In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  On the other side of London, a man called Yuri Modin picked up his telephone. He was in the middle of a party, a thoroughly bourgeois party despite his impeccable Communist credentials, and he had to cover his right ear in order to hear what his caller was saying.

  ‘I need a favour, Yuri,’ a voice said. Modin had heard that voice no more than half a dozen times in his life but he recognised it immediately and clenched his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Shut up, everybody,’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Not a sound! Please, this is very important!’ And he sat down in the sudden silence to listen.

  His heart pounding like a trip-hammer.

  I woke up on the day the blow fell to the desolate cawing of a flock of crows. The sound penetrated a happy dream and dragged me reluctantly to wakefulness, and I lay in our warm room puzzled and disconcerted by the unfamiliar sound. I couldn’t recall hearing crows before at Almer Manor, and their sudden presence seemed an evil omen.

  And then they were gone. Almost simultaneously, sunlight touched the wide bay windows and everything was back to normal.

  It was a very normal day. We had kippered herrings for breakfast, washed down by lashings of tea. Win Heppenstall planned a natural science excursion to Lulworth Cove for later in the morning, and as it promised to be something of an adventure the children were excited and chattering twenty to the dozen. The plan was to test a local legend by the application of common sense and a little mathematics. The legend was that smugglers had used Lulworth Cove to land contraband because they could tell precisely where they were on the darkest night by feeling the size of the pebbles on the beach. This was because the pebbles were graded uniformly from east to west. Testing the legend would be simple: find out if the pebbles did range uniformly from east to west.

  ‘How are you going to do that?’ I asked as I spread marmalade on my toast.

  ‘We’re going to collect buckets of pebbles from points along the beach, and then find out their average size by dividing the weight of the bucket by the number of stones in each,’ Win explained. ‘If we find a regular gradation in size from one headland to the other, we’ll assume the legend proved.’

  ‘I think that’s very clever,’ Denis said from behind his newspaper. ‘A bit of maths, a bit of history. And jolly interesting. I’d come along but the broker is ringing at eleven.’

  ‘Do you mind if I tag along, Win?’ I asked. I wasn’t just being polite. The idea of a few hours by the sea was appealing, and the project would give me another chance to touch the history that was all around us. I was reading Daphne du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn at the time, and my thoughts were very much on smugglers and secret landings in blacked-out bays.

  We had tremendously good fun. The sea was up and a fine, chill spray hung over the pebbled beach but we were all so busy that we hardly noticed the cold. Gulls wheeled against the pale sun and the wind tossed the children’s hair and brought roses to their cheeks. Afterwards, we crouched in the shade of a sea wall while the children did the counting and the calculating.

  The pebbles did range uniformly in size from one headland to another, and when the result became obvious we all gave a cheer.

  We had a normal afternoon, so normal that I hardly remember anything of it. I suppose we had lunch, with the fire crackling in the grate and Mrs Frampton lingering after each course to pass on the village gossip. No doubt the children would have been at their lessons after lunch while Denis and I read and dozed in our room. I have the odd memory or two from the afternoon: Tony waiting for the red post office van to come up the drive because this was the day Yachting World was delivered. Denis showing me apples he’d laid down in the attic to dry as pippins.

  I do remember afternoon tea, because Robert and Susie Weld dropped in and we talked horses. We had studbooks open, and I remember passing around a photograph of Richelieu.

  ‘Looks like a pony!’ Bobby said with mock derision. ‘Are you absolutely sure he’s a thoroughbred?’

  ‘He’s entered for the season’s first maiden at Goodwood,’ Denis said. ‘Six furlongs. That will prove he’s no show pony. You know his sire holds the record for six furlongs?’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Bobby protested. ‘Five furlongs! Five pounds says that Hyperion holds the record for five furlongs.’ There was a scramble through the studbooks while Susie and I shook our heads at each other. But the dispute was never resolved: the children had been outside playing soccer and there was a minor tragedy, a cut knee or something of the sort, and so I have never discovered what record Hyperion held. All that became unimportant of course, overwhelmed by what was about to happen, but I still sometimes wonder. Not that I would ever ask anyone, because all of that belongs to another world, another age, and it would not be right to intrude upon it.

