They both think of the tiny, crowded flat in Brighton, and the smell of Oma’s dog.
‘Granny Callington’s got loads of money.’
‘She never gives us any.’
The Children Who Lived in a Barn is one of Sally’s favourite books. Susan, who does all the washing and cooking, holds the purse with the money and takes care of the little ones, is not much older than her. And their parents do come back in the end.
‘We could look after her.’
‘They wouldn’t let us. They might put her in a children’s home. They might put us all in children’s homes.’
‘They couldn’t if we ran away,’ says Sally, thinking of a field, a stream, a barn with a haybox and Bridget tucked up safely by capable, big-sister hands.
‘Where would we run to, in the middle of winter? Bridgie would freeze to death.’
Bridget sings in the garden:
‘You have to hug a polar bear
To keep you warm at night …’
‘She hasn’t got a clue,’ says Paul. ‘I’m going to ask Mum if I can visit Dad.’
‘They won’t let you.’ Why hadn’t she thought of it first?
‘I need to know what’s happening. I don’t think Mum realises she might be arrested. You remember how on Sunday she said Dad had only gone in to the police station to answer a few questions. She didn’t know they were going to keep him in prison.’
‘We could warn her,’ says Sally.
‘I thought of that. But I want to see Dad first.’
‘He’s in prison,’ says Sally. It is the first time she has ever said those words aloud. Even in her mind, she has skirted around them. They sound as if they belong in a book, a quite different book from The Children Who Lived in a Barn. Prison means that even if something awful happened, if Paul didn’t pass the Eleven-plus or Bridget got run over, Dad wouldn’t be here. As the thoughts hit her, she understands that she no longer believes Dad will be back soon, next week or the week after or at the very worst the week after that. That’s the way someone Bridget’s age would think. ‘Dad can’t do anything,’ she says.
They look at each other in the glare of the overhead light. It is quite dark outside now. Bridget must have come in, because she isn’t singing any more. From where Sally is sitting on the rug, she can see the dust under Paul’s bed, and his pyjamas. He always kicks his dirty clothes under the bed. If they lived in a barn, he would have to tidy up so as to be a good example to Bridget—
‘I’m still going to go and see him.’
Sally shrugs, a minute, expressive shrug that makes her look, for an instant, exactly like Mum. She thinks she’s so grown-up, thinks Paul, but she’s not even nine yet. More than a whole year younger than me. I bet she wishes she’d thought of going to see Dad first, and that’s why she’s making such a fuss.
‘Do you think,’ asks Sally, colouring again, ‘it could be that Mum doesn’t know things because of not being born here?’
That thought has come to Paul too, but he hasn’t dared shape it into words. It makes him angry with Mum, and protective too, as if she’s the child, not him. But he doesn’t want Sal looking so scared.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Mum’s just the same as if she was English. Only a supersonic clodpoll like Alison Wigley would think anything else.’
15
Plan B
‘That contraption looks rather medieval,’ says Julian Clowde.
‘It feels it.’
‘I had a word with the sawbones. Anstruther. You’ll be here for another week, I gather.’
‘Julian—’
‘One moment.’ Like a big cat, Julian pads around the room, examining light fittings, bells, the telephone on its trolley, and then returns to his seat. He crosses his legs and waits. He hasn’t lost any of his hair. Thick, white, wavy hair: you’d half want to stroke it, if you didn’t know better. Cats, if they were any larger, would be unspeakable … What was that story of Archie’s, about his cat? Bosie, he called it. Typical Archie; he was constitutionally incapable of calling a cat Fluff. Yes, that was it: Archie had influenza, quite badly. He felt like death. He couldn’t even get out of bed to feed the wretched animal. On the second day, Bosie leaped up on to the bed and stood over Archie, paws on the pillow. Archie was drifting. He struggled to lift a hand to stroke the cat. Loyal little blighter, standing guard over his sick master … And then Bosie’s claws scored him right across the face. Only just missed his right eye. It didn’t care for the empty food bowl.
It must be years since he’s thought of that. A good friend, Archie. If he were still alive, he’d have visited me like a shot.
