Of course, on the other hand, it was also conceivable that he no longer lived near the city in which his son had been born. A person could many times move house over a period of thirty-six years.
Also … Sitting at a table in the reference section of the library, with a large English dictionary opened randomly in front of me, I managed to formulate a theory which might (just) explain his non-appearance at the hotel. As I say, I had been assuming he was a widower. He could have been deserted or divorced but the main point was he seemed to be alone. So might he not, despite his age (and unappealing personality), have been conducting a clandestine love affair? Staying at the home of some woman whose good name had to be consistently protected?
An Agatha Christie sort of scenario, but I thought it might be possible. Not perfect—did the pilfering of hotel stationery tie in with a developed sense of propriety? And still it left that allusion to pre-war visits unaccounted for. But I felt the first could have been inspired by a sudden attack of bravado, and the second by a simple striving after authenticity. It was possible.
Yet, damn it, if he’d had even the slightest consideration for either poor Hercules Poirot or poor Erich Anders, he would at least have given a name to William’s aunt, who evidently lived here in the neighbourhood but ‘whose depleted staff & strict regard for fuel economy’ had driven her brother, or brother-in-law—yes, brother-in-law, much more likely—into the greater, though sadly diminished, comfort of the Black Lion Hotel.
Except that, of course, they hadn’t. They might have driven him somewhere, but not into the Black Lion Hotel.
However, I came out of the library feeling better. I stood for a moment in the sunshine—by the statue of a local nineteenth-century novelist and tailor named Daniel Owen—and then made up my mind.
Went back along the High Street.
Turned in through the ivy-covered portico.
“Excuse me for bothering you again. But may I just ask? In this part of the world … is Priscilla a very common name?”
“No. I wouldn’t have thought it was a very common name in any part of the world. Why?”
“Mr Martin has a niece here called Priscilla.”
“In that case I’d suggest you try the post office. If Mrs Griffith can’t help you, then I don’t think anybody can.”
But Mrs Griffith couldn’t help me; nor could the postman she obligingly summoned from somewhere at the back.
Nor could the woman in the library.
Nor yet the buxom young assistants working in the town’s two small and spicily aromatic groceries. As far as either of them knew, they had no registered customer called Priscilla.
“But, then, if it was me,” declared one of them cheerfully, with an assertive toss of her bottle-blonde hair, “I’d either change it fast or else make blinking sure I only put down my initial. My own name’s Jean,” she added, with an unmistakably come-hither glance.
The other said: “Or maybe the family prefers to do its shopping in Wrexham?”
Even the pair of glowingly red-faced women labouring in a nearby field (but thankfully—from my own point of view—within easy hailing distance of the road) couldn’t come up with any likely candidate. It seemed that Priscilla of the Land Army was going to prove just as elusive as her uncle of the Black Lion.
Clearly, elusiveness ran in the family.
I said as much when I again returned to the hotel—this time to book a room.
I was requested, in a wryly humorous tone, to sign the register.
I wrote my name as Eric Andrews. Gave a genuine address in Chorleywood. Handed over my ration book. This was heavily blue-pencilled in some places, and neatly cut away in others—every bit as well prepared as my apparently long-held identity card.
I was also sympathetically quizzed—as I had feared might happen—on why I had been making those earlier enquiries. But I laid a finger against the side of my nose and tried to sound like George Sanders, or some other equally suave and elegant bounder:
“Annoyingly hush-hush, my dear! Quite frankly, I should have liked nothing better than to be able to take you into my confidence!”
And she both smiled at the joke and took respectful note of its underlying message. “Just something to do with very boring business,” I added, more prosaically.
“I think you mean,” she said, “as I was consistently taught at school: ask no questions, hear no lies!”
“We must have gone to the same school,” I told her. “My grandmother’s the principal.”
I put away my fountain pen. Was glad to hear that dinner would be served from six. (It was now about a quarter to.) My last proper meal had been in Germany. As I made my way upstairs, carrying my suitcase—for apparently the hall porter, poor man, was again laid up with his arthritis—there was already the sound of laughter proceeding from the taproom. I thought it might be amusing, later on, to come down and investigate.
Yet in the meanwhile I had a telephone call to make.
No 5 was on the second floor. Not very large, but bright. Quite sunny still. I removed my raincoat and hung it behind the door, then sat cross-legged on the bed. Picked up the receiver and asked my friend on reception to get me please—or ask the operator to get me please—a number in Ogbourne St George, in Wiltshire.
Ogbourne St George 242.
I was advised it might take twenty minutes. Which would mean—what?—that the call would probably come through at dinnertime … since lots of people these days, both in England and Germany, were eating their dinner so much earlier than before. And dinnertime, my English grandmother had always told me (and told my grandfather, and told the dog, and told anybody else who might be sitting round the table) was decidedly no moment at which to be making any phone calls—not if you claimed to have been properly brought up, that was, or to possess the tiniest crumb of consideration. My English grandmother defied the stereotype: was even more strong-willed than my German one; and I didn’t think it was only my recent mention of her which had now brought this to mind.
