Wes kept up the seven-days-a-week schedule but didn’t bother with the channel on the Sundays when no expert blasters were available. He never let the quality of his work lapse. Every frame was solid, every measurement was true and square. He watched over the plumbers with an eagle eye and made the carpenters reset an entire gable when he found it was a quarter of an inch out on the down side; a quarter inch would ruin the line of the spouting.
His mother, Beth’s mother, Franny and even sometimes Gus cooked for him each day. He didn’t have the heart to do anything away from the channel and Feenix. He wandered the house he’d built, pining, fretting. He slept fitfully.
Letters arrived for him each fortnight from Anna in Moscow, sent by a friend in Leningradsky Prospekt because anything Anna wrote had to go through the police and would be censored. They always began with: Your Elizabeth is alive. Each time he read the opening words, he sighed in relief. She told him the Moscow news. The KGB, a faction of it, a law unto itself, hated Khrushchev and wanted to get rid of him. Spring was coming. Moscow was glorious in spring, he should see it. And the satellite! Russians who hated the regime are still singing its praises. Everyone smiling. My son is still alive, too. Thank God. If he survives, I will become a Christian.
Finally he invented some relief by reading Anna Karenina aloud in the way he had read the book to Beth and the other women prisoners in Pentridge, imagining Beth beside him, her thigh against his, stopping him every ten minutes to kiss him, and the jeers and hoots of the women, who one time made him kiss them all, giving exaggerated orgiastic groans. And the women leaning forward avidly as he read, and their comments, like that of Jinxy Nash: ‘All of this for a root. I’ve never met a man I’d give a packet of Smarties to for a root.’ It gave him some comfort, a little.
Over the months, Wes was able to repay the community and John Li, and took an advance on the channel project allowing him to plan a trip back to Moscow. In October 1958 he sent his British passport and five hundred dollars to Bill, care of Scotland Yard, and asked him to arrange a Russian visa.
Bill returned the following message to Wes’s address in Almond Tree.
First, some candour, and I blush to reveal how infrequently candour emerges in my correspondence, my dear friend. I am at MI6 these days, and have been for some time. The deepest of mea culpas for the subterfuge. Now, I want you to meet me in London on October 10th at eleven in the morning, three doors down from the entrance to Charing Cross Station at a cafe with the homely name of the Busy Bee. I have some good news.
Chapter 28
THE BUSY Bee was not busy. At eleven in the morning, maybe a half dozen customers, including Bill, at an isolated table in a corner, looking, as he usually did, stylish in a navy blue suit. Also now wearing a moustache, perfectly barbered and, yes, with a few flecks of grey.
Wes walked to the table and before sitting, pointed at his own upper lip.
‘What do you think?’ said Bill. ‘Mere vanity?’
‘Yes, vanity.’
Bill signalled the waitress, a young woman in a parti-coloured blouse with exceptionally long black hair, and ordered coffee for two, one with milk, one without.
‘Is this good news for MI6, or good news for Beth?’
‘For Beth.’
Bill looked left and right, in the classic manner of a spy, before continuing.
‘As you will not know, Wesley, your government and the Soviet government are negotiating to resume diplomatic relations. The Soviets will, in some months’ time, reopen their embassy in Canberra, and Australia may open an embassy, or at least a consulship in Moscow.’
The coffee was set down on the table by the waitress, who smiled at Bill.
‘As I was saying, resumption of diplomatic relations, down the road a way. The Russians, as a goodwill gesture, intend to release your Elizabeth early.’
Wes involuntarily came to his feet.
‘When?’
‘Today, if you happened to be in Moscow, which you are not. Sit down.’
Wes sat, his heart banging in his chest like a bass drum.
‘The Russians are prepared to fly Elizabeth and yourself—I nominated you as the family member who would accompany her—to London, and then to Sydney. Elizabeth and your good self will be required to sign agreements in Russian and English forbidding disclosure of any possible ill-treatment endured in prison. Of course, there is nothing to prevent you telling all back in Australia. They’re trusting you. It’s droll, the way the totally untrustworthy are prepared to exploit the trust of those of a far more reliable character. But Wesley, the real reason the reds want her out of prison is that they’re afraid she will die. They don’t want her to die in their keep. A lot of strife. The UN, Red Cross inspections. She’s been badly abused, up until two months ago, when they became worried. Apparently she doesn’t eat, or very little. MI6 have been handling the negotiations. We handle nearly all of your country’s relations with the Soviets.’
Bill sipped his coffee then sat back and inhaled deeply.
‘Wesley, Elizabeth in Moscow, it’s largely my fault. What we did was completely illegal, and your government let it happen. At first I was flippant about it. A silly girl, no loss. But I’ve come to see that she is a finer human being than I have ever been. And you, Wesley. Cynicism is decayed passion. Most of my professional life has been given over to cynicism. But since I’ve known you, it’s more shame than cynicism that inhabits my heart.’
He reached over the table and took Wes’s hand. ‘Forgive me, if you can.’
He reached down and produced a briefcase, black leather, well-worn; opened it and handed Wes a large envelope.
‘Copies of the documents you’ll need to sign. Your tickets from Moscow. Your passport and visa. The Moscow police have Elizabeth’s passport. We’ve booked Elizabeth into a private hospital in Kensington. She and you will spend time there before flying to Sydney.’
He paused. ‘And Wesley, my name is Wallace. Wallace Durham. Never Wal, or Wally. Wallace. My father’s name was Wallace, too, always called Wally. I prefer to distance myself from him. He was a swindler. But then, perhaps there’s not a vast distance between my father’s swindling and my own. I hope with all my heart that Elizabeth survives and that the two of you enjoy a happy life together. That’s my most sincere hope, Wesley.’
