Mark looked down at the desk. In the highly polished wood he could see his blurred face. The blurring seemed appropriate. Really, he did not know what he was feeling.
‘I’ve seen the report you made on Germany a couple of years ago. Of course, some of the material was familiar, but it broached important issues, and showed commendable detachment.’ He paused. ‘All in all, Benson, I will not permit your resignation. I don’t recommend an appeal. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Sir.’
‘What we all need, Benson, is moral courage. It’s in short supply just now – in contrast with physical courage, of which there is almost a superfluity at present.’ His colleagues shifted in their seats. ‘We propose to send you to Washington, as Third Secretary. A crucial embassy, as you’ll appreciate. Congratulations.’ The men on either side nodded and smiled. ‘You will be leaving within weeks. It’s a dangerous voyage and you may be drowned, in which case you’ll have the satisfaction of feeling, as you expire – I understand one is quite lucid – that you have died for your country, if rather obliquely. But if you can put up with the weather and the provincialism of that over-ambitious little town, you should have an interesting time.’
‘I’m very honoured, but– ’
‘Our ambassador has a severe problem, you know, persuading the US government to enter the war on our side. The President is extremely unenthusiastic, there’s a strong pro-German faction, not to speak of the pro-Irish element, also rather boring. He’ll make you work hard. I believe he has in mind for you to take an interest in relations with the press. Incidentally, there’s no option to refuse.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘And we may ask you to do things you don’t particularly want to do, rather on the lines of the report you wrote in Germany. Personal scruples about investigating issues covertly are irrelevant. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. “Yes” is easily said but it may be morally distressing, you know. Another spy was shot in the Tower of London last week – well, you might find that your actions lead to such an event.’
‘I’ll do what I have to, sir.’
‘Good man. Of course, in times of war, foreign postings are particularly sensitive. Diplomats must be careful of incautious behaviour, making the wrong friends. The German Embassy in Washington has a powerful propaganda machine. So be careful – that smiling lady may be in touch with the other side.’
‘You’re not yet married, I think?’ asked the man on the left. ‘You may well find a wife in Washington. They can be charming, well-bred American women.’
They beamed at him. He felt he was being welcomed into a highly skilled club.
‘You’ll be briefed at length, no time to waste.’ The chairman held out his hand. ‘Very good luck!’
Mark went out into the immense corridor. Was he disappointed? No – immensely relieved and excited. He wanted to dance down the corridor. In the Third Room, his office, his colleagues looked at him in surprise.
‘You look very jolly. Promotion, is it? Fourth Secretary in Bucharest?’
‘I can’t tell you just yet.’
They congratulated him anyway, and one of the more boisterous threw a file at him. Such horseplay was frequent in the Third Room. Usually Mark looked bored at such moments, so they were astonished when he hurled the file back, knocking over the other man’s inkpot, to general acclaim.
7
Dorothea puts the album away in the box. ‘She seems to have stopped creating albums at this point. Albums suggest optimism, don’t they? As though everything’s been positive and is going to be positive in the future. I mean, you compose wedding albums but you’d not make a funeral album.’
‘It all seems very old-fashioned to me. We just like to let life flow by.’
‘Yes, you’re very. . . what was that expression you used?’
‘Laid-back?’
‘Yes, laid-back. That’s fine if you live in the sunshine.’
‘I’m not so laid-back, Mum. I had a story accepted.’
Dorothea turns enthusiastically towards her. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so pleased. Accepted where?’
‘Well, it’s a sort of underground paper. It’s called Chelsea Voice, but it’s not just Chelsea, London, it’s Chelsea, New York too. Kind of hip underground. They don’t pay but you get tickets to concerts. Lots of people want to write for it.’
‘That’s wonderful, darling. What’s it about?’
‘It’s about the current art scene in London. It’s cyclostyled, you know, not printed in the conventional way, cyclostyling is the way of the future.’
