Letters for a Spy

by Stephen Benatar

  Yet that sounded grudging—and why, all of a sudden, should I have chosen to sound grudging? Good heavens, wasn’t I well aware of the astonishing frequency of this kind of coincidence? How often had I come across a word or a name unknown to me on one day, and then, in some wholly unrelated context, heard it again the very next? Ironically enough, the word ampersand itself was an example. At least temporarily, therefore, the Sybella and J.G. Martin thing could be filed away—without too much fret and too much fuss—under the codename: Operation Ampersand.

  In fact, just had to be.

  For how could they possibly have influenced one another? I acknowledged that they might have corresponded—once, perhaps?—but even this I somewhat doubted; and, anyhow, just a single brief exchange could hardly have accounted for it.

  Instinctively, I didn’t believe that they’d have met. Not that, if they had, meetings were in any way germane to writing styles, unless they had actually sat down together and zealously drawn up guidelines on how to achieve epistolary excellence in six easy lessons.

  Which—I had to admit—didn’t seem likely.

  Otherwise, we were back with coincidence.

  Or, maybe, with just one last tenuous option: Bill Martin as common denominator?

  Because if the major himself had employed such a style of writing, wasn’t it feasible that both his father and his fiancée, whether consciously or unconsciously, should at some stage have fallen in with it? Out of sheer admiration and a wish to emulate. Possibly unrecognized.

  And out of affection, too, of course. Out of love.

  But then I was struck by something else. Could Sybella and J.G. Martin have ever met? I still strongly doubted it, but how long did you normally delay a meeting between your fiancée and your father? Weren’t you rather keen to have it happen? At the very least, wasn’t your father rather keen to have it happen? And that engraving on the ring revealed, incontestably, the date of the engagement. 14.4.43.

  Which led us on to another point. Mr Martin had written to his solicitor on 10th April. “I have considered your recent letter concerning the Settlement that I intend to make on the occasion of William’s marriage.” Which definitely suggested, didn’t it, that he must have contacted Gwatkin on the subject at least five or six days earlier?

  Yet that either meant his son had confided in him some considerable time before he had actually proposed and been accepted—which, to my mind, seemed improbable—or else that we were now up against a further very odd coincidence. (No! “Since in this case the wife’s family will not be contributing to the Settlement…” Things had all too clearly been discussed.)

  I continued to lie on the bed; told myself that for the time being I must file away the Settlement in the same pending folder as the ampersands. Told myself that nothing could have thrown me quite so forcibly as Mr Martin’s disappearing act—and yet look at how quickly an explanation for even that had come to light. I told myself that if I slid down any further into this whirling mass of inessential detail I should soon be incapable of making out a single thing … the wood for the trees, the words for the letters.

  So what should I do? Plainly this. Take a deep breath and relax. Bid a final farewell to pedantry. To pedantry and to an attitude that warned inexorably of Jack declining into dullness. (I could now hear the sounds of a piano and of singing floating up from the taproom.) Bid a final farewell to…

  Well, to downright perversity, why not? For when was I ever going to learn? Just because Sybella’s mother had said, “She’s not been home for several weeks,” and just because Sybella’s letter had been written—from home—on Sunday 18th April, I was already seriously debating whether two and a half weeks could properly be described as several. Having—only ten seconds ago—declared my fixed intention to reform!

  (And perhaps from the viewpoint of a doting mother two and a half weeks could certainly be described as several. Possibly to a doting mother seventeen days could appear as practically interminable. “Good gracious!” she might have said. “Seventeen days? Is that all? I must be a much better parent than I realized!”)

  So there you are, then. Maybe, in that case, not downright perversity after all. There could still be hope.

  I turned to Sybella’s second letter.

  This one had been scrawled on lined foolscap, torn from a student’s notepad.

  In fact, the writing hadn’t started out as a scrawl; but it had rapidly degenerated.

  Once more, no salutation. The only form of heading was the date.

  Wed, 21st.