Chapter 29
WES FOUND Anna in the line of hopeful visitors. She had shared the news that he would be taking Beth home today, and when he hugged Anna and kissed her, there was the expected clapping and cheering. The weather was not nearly as cold as on his first visit and the actual shapes of the visitors were visible in light coats and dresses. The form of Moscow itself was more revealed, not so drab, many of the trees still in foliage.
Anna would act as interpreter, with Yevgeny’s approval. He led Wes and Anna to the gates of the prison and the two guards on duty there, after some animated discussion, let them both through. Inside, they met the prison commandant, a tall man dressed in a splendid blue uniform with epaulets in four colours and gold braid on the lapels and peaked cap. He spoke in a low, confidential way to Anna before meeting up with a squad of ten policemen, not guards, all carrying rifles. Anna whispered to Wes, ‘Might be trouble. Stay calm.’
They went past the turn-off to the cell in which Wes had met Beth, and after a number of changes of direction ended up in what would have to be assumed was the commandant’s office, spacious and well-furnished as it was. The commandant left the door open, with the ten policemen grouped outside. He sat, and asked through Anna for the documents Wes was carrying in a large envelope. Each document was made up of two stapled pages, one in Russian, one in English. On each document, a space for the commandant’s signature, for Wes’s, for Beth’s. The commandant, mumbling something, signed the three documents rapidly, then pushed them over his desk to Wes, who signed, six times, the Russian documents in English just as the commandant had signed the English copies in Russian.
There was some sort of commotion outside the door. The pol
ice parted and let Beth through, accompanied by a woman guard, this one young and slim. But nowhere near as slim as Beth who, in a black dress, had the appearance of a survivor at the gates of Auschwitz. She looked no worse than when he’d visited her seven months earlier, but it would have been impossible for her to look worse than that and still have a heartbeat and respiration. She kept her eyes downcast, and had to be supported in standing by the woman guard.
Wes made a move towards her, to embrace her, and called her name. The commandant barked something, and Anna translated: ‘He says, no talking, no touching.’ The guard helped her to the desk, to the documents. The commandant, who seemed edgy, told her in Russian to sign the six copies, but she couldn’t hold the pen. Anna intervened and guided her hand, without any objection from the commandant. Then the commandant put the documents into a drawer of his desk, and locked it. He said something further in Russian and Anna said, ‘He says to follow him.’
Beth required the support of both Anna and the guard to walk. The ten policemen followed. Progress was slow. Around one corner, they came upon a squad of soldiers with their rifles aimed at the commandant, at Beth, at Anna and the woman guard. The commandant was furious, and an argument broke out. Anna translated in a whisper to Wes. ‘The commandant told them to get the fuck out of the way. The senior KGB officer told him he is not taking Elizabeth anywhere. The commandant says they will all be tried for treason. These KGB soldiers are from a renegade faction.’
Now the police joined in the argument and the other KGB soldiers shouted back. The corridor was full of shouting, and everyone, the police, the KGB soldiers had their rifles raised. Nobody’s voice was louder than that of the commandant, who had drawn a pistol from the holster on his belt.
But then another voice, louder than that of the commandant. Striding down the corridor came a soldier who appeared to have more authority than anyone else, even the commandant. He was taller than the commandant, powerfully built and exceptionally handsome, in the broad-browed Slavic way, and he was smiling, even as he roared. The police parted to let him through. He walked straight up to the KGB soldier who was in command, took his pistol out and pointed the barrel at the soldier’s right eye. He spoke some quiet instructions. Anna said softly to Wes, ‘This is Igor Yurivich, a top KGB general. He’s on Khrushchev’s side. The people love him. He told the other fellow to make his men put their weapons on the floor, or he’d be dead in ten seconds.’ The weapons were speedily set down on the floor and a way opened for the commandant and the police, Beth, the woman guard, Anna and Wes to get through.
No further crises. The commandant led the party not only to the door, but with the police surrounding him, all the way to the gate where an official government car was waiting. He handed Wes Beth’s passport, then said something in an angry way to Anna.
Once Beth was in the car with Anna and Wes, she translated the commandant’s message. ‘He said, “And don’t fucking come back.”’
∼
The doctor at the Kensington hospital, Ewan Thomas, spent two hours examining Beth and when he’d finished called Wes to follow him to his office. The hospital was obviously a destination for those with money. The walls of the corridors were decorated with etchings of medical instruments, and of the faces of people, men and women, recovering in beds, pillows plumped up behind their heads, and smiling. The furniture was plush. Ewan Thomas’s office was designed to impress. In place of the utilitarian chairs doctors usually provided for their patients were two red velvet armchairs. On the walls hung facsimile reproductions of three Rembrandt self-portraits. Doctor Thomas spoke in the manner of a man who did not expect to be contradicted, or even interrupted.
‘Miss Hardy is your fiancée, as I understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘And has come to us directly from a Russian prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mister Cunningham, I must tell you that Miss Hardy has been badly abused, physically, and judging by her silence, also mentally. She is severely traumatised, in every way. She will need to stay here for three weeks, and I cannot guarantee that she will live. She is dreadfully malnourished, and only one-half of the weight of a healthy woman of her age and build. Her ribs, which were taped when I examined her, and taped badly, are terribly bruised. I would conjecture that she has been kicked while lying on the floor. Her kidneys are also bruised, quite seriously. No broken bones, fortunately. The remnants of bad bruising to her face can also be detected. Punching, I would assume. I am not able to say whether she has been