by Iain Banks
This was probably as distracted as I was ever going to get her. 'Do you know anything about the Silex thing, Madame Tchassot?'
She frowned. 'No. What is the Silex thing?'
'I'm not sure. I thought perhaps you could tell me.'
'I'm afraid I cannot.'
'Then I may have to ask Mr Hazleton.'
'Ah. Mr Hazleton. Do you think he knows about it?'
'He may. Silex is a chip-manufacturing plant in Scotland. There seemed to be something odd about it. I was looking into it.' I paused. 'I think Adrian Poudenhaut was, too. I wondered if he'd said anything to you.'
'Why would he do that, Kathryn?' Now there was a reaction. She coloured faintly. My bet was that Madame Tchassot was either an extraordinarily gifted actress, or she'd been telling the truth so far.
'I hear rumours too, Madame Tchassot,' I said. I gave a small, nervous-looking smile and lowered my eyes. 'I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you.'
'Adrian and I are close, Kathryn. But we do not discuss business…how should I say?… gratuitously.'
'Of course.' I smiled in what I hoped was a friendly way. 'I was hoping to have a word with Adrian about the matter. But please don't say anything to him. I'll go through Mr Hazleton.'
We talked a little more after that. Madame Tchassot smoked a few more cigarettes.
* * *
'Telman?'
'Mr Dessous. Hello.'
'How the hell are you, Telman? What can I do for you? And why did this call have to be scrambled? Yeah, and why aren't you calling me Jeb like I told you?'
'I'm fine, Jeb. You?'
'Mad as hell.'
'I'm sorry to hear that. What's happened?'
'Damn Feds took away my Scuds, that's what.'
'Oh dear. Do you mean Scud missiles?'
'Of course. What the hell else would I mean? Thought I'd hidden them too good. Those fornicating interfering scumbags must have been tipped off. Informer in the ranks, Telman. Least you're not on the list of suspects. I never did tell you where they were hid, did I?'
'Not that I can recall. Where were they?'
'Inside a couple of grain silos. My idea. Grain silos, missile silos. Clever, huh? Thought that would be the last place anybody'd look if they ever did come snooping around.'
'Didn't they do that in a Man From U.N.C.L.E. episode?'
'What?'
'I'm sure there was a Man From U.N.C.L.E. episode where the bad guys hid missiles in grain silos. Long time ago, of course.'
'Damn! You mean it wasn't an original idea? Hell's teeth, Telman. No wonder they guessed. Never watched the programme myself. Serves me right for not being more into popular culture, I guess. One of those FBI bozos must have seen the same episode as you, Telman. Maybe we haven't got a turncoat here, after all.'
'Maybe not.'
'So, Telman, what's up?'
'Freddy Ferrindonald, Jeb.'
'Oh, yeah. Sorry to hear about that. You there for the funeral?'
'Yes, it's just finished.'
'So, Telman. Thulahn. Hazleton says you told the Prince to go to hell. That true?'
'No, Jeb. I just refused his offer of marriage.'
'Same thing to a guy, Telman. You going to tell me old Suvinder don't feel like he's been kicked in the teeth?'
'I hope he doesn't feel that. We parted on what I thought were very good terms.'
'Telman, any guy with a nickel's worth of brain cells thinks long and hard before asking a girl to marry him, and if he isn't only asking because he's got her pregnant and he feels he ought to ask then he gets nervous as hell worrying about what she's going to say. This guy's a prince: not only has he got his own future to think of, he's got the future of his whole damn country to think about too. Plus, the way the people round him see it, and probably him too, is he's doing you a big favour and making a huge sacrifice even thinking about asking you, because you're not some princess or lady or something. You're a Level Three exec. You're probably a lot better off than the Prince but that doesn't seem to be what matters to these people. It's breeding. Pile of horse manure if you ask me, but that's the way it is and the fact remains that even if we bumped you up to Level Two you'd still be just some kid out of a project in Scotland.'
'Schemes. We call them schemes in Scotland, Jeb. But I take the point. However, I think I let Suvinder down as gently as possible and I hope we'll still be friends.'
'Hooey, frankly, Telman.'