  “We’ve been given half an hour off—oh, blessed dispensation!—so here I am scribbling nonsense to you again. Your letter came this morning just as I was dashing for the coach—holding everybody up, as usual! You do write such heavenly ones. But what are these horrible dark hints you’re throwing out about being sent off somewhere—of course I won’t say a word to anyone—I never do when you tell me things, but it’s not abroad is it? Because I won’t have it, I WON’T, tell them so from me. Darling, why did we go & meet in the middle of a war, such a silly thing for anybody to do—if it weren’t for the war we might have been nearly married by now, going round together choosing curtains etc. And I wouldn’t be sitting here in Wolverhampton—Wolverhampton for one night only—though of course we will be coming back—yes, I know, you dont ever need to tell me, doing the thing which normally I love the best but which at the moment seems really to be getting on top of me—it may be doing something (one prays!) to slightly sweeten the war for some lucky few (what impossible arrogance!) but it isn’t doing anything actually to shorten it. Is it? Whereas what you’re doing…

  “Dearest Bill, I’m so thrilled with my ring—scandalously extravagant—you know how I adore diamonds—I simply can’t stop looking at it.

  “I’m going to a rather dreary dance tonight with Jock & Hazel, after the show of course, so I’ll only have to stay there for an hour or so. I think they’ve got some other man coming. You know what their friends always turn out to be like, he’ll have the sweetest little Adam’s apple & the shiniest bald head! How beastly and ungrateful of me, but it isnt really that—you know—dont you?

  “Look darling, I’ve got next Sunday & Monday off for Easter. I shall go home for it, naturally, do come too if you possibly can, or even if you can’t I’ll dash up to London & we’ll have an evening of wild gaiety—(By the way Aunt Marion said to bring you to dinner next time I was up, but I think that might wait?)

  “Oh dear. Here comes our ‘Lady Producer’ who feels by rights she should be directing Thorndike & Evans & Ashcroft rather than the likes of little old us—although actually she’s quite sweet, quite long-suffering, we really shouldn’t bait her as we do.

  “So masses & masses of love for now & a wholly tremendous kiss from

  “Sybella—your very own Sybella, who adores you.”

  I returned both letters to my wallet. Your very own Sybella, who adores you … And I switched my thoughts back, abruptly, to the one sentence which I always found particularly encouraging. “But what are these horrible dark hints you’re throwing out about being sent off somewhere—of course I won’t say a word to anyone—I never do when you tell me things…”

  Indeed, I had once again found this sentence so highly encouraging that as a result I remained more or less conscious of it during the whole of the time I later spent in the taproom … where I passed an enjoyable couple of hours amongst roughly a dozen welcoming people, including the receptionist, who were grouped convivially about the piano and belting out such songs as ‘Louise’ and ‘Thanks For The Memory’ and ‘See What The Boys In The Back Room Will Have’ and, perhaps a little more surprisingly, ‘Lili Marlene’. However, I warned myself not to set too great a store by it, that long and reassuring sentence—our lives, of course, were full of disappointment.

  (Yet I hope I didn’t actually think of it like that! Not simply because of the sentiment’s banality but because I was aware that my own potential disappointment could b
e as nothing compared to that of others.)

  Whatever the reason, though, Sybella plainly hadn’t managed to return home for Easter. But at least, I assumed (and surely some assumptions ought to be permissible), that she had been able to dash up to London for that evening of wild gaiety—and probably much sooner than expected: the Prince of Wales theatre tickets had been for the second house on Thursday 22nd, the very day after she had written from Wolverhampton. The very day prior to Good Friday. And only two days before her warmly adored and professionally up-and-coming fiancé—who wrote such heavenly letters and was so scandalously extravagant and who might have been going around choosing curtains by now if he hadn’t met Sybella in the middle of a war—only two days before her warmly adored fiancé was either drowned or drowning, or about to be drowned, in a cold and clearly unadoring sea.

