Dr Max plunged two finger-forks towards waistcoat pockets which today did not exist, and his hands slid on down to his thighs. ‘As it h–appens this water is superior, in the following respect. Ornithology being one of the many strings to my bow. What a curious phrase that is. Shouldn’t it be strings to my violin or something? Anyway, this patch of wetland, I would have you know, has been laid out at a particular angle, and planted in a particular way, to encourage the presence of certain desirable species by discouraging one great big bore of another species, id est the Canada goose. Something to do with that bank of reeds over there, without being too specific.
‘So we might conclude that this is a p–ositive im–provement on the way things had been before. And – to broaden the argument – is it not the case that when we consider such lauded and indeed fetichized concepts as, oh, I throw a few out at random, Athenian democracy, Palladian architecture, desert-sect worship of the kind that still holds many in thrall, there is no authentic moment of beginning, of purity, however hard their devotees pretend. We may choose to freeze a moment and say that it all “began” then, but as an historian I have to tell you that such labelling is intellectually indefensible. What we are looking at is almost always a replica, if that is the locally fashionable term, of something earlier. There is no prime moment. It is like saying that on a certain day an orang-utan sprang upright, put on a celluloid dicky, and announced that fish-knives were vulgar. Or’ – he giggled for the two of them – ‘that a gibbon suddenly wrote Gibbon. Not very likely, is it?’
‘So why have I always assumed that you despise the Project?’
‘Oh, Miss C–ochrane, entre n–ous, I do, I do. But that’s merely a social and aesthetic judgment. To any creature of taste and discernment, it’s a monstrosity planned and conceived, if I may so characterize our beloved Duce, by another monstrosity. But as an historian, I have to say that I barely object.’
‘Despite the fact that it’s all … constructed?’
The pseudonymous author of Nature Notes smiled benignly. ‘R–eality is r–ather like a r–abbit, if you’ll forgive the aphorism. The great public – our distant, happily distant paymasters – want reality to be like a pet bunny. They want it to lollop along and thump its foot picturesquely in its home-made hutch and eat lettuce out of their hand. If you gave them the real thing, something wild that bit, and, if you’ll pardon me, shat, they wouldn’t know what to do with it. Except strangle it and cook it.
‘As for being c–onstructed … well, so are you, Miss Cochrane, and so am I, constructed. I, if I may say so, a little more artfully than you.’
Martha chewed her sandwich and watched an aeroplane pass slowly overhead. ‘I can’t help noticing that when you addressed the Committee the other day, your nervous hesitations quite disappeared.’
‘A–stonishing, the e–ffects of a–drenaline.’
Martha laughed with a whole heart, and laid her hand on Dr Max’s arm. He gave a slight shudder as she did so. She laughed again.
‘Now, that little shudder you gave. Was that artful?’
‘S–uch a c–ynic, Miss Cochrane. By the same token, I might ask if your question was artful. But as to my shudder, yes, it was artful in that it was a learned and deliberate response to a particular gesture – not, you understand, that I took any offence. It is not a gesture I was making in my perambulator. I may, in some Jurassic period of my psychological development, have decided upon it, lifted it from the great mail-order catalogue of gestures. I may have got it off the peg. I may have hand-crafted it to fit. Larceny is not ruled out. Most people, in my opinion, steal much of what they are. If they didn’t, what poor items they would be. You’re just as constructed, in your own less … zestful way, no disrespect intended.’
‘For instance?’
‘For i–nstance, that question. You don’t say “No you Fool” or “Yes you Sage,” you merely say “For instance?” You withhold yourself. My observation – and this is in the context, Miss Cochrane, of being fond of you – is that either you participate actively, but in a stylized way, portraying yourself as a woman without illusions, which is a way of not participating, or you are provokingly silent, encouraging others to make fools of themselves. Not that I am against fools exhibiting their foolishness. But either way, you make yourself unavailable for scrutiny and, I would guess, contact.’
‘Dr Max, are you coming on to me?’
‘That’s ex–actly what I mean. Change the subject, ask a question, avoid c–ontact.’
