The Honorable Schoolboy

by John le Carré

  “I do think you people are very underrated,” Smiley said, mildly shaking his head. “I have friends in the profession myself. They sit up half the night just correcting the work, so they assure me, and I’ve no reason to doubt them.”

  “They’re the conscientious ones.”

  “I trust I may include you in that category.”

  Peter Worthington grinned, suddenly very pleased. “Afraid so. If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well,” he said, helping Smiley out of his raincoat.

  “I could wish that view were a little more widely held, to be frank.”

  “You should have been a teacher yourself,” said Peter Worthington, and they both laughed.

  “What do you do with your little boy?” said Smiley, sitting down.

  “Ian? Oh, he goes to his gran’s. My side, not hers,” he added as he poured. He handed Smiley a cup. “You married?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, I am, and very happily so, too, if I may say so.”

  “Kids?”

  Smiley shook his head, allowing himself a small frown of disappointment. “Alas,” he said.

  “That’s where it hurts,” said Peter Worthington, entirely reasonably.

  “I’m sure it does,” said Smiley. “Still, we’d have liked the experience. You feel it more, at our age.”

  “You said on the phone there was some news of Elizabeth,” said Peter Worthington. “I’d be awfully grateful to hear it, I must say.”

  “Well, nothing to be excited about,” said Smiley cautiously.

  “But hopeful. One must have hope.”

  Smiley stooped to the official black plastic brief-case and unlocked the cheap clasp.

  “Well, now, I wonder whether you’ll oblige me,” he said. “It’s not that I’m holding back on you, but we do like to be sure. I’m a belt-and-braces man myself, and I don’t mind admitting it. We do exactly the same with our foreign deceases. We never commit ourselves until we’re absolutely sure. Forenames, surname, full address, date of birth, if we can get it. We go to no end of trouble. Just to be safe. Not cause, of course, we don’t do cause—that’s up to the local authorities.”

  “Shoot ahead,” said Peter Worthington heartily. Noticing the exaggeration in his tone, Smiley glanced up, but Peter Worthington’s honest face was turned away and he seemed to be studying a pile of old music stands heaped in a corner.

  Licking his thumb, Smiley laboriously opened a file on his lap and turned some pages. It was the Foreign Office file, marked “Missing Person,” and obtained by Lacon on a pretext to Enderby.

  “Would it be asking too much if I went through the details with you from the beginning? Only the salient ones, naturally, and only what you wish to tell me—I don’t have to say that, do I? My headache is, you see, I’m actually not the normal person for this work. My colleague Wendover, whom you met, is sick, I’m afraid—and well, we don’t always like to put everything on paper, do we? He’s an admirable fellow, but when it comes to report writing I do find him a little terse. Not sloppy, far from it, but sometimes a little wanting on the human-picture side.”

  “I’ve always been absolutely frank. Always,” said Peter Worthington rather impatiently to the music stands. “I believe in that.”

  “And for our part, I can assure you we at the Office do respect a confidence.”

  A sudden lull descended. It had not occurred to Smiley, till this moment, that the scream of children could be soothing; yet as it stopped, and the playground emptied, he had a sense of dislocation which took him a moment to get over.

  “Break’s finished,” said Peter Worthington, with a smile.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Break. Milk and buns. What you pay your taxes for.”

  “Now first of all, there is no question here, according to my colleague Wendover’s notes—nothing against him, I hasten to say—that Mrs. Worthington left under any kind of con-straint. . . . Just a minute. Let me explain what I mean by that. Please. She left voluntarily. She left alone. She was not unduly prevailed upon, lured, or in any wise the victim of unnatural pressure. Pressure, for instance, which, let us say, might in due course be the subject of a legal court action by yourself or others against a third party not so far named?”

  Long-windedness, as Smiley knew, creates in those who must put up with it an almost unbearable urge to speak. If they do not interrupt directly, they at least counter with pent-up energy; and as a schoolmaster, Peter Worthington was not by any means a natural listener.

