Turning for Home

by Barney Norris

  I remember when the canvas was torn. When we moved here, Hattie put the corner of a hardback book through it in the middle of unpacking. We had been trying to carry too much in the rain, hurrying to keep things dry, and she tripped and fell. It is strange to think how every tiny mark in this room might hold some trace of her. I turn back to the whiskey.

  ‘Would you like a drop yourself?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. That sort of gesture’s going to become impossible very soon, you know.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘When you get down to it, it’s rooted in something racial, isn’t it? To offer an Irishman whiskey. Cultural, anyway. You wouldn’t offer an African a banana, would you?’

  ‘Good lord, Geoffrey.’

  ‘I’m over-simplifying for effect, you understand. But they’re phasing out this sort of thing in Whitehall. No more champagne for the French, either.’

  ‘I imagine those kind of edicts have no effect on anyone’s behaviour whatsoever, when champagne is involved.’

  Geoffrey laughs. Of the two responses Geoffrey might have had to the ruining of his Sunday, he is taking by far the more productive line, it seems to me. He might have been in a bad mood because he’s had to cancel golf or lunch or whatever he had been planning to go on and do with his afternoon, but instead he seems to be treating this as an adventure: a chance to see his old boss’s house, and see me, for that matter, and to be whisked through the country in a chauffeured car, powerful and important, trailing secrets behind him.

  ‘I think you’re absolutely right,’ Geoffrey says. ‘People like champagne, don’t they? If anything I think it makes it more exciting. Anything subversive is interesting, isn’t it? Shall we call him in then?’

  ‘You sound like a headmaster.’

  ‘In another life perhaps I might have been, and I’d have been paid better.’

  ‘I’ll go hunting and bring him back.’ I leave the room, Geoffrey sitting fat and pleased with himself and his joke in the middle of it. It is strange: there’s something very new money about Geoffrey. Even though his family have been around practically since Domesday.

  I find Frank in the shade of the lawn’s far border, drinking wine and watching the marquee, standing alone as I guessed he would be. ‘So sorry to have abandoned you like that,’ I say.

  ‘That’s quite all right. I met your granddaughter while I was waiting.’

  My eyes dart to the bar, where I last saw Kate standing. She isn’t there any more. I look back to Frank, feeling hostile, protective, alarmed to think this man I was once so wary of is now circling my granddaughter, and see he has noticed me checking for her.

  ‘I think she went into the house to find a bit of quiet.’

  She probably went looking for somewhere to hide from her mother. I have an idea that Kate came to the party today to see her mum again as much as she came to see me, that the point of the day is some kind of reconciliation, at least some connection again. But that doesn’t mean it will be easy.

  ‘I see. Geoffrey’s here; he’s in the study. Shall we go back inside?’

  ‘That’s great,’ Frank says.

  I turn and lead the way back indoors, thinking of Kate, wondering what Frank said to her. Would he do that to me? Would he rope my family into our discussion as a way of making things harder for me? Perhaps. He has no idea, of course, how vulnerable she is. And even if he did, he might still have chosen to gain what advantage he could. I don’t really know him.

  I show Frank into the office, where Geoffrey is now on his feet.

  ‘Professor Dunn,’ Geoffrey says, ‘may I call you Frank?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We haven’t met before. It’s good to meet you.’

  ‘And you, I’m sure.’

  ‘You’re here to talk about these Boston Tapes?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I believe you have a perfect understanding of the situation, and you’re only really here for reassurance.’

  Frank raises his eyebrows, amused. ‘I think it would be good news if that were so.’

  Geoffrey nods. ‘I’m sure it would. Robert has already offered you that reassurance, though, so was there something more you required from me that he was unable to give? Are you after some kind of commitment?’

  I wonder at Geoffrey’s brusqueness. Perhaps I’m not the only person to have called him out to press flesh and offer reassurances this weekend. Perhaps the car is still running in the road outside because Geoffrey has other meetings to get to, other negotiations to embark upon, other people to reassure. The fact I called him on his home number doesn’t mean he was at home when he spoke to me, I realise now; the call might have been patched through to anywhere. Every covert contact the government had with the IRA may have been hammering on doors this weekend, clamouring for his time, trying to understand what was going on.

  ‘I’m not looking for anything more than the reassurance Robert has offered me, if that’s all there is to it, if this isn’t some kind of attempt to dig up a lot of old aggro and arrest a lot of old faces, you know. If you can assure me that’s the case.’

  Geoffrey thinks for a moment before speaking.

  ‘No one will be brought in who doesn’t need to be. Though I should add that no one will be spared questioning who is implicated in historical crimes by anything confessed in these tapes.’

  Frank bows his head. ‘All right.’

  ‘You should know, though, that it’s very much not the government position to start hunting people down. The dominant opinion these days is that there ought to be an amnesty, really. I don’t see how the communities affected will move forwards until that happens. When the next election comes around perhaps we’ll see if we can get that idea any oxygen.’

  Frank is listening closely. ‘I can tell that to my contacts, can I?’

  ‘You’re welcome to. I think everyone affected would agree there’s value to the idea.’