Martha was silent. She didn’t talk like this with Paul. Theirs was a normal, day-to-day intimacy. This was intimacy too, but grown-up, abstract. Did that make any sense? She tried to think of a question that wasn’t a means of avoiding contact. She’d always thought asking questions was a form of contact. Depending on the answers, of course. Eventually, with a girlish hopefulness, she said, ‘Is that a Canada goose?’
‘The i–gnorance of the young, Miss Cochrane. Tut, indeed, tut. That is a perfectly ordinary and frankly rather scruffy mallard.’
. . .
MARTHA KNEW what she wanted: truth, simplicity, love, kindness, companionship, fun, and good sex was how the list might start. She also knew such list-making was daft; normally human, but still daft. So while her heart opened, her mind had remained anxious. Paul behaved as if their relationship were already a given: its parameters decided, its purpose certain, all problems strictly for the future. She recognized this trait all too well, the blithe urgency to get on with being a couple before the constituent parts and workings of coupledom had been established. She had been here before. Part of her wished she hadn’t; at times she felt burdened by her own history.
‘Do you think I avoid contact?’
‘What?’
‘Do you think I avoid contact?’
They were on her sofa, drinks in hand. Paul was stroking the inside of Martha’s forearm. At a certain point, just above the wrist, on the third or fourth pass, she would give a soft yelp of pleasure and jerk her arm away. He knew this, waited until it happened, then replied, ‘Yes. QED.’
‘But do you think I’m, oh, irritatingly silent or else putting on an act of some kind?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
Paul’s expression was of amused complacency. ‘Put it this way: I haven’t noticed.’
‘Well, if you haven’t noticed, it might as likely be yes as no.’
‘Look, I said it’s no. What’s the matter with you?’ He saw that she was still unconvinced. ‘I just think you’re … real. And you make me feel real. Is that good enough for you?’
‘I know it should be.’ Then, as if changing the subject, she said, ‘I was chatting to Dr Max at lunchtime.’ Paul gave a grunt of indifference. ‘You know that patch of wetland behind Pitman House?’
‘You mean the pond?’
‘It’s a patch of wetland, Paul. I was talking to Dr Max about it. He’s an amateur ornithologist. Did you know he was Country Mouse in The Times every Saturday?’
Paul smiled a sigh. ‘That’s probably the least interesting piece of information you’ve told me in all the time we’ve been together. Country Mouse, what a misnomer for a … poncey twat who talks at you as if he’s still on television. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Jeff doesn’t punch him one of these days. Oh, and I really dislike his l–ittle he–sitations when he sp–eaks.’
‘He’s interesting. You don’t have to like someone for them to be interesting. Anyway, I do like him. In fact, I’m very fond of him.’
‘I de–test him.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘I do–hoo.’ Paul reached again for her arm.
‘No. He told me something fascinating. Apparently they designed that wetland in a particular way. It’s to do with the landscaping, the planting of the reeds, the height of the banks, the direction of the water. The idea is to stop Canada geese landing on it. I suppose they’re a pest, or they frighten other birds away. There was a very pretty mallard on t
he water at lunchtime.’
‘Martha,’ said Paul heavily, ‘I know you’re a country girl, but why are you telling me this? Is Dr Max planning a bird section for the Project? Doesn’t he remember Sir Jack’s instruction, Fuck the puffins?’
‘I thought you’d given up quoting Pitmanisms. I thought you’d been cured. No, it just set me thinking. I mean, do you think we’re like that?’
‘Us?’
‘Not you and me. People generally. The whole business of who you … click with and who you don’t. It’s a mystery, finally, isn’t it? Why do I find you attractive rather than someone else?’
‘We’ve been into this. Because I’m younger, shorter, wear glasses, don’t earn as much, and –’
‘Come on, Paul. I’m trying to move on. I’m not saying it’s … silly that I’m attracted to you.’
‘Thanks. What a relief. So how about coming to bed with me? Just to show you really are.’
‘You see, if someone was trying to be objective about it, they might think it had something to do with my father.’
‘Hang on.’ Paul couldn’t decide whether he was amused or irritated. ‘But we’ve agreed I’m younger than you.’
‘Quite. So, for instance, I don’t trust older men. Something like that.’
