The Truth

by Michael Palin

  Mabbut pulled up at the barrier to the car park. There was a new man on security, someone he’d not seen before. He handed over the permit he’d been given.

  ‘My name’s Mabbut. I’m here to see the head of External Relations.’

  The man consulted a list carefully, moving his lips as he read through the names.

  ‘Have you any means of identification?’

  ‘Apart from the letter with my name on it?’

  The man, whose complexion was so smooth it was almost baby-like, simply nodded.

  Mabbut dug around in his wallet and handed over his driver’s licence. A flock of herring gulls wheeled around a garbage truck that was emerging from the service entrance.

  Once inside the compound, Mabbut cruised the long rows of parked cars until he found a space close to the administration building. He reversed in, as was required by the regulations. To one side loomed the tall walls of the terminal’s own power plant. The largest building on Shetland, they proudly used to say, as if that made up for the way it looked. Behind him was a ten-foot security fence topped with coils of razor wire. Behind that, rabbits were playing on the hillside.

  It had been only a month since he’d walked away from the book deal, although it seemed more like a year, so profoundly had his life changed. For once, he hadn’t looked back, had second thoughts, or sought compromise. Instead, he had stayed at home, cleaned the house, painted the front doorstep, washed down the garden chairs and enjoyed the summer evenings. He had realised, with some surprise, that his self-respect and confidence, far from being shattered, were enhanced. There would always be the Sillas and the Lathams of this world who would tell you what you should do, but however persuasive, understanding and even generous they might be, they were ultimately acting on their own behalf. He, on the other hand, had been very bad at acting at all. Silla was right. He had too often been passive; full of thoughts and ideas and opinions but always waiting for someone else to tell him what to do with them. But through Melville he had acquired a confidence in his own judgement that he had never known before. He was not a fool. He knew that, true or false, Trickett’s evidence was always there, and he could hardly deny that Ursula existed, but from the moment Latham and Urgent decided that these should be key ingredients in a book about an inspirational environmentalist he knew where they were going. And he knew that he must not accompany them.

  It was now up to him to make sure that the story Urgent wanted to tell would never see the light of day. In the days that followed his last meeting he had consolidated this position. Not only had he refused to do Ron Latham’s rewrites, he had threatened that if anyone else did, he would produce a full account of Ron’s part in the whole affair. Lawyers locked horns, threats were made, dust was raised, but within a couple of weeks the deadline for meeting a Christmas publication schedule passed and by the end of the month Mabbut was able to share with Wendy Lu the good news that Urgent had quietly put the book to one side.

  Krystyna had been predictably unforgiving about his decision to abandon a small fortune, but he no longer felt vulnerable to her taunts. Nor was the money as important or necessary. Rex, that decent man, had stepped in to bankroll the family while demanding nothing back. Apart from Krystyna.

  So here he was, back on the island where the news that Krystyna wanted to finalise their separation had first hit him like a sledgehammer. Now, with hindsight, he was able to accept that if it had not been for his stubborn refusal to let Krystyna go, much unhappiness would have been avoided. Last week, with the approval of all the family, he had agreed not to contest the divorce.

  Almost exactly on the dot of one o’clock he saw Mae Lennox leave the building. He opened the door and waved. She grinned, waved back and made her way to the car. He leaned over to kiss her. She offered both cheeks, formally, as if they were still at work.

  ‘You’re cold,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve had the window open. I thought we could go to that new place in Brae,’ he said as he drove towards the gate.

  Mae seemed breathless, as if she’d run from somewhere.

  ‘That’d be nice. I mustn’t be longer than the hour, though. There’s a bit of a crisis on.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’ve been gales all week out in the Atlantic and one of the loading tankers hit the rig. Could have been a whole lot worse but they’ve closed the operation, which of course makes everyone a wee bit twitchy.’

  As they turned on to the road towards Brae, Mabbut was aware of Mae fiddling with her clothing. Opening her coat, adjusting a scarf, tugging at her tight grey jacket.

