The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘Very good, my lord,’ Fenton said, pursing his lips. ‘If I might say so, with your knee only just . . .’

  ‘Don’t say it! I agree, I agree! But, if Miss Browne says I must go, then I must.’ Fenton could see no such necessity. ‘Perhaps I’ve lost my footer boots,’ Edward said, hopefully.

  ‘No, my lord. I shall bring them to you immediately. Would you wish me to attend, my lord?’

  ‘Very feudal of you but I think not. You can patch me up me when I return. If ever I do,’ he added gloomily.

  Less than an hour later he arrived at the church in a taxi – having decided not to risk the Lagonda in Hoxton – and was greeted by a wildly enthusiastic Tommie. ‘I knew you would come,’ he said, meaning he had expected him not to. ‘You know most of the others, don’t you?’

  Edward felt better when he had shaken the hands of fellow victims of Tommie’s moral blackmail, some of whom he had not seen since leaving school. Everyone seemed as disinclined for the fray as he was which cheered him. Another taxi drew up and Guy Baron got out. As Edward greeted him, he smelled the liquor on his breath. He seemed very excited. ‘What fun,’ he trilled. ‘It’s so difficult to meet working-class youths in the West End. It’s going to be so delicious to be stamped on by the proletariat!’

  Tommie looked doubtful. ‘You will behave, Guy, won’t you? You’re supposed to be setting an example. Good clean fun and all that.’

  ‘Bugger that!’ Guy giggled.

  They all walked round the corner to the ‘pitch’ which was little more than a piece of wasteland with goal posts at each end, bare of grass in the main but at least, Edward noticed, clear of broken bottles and tin cans.

  ‘Aren’t you playing, Tommie?’ Edward asked, surprised not to see him in his sports gear.

  ‘No, I’m holding myself neutral. It’s better that way.’

  ‘What a sell!’ Edward grumbled. ‘You could have played instead of dragging me out.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the Edward Corinth I used to know,’ the vicar said piously. ‘I hope all that good living hasn’t rotted your soul.’

  The two teams shook hands awkwardly and the Hoxtonites took off their cloth caps and rubbed their hands meditatively. The Old Etonians took off their caps – mostly gaily striped, recalling schoolboy triumphs – and jogged up and down stretching, with the exception of Guy who, capless, took a long swig from a small silver flask he had in his pocket and then collapsed on the ground. He was helped to his feet by Edward and Tommie who patted him doubtfully and asked if were all right.

  ‘Fit as a fiddle!’ Guy said, tripping over his bootlaces.

  Without further ado the game began. There were a number of spectators – families and friends of the players, Edward supposed. He could not see Verity but he caught sight of Gerda’s red hair and the thought that she was watching made him determined not to shirk. The referee was a thin, unprepossessing, bearded man who, Tommie said, was his curate. Edward took one look at him and decided he would not be able to control the game if it turned rough, as he suspected it might.

  In fact, the first half passed without any major incident and Edward began to relax. His knee was bearing up well and he had even scored a goal. He looked out of the corner of his eye to see if he could spot Verity but there was still no sign of her. He began to think longingly of a bath and a well-earned whisky and soda.

  He could not but notice that the Old Etonians were larger and healthier than their opponents. A poor diet and too much bad beer, combined with having nothing to do all day but wander around the streets, did not make for physical well-being. However, the captain, a man called Hawthorne, was a burly fellow who, Edward felt instinctively, had no particular love for Old Etonians. It was soon apparent that his restraint in the first half was merely a ruse to lull the opposition into a false sense of security. He seemed particularly incensed by Baron and Edward decided there was something about Guy’s manner which could easily infuriate. He was not effete but he was ‘camp’ – a word he had heard his friend Adrian Hassel use. He flirted – that was the only word for it – with Hawthorne in particular, inciting him to retaliate. Guy often had to rest – cigarettes and alcohol had destroyed his wind. On one such occasion, Hawthorne was thundering down the pitch with the ball at his feet when Guy, sitting on the ground attempting to regain his breath, thrust out his leg and sent him sprawling. The curate chose to believe Hawthorne had tripped and refused to admit the foul, crying falsetto, ‘Play on! Play on!’

