Reckless Page 20

  ‘What can I do about Pakistan? They’re convinced we’re in the pockets of the Indians. Then India goes and buys fighter jets from Russia.’

  He started gathering up his papers.

  ‘That memo of yours, sir,’ said Rupert. ‘“Aim for the West”. I’ve been doing some thinking.’

  ‘Thought you would. Rather up your street, I should say.’

  ‘I think it’s important, actually.’

  ‘Then you’re about the only person who does.’

  ‘I’ve become convinced the solution is ideological, not military.’

  ‘That’s very interesting, Rupert. I want to have this discussion properly. Have you written your thoughts down?’

  ‘I’m doing so, sir.’

  ‘You know who’d understand this? Edwina.’

  Edwina Mountbatten had died two years earlier.

  ‘I remember her well,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re right. She saw things clearly.’

  ‘She made me the man I am. I miss her terribly.’ He sighed. ‘I shall have to be off.’

  ‘I’ll finish my paper.’

  ‘You know what they’ll say, of course? Too abstract. Too emotional and humanitarian. Too many airy-fairy ideas.’

  ‘It’s ideas that will destroy the world,’ said Rupert.

  ‘By God, you’re right there.’

  He paused, frowning, considering a new thought.

  ‘When am I in Ireland, Ronnie?’

  ‘Last week of September, sir.’

  ‘I have a house in Ireland,’ Mountbatten said to Rupert. ‘Miles from anywhere, right on the coast. Most glorious scenery you ever saw. It’s the only place I can get away to think. I have this bloody paper to write on the reorganisation of defence, which, let me tell you, is proving a great deal tougher than fighting a world war. Why don’t you join me? Then we can really talk.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’d be glad to.’

  ‘Put Rupert on the list for Classiebawn, Ronnie.’ He picked up his worn briefcase. ‘Yes, I’m on my way.’ And to Rupert as he left the room, ‘I’m glad you knew Edwina.’

  25

  That evening Rupert sat in the armchair in his living room, writing in longhand on a lined pad. The little room was filled with music, flowing from the record player by the side of the empty fireplace. Music was one of Rupert’s great loves. Tonight he was playing a recording of Tristan und Isolde. As Wagner’s themes wove their patterns in the air around him, he filled his pad with the ever-evolving chain of ideas that in his secret heart, in his wildest dreams, he believed might just save the world.

  The flat in Tachbrook Street consisted of this front room with its window onto the street, an even smaller bedroom at the back that looked out on the backs of other houses, a galley kitchen, and a bathroom across the stairs. He rented it for £4 a week from the building’s owner, a solicitor who lived in Surrey. The furnishings belonged to Rupert. He was responsible for the utilities and the rates. The reward for this modest style of living was that he owed no money to anyone, and had been able to save on his income for many years. He invested his savings prudently, for his old age. He expected to live alone until his death.

  At times like this, when his brain was racing, he felt his solitude as a source of power. He felt that he was on the brink of a major achievement, of the kind that only came after prolonged unbroken concentration.

  Let us explore the concept of intention. What reality can it be said to have? What validity? If I say I intend you no harm, what will cause you to act as if this statement has force?

  This brings us to the roots of trust.

  Trust is not the same thing as expectation. If I can see that you’re bound hand and foot, I may have the reasonable expectation that you won’t harm me. But I may still not trust you. Nor is trust a matter of assurances given. Trust can only be earned. Each act of trust is conditional, but with each successful transaction, trust grows—

  The phone rang. After eight on a Thursday evening: an unusual occurrence. Irritated, he laid down his pad, lifted the needle from the record, and picked up the receiver.

  It was Hugo.

  ‘Sorry to bother you at this hour. It’s just that something’s come up with Mary. We don’t quite know what to do.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It looks like there’s been a theft.’

  *

  Hugo let Rupert in to the house in Brook Green, and took him through to the drawing room, where Harriet was sitting.

  ‘So good of you to come, Rupert.’