  “She left alone, absolutely alone, and my entire position is, was, and always has been that she was free to do so. If she had not left alone, if there had been others involved—men, God knows we’re all human—it would have made no difference. Does that satisfy your question? Children have a right to both parents,” he ended, stating a maxim.

  Smiley was writing diligently but very slowly. Peter Worthington drummed his fingers on his knee, then cracked them, one after another, in a quick impatient salvo.

  “Now in the interim, Mr. Worthington, can you please tell me whether a custody order has been applied for in respect of—”

  “We always knew she’d wander. That was understood. I was her anchor. She called me ‘my anchor.’ Either that or ‘schoolmaster.’ I didn’t mind. It wasn’t badly meant. It was just she couldn’t bear to say Peter. She loved me as a concept. Not as a figure, perhaps, a body, a mind, a person, not even as a partner. As a concept, a necessary adjunct to her personal, human completeness. She had an urge to please; I understand that. It was part of her insecurity, she longed to be admired. If she paid a compliment, it was because she wished for one in return.”

  “I see,” said Smiley, and wrote again, as if physically subscribing to this view.

  “I mean nobody could have a girl like Elizabeth as a wife and expect to have her all to himself. It wasn’t natural. I’ve come to terms with that now. Even little Ian had to call her Elizabeth. Again I understand. She couldn’t bear the chains of ‘Mummy.’ Child running after her calling ‘Mummy.’ Too much for her. That’s all right. I understand that too. I can imagine it might be hard for you, as a childless man, to understand how a woman of any stamp, a mother—well cared for and loved and looked after, not even having to earn—can literally walk out on her own son and not even send him a postcard from that day to this. Probably that worries, even disgusts you. Well, I take a different view, I’m afraid. At the time, I grant you—yes, it was hard.”

  He glanced toward the wired playground. He spoke quietly with no hint at all of self-pity. He might have been talking to a pupil. “We try to teach people freedom here. Freedom within citizenship. Let them develop their individuality. How could I tell her who she was? I wanted to be there, that’s all. To be Elizabeth’s friend. Her longstop—that was another of her words for me. ‘My longstop.’ The point is she didn’t need to go. She could have done it all here. At my side. Women need a prop, you know. Without one—”

  “And you still have not received any direct word of her?” Smiley enquired meekly. “Not a letter, not even that postcard to Ian, nothing?”

  “Not a sausage.”

  “Mr. Worthington, to your knowledge, has your wife ever used another name?” For some reason, the question threatened to annoy Peter Worthington quite considerably; he flared, as if he were responding to impertinence in class, and his finger shot up to command silence. But Smiley hurried on. “Her maiden name, for instance? Perhaps an abbreviation of her married one, which in a non-English-speaking country could create difficulties with the natives—”

  “Never. Never, never. You have to understand basic human behavioural psychology. She was a textbook case. She couldn’t wait to get rid of her father’s name. One very good reason why she married me was to have a new father and a new name. Once she’d got it, why should she give it up? It was the same with her romancing, her wild, wild story-telling. She was trying to escape from her environment. Having done so, having succeeded, having found me, and the stability whic
h I represent, she naturally no longer needed to be someone else. She was someone else. She was fulfilled. So why go?”

  Again Smiley took his time. He looked at Peter Worthington as if in uncertainty; he looked at his file; he turned to the last entry, tipped his spectacles and read it, obviously not by any means for the first time.

  “Mr. Worthington, if our information is correct, and we have good reason to believe it is—I’d say our estimate was a conservative eighty percent sure, I’d go that far—your wife is at present using the surname Worth. And she is using a forename with a German spelling, curiously enough ‘L-i-e-s-e.’ Pronounced not ‘Liza,’ I am told, but ‘Leesa.’ I wondered whether you were in a position to confirm or deny this suggestion, also the suggestion that she is actively connected with a Far Eastern jewellery business with ramifications extending to Hong Kong and other major centres. She appears to be living in a style of affluence and good social appearance, moving in quite high circles.”

  Peter Worthington seemed to absorb very little of this. He had taken a position on the floor but seemed unable to lower his knees. Cracking his fingers once more, he glared impatiently at the music stands crowded like skeletons into the corner of the room, and was already trying to speak before Smiley had ended.