'You don't think that's possible?'
'I doubt it. You've wounded the man's pride. And if and when the Prince does get hitched and you're around, no self-respecting wife's going to let him stay buddies with you.'
'Well, I may not be there, anyway. I'm still thinking about whether to take the post in Thulahn or not.'
'So I hear. Well, don't take for ever, okay? We ain't got that long. So. What you going to do now?'
'I'm going to ask you if you know what happens to Fenua Ua once we complete the deal with Thulahn.'
'Jesus wept, Telman. You be careful what you're saying, will you? This call might be encrypted or whatever you call it but —'
'What happens, Jeb?'
'What do you mean what happens? Nothing happens. That bunch of food-coupon-grabbing good-for-nothing welfare dumbasses get whatever they can from the US, the French and the Brits before the dung hits the fan, we get the hell out and they go back to incest and alcoholism. Why the hell are you so concerned about them all of a sudden? Jesus, Telman, you haven't gone soft on us just because you saw a few sherpas and their cute little kids, have you? You might get to be our representative to Thulahn, Telman, you ain't our ambassador to the fucking UN. Goddamnit, Telman! Now you've got me swearing! What the hell's wrong with you!'
'Jeb? Mr Dessous?'
'What?'
'I suspect we're getting Couffabled.'
There was a near silence at the other end of the line. Listening carefully through the odd lilt of white noise the scrambling circuit added to the connection, I could just hear Dessous breathing. I hadn't even been sure that he would recognise the name of the French exec who'd cheated the Business out of what it saw as rightly its own, over a century ago. Obviously he did. He cleared his throat. 'You serious, Telman?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Okay. So, how significant is the operation?'
'It's at your level, Jeb.'
Another pause. 'The hell it is, huh?'
'I thought maybe you were in on it, but now I don't think you are.'
'Uh-huh.'
'But I don't know enough yet. And I can't start accusing anybody. I just wanted someone to know.'
'I see. Well. You be careful what you're getting into there, Telman.'
'I'm trying to be.'
In the evening, after the funeral and after all the rest of the mourners had left, Miss Heggies and I sat up round the fire in the little living room just off the main kitchen, drinking whisky and reminiscing.
Madame Tchassot had been chauffeured back to Leeds-Bradford and her Lear jet, the locals had retreated to the pub where Uncle F had put a couple of grand behind the bar for them to have a proper wake to mourn his passing, and Mrs Watkins had returned to her Leeds hotel. Freddy's few relations, all distant, had made themselves so, despite having been invited to stay. I got the impression Miss H was relieved they hadn't accepted. I hoped I wasn't spoiling things by being the only one to stay, and — after a couple of drams — I said as much.
'Oh, you're no trouble, Ms Telman.' (I'd suggested we might try first names, but Miss H had seemed almost girlishly embarrassed, and shaken her head.) 'It's always been a pleasure to have you here.'
'Even the time I got stuck in the dumb-waiter?'
'Ah, well, you weren't the first, or the last.'
This had happened the second time I'd been brought to Blysecrag by Mrs Telman, when I'd been ten. The first time I'd been so stunned and awestruck by the place I'd barely dared to sit down. When I'd visited a second time I'd been a lot more blasé, and had decided to e
xplore. The dumb-waiter I'd elected to do some of my exploring in had got stuck and it took several strong men a couple of hours to rescue me. Uncle Freddy had thought it was all quite a hoot and had sent down supplies of cakes and lemonade (to my intense embarrassment, he'd also hollered down that I was just to shout out if I needed a chamber-pot lowered to me, too).
'Has anyone ever explored every single nook and cranny of this place?'
'Mr Ferrindonald did, when he first bought it,' Miss Heggies said. 'And I think I have. Though I'm not sure you can ever be certain.'
'You never get lost?'
'Not for years. Sometimes I have to think where I am, mind.' Miss Heggies sipped at her whisky. 'Mr Ferrindonald used to tell me he knew of secret passages that he wasn't telling me about, but I think he was just teasing me. He always said he'd leave the map in his will, but, well…'
'I'm going to miss Freddy,' I said.
