by Giles Milton
Herbert Potinger was the chief librarian at Southwark’s municipal public library, as well as being a friend and close neighbour of Edward. Amateur historian, model railway enthusiast, vegetarian and lover of Greek, Herbert (a bachelor) was a singularly English fellow – the sort of chap (he was definitely a ‘chap’) who spent two weeks each summer under the grey skies of Broadstairs, sheltered behind a wind-breaker, devouring the comedies of Aristophanes. He was obsessed with all things Greek, particularly medieval and modern Greek, and had acquired for Southwark library an impressive collection of recently republished Byzantine chronicles (cost: £48 5s 2d) and the complete works of Kostis Palamas (cost: £13 6s), all of them generously paid for by the borough’s taxpayers.
Herbert and Edward shared many things in common – a love of history, old coins and foreign cheeses – and, not least (though they did not know it), a certain unfamiliarity with their own bodies. In Herbert’s case this was, perhaps, understandable, for to see him naked was to witness something that was not easily forgotten. He was not, of course, in the habit of removing his clothes in the very public environment of the municipal borough library. Indeed, none of the regulars had ever seen their chief librarian in the way that Nature had apparently intended. But Edward had – once, on a weekend outing to the Tooting lido – and it had left such an impression on him that he could not fail to remember it every time he saw Herbert.
His naked friend was indeed quite a sight. It had nothing to do with his xylophone of protruding ribs, nor his small but perfectly rounded pot belly. Rather, it was because the pallid and otherwise slight figure of Herbert Potinger was uncommonly, unnaturally hirsute. His nether regions – which had never yet seen action – were covered in a tangled mass of orangey-ginger hair. So, too, was his head. It was adorned with a corona of ginger curls that reached a full three inches above the highest point of his head.
Edward gave a cheery smile as Herbert approached, noticing as he did so that his ginger eyebrows seemed to have lengthened by fully quarter of an inch since the two of them last met. ‘He should trim them,’ thought Edward to himself. ‘Or at least his barber should.’
Herbert was not aware of the many strange things that had happened to Edward over the previous few days, but he did know all about his friend’s discovery of his family papers. He also knew that Edward was having difficulty in translating the newspaper cuttings that referred to his grandfather and had offered to lend a hand. Now, two days later, he had come up with some answers.
‘Thank goodness for the Annual Register,’ whispered Herbert to Edward. ‘Wherever would we be without the Annual Register?’
‘The Annual Register – the Annual Register,’ repeated Edward. ‘No, I’m not quite sure I understand what you mean.’
‘Ssh! You must keep your voice down,’ hissed Herbert as he propelled his finger to his lips. Then, after looking all around the reading room to make sure no one had been disturbed, he produced a small green volume that had been nestling in the comfort of his armpit.
‘Here we go: the Annual Register. It tells us what was going on in the world each year. And this’ – he held up the spine so that Edward could see it clearly – ‘is the volume for 1922.’
‘And?’ said Edward.
‘And,’ replied Herbert, ‘I may just have a few answers as to why your grandfather was in Turkey – yes, answers. But I’m afraid I must warn you that each answer seems to raise several more questions. Now, let’s move into my office, where we can talk more freely.’
Edward noticed that Herbert’s desk was piled high with books and pamphlets and he wondered if his friend had been here all night studying Annual Registers.
‘The history is clear enough,’ said Herbert. ‘At the end of the First World War, Turkey was forced to sign the Treaty of Sèvres – a complete humiliation, as I’m sure you know. In effect, it dismantled the Ottoman Empire. Syria was to become independent. Armenia too. And large parts of Turkey, including Smyrna, were to be handed to Greece.’
‘Right,’ said Edward, who suddenly felt uncommonly hot. It was stuffy in Herbert’s office and quite airless. There was a stale odour of fried mushrooms, the lingering after-effects of Herbert’s breakfast, and a quite unpleasant smell of cheap instant coffee. ‘How can he work in such an environment?’ thought Edward, never for a moment considering that some people would find working in an airless and perennially pungent cheese shop beyond the pale.