‘How was Venice?’ he asks. Julian Clowde raises his eyebrows. Supercilious bastard.
‘I suppose you must have some small idea of the difficulties you’ve caused me?’
Someone should kick him into the middle of next week – preferably on his way back from the opera house after a particularly delightful evening – and leave him in a gutter in his own piss and vomit, spitting teeth.
‘Our friends are very, very fed up indeed, as you can imagine.’ Julian leans forward. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing, getting Callington involved? Special Branch has gone through that house with a toothcomb and there’s no trace of it. The one thing we can be sure of is that he’s got it. He’s tucked it away somewhere. I don’t need to remind you that it’s got my initials on it. There’s no conceivable reason for you to have had sight of it. There’s no conceivable route by which Callington could have got hold of it on his own. Callington’s going to plead not guilty, and why shouldn’t he? He’ll say the camera was planted. He’ll bring out that file, and he’ll tell the jury exactly where he found it. Why not? This is what Frith’s been waiting for. He’s going to get what he wants, through sheer criminal carelessness on your part. Why the hell didn’t you ring me?’
‘You were in Venice.’
‘I was in Venice,’ echoes Julian, coldly jeering, ‘not on the other side of the moon. How long do you think it takes to fly from Venice to London? Fortunately, others had a better grasp of the situation than you. I was back here the next day. But thanks to you, it was too late. I’ve done what I can to clear up the mess.’
The contempt in him, like cold spit. The jeering schoolboy, bigger than you, older than you, knowing the ropes. Your own fault though, Giles. You forgot the rules.
No, I didn’t ring you, Julian. You were in Venice, and besides – Christ! Do you think I don’t know you? You’ve been looking for an excuse for months. You want me out of the way.
If Simon hadn’t pissed about, the file would have been safely back with Brenda. The flat was clean. I made sure of that. You’d have had to accept that I’d handled the situation as well as possible.
But now …
You got rid of Petrenko. I was at your house when you took the call that told you he was safely out of the way. Or, in other words, the goods had been despatched. You’d been sweating blood about Petrenko, ever since the memo came through to you – to you! – that he was about to defect from the embassy in Vienna, and the dowry he’d be bringing across was information about Soviet penetration of British Naval Intelligence. You swung into action then. That telephone call told you that you’d been successful.
Petrenko had been despatched all right. You knew what that meant. Chloroformed, mouth taped, eyes taped, trussed up like a Christmas turkey and bundled into the boot of a car. On a plane back to a cell in Moscow and Christ knows what torments of the damned, before he died of ‘natural causes’. You took that call, and after you put down the receiver you smiled at me and said, ‘Our friend Mr P. is going on holiday,’ and then you looked at your watch and realised you’d better get a move on, if you weren’t to be late for Toby’s private view. Petrenko could have blown us wide open, but you got wind of it, just as you always do. It’s the advantage of your position. Why didn’t I ring you and let you sort out the file? Because you’d have trussed me up like a turkey, too, to save your own nec
k. Metaphorically speaking of course, dear boy.
‘For Christ’s sake, Julian, I had concussion.’
‘You were drunk. I’ve put up with a lot for old times’ sake, but you are not the asset to us that you once were. Time for a spot of leave, I think. But first, what are we going to do about Callington … He was one of your boys once, I believe?’
You know it. Every detail. You’ll have photographs. Letters, too, no doubt. Everything that might be useful one of these days, thinks Giles. He is suddenly, extremely tired. He wishes a nurse would come in, take his pulse and say, ‘I’m afraid my patient must rest.’
‘Callington,’ muses Julian Clowde. ‘I can’t say he’s ever made much impression on me. You were very keen to bring him in, as I recall. He likes a quiet life, or so it says in the Daily Express. Apparently he goes trains-potting with his son.’ The suavity of his tone doesn’t alter. ‘He’s the chap next door, in fact. Could be you, could be me. The jury won’t like that. They like their spies to look like spies. More comfortable for everyone that way. I can quite see their point. I wonder, does his wife – Does Lily know about her husband’s little adventures? That could upset the apple-cart in Muswell Hill. Callington was being blackmailed, of course.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Use your wits, Giles. It’s the key to the whole wretched business. The jury will see it straight away, if they’re helped to do so. The Soviets had compromising photographs of Callington in bed with another man. They were threatening to expose him. You know where that would have led, and so did Callington: security clearance revoked, dismissal, end of marriage. No more train-spotting. Very likely a prosecution. If he were exceptionally lucky he might have traded a prison sentence for stilboestrol injections. Know what stilboestrol is, Giles?’