Miss Heggies nodded. 'He could be a rascal sometimes, but he was a good employer. And a friend to me.' She looked sad.
'Were you glad he never married?'
She looked sharply at me. 'Glad, Ms Telman?'
'I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind me asking. I just always felt that this was almost as much your house as his, and if he'd brought a wife here, well, you'd have had to share the place with her too.'
'I hope I'd have got on as well with her as I did with him,' Miss Heggies said, only a little defensively. 'I suppose it would have depended on the wife, but I would have done my best.'
'What if Uncle Freddy had married Mrs Watkins? Could you have got on with her?'
She looked away. 'I think so.'
'She seemed pleasant enough, I thought.'
'Yes. Pleasant enough.'
'Do you think she loved him?'
Miss Heggies drew herself up in her chair and smoothed her hair with one hand. 'I really wouldn't be able to say, Ms Telman.'
'I hope she did, don't you? It would be good to know that someone loved him. Everyone should have that.'
She was silent for a while. 'I think many of us did, in our various ways.'
'Did you, Miss Heggies?'
She sniffed, and looked into her whisky glass. 'I had a lot of affection for the old rogue. Whether you'd call it love, I don't know.' She looked me in the eye. 'We were never…linked, Ms Telman.' She looked at the ceiling and around the walls. 'Except by this place.'
'I see.'
'Any road, in the end it isn't my house, Ms Telman. Never was. I am a servant; he could have dismissed me at any time. I don't mean that he ever threatened me with that, or ever reminded me of it, just that it's always at the back of your mind.'
'Well, that can't happen now.'
She nodded. 'It was very good of Mr Ferrindonald to leave me the flat and to provide for me.'
'Will you stay here once it's handed over to the National Trust?'
She looked mildly shocked. 'Of course.'
'I imagine they might want to employ you. Actually, I think they'd be foolish not to. Would you work for them?'
'I might.' She nodded. 'It would depend. If I was wanted, I'd be happy to.'
'I suspect Uncle Freddy would have liked that.'
'Do you?'
'Definitely.'
She looked round again, took a deep breath and said, 'This has been my love, Ms Telman, this place. I've been in service here one way or another for nearly fifty years, since I left school, for your uncle, his business, the army and the Cowle family. I've never thought to marry, never wanted to. Blysecrag's been all I've ever needed.' She lifted her head up. 'There are those here and in the village who think I've missed out on life, but I don't think I have, not at all. There's plenty of others to fall in love and have lots of children. I've given my life to this house, and I haven't regretted it…well, not for more than an hour or two at a time, and then not often.' She gave a small, flickering, vulnerable smile. 'We all have our blues, don't we? But I wouldn't have changed anything, if I could have.' She laughed lightly and swirled her whisky as she looked at it. 'Goodness me, listen to me. I'll be dancing on the tables next.'
I raised my glass. 'To Blysecrag,' I said.
And so we drank a toast to the place, and maybe to places in general.
'Suvinder? Hi. How are you?'
'Oh, Kathryn. I'm sorry. I did not mean to call you. I must have pressed the wrong button. Umm. Are you well? You sound sleepy.'
'That's okay. I'm fine. You all right?'
'I am well, but I had better go or you will be upset with me. Say you forgive me for calling you so late.'
'I forgive you.'
'I bid you good night, Kathryn.'
'Good night, sweet prince.'
'Oh, Kathryn!'
'That's a quotation, Suvinder.'
'I know! But you said it to me! I shall sleep well. Good night, dearest Kathryn.'
I rang Adrian Poudenhaut the following morning. He was in Italy, picking up his new Ferrari from the factory in Modena; he'd be driving it back to the UK over the next couple of days. I told him I wanted to meet up with him and he sounded surprised, so I reckoned Madame Tchassot hadn't said anything to him. We arranged to rendezvous in Switzerland the following day.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Miss Heggies drove me to York in her old Volvo estate. I think we both had slight hangovers. I took a GNER train to London (tea reasonable; opened the lap-top but beyond playing a few variations with the calculator on a certain ten-figure number, didn't do anything, just sat staring out of the window and decided the best bit of the East Coast main line was definitely from York northwards, not south; played k. d. lang's Ingenue on the Walkman and sang along in my head. Where is your head, indeed, Kathryn?). Taxi to Heathrow (annoying driver; did not take I'm Reading A Newspaper hint and only finally shut up when I put the earphones in). Played Kate and Anna McGarrigle's Matapedia all the way along the M4. Folk; not the sort of thing I'm usually into, but just sublime. Degree of tearfulness at some of the tracks; running repairs to face required in lounge rest room; gave self talking to. Swissair flight to Geneva; service coolly correct and flawless as usual. LWB silver-coloured 7-series company car to Château d'Oex; elderly but efficient driver — called Hans — thankfully silent.