‘I can’t wait to read it.’ She opens the largest yellow envelope. ‘Oh look, lots more photographs. Grandmother at home, I think that must be. And this is Cousin Edward, in uniform, very dashing.’ She sighs. ‘Edward tried so hard. . .’
8
It was a happy afternoon, until the end. The drawing room at Evelyn Gardens was comforting, lit by the fire and the lamps, daffodils glimmering in the soft light. Mark thought how all of this would have been happily normal a few months before. Now it seemed precious and precarious.
Edward was going back to France after a week’s compassionate leave to see his new son. Victoria had had a difficult pregnancy, but the new baby was adorable and gave them all hope. None of them was in mourning, they dressed as cheerfully as they could. Sophia’s skirt was fashionably short and Edward twitted her, saying the Daily Mail would ban her. They avoided difficult subjects in favour of domestic issues: whether the Bensons would move house now that their children were away; the government’s ban on professional sport; whether one should give up alcohol, like the King.
They touched on Mark setting off for Washington next week. Edward said, ‘It’s suffocating in summer and freezing in winter, and the spring and fall only last a few days. Apart from the government and the embassies, nothing goes on there at all.’ They did not discuss the danger of the voyage.
Sophia recounted humorous anecdotes about working as a VAD at the Charing Cross Hospital. She did not tell them about starting work at 6 a.m. or laying 150 trays and washing dirty dishes. She did not talk about cleaning the stumps of amputated limbs and the discharges from the holes in men’s bodies, or about the pus you hardly noticed on the ward, until you undressed and found it permeating your clothes and stinking. She didn’t mention the perpetual noise (‘Quiet for the Wounded’ proclaimed banners outside the hospital, ironic when there was so little quiet inside), the gramophones endlessly playing the same tunes and the cries of ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ and the coughing from the fever victims and the groaning from the gassed and the moments when the screens went up round a bed and another soldier had given his life for his country and was bound for a better life in Heaven, as the chaplains put it.
Only to Mark did she talk candidly. ‘I hate it, but it’s my duty. No complaining’s allowed, no questions – that makes things easier. The matrons’ watchword is that the men are suffering, and we must suffer equally. It’s understandable. They don’t like little Lady Bountifuls when nursing is their livelihood. It’s worse in France.’
‘Fia, you’re very young. . . And poor Mamma – no children at home.’ He took her hand and held it between his.
‘Poor Mamma will have to fend for herself.’
Sitting side by side in a corner, they looked conspiratorially at their family. They agreed that Edward had improved. He was less self-assertive, more thoughtful. He seemed a soldier from head to foot, even though this afternoon he was wearing a tweed jacket and flannels. Beside him, Mark felt insignificant. But at least, he told himself, he’d tried to get into the army, as everyone seemed to know. Edward had congratulated him as soon as they met, and Mark was pleased, though he was sure that, deep down, Edward despised him.
Victoria made an announcement. ‘Edward says it’s a secret but I can tell you – he may get a staff job.’
‘If I did, I’d stay in France, of course. They want a liaison officer between the
British Army and the Canadian regiments. They seem to think I could do it. I don’t really want to leave active service, but if they want me. . .’
Coaxed by Sir William, Edward talked about life at the front. ‘It’s tough. Endless rain, endless mud. You get used to the physical side, it’s when your friends die that you feel it most.’ He checked himself. ‘But there are good things too. The fighting can be exciting, hiding in a church tower and seeing the enemy coming over the top, it’s better than shooting pheasant. . .’ He glimpsed Sophia’s face and stopped himself again. ‘The men are tremendous, probably they were nothing special in civvy street but the challenges, the comradeship, transform them into heroes. That’s one of the great things the war has done, made heroes out of ordinary people. . . Your letters make such a difference, you know, especially Aunt Elizabeth’s, it’s like having a mother again.’
‘Your brother officers must have been with you since you started, you must be such good pals,’ said his aunt brightly.
