A Spy in the Family

by Alec Waugh

  Never had she been more excited. He might not be as adroit as Naomi. Perhaps only a woman knew what a woman really liked; but that he, her correct husband, should be indulging her in this caress, that was the secret of the thrill. It was not so much what was being done to you, but who was doing it that counted. Her hands tightened in his hair, a series of short cries shook her; spasm followed spasm. Was he excited too? Was this a new experience for him. She remembered with Naomi her own first repugnance, a repugnance that had changed into delight. Was Victor feeling that? She stretched out her foot, raised it between his legs, turning it over, so that the soft flesh of her sole caressed him. Yes, he was aroused all right. The tangible proof of his excitement swelled, lengthened, hardened. It was more than she could stand. She lifted her legs, rested them on his shoulders, holding his head in a vice between her thighs, then pulling at his hair, dragging his head away, lifting it to hers as she fell backwards on the bed. Never had she suspected that life had such delights for giving.

  On the following evening Victor returned with a series of travel folders. ‘My secretary has been very active. I shall show you what she has worked out.’

  There seemed every kind of tour, at every price, from a Greek Islands tour by ship, to a package seventeen-cities-in-twenty-one-days circus from Lisbon, through the Straits of Gibraltar, along both flanks of the inland sea, finishing in Istanbul. The prices varied, but in no case did they seem exorbitant.

  ‘Have you any preferences?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to please you. I’d suggest a twenty-three-day tour. That takes me away for only three weeks from my office.’

  ‘Would you like to leave the folders with me and let me study them?’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’d hoped you’d say.’

  But she had no intention of studying them. They were for Mr. Montagu Frank to study, not for her. He was due to telephone her in two days’ time.

  He was, as she had known he would be, punctiliously prompt.

  ‘I’ve a number of folders here. I’d be happy if you’d make your choice.’

  ‘May I call round at ten tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  He was extremely business-like, as she had known he would be. He quickly sifted out the tours that were most promising.

  ‘These rushed tours are no good for our kind of project,’ he explained. ‘You’re too busy. Every hour is occupied. You can’t get away to the little bar or boutique where you collect your parcel. Now look at this one. Arrive Tangier eight a.m. Tour of the Casbah; visit the caves of Hercules. Lunch at Robinson’s Beach. Afternoon see the weavers. Cocktails at the Rif. What time have you to yourself? Rule that out altogether. Now this one is more like it. Three days in Beirut. An afternoon at Baalbek; the Old Vic Company staging As You Like It. But the whole of the next morning free. You can easily say to your husband, “I want to spend the morning in the bazaars.” He’ll be delighted to get away from you for a little. Let’s put that folder on one side. We can go back to it.’

  In an astonishingly short time he had made his choice. ‘It boils down to these three. I suppose you should discuss it first with your old man. Give him the impression that he’s making the decision; as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter which you choose. I’ll telephone you on Friday. You can tell me then which you have chosen, and I’ll be round within a week with the operation orders. Is that oke-doke?’

  Heavens, but he’s an awful man, she thought.

  That evening she showed Victor the folders. ‘It’s one of these three,’ she said. He did not go over them very carefully. But he took notes of the dates, the prices, and the itineraries. ‘I’d like to confer with Martin Severod.’

  ‘Why on earth with him?’

  ‘He had an idea that he and Kitty might like to join us.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘It might be. I lunched with him today. I told him that we were going on a tour. He said that he and Kitty had had the same idea. The advantage of our going with another couple is, as he pointed out, that we could try more wines. That’s one of the great inducements for him of going abroad, to taste the wines of another country; and if you are four instead of two you can sample twice as many wines.’

  Wine, wine, wine; so that was what this tour was going to be about. Anyhow she’d have somebody to drink martinis with. ‘There’s another thing too,’ said Victor. ‘You and I don’t always want to be doing the same things. I shouldn’t feel guilty leaving you alone if I wanted to see museums. You and Kitty could go on shopping sprees.’

  And how am I going to pick up packages of heroin if I’ve got Kitty on my heels, Myra thought.

  ‘You like the idea of their coming with us, don’t you?’ Victor asked.

  ‘Of course. Kitty’s one of my oldest friends. We’re always complaining that we don’t see nearly enough of one another.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. And I was sure that you’d be glad at my asking them to the Odde Volumes’ Ladies’ Night.’

  ‘That’s on Tuesday, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The Odde Volumes was one of London’s oldest dining clubs. It had been started in the 1870’s by an affluent book-seller who had grown tired of paying for his friends’ lunches, so decided to amalgamate them into a club where each member would have to meet his own expenses. Each member had a special cognomen, by which he had to be addressed. He was known as Brother Viking or Brother Peculator, and he wore around his neck an order that symbolised this cognomen. There was a very elaborate ritual based on Masonry. After each dinner one of the brethren read a learned paper. Once a year there was a Ladies’ Night. Victor had been a member now for several years. He was known as Brother Trencherman. He was president and was addressed by the other brethren as Your Odd-ship. Ladies’ Night would be for him a considerable occasion. He would be on his feet a great deal of the time, controlling the proceedings, interjecting comments. Every brother in turn introduced his guests by name. On masculine nights it was the tradition to be insulting towards one’s guests. Facetiousness was the keynote of the occasion. In the rules, for instance, Rule XVI read ‘There shall be no rule XVI.’