  Our evening was also very normal. We had a lamb roast for dinner, cooked with rosemary: I remember the rosemary because I remember Win telling the children why rosemary was for remembrance. After dinner, as was our habit, Win and I took turns playing tunes on the spinet while Denis read Horse and Hounds, and then Win yawned and bade us goodnight, and took a pot of tea up to bed. The wind had increased, buffeting the heavy leaded windows, and Denis and I sat on by the fire, warm and at ease, each with a gin and tonic in hand. We talked about normal things – the need to subdivide a paddock if we were to buy Frances the pony she desired, whether to put in a crop of lucerne for next summer, plans for our spring garden. Normal country matters, discussed in a country house.

  And then the phone rang. I was closest and picked it up, and I knew immediately that something was wrong. It was Reggie Drax, and his voice was uncharacteristically gentle and concerned. The voice a man uses when he has to impart bad news.

  ‘I know it’s late, my dear,’ he said. ‘But I do need to talk to you both. Would you mind if I came around?’

  We would normally have taken Reggie through to the lounge but when he arrived, his hair tousled by the wind and his coat spotted with rain, we went straight to the study. It seemed that sort of visit. Reggie looked pale and strained, and even before he said anything I felt my heart contracting with apprehension.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Stewart Menzies,’ he said, taking off his coat. ‘He can’t phone you direct because your line may be tapped. He asked me to pass on a message. A bit of a shocker, I’m afraid.’

  Denis was pouring drinks, and I remember that he paused for just a second, and then continued pouring. ‘Whatever it is,’ he said evenly, ‘it’ll sound a bit better over a glass of single malt.’

  Reggie took his glass gratefully. ‘It’s a damnable business, I’m afraid, so I’ll come straight to the point. MI5 is saying that you are Russian spies. Menzies knows better, of course, but apparently he can’t do anything to help you. Except to make sure you get away in time, which is why I’m here.’

  It was such a thunderbolt that both Denis and I just sat there, absolutely speechless. Perhaps half a minute went by in complete silence before Denis reached across and took my hand. ‘We’re not spies, Reggie,’ he said softly. ‘I promise you that.’

  ‘I know you’re not spies,’ Reggie said emphatically. ‘Which makes it all the more damnable. I’ve not been indoctrinated and I don’t know any of the whys and the wherefores, but Stewart did say you’d gone out on a limb, and that your work had been invaluable.’

  Denis got up from his chair and paced the room for a moment, then planted himself in front of Reggie with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘This must be beastly for you, Reggie, so let’s make it short. Tell us Stewart’s message and then get off home.’

  Reggie took a deep breath. ‘He said that a man called Bryant has enough evidence to put you both on trial for treason. Something to do with passing secrets to the Russians during the war. He also said that he could do nothing to stop the matter going forward, so he has arranged for you both to leave England. I’m afraid pretty quickly. Next Monday, in fact.’

  Next Monday? It was Thursday, so we only had four days.

 
‘And if we don’t elect to go?’ Denis asked.

  ‘You have to go,’ Reggie said a little desperately. ‘Menzies made that absolutely clear. He said that the evidence against you was very strong, and that there was a good possibility that they’d ask for the death penalty.’ His voice almost wavered at that point, but he collected himself. ‘You must go, Denis. It would be beyond contemplation if you stayed, and they put you and Norma through the wringer.’

  ‘How does Menzies expect us to go?’ Denis asked.

  ‘It has all been arranged. A man called Yuri Modin, a Russian, is going to meet you in Southampton at midday on Monday. I’ve jotted down all the details. Modin will conduct you to a Russian ship that’s in port, the Georgia. It is due to sail for Leningrad on Monday night.’