He looked at her. ‘Yes, one or two of them.’
Another silence. Victoria rallied her smile and talked about what they’d be doing the following day, as though Tuesday were years away.
Edward had more to say. ‘You know, one of the odd things about coming home is hearing what people in Blighty feel about the enemy. I’ve been looking at the newspapers and recent books, and everyone says the Germans are beastly savages. Funnily enough, out there you don’t feel that. I know I used to be very anti-German, but when you see the prisoners, you can’t see them as monsters. They’ve just as much pluck as us, and they’re just as frightened. Just men. It’s the Kaiser that’s at fault, that’s my view.’
Victoria made a rumbling noise. ‘I disagree. In my view, a Hun is a Hun – they’re untamed brutes out of those horrible pine forests. The Prussian system kept their brutality under control, but even Prussian discipline can fail. Look what they did in Louvain and Rheims. The world would be a better place with no Germans in it.’
There was an awkward silence. She looked around, recollected herself, bit her lip. Edward took her hand.
‘I don’t think Thomas is a savage, or Freddy, or any of them,’ said Sophia. Her mother looked as though she were trying not to cry.
‘I’m not sure it’s wise,’ said Sir William, ‘to condemn a whole people. Where would we be without their musicians and philosophers and scientists? They’ve been misled, it seems an entire nation can be misled. That’s why this war is so terrible. We thought Europe was a civilised place, but now it seems the Germany of Beethoven and Goethe has been overcome by the Germany of Krupp and the Kaiser.’
‘Victoria has strong views,’ said her husband, ‘because she worries about me. There’s no need, my darling, I’ll be fine.’
The clock struck six. ‘Victoria, darling, won’t you stay to supper?’ said Lady Benson. ‘I’m sure we could rustle up something.’
Victoria stood up, gathering her little son to her skirts. ‘No, we must get back, for Baby. Edward wants to get to know Baby as well as he can, don’t you, darling?’ Her face crumpled for the briefest moment.
‘Perhaps I could just call in for a moment tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow we’re going on a little expedition, just the two of us,’ said Victoria. ‘Not even favourite aunts.’
‘Or could I come to the station on Tuesday?’
‘If you don’t mind. . . I’m so sorry, but. . .’
The telephone rang. ‘How irritating,’ said Lady Benson.
Wilson came into the drawing room, looking agitated. ‘My lady, it’s Mrs Nash. I think it’s bad news.’
Lady Benson went out.
It was bad news. When she came back, dabbing her eyes, she told them their cousin Peter had been killed in action.
9
‘This little bundle of letters is from Uncle Mark. Granny’s labelled them “Mark’s letters, 1915 to 1918”.’
‘You liked Uncle Mark, didn’t you?’
‘I loved him when I was very young. He used to make me laugh and laugh when everyone else frightened me – I mean my English relations. Mark spoke beautiful German, and he was very clever, he would talk to me in German and then use some English words and then a few more and after a while I was prattling away in English. He was the first person in London I really trusted, and when I grew to like him, it was easier to like the others. Mark used to come and visit us in Hampshire, I remember it very well. I think it was a subtle technique of his.’
‘What d’you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘All in good time.’ She looks teasingly at her daughter. ‘Yes, Mark was delightful with children, it was as though they brought out the real Mark.’
‘He gave me a large duck once, out of the blue, for my birthday.’
‘Muck the Duck.’
‘Yes, Muck the Duck. So there are no secrets here.’
‘Well. . .’ Dorothea hesitates. ‘Why are you so interested in secrets, Pandora?’
‘We all like secrets.’
‘I suppose we do.’ She yawns and stretches. ‘Of course, things today are quite different to what they were when I was a girl, you can’t imagine.’
‘What do you mean, Mum?’
‘About men. And men.’
‘About men and men?’
