Final Witness

by Simon Tolkien

  “I sincerely hope she isn’t,” said Lady Anne. “I don’t hold with revolution. People ought to know their place.”

  Immediately Lady Anne wanted to apologize, to take the words back, but something inside prevented her from doing so. It was the same resentment and anger that had possessed her in the House of the Four Winds three months earlier, on the night when the fisherman drowned in Flyte Bay and Peter took Greta down to the harbor to find Christopher Marsh. Not her but Greta. Always Greta.

  She’d said almost the same thing then, she remembered. It was as if those words, “know your place,” were always lurking there just beneath her consciousness, ready to fly out. As if she knew that they would be the most likely to inflict the deepest wound on her enemy. Judging from Greta’s twisted expression, it looked to Lady Anne as if she had more than succeeded this time.

  There was an awkward silence, which no one seemed able to fill until Lady Anne spoke again, this time to her husband: “How were your constituents?”

  “Okay, although I could’ve done with Greta being there. She always has all the difficult ones eating out of her hand.”

  Lady Anne frowned. Her husband had as usual found a way of expressing his support for his personal assistant rather than his wife.

  “I thought you were going up there together.”

  “No, Greta had to change her plans. Her mother was unwell and so she had to go and stay up in Manchester for the night.”

  “I’m sorry, Greta,” said Lady Anne. “Is she okay?” There was real concern in her voice. She felt guilty now about lashing out.

  “Yes, she’s fine, thank you,” said Greta. It hadn’t taken her long to recover her self-possession. “It’s just the arthritis. She gets depressed and a visit cheers her up.”

  “I’m sure it does,” said Lady Anne, getting up from the sofa. “Well, I’m for bed; and Thomas, you better go up too. You’ve got another long day ahead of you tomorrow, and you need your sleep. I don’t want you looking like you did this morning again.”

  “What was wrong with him this morning?” asked Sir Peter.

  “Great black circles under his eyes. I don’t think he slept a wink. Too excited about being in London, I imagine. Come on, Thomas. Bedtime.”

  Thomas went over to his father, provided him with another dutiful kiss, then hesitated in the middle of the room. He didn’t know whether to kiss Greta or not.

  She made his mind up for him, getting up from her chair and walking over to him. She kissed him warmly on the cheek, resting her arm on his shoulder for a moment as she did so.

  “Good night,” she whispered, and as Thomas turned to go, summoned again by his mother to follow her up to bed, she added, “I’m glad you liked the play.”

  Fifteen minutes later Thomas lay in bed gripped by a turmoil of conflicting emotions.

  Greta had lied about where she had been the previous night. She hadn’t been hundreds of miles away like she’d said, tending to her sick mother in Manchester. She’d been downstairs in the basement entertaining a strange man who wore his hair in a ponytail and had a scar running down under his ear. She’d told him to be patient, to wait a little longer. Wait a little longer for what? Thomas wondered, as he had done off and on ever since he’d gotten back up to his bedroom the night before.

  There were so many unanswered questions. Who was the man? Why had Greta lied? What was she waiting for?

  Thomas put his hand up to his cheek and gently ran the tips of his fingers over the spot where Greta’s lips had placed her good-night kiss. He remembered how pretty she’d looked when she’d spoken those lines from the play, and then, with a rush, he remembered his dream.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning Thomas waited at the top of the stairs leading down to the kitchen. He could hear his mother talking to his father, who was clearly about to leave — Thomas could see his briefcase out in the hall with a raincoat draped over it — and his natural instinct was to avoid his father if he could. But he also wanted to hear what his parents were saying — he knew they were talking about him, because they kept using his name.

  “You need to spend more time with the boy. Either that or he’s going to need some outside help.” Thomas could hear the anxiety in his mother’s voice.

  “I will. I told you I will.” Peter sounded irritated. “I’m taking him out today, aren’t I? It’s your fault for keeping him down in Flyte all the time. He needs to go away to a good school. That’d make him grow up.”