‘Well,’ continued Herbert, who had failed to notice the twitch in Edward’s nose, ‘for a while, all went swimmingly for the Greeks. Their army marched inland, deep into Turkey, and won a string of victories over their historic enemy. But they were to meet their match in a certain Mustafa Kemal.’
‘Ataturk?’ asked Edward.
‘Indeed,’ confirmed Herbert, ‘and his forces swept back through the Greek areas of Turkey.’ He paused for a moment and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘A common thug, Edward, an out-and-out criminal. I can’t think why the Turks revere him so much.’
Edward was concerned that Herbert would launch into one of his lengthy monologues and sought to forestall him with a question.
‘But what puzzles me,’ he said, ‘is this obsession with Greece. Why on earth would George Trencom have been fighting with the Greeks? Remember, Herbert, he was leaving a very prosperous cheese shop in order to go abroad, and he was also leaving his wife and son – my own father. If it hadn’t been for my great-uncle, Trencoms might well have been forced to close.’
‘I must confess,’ said Herbert, ‘I don’t know all the answers. But I’ve got a hunch. Listen: the defeated Greek armies retreated to Smyrna, on the coast, where they thought they’d be safe. And your grandfather was there in September 1922 – we know that for certain – at absolutely the critical moment.
‘Now, you’ve assumed all along that he was fighting with the Greeks, and I agree that it does sound like it from his letter. But I’ve come to a rather different conclusion. I think he was actually a reporter – yes, indeed – and working for a newspaper.’
Edward shot his friend a sceptical look.
‘Ah, ah,’ continued Herbert, who sensed that Edward was about to interject. ‘Before you say anything, Edward, you know he wouldn’t have been the only amateur reporting on the war. There was John Grimble, who later became foreign editor of The Times. And there was also that famous chap – oh, you know – what’s his name? The Old Man and the—’
‘Hemingway?’
‘Yes, Hemingway. He was there as well. I think your grandfather was a reporter like Hemingway.’
Edward breathed out deeply and accidentally let slip a little snort.
‘No, no, Herbert. Impossible! George Trencom was a cheese merchant, not a journalist. And besides, answer me this. Why did the troops want him to be the first to ride into Constantinople? And why on a white charger? Eh?’
‘Ah, well,’ replied a visibly excited Herbert, who could scarcely restrain himself from delivering his coup de grâce. ‘You see, if you accept my theory, everything makes sense. You must understand that the British newspapers had been on Turkey’s side throughout the course of the war with Greece. Oh, yes. But when news of the massacres reached London, opinion suddenly changed. Overnight, the great British public was clamouring for a Greek victory.’
‘And?’ said Edward.
‘Well, just imagine,’ said Herbert, ‘imagine the coup of a journalist – a newspaperman – being first into Constantinople. After all, it remained the goal, the ultimate prize, of the Greek army. And imagine how dramatic it would be if that same reporter entered the city on a white charger, in the style of Mehmet the Conqueror. It would have been right up the Daily Telegraph’s street, that’s for sure.’
Herbert had become so animated that his cheeks, which were normally of a pallor that only redheads can truly attain, suddenly sprouted little blotches of red. The last time Edward had seen his friend so excited was the day he had bought A. C. Glenny’s rare 1824 edition of Aristophanes
’ Frogs.
‘Well, it’s a good theory,’ he said. ‘Full marks for that. But have you seen George Trencom’s name in any of the news-sheets from the time? I doubt it. And nor does it tie up with why my father also seems to have been fighting with the Greeks.’
‘True,’ admitted Herbert, ‘that is strange.’
‘And another thing,’ said Edward. ‘My grandfather never made it home so I presume he must have died in Smyrna.’
‘Ah, yes,’ replied Herbert, ‘and that’s what these newspaper clippings are about. Apparently – and this is queer – your George Trencom died trying to defend this chap here. Some sort of Greek bishop.’
Edward stretched back in his chair and let out a loud whistle.