  ‘Who is Yuri Modin?’ I asked angrily. ‘And why are we going to Russia? We’re not Russian spies, and if we have to leave England it won’t be for Russia. We’ll go back to Malaya. Or perhaps Australia.’ But even as I spoke I realised the absurdity of what I was saying. This was the Cold War, and there would be no place for Russian spies anywhere in the West.

  ‘I know of Yuri Modin,’ Denis said quietly. ‘He’s a decent chap by all accounts. If he is to look after us, he’ll do a decent job.’

  ‘Stewart said that the KGB have promised you a flat in Moscow, and a dacha on the Black Sea,’ Reggie said. ‘He also said they intend to make celebrities of you both, present you to Stalin and so on. They’re going to pay you a naval captain’s pension, so life on a material level won’t be all that bad.’

  My head was spinning. Why would the Russians want to do all that? And why promise anything to the head of the British Secret Service? I felt as if the world had suddenly turned upside down, as if nothing made sense any more.

  Reggie caught my look of utter bafflement and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, my dear. It all sounds as incomprehensible to me as it does to you. Denis might have a better idea of what is really going on.’

  After Reggie left, I turned to Denis. ‘What is going on?’ I asked frantically. ‘Do we really have to go to Russia? You know it would break my heart to leave here.’

  Denis took me by the shoulders. ‘I’m afraid we do have to go,’ he said gently. ‘If we stay, we’ll end up being tried for treason. I know it all sounds desperately sad now, but the world is a funny old place, and things can change. While there’s life there’s hope. What we must do now is to grin and bear it.’

  Platitudes. I deserved more than platitudes. ‘Why do we have to grin and bear it?’ I snapped with sudden anger. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong! Stewart Menzies should come clean and tell the truth. I think he’s making scapegoats of us, to protect his own hide. It might even be that he’s the Russian spy, and that he’s been hoodwinking everyone for years.’

  Denis tightened his grip on my shoulders. ‘Stewart is not a Russian spy, but things are a lot more complicated than they seem. If Stewart admits he passed Ultra material to the Russians, there’d be such a stink we’d risk losing everything we’ve worked for since the thirties. That’s the trouble with secret work. If you let one cat out of the bag you risk losing the lot.’

  I stamped my foot. ‘To hell with secret work!’ I said with passion. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong and yet you’re prepared to sit on your hands and see us banished to Siberia! I really thought you’d changed, Denis, and put all this secret nonsense behind you.’ I paused, breathing hard. ‘Remember what you said in Cameron Highlands? About how easy it is to invest too much in an abstract idea and forget one’s duty as a human being? Well, I think you’re at risk of doing that right now. Your duty as a human being is to your family, not to some abstract idea of loyalty to MI6.’

  Denis smiled into my eyes and shook his head. ‘It’s not loyalty to MI6,’ he said. ‘But if my life has been worth anything at all, it would be because behind the smoke and mirrors, behind the shadow play, there really was something worth fighting for. If I chucked it in at this stage I’d be betraying everything including myself.’ His smile softened and his hands fell to his sides. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to continue with the charade. In fact, I was a thoughtless beast to ever let you get involved. Perhaps the best thing would be for me to make a full confession before I go. Tell them that I forced you to come along for the ride. They’d accept that, and then you could stay on in England then look after the children. Get on with the life we had planned.’

  My anger left me instantly, like water escaping from a ruptured dam. Life without Denis would be unendurable. I flung my arms around him and hung on with all my might. ‘Don’t ever say that,’ I pleaded. ‘We must always be together. You promised me we’d always be together. I can be such a weak, selfish vessel at times. Please forgive me, and promise me we will never part?’

  Denis hugged me and we clung to each other, standing together for warmth in a world suddenly grown cold.

  In bed I lay staring up into the darkness, the full horror of our situation coming home to me. Everything that we had been looking forward to only an hour before had been brutally snatched away. Almer Manor, and the golden years that I had imagined ahead of us. The plans we had made for the children – Taunton School for the boys, Roedean and then Girton for Frances. The stud farm at Handley, our dreams for Richelieu.

