by John Wilson
– I’m sorry to have got you involved in this.
– Novak seems to have a death-wish.
– Did you prepare his statement?
– No. But I will try and get in to see him early next week. Find out more about this Katya. And I’ll interview Hoffer next time and press him on his “wife”. I don’t know why I’m bothering.
– If you can it would be useful to try and arrange a further conference for the early part of next week. Something about all of this doesn’t ring true. I’m beginning to wonder whether either Hoffer or Novak is telling us the truth.
They were back on the road and standing under the shelter by the busstop outside the prison. It was twelve fifteen and the sky was moody. Adam began coughing and could not stop. He had learnt the taste of blood as it rose, and he suppressed it. He felt that his world was ending. Who needed high explosive? Some red escaped, but he didn’t think that Jones had noticed.
– I want to carry on with this one. He’s too calm about things. I can do it for nothing. We haven’t been given the full story. I don’t know what my fee is supposed to be, but you can have it.
– That’s really not …
– Take the fee. I’ll speak to Arthur. Perhaps we can speak on Tuesday. I’m afraid I’ve given you rather a lot to do.
– You should go home to bed. Until Tuesday then.
And they made their farewells. Adam hailed a cab that he could not afford. He needed to be at Hamleys by one o’clock. But before that he needed to go to his bank on Chancery Lane.
Chapter Fifteen
He went straight to the third floor. He knew she would be amongst the dolls’ houses – or, at least, be where the dolls’ houses used to be. The store seemed threadbare. Where there had been an abundance of toys there were now boxes covered in coloured paper and exhibits of things that strived, but failed, to hide the huge gaps in supplies. This was not a happy time to be a child. He looked around at the rationed artefacts and wondered whether the place would ever entrance a child again. He tried to imagine it as a warehouse of delight but he could not. Perhaps one day the notices would be in German, or, at best, bi-lingual. Hamleys was crowded enough; but the crowd was listless. Shopping when there was nothing to shop for.
He was already fifteen minutes late. His business at the bank had taken longer to transact than he had anticipated, and then there had been a false alarm on the tube. But it had been a necessary detour. He needed to be clear about this before he spoke to her. His shirt was sticking to his back and he could feel the familiar crackle in his oesophagus. It seemed a long time since they had been together and there was so much he had to say. He wished he was calmer. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and wiped the moisture off onto his overcoat.
Shoppers were milling about the floor and there was a hubbub of voices. He panicked that she had been and gone. He remembered her laughter as she held up the dolls’ house four years ago, and listened, without hope, for its sound again. No laughter. It was lunch-time and it was impossible to make out individual people in the throng. He was beginning to despair – and then he saw her. Amidst all the movement she was still. She had her back to him and was wearing a long black coat. Strands of blonde hair, pulled back, emerged from beneath an elegant emerald and crimson headscarf. She did not move and seemed fixed in thought. The world slowed down as he walked towards her. People seemed to be walking at half speed past and around her and the colours of their clothing seemed to detach themselves and swirl around the still black form so that he saw her through a miasma of fabric. And still she did not move. The sounds of the store died away and all he could hear was his own breathing. His own heart.
He touched her on the shoulder and she turned towards him. He saw with a shock that she was ugly. Her face was closed and shuttered as if she had folded in on herself. Her eyes were like two dull blue beetles and there was a rash of acne spreading across her right cheek. She had pulled her hair back so tightly that it distorted her features. There was no warmth. He sensed her thoughts: Here I am. I am not attractive. I don’t love you anymore. This will make it easier.
– I’m sorry I’m late. I had to go to Wandsworth prison this morning and I couldn’t leave you a note yesterday. Bateman was prowling around outside the church. And I’ve been to the bank. I am so pleased to see you. There’s so much I need to say …
The words came out in a rush and not in the order that he intended, but there was no reaction.
– Were you followed?
– I’m pretty sure not. I got a cab from outside the prison. I checked around me and didn’t see anyone. I haven’t been back to Chambers. I’ve been to the bank.
– Jeremy knows about the Stafford.
– But we haven’t been there for months!
– He knows about you. But he can’t be sure about me.
– That’s impossible!
– We were stupid.
– We need to talk. I’ve drawn out some money. We can go to Quaglino’s and discuss our tactics –
– Adam!!
She shouted at him and he was sure that everyone must have heard her. But the crowds continued milling. He felt the colour draining from him. He had not known what to expect but this was far worse than he had anticipated. The room was spinning. The rash on her face had darkened. The beetles that were her eyes had narrowed further. When she spoke again her voice was low and controlled.
– He will be serving you and me with a petition in the New Year. He intends to prove adultery. I can’t be seen with you. Even this is too much of a risk … Quaglino’s!
He had been half expecting this and had rehearsed what he would say.
