Fellow Passenger

by Geoffrey Household

  Even after laying this trail it was a couple of days before the hunt got on to it, and if I had not spent hours idling by the roadside I should have passed well beyond Glastonbury. At last, while I was sitting on the bench outside a pleasant little pub and eating a lunch of bread and beer, a car drew up.

  Two men got out. One was a sharp-looking, earnest rat of a man. At a quick glance you would have put him down as a disillusioned schoolmaster. The other was larger and smoother, with the air and dress of a minor civil servant. He might have been an income-tax collector or the municipal slaughterhouse manager. I don’t know which of them had passed himself off as a picture-dealer. Probably the schoolmaster. There was nothing of the glossy capitalist about him, but no doubt he could talk theory, whether of art or politics.

  It was he who opened the ball—briskly.

  ‘Mr Bassoon?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I am going to ask you to accompany me to the police station.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘On suspicion of being Howard-Wolferstan.’

  ‘Cut it out, comrade!’ I said. ‘You’ve been the hell of a time picking me up. Sorry, but I shall have to report that there was not the slightest difficulty whatever.’

  This was the line I had intended all along to take, but the sincerity in my own voice surprised me. It had been raining off and on for thirty-six hours, and I was nearly out of money.

  ‘You—you are Howard-Wolferstan then?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I’m Howard-Wolferstan, you fool. What have you arranged for me?’

  The larger man then took a hand. He was pointedly neutral. I think he was not sorry—after some days of working with him—to hear his companion snubbed.

  ‘You must understand,’ he said, ‘that we are only concerned, so far, with your identity.’

  ‘Then get on back and be concerned with something more practical,’ I told him. ‘It’s the merest luck that I haven’t been suspected yet. Now, I’m going to stay at this pub until you return with proper orders for me. And you’d better give me some money.’

  ‘We have no—’ began the schoolmaster.

  ‘Of course you have no authority. Can’t you ever think for yourself, comrade?’

  ‘Is two quid any use?’ asked the other, impatiently.

  ‘It will do for the bar bill,’ I said. ‘You can pay the rest when you fetch me.’

  ‘We shall be back to-night,’ the schoolmaster declared, trying to be sinister.

  ‘No, you won’t. I shall be very lucky if this intolerable muddle is straightened out by to-morrow night. Now, get on back to London and report!’

  I patted them on the back to show that there was no ill feeling and shoved them into their car. Then I picked up Michael Bassoon’s stage properties and managed to get a room at the pub just before closing-time.

  The fact that all decisions would now be taken for me induced a sense of delicious relaxation. The merits of communism as a rest-cure have never been fully realized—except theoretically and by professional psychologists. It is not a thought which would occur to party members, like myself, who must pride themselves on their dynamism. I dined on bacon and eggs and whisky, slept till ten in the morning, bathed luxuriously, had a chicken killed for me and ate the whole of it. I will not say qualms were entirely absent, but the party peace was far better than continuing the safe and objectless life of that tramp Bassoon.

  Another car turned up the following evening. This time the schoolmaster was not in it. The minor civil servant had as his companion an altogether more efficient type. He had a round, fair face; he never smiled as if he meant it; and he certainly was not English—though his trace of accent would not have been noticeable if one had not been waiting for it.

  I took them up to my bedroom and ordered drinks. The new, alarmingly genuine comrade put his gin down in one gulp. I nearly told him that he should never do that in public if he wanted to be taken for an Englishman, but decided that bluff, when I used it, should be more subtle.

  He went pretty straight to the point.

  ‘I am to give you this letter,’ he said. ‘We have been holding it for you for some time.’

  The envelope was beautifully non-committal, addressed in a semi-educated hand and properly stamped and postmarked. When I opened it, I grinned.

  ‘You recognize the writing?’ asked my new comrade.

  ‘Chris Emmassin,’ I answered.

  I have not the letter by me. It vanished with all the other papers of Bassoon. But the wording was very close to this.

  My Dear Cousin

  It’s of course obvious to me now that all the time we were working together your true loyalty was where mine now is. Your discretion astonishes all of us.

  But, as no one knows better than you, too much discretion may lead to an honest worker being deceived by someone cleverer than himself.

  Your uncle and aunt are genuinely sorry that they lost sight of you. There have, of course, been quite a number of changes in the family since you last saw us in 1938, and it is quite possible that your particular friends are no longer with us. Assuming that you acted in good faith, uncle tells me that you need have no fear of his resentment and that he is prepared to give you a good job in the business.

  If this letter manages to find you, I expect some of the family will be getting in touch at the same time. My advice to you is to trust them absolutely.

  ‘Are you prepared to obey orders?’ asked the professional.

  ‘With delight and relief, comrade.’

  ‘Have you any papers you wish to hand over to us for safe-keeping?’

  ‘My dear fellow, I got rid of them long ago!’ I answered with a pretence of astonishment.

  ‘Impossible! You were searched when you were caught!’

  ‘But inside the place. Before I was caught. Surely you know that?’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Comrade,’ I replied reproachfully. ‘You really must know that I am not authorized to answer that question.’

