Making Enemies

by Francis Bennett

  He peered at me over the tops of his glasses. ‘Is that what you’d like to do?’

  ‘My problem,’ I said, ‘is that I don’t know what I’d like to do. One good thing about the army is it takes away the need to think.’

  Watson-Jones laughed. ‘That’s what your father told me you’d say. The difference between your father and me is, I don’t believe you.’

  He sat back in his chair, pleased with his provocation.

  ‘I believe it,’ I said, ‘and that, surely, is what counts.’

  He had thrown his stone and it had made no ripples. I wondered if that was an unusual experience for him. I could see him moving smoothly to a new position as if nothing had happened. I admired his dexterity.

  ‘Let me tell you what I have in mind,’ he said. ‘Of course,’ he leaned forward as he spoke, ‘you understand this is all very hush-hush. Nothing’s official yet.’

  He looked up to wave absent-mindedly to a colleague who passed our table.

  ‘There’s been a move recently,’ he continued, leaning forward once more, ‘to get me and one or two others to make more of our position in the Party. Form a group. Create a platform. Consolidate what we believe in. That sort of thing. I didn’t initiate it but nor have I resisted it. A group, if it is to mean anything – and I’m talking now in political terms – has to have an organization and organizations have to have money. Well, the money is in place. Now we’re looking for the organization. The people to do the job.’

  He sounded pleased with himself. I sensed the money came from Watson-Jones himself, or someone close to him.

  ‘What are these people going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Influence opinion. Change minds. Steer this country back to safer waters.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘Help get our people back into power and the country out of the bloody mess it’s in.’

  The room was filling up around us and there was a buzz of excited chatter. A man came across to our table and said, ‘Simon, a word in your ear later, yes?’

  ‘Surely, Johnny.’ Watson-Jones smiled at me but made no introduction. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Changing minds,’ I said. ‘Getting the country back on its feet.’

  ‘Well, what do you say?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Joining us.’ I must have looked baffled because he laughed and said, ‘I should explain. We’re going to start a research office. Do a bit of hard thinking. Facts and figures. Write speeches. Publish papers. Propose policy. Put a bit of muscle into our opposition, and God knows it needs it. We thought you might like to help us do it.’

  There was no explanation of the ‘we’ he referred to.

  ‘Shouldn’t you look for someone with political ambitions?’

  ‘We don’t want anyone with ambition. That wouldn’t do at all.’

  I waited for him to qualify his remark but there was no sign he knew what he’d said. Evidence of his thick skin, or my thin one.

  ‘We’re not looking for a decision right now,’ he said. ‘But give me a steer. What do you think of the idea?’

  ‘Berlin or London? Where’s the choice?’

  ‘Then you’ll think about it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Splendid. What we hoped to hear. Now,’ he looked at his watch. Already his attention was on something else. ‘Time for dinner. I think we’ve earned it. What do you say?’

  *

  Meredith Watson-Jones was American, and it was immediately clear that the money was hers and there was plenty of it. The house in South Street had a richness about it, a certainty in its own taste that comes from the employment of an expensive interior designer. It was somehow too good to be true. The paintings were early American: scenes of the Civil War, Southern landscapes and some family portraits, serious-looking men and women on horseback, sullen Negro slaves and elegant plantation houses in the background. I wondered if they really were family portraits but they gave you the impression that they were, and that was what counted.

  ‘Darling,’ Watson-Jones said as we entered, ‘we’re late. We were having such an interesting talk, weren’t we, Danny? Will you forgive us?’ He kissed Meredith lightly, brushing her cheek with his lips, and introduced me. ‘Now, is everyone here?’

  Watson-Jones’s idea of a quiet evening was not mine. There were twelve of us at dinner, none of whom I had met before. The Watson-Joneses had a butler and, I presumed, a cook. Where they managed to get their food from I had no idea. I ate things that evening that I had not tasted since before the war.