‘Ssh!’ said Herbert. ‘Please try to remember where you are.’
Edward picked up one of the two newspaper cuttings and looked at it closely. It was quite uncanny, he thought, how closely he resembled his grandfather. The same eyes. The same shaped face. And above all, yes, above all, the same nose. He held the clipping away from his face, in order to put some distance between himself and the photograph. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is the very image of my nose.’ Next, he held the cutting close to his face right next to his skin, so that his nose and that of George Trencom were touching at the tip. And it was at exactly this moment, when the two noses came into contact, that Edward felt an electrifying tingle – like a shiver or goose pimples – travel at high speed across the surface of his body. The little hairs on his arms pricked themselves up and the nerves in his shoulders involuntarily twitched. There was no doubt in Edward’s mind. George Trencom’s nose, photographed more than forty years earlier, was warm to the touch.
More cynical observers would point out that the clipping had been lying in a little pool of sunlight. They might also have noticed that Edward had been clutching it with his hot and clammy hands. But to his own way of thinking such explanations were not at all satisfactory. He had always known that the Trencom nose had preternatural powers and now he had confirmation of this fact.
‘I think George is part of a much bigger story,’ he said. ‘I have this feeling that – well, it’s hard to put a finger on it – but I’m convinced my uncle was right all along. There is something fishy about the Trencom nose, something strange about its origins. There’s a portrait I found in the box of papers – it must be at least four hundred years old – and whoever it represents has got exactly the same nose as me. That’s proof enough that it’s been in the family for many centuries. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that he, too, died because of his nose. And his son. And his grandson. And all of them – all of them – right down to my own father and grandfather.’
Herbert shot Edward a sceptical look.
‘Can’t you see?’ continued Edward. ‘They knew something. There was clearly some hidden goal that—’
‘That cost them their lives,’ interrupted Herbert. ‘That much is true. Take care, Edward, take care. You may be playing with fire.’
‘It did cost them their lives,’ said Edward, ‘but it’s not going to cost me mine! Unless, of course, I die of frustration. No, seriously, they were all engaged in wartime activities. My father died in a German ambush. And my grandfather was killed at the end of a particularly bloody war in Turkey. My circumstances are rather different. I can assure you that curiosity alone will not kill this particular Trencom cat.’
‘Well, I do hope you’re right,’ said Herbert. ‘The past is a dangerous land.’
‘By the way,’ continued Edward, catching his thoughts. ‘I’ve got another question for you, on a different subject. Since you’re my resident Greek expert, does the name Makarezos mean anything to you? It’s a company in Queen Street.’
‘Makarezos?’ repeated Herbert. ‘Well, I’ve not heard of the company in Queen Street. But I’ve most certainly heard of the name Makarezos. And I’m rather surprised that you haven’t. Makarezos is one of the ruling junta in Greece. Nikolaos Makarezos, if I’m not mistaken. But whether or not he has any connection with your Makarezos in Queen Street, I’m afraid I have no idea. But what queer questions you ask,’ said Herbert. ‘Why on earth do you want to know?’
10 FEBRUARY 1969
On a bright Monday afternoon in the second week of February, Edward Trencom could be found unpacking cheeses in the cellars of Trencoms. He was still wearing his customary smile but the deep frown on his forehead suggested that he was not feeling quite himself.
‘What is wrong with me?’ he said to himself. ‘I’m not feeling myself at all.’
There is a group of illnesses known by the collective title of Munchausen’s syndrome, in which people imagine themselves to be ill. There is another group in which people actually think themselves into being ill. And there are the illnesses which, for some unknown reason, are impossible to pin down; they leave their victims feeling not quite themselves, but in a way that they can neither understand nor explain.
‘I don’t feel particularly ill,’ thought Edward. ‘But I don’t feel particularly right either. I simply don’t feel myself.’
In olden days, Edward’s illness might have been ascribed to an imbalance of the humours – a preponderance of black bile, perhaps, or a sickly surge of a yellow phlegm. Such liquable instability led many a Renaissance gentleman to his doom.
