Reckless

by William Nicholson

  ‘You look lovely, Pammy, darling. So is London suiting you?’

  ‘I just adore it,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Hugo tells me he hardly ever sees you.’

  ‘I do help out whenever they ask me. Really I do. But now they’ve got a live-in help, an Irish girl, so there’s not so much for me to do.’

  ‘We’ll talk later, darling.’

  One of the firm’s main buyers had just come in.

  ‘Richard! Great that you could make it.’

  Pamela hovered near the stairs, looking out for her own invitees. Rupert Blundell was the first of them to arrive.

  ‘Rupert! I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

  ‘It’s all very cloak-and-dagger, this,’ said Rupert. ‘Is it really necessary?’

  ‘My friend hasn’t arrived yet. Let’s get ourselves something to drink. Hugo says I’m only to have the Beaujolais.’

  ‘Beaujolais’s good enough for me.’

  Pamela got them a glass each, making the young man with the bottle fill up the glasses to the brim.

  ‘There,’ she said, handing a glass to Rupert. ‘Everyone else gets a teaspoonful.’

  ‘How’s Mary?’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine. That fuss has all blown over.’

  ‘I really don’t think she had anything to do with it,’ said Rupert.

  ‘That’s because she’s your pet.’

  The room slowly filled with serious-looking men in dark suits.

  ‘Wine experts don’t look as if they have much fun, do they?’ Pamela whispered. ‘Oh, good. He’s come.’

  Eugene Ivanov, also wearing a dark suit, walked into the candlelit room as if into his own home. He looked round until he found Pamela, gave a wave of greeting, and stopped to sample the wines. Pamela and Rupert watched from across the room as he sniffed and sipped and spat and asked for more.

  ‘That’s your Russian spy?’ said Rupert.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pamela.

  ‘I see he feels it’s his duty to explore capitalist luxury in all its forms.’

  Ivanov joined them, and was introduced. Pamela identified Rupert by the comical formula that always amused her.

  ‘Rupert’s the brother of the first wife of my mother’s second husband.’

  ‘That’s Larry over there,’ said Rupert, pointing to their host.

  ‘And you work for Lord Louis Mountbatten?’

  ‘I’m one of his advisers,’ said Rupert.

  ‘As you know,’ said Ivanov, ‘I am second naval attaché at the Russian embassy. I make no secret.’

  ‘Pamela has told me.’

  ‘You must make secrets of some things, Eugene,’ said Pamela. ‘You can’t do your spying in public.’

  Ivanov smiled.

  ‘This is a joke in our set,’ he explained to Rupert. ‘I am the Russian spy.’

  ‘Are you not?’ said Rupert.

  ‘My job here is to learn all I can about British military capability and intentions,’ said Ivanov. ‘Why else would I be here? To drink this excellent claret? I think not. So you may call me a spy if you wish. I call myself a channel of information. What is more, Mr Blundell, I believe that the more information my country has about your country the safer we will all be.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Rupert.

  ‘That means he doesn’t trust you,’ said Pamela to Ivanov.

  ‘Captain Ivanov will understand my caution,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m afraid I’ll prove to be a disappointment as a source of information.’

  ‘I understand, of course,’ said Ivanov. ‘But would you not like to be a recipient of information?’

  ‘Information that my government is not able to obtain through the usual channels?’

  ‘The usual channels are nothing but posturing and lies. Do you have any idea what Chairman Khrushchev is really thinking?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course!’

  At this point Larry joined them.

  ‘Don’t tell Hugo I said so, but get some of the Puligny- Montrachet before it disappears. Hello, Rupert. How’s life?’

  ‘Ticking along much as ever.’

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful having Pamela in town?’

  ‘She certainly seems to be making the most of it,’ said Rupert.

  ‘I’m not sure how she manages it. Kitty keeps her on a very tight allowance.’

  ‘A lady should never have to pay,’ said Ivanov.

  Pamela introduced Ivanov to Larry.