‘About men loving other men, about queers. When I was your age, no man who wanted to be a success could possibly admit to being attracted to other men, unless they worked in the theatre and even in that world only a bit. It was considered disgraceful. People would say, “Men like that” – that was the expression they used – “Men like that are not capable of having a happy relationship with anyone. Queer men are only attracted to real men, and no real man wants to be loved by a queer.”’
‘It’s better now. We think that what is important is who you care about, and whether they care about you, and it doesn’t matter who they are. Anyway, why are you telling me all this?’
‘Well, Uncle Mark, you know.’
‘Uncle Mark?’
‘Yes, Uncle Mark.’ Dorothea laughs, and leans back against the cushions. ‘When he was being pompous as an old man, I used to think, Oh, you silly old thing, I know all about you.’
‘Yes?’
Dorothea laughs again. ‘You see, in his early days, the irreproachable Sir Mark Benson CMG was much more interested in young men than in young women. Nothing about that in The Times obituary, of course. I remember my parents talking about it when I was a child, they thought I couldn’t understand. It amused them that he was so secretive – people in Berlin were quite uninhibited about sex. But Mark would never admit to anything out of the ordinary, and of course he became a model citizen and I believe he was rather horrid when his own son showed the same tendencies – so Margaret told me. I suppose his children might be upset if anything came into the open. Anyway, it won’t come into the open, it’s private, isn’t it? Thank goodness he had such an understanding wife.’
10
To his surprise, Mark enjoyed his journey to New York. From the moment at Southampton when he stood at the ship’s rail waving goodbye to his tearful mother and his less tearful sister (her brilliant blue dress attracted much attention), to the dawn when they approached the shining towers of New York, it was almost unbroken pleasure. Even the thought of the Lusitania could not dampen the exhilaration of being at sea, between opalescent skies and shining water.
The ship was pretty full. The atmosphere was tense but stoical: it was impossible to stop conversation drifting towards the possibility of a U-boat attack. Jokes were made about whom you’d most, or least, like to share a lifeboat with. There was a sense that the further the ship sailed from European shores, the smaller the chance of disaster. The war hardly seemed to affect life on board. Meals were copious: cooked breakfasts, solid lunches, long dinners with the First Class passengers in evening dress. People sat on the deck and were brought beef tea, they played deck quoits, listened to the orchestra playing its familiar (t
hough strictly non-German) repertoire, prepared a musical performance for the last night. For Mark, the danger put his usual anxieties into perspective. When at any moment you might find yourself drowning beneath a huge ship, worries about your own failings seemed less significant. Mark felt he understood why soldiers found combat uplifting – and smiled, since at this moment of revelation he was accepting coffee from the steward.
The passengers were a mixed lot. Mark, always curious (who could tell what information might be useful?), elicited details from a purser. There were a few older Americans long resident in Europe, who, since the war showed no sign of ending, were going home. His table included an elegant old lady called Mrs Salt from Philadelphia, who invited Mark to visit her family at their property on the Main Line. ‘It’s a very pretty area, only twenty-five minutes from the city. There are lots of big properties, some are chateaux, some are straightforward American, but what we like best are the English styles – Tudor, Georgian, Arts and Crafts. We have a farm and a pack of hounds. My son lives in the big house now, but I’m right nearby. Come and see us, some of my grandchildren are your age.’
There were a few British children being sent to safety. Passengers on official business, journalists, businessmen. People were impressed when he mentioned the British Embassy; he was surprised. ‘Oh, you must meet my niece,’ said one of the American ladies, and there followed the mildest flirtation, some table tennis, a moonlit walk along the deck.
He made another friend. Late on the first evening he was sitting in the smoking room, relishing feeling well when others had retired hastily to their staterooms. He heard a ‘Good evening’ at his elbow. It came from a man sitting close by. The man smiled and said, ‘Mind if I join you?’ Mark did not mind, one must be adaptable. The man was American, around thirty, pleasant-looking.
‘George Bruegmann,’ he said, and held out his hand.
The Iron Necklace Page 14