  Mary was upstairs, in Emily’s bedroom. After reading her her bedtime story, it had become her habit to sit by the bed in the gathering darkness until the child was soundly asleep.

  ‘Mary knows nothing at all about this.’

  They spoke in low voices. Rupert listened as they told the story. Hugo did the telling, appealing constantly to Harriet for corroboration. Harriet seemed quite distressed.

  Hugo had been at work. Harriet had also been out, and had stopped at the bank, and drawn out ten pounds. The money had been given her as one £5 note and five £1 notes. She had bought some fish at the fishmonger’s on the way home, for this evening’s dinner, using one of the £1 notes, and receiving change. She had put down her handbag where it always rested on the little table in the hall by the phone. She made herself a cup of tea and sat down here, in the drawing room, to drink it. Going out had tired her. She may have dozed a little.

  Mary and Emily came home after school. Harriet didn’t hear them come in.

  ‘Mary is wonderful with Emily, Rupert,’ Harriet said. ‘She makes such a difference to me.’

  The window cleaner came, and clattered about with his ladder. Then he rang the bell to be paid, and Harriet went to her handbag for half a crown. She found she had only the four £1 notes, and some coins. The £5 note had gone missing.

  She paid the window cleaner, and returned to her handbag for a more thorough search. She tried the pockets of the coat she’d been wearing. Nothing.

  Then Pamela came downstairs. She’d been asleep most of the day. Harriet told her what had happened. Pamela couldn’t help, of course. She went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. Then she came out again to say, ‘Is Mary home?’

  Yes, Mary was home.

  Pamela then told Harriet that she had been lying on her bed in her bedroom when she’d been roused by running footsteps. Somebody, presumably Mary, had run up to the attic above, and then, a moment later, run down again.

  That was all.

  Hugo and Harriet gazed at Rupert in unhappy perplexity.

  ‘What are we to think?’

  ‘You think Mary took the money?’ said Rupert.

  ‘Someone took it,’ said Hugo.

  Rupert’s immediate reaction was one of anger. Of course Mary hadn’t taken the money. It was inconceivable. But then he obliged himself to think more objectively. All he knew about Mary was that she had lived for years in a convent. He also knew that she had no money.

  ‘Harriet says it can’t have been Mary,’ said Hugo, ‘but really, as Pamela says, there is something odd about her. Why is she homeless and friendless in London? What’s she done to end up like this?’

  ‘All I know,’ said Harriet, ‘is that she’s an absolute treasure to me, and I don’t want to lose her.’

  ‘But if she’s stealing from you, darling.’

  ‘I won’t believe it.’

  ‘No, please. It just won’t do, you know. We can’t have this sort of thing going on.’

  Rupert said, ‘And you’ve said nothing at all to Mary?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hugo.

  ‘I won’t have her accused of being a thief,’ said Harriet.

  ‘All I was going to do,’ said Hugo, ‘was ask her if she had any idea what had happened to the money.’

  ‘What do you expect her to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. But we have to find out.’

  ‘I said to call you,’ Harriet said to Rupert. ‘You know her be
tter than we do.’

  ‘I hardly know her at all,’ said Rupert. ‘But I certainly don’t think she’s a thief.’

  ‘There’s something fishy about her,’ said Hugo.

  ‘Would you like me to talk to her?’

  ‘Oh, would you, Rupert? You’d do it so much better.’ Harriet looked pathetically grateful. Evidently this was why he’d been sent for. ‘But you won’t say we suspect her, will you? Just say we can’t think where the money’s gone.’

  Hugo gave a sardonic snort. But he too was happy to pass the awkward business over to Rupert.

  After a little while Mary came down from Emily’s bedroom. Her face lit up at the sight of Rupert.

  ‘Just a friendly visit,’ he said. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘I’ve just been seeing Emily off to sleep,’ said Mary. ‘She doesn’t like to go to sleep on her own.’

  ‘You give in to her too much, Mary,’ said Hugo. ‘She has to learn.’

  ‘Oh, but she’s only a child.’

  Harriet smiled at Mary, understanding and approving.

