought up at all?”

  “No.”

  “So, they spent their free time more with Elliot than you, would you say?”

  “Yes, I'd say that was true,” I replied.

  “Did Antony Willis mention that he was in the same year intake as you at Eton, Harry? Or wasn't it necessary? Did you recognise him and chat into the wee hours, reminiscing?” She asked, patronisingly.

  “No, he never said anything, and I certainly never recognised him. A few years had passed by, however…he probably never made a connection.”

  “Hmm.” Her lips tightened as she moved the pencil around in her fingers in a rolling motion.

  She had made copious notes throughout our day and had changed the tapes twice in both machines, smoked far more of my cigarettes than I had, and had complained when I opened a window, requiring Joseph to arrange the fetching of a cardigan and shawl from her room. Now she sat curled up in a winged red leather reading chair, arms crossed, with her hands inside the sleeves of her thick woollen red and orange cardigan. Her feet were tucked under herself with those pages spread across her uplifted knees, her head tilted slightly, enabling her to read. Occasionally she removed her right hand to turn from one sheet to another, but there were no words uttered, as she remained silent throughout her revision.

  I poured myself a Scotch and asked if she would join me. Without averting her eyes or lifting her head, she replied, “Yes, that's very kind. I'll take some water with mine…could you put it here for me?”

  The pointed finger again, only this time it was not raised; instead, it indicated the oblong table that separated us. I considered a protest in the intended adulteration of my single malt, but considered it useless. I simply rang for the water and changed the Jura for a Bells.

  John, one of the footmen, appeared, and as he cleared away the lunch trays onto the trolley, she addressed him, still engrossed in her manuscript.

  “Joseph, please pass on my compliments to the kitchen. The bowls of crocuses on the lunch trays were
a delight, as was the soup. That's what I was going to remark upon at breakfast, Harry, before our conversation became diverted. Your front lawn looks wonderful, there must be a million crocuses out there!”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “And thank you, John,” I added.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said to John's back as he left, and she added water to her whisky. Her attention now returned to the room. “I was miles away, intrigued by your recollections.”

  “No matter. I'm sure he's pleased by the promotion.”

  She gave a tiny smile; but whether it was to my riposte, or to her findings, I had no way of telling.

  Chapter Six: Home-Made Plum Wine

  Saturday morning broke with all the conventionality of an English spring weekend morning; it was thundering with rain. I had risen early as I had neglected the farm business for three days now. My travelling to and from London, and my day and a half there, plus the day in the library meant that there was work to catch up on. I was in the estate office, and had briefly been able to consign Judith to the back of my mind. I had managed about two hours of work, when I caught sight of a figure at the open door.

  “I'm sorry, did I disturb you? I've been here for a couple of minutes just standing and watching. Nothing else to do in this monsoon. I was hoping to saddle up one of your horses and trot off for a canter, build up an appetite before breakfast, but no can do, worse luck. Were you busy?” In the professional matters we had touched upon she had been direct and to the point, but not so her standard discourse, which encompassed many things before she got to the point.