The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  ‘War’s got to come to an end sometime,’ observed Paul.

  ‘Yes, but the big question is when, and how.’

  ‘Surely you don’t harbour the treasonable thought that Germany might prevail?’ said Arthur, with a dry smile designed to indicate the facetiousness of his remark. ‘Though I imagine there are any number of people, even in the clubs of St James’s, who are privately preparing for such a possibility and quietly trying to devise ways of making a German victory work to their personal advantage.’

  ‘I disagree,’ replied Paul. ‘For the British people the idea of anything short of victory is inconceivable. I think the mood of the nation is confident and strong.’

  ‘I read an interesting article by Orwell on the subject of patriotism the other day,’ observed Dan. ‘He takes the view that all pacifists are essentially pro-Fascist. If you hamper the war effort you automatically help the Germans.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Paul. ‘But you could also argue that those who fight against Fascism become Fascists themselves, in the long run. It’s an interesting paradox. Rather like the way we lock up pacifists and conscientious objectors. There’s a certain irony in putting a man in prison for his religious beliefs when we’re at war with a totalitarian regime, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I don’t have much sympathy with those fellows. If you’re a citizen, you shouldn’t be entitled simply to chuck up your responsibility to the state in time of need just because you don’t believe in war.’

  ‘Well, that’s the basic issue, isn’t it? Not everyone believes war is the right way to defeat Fascism.’

  Arthur Bettany took out his cigarette case and offered it to Dan. ‘Do you know what Benjamin Britten said when he was asked what he would do if his country was invaded?’ He chuckled as he lit Dan’s cigarette. ‘He said, “I believe in letting the invader in and setting him a good example.”’

  ‘I can’t say I share that particular philosophy,’ observed Paul. ‘But I’m more tolerant of the pacifists than Orwell. We’re fighting for freedom of conscience, after all, aren’t we?’

  ‘The freedom of conscience to be a Nazi sympathiser?’ asked Dan.

  ‘To be Oswald Mosley, if you like. Anyhow, not all Fascists are anti-Semites. And just because you admire certain things about Germany – for instance, I think the fact they have no speed limits is quite wonderful – well, that doesn’t make me a Fascist.’

  ‘But surely it’s not what you think about Germany and the Germans that matters – it’s how you feel about your own country, and whether you think Britain and our way of life is worth defending.’

  ‘Of course, that’s right. Though it’s a mistake to confuse patriotism with nationalism. I think most British people are deeply patriotic, but they’re not nationalistic in the blinkered way of the German people. You could never rise far in politics in this country by promising the people military glories and victories, the way Hitler has. The British are fighting for things they can scarcely identify. Little things that make us who we are. Not for glory or power over other nations. Just to be allowed to get on with things the way we always have.’ Paul puffed on his pipe for a moment. ‘Speaking of Orwell, I remember reading something he wrote once about being English, and it stayed with me. “The suet puddings and the red pillar-boxes have entered into your soul.” Perhaps he meant it sardonically, but it’s true. It’s not just the things you love about your country, but the things you take for granted and only ever half-notice. A way of life. That’s what it’s about for most of us.’

  There was silence for a moment, then Arthur said, ‘I say, Latimer, do you remember that time at school when you and Beeston confiscated a box of Sobranie Black Russian that I’d filched from home? Whatever happened to them? I was abominably put out about losing those.’

  ‘We smoked ’em, of course,’ said Paul. All three men laughed.

  From here the conversation drifted into schoolday reminiscences, then after fifteen minutes or so Dan glanced at his watch and drained his glass. ‘I’m afraid I have to be getting back.’

  ‘Sure you won’t stay for another?’

  ‘No thanks.’ He rose and picked up his cap. Arthur refilled his own and Paul’s glass. ‘If I might just…?’ Dan indicated a cabinet on the other side of the room.

  ‘Oh, by all means.’ Arthur stepped aside to let Dan fetch his chess set and some books.

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Paul.

  ‘Yes. Give my best to Meg and Diana.’

  ‘I shall, thanks.’

  With a nod to Arthur, Dan left the flat. Whatever the nature of Paul and Arthur’s relationship, thought Dan, as he made his way downstairs, there was definitely more to it than a chance encounter at the British Library. One could sense some kind of intrigue between them. Perhaps he had been right all along. Poor deluded Meg. If only she had believed him.