  Hawthorne got up, looked round like a half-dazed bull, saw his enemy still on the ground and kicked out at him. While the Old Etonians were dressed in football shirts and shorts and wore boots, the opposition possessed no such special clothing. They played in ordinary shirts and trousers and, instead of football boots, wore the working man’s hobnail boots. To be kicked by a foot encased in one of these was no light matter and Edward winced as he saw Hawthorne’s boot connect with Guy’s nose. There was plenty of blood but Guy mumbled that his nose was not broken. After a short pause when the wounded man was hauled off the pitch, the game resumed – though now it resembled not so much a game as a full-scale war. Edward doubled up as he received an elbow in his stomach and then, allowing his bad temper to get the upper hand, tackled a young man with a small moustache and bad teeth with such ferocity that he fell to the ground squealing. Conscience-stricken, Edward stopped to help him up and received a fist to his eye that made him cry out in pain.

  It was an altogether disgraceful performance, as Tommie said afterwards, but somehow the match ended in an almost palpable sense of camaraderie. It was as if the artifical politeness in which the game had begun had been replaced by mutual respect. Hardly a player had escaped injury of some sort but even Guy seemed not to bear a grudge and insisted on joining players and supporters at a local public house. The atmosphere was further brightened by the attitude of the spectators who appeared to have enjoyed seeing their loved ones assaulted. Any reserve there might have been between friends of the Old Etonians and supporters of the Hoxtonites had been broken down as, one after another, the players had been dragged off the pitch to have their wounds tended. A great deal of laughter was generated by the state of the players – ripped shirts, bloodied noses and mud over everything.

  Unexpectedly – or perhaps not so unexpectedly – Guy Baron had struck up a particular friendship with the man Hawthorne who had put so much effort into reducing his face to pulp. Tommie looked suspicious when the two of them – after a mumbled conversation – waved goodbye and disappeared, no one seemed to know where.

  ‘You were marvellous,’ Gerda said kissing Edward. ‘Your poor eye! Here, let me put some balm on it. I brought it knowing it would come in useful.’

  ‘Ouch! That hurt. Where’s Verity?’ he asked. Surely it was reasonable to expect his girl to be there and cheer on his efforts, applaud his goals and wipe the mud off his wounds.

  ‘At the last moment she could not come,’ André said. ‘Such a pity! She would like to have seen your eye.’

  ‘She had a last-minute emergency,’ Gerda confirmed. ‘She sent her love.’

  ‘Huh,’ Edward said, enjoying having a grievance. ‘I suppose she had to cover a dog show for the New Gazette. But what can one expect?’

  ‘No, it was a real emergency,’ Gerda said loyally, though sounding not displeased at his irritation.

  ‘I took some wonderful photographs,’ André said excitedly. ‘You English are quite mad. In my country someone would have pulled out a gun and shot at his opponent. But see – you are all friends. It is magnificent! C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas le sport.’

  Tommie came over clasping a pint of bitter and said apologetically to Edward, ‘I am sorry, old boy. You have a ripe one there. Get Fenton to put a raw steak on it.’

  Edward went with him to examine his eye in the broken mirror which adorned the urinal wall. ‘Oh God!’ he groaned. ‘How can I interview important civil servants with a black eye? Blast it! Damn you, Tommie, and da
mn Verity for persuading me to come.’

  ‘Why are you interviewing civil servants?’ Tommie asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, did I say that? Forget it, will you, Tommie?’

  4

  ‘So, how did it go?’ It was Verity sounding cheerful.

  ‘I only lost an eye, that’s all.’

  Edward had got back to his rooms to be ministered to by Fenton, who was suitably sympathetic. A bloody steak was applied to his eye and he lay back on the sofa and groaned. It was then that Verity had telephoned.

  ‘I’m sure you are exaggerating. Put a steak on it.’

  ‘One is clasped to my eye as we speak and dripping blood on to the floor.’

  ‘Brave boy! Sorry I couldn’t make it. Did you notice I wasn’t there?’