  “Look. This is what I want. That whoever approaches her should make the right kind of point. I don’t want any passionate appeals, no appeals to conscience. All that’s out. Just a straight statement of what’s offered, and she’s welcome. That’s all.”

  Smiley took refuge in the file: “Well, before we come to that, if we could just continue going through the facts, Mr. Worthington—”

  “There aren’t facts,” said Peter Worthington, thoroughly irritated again. “There are just two people. Well, three, with Ian. There aren’t facts in a thing like this. Not in any marriage. That’s what life teaches us. Relationships are entirely subjective. I’m sitting on the floor. That’s a fact. You’re writing. That’s a fact. Her mother was behind it. That’s a fact. Follow me? Her father is a raving criminal lunatic. That’s a fact. Elizabeth is not the daughter of the Queen of Sheba or the natural grandchild of Lloyd George. Whatever she may say. She has not got a degree in Sanskrit, which she chose to tell the headmistress, who still believes it to this day. ‘When are we going to see your charming Oriental wife again?’ She knows no more about jewellery than I do. That’s a fact.”

  “Dates and places,” Smiley murmured to the file. “If I could just check those for a start.”

  “Absolutely,” said Peter Worthington handsomely, and from a green tin teapot refilled Smiley’s cup. Blackboard chalk was worked into his large fingertips. It was like the grey in his hair.

  “It really was the mother that messed her up, I’m afraid, though,” he went on, in the same entirely reasonable tone. “All that urgency about putting her on the stage, then ballet, then trying to get her into television. Her mother just wanted Elizabeth to be admired. As a substitute for herself, of course. It’s perfectly natural, psychologically. Read Berne. Read anyone. That’s just her way of defining her individuality. Through her daughter. One must respect that those things happen. I understand all that now. She’s okay, I’m okay, the world’s okay, Ian’s okay, then suddenly she’s off.”

  “Do you happen to know whether she communicates with her mother, incidentally?”

  Peter Worthington shook his head.

  “Absolutely not, I’m afraid. She’d seen through her entirely by the time she left. Broken with her completely. The one hurdle I can safely say I helped her over. My one contribution to her happiness—”

  “I don’t think we have her mother’s address here,” said Smiley, leafing doggedly through the pages of the file. “You don’t—”

  Peter Worthington gave it to him rather loud, at dictation speed.

  “And now the dates and places,” Smiley repeated. “Please.”

  She had left him two years ago. Peter Worthington recited not just the date but the hour. There had been no scene—Peter Worthington didn’t hold with scenes; Elizabeth had had too many with her mother—they’d had a happy evening, as a matter of fact, particularly happy. For a diversion, he’d taken her to the kebab house.

  “Perhaps you spotted it as you came down the road? The Knossos, it’s called, next door to the Express Dairy?”

  They’d had wine and a real blow-out, and Andrew Wiltshire, the new English master, had come along to make a three. Elizabeth had introduced this Andrew to yoga only a few weeks before; they had gone to classes together at the Sobell Centre and become great buddies.

  “She was really into yoga,” he said, with an approving nod of the grizzled head. “It was a real interest for her. Andrew was just the sort of chap to bring her out. Extrovert, unreflective, physical . . . perfect for her,” he said determinedly.

  The three of them had returned to the house at ten, because of the baby-sitter, he said: himself, Andrew, and Elizabeth. He’d made coffee, they’d listened to music, and around eleven Elizabeth gave them both a kiss and said she was going over to her mother’s to see how she was.

  “I had understood she had broken with her mother,” Smiley objected mildly, but Peter Worthington chose not to hear.

  “Of course, kisses mean nothing with her,” Peter Worthington explained, as a matter of information. “She kisses everybody, the pupils, her girl-friends—she’d kiss the dustman, anyone. She’s very outgoing. Once again, she can’t leave anyone alone. I mean every relationship has to be a conquest. With her child, the waiter at the restaurant . . . Then when she’s won them, they bore her. Naturally. She went upstairs, looked at Ian, and—I’ve no doubt—used the moment to collect her passport and the housekeeping money from the bedroom. She left a note saying ‘sorry’ and I haven’t seen her since. Nor’s Ian,” said Peter Worthington.