  9

  I didn’t like loose ends. I arrived at the Carlton Grill shortly before two. It wasn’t a good time to have chosen. The obsequious maître d’—smilingly effusive to those who had reservations, or even to those who hadn’t but might still be hoping for a table—was merely irritated by somebody who only wanted to ask questions: namely, about whether a certain booking had been made for a date over two weeks earlier and, if so, whether or not it had actually been taken up. He coolly enquired whether I was a plain-clothes policeman. I said, no, I was simply a private individual attempting to trace the movements of a missing relative. He hardly troubled to hide his exasperation; brusquely dismissed me with a sop—i.e., a reluctant suggestion I should come back after four.

  So, from the grandeur of the Carlton Grill, I crossed the Haymarket to a snack bar, where I had a sandwich and some not very good minestrone.

  But then a speedy return to grandeur. Across Pall Mall and into Waterloo Place.

  No 14 was an impressive mansion built of Portland Stone. But here the magnificence was principally external. Although one of the original functions of this house had no doubt been to provide a sumptuous ballroom, lit brilliantly by chandeliers, now its meanly partitioned pokiness wasn’t even enlivened by a solitary low-wattage bulb.

  Yet, dim as its interior was, and far removed from the heady days of Beau Brummell and of the present King’s somewhat unstable forebear, there was still enough penetration of daylight, just, to enable visitors to read the nameplates near the entrance. And I saw that McKenna & Co., Solicitors, had their offices on the first floor.

  The staircase itself remained imposing. But in place of a footman to announce my name and a fashionable duchess to receive me at the top, there was now only a shabby green-painted door with, beyond that, a motherly-looking typist who sat at her desk before a switchboard.

  She clearly doubled as a secretary. When I went in she was trying to transcribe something from a folded-over notepad; my first glance had taken in a perceptible frown. But then she looked up and gave me a friendly smile.

  “Good afternoon. I suppose you wouldn’t have a talent for reading back shorthand? My shorthand?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have a talent for reading back anybody’s shorthand.”

  “What a shame! Even so. May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see Mr Gwatkin.”

  “Mr F.A. or Mr L.G.?”

  “Mr F.A.”

  “Which is just as well,” she answered lightly. “Mr L.G. is away for the moment, sick. And your name, please?”

  “Andrews. Eric Andrews.”

  She consulted a diary that lay open on her desk.

  I said, “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying that I had any appointment. Although if he could fit me in…? It’s extremely urgent—and it needn’t take long!”

  “How long? Fifteen minutes?”

  “I’d happily settle for ten. Or even five.”

  “Then I’ll see what I can do. No guarantees, mind.” She was putting on her headset. “May I ask about its general nature?”

  I gave her a brief outline and presently she was passing on what I’d said. But it obviously wasn’t a good connection: there were several things she needed to repeat. And it seemed that for some reason Mr Gwatkin was being obstreperous. The woman looked startled—she even flushed a little—cast me an agitated glance.

  “Yes, very well,” she said. “Very well. Yes, of course, Mr Gwatkin. Yes, I will.” She nervously pulled out the jackplug.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “Have I got you into trouble?”

  “What? Oh, no. That was something else entirely.” But she was now finding it difficult to look at me and I felt convinced I must have laid her open to some form of reprimand.

  (I could certainly see why Mr Martin would have chosen Mr Gwatkin. Plainly they were both sticklers; plainly carved from the same block of granite. Granite, I thought, because it was grey rather than hard.)

  She rallied, though. “No, Mr Gwatkin says he’ll be quite willing to see you. But at present he has a client and hopes you won’t mind having to wait. Perhaps you’d care to take a seat?”

  There were some armchairs, a small sofa, and a low table bearing copies of Punch and Picture Post. I took off my raincoat and settled on the sofa—beneath a large framed photograph, in colour, of the King and Queen.

  “He should only be a short while.” Her manner was nearly back to what it had been. (Yes, she was indeed motherly-looking.) “In the meantime, would you like a cup of tea? I was just about to make one.”

  I declined, with gratitude.

  “Or perhaps you’d like some coffee? It’s only Bev, of course.”