– Julia. Julia. I don’t care. I love you. I’ve been to the bank –
– Will you stop going on about the bloody bank!
Her language startled him but he pressed on.
– I’ve been to the bank and I’ve checked on my account. Look. I’ve got two hundred pounds. I know it’s not a lot. But it’s a start. Let him divorce you. You can have everything I’ve got. We could start again together. I’ll move Chambers. I don’t need money. I don’t need my career. I just want to be with you. We’ll manage. I’ll look after you. I’ll …
He stuttered and the words ran out on him. He was holding twelve large paper notes in his hand and Julia was watching him. Her eyes had widened and he saw emotion there for the first time in so long. It was anger still, but tinged with pity … with incredulity. Her voice was soft and she touched his sleeve when she spoke.
– I don’t want to be divorced, Adam. I don’t want to be with you. Two hundred pounds! It’s not going to pay your legal costs. You won’t be able to meet the damages you’re going to have to pay Jeremy for breaking up his marriage. Put your money away.
– So it’s the money! That’s what it comes down to. You don’t want to lose the money! You cheap …!
He’d gone too far and he knew it. He saw her wincing and she seemed to shrink further. This wasn’t how he had foreseen things.
– I don’t want to be divorced, Adam. This must be the last time we meet. I had to tell you about the Stafford.
– I said I loved you … and I meant it … You said you loved me once and I think you meant it.
– If you love … loved me … you’ll tell the world you hate me. If you love me you’ll understand why I must tell everyone that I have never cared for you. You will find a way to explain why all the bloody books on my shelves are the same as the ones you have in chambers … to explain why you were going to the Stafford on free afternoons. A way that doesn’t involve me. New Year’s Day is on a Wednesday. We’ll both receive the Petition on the Thursday. I can’t see you again.
And she turned to leave.
– Stop! Can’t you find the time at least to come for a cup of tea?
– I can’t see you again, Adam. Goodbye.
And as she said it he noticed her eyes soften. A vague look of regret suffused with relief that she had said what she had t
o say, they had not been seen and she was leaving. And she walked away. Shoppers were still circling around looking for presents. His eyes lost focus and, vaguely, he was aware of a black coat sliding out of view through the crowds. A final question formed in his mind. But she was gone. And he would never be able to ask her it.
Chapter Sixteen
(Friday 20th December 1940)
He found himself at the gates of Green Park. He had stood for an age after she had gone, unnoticed by the throng around him. He had made half-hearted efforts to find a Christmas present for Deborah … but could not concentrate. He didn’t remember descending the stairs or making his way down Regent Street towards Piccadilly. At some level he had known that there would be no hope of a long lunch in Quaglino’s or a drift through Green Park afterwards. It was always going to come to an end. But he had hoped otherwise.
From Piccadilly it was a short walk to the park. He had not known what to expect or what he was looking for. His memories were of candy-coloured deckchairs billowing in the late September sun … greens and yellows and reds … and couples sauntering nonchalantly amongst the slanting shadows. The green verdure of late summer. It was all gone. It was scarcely two and he hadn’t eaten but he didn’t feel hungry anymore. He lit up and stepped through the gates. His breath misted and mixed with the smoke from his cigarette. A sheen of frost glistened on the grass and the trees were bare. The ground was pockmarked with trenches, each one surrounded by sandbags. There were no deck chairs. No lovers drifting into anonymity. The young men had gone. Their women had been evacuated or were working. The park was barren. It mirrored him.
When did you stop loving me? That was the question he had not been able to ask. Not “why?” “Why?” was how the question had started during those long, lidless nights. But he had realised that “why?” was a stupid question. It was as pointless as asking someone why they began to love someone else in the beginning. The question was unanswerable. Or, rather, there was no simple answer. It was the way he tied his shoelaces. The fact that they kept coming undone. His stutter when trying to express things that mattered. The thinness of his chest. His cough. His frailty. A shot of sunlight across his hair when the clouds were dark. Things he was totally oblivious of. Had no control over. These, he knew, had been part of the “why?” Not all. Not the inexplicable all. Not logical reasons for loving. If there was no good reason to love, no explanation as to why one loved, there could no good reason why one person ceased to love another. Explanations were impossible and did not work.
That was why “when?” was a better question. It had a chronological – perhaps a geographical – nexus. There was a point in time, a place, where it happened. And that was always the best that one could do. But even this was imprecise. A person stops loving before they realise that they have done so. The “when?” also remains imprecise. The crossroad arrives before the crossroad is reached, even though the change of direction does not happen until the latter point. He thought again of John Donne’s “Lecture on the Shadow”: the poet’s contention, charting Love’s day in one circuit of the sun, that until love be at its full noon and its shadows be underfoot the lovers hide it from those around them. But:
Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way.
As the first were made to blind
Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,
To me thou, falsely, thine,
And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day;
But oh, love’s day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his first minute, after noon, is night.