  ‘Oh, damn the lot of ’em!’ said my other comrade, suddenly becoming more English than international. ‘Get him away first, and let them settle up their own bloody muddle afterwards.’

  The foreigner looked up rather sharply at this. Even I shook my head in a deprecating manner.

  They paid my bill, and we drove amicably to London, reaching Hammersmith after dark. Then came the inevitable plunge into melodrama. I was invited with unnecessary sternness—conventional probably—into the back of a closed van from which I could see nothing. The minor civil servant drove away the car in which we had come. He did not shake my hand. My experience of English communists leads me to believe that they would form a most unsatisfactory fifth column.

  Where we drove I have not the slightest idea—certainly well out of London, for after we were clear of traffic we had a fairly uninterrupted run of some twenty minutes. I was hurried straight from the van into the back door of a country house. I had only a glimpse of a stableyard before I was firmly directed—my companion being behind me—through the stone-flagged passages of the basement and into a very comfortable suite of bed-sitting-room and bathroom. There were books. A London evening paper was laid out, neatly folded. A cold supper was on the table with all the necessary drinks. It looked as if I had only to press the bell for anything I wanted. So I could, the comrade informed me; but he alone would answer it.

  When I was formally called in the morning and the curtains drawn back, I saw that my room might once have been the servants’ hall. The window was barred and looked out on to a narrow, sunk yard on the far side of which was a thick privet hedge with more greenery beyond. This made the room very dark, though no worse than in many a hotel. My attendant advised me not to use artificial light in daytime. I could be sure, he said, that no one was allowed on the other side of the shrubbery, nor could anyone se
e through it; but it was as well to be on the safe side. He was much more cordial. My behaviour must have met with approval in high quarters.

  Chris Emmassin’s letter showed me that the game was going as I wanted—provided that the pace did not become too fast for me to keep control of developments. I had been right to assume that, with a changed regime feeling its feet, it might be some time before all the vested interests of the Russian secret services could be sorted out. Even in my limited experience of Hitler’s cloak-and-dagger during the war I noticed that the more secret organizations there were, the less each one knew of what another was doing. As an old member of the communist party, presumptions must be all in my favour. No one would ever admit that all trace of me had been lost. Therefore it had not been lost. Therefore I must have been employed by somebody. But by whom they could not tell until I should be interviewed—which God forbid!—on such a high level that I had to answer.

  I kept up an appearance of being confident and grateful; but conversation was not encouraged. The meals were admirable, and the choice varied. The kitchen must have been working for a number of more important persons than myself. I fear that the concealing of a notorious secret agent in the basement was a gross breach of diplomatic privileges.

  On the second day, after breakfast, my gentleman’s gentleman turned himself disconcertingly into policeman.

  ‘My orders are that you must let your hair grow,’ he said.

  I refused. I very badly needed my bald head and facial decorations whenever I should be on my own again. But he was adamant.

  ‘I see what they mean,’ I told him. ‘If I am recognizable as Howard-Wolferstan, I shall be entirely in their hands. But I’ve got no great faith in the organization on this side. If they slip up and I am arrested as Howard-Wolferstan, where are we then? You report what I say and cable for instructions.’

  He went out without a word; and his unknown boss must indeed have passed on my comment by cable or wireless, since I heard no more for a couple of days. It delighted me that the matter of Bassoon’s bald head had to be dealt with right at the top. I suspected that they would send for orders if I refused to eat my pudding. However, I lost the trick in the end, and the hair had to come off my cheeks on to my head.

  As a hide-out for someone whom it was desired to treat, for the time being, with respect, the accommodation was admirable; on the other hand the solitary confinement was calculated to seek out any weakness of nerve. I assumed that I might be under observation even when alone and controlled my impatience. It was not difficult to pretend, even to myself, that I was a rescued and grateful spy. I was being given just what I had missed as Bassoon—good food and drink and comfort.

  My attendant would not give me the slightest indication of when I was likely to be put on a ship. It occurred to me that, when I was, I might not know very much about it. I caught myself tasting the first mouthful of every dish with exaggerated suspicion, until I decided it was folly; there was nothing whatever I could do to prevent myself being drugged or poisoned, so I might as well enjoy the only sensual pleasure I had.

  My guess at their methods was quite correct. I remember taking an afternoon nap after an excellent bottle of Roumanian wine. I woke up to find myself on the bunk in a long and very narrow cabin. My coat, brushed, was hanging on a hook. My shoes, cleaned, were on the floor. I was still wearing sweater and trousers. As a Very Important Personage, I could only admire the care which had been taken for my well-being. There was a nasty taste in my mouth but no headache. I might merely have fallen asleep in an easy chair after a rather too self-indulgent lunch.

  Discretion, however, seemed to have been overdone. The cabin was three feet wide and twelve long, built—to judge by its slight curve—against the side of the ship within a false double skin. It was ventilated from a shaft and lit by electric light.

  I climbed over the foot of the bunk—the only way in and out of it—and explored. A door at the far end led to a neat washbasin and lavatory, and in the middle of the long inner wall was a sliding door, which was locked. There was a very narrow settee, comfortably upholstered, and on the opposite wall a collapsible writing-table about large enough for making notes on Marx with the book open, or drafting one’s last will and testament.