  I sat next to Meredith Watson-Jones. When she spoke, she leaned towards me, occasionally touching my hand for effect. There was nothing flirtatious in her action, it was a natural, even unconscious, mannerism. Her slow speech, with its fading traces of a Southern drawl, and her sweet smile combined to captivate me. I am sure she was used to captivating men, but it was an act without guile. I saw in her none of the subtlety of the good politician’s wife. I wondered what her life was like when she wasn’t on duty.

  ‘I gather you’re stationed in Berlin,’ she said. Watson-Jones had evidently briefed her earlier.

  ‘I was telling your husband,’ I said, ‘how much I hate Berlin.’

  ‘Then we’ll talk about something else, Daniel.’ She touched my arm and moved at once to the second subject of her briefing, ‘Simon and I are great fans of your father’s articles. You must be so proud of him.’

  We talked about my father; what it was like to be brought up in a university town; why I had not finished my degree and mercifully very little about the war. I learned that she had rejected the chance to return to America in 1939 because her duty was to be at her husband’s side. I managed somehow to get her to tell me how she had met her husband.

  ‘Daddy sent me to England for the summer. I didn’t want to come at all but Daddy and Mother said it would be good for me. I had this beau they didn’t like and this was their plan to separate us. Someone took me to a party at Cambridge and there I met this tall English boy. Do you know, I couldn’t understand a thing – thaing – he was saying – saaiying – he seemed to swallow every word he spoke. But he had deep blue eyes and they followed me wherever I went. So the very next day I decided that if he was going to look at girls like that, I’d rather he looked at me than anyone else. So I got on a train and went back to Cambridge and told him so. Wasn’t that awful?’

  The sound of her laughter attracted Watson-Jones’s attention from the other end of the table.

  ‘Meredith?’

  ‘I’m telling Daniel how we met, honey,’ she said guilelessly.

  ‘I’m sure he won’t be interested in that, my sweet,’ he said, and returned his attention to his guest.

  He did not want her to share intimate memories with me because I was eating at their table not out of friendship but out of usefulness, and Meredith was in danger of overstepping the mark. I imagined she had done this before, and wondered if there would be a reckoning to be faced when we had all left.

  ‘Give me a top-up, will you? There’s a love.’

  Bony fingers dug into my arm and a wine glass was held out to me. Sylvia Carr, I was told by the many people who knew her, was well past her best when I met her. That best had been something to behold, they said, but the years had taken their toll. Early promise had not sustained itself and it showed in the hoarse voice, the raucous laugh, the over-bright lipstick and the tight, parchment-brown skin.

  But there was an honesty about Sylvia, and, I discovered later, an ability to square up to misfortune, which I came to admire. She was a realist, and she knew the world.

  After dinner, Meredith led the women away and we gathered at Watson-Jones’s end of the table. Port appeared, and cigars. I heard someone say, ‘Genuine Havana. How does he do it? Good old Simon.’ The conversation turned quickly to politics, the atmosphere thick with cigar smoke. Berlin seemed like another planet.

  I listened and said nothing. The drift was clear. The Attlee government was heartily disliked. We
were in debt to the world, our export trade was half what it had been before the war and government spending was out of control because of Labour’s obsession with social experiment.

  ‘All very well to play around with ideas of equality, but only when you can afford it.’

  There was general agreement that the country was being weakened at a time when the Soviet Union was banging its rifle butt harder than ever on Europe’s cardboard door.

  ‘The Soviets are out to gobble up the world,’ someone said. ‘We can all see that. France and Italy will be a walkover because they’re going communist anyway. Then we’ll have the Russians at Calais and this bloody government saying, “Please come in, Comrade Stalin. We’re allies in the great cause of socialism.”’

  Watson-Jones turned to me. ‘You’re stationed in Berlin, Danny. Are we wrong to see the Russians as a threat?’

  ‘They mean business,’ I said. ‘They’re out for what they can get and they’re very hard to stop.’

  ‘Playground bullies, is that it?’

  He was playing the straight man, feeding me my lines. I hoped I’d got my part right.

  ‘Playground bullies with toys that explode. What we’ve seen is the tip of the iceberg. They haven’t shown their hand yet. I worry about what happens when they do.’