  Little things, too, like the Bankes’ party at Kingston Lacy that I had been so much looking forward to. Taking Frances to her first Pony Club meet with a pony borrowed from the Welds. Membership of the Blandford Historical Society, where Kathleen and I were scheduled to give a joint talk on the Lost Child of Okeford.

  In the middle of the night a thought struck me in my sleep and I cried out, waking myself in the process: ‘What about our ghosts? Our happy ghosts? They won’t know where we are.’

  Denis seemed to understand my babbling, and stroked my cheek. ‘Ghosts are pretty resilient things, my dear. I think they’ll be all right.’

  Then I dreamt I was a ghost, floating through the Manor on a bright, moonlit night. I knew I was supposed to be happy but I couldn’t find Denis and my smile was slipping by the minute. But then there he was, sitting in his study with the Times, smiling his slow, lovely smile. ‘It was all a mistake,’ he said shaking his head in bemused wonderment. ‘Poor Reggie made a mistake. We don’t have to leave the Manor after all.’

  I woke realising it was only a dream, and lay in misery with a worm of pain eating at my breast. Just before dawn I slept again, and dreamed again.

  This time I dreamt of a magnificent tiger standing in a clearing in the ulu, its fur glowing in a shaft of sunlight. It was an extraordinary dream, so vivid that it seemed more real than reality itself. I could hear the monkeys chattering in the tree-tops, the gurgle of a nearby river, the hum of insects on the languid air.

  At first I just stood there watching, and then I became the tiger. Suddenly I could feel my fur ripple as I moved, smell the rich tang of jungle vegetation, sense the coolness of the nearby river. Above all else I could feel the power of a tiger. I looked up at the tree-tops and heard the monkeys’ chatter turn to screams of apprehension, and when I looked into the green depth around me creatures scattered like chaff before a wind.

  It was the most glorious, wonderful feeling in the world.

  I woke up with the feeling of power still around me, clinging to me like a mantle. I think that it was at that moment, as I lay calm and invincible and the first fingers of the dawn touched our windowpane, that I made my decision.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I am convinced that the gods play tricks on us poor mortals, perhaps to show us how trivial our small troubles are in the grand scheme of things. The day after the blow fell should have been overcast, with tumbled, angry clouds and driving rain in tune with the misery we felt. But it was a perfect autumn day. The sky was that transparent eggshell blue that bodes fine weather, and the sun was almost hot on our backs as Denis and I took our morning constitutional. We took it earlier than usual because we
had a lot to talk about, and in any case it would have been torture to lie in bed as if it were a normal day.

  We decided that we wouldn’t tell anyone about our impending departure, especially not the children. Once that decision was made it took the immediate pressure off me – I had been dreading the thought of having to explain to everyone that the dependable world around us had ceased to be. We decided to tell the children when we were all safe on board ship, and as for the others we’d leave money in Denis’s desk drawer and phone Win Heppenstall from Portsmouth.

  But there were other daunting tasks in front of us. We had to rearrange our entire future with only a single working day in which to do it. We’d need to sign powers of attorney so that our lawyers could act for us. We would have to draw out as much cash as we could manage from our bank accounts. And we’d have to buy clothing warm enough for a Russian winter.

  We planned it all as we walked through countryside suddenly extraordinarily precious to me. Our orchard. The fields where Frances’ pony would have run. Bluebell Woods, where the English squirrels still held sway.

  It would have been unendurable if it hadn’t been for the decision I had made in the night. As it was the pain steeled me, strengthened my resolve, banished fear whenever it intruded.

  We were going to run up to London straight after breakfast, and Denis had made appointments with the bank and with Gillaume & Sons. For my part, I was supposed to go shopping, to buy the things we wouldn’t be able to buy in Russia.

  While Denis was in the shower I picked up the phone in his study and dialled Reggie’s number. ‘I want a favour,’ I asked, ‘fFor friendship’s sake.’