  ‘It’s still a lovely evening,’ said Rupert to Mary. ‘How would you like to join me for a stroll?’

  They walked up Brook Green, crossing onto the grass between the trees.

  ‘Oh, Rupert,’ she said, ‘I just love it here.’

  ‘Anything’s better than the convent, eh?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Harriet, and her little boy who died,’ Mary said. ‘Would it be wrong to talk to her about it?’

  ‘No,’ said Rupert. ‘Why should it be?’

  ‘I’m thinking it’s time she let the child rest in peace.’

  ‘Ah, I see. I’m sure you’re right. No harm in trying.’

  As they walked and talked Rupert was only aware of how happy it made him to be in her company. He was entirely convinced that she could not have been robbing her hosts only a few hours ago. But the matter had to be raised.

  ‘Harriet was telling me something odd happened to her today,’ he said. ‘Somehow she lost a five-pound note from her purse.’

  ‘Five pounds! That’s a terrible lot of money. Was it while she was shopping?’

  ‘No. It was after she’d come home.’

  ‘Home? But that’s impossible. There’ve been people in the house all the time.’

  ‘She can’t understand it. It looks like it happened in the late afternoon.’

  ‘She said nothing to me when we came in from school.’

  ‘No. It happened after that.’

  Mary came to a stop and went a deep red.

  ‘Does she think I took it?’

  ‘No, Mary, she doesn’t.’ Rupert was able to say this with a clear conscience. ‘But she’s very puzzled.’

  ‘I would never steal, not from anyone! Not from those as have taken me in off the streets.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t. I know that.’

  But Mary’s agitation was growing, despite his assurances.

  ‘Of course they’d think it was me. A stranger with no home to go to. Who else could it be?’

  ‘No, Mary! Please!’

  ‘I must leave their house. I must leave at once.’

  ‘That’s the last thing Harriet wants. And Emily. Please. Don’t get so worked up about this. Of course it’s nothing to do with you.’

  She looked at him, biting her lower lip, on the point of tears.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ she said. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘That’s because you won’t tell me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said.

  ‘I know you’re not a thief, Mary.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I know you could never tell a lie.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Not to save my life.’

  ‘So why don’t we go back, and you can tell them what you told me.’

  ‘What if they don’t believe me?’

  ‘Then you’ll have to leave.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ She looked down, and spoke very low. ‘I’ll have to go home. God help me.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  He was sure now that there was something or someone she feared at home. She had been fourteen when she left: not too young to have been abused, perhaps by some member of her family. You heard about such things from time to time. The thought angered him. He wanted to protect her, without knowing what had harmed her, and to avenge her, without knowing who had done the harm.

  They returned to the house. Mary did not hesitate.

  ‘I’m sorry about the money, and I know you must think it was me that took it, but I swear on the Mother of God that I didn’t, and I never would. I beg you to search my room, and anywhere else, to make sure I’m telling you the truth. But the Lord knows I’m no thief, and nor would I be so ungrateful to you after all your kindness to me.’

  Having said this, she burst into tears. Harriet took her in her arms.

  ‘Of course you didn’t, Mary,’ she said. ‘No one thinks you did.’

  Hugo frowned and looked at Pamela, who had now appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘You know when you ran up to your room?’ he said to Mary. ‘After you came in?’

  ‘No,’ said Mary, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I’ve not been up to my room since we came home.’

  Pamela gave a shrug of her shoulders.

  ‘I expect I was dreaming,’ she said.

  Emily came downstairs in her pyjamas, blinking sleepy eyes.

  ‘Why’s Mary crying?’

  ‘It’s nothing, darling,’ said Hugo. ‘You’re supposed to be asleep. Go back to bed.’

  ‘Rupert,’ said Pamela, ‘there’s something I want to ask you before you go.’

  ‘I can’t go to sleep without Mary,’ said Emily.

  So Mary went upstairs with Emily, giving Rupert one grateful backward glance, and Harriet went to the medicine cupboard in the kitchen for an aspirin.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hugo to Rupert. ‘Though I’ve no idea where that leaves us.’