  *

  When Dan’s battalion received orders to leave for an unknown destination the following week, the general assumption among the troops was that they were being sent abroad to fight, and there was a sense of exhilaration and trepidation, heightened by the fact that the move was to be made at night and in secrecy. But their destination turned out to be to Scarborough, and coastal defence work, laying coils of barbed wire along slipways and beaches, erecting pillboxes and anti-tank gun emplacements, digging trenches, and laying landmines. Their quarters were an abandoned holiday camp, and Scarborough itself, on evenings when it was possible to go into town, offered limited attractions. Dan preferred to stay in the mess after dinner and drink with his friend and fellow soldier, Brendan O’Connell. Brendan was a twenty-five-year-old Dubliner, six foot three and built like a prizefighter, who on the outbreak of war had been a teacher in a boys’ prep school. Although the tutelage of small boys might have appeared an unlikely vocation for a man with his temperament and appetite for drinking, Dan considered Brendan’s gentle earnestness and abidingly savage longing to kill as many Germans as possible perfectly compatible. He was intelligent and humorous, and he and Dan had become close friends. Brendan had done a good deal of soul-searching before leaving Ireland to volunteer his services to the British army, but in the end he had decided de Valera was wrong to keep Ireland neutral. For Brendan, the Nazi menace was one that threatened all of the West, and to fight that menace with force of arms seemed not only right but necessary. He had fought with the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War, and as he put it to Dan, ‘I set out to fight Fascism, right enough, and I don’t bloody well intend to leave the job half-finished.’

  One evening, at the end of a particularly tedious day spent counting telegraph poles and overseeing the erection of a pillbox which was to be disguised as an ice cream kiosk to house the detonator plunger for the harbour mines, they sat in the mess with their drinks, mulling over their work. The evacuation of troops from Dunkirk the previous year, and the sense that Britain was now fighting alone, added to their desperate sense of frustration at not being involved in active combat.

  ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of this war like some glorified navvy, digging trenches and carting sandbags.’ Brendan shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s not what I joined up for.’

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Dan asked, ‘Have you heard of a thing called special operations?’

  Brendan took a swig of his beer. ‘Can’t say I have. Is that like, what, spying?’

  ‘No, not that. More like raiding parties – you know, carrying out covert operations, taking the enemy by surprise, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Like the German Storm Troops?’

  ‘Exactly. Churchill reckoned they worked so well for them in the last war that he’s ordered the formation of a similar outfit here.’ There was another silence, and Dan added, ‘I’m thinking of volunteering.’

  Brendan nodded. ‘Is that so?’ He sat reflecting. ‘Dangerous work. Going behind enemy lines, maybe? Guerrilla operations?’

  ‘That kind of thing.’


  Brendan raised his glass and tipped it in Dan’s direction with a grin. ‘Sounds like it beats putting up tank barriers at the seaside. Where do we sign up?’

  *

  A week later Dan and Brendan found themselves in a remote training camp in the Scottish Highlands. The regime was beyond anything Dan had envisaged. The volunteers were sent out with heavy equipment on punishing marches across mountain ranges, they swam icy rivers in full kit, slept in ditches, and tackled fearsome assault courses. They were trained in unarmed combat, and learned to cross terrain unseen and unheard at night, and to build bridges and rafts. A week was spent under canvas on the remoter slopes of Ben Nevis, learning to ski, prompting Brendan to observe that only in Scotland could one expect to ski in the British Isles in summer The training was relentless and continued day and night, teaching the men how to live and fight in the harshest of conditions. Every man there knew that if he failed to rise to the challenges he would be returned to his unit, and no one wanted that ignominy. Dan had thought himself physically pretty fit, but it quickly became evident to him that he would have to muster every reserve of energy and determination to succeed. Brendan, big and powerful as he was, found it less taxing; without his camaraderie and good humour, Dan wasn’t sure that he could have made it through the six weeks. But on the final exercise, a simulated beach landing at night using live ammunition, Dan was exhilaratingly conscious of the level to which his powers of speed, strength and awareness had developed, and he knew he would pass muster.