  ‘People might find it shocking, I think.’

  ‘They might. But how do we move on, Frank? That’s what we’re trying to discover.’

  Geoffrey turns to me then, and smiles. ‘Thanks for letting us have the room, Robert. Much appreciated. I think we’ll have no more need to trespass on your birthday.’

  I am surprised by that; I almost feel cheated. There hasn’t been a show at all. It’s all over too quickly. ‘Is that everything we need to discuss together?’

  ‘It’s a long drive for a short conversation, I agree. But I have a dinner appointment on the south coast this evening, and I don’t think these things should be done via telephone. You’ve heard what you need, I hope?’ Geoffrey looks to Frank, who smiles ruefully.

  ‘I think perhaps we’ve said all there is to say for the time being, so I must be happy and take that home with me.’

  ‘I think that’s about right,’ Geoffrey says.

  ‘The only other thing I have to ask …’ Frank adds. Geoffrey seems to be studying him intently.

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘I don’t know everyone who’s spoken to these interviewers, or what they’ve all spoken about. But one or two of them are men I’ve known a long time, men that I’ve known since my childhood. And I wanted to ask – I don’t expect that my name would ever crop up in any of this, because I’m not anyone significant, I’m not some kingpin, am I? But if I were to crop up in relation to something or other, well … I knew men whose job was to execute those they believed had betrayed the Army. Those guys, they killed people, you know? That was all they really did, they killed people. And I was persona non grata with them, because I came and talked to you lot after Enniskillen. And there were other times when I spoke with you, and I don’t know who knows what, and I don’t know how all of it would look to guys who’ve already decided I’m some sort of collaborator with the Brits. Perhaps there’d be danger in it, you know?’

  ‘You’d rather not see your name crop up, that’s what you’re saying?’ Geoffrey asks.

  ‘That’s abo
ut it.’

  Geoffrey nods thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think any of this ends up in open court really. That’s my instinct. Though it’s early days. But if some of it does, we can take that on board.’

  Frank frowns, uncertain. ‘Take it on board? How do you mean?’

  ‘We can edit transcripts to focus only on what’s relevant. And to protect people who are of ongoing use to our intelligence-gathering activities.’

  ‘Am I of ongoing use?’

  Geoffrey barks out another laugh. ‘Well, who knows. But you’re standing here now, someone’s sent you, someone still knows your number. I won’t ask who – I’m sure we know. It’s probably in a file somewhere. But you don’t have to worry. I’m sure we’d be able to draw a veil over anything that might compromise you, yes.’

  Frank seems to visibly relax. ‘That’s great. I appreciate that, that’s great.’

  ‘Good.’ Geoffrey claps his hands together, trying to conclude matters, trying to get away. ‘Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I must get away. Happy birthday, old man. I’ll show myself out.’ He offers me his hand, and I shake it. Then he makes his way out of the room and to his car, and is gone, and it seems to me in the wake of his departure that things have been left unchanged all around, as if he had never visited. I turn back to where Frank is standing.

  ‘You feel you’ve heard all you need to hear, I hope?’

  Frank seems unsure. ‘I don’t know what I’ve heard. I don’t think I know any more than I did. If there was some game being played by someone somewhere, neither of you two would tell me about it. I don’t suppose it matters. I don’t think the people who sent me here are expecting much more than a straight bat from whoever I speak to. But I’ll pass the news on and I suppose they’ll compare it with whatever else they hear, and look for the cracks in the story.’

  ‘It felt somehow anticlimactic, I think.’

  Frank smiles. ‘These meetings always are. The tide of the times isn’t ever changed by just one conversation. If you or I were ever in the right rooms to make changes just like that, we’re certainly not in them any more.’

  ‘I fear those days are behind us, yes.’

  Frank shakes his head ruefully. ‘I don’t mind, I don’t suppose. I wouldn’t want the responsibility now.’ He turns and looks out of the window, and I know he didn’t mean what he just said. He is as frightened of coming to the end as anyone else. ‘I don’t know. The politics of having me drive out here are impenetrable, really. It might have been just a way of reminding me they’ve a hold on how I spend my hours. You know? And it’s a nice game to be able to get a man like him down from London at a moment’s notice, and interrupt a day like this one you’re supposed to be having. They might have just been enjoying themselves with that.’

  ‘You sound rather bitter.’

  Frank laughs. ‘I think I am.’ He looks at me, calculating. ‘Can I tell you something? In confidence?’

  ‘Will you regret it?’

  ‘I don’t think I will. I like you. I think I trust you, Robert. When I was a kid and growing up where I was, we all knew who was IRA on our estate. It was just part of our lives, like breathing. It was natural to know people in the IRA, like buying a pint of milk in the shop. And the thing is that I was IRA myself for a time.’

  I say nothing, but I could feel my heart beating in my chest, heat on my skin, a restless sense of agitation. I was never told this. Who did the vetting on Frank? Did they just keep that detail from me, or did they miss this altogether, buried as it was under the respectability of who Frank had become?