  I could hear the ship’s derricks working, so we were evidently still in port. I had arrived where I wanted to be. But never had I envisaged such cold efficiency. Gone was my chance of vanishing overboard or of creating, at the chosen moment, such an embarrassing distraction that I could slip away to some other ship without anyone daring to use force or mention my name.

  The only comfort I could find was that Chris Emmassin might be right and nothing whatever would happen to me. After a searching interrogation I should be dismissed as loyal but a lunatic, and permitted to live out my life in some minor and respected employment. That cabin, however, that three-foot space between white-painted steel walls, was not conducive to optimism. I panicked. I greatly desired to press the bell-push above my bunk.

  After a wash and a severe reminder to myself that analysis was more fitted to the Latin mind than misty and Atlantean terrors, I did my best to analyse. With unreasoning pessimism cleared away—and all optimism going too—it became perfectly clear to me that I was bound to spend the best years of my life in confinement. Assuming that there was any choice, in what country was confinement preferable? If I had to choose between the over-scrubbed respectability of an English gaol and a prison camp in the tropics I should unhesitatingly choose the latter; but a prison camp within the Arctic Circle, ten thousand times no! Very well, then. The ship, under God and the Master, should reach her destination, but I, under God and in despite of the Master, would not. I pressed the bell. At least it should bring the usual excellent service.

  Almost immediately the door of my cabin slid back, and an officer entered in the uniform of the mercantile marine. My first impression of him was that he was a European—that is to say, his face had some meaning in it and his smile was casual. His features were sharp and sympathetic. A pleasant type of customs officer he might have been, experienced in catching the wrong ’uns and welcoming to the rest; or, discounting the effect of his uniform, a wide-awake shopkeeper with a fine sense of the idiocy of the public.

  ‘You feeling O.K.?’ he asked in serviceable English.

  I said I was, and congratulated him on the excellent arrangements for my embarkation.

  ‘Not bruised, no?’

  I felt myself over. My hips were in fact bruised, but I had not noticed it, putting it down to discomfort caused by the narrowness of my berth.

  ‘You need the doctor?’

  My answer to that started off our relationship on the right foot.

  ‘We don’t want to bring him in if it can be avoided,’ I replied.

  He laughed, delighted to find that I appreciated all the reasons for my journey from nowhere to nowhere.

  ‘My cabin is full of straw from the crate,’ he said.

  ‘Shall I help you to clear it up?’

  ‘Very kind. But don’t make a noise. No one knows you are here. Only me and the captain.’

  He beckoned me through the sliding door, and we passed out into his cabin through a wardrobe and between his hanging clothes. A dash for the outside? England and stand my trial? I decided against such berserk childishness. One is so much more likely to find safety by playing on human nature than by offering it violence.

  I had come on board in a crate. The crate had been delivered to this officer’s cabin, and removed after he had unpacked me. There were bits of straw all over the place. He bolted his door on the inside, and we swept them up with his clothes-brush and our fingers.

  ‘When do we sail?’ I asked.

  ‘Any time now. You would like a drink, no?’

  He poured out a couple of stiff vodkas.

  ‘To the heroism of you and such as you!’ he said.

&n
bsp; It was positively embarrassing. I had not been treated to that sort of thing since leaving South America. I replied modestly that I had only done my duty.

  ‘What about exercise when we are at sea?’ I suggested. ‘I don’t want to spend a week down here.’

  ‘My orders are that you are not to be seen.’

  I replied that I would not insist, but that it did seem to me to be carrying security too far.

  ‘I have orders,’ he repeated, putting on the proper face for orders, ‘to treat you with respect, so far as you will let me.’

  I emphasize the pleasant side of the man, because at the time it was uppermost in my mind. I had been expecting that my guard would turn out to be a tough egg with the gun on his hip barely hidden and a reminder to me in his eyes that nobody was innocent till proved guilty. This lively and impressionable officer was a surprise. It was obvious, however, that he was policeman rather than purser—or whatever his tabs meant—and with full power over me.

  We heard steps and voices in the alleyway outside, and he had me through the wardrobe and into my cabin with one smooth movement which was effective and not discourteous. I had no time—nor was it necessary—to ask him what would happen if I did not let him treat me with respect.

  It was Saturday evening when we sailed. The beat of the engines appalled and condemned me. Even so, I did not wish to be Michael Bassoon again, sitting on the banks of whatever river or estuary streamed past our bows and painting magenta water. I was weary of that oaf. He was a sort of purgatorial existence which could lead to no definite issue, neither freedom nor a prison cell, until I broke away from him of my own accord. Still, I was very sorry for myself. The slow drums of the engines beat for an Englishman who, though somewhat hybrid, remembered with a truly national sentimentality his schooldays and Oxford and those last few months which had culminated so romantically and disastrously in Dr Cornelia. That darling, shut up among her scientists, obsessed me. It was hardly fair to Veronica. But Veronica was fact. I will not say plain fact. That would be both ungallant and untrue. There is, however, an indescribable elegance of passion, an aristocracy of desire, even if expressed by nothing more than a little dalliance, which remains in the memory long after facts are forgotten.