He doesn’t.
‘It makes your breasts grow, which is not so handy if you’re a chap. Unfortunately it has the opposite effect on your balls: they shrink. All desires spent. It’s frequently described as chemical castration. Not wanting any of that to happen to you is the kind of motive juries understand. So. The Soviets were threatening to expose Callington unless he did them a few favours. That all fits together nicely, doesn’t it? The jury’s unlikely to spot quite how hard it would be for Callington to gain access to that file on his own. Once they know he’s a little queer that the Soviets had the screws on, they’ll believe anything of him. The only drawback is that it does rather drag you into the picture. Or photograph, to be exact.’ He pauses, hands steepled. ‘However, it needn’t come to that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fool, Giles. That’s the second time you’ve said that. Why can’t you keep your mouth shut? He’s playing you.
Julian raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s not hard to follow, surely? Callington is presented with a choice. He can stick to a not-guilty plea – in which case, out come the letters, out come the photographs and it’s perfectly obvious to any decent juror that he’s guilty as hell. He goes down. Wife gone, children gone, friends gone, career gone, quite possibly sans balls in the near future. Not a very appealing prospect. That’s Plan A. On the other hand, he can plead guilty. A first offence. He acted alone. The poor impressionable booby was taken along to a CND rally by his wife – cue more photographs, there’s a nice one of them together on the steps of the National Gallery. He met this frightfully sympathetic chap. One thing led to another. Callington let slip where he worked and soon he was in deep, way over his head … No, that won’t do. It’s starting to sound like Plan A again. Scrub the sympathetic chap. Stick to Callington acting alone, led astray by CND drama-queenery. The end of the world is nigh and only Callington can save it by nipping into the office with a Minox and posting off the results to the Soviet Embassy. A moment of madness leads to a lifetime of regret. That’s Plan B.’
Giles can’t help himself. ‘I rather liked the look of the sympathetic chap.’
It’s as if he hadn’t spoken. Possibly there’s a twitch of Julian Clowde’s lips. ‘Lifetime of regret,’ he repeats. ‘That might wash. Callington could carry it off. He’s got one of those Boy’s Own Paper faces. The jury doesn’t hear a word about the briefcase. Your name isn’t whispered. He’ll get seven years, and Lily will be waiting for him outside the gates of Wormwood Scrubs. If I were him, I’d much prefer Plan B. What’s your opinion, old boy?’
Giles has worked with Julian Clowde for donkey’s years. With him and for him and under him. He thought he knew Julian backwards. But now he sees that after all those years of jokes and dinners and parties shared – let alone everything else – he, Giles Holloway, is no more to Julian than Petrenko once was. Whether he’s stuffed in the boot of a car or shuffled off into a convalescent home makes almost no matter.
‘I don’t know,’ he says.
‘Don’t you?’
Julian leans back, his eyes half-closed. For a few moments he contemplates the ceiling, then suddenly, he stands up. For once in his life he’s clumsy. His right foot catches the chair leg. He pitches forward, tries to save himself, knocks against the bed, puts out his hand and blunders into Giles’s leg as it dangles from the pulley—
Even heavy Giles can’t help arching up in the bed as if he’s welded to a light-switch. Julian is on his feet now, looking down. ‘I’ll have a chat with Callington. We need that file back. Don’t make any more telephone calls. I’d have a good rest, if I were you. You shouldn’t have any more visitors until you’re quite recovered. Where are they sending you? The King David, isn’t it?’
Giles cannot speak. He must keep perfectly still or he will throw up. The churn of pain rises to his lips and then slowly, slowly, recedes. He is cold.