  Frank carried on speaking. ‘I found ways to get away from it. I had to pay my way out, actually. I had a cousin who was shot dead by the Brits, and I got my place at university about the same time, and it felt very clear to me just then that there were two different roads ahead, and I couldn’t twist them both into the one blade and keep walking along it. So I got out.’

  ‘I see,’ I say weakly.

  ‘But before I did,’ Frank presses on, speaking quickly, as if he needs to get everything out now he’s begun, ‘before I did, when I was a kid, I used to help with the transportation of parts for bombs, you see. And I used to help with the smuggling of guns, and play lookout on operations. Throw bricks at the Brits. And I used to participate a little in robberies that funded the Army. That’s really what I don’t want people to hear about, you see. I don’t mind if they find out I used to talk to you, that’s all right, I was trying to do good, even if everyone wouldn’t see it that way. But I used to be another person, and I want that to stay buried. I used to live another life. I remember it sometimes, it feels like the flip side of me, this other side of my story that never got told. I don’t want anyone to tell it and I worry a little that something could be on those tapes – just a name; sometimes all someone has to do is name a name and the world unravels, doesn’t it? I like that old idea, if you know the name of a thing, you somehow own it. Rumpelstiltskin. There’s a lot of truth in that.’

  I watch Frank carefully. He isn’t looking at me. ‘I never knew all that,’ I say.

  ‘Does it change the way you see me?’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘Well, then. I’m right not to want others to know then, aren’t I?’ Frank smiles, but he looks downcast. As if the thought of the past is dragging the life out of him.

  ‘I think perhaps you are,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry I told you. I don’t know why I wanted to share that with you.’ He sighs, and turns to the window, where the late-afternoon sun comes filtering in, catching the crystal of the glasses on the desk. ‘We get old, don’t we? And we never get to talk about the old days any more, because no one remembers them. And sometimes it’s nice to remember. I knew Enniskillen was coming, you know.’

  I look at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The guy I used to work with back when I helped moving bombs into place, he was still at it all those years later. None of them had blown up in his face, or whatever, and he hadn’t been caught, so he kept on. And I knew there was something coming because he said as much to me. I always think I should have gone to you earlier. But I wanted to find a way to not be involved. I thought that would be sticking my oar in.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Frank. You knew an attack was being prepared?’

  ‘And I did nothing. And I live with it. I have to live with it. That’s really what I don’t want people finding out about, you see, that’s what I’m worrying over. You can’t go near something like that conflict and not end up with blood on your hands. There’ll be blood on yours too; we both know it.’

  I say nothing. He’s right.

  ‘Listen.’ Frank seems to suddenly focus, to shake himself out of the sadness that had taken hold. ‘I spoke to your granddaughter about a job. I hope you’ll forgive me. I know a college that needs an assistant librarian; she seemed like she needed a break. It’s not a political offer, it won’t ever come back at you, I give you my word. I enjoyed talking to her and young people need breaks, that’s all there is to it.’

  It takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in. My mind is still on Enniskillen, on the man in front of me, who I thought I knew once, but has turned out to be someone quite different.

  ‘That … that’s very kind of you, Frank. Did she seem interested?’

  ‘I thought so. She might have been being polite.’

  ‘I must say, I would take a very dim view of my family being roped into any kind of—’

  Frank holds up his hands in supplication. ‘I promise you, Robert. I give you my word. No strings attached.’ He picks up his bag. ‘I’d better be going, I think.’

  ‘You won’t have another drink before you go?’

  ‘I have to drive.’

  We shake hands; the ritual is closing. ‘Well then. Drive safely.’

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your day,’ Frank says. He turns and walks away through the house to get back in his car and drive away, and I look sadly at the whiskey on the tabl
e, the scene played out, another intrigue over. On the wall above my head, my piano teacher’s painting watches impassively, and my eyes are drawn to it again. Incredible to think so many years have passed and I haven’t taken the thing to a restorer to get that tear closed up. I am so glad now that I didn’t; that there is an imperfection up there on the wall to remind me of her. I take a deep breath and head back out to the party.

  I notice that Laura is no longer in the kitchen as I walk through. I find her in the doorway at the front of the house, looking out at the cars parked densely together, drink in hand. She must have seen Frank leave.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

  She starts when she hears my voice. ‘Oh, yes. Just having a breather.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. You’ve earned it.’

  ‘Everyone’s eating.’

  ‘It’s wonderful. It’s extraordinary, really, when you think about it. What you do here every year. I’m so grateful to you. Everyone’s having a lovely time.’

  ‘You’re not involving yourself in it though.’ Laura looks up at me sadly, and I find I have to avoid her eyes. The guilt of having absconded, even for as short a while as it has proved to be, leaves me a little speechless.

  ‘I’m afraid something rather unexpected came up.’

  ‘That’ll be why there was a chauffeur outside in the lane? I went out and offered him coffee but he said no.’

  ‘That was kind of you.’

  ‘I do all this for you, you know.’ She faces me and fixes me with a look. ‘There’s no pleasure for me to be had from it if you don’t want to take part. I do it all because she would have liked it; she would have wanted it for you. And I loved my sister very much, and I want to do right by her. In memory of her. You understand me?’