  ‘Well, hey, what a surprise!’

  Mabbut laughed. ‘I told you I’d come up, didn’t I?’

  ‘Have you brought your new book?’

  His face clouded. ‘No . . . it didn’t exactly work out.’

  ‘I was looking forward to that, Keith.’

  ‘So was I, but it wasn’t meant to be.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. You must be gutted.’

  A sharp squall blew in from nowhere. Mabbut flicked on the wipers as the rain spat against the windscreen.

  ‘Oh no. It was all for the best. I promise you.’

  Sammy’s Fish Bar had a well-scrubbed white-wood feel to it. There was a takeaway section that was busier than the tables, so they found themselves sitting beside a big picture window with room to spare. Over fish and chips, Mabbut told Mae the whole story, about the book and how he’d walked away from it, and about Krystyna and the divorce.

  She looked at him with a concern that he tried to brush off.

  ‘I feel so much better, Mae. I’ve started to make decisions rather than avoiding them. I won’t have a wife for much longer and I won’t have an agent either, nor a publisher. But what I hadn’t expected is that what appeared to be the worst thing that could happen to me would turn out to be the best.’

  He took a sip of beer.

  Mae raised her eyebrows and nodded in agreement.

  ‘So why did you decide to come all the way up here?’

  Mabbut smiled. He stared out of the window, scanning the dark bays and the low, close-cropped hills running down to the sea. Then he turned back to Mae.

  ‘There are times in your life when you’re so busy doing a job you don’t see what’s going on around you. When I was up here trying to get my head round prefabrication policies and oil-flow anomalies, I just took it all for granted. This was my workplace, like any workplace anywhere. But I’ve not been able to get it out of my mind, Mae. Not just the islands and the peace and the beauty of the place but the people too. What I sometimes mistook for them being closed up and defensive was just a different way of looking at the world. When people didn’t talk much I thought they were trying to tell me something.’

  ‘I like that.’

  ‘Now I realise that they don’t talk unless they’ve something to say. There’s a constancy to people here. It reminds me of what I saw in the hills in India. Among the tribes there. Constancy is something very precious.’

  Mae looked towards the door, so Mabbut called for the bill.

  ‘I also realise how much I took your help and friendship for granted. I don’t think I ever stopped to think how close we’d become. You have a fundamental honesty that is so incredibly rare and it chimes with everything I’ve learnt from working with Melville. It’s not pious, or pompous, it’s just a straightforward truthfulness that I know is right and good. If I decide to go and work with Melville, would you ever, just possibly, consider coming with me?’

  They were both silent for a moment. Then Mae slipped a glance at her watch.

  ‘Keith, I have to go. You’ve all your plans and it sounds so exciting, but for me reality is a damage limitation meeting at three o’clock. You’ve the chance to do something good in the world. I have to look at the implications of a company losing over a million pounds a day if we shut down the rig.’

  She got to her feet. Keith hurriedly stood up too.

  ‘Think about it. Th
at’s all I ask. You don’t have to decide now.’

  There was not much more to say as they drove back, and as soon as they reached the terminal gate Mae pushed the door open and ran off towards the admin block.

  ‘Tonight!’ he shouted after her. ‘Eight o’clock. I’m at the Stratsa House!’

  She nodded briefly, then pushed through the security turnstile and was gone.

  He stood in front of the mirror. A blade of evening sunshine cut between the houses and caught the side of his face, reminding him that he was now in the latter half of his lifespan. His skin, always taut and trim, seemed paler than usual. He ran his fingers along his jaw, wondering whether he should shave before meeting Mae.