  ‘Even so,’ said Larry, ‘there are things a girl needs beyond dinners and restaurants. Five pounds a month can’t go very far.’

  As he said this Pamela looked up quickly at Rupert, and Rupert caught the look, and a new idea entered his head.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Larry,’ she said. ‘Everyone is so kind.’

  ‘We pay tribute to beauty,’ said Ivanov, giving a small bow.

  Larry moved off to greet a new buyer who had just entered. Ivanov turned back to Rupert, serious once more.

  ‘I do not believe in secrets, Mr Blundell. I believe secrecy breeds fear, and fear breeds aggression.’

  Rupert nodded his head, and sipped his wine.

  ‘An open flow of information, however,’ said Ivanov, ‘breeds trust, and trust breeds security for all.’

  Rupert turned to Pamela.

  ‘This spy of yours, Pamela,’ he said, ‘talks remarkably good sense.’

  ‘Of course!’ cried Ivanov. ‘And you know why? Because I am only second naval attaché. Because I am not official spokesman. Because I am little fellow of no importance.’ Here he seized Rupert by the arm. ‘Don’t you see? It’s only we little fellows who can tell each other the truth!’

  He went to the window and pointed out into the street.

  ‘You see the car there? Those are British Secret Service agents. They follow me.’

  Pamela was intrigued.

  ‘What, everywhere?’

  Ivanov shrugged.

  ‘I always tell them where I’m going. Then they come. That’s their job. But it’s not secret.’

  ‘Don’t you do any real spying?’ said Pamela. ‘Don’t you even have a secret spy camera?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I have all that,’ said Ivanov, waving one hand dismissively. ‘My bosses are as stupid as Mr Blundell’s bosses. They believe that information obtained by covert operations is more valuable than information that is freely given. That is stupidity.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Rupert. ‘Your bosses would love to know our military capability, but we’re not likely to give you that information freely.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Ivanov.

  Rupert gazed at him, half smiling.

  ‘If I keep a dog to frighten away thieves,’ said Ivanov, ‘why would I shut my dog in a kennel? No, let him out, where all can hear him bark!’

  He looked once more out of the window.

  ‘My friends are waiting. I must go.’ He held out his hand to Rupert. ‘Shall we meet again, Mr Blundell, more privately?’

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ said Rupert. ‘I would like that.’

  Ivanov produced a card.

  ‘I am at your disposal.’

  He left. Rupert and Pamela remained by the window. They saw Ivanov come out onto the street, and stride away towards Piccadilly. After a moment the car followed.

  ‘He’s quite a character,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Oddly enough, some of the things he said are pretty much what I’ve started to think myself.’

  ‘Most people think he’s a bit of a joke. But I like him.’

  ‘I don’t think your Captain Ivanov is a joke at all. I think he’s a clever man. The question is, just how clever is he?’

  ‘That’s rather a mean thing to say,’ said Pamela. ‘Surely the question is, is he sincere?’

  ‘You’re quite right.’

  ‘Shall we have some of Hugo’s posh white wine? He insists on serving it at room temperature.’

  Rupert laid one hand on her arm to detain her. He spoke softly.
<
br />   ‘About Mary,’ he said.

  Pamela looked down.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Oh, Pamela. Can’t you see? I’m not trying to get at you. What you do is your own business. But you know it’s been torture for Mary.’

  ‘I never said it was Mary.’

  She was still avoiding his eyes. He waited.

  ‘What will you do?’ she said.

  ‘I’d like Mary to know the truth.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘It’s not the way you think,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not. Nothing is ever the way we think.’

  ‘So why dig it all up again?’

  ‘I just want Mary’s mind put at rest,’ he said. ‘Will you tell her, or shall I?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘She won’t blame you, or judge you. She’s not like that.’ Pamela looked up, and said with a trace of bitterness, ‘You think very well of Mary, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  It was almost nine o’clock. The wine tasting was coming to an end. Most of the clients had left. Hugo finally felt free to attend to his friends.