  “No thank you. Nothing.”

  “Then if you’re quite sure…? I shan’t be long.”

  It seemed slightly strange that, in a firm of solicitors, tea or coffee wasn’t made for everyone at once by an office boy. That’s the way it would have worked in Germany—or so at least I imagined. Possibly the war had made a difference.

  Or was it perhaps Mr Gwatkin’s tetchy reaction on the phone which had meant she couldn’t wait?

  Be that as it may, though, when a few minutes later she returned, she hadn’t got her cup of tea.

  “My,” I said, “you must have drunk that fast!”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Your tea,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, yes, of course! How silly of me … I forgot.”

  That sounded ambiguous.

  But then she started putting through an outside call and became wholly taken up by the demands which this imposed. I noticed, with a gentle smile, how relieved she appeared when she got hold of the person she was after—maybe her telephonic skills were every bit as shaky as her shorthand.

  Her typing seemed more competent. After transferring the call, she rattled away at a speed I wouldn’t have expected. And apart from pausing for the brisk removal and replacement of paper, or to deal with the occasional terse requirement of the switchboard, she kept up her momentum for a good half-hour … the good half-hour that went by before Mr Gwatkins was able to see me. During that time, to my surprise, no departing client had passed through Reception. But there was probably a back staircase.

  So I was into my third copy of Punch when she spoke to me for the first time since the commencement of her typing.

  “Oh, Mr. Gwatkins says he’s ready now. If you’d like to go through the door at the end of the passageway, his is the second on the left.”

  But she still seemed preoccupied; and her expression was still quite strained. What had happened to the relatively calm person I had encountered on entry? No longer especially friendly, and certainly not in the least bit motherly. Even her silence while I got up from the sofa and walked towards the passageway now struck me as being hostile.

  Mr Gwatkin, as well, belied my first impression—or, rather, my preconception. I had expected somebody ill-natured and aggressive. He seemed so far from being either that you might have thought him timid. His manner appeared hesitant.

  Also, he was younger than I’d anticipated. Much. Maybe thirty-five, with thinning, gingery hair and a vaguely und
ernourished look. I wondered if he wasn’t in good enough health to have been called up or whether law was classified as a reserved occupation—like banking amongst other things. But, whatever the case, I couldn’t seriously imagine him as being a bully to his secretary. I could imagine him as becoming excitable, yes. But not as behaving badly. Not with intent.

  “Mr Andrews, is it? Sorry you’ve had to wait.”

  “No, it’s good of you to see me.”

  His handshake felt clammy. His forehead looked clammy—in fact, within the next couple of minutes, he would actually need to wipe it. Twice.

  “And … er … please, won’t you take a seat? And let me know how I can help you.”

  As if he hadn’t already been informed about that! Painstakingly.

  “Well, I don’t think I can add a great deal to what I heard your secretary telling you. I met Mr Martin about a fortnight ago. I’d just had my pocket picked and would have found myself in a very awkward situation if he hadn’t been kind enough to lend me thirty shillings. Naturally, I wish to return this, yet now discover that I’ve lost his address. I should hate him to view me as dishonourable.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” The solicitor had sat down and was now moving papers around on his desk. But if he was meaning to tidy things he was hardly making a good job of it. “Er … Mr John Martin, I think you said?”

  “Mr J.G. At least I remember that much.”

  “Yes, indeed.” He laughed nervously—as though he thought I’d made a joke. “But how…? Well, how did you know that Mr Martin was a client of McKenna & Company?”

  “Just lucky, I suppose. We’d been chatting over a glass of sherry when he suddenly realized the time. He told me he had a luncheon appointment with his solicitor which he couldn’t afford to be late for.”

  “Oh, that sounds exactly like Mr Martin! How many others do you meet who still say ‘luncheon’?” He nodded, and appeared better pleased with himself—as if merely knowing that we were speaking of the right man considerably increased his confidence. “And he does so enjoy his little glass of sherry! Was it Bristol Cream?”