  It was the first time that Kitty Severod had been to an Odde Volumes dinner. She was fascinated. ‘I can’t believe it’s true,’ she said. ‘Martin’s been once or twice. I thought he was pulling my leg: isn’t it odd how some really sophisticated men remain schoolboys at heart all their lives.’

  ‘Isn’t that what’s so appealing for us as women? We see these men standing up there with their medallions around their necks and their wands, and then we think of what they’re going to be like in three hours’ time when they are alone with us.’

  At that moment the company was on its feet. Victor was holding a gavel in his hand. He struck the table. ‘Brother, Master of Ceremonies,’ he announced. ‘Bring to me the body of the Keeper of the Archives.’ The Master of Ceremonies carried a tall silver-tipped ebony wand. He walked between the tables. He laid his hand upon the shoulder of another member. He led him up to the high table as though he were leading an arrested prisoner before the magistrate. The Keeper of the Archives carried a small embroidered cushion on which reposed a large wooden key. He placed the cushion in front of Victor. Victor picked up the key; he held it raised high. ‘Brethren, I hold the key. The eight hundred and seventh dinner of the Sette of Odde Volumes may begin. Incipit feliciter coena.’

  Kitty was seated immediately across the table. Victor, as befitted his position, had brought eight guests. She looked at Myra reflectively, as though she were setting herself a question. ‘Do you really get a kick out of that?’ she asked.

  ‘Get a kick out of what?’

  ‘Thinking how different Victor is going to be when he’s alone with you, in three hours’ time.’

  ‘Don’t you, with Martin?’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t know that you did. You are more sophisticated than I guessed. I don’t think we see enough of one
another.’

  Myra smiled. Would she have thought that before her trip to Malta? She looked back a year. How had she felt about all this at the last Odde Volumes dinner? Had it not all seemed rather childish to her—the cognomens, the badges of office, and the wands? Now she saw Victor differently. As a complement to the wand of office there was under her handkerchiefs the secret weapon. The one adjusted the balance of the other.

  More than once during the dinner, she noticed that Kitty was watching her with a self-questioning look. Kitty was three years older than herself; though they had been at that finishing school in Switzerland where there had been no question of seniority, they had never met quite as equals. They had never let down their hair with one another. Kitty had always seen her in terms of the Clos des Abeilles—as someone considerably junior. Am I a new person to Kitty too, she thought. As they left the hall, Kitty slipped her arm through hers and pressed it against her side. ‘We’re going to have fun together on that trip.’

  ‘I felt so proud of you.’ That was the first thing she said when she got home. And it was true, she had felt proud, in quite a new way, that this remarkable man should be her husband. In these last ten days he had become a new person to her: someone mysterious, someone to be explored, someone so unlike the public figure that the world respected. She was so well contented that he was that figure, but so relieved that he was this other one: this new-found one.

  ‘It was the best Ladies’ Night you’ve ever had,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘I think it went all right.’

  ‘You must have taken a great deal of trouble over it, insuring that none of the turns went on too long.’

  ‘It needed some rehearsing.’

  ‘And you never worried me about it.’

  That was one of the things about him. He never brought his problems home. ‘The cat that walked alone.’

  ‘I wanted it to be a surprise for you.’

  ‘It was a very pleasant one.’

  ‘The Severods enjoyed it, didn’t they?’

  ‘They certainly did.’

  ‘They should be fun on this trip.’

  She nodded. But the thought that Kitty would be with her in Beirut sent a cautionary shiver along her nerves. She had received very precise instructions from Mr. Frank. The tour allowed for three nights and four days in Beirut. The first day had billed a preliminary tour of the city. On the second day there was an excursion to Baalbek. ‘You get back at half past five. That might be the best time, when your husbad’s resting. But probably the next morning will be best. It’s marked as “free” on your programme.’

  ‘But I can’t fix an exact hour in advance. I can’t be sure when my husband will be resting.’

  ‘Of course you can’t. There are a number of alternatives. We are a rich organisation. Someone will be on duty all the time that you are in Beirut. You cannot miss the shop. It is among a cluster of small boutiques between the St. George and the Normandie. You will enter, you will look around a little. You will pick up a packet of Camels. Then you will say to the assistant, “I want to try a Turkish cigarette. Do you have one?” It is as easy as that.’