But she was the grandmother I loved.
Indeed, I loved both my English grandparents better than their German counterparts. And several of my English aunts and uncles, too.
Naturally, however, I had never been able to let on about this. Not at home. And even less so, of course, after I had applied to the Abwehr. At the Abwehr I had needed to feign complete indifference. Indifference, moreover, bordering on contempt.
Yet I still hadn’t believed I was going to be accepted. Such assets as I had, or thought I had (the ability to speak English without a German accent; to show initiative; be analytical; box well), none of these would have counted for a thing if there’d been the least suspicion of any conflict of loyalties. And afterwards I had felt astonished that my examiners could ever have allowed themselves to be so thoroughly deluded.
But at the same time, since I could truthfully say that I loved both my father and my Fatherland, and had seen very clearly where my overriding duty lay, perhaps in fact they hadn’t been. Well, not so unreservedly, I mean, not so thoroughly, deluded.
My initial application to the Abwehr had been made six years ago, long before I had last seen my British relatives. The fact of my being able to resist telling them about it, when it had then been by far the most exciting decision of my life, had furnished irrefutable proof to myself, though naturally to very few others, that I was indeed worthy to become a secret agent.
I had been thinking of all this while I partly unpacked my suitcase and afterwards shone my shoes; wondering how much of that initial excitement I had managed to retain. (Not a great deal, I suppose—yet wouldn’t there have been something a little wrong with me if I had managed to retain it?) The telephone dispelled this reverie. I was astonished to discover how swiftly those estimated twenty minutes had elapsed.
The operator announced that she now had my call on the line. Another woman’s voice then said pleasantly, “Hello…?” My pulse rate, which had been speeding up somewhat, immediately
began to calm.
“Oh, good evening,” I said. “I do hope I’m not interrupting your meal—if I am, I can easily phone back.”I could hear myself sounding slightly too formal; not quite a hundred per cent English. “My name is Eric Andrews and I’m wondering if Sybella is there.”
“Good evening, Mr Andrews. No, you’re not interrupting us one bit.” (I wished I could have known her name. I only knew its first letter … assuming, of course, that she hadn’t remarried. The engraving on Sybella’s engagement ring, work which—according to the jeweller’s bill—had cost the major ten-and-six, had provided me with that. ‘S.S. from W.M. 14.4.43.’) “But I’m afraid,” she said, “that my daughter isn’t here right now. In fact, she’s not been home for several weeks. As I’m sure you must know, she works for Ensa. Are you a friend of hers?”
“No, actually we’ve never met. I happen to be a friend of a friend.” Clearly, it worried me I should have no idea what Ensa was (surely it couldn’t be a who?) or more probably, I thought, ENSA; obviously I couldn’t ask. “But is she on the phone,” I went on quickly, “or could you give me her address? I’d really like to get in touch.”
“Yes, of course. She lives in London—shares a flat with two other girls—although I don’t think she’ll be there at present. But I imagine either of them could easily tell you where she is.” She added, “Or failing that, the head office of ENSA is in Drury Lane. At the Theatre Royal, naturally. But hold on. I’ll get you the girls’ number.”
When she returned she gave me the ENSA number as well.
This was more than I deserved. During her absence I had grown furious at my own stupidity. In Sybella’s second letter there had been a plain reference to things theatrical, but for some reason we’d assumed, both Mannheim and myself, that she’d been speaking only about amateur theatricals. Yet how crazy—how totally inexplicable! I saw now that her mention of spending just one night in Wolverhampton should instantly have set us right. Damn! What sort of a detective was I?
An overhasty one, plainly. And possibly more akin to Captain Hastings than to Hercule Poirot.
But as soon as I had jotted down the two numbers—and on a sheet of Black Lion stationery, to boot—Sybella’s mother enquired:
“Do you mind my being inquisitive? Who is this friend you have in common? I’m curious to know whether it’s somebody I might have met.”
Her question was by no means unexpected. I answered conversationally:
“Well, I very much doubt that you would have met him, because as a matter of fact…”
And then I broke the connection.
I was sorry to be discourteous; but I thought—and hoped—that she would only blame the vagaries of the wartime telephone system.
Indeed, my plan had been a simple one. If Sybella had answered, or her mother had asked me to hang on while she went to fetch her, I should merely have placed my finger on that bar a lot sooner—and then taken a train first thing in the morning to Ogbourne St George and spoken to Sybella in person.
Or, anyway, as first thing in the morning as possible, allowing for probable complications—although there was a railway station at both places and the distance in fact wasn’t that great.
But at least such complications would have given me enough time to think up a good story.
Sybella’s mother had sounded animated. I didn’t believe she could have heard about the major’s death. Which meant that in all likelihood Sybella herself hadn’t. But, whether or not this proved to be the case, that story would obviously have needed to be good.
Wrong tense, though. Made it sound as if, the way things were, the story was no longer going to be required.