  *

  When the training was over, Dan and Brendan were sent on a fortnight’s leave, ahead of their first, as yet unknown operation. Brendan went home to his family in Dublin, Dan to his club in London. The relief of sleeping between fresh sheets and eating food that wasn’t cooked over an open fire in a raw wind was exquisite, and Dan spent the first day relishing the comforts of civilisation before getting in touch with Harry. They met, as usual, in the Wheatsheaf.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ remarked Harry. ‘And you’re in civvies. Where have you been for the last few weeks?’

  ‘Just training.’

  Harry brooded. ‘I’ve had my call-up papers, so I’ll have to pack in the magazine until the war is over. Hard to find contributors these days, anyhow. Or subscribers, come to that. Oh, by the way, something you should know – Bettany’s left town. I’m assuming he’s been called up, but no one seems sure. Shadowy figure at the best of times. You might want to check up on your rooms.’

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ said Dan. ‘Not that I’ve any use for them, now that I have my father’s old place in Belgravia. Though frankly I prefer staying at my club.’

  ‘Nice to have the choice,’ observed Harry.

  Dan left the pub an hour later and walked up to Bloomsbury. Mrs Woodbead, when he knocked on her door, greeted him with a mixture of relief and indignation.

  ‘Mr Ranscombe! Perhaps now someone will tell me what’s going on. Your friend Mr Bettany upped and left a fortnight back, without so much as a by-your-leave. I’m down two weeks’ rent, and I need to know what’s what. Are you coming back, or am I to find a new tenant?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no use for the rooms, Mrs W, not now I’m in the army. I’m sorry my friend left without notice. I’ll tell you what – I’ll pay you the two weeks’ rent you’ve lost, and I’ll move the rest of my things out. That way you can find a new tenant quick as you like.’

  ‘It might not be that easy to find someone in a hurry, not the way things are.’

  ‘All right – a month’s rent. How does that sound?’

  ‘That’s very fair of you, I’m sure.’ She watched as Dan took some notes from his wallet. ‘We all live in straitened times,’ she added, folding the notes and tucking them inside her blouse.

  ‘Indeed we do. I’ll pop upstairs and fetch my things, then drop the key off.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ranscombe. It’s been a pleasure having you as a tenant. Even if your friend did light off rather sudden.’

  He and Mrs Woodbead shook hands cordially, then he went upstairs to his flat and let himself in. Bettany had decamped, leaving no trace of himself behind, save for a dusty trilby hat on top of the wardrobe. Dan had removed most of his belongings to the house in Belgravia before Arthur had moved in, and the furniture belonged to Mrs Woodbead. There were only a few personal items of his left, such as books and some pictures. He found a small holdall stuffed in the back of the wardrobe and put everything into it. On the way downstairs he slipped the latchkey through Mrs Woodbead’s letterbox. Funny, Bettany disappearing like that, thought Dan as he left the square. No doubt the army had claimed him, as it was claiming everyone these days.

  He went to Belgravia to drop off the holdall. Since his father’s death he had been there only a few times, and the place smelt musty with disuse. He wandered through the rooms. Most of the furniture was draped in dustsheets, but he had managed to put up blackout curtains in the kitchen, the drawing room and his own bedroom. He had no idea what he would do with the house. It was the last place on earth he wanted to spend his leave, so it would just have to sit here, empty, for the time being. Maybe he would sell it after the war. Unless the Germans won and took over everything.

  When he got back to his room at the club, he suddenly remembered the mail he had picked up from the hall porter on the day of his arrival. He’d been so tired that he hadn’t even bothered to look at it before climbing into bed, and thereafter it had lain forgotten on the mantelpiece. He scanned the handwriting on the envelopes. Two from Sonia – he would have to call her, perhaps try to get down to Woodbourne House before his leave was up – and one from Eve. He felt a weight of guilt, but most particularly in relation to Eve. He had fallen into the habit of looking her up occasionally when he was on leave, taking her out, sleeping with her, fully expecting her to be there at his convenience every time. He scarcely ever wrote. It was shoddy behaviour, but she didn’t seem to mind. Or if she did, she hadn’t said so yet. Perhaps this letter would be reproaching him for not having been in touch for almost two months. He ripped it open. There was just one hastily scribbled page, asking him to call her the next time he was in London, and adding, ‘I need to speak to you. I have something important to tell you.’