  “He is going to a good school. We’ve been over all this, Peter. I don’t agree with you about English boarding schools. I never have and I never will. All they do is turn out emotional cripples with a taste for sadomasochism.”

  “But tying him to your apron strings isn’t doing him much good either, is it? We wouldn’t be having this conversation if Thomas was an emotional success.”

  “No, we wouldn’t. He’s obviously got some sort of a death fixation. You don’t have to be a psychiatrist to see that. And it’s gotten a lot worse since his dog died.”

  “Dogs do die,” said Peter brutally. “It’s part of growing up.”

  “For you, maybe. But you should have seen him yesterday. His imagination’s completely out of control. I mean, he’s a world authority on executions. He could take the tourists round the Tower of London himself, telling them how many axe blows it took to dispatch Anne Boleyn, and what they did with her head afterward. And then Macbeth — he was practically jumping out of his seat.”

  “Well, that’s your fault. You shouldn’t have taken him to the bloody play if he’s got this problem.”

  “I know I shouldn’t. But he’s not the way he is because of going to the theater. You know that, Peter.”

  “All right, I get the point. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to spend more time with him. Take him out in the world a bit.”

  “How? You stay down in Suffolk all the time, and I’m trying to be a cabinet minister.”

  “Well, we’ll both have to try harder, that’s all. We are his parents, you know. I’ll bring him up to London more, and you can take him out when I do.”

  “Okay, it’s a deal. Starting today. After I’ve dealt with these Arabs. They want to buy a whole lot of fighter aircraft to use on each other. Have him meet me at twelve. I’ll be free by then.”

  Thomas’s parents came out into the hall, and he ducked back behind the banister. As they kissed each other good-bye on the front doorstep, they looked just for a moment like a normal middle-aged couple at the start of a working day, instead of two people who only saw each other two weekends each month.

  After the door shut, Thomas waited a minute or two before going down to join his mother in the kitchen.

  “You look better, Tom,” she said brightly. “It’s wonderful what a proper night’s sleep will do for a tired boy.”

  “I do sleep well. Why do you keep on going on about how weird I am?” he asked irritably.

  “I don’t. Where do you get that idea from?”

  Thomas didn’t reply. He wanted to know what his mother had meant by outside help, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to own up to eavesdropping.

  “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

  “He had to go early. Something came up with his work, but he’s still taking you out to lunch and showing you round Parliament.”

  “Oh, God, Mum, do I have to?”

  “Yes, of course you do. Don’t be so mean, Thomas. You should be proud of your father and all he’s achieved.”

  “Well, he’s not proud of me. Any chance he gets he’s on about how hopeless I am. Doesn’t play cricket. Doesn’t play rugby. How can I when they don’t even play rugby at my school?”

  “I know. He needs to get to know you; spend some time with you. That’s why I’m so pleased about today. You’re to meet him in the lobby of his office building at midday.”

  “What? In Whitehall? Will I need a pass?”

  “No, of course not. You’
re only going into the reception area. You might need one later, I suppose, when he takes you on the Parliament tour, but he’ll organize all that.”

  “Do you think we’ll see the prime minister?” asked Thomas, suddenly shaking off his lethargy as the full possibilities of the tour opened up to him.

  “I don’t know, but you’ll need to be dressed smartly if you do. You can wear your blazer and the trousers we bought at Harrods the other day. And you better take a coat as well, in case it rains.”

  Lady Anne was going to the hairdresser and then on to her dressmaker, so Thomas was alone in the taxi as it went past Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. He felt confused by his emotions. He was still smarting with resentment at the offhand way in which his father had talked about him earlier, but he was also curious about what he was going to see. Not every boy was the son of a cabinet minister. More than anything Thomas felt nervous as he got out in front of the tall gray stone Victorian office building with the gold plaque on the side of the high doorway bearing the legend MINISTRY OF DEFENSE. He became almost tongue-tied as he tried to explain his business to a porter who seemed to consider it part of his employment contract to wear an unvaryingly dubious expression when dealing with members of the public, whatever their age.