  ‘It’s always a bit hectic for a while,’ he said.

  ‘How’s it gone?’ said Rupert.

  ‘Well, I think. The new Rhônes were a big hit.’ He smiled at Pamela. ‘If your father were here, he’d be amazed. In his day we wouldn’t have dreamed of offering wines at these sorts of prices. But those vins de pays he came up with, they were fun to drink. And that’s what it’s all about in the end.’

  Pamela said nothing. Hugo thought perhaps his reference to her father had been tactless.

  ‘Pamela’s a terrific hit, you know,’ he said to Rupert. ‘We all love her.’

  *

  Larry came in the taxi with Hugo and Pamela back to Brook Green, where he was staying the night. They found Harriet in the drawing-room with Mary sitting beside her, reading to her aloud. They were reading a Georgette Heyer novel called A Civil Contract.

  ‘My eyes get so tired,’ said Harriet. ‘And Mary has such a lovely voice.’

  Hugo kissed her.

  ‘How’s the book?’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me. There’s one heroine who’s plain but worthy, and another who’s beautiful but worthless.’

  Mary laughed, and then gave Harriet an apologetic look.

  ‘Hello, Larry,’ said Harriet. ‘Did your evening go well?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Larry. ‘I have no complaints.’

  Pamela excused herself and went up to her room. There she sat in the armchair by the window and smoked a cigarette and thought what best to do.

  She felt cross with Rupert. As she saw it, the whole fuss over the money had died down, and no real harm had been done. She felt no guilt about taking it. The money was Hugo’s, and Hugo and her stepfather were partners. It was like taking money from her own parents. She would have asked for it openly, except she could never have made them understand why she needed it. She knew with absolute clarity that the two worlds did not intersect: the world of her family, and the world of André’s party. What made sense in one world was nonsense in the other. How could she have made even Hugo, who indulged her in all things, comprehend the absolute necessity of buying expensive black underwear? Under such circumstances she had taken the only path open to her, and had been proved right a hundredfold. She had no regrets.

  Pamela had wanted her triumph so intensely that it had come to seem to her to be worth whatever price she might have to pay. The taking of the money had become an act of courage – it had taken courage – in the pursuit of a noble cause. She had not anticipated that Mary would fall under suspicion. Even now she couldn’t stop herself from feeling that Mary was the most to blame, for making her life such a secret that she appeared to be the likely culprit.

  Pamela was also irritated with Rupert because of his fondness for Mary. This wasn’t jealousy. Pamela had no interest in Rupert for herself. It was more that Rupert’s preference for Mary seemed wilfully perverse. Of course one never said such things aloud, but Mary was the sort that you pitied, the humble kind who had learned to be content with a humble life. It was all horribly unfair, but what could she do about that? So it was annoying of Rupert to treat Mary as if she had the same claims to consideration as the rest of them. Pamela suspected it was some sort of moralism aimed at her, a punishment for her good looks. Rupert was, after all, a man. Men desired her. Why should Rupert be any different? So desiring her, and knowing she was beyond his reach, he looked for a means to punish her. He singled out Mary for his attentions. And when the occasion arose, he forced her into a position where she had to humiliate herself in front of Mary.

  So reasoned Pamela, sitting by her window, wishing the whole ridiculous little mess would just go away.

  She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and on up the attic stairs. Mary going to her room. With a cross little shake of her head, Pamela stubbed out her cigarette and rose to go after her.

  She tapped on the attic bedroom door.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Mary was surprised, and a little ashamed. The room was very plainly furnished.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid there’s nowhere to sit.’

  ‘We can sit on the bed.’

  So they sat on the bed, side by side.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ said Pamela, wanting to get it over as quickly as possible. ‘You’ll be terribly cross with me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I shan’t.’

  Her soft Irish lilt grated on Pamela’s ear. Now Mary would be Christian and forgiving. But it had to be done.

  ‘You know that money that was taken? It was me.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘I should have owned up. I never knew they’d suspect you. I was going to give the money back, as soon as I could. Then it all turned into such a fuss, I just got scared.’