  Dan was intrigued. He rang down to the hall porter and asked him to put a call through to the Herald’s offices.

  ‘Eve? It’s Dan. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I only came back the other day. I got your note. What’s all this about needing to speak to me urgently?’

  ‘Well, first of all, thanks for saying how much you’ve missed me.’

  ‘I’ve missed you unbearably.’ The lie was easy. And, in a way, he had. He’d missed having a woman, any woman.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, what’s all this about?’

  ‘Why don’t you do the decent thing and invite me to dinner? Then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘It’s an age since I went anywhere nice. Why don’t we have dinner at Quaglino’s and then go on to Ciro’s after?’

  ‘You live for pleasure alone.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Quaglino’s at eight. I’ll book a table. And look beautiful.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  Dan ran a bath and lay soaking for a while, inspecting his now extremely well-muscled body. It was still something of a novelty to him. Smiling at the thought of how Eve would react to it, and also at his own spectacular vanity, he put out his cigarette in the soap dish, slid down the bath, and ducked his head beneath the water.

  *

  Eve scanned the menu at Quaglino’s. ‘Don’t you simply love the fact that oysters aren’t rationed?’

  ‘I suppose there’s not much mines and U-boats can do to damage that particular market,’ replied Dan, lighting a cigarette. ‘What will you have to follow?’

  ‘The poached salmon, I suppose. How I wish we could have steak. I’m meat-starved. We all are. I’m sure I’m becoming anaemic.’

 
; ‘You look pretty well to me.’ He gave the waiter their orders, then said, ‘Now, what’s this important thing you have to tell me?’

  ‘First things first.’ She held up her glass. ‘To us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Britain. The war. Victory.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Bottoms up to all that.’ He took a swig of champagne. ‘Now, fire away.’

  ‘Well, you remember my friend Alice Bauer?’

  ‘Yes. I forgot to thank you for putting me in touch with her. She passed me a lot of useful information. At considerable risk to herself, I might add.’

  ‘She would. She’s not exactly overfond of the Nazis.’ Eve reached into her handbag and drew out a piece of paper. ‘She sent me this recently.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a list of names drawn up by German intelligence. Some party official gave it to her. It contains the names of certain British citizens whom the Nazis regard as sympathetic to their cause. She sent it to me because I’m someone she trusts, and as I’m a journalist she thought I could make sure it reaches the right hands. I thought you should see it first.’ She slid the piece of paper across the table to Dan. ‘Paul Latimer’s name is on it.’

  Dan gave a short laugh. ‘What? Paul, a fifth-columnist? I hardly think so.’ He took the paper and opened it, scanning the names. There it was. Paul Hugo Latimer, co-owner of a racing car team. It couldn’t be anyone else. He looked up at Eve. ‘Someone’s got the wrong end of the stick. He has – or had – certain connections in Germany, admittedly. But so do lots of people. Things can easily be misinterpreted.’

  ‘I have to say I was rather surprised myself. It doesn’t square with anything one knows of Paul.’

  The waiter arrived with a tray of a dozen oysters. Eve squeezed lemon juice over them and helped herself to a couple, while Dan studied the list again. It was doubtless authentic. Alice’s sources had always been impeccable. But there had to be some innocent explanation as to why Paul’s name was there. Looked at logically, something as trivial as his friendship with Dick Seaman could have sparked the idea. Not only had Seaman, a British citizen, gone to live in Germany and married a German woman, he’d given the Nazi salute on the podium after some Grand Prix when Hitler was present, according to Rudi. Perhaps Paul had been at that Grand Prix. In fact, he very probably had. Rudi’s stupid joke that night in the Adlon bar, when he’d asked Paul if he was a Nazi, showed how easily one could make a false connection. There had been more than a few people within eavesdropping distance that evening, too. Dan recalled the frozen expression with which Paul had greeted the joke, and felt a faint misgiving. He’d assumed Paul’s look had been one of distaste, but it could just as easily have been something else altogether. He knew that Paul was involved in government work, but the idea that he was a covert Nazi sympathiser seemed too ridiculous. He thought of the things Paul had said a few weeks ago during the conversation with Arthur Bettany. How could his patriotism possibly be in doubt?