  ‘Of course I did, but it didn’t matter.’ He added nastily, ‘Gerda looked after me.’

  There was a silence but when Verity spoke she was, to his chagrin, sweet and reasonable.

  ‘There’s a story going the rounds – the Daily Mail is pushing it – that our people are shooting anyone in the International Brigade who won’t take orders from Moscow. Ridiculous, of course, but Joe wants me to investigate.’ Joe was Lord Weaver, the proprietor of the New Gazette and Verity’s employer. ‘I’ve got to go back to Spain earlier than I had planned.’

  ‘When?’ Edward demanded.

  ‘In about half an hour.’

  ‘I won’t see you then?’

  ‘Not unless you come with me,’ she said, with an effort at humour.

  ‘I can’t see myself doing that. Well, I’ll miss you. When will you be back?’

  ‘Not for a bit. Apparently, there’s a big effort coming to raise the siege of Madrid. Perhaps the tide is turning.’

  Edward thought that unlikely. It had been obvious to him for months that without decisive intervention from France or Britain, the Republic was doomed. The Republicans – or rather the Communists – were getting aid from the Soviet Union but that was just enough to keep the war going, not to give them a chance of winning.

  ‘Thanks for telephoning. I suppose it’s no good asking you to be careful.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, silly. I’m not out to commit suicide. I was quite surprised, Joe said what you said – a dead correspondent was useless to his newspaper. He recommended whisky in the water to kill the bugs.’

  ‘It wasn’t bugs I was thinking about. It was bullets.’

  ‘I don’t intend getting shot. I’m an observer not a participant.’

  ‘I hope you remember that.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘You’ve got Gerda.’

  ‘She’s just to make you jealous,’ he retorted.

  ‘Well, I am, so that’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Anyway, she and André are going back to Spain next week.’

  ‘I know. I must go now.’

  ‘Take care then,’ he said. ‘Wear your solar topi if things hot up. That’s a joke.’ He risked, ‘I love you,’ knowing how much she hated sentimentality. To his surprise, she answered in a small, rather scared voice, ‘I love you, too.’ Edward could hear the tremor in her voice but, before he could say anything more, the line went dead.

  The telephone rang again almost immediately. It was Marcus Fern with whom he had recently been closeted on the Queen Mary. Fern had accompanied Lord Benyon on what, Edward had since learned, had been a largely unsuccessful trip to America. Benyon had gone with the object of convincing President Roosevelt that it would make sense to bankroll Britain’s rearmament. The President had been courteous but had ruled out any such thing and Benyon had returned with his tail between his legs. Edward had been acting as Benyon’s ‘protector’ on the ship. Major Ferguson had feared there might be some Nazi-inspired attempt to prevent him carrying out his mission. There was such an attempt and Edward counted himself fortunate that it had not been successful. A policeman guarding Benyon had been killed and altogether the voyage had not been one he ever wished to repeat.

  When the ‘how-are-you’s’ and the ‘isn’t-it-good-to-be-back-on-dry-land?’ polite generalities had been exchanged, there was a silence and Edward waited to discover why Fern had rung him. They had got on well enough on the Queen Mary but they were acquaintances rather than friends and he knew Fern was a busy man with interests in the City and elsewhere.

  ‘I gather our friend was not pleased with his meeting . . .’ Edward said at last. He mentioned no names because Ferguson had warned him not to speak freely on the telephone in case someone else was listening. Edward had pooh-poohed the idea that anyone would bother to interfere with his telephone but had, in practice, taken Ferguson’s advice to heart.

  ‘Our friend? Oh, you mean the President,’ Fern said, making Edward feel silly for being so cautious. ‘Yes, it was always going to be a long shot. The PM’s only comment was “I knew you’d get nothing out of America, Benyon, except words . . . big words but only words.” Rather good, don’t you think?’ Without waiting for Edward to respond, he went on, ‘The reason I am telephoning is to ask – at rather short notice, I am afraid – whether you would be free tomorrow to meet a friend of mine. It’s an awful cheek, I know, and you are probably otherwise engaged but I think you ought to meet him . . . sooner rather than later. Might save wires getting crossed.’