‘That, as you said to me not long ago, is fairly cheap psychology.’
‘Sorry,’ said Martha. ‘Or you could say that you’re a contrast to the men I’ve been out with in the past. Or you could say that there’s simply no pattern to it.’
‘Like we’re both heterosexual and happen to work in the same office and fate threw us together?’
‘Or you could say there is a pattern, but it’s one we don’t know, or can’t understand. That there’s something guiding us without our knowing.’
‘Hang on. Hang on. Stop.’ Paul got up and stood in front of her. He raised a finger so she wouldn’t say any more. ‘I’ve got it, I’ve finally got it. I think it was the idea that Dr Mer–mer–mer–Max might have anything remotely relevant to say on the subject of human relationships that threw me. Now I’m there. You’re a patch of wetland, and you can’t understand why all those nice big Canada geese aren’t stopping by, and why you have to settle for a boring old mallard like me.’
‘No. Not entirely. Not at all. Anyway, mallards are very nice.’
‘If that’s accurate flattery, I’m not sure I can handle it.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I don’t think, I quack.’
‘No, really.’
‘Quack quack.’
‘Paul, stop it.’
‘Quack. Quack. Quack.’ He saw Martha on the cusp of laughter. ‘Quack.’
GARY DESMOND NEVER CAME too soon. That is what his colleagues used to say of him, admiringly. He had good contacts, secured his sources, did the leg-work, triple-checked anything iffy, and only brought his story to the editor when it was busting out of its bra. He also had the advantage, as an acquirer and purveyor of sex stories, that he didn’t look like one. Most people imagined some coarse, collusive, blackmailing humanoid who leeringly licked a pencil between note-taking and had stains on his trench-coat which might have been beer but probably weren’t.
Gary Desmond wore a dark suit and restrained tie, and on certain occasions a wedding ring; he was intelligent, civil, and rarely put discernible pressure on his informants. His approach was – or seemed – sympathetic yet businesslike. This story had come to the paper’s attention, they had researched it thoroughly, and were intending to publish shortly; but first they wanted, out of courtesy, and indeed moral obligation, to check it with the key protagonist. There were some facts she or he might like to clarify, and obviously the newspaper would like to help in any way it could when rivals picked up the story and – let’s be realistic about this – persuaded other parties to put a different slant on affairs. In short, there was a problem, and a problem that wouldn’t go away, but Gary Desmond was there to help you. Instead of suggestive pencil-licking, he made slow notes with a gold-nibbed fountain-pen, the sort of semi-antique that could become a talking-point, and his manner was endlessly patient and faintly subservient, so in the end it was usually you who first mentioned money. It just needed a mild ‘I suppose my expenses will be covered?’ or a more blatant ‘Drink in it for me?’ – and before you knew it you were at a ‘secret hideaway under an assumed name,’ which sounded more exotic than a Home Counties conference hotel near a by-pass, but still … And the tape-recorder would turn and turn – the likeable fountain-pen having long since been put away – as Gary Desmond went over and over things he already knew, or seemed to know, but just wanted to double-check. By this time you had already signed the contract and seen the air-tickets. Indeed, such was your bonding with Gary – as you had slipped into calling him – that you even wondered, with a cute toss of your bleached hair, whether he couldn’t come with you and share those five days in the sun waiting for it all to blow over. And sometimes he did and sometimes it was regrettably against the rules.