  Thomas waited for nearly five minutes, wilting under the porter’s withering stare, until Greta appeared at the top of a flight of red carpeted stairs. She looked different today. In Flyte and again on the previous evening she’d been dressed casually, but now she was wearing a dark gray business suit over a plain white blouse. The material was soft and beautifully cut to display her figure to the best advantage, and the hemline of the skirt was high above the knee, revealing the perfection of her long, tanned legs. Thomas’s head swam for a moment as his recent dream of Greta returned to him with sudden intensity.

  She came running down the stairs carrying a picnic basket. She put down the basket and kissed him on the cheek, just like she had the night before, resting her arm on his shoulder so that he felt her breasts for a moment brushing against his chest.

  “Been looking after our young guest, have you, Mills?” she said, turning with a mock serious expression toward the old porter, who grunted in response from behind his desk. Not even Greta in a miniskirt seemed capable of changing his dubious exterior.

  “Miserable Mills we call him,” whispered Greta, bending toward Thomas so as not to be overheard.

  “I can see why,” he whispered back, but his voice came out louder than he’d intended and he was sure that Miserable Mills had heard them. He looked suddenly quite warlike, gripping a stapler on his desk with apparently ferocious intent.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” said Greta, ignoring the outbreak of militancy behind her. “Your father can’t make it. There’s been a semidisaster this morning. The Saudis are threatening to cancel a big defense contract.”

  “Why?”

  “The usual thing. Somebody’s said something rude about their legal system. I must say it gets bloody difficult at times pretending it’s perfectly all right to stone women for adultery and cut people’s heads off in the town center. Anyway, it’s not his fault he can’t be here, and he is really sorry. I hope you don’t mind having me as a substitute.”

  As she spoke, Greta was shepherding Thomas out of the building and into a taxi she’d hailed just as they set foot on the sidewalk.

  “It’s not far, but I don’t feel like dragging the picnic around with us if we can avoid it. I thought that we could have it by the river after we’ve done the Houses of Parliament.”

  Thomas was touched. His feelings about Greta were as confused as ever. The evident antipathy between her and his mother made him feel that a day spent with Greta would be seen by his mother as an act of disloyalty, but what choice did he have? His father had let him down, and his mother had gone out for the day. It was kind of Greta to take the time out and bring a picnic. She didn’t need to do that. Thomas took it as a compliment, and sitting beside Greta in the taxi he felt his skin tingle as he anticipated the day ahead.

  It was the Easter recess and Parliament was not sitting. The long green leather benches in the House of Commons did not interest Thomas much even when Greta pointed out the government front bench and the microphone where his father would stand when making a statement to the House. Thomas felt let down by his father but at the same time relieved that he didn’t have to spend the day with him. He could imagine how boring his father would have made it, whereas Greta told racy anecdotes about prominent politicians, prefacing each disclosure with an injunction “not to breathe a word or I’ll get into terrible trouble with your father.”

  The sun was shining high in a cloudless sky when they got outside into Parliament Square just after one o’clock, and they walked down to the park carrying the picnic basket between them. There was a blanket on top of it, and Greta spread it out on the grass near the river.

  “We went on a boat yesterday,” said Thomas, making conversation while Greta unpacked the rest of the picnic. “Me and my mother. We went from here up to the Tower. Past Traitors’ Gate.”

  “God, it’s a grisly place,” said Greta. “I haven’t been there since I first came to London.”

  “Why grisly?”

  “Well, where do you start? The Princes in the Tower. Anne Boleyn. Catherine Howard.”

  “Yes, we saw where they were executed.”