  ‘No, I’m not particularly busy. In any case, I am intrigued. Who is this friend?’

  ‘It may be too embarrassing for you and, if it is, you must say so but Mr Churchill would very much like to meet you.’

  ‘Good heavens! Why should I be embarrassed to meet Mr Churchill?’

  ‘Well, rumour has it that you are investigating certain of his sources of information. We had better say no more on the telephone.’ Fern suddenly seemed to remember security.

  ‘How does he know that?’ Edward said, before he had time to think. He mentally kicked himself. He ought to have denied having undertaken any such inquiry.

  ‘Oh, well, as I say, he has his sources.’

  ‘Where does he want to meet me?’

  ‘It’s rather an imposition but he wondered if you would come down to Chartwell and have lunch with him. It’s possible to talk quietly there but, if that’s impossible, he will be in London next week.’

  Edward hesitated. It seemed rather feeble to have such an empty diary that he could spend a day in Kent without inconvenience. However, his investigation, if it could even be called that, could go no further without talking to Churchill so it would be absurd to refuse the invitation because he did not wish to lose face.

  ‘Yes, I can make it.’

  ‘Good man! There’s a train at eleven ten which will get you to Westerham . . .’

  ‘I think the Lagonda would enjoy a spin so, if you don’t mind, I’ll drive.’

  ‘Certainly! Do you know the way?’

  ‘More or less . . .’

  ‘Have you got a pencil?’ Fern gave him details of how to find the house and then rang off.

  Fenton appeared asking, ‘Will you be eating in tonight, my lord?’

  ‘Yes. Just a chop and a glass of claret. I think I’ll turn in early. Tomorrow I’m going into Kent to meet Mr Churchill so I want to have all my wits about me.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. From what I read in the newspapers, Mr Churchill is a . . . remarkable gentleman.’

  ‘But, apparently, not to be trusted, Fenton. Not to be trusted.’

  He thoroughly enjoyed his drive, the first of many he was to make to Chartwell, though he could not know it. It was exciting to be going to visit a man who had been at the centre of events since Edward was a child. The Lagonda went like a bird and there was very little traffic once he was out of London and Croydon Aerodrome was behind him. In not much over an hour he was crunching over a gravel drive and drawing to a halt in front of an elegant eighteenth-century door. This had once belonged to another house and looked rather fraudulent in its new home, as if it had come down in the world and knew it.

  Chartwell was different from
what he had imagined. It sat in a green valley with glorious views over the Weald.The grounds had been improved with a lake and a sickle-shaped ridge of wood on the opposite side. Terraces, covered in sweet-smelling rhododendrons, made the best of the view towards the South Downs. The house itself was Victorian red brick and he had expected it to be ugly but he should have remembered that Churchill was a painter.

  Churchill had bought it in the 1920s and enlarged it but there was no feeling of being in a grand house. The hall and the passages running out of it were narrow and the ceilings low. The light came grudgingly through small, cottage-type windows. But it was alive – Churchill’s presence had the same effect as that of a queen bee and people buzzed from room to room with the air of having important business to transact even if it were only replacing the garden flowers which Mrs Churchill liked to have in every room.

  The butler ushered Edward into the drawing-room where he perched on an uncomfortable sofa and looked about him with great curiosity. Windows on three sides made the room light and airy and he rose to stare out over the garden and, beyond it, the heads of green trees marching inexorably towards the horizon, as Birnam Wood had marched to Dunsinane. The butler reappeared and he was taken up a narrow flight of stairs and along a corridor to the study. Before the butler knocked on the door, Edward could hear that slurred yet booming voice which could only be Churchill’s – Edward had heard him speak in the House of Commons – dictating, Edward assumed, an orotund passage concerning the the battle of Blenheim. The butler did not hesitate, however, and Edward was ushered into Churchill’s presence, mumbling apologies for interrupting. He was standing at a wooden lectern – of his own design, he was proudly to inform Edward later – a sheaf of papers in his hand, spectacles perched insecurely on the end of his nose, arrested in mid-sentence. He made no objection to being interrupted and nodded to a man taking dictation who left quietly, closing the door behind him.