So it had happened and he did not know why. He had hoped at least to find out when, but the question had gone unasked and unanswered. But even if asked it would not have been answered. And even if answered it would not have been answered truly. Truth dies first in the death of love.
And why had he, did he, love? He had seen her and she was ugly. There had been no warmth. A cold, cut-off end to things. She neither wanted, loved or needed him. Everything was collapsed in a love of money. She did not love Jeremy. Jeremy did not love her. They were together. He was alone. The logical thing was to close this off but he could not. If he could not understand why he loved, how could he possibly understand why she did not? Only the “when” was tangible. Even the “when” only provided something of a road map.
It was half past two. He walked down into the empty park. It was a long way past noon. He found the tree where first she had put her hand upon his neck and pulled him towards her. Before Agnes could speak or understand. He retraced their steps and found the benches they had sat upon, the places amongst the grass where they had been; but the cold and empty spaces gave no hint that they carried memories.
****
It had been their talk of Preston whilst they were lying in Green Park that had sparked the idea. Preston had suggested to Julia that they meet during the afternoons in a hotel and she had mentioned this to Adam in her disparaging way. But the idea had taken some sort of root. The Feathers in Chippenham had been a one-off and could not easily be repeated though they had both wanted it to be. They contented themselves instead with walking or sitting in Green Park.
One day, in the early spring of 1937, they had been walking the curtilage of the park when, on the eastern side, Julia had spotted a small opening in the wall. It led to a footpath which in turn led to the Stafford Hotel. A little more exploration showed that one could reach the Hotel from the park, but equally one could reach it from St James’s Street. And so the plan was hatched: Adam would enter from St James’s Street and book a room under the name of Wilson, a common enough name, and make his way to the second floor. Julia would detour from her walk around the park and come in some twenty minutes later. There was nothing to connect them. There was an old man – George – on reception who could see what was happening but Adam felt confident that he would say nothing, that he enjoyed the intrigue. It was no more than two hours once, maybe twice a week. He paid in cash.
Then the war began. Julia began to withdraw. Still they would go, when they could … or when he could persuade her … to the Stafford on a midweek afternoon. Sometimes, still, she would bring a picnic. In May of this year Churchill became Prime Minister and the war effort took on a more determined line. One consequence of this was that anyone booking into a hotel had to provide identification. Julia and Adam had their first argument, and – even then – he felt the beginning of the end. She said it was too dangerous. He said that she was a coward who didn’t have her priorities right – if she loved him, that was. And he won. And now, as he walked around the park in late December 1940, he began to wonder whether that was the “when” point of their relationship.
A compromise had been reached. He would continue to book the room but he would do so under the name of “Falling”. George would smile indulgently as he checked in. He knew Adam was not a spy. But it was in the records and now Jackson had found them. He only had to succeed in following him once and then he could uncover the whole pattern, at least from the point when he stopped calling himself Wilson. Adam had calculated, from what Julia had told him, that although they knew he was staying at the hotel on a regular basis, Jackson had not been able to prove that she had been with him. But surely they had enough? He understood, now, Julia’s alarm. She knew about the watermark and, now, the books he had given her – and they could prove that he visited a central London hotel on a regular basis during the afternoons … and she wanted him to come up with an explanation that would put her in the clear.
Why did he love her? He no longer knew. He felt a cough rising in his chest and readied himself with his handkerchief. A wave of nausea hit him and he had to lean against a tree. She had asked that he prove to her th
at he loved her. He had no choice. He didn’t want to love her anymore. This was not how he saw things turning out. He had no choice: he would find a way of absolving her, whatever the consequences for him or for Catherine or Deborah. He would find a way through. He wiped some blood from his lips and gazed at the handkerchief. He didn’t think he would live much longer in any event.
Chapter Seventeen
(Saturday 21st December 1940)
Weak sunlight trickled through the stained glass tulips of the front door onto the early Saturday post. Panels of pink, green and yellow on the envelopes. Adam stooped to pick them up: some Christmas cards, a letter from their landlord and a letter from Deborah. The Edenbridge postmark was smudged and there was some soot on her big curly writing.
Breakfast was scrambled eggs made from reconstituted powder and tasting of little more than water. Weak tea with powdered milk and some slightly stale toast. They read the letters as they ate:
– I’ve forgotten to pay the rent again. I’ll write a cheque on Monday. Deborah’s getting very excited about our visit. She wants us to bring up some of her books.
– I’ll dig them out before I go off to Home Guard.
Catherine was opening the Christmas cards and arranging them across the kitchen table. Theirs was a comfortable, well-proportioned house built in the late nineteenth century on a plot carved out of the Thurlow estate, part of the second ripple of plot sales that spread out in concentric circles of increasingly diminishing size. They could probably afford to buy their own home but there seemed little point with the bombs falling.