  Earlier, after leaving her at the terminal, he’d checked in to the hotel and as the wind dropped and the clouds cleared he’d walked into the centre of Lerwick. He’d sat on the Victoria Pier and watched the comings and goings of small boats and the unhurried approach of the ferry from Bressay, revelling in the smell of salt and tar and the cries of fat gulls quarrelling over territory. He could easily just stay here, he thought. Buy an old crofter’s cottage. Do it up. Move in with Mae. He could write, she could commute to the terminal. They could run a B&B. Take in guests. Maybe buy a small boat like the ones moored up at the pier side, waiting to take tourists to see the puffins or the colonies of gannets. The blast of a ship’s horn had broken his reverie. An offshore maintenance vessel cast off and moved slowly away from the pier, heading south.

  At half-past seven Mabbut walked into the bar that occupied one end of the Clickimin Suite, to find Mae already there. She wasn’t alone.

  Kevin O’Connolly rose to his feet, smiling broadly and extending one of his big, red hands.

  ‘Keith! Whatever brought you back to this blighted land?’

  Keith was about to kiss Mae, but something in her body language held him back.

  ‘I came to see Mae.’

  ‘So I hear. Took her to Sam’s for a gourmet lunch. What are you drinking?’

  ‘A glass of white wine, please.’

  O’Connolly waved his arm airily.

  ‘I’ll get a bottle. We can drink it with the meal.’

  While he went to the bar, Keith sat down, and gave Mae a puzzled look.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  She didn’t have time to reply before O’Connolly returned from the bar. He was grinning broadly. Like the cat that had eaten the cream, thought Keith.

  ‘I’ve made it champagne,’ he said, squeezing in beside Mae. ‘In celebration of your return to Ultima Thule.’

  Keith forced the smile that O’Connolly clearly expected. He tried to catch Mae’s eye for some sort of explanation, but she was studiously looking away. Then O’Connolly put his hand on hers and grinned at Keith, almost bashfully.

  ‘And our wee bit of good news, too.’

  Finally Mae did look up, and when her eyes met Keith’s he felt as if he had been pushed off a cliff.

  O’Connolly squeezed Mae’s hand.

  ‘Are you going to tell him or am I?’

  Ironically, the meal that followed was saved from total disaster by the thing Mabbut least liked about Kevin O’Connolly – his total absorption in himself. There was simply no time to get on to any bruising personal ground as Kevin relentlessly revisited his childhood. The absent, drunken father, the tough streets, the pride of the men at the Clydebank shipyards and the bitterness as their industry shrank to almost nothing. They were the kind of ‘Gorbals boy makes good’ stories he’d heard many times before, but Mabbut was grateful for them now. A constant, almost soothing background music to his torment.

  The next morning, as if in sympathy with his mood, the islands were shrouded in fog. No flights were coming in and out of Sumburgh until the afternoon, so Mabbut had time to walk into town. The mist turned everything Dickensian and his footsteps sounded unnaturally loud on the damp flagstones of Commercial Street. Mabbut bought a half-dozen bottles of wine at some horrendous price, and left them at the hotel reception with a note and a card for Mae and O’Connolly, wishing them a happy married life. He called Mae’s number at the terminal, but she wasn’t answering. He left a message and after an early lunch took the winding road to the airport for what he knew would be the last time.

  ELEVEN

  A month had passed since Mabbut had told Wendy Lu the good news about the book, and it was over a week since he’d emailed offering his services, if Melville had indeed been serious about his invitation. He had hoped to have heard something, even an acknowledgement. Whenever he rang, Wendy had apologised. Melville was doing something very hush-hush. As soon as it was over he would be in touch.

  With Krystyna, Mae and Melville receding into the distance, life was simple again. Not perfect, but simple. The mist had parted and the future was clear. As he restored his Albana books and papers to the desk and the shelves and re-pinned his maps and time charts to the wall, his gaze lingered over a photo of Melville. On anyone else the craggy features, the high cheekbones and the wild hair would look merely old, perhaps a little sad. A portrait of a life running out. But even on this small and curling photograph the big deep-set eyes carried such life and strength that it was difficult to tear oneself away. Mabbut looked at the image fondly and pinned it to the top corner of his board. What was it he’d said to Mae? About constancy? This was the face of constancy. Even if he were never to see this face again, it would be the one part of his old life to remain here as he finally settled down to write Albana.