All this professional lulling did not prepare you for a front page which read MY DRUG-CRAZED LEZZIE ROMPS WITH PRINCE RICK. Inside, across two pages, you saw yourself, cleavage adangle, laid out in a French basque on a snooker table naughtily cupping a couple of balls in your hand. Then came the call from your parents, who’d always been so proud of you but now couldn’t hold up their heads let alone walk into the pub; except it was only a call from Mum, because Dad couldn’t bring himself to speak to you. And after that came follow-ups from loyal ex-boyfriends of several years ago (‘Just lay in bed like a big fat poodle and let Mugsie do all the work … Had even bought the ring when she upped and offed with a toff … Always a bit of a goer but who’d have thought it would have led to hard drugs and three-in-bed romps …’). It was all so unfair, and the papers were vicious, and it was only coke and most of it had been Petronella’s idea anyway. So you looked to Gary Desmond for support, and yes, he was still there, if returning your calls a little more slowly than before; but no, alas, he didn’t have time for a meal this week, working on a big story, out of town, maybe a drink some time, anyway, chin up, girl, in Gary’s opinion you came out of it really well, full of dignity, and what did they say, always shoot the messenger, eh? It was only if you carried on whingeing that his tone would harden just a little and he would remind you that it was a tough old world out there, play with fire you should expect to get burnt, and if you wanted his advice you’d had the cheque so why didn’t you trot along and spend a bit of it, there’s no girl in his experience that wasn’t cheered up by a new frock, sorry, love, gotta run. And you didn’t have time to suggest that if he came to the shop with you he could say you still looked nice and not a disgusting slag like you’d been called only yesterday with no provocation. How many of these did the doctor say to take for not sleeping?
Gary Desmond’s dark-blue van, which looked as if it dealt in superior maintenance of an unspecified kind, was parked across from Auntie May’s house in Chorleywood for some time. The cab was always empty, and no passing dog-walker or neighbourhood watch snooper suspected that the air-vents were peep-holes, and that inside Gary was at work with notebook, tape-recorder, and fast film. The identification of visitors to ‘Ardoch’ involved a small amount of sub-contracting; he bought an old chum a big drink for credit-card access; but he kept everything watertight and the name of the chief bumblebee, the big fat buzzer, was never mentioned.
Making the first contact was always the trickiest part, since Gary Desmond’s ignorance was at its fullest, and there was always the chance that Fruitfly Number One would scream ‘Fuck off you slimy bastard,’ run to the phone, and warn off his Auntie May, thus putting the kibosh on the whole operation. But the shy and balding airline pilot – a divorced sadsack in his fifties, whom Gary Desmond chose to confront in the fellow’s local pub, where the likelihood of erratic behaviour was diminished – felt initially calmed both by Gary’s manner and by his lies. Of course he was nothing as offensive as a
journalist; his documentation showed him as a special investigator for HM Customs and Excise. It was a drugs case, worldwide, with a certain amount of murder attached, and one of the key figures was a frequent habitué of a certain address. Gary Desmond emphasized to his now anxious victim that this wasn’t a police matter, it had nothing to do with the press, and they weren’t at all bothered by Auntie May’s establishment. As far as the Excise were concerned, law-abiding, tax-clean citizens could do in private whatever they liked, as long as minors, protected species, and certain classified substances were not involved. Now could they perhaps go somewhere he was less well known and talk?
At the end of the evening Gary paid the restaurant bill and with a regretful gesture placed an envelope on the table. It wasn’t his way of doing things, but his superiors insisted that those who helped the Excise had their expenses defrayed. The pilot refused. Gary quite understood, while adding that such monies were strictly non-accountable – no names, no receipts. Why did they call it ‘petty’ cash, he wondered; that was a misnomer if ever there was one. Consider it a rebate from the Chancellor. After a few moments the pilot took the envelope without looking inside. Gary Desmond was pretty sure they wouldn’t need any more assistance, though of course they knew where to find him (and his employers) if necessary. Strictly off the record, the investigation might take another couple of months, at which point Auntie May would have one fewer client, but in other respects everything would be back to normal.
The next stage was easier: the routine establishment of names, times, contacts, prices, choices, methods. Then came a final hard decision: did they need Auntie May or didn’t they? If she panicked, or ran, or simply got loyal, things could be jeopardized. But if she co-operated for just a sweet hour or two’s taping … Gary Desmond rethought his persona. Perhaps the security services this time, contact with a certain Arab dictator, remember those little children with their throats cut, heart-breaking the pictures, weren’t they, just a question of taking out a single client – yes, a well-known face, a very well-known one, but then in some ways she must prefer anonymous faces. No question of expenses, by the way, absolutely no question of expenses. What they proposed instead, indeed insisted upon, was a large fee. A very large fee indeed. Just the three hours. Small aperture in the plasterwork necessary, but in, out, never see us again.
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