Switzerland. Where the money comes. I have mixed feelings about the place. On the one hand it is sumptuously beautiful in a rugged, blatant and snowy way, and everything works. On the other hand they shout at you for crossing the street when there's no traffic visible for miles, just because the crossing signal is showing a red man not a green man, and if you pass them in a car doing a kilometre more than the legal limit, they honk their horns and flash their lights.
Plus, it's where all the Third World dictators and other assorted robbing bastards stash the loot they've sucked out of their own countries and their own people. This is a whole country where money goes to money; this is one of the richest nations on Earth, and some of the dosh comes from some of the poorest countries (who, once they've been bled dry by the latest thieving scumbag, then get the IMF stepping in with orders to Tighten Their Belts ).
Somehow, being whisked along the N1 towards Lausanne, in the midst of all the other Beemers, Mercs, Audis, Jags, Bentleys, Rollers, Lexi and the rest, it all looked even more self-satisfied and opulent than it usually did. The snow-topped mountains around the lake alone appeared aloof from it all. Even those, though, didn't look quite the same any more. One of the things I've always liked about Switzerland is that they've civilised a lot of their hills: you can get cable cars up there, you can drive up them, between them, through them and underneath them, or climb into a train and be clunked and trundled to cafés and restaurants at the top where the only things more breathtaking than the views are the prices. Then you can ski back down. I always appreciated that; that accessibility, that refusal to treat each and every peak as something which absolutely had to be left pristine, so that only the mountaineers and the local fauna ever got to appreciate it. And I still liked the idea in theory, yet now,
looking at the peaks across the lake, I couldn't help comparing them unfavourably with those of Thulahn, and almost scorning them for being so compromised, so tamed.
Fuck me, I thought, I'm going native. I gave a single snort of laughter through my nose. Hans the white-haired driver glanced at me, saw I wasn't trying to attract his attention, and promptly looked away again. I slipped Joni M's latest into the Walkman, but only half listened.
I'd left my phone off for the journey as far as Geneva. I'd switched it back on when I got into the BMW but deliberately hadn't checked on any messages or previous callers. It rang as we were passing Vevey and turning up into the mountains for the long loop round to Château d'Oex. I looked at the incoming number. I found myself smiling.
'Hello?'
'Kathryn.'
'Suvinder. How are you?'
'I am well. I thought I might call at a more civilised hour and enquire how everything went at Freddy's funeral. It was bad enough that I could not come myself, but, well, there was so much to be done here, and I had just come back. Did it all go…I don't know the right word. Fittingly?'
'It did. A Viking's funeral.' (I had to explain to Suvinder about what a Viking's funeral was.) 'And Miss Heggies sends her regards.'
'That is kind of her. She always made me feel most welcome.'
'I used to find her scary at first, but I had a good long talk to her at just last night.' I looked up at the mountains around us.
'Yes? Kathryn? Hello.'
'Sorry. Yes. A good talk. Suvinder?'
'Yes?'
'Nah. Nothing.' I'd been going to say I might be back in Thulahn before too long, but I didn't know how to say something like that to him without investing it with too much in the way of implication. So I settled for, 'How is everybody?'
'All here are well, though my mother learned of my proposal to you and was highly upset. She is still not speaking to me, for which alone I owe you a favour, I think.'
'Suvinder, shame on you for saying such a thing. You should go to her and try to make amends.'
'I will not apologise for what I asked. Nor will I retract my offer to you, not even to please her. She must learn to move with the times. And also that I am the ruler, not her.'