  It had sounded easy enough when Mr. Frank had given his instructions. But she had not then known that Kitty would be with them. She remembered how Kitty had looked at her at dinner, how Kitty had pressed her arm, how she had said, ‘We’re going to have fun together on that trip.’ She had underlined the word ‘together.’ Kitty had something on her mind. She was curious to know what that something was. But how was she to find out, if she was going to be fussed trying to get away from Kitty to that small shop along the waterfront? Oh damn this secret mission. If only Victor was a different person, someone in whom she could have confided. But did she want him to be a different person? No, she didn’t. He was perfect the way he was. It was things, not he, she wanted different. Damn, oh damn, oh damn.

  It was well after eleven. But she did not feel sleepy. Nor did he, she supposed. He would want to talk things over. ‘Have you got a half bottle of champagne on ice?’ she asked.

  ‘That is precisely what I have.’

  In their first year of marriage, they would usually after an evening such as this have sat together on the sofa. A mood of intimacy would have been created. Very soon they would have found themselves in each other’s arms. ‘Why don’t we take these glasses in with us?’ he would say.

  They had changed that pattern now. They would sit in chairs facing one another. In a house where you had children and au pair girls, you ran the risk of being interrupted. But the atmosphere was little different. It was not so often now that at the end of an evening they sat talking it all over across a half bottle of champagne, but when they did, almost invariably the same cosy sense of intimacy crept over them. Before the bottle was half finished, they knew they would be making love in half an hour’s time. Beyond doubt, Myra knew it now. She was tempted to hurry her wine, but she refrained, almost dragging the last sips out, heightening the anticipation. She tilted the glass back. The last drop gone. She stood up. ‘That’s that,’ she said.

  She had loitered over her wine. She loitered now over her undressing. She put on the Empire-style nightdress that she knew he liked. She pushed the door of her room open. He should be in bed by now.

  He wasn’t though, and to her surprise there was no sound from his dressing room. The door was ajar. She looked in. To her astonished incredulity he was in bed, curled up, his back turned to her. He couldn’t, it was unbelievable, he couldn’t.… She stared, she listened. A slow smile crossed her lips. So that was it then, was it? He wasn’t asleep; she knew from his breathing that he wasn’t. He was pretending to be asleep, so as to invite the secret weapon. If that was what he wanted … She went back into her room, lifted her nightgown over her head, took the secret weapon from the drawer. She shook it gleefully. If this was what he wanted, he had found the right person to give it to him.

  Later, quite a little later, they lay side by side. Her head was on his chest.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘do you think all those beatings in public schools give Englishmen a taste for this?’

  ‘They say it gave Swinburne one.’

  ‘How often did you get caned yourself?’

  ‘Not very often; four, five times. I got into the sixth book pretty early.’

  ‘Did it give you any pleasure?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’

  ‘Not even afterwards? Wasn’t there a kind of glow?’

  ‘I don’t remember it. Before we were going to be caned, we used to sit on the hot-water pipes; it hurts less then. Did you know, by the way, that Nelson when he had his arm amputated complained of the coldness of the knife? After that he insisted on having hot water in the sick bay.’

  ‘It was a good feeling, wasn’t it, when the actual pain subsided?’

  ‘It was a good thing when the whole thing was over. One felt something of a hero too, you know, like troops coming out of action.’

  ‘I suppose now and again you had to cane a boy yourself?’

  ‘I was a prefect for three years.’

  ‘Did you get any kick out of it?’

  ‘I can’t say I did. As far as I recall, it rather jarred my wrist; perhaps at first it gave me a sense of superiority, of having the right to beat somebody, but after that wore off, and it wore off very soon, no, I don’t believe I got any kick out of it.’

  ‘But then …’ She paused. After that first time she had longed to talk to him, to find out what he had felt, how he had felt it. She had felt shy then; the illusion of punishment had to be maintained. It was different now; but even though he had invited the visit of the secret weapon, there were some things she could not ask. There were, though, quite a few things she could.

  ‘Of course you couldn’t choose whom you caned. It had to be somebody who had broken a rule of some kind.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘You couldn’t look down the hall, see a good-looking boy who attracted you and think, I’ll
give him a good thrashing.’

  ‘Naturally I couldn’t.’

  ‘And of course they were wearing trousers.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mightn’t it have made a difference if they hadn’t? If, for instance, it had been a good-looking young boy whom you found attractive.’

  ‘That’s a very hypothetical situation. I can only say that as far as I was concerned, it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Then would you say that in spite of what the psychiatrists are saying there is no sex element to all these canings?’

  ‘Ah, no, I wouldn’t quite say that; there are some celibate masters, who are homosexuals without knowing it, who get a kick that way. But for the boys themselves—well’—he paused—’it’s something I’ve sometimes asked myself. My first school was a new one; it started in the very year I went there, when I was nine. At the start there were only six of us. There were forty when I left; now there are a hundred and fifty. We were very ignorant, very innocent; there were no older boys to teach us anything. We knew nothing of the facts of life. We knew how babies were born, but not how they were conceived. Not at least in any detail. But we were oddly enough very interested in whipping. We used to whip each other.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Yes, whip ourselves, in the dormitories at night.’