  So deeply had he immersed himself in the plains of Uyea and the escape of Stion and Eris from the rivers of fire that at first he failed to hear the doorbell. When it went again it was loud and long enough to jolt him from his reverie and Stanley from a deep sleep. It was mid-afternoon in June and the only other sound he could hear was the distant shouting of children in a nearby playground.

  Mabbut ran down the stairs and opened the door. It was a delivery man again. This time quite middle aged, with dark circles beneath his eyes and what used to be called a Viva Zapata moustache. He held out an envelope. Mabbut looked at it curiously. The address was handwritten, but not in a hand he recognised.

  He took it and signed, the delivery man belying his mournful appearance with a broad smile.

  There was a letter inside, written on thick, expensive notepaper. There was no address on the top, just a single name, in red, and embossed: ‘Ursula Weitz’. Her message was short and to the point. Something important had arisen and she asked whether Mabbut would come out to Karlovy Vary. She was holding a hotel room for him and had booked him a club-class ticket to Prague.

  Mabbut stood there holding the letter. He was confused. Why her? Why now? Just as he had clambered out of that world he was in danger of being dragged back in. Which was absolutely not what he wanted.

  It was Friday night. Quiz night at the Dog and Feathers. He hadn’t been there for weeks, and it suddenly seemed the perfect place for a soon-to-be-official bachelor. He dropped the letter on the kitchen table, finished his day’s work, fed Stanley and went out.

  Mabbut laid down his book and gazed out of the window. The train from Prague was wriggling its way through steep-sided cuttings thick with pine and birch and alder. It was high summer and the beams of late afternoon sunlight threw long shadows across the forest floor.

  He had been booked into the Hotel Victoria, a three-star place on a steep hill called Stare Mitska. There was a note from Ursula saying that his room and dinner had been paid for and suggesting they meet at the clinic at 9.30 the next morning. The hotel seemed to have been hijacked by a noisy Russian wedding party, so Mabbut ignored the free meal and walked down into the centre of town. Everywhere was busy, but he found a freshly vacated table outside the Café Alefant, and despite repeated attempts from the waiter to get him inside he tenaciously clung on to it. For the next couple of hours he watched the noisy throng of tourists passing by, and ordered white wine spritzers to keep the waiter happy.

  When he retur
ned to the Victoria, the Russian party was in full swing, the lift was broken and he felt slightly ill. Mabbut collected his key and walked up to room 416. On one of the landings he passed a couple enmeshed, hands inside each other’s clothing.

  The next morning he set out for the clinic. A bell was tolling in the church of Maria Magdalena, stalls were being set out on the street and the first groups were already gathering to take the water. He crossed the Tepla river, a thin shadow of when he was last here, and walked along the line of boutiques and gift shops to the Galena Centre. He was buzzed in. It was still early and cleaners in green overalls were sweeping the stairs. Picking his way round them, he climbed the stairs to the reception area. He pushed open the door and spotted Ursula instantly. She was bent over, her back to him, arranging flowers on a low table. She was not yet in her pristine white uniform, and wore a loose-fitting pink tracksuit. She turned and smiled as he came towards her. She was wearing no make-up and her face seemed older than he remembered.

  She shook his hand warmly, thanked him for coming and, giving instructions to one of her assistants, led him through to her office.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Ursula was clearly in off-duty mode. Indeed, her behaviour as a whole was very different from his last visit. She seemed relaxed, but preoccupied. As the espresso machine went about its work, she reached into a cupboard and took down a packet of Lucky Strikes.

  ‘Would you mind, Mr Mabbut?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  She took out a cigarette, lit it gratefully and flicked a switch. There was a soft hum from above the alcove where she stood. With a wry smile, she pointed upwards.