  The room had fallen silent. I wasn’t sure if I was on trial or not.

  ‘Can we stop them?’ Watson-Jones asked.

  ‘Not if we don’t do something soon. Nobody’s doing anything at the moment,’ I said, ‘and that’s playing into the Russians’ hands. This government, the Americans, everyone turns a blind eye because officially the Russians are still our allies. They’re a brutal lot. They read our policy as a sign of weakness. They respect strength. If you say no to them loudly enough and stick a bayonet up their arse, then they might back off. If you try to reason with them, they’ll walk all over you. Unless we do something soon, they’ll become a permanent threat.’

  ‘Time to wake up the world to the demon at the gates, Simon,’ someone called out. ‘Now, there’s a cause to get your teeth into.’

  There was laughter at that and conversation broke out in groups once more. One or two people nodded in my direction and I had the impression that I had passed some kind of test.

  Watson-Jones was bending over my chair.

  ‘There’s someone here I’d like to introduce you to. You two should have a lot in common.’

  One of the great regrets of my life is that I only met Charlie Faulkner when he was dying. None of us knew it then, including Charlie, and when he did find out, there was a long battle between his will and the disease until it finally conquered him. I suspect that he raged against the illness that was slowly ravaging his body, and from time to time he stunned its advance. He certainly took a long time to die, longer than any of us expected and only in the last days were there any real signs that he was failing.

  My first impression that evening was one of solidity, a square head topped with thick, untidy tufts of white hair, a square chin below a wide, often smiling mouth. His body was compact rather than large, his strength concentrated, but he gave the impression of a man almost twice his size. Perhaps it was his hands that did this. He had the largest palms I have ever seen, with short, thick, square-ended fingers.

  ‘Simon tells me you might be interested in joining us,’ Faulkner said when Watson-Jones had gone. I recognized the last traces of a Mancunian accent.

  ‘The subject’s come up, yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I’d like to know more.’

  ‘Ask me.’

  ‘Why me? The universities must be crammed with young men who would jump at a chance like this. Surely you could have your pick?’

  Faulkner laughed. ‘Simon warned me you wouldn’t think too much of yourself. I’m looking for doers, not thinkers. Thinkers are two a penny these days.

  ‘What makes you think I’m a doer?’

  ‘You’ve been in the war, son. You can organize other people, make things happen. I’ve seen your record. I’d say you’d be a good man for the job.’

  He leaned towards me. ‘The wrong mob’s in power at the moment and we’ve got to get them out. We were too busy winning the war to spot how the war was changing the world we were trying to save. It’s time for a rethink: new ideas, new faces, get the party moving again. Well, Simon’s got ideas, he’s got the courage to challenge the shibboleths. What he needs is a bit of organization behind him, help spread the word. That’s what we’re talking about. Something to believe in again.’

  They’d found premises in Pimlico, convenient for the House, and in a week or two the office would be ready. It was an exciting challenge for a young man, to be in at the start of a movement that was going to take the country forward once more. If Charlie had his time over again, he’d jump at the chance. It was clear from everything he said that I was not being looked over, I was being sold to.

  ‘There’s more to it than that.’ He leaned forward. ‘The Soviets are winning the propaganda war hands down at the moment. They say one thing and do the opposite and nobody calls them to account. We’re letting them get away with murder. You’re in Berlin, you know that better than I do. We’re a soft touch because we can’t bring ourselves to believe the Russians are as evil as you and I know them to be. So what’s happening? They’re running rings round us one minute and knocking us down like dominoes the next. Well, some of us think it’s time we woke people up before it’s too late.’

  How he was going to do this he didn’t explain.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ He looked at me eagerly.

  ‘Isn’t that the question I should ask you?’

  ‘I’m happy if you are.’

  There it was, as simple as that. The possibility of escape from Berlin, a new life outside the army. No more doubts about what I should do. It was being decided for me. All I had to do was say yes.

  ‘Darling,’ said a voice behind me. ‘I’m a teeny bit squiffy and it’s way past my bedtime. Would you be an angel and drive me home?’ Sylvia Carr was holding out her keys for me. Then she saw who I was talking to.