And before I went down to dinner I spent several minutes standing by the window and gazing out—somewhat blindly after a while—at the pleasant view before me. At the mountains in the distance.
But I had known beforehand that my mind wouldn’t be dwelling solely upon features of the landscape.
Thy will be done was what I finally came up with. I did my level best to mean it.
8
After I had eaten I went back to my room and decided to lie down for a while. Stretched out contentedly, my hands clasped beneath my head.
Contentedly? I wasn’t sure that I had much business to be lying anywhere contentedly. Not with the world being as it was.
Yet at any rate—although tired—I was now feeling pleasantly fed and comfortable and free. That last word caught me slightly by surprise. But the reason for its being there was this: that for the moment I was completely my own boss. Most nights at this time I would be sitting over supper with my father and my stepmother, and although I was fond of my father—and, yes, fond of my stepmother too—I suddenly realized just how inhibiting they both were.
(In fact, I wasn’t nearly so fond of my father as I once had
been … not since our falling-out in the days after Kristallnacht. It was true, of course—just as he had claimed—that every nation did indeed have its share of hooliganism and thuggery. But that we ourselves could so effectively have cornered the market…! Our dispute had been bitter, and was unresolved.)
Anyway, it was ridiculous. I was clearly regarded by the Abwehr as being adult enough, responsible enough, to be sent on a mission of no small importance to the future of Germany. Maybe to the future of the world. And yet here I was, still living in my father’s house and being expected to account for almost every minute of my spare time. My stepmother was well-meaning but inquisitive.
I had complained to my father about this. He had spoken simply of a need for greater tolerance and understanding.
Though just on my own part, it seemed. Not on hers.
I recognized that the war was principally to blame: the housing shortage in Berlin. In peacetime it would all have been so different.
No. In peacetime it was all going to be so different. I smiled, unlinked my hands and stretched my arms towards the ceiling. Here in a tiny town in the north of Wales, on Thursday 6th May in the year of our Lord 1943, with the last of the sun slanting across the floor and highlighting the dust motes and gently catching the bottom of the bed, it actually felt, right now, pretty much like peacetime.
It was even good to think that I myself, in some small way, could possibly be bringing it closer: the end of the war.
This brought a comforting association of ideas. My jacket was on the back of the chair by the bed and I was suddenly inspired to reach across. Although Mr Martin’s letters were both in a side pocket, I had been carrying Sybella’s two in my wallet. I knew (nearly by heart) everything that she had written; and yet—still—I took them out again.
It was the second I had been meaning to reread. But I became distracted, and gave further thought to the address—which was only on the first of them. In the original, it had been embossed.
The Manor House,
Ogbourne St George,
Marlborough,
Wilts.
My goodness, talk about idyllic!
In fact, it sounded so idyllic it almost teetered on the verge of parody: rural England at its most gracious and romantic. In a mere eight words it managed to pay homage to an illustrious ancestor of the present Mr Churchill, to the national patron saint, the legacies of the feudal system, and even to an especially stirring chapter in the military history of—I smiled—this dear, dear land, this scepter’d isle, this blessed plot. Yes, there lay the only wonder: that somehow it hadn’t managed to make room for Mr Shakespeare. But even so. Not bad.
Yet following on from all this high romanticism and happy pageantry … what?
Merely a telephone number and a date.
Sunday 18th April.
Then straight into the letter.
“I do think dearest that seeing people like you off at railway stations is one of the poorer forms of sport. A train going out can leave a howling great gap in ones life & one has to try madly—& quite in vain—to fill it with all the things one used to enjoy a whole five weeks ago. That lovely
golden day we spent together—oh! I know it has been said before, but if only time could sometimes stand still just for a minute—But that line of thought is too pointless. Pull your socks up, Syb, & dont be such a fool.
“Your letter made me feel slightly better—but I shall get horribly conceited if you go on saying things like that about me—they’re utterly unlike ME, as I’m afraid you’ll soon find out. Here I am for the weekend in this divine place with Mummy & Jane being too sweet & understanding the whole time, bored beyond words & panting for Monday so that I can get back to my crowd of silly females, not always that sweet & not always that understanding. What an idiotic waste!
“Bill darling, do let me know as soon as you get fixed & can make some more plans, & dont please let them send you off into the blue the horrible way they do nowadays—now that we’ve found each other out of the whole world I dont think I could bear it—
“All my love,
“Sybella.”
And, as had happened on every single occasion I had read the letter, I thought it odd about the lack of apostrophes in certain places and about the way she always used an ampersand. Could she honestly believe that it saved time? Perhaps in England this represented a revived style of letter-writing. Mr Martin had adopted it, as well, although I couldn’t see William’s father as being someone generally influenced by fads—nor, indeed, very much aware of them. But actually he had used an ampersand both in his personal and his business correspondence. (Lord Mountbatten hadn’t; nor had Sir Archibald Nye; though was this because typewriters had been to the fore here, rather than plain fountain pens?) And I supposed, of course, that you could always put it down to mere coincidence.
Letters for a Spy Page 4