  ‘Oh, Pamela.’

  ‘I can’t tell you why I needed the money. But I did.’

  ‘How awful for you!’

  This was harder than Pamela had expected. She had no wish to be pitied by Mary.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything to Harriet or Hugo.’

  ‘No, of course I won’t.’

  ‘If it comes up again I’ll tell them that I’m perfectly sure it wasn’t you. They won’t blame you, I promise.’

  ‘I think,’ said Mary hesitantly, ‘that Hugo still believes it was me took the money.’

  ‘I’ll tell him he’s wrong. I’ll tell him you and I have talked about it, and there’s no doubt in my mind.’

  ‘Won’t he ask you how you can be so sure?’

  Pamela understood this to mean she should confess the truth to Hugo. This caused her irritation to surface.

  ‘Really, Mary, you’ve only yourself to blame. Why do you have to make such a mystery out of your life?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary.

  ‘I don’t know what sort of a mess you’ve got yourself into, but I’m sure everyone would understand if you told us. Everyone makes mistakes.’

  ‘So they do.’

  ‘Unless you’ve done a murder or something.’

  ‘Oh, no! Nothing like that!’

  ‘Well, I’ve told you about a bad thing I did. So you’re one up on me now. But you’re still keeping your secrets.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Truly I am.’

  ‘You know the worst thing about secrets? People start imagining things. And what they imagine is far worse than the truth.’

  Mary hung her head in silence. Pamela knew she shouldn’t press her any more, but the devil in her was driving her on, saying to her, ‘She’s no better than you are. She’s got something to hide too.’

  ‘You know, Mary, we don’t even know where you come from. What if something were to happen to you? What if you fell ill? What if you were dying?’

  ‘I don’t mind dying.’<
br />
  She sounded so lost, and so unhappy. Pamela felt exasperated.

  ‘So you wouldn’t want your family told?’

  Mary was silent. Some instinct told Pamela to remain silent too, and let Mary’s conscience do the work.

  After some moments, Mary said, ‘County Donegal. Kilnacarry.’

  ‘That’s where you come from?’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘So if anything happens to you, that’s where we send word?’

  She nodded again. Her face had gone very pale.

  ‘All right. We’d better go to bed now.’

  She got up off the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry about the money.’

  Mary gave a shake of her head that said, That’s all over.

  ‘Just our secret,’ said Pamela.

  A mute nod.

  Pamela left, closing the attic door behind her. Back in her own room she took out paper and pencil and wrote down what Mary had said, so she wouldn’t forget it.

  Donegal. Kilnacarry.

  28

  The increase in the number of Soviet freighters docking in Cuban ports in August was noted by the CIA. Interviews with Cuban refugees in Miami revealed that the cargoes were being unloaded under conditions of maximum security. Trucks were being lowered by crane into the holds of ships, and lifted out again with the payloads covered by tarpaulins.

  ‘So what’s going on, John?’ Bobby Kennedy said to John McCone, the Director of the CIA.

  They were gathered in the Oval Office, the close-knit group round the president. Mac Bundy had his glasses off and was polishing the lenses, frowning at the news. Kennedy himself was sitting sprawled across one of the armchairs, his legs dangling.

  ‘Well, it’s weapons, that’s for sure,’ said McCone. ‘The question is, what weapons? What if it’s nukes?’

  ‘Are you telling us the Soviets are putting nukes on Cuba?’ said Bundy, sceptical.

  ‘We’ve no hard evidence of that,’ said McCone. ‘But my hunch is they will.’

  Bob McNamara shook his head, irritated.

  ‘Khrushchev would be insane to put nukes on Cuba.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ said McCone. ‘But the intelligence shows that Soviet military aid to Cuba is increasing all the time. Even if they’re not bringing in nukes, they’re arming Castro to the point where we’ll never get him out of there. And so long as Castro controls Cuba, the Soviets have got themselves a launch pad right by Florida.’