  “By that bastard, Henry the Eighth. The most disgusting old man in history. Marries pretty girls a third of his age, and a third of his weight too, and then he kills them when they have an affair. What did he expect?”

  “But they didn’t,” said Thomas eagerly. “Not Anne Boleyn anyway. Thomas Cromwell told the King she did, but she didn’t.” Henry VIII and his six wives was one of his favorite historical subjects.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I know what I would have done if I’d been married to that old goat.”

  Thomas did not respond. Greta’s reference to her own sex drive made his heart beat fast. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks and turned away.

  “Come on, let’s not talk about people getting executed. It’s much too nice a day for that. I don’t want to get blamed for you having another sleepless night.”

  “What do you mean? I slept fine.”

  “That’s not what your mother said last night, Thomas. She said you had dark circles under your eyes, that she didn’t think you’d slept at all.”

  “Oh, you mean the night before.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Greta looked at Thomas expectantly. She hadn’t asked any question, but it felt to Thomas exactly as if she were waiting for an answer. When he didn’t give her one, she pressed the subject further.

  “It must be strange being in London after the quiet of Flyte. It takes awhile to adjust, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “The traffic can be noisy too. Even when it’s way past midnight. It often keeps me up.”

  “Well, I didn’t have a problem. Not the first night and not last night either. I don’t know what my mother was talking about.”

  Greta smiled. She seemed to visibly relax suddenly, and Thomas felt as if he’d given her exactly what she wanted. He knew he should have been pleased; the last thing he needed was for Greta to suspect that he’d been spying on her and her mysterious friend. However, he also felt the old sense of disloyalty stirring within him. He couldn’t even be with Greta anymore without feeling that he was treating his mother badly, and there were other things that he knew he shouldn’t forget. Like the man with the scar, and the lie she’d told his parents last night about being with her mother in Manchester.

  Thomas knew that he needed to be on his guard, but it was hard when Greta was so attractive and was making such an effort to be nice to him.

  “I’ve got white wine,” she said. “A little won’t hurt you, but don’t tell your parents.”

  This secret didn’t require any oral agreement. Taking the polystyrene c
up from Greta’s outstretched hand was quite sufficient to seal Thomas’s complicity, and the alcohol made everything glow in the warm afternoon sunlight.

  “God, I wish I was wearing something more comfortable,” said Greta as she took off her jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. She had already kicked off her high-heeled shoes when they sat down.

  “Not enough room in the picnic basket for cushions, I’m afraid. Look, I can’t use this jacket, Thomas. I need it for work. Do you mind me using your legs? As a pillow, I mean.”

  Thomas nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak as Greta stretched her legs out on the blanket and positioned her head on his thigh. She closed her eyes and sighed with apparent contentment.

  Thomas was lying on his side with his head resting on his elbow, and soon his arm began to ache, but he didn’t move. Concentrating all his attention instead on slowing down his breathing and his heartbeat, he moved his other arm until it came to rest just by where the mane of Greta’s raven hair was spread out over the pale cotton trousers that his mother had bought him the day before.

  He hesitated for what seemed like an age with his hand suspended above Greta’s head before he began gently to stroke her hair. After a moment she turned her head slightly so as to move herself more fully onto his legs, and looking down, Thomas could see the rounded beginnings of her breasts. He felt himself hardening against her, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He was certain that Greta couldn’t help but be aware of his excitement. However, she did not move away from him. Instead, without opening her eyes, she began to talk in a sensual, half-sleepy voice that aroused him even more.

  “You know I like you, Thomas. I always have. You’re so unlike your father, and yet you remind me of him as well.”

  “I like you too,” whispered Thomas.

  “Your father and a boy I knew in school years ago,” Greta mused. “You remind me of him as well.” Thomas didn’t know whether she had heard him or not. “Pierre, he was called. Always quoting poetry; telling crazy stories. His father was from somewhere in France and hated it in Manchester. Maybe Pierre got it from him. His romantic nature, I mean.”