‘I’ve tired you out,’ says Julian Clowde as he leaves the room.
It’s several days before Paul can put into action his plan of asking Mum to let him visit Dad. Night after night, Mum doesn’t come home until after Bridget’s bedtime. She has appointments in town until six or seven. They have to make the supper and look after Bridget. Soberly, side by side, he and Sally wash up and dry the dishes while Bridget plays in the dining room. One day, they all go to Erica’s after school and have sausages and mash, and jelly with pineapple chunks for pudding. Bridget sits on Erica’s knee for a story. She behaves like a baby. Mum comes to fetch them, wearing her best black suit. Her face is pale and her lipstick looks too red. She has a drink with Erica and then they all go home, with Bridget clinging and dragging on Mum’s hand. Mum says she’s tired and is going to go to bed at the same time as them. This has never happened before except once when she had flu.
The line of light under Mum’s bedroom door disappears long before Paul goes to sleep. He hates the empty cave of downstairs. The radio should be on, with Mum and Dad’s voices, the sound of the kettle boiling, the chink of glasses. Sal is awake too. She creeps into his room and says breathily in his ear: ‘You haven’t asked her about you visiting Dad yet, have you?’
‘I’m going to, tomorrow. She said she’ll be home at five.’
Sal creeps out, and Paul lies awake for a long time, thinking of what he will say.
The next evening, everything goes according to plan. As soon as Mum comes down from putting Bridget to bed, Sal – already in her dressing gown and slippers – announces that she’s going to work on her Australia project in her bedroom.
‘Why don’t you spread out your project on the dining table? It’s cold up in your bedroom.’
‘I don’t want to have to tidy it away every night. It’s our homework for all this week and it’s got to be in on Friday.’
‘All right then. You can take the electric fire from our bedroom, as long as you’re careful.’
Sal skips away upstairs. She’s a good liar, thinks Paul, better than he’d thought. But even now that the coast is clear, he finds he doesn’t know how to start asking Mum about visiting Dad.
‘Can I have a hot Ribena, Mum?’
‘How much is left?’
Ribena is expensive, and it’s bought mainly for Bridget. H
e and Sal both think this is unfair.
‘I think there’s quite a lot.’
‘Don’t make it too strong, then. I’m going to do some marking.’
Paul lights the gas and sets the kettle to boil. There’s less than an inch of Ribena in the bottle. He pours carefully, but suddenly it rushes out into his tumbler. There’s hardly any left. He tries pouring it back, but it oozes stickily down the outside of the bottle, and he gives up. Bridget gets Delrosa syrup as well as Ribena. On the other hand she also has to have a daily spoonful of that disgusting Virol. Sally and he used to pretend to swallow it but keep it in their mouths and spit it out under the bushes.
He puts a spoon into the tumbler, so the glass won’t crack, and pours in the hot water. He’ll wait until it cools down, then he’ll drink it, then he’ll go in and talk to Mum …
You’ve got to do it now, he thinks. Bridget might wake up, or the phone might ring.
Paul picks up the tumbler by its rim, where it isn’t so hot, and goes into the sitting room. Mum isn’t marking, although there’s a pile of exercise books by her feet. She’s lying back in the corner of the sofa, resting her head against the cushion. Her eyes are shut. In her right hand, the hand nearest to him, there’s a cigarette with at least an inch of ash on its end. And the fire’s not lit. He laid it all ready: that’s one of his jobs. Mum’s face is different when her eyes are shut. He doesn’t like it as much.
‘Mum? Are you asleep?’
She opens her eyes and smiles at him. ‘Of course not. I was resting my eyes for a moment, that’s all. There’s so much marking.’ She pats the seat beside her. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘Your ash is dropping all over the carpet.’
‘Ash is good for carpets,’ she says, standing up for a moment and rubbing the ash into the carpet with the toe of her shoe.
‘I’ll light the fire for you.’
‘I don’t think we need it. It’s quite cosy in here.’
It isn’t. The room is cold and Mum has only turned on the overhead light, not the standard lamp that always throws a soft, golden pool over the red leather furniture.