Whether or not Edward had mismatched humours is difficult to ascertain, but what is certain is that he had become unbalanced – unbalanced like a kitchen scale that’s got all the heaviest weights stacked in the little pan. He had become lopsided, wonky, lacking that essential equilibrium that keeps more fragile mortals vaguely on the straight and narrow. And this is a most dangerous state of affairs. We all know that a leaning clock ceases to tick. We know that an unbalanced machine can no longer function. Its cogs seize up. Its pistons shudder to a standstill.
So it was with Edward Trencom. It was not that he had completely ground to a halt – on any given weekday, he could still be found behind the counter at Trencoms. But he was most certainly out of sync, listing heavily to starboard in the turbulent waters of family genealogy.
He picked up a slice of Sussex slipcote and placed it to his nose. On any normal afternoon it would have smelled of thyme and rosehip, overlaid, perhaps, with a faint lemony tang. But on this particular day it smelled, well, what did it smell of?
‘Lichen?’ thought Edward. ‘Mushrooms? Peat?’
He placed it back on the mat and reached, instead, for a thick triangle of bauden, a recent arrival from the mountains of Bohemia. ‘Now this one should help me,’ thought Edward. ‘This one I know well.’
But where was the scent of summer alpage? Where were the chill breezes of the ice-encrusted upper slopes?
Edward’s disquiet was not helped by Mrs Toller, a Trencoms regular, who stepped into the shop just as Edward put down the bauden.
‘Why, Mr Trencom,’ she said. ‘You don’t look quite yourself today.’
She looked around at the familiar display of cheeses and added under her breath, ‘and nor, for that matter, does your shop.’
This much was true. The cheeses stood on their customary mats just as they had always done, yet they were not piled quite as high as they had been a few days earlier. The fans still twirled in the ceiling, yet they seemed to have developed a yawnful languidity over the preceding days. It was as if the air had grown thick and heavy; as if every turn required a monumental push and heave.
Mr George had done his level best to keep things ticking over, but there were limits to what he could do. He noted with alarm that cheeses had gone unordered and that stock was not being replaced. He had taken it upon himself to call up for more Danish havarti and had also telephoned the shop’s supplier of Bavarian limburger. After more than a week without a delivery of Milanese grana lodigiana, he asked Mr Trencom if he should order some of that as well.
‘Yes, yes, Mr George,’ replied Edward in a half-hearted, disconsolate sort of fashion. ‘And any others. We need to keep the supplies
rolling in.’
‘But don’t you prefer to do the ordering, Mr Trencom? That’s always been your department.’
‘It has – it has. But if you don’t mind lending a helping hand, it’s a weight off my mind. We’ll soon get the shop back to normal – that much is sure.’
As Edward said these words, a strange thought went shooting through Mr George’s head.
‘If something should happen to Mr Trencom – why – there would be no one to take over the shop. He’s the only one left.’
Mr George studied Edward’s behaviour over the days that followed and grew increasingly concerned that the end had already come. Edward had not done a single piece of stock-keeping since his discovery of the family papers more than a fortnight earlier. Nor did he take home his little parcel of cheeses at the end of each week. He had even given up going to Mrs O’Casey’s for his midday sandwiches. On most days, he announced that he was heading to Southwark Municipal public library for an extended lunchtime period of research. This often lasted fully three hours and on at least one occasion occupied the whole of the afternoon. Yet the pursuit of his ancestors did not seem to make Edward any more stable – indeed, it had quite the reverse effect. The more he investigated the Trencom family documents, the more he knew that something was seriously awry.
Elizabeth had noticed with growing alarm the change in her husband. She was still in the dark as to many of the disturbing events that had happened to him over the previous days and was surprised that the discovery of his family papers should have had such an effect on him. She was particularly concerned that it was also beginning to have an effect on their relationship. She felt that a distance had opened up between the two of them. It was only a little cleft at the moment, but one (if left unattended) that could easily become a gaping, dangerous, icy-jawed crevasse.