  “Er, has Andrew heard from her?” Smiley enquired, with another tilt of his spectacles.

  “Why should he have done?”

  “You said they were friends, Mr. Worthington. Sometimes third parties become intermediaries in these affairs.”

  On the word “affair,” he looked up and found himself staring directly into Peter Worthington’s honest, abject eyes; and for a moment the two masks slipped simultaneously. Was Smiley observing? Or was he being observed? Perhaps it was only his embattled imagination—or did he sense, in himself and in this weak boy across the room, the stirring of an embarrassed kinship? There should be a league for deceived husbands who feel sorry for themselves. You’ve all got the same boring, awful charity! Ann had once flung at him. You never knew your Elizabeth, Smiley thought, still staring at Peter Worthington; and I never knew my Ann.

  “That’s all I can remember, really,” said Peter Worthington. “After that, it’s a blank.”

  “Yes,” said Smiley, inadvertently taking refuge in Worthington’s own repeated assertion: “Yes, I understand.”

  He rose to leave. A little boy was standing in the doorway. He had a shrouded, hostile stare. A placid, heavy woman stood behind him, holding him by both wrists above his head, so that he seemed to swing from her, though really he was standing by himself.

  “Look, there’s Daddy,” said the woman, gazing at Worthington with brown, attaching eyes.

  “Jenny, hi. This is Mr. Standfast from the Foreign Office.”

  “How do you do?” said Smiley politely, and after a few minutes’ meaningless chatter, and a promise of further information in due course should any become available, he quietly took his leave.

  “Oh, and Happy Christmas,” Peter Worthington called from the steps.

  “Ah, yes. And to you, too. To all of you. Happy indeed and many more of them.”

  In the transport café they put in sugar unless you asked them not to, and each time the Indian woman made a cup, the tiny kitchen filled with steam. In twos and threes, not talking, men ate breakfast, lunch, or supper, depending on the point they had reached in their separate days. Here also Christmas was approaching. Six greas
y coloured glass balls dangled over the counter for festive cheer; and a net stocking appealed for help for spastic kids.

  Smiley stared at an evening paper, not reading it. In a corner, not twelve feet from him, little Fawn had taken up the babysitter’s classic position. His dark eyes smiled agreeably on the diners and on the doorway. He lifted his cup with his left hand, while his right idled close to his chest. Did Karla sit like this, Smiley wondered. Did Karla take refuge among the unsuspecting?

  Control had. Control had made a whole second, third, or fourth life for himself in a two-room upstairs flat, beside the Western bypass, under the plain name of Matthews, not filed with housekeepers as an alias. Well, “whole” life was an exaggeration. But he had kept clothes there, and a woman—Mrs. Matthews herself—even a cat. And taken golf lessons at an artisans’ club on Thursday mornings early, while from his desk in the Circus he poured scorn on the great unwashed, and on golf, and on love, and on any other piffling human pursuit which secretly might tempt him. He had even rented a garden allotment, Smiley remembered, down by a railway siding. Mrs. Matthews had insisted on driving Smiley to see it in her groomed Morris car on the day he broke the sad news to her. It was as big a mess as anyone else’s allotment: standard roses, winter vegetables they hadn’t used, a tool-shed crammed with hose-pipe and seed boxes.

  Mrs. Matthews was a widow, pliant but capable. “All I want to know,” she had said, having read the figure on the cheque. “All I want to be sure of, Mr. Standfast, is he really dead, or has he gone back to his wife?”

  “He is really dead,” Smiley assured her, and she believed him gratefully. He forbore from adding that Control’s wife had gone to her grave eleven years ago, still believing her husband was something in the Coal Board.

  Did Karla have to scheme in committees? Fight cabals, deceive the stupid, flatter the clever, look in distorting mirrors of the Peter Worthington variety, all in order to do the job?

  He glanced at his watch, then at Fawn. The coin-box stood next to the lavatory. But when Smiley asked the proprietor for change, he refused it on the grounds that he was too busy.