  ‘It’s not her,’ said Rupert simply.

  ‘Fivers don’t fly about all on their own.’

  Pamela came up to Rupert in the hall as he was leaving.

  ‘I’ve made a friend who’s a Russian spy,’ she said. ‘I told him you work for Mountbatten. Was that very wrong of me?’

  ‘A Russian spy?’ said Rupert, smiling. ‘Does he wear a badge saying so?’

  ‘He works at the Russian embassy. And he’s Russian. He wants to meet you.’

  ‘So he can spy on me?’

  ‘I think really he wants to spy on Mountbatten.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘No, not exactly,’ said Pamela. ‘He says our leaders should talk to each other in private. He doesn’t like all the speeches. Your people cheers and your enemy fears.’

  She recited this as if it was a well-known saying. Rupert was intrigued.

  ‘I’m rather inclined to agree.’

  ‘So will you let him spy on you? He’s awfully nice.’

  ‘I don’t mind meeting him. What’s his name?’

  ‘Eugene. I don’t know the rest.’

  *

  Rupert returned home, and remained awake late into the night. He was not thinking about his paper for Mountbatten any more, or about Pamela’s friend the Russian spy. He was thinking about Mary. Whatever it was in her home in Ireland that frightened her would have to be faced one day. Whatever this ‘special destiny’ the nuns spoke of, one day it must come to pass. He was now more convinced than ever that somehow she must break the chains of her mysterious secret and be set free.

  At one level his analytical mind conceived of Mary’s freedom in the abstract, as if it had nothing to do with him. He sought the solution to the puzzle she presented in much the same way that he sought a solution to the puzzle posed by nuclear weapons. Rupert supposed himself to be a rational being, who reached his conclusions by a process of rational argument. But he was not e
ntirely lacking in self-awareness. He knew there was a second process going on, in the shadowed depths of his mind. This was the realm of hopes and fears, of dreams and nightmares. Out of it, all unsought, there burst from time to time flashes of brilliant light that transformed his carefully constructed chains of reasoning. The image of Mary’s face would spring into his mind: hardly an argument, or even an insight. And yet by its light everything was changed.

  26

  On the evening of André Tillemans’ party Pamela joined Stephen Ward and his friends for dinner at the Dorchester. She looked dazzling and sophisticated in her new dress, her hair swept back and held with a clip. They were seven at table: Stephen and Pamela; Eugene Ivanov; Christine Keeler accompanied by a good-looking man called Michael Lambton, who seemed to be her boyfriend; a friend of Christine’s, a kitten-faced blonde called Mandy; and Mandy’s boyfriend, a short round balding man called Peter. The men were all in evening dress, apart from Eugene, who wore full dress naval uniform, complete with decorations. Christine and Mandy wore identical apple-green dresses, sleeveless, unadorned, and very short. They made a comical pair: Christine slight and dark-haired, Mandy sweet and blonde, deliberately underdressed for such a grand party, but unforgettable.

  Pamela was nervous, and began smoking as soon as they were settled at their table. She had no idea what she wanted to eat, and let Stephen order for her. He ordered noisettes of lamb, but she barely touched her plate. Stephen himself ate sparingly and, as ever, drank no alcohol at all. Pamela drank whatever was poured into her glass.

  She heard the chatter and laughter of the others but took nothing in. She was in a strange heightened state, in which sounds seemed sharper and colours brighter, but nothing conveyed any meaning. This, for her, was the time before. The wild idea she had conceived in Stephen’s flat was about to become a reality.

  Mandy laughed all through the meal. Christine’s friend Michael was silent. Eugene and Peter got into an argument about a town in Poland, or Ukraine, called Lvov, which was Peter’s birthplace. According to Peter the Russians had stolen Lvov after the war.

  ‘Lvov was liberated,’ said Eugene. ‘The people of Lvov welcomed the Red Army with open arms.’

  ‘What you call an army,’ said Peter, ‘was no better than a mob of butchers and rapists.’