  ‘Charlie, I’m sorry. Am I taking Danny away from something important? You will forgive me, won’t you?’ She leaned over and kissed his forehead.

  ‘This young man and I were just getting to know one another,’ Charlie said, winking at me. ‘But we can carry on some other time. Sleep on it,’ he said to me. He was writing a telephone number on a piece of paper. ‘Give me a ring. You can reach me here.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Now you take care of this young lady, Danny, and see her home safe and sound. She’s very precious to some of us.’

  ‘Tell me about Meredith,’ I said when we were in the car.

  ‘It’s her money,’ Sylvia replied, ‘and he spends it.’ She clearly had no time for Watson-Jones. ‘Meredith’s a sweetie, far too good for him. Everyone loves Meredith. It’s not real money, darling. Very nouveau. Grandpa Devereaux started the business, he was some kind of mechanic, then Daddy Devereaux made a success of it. He makes bits for aeroplanes – they’re the bits that matter because everyone wants them. Two generations, that’s all it took. No time at all. I suppose that’s America for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where does Charlie Faulkner fit in?’ I asked as we turned into the King’s Road.

  ‘He was almost an old flame of mine,’ she said, ‘except that bitch of a wife Muriel kept too close an eye on him.’

  ‘What’s his background?’

  ‘Charlie’s a shopkeeper, or was; he had grocery shops all over the Midlands. He made a lot of money in the ’thirties and got drafted in to work for the government during the war. That was when he got bitten by politics. He never wanted to be an MP, but he loves the political process, the comings and goings, the atmosphere of power. That’s where he puts his energy now, behind political causes like Simon.’

  ‘He thinks a lot of Simon.’

  ‘Simon thinks a lot of Simon too.’

&nbs
p; ‘Other people speak well of him. He seems to be a coming man.’

  ‘Oh, Simon’s coming all right. He’s been coming since the day he was born.’ I was surprised at her bitterness. ‘He’s always had an eye for the main chance. Shrewd and shifty is how I’d describe him. If you want my advice, stay away from Watson-Jones. The man’s ice-cold inside. Cares for no one but himself. Look how he treats Meredith.’

  ‘How does he treat Meredith?’

  ‘He married her for her money. That should tell you everything you need to know.’

  We had reached her house in Beaufort Street.

  ‘That was kind of you. I hope I haven’t taken you too far out of your way.’ I opened the door for her. ‘Give me a call sometime. I’m in the book.’

  *

  I didn’t sleep on it. I made up my mind as I walked back from Sylvia’s house. I heard the answer as I listened to the water lapping against the Embankment. I sensed it in the eternally thoughtful gaze of Sir Thomas More as he stared across the river. I saw it in the reflected moonlight bouncing across the underside of Albert Bridge. I felt it even in the enquiring glance of the tart standing by a lamp-post near Lambeth Bridge. I heard it in the refrain of my own footsteps on the pavement of the Embankment.

  Why not? Why not? Why not?

  It seemed a good offer. It had come to me out of the blue. I hadn’t had to work for it. It would be good to get away from Berlin, to escape from the war-torn buildings and the war-torn lives. It would be good to get out of khaki too.

  ‘Why not? Why not?’ the voice inside my head kept repeating. Why not? was about as positive as I had felt about anything in a long time.

  12

  RUTH

  She is one of the first to arrive. She takes her seat at the back of the auditorium. Her head is pounding.

  Do nothing unusual, Andropov has instructed. Behave normally. Don’t excite attention until the right moment.

  She watches her colleagues drift in to take their seats, leaving the two rows at the front unused. She realizes how everyone sits in the same seats, how no one has ever sat at the front. She wonders if the director will address them. It is rare for him to do so. She is not surprised when Assistant Director Dimitriov leads in Assistant Deputy Directors Miskin and Tomsky and the stout, drab form of Senior Technician Maximov. They are followed by the two political commissars, ever-present observers to ensure the correct political line is held. One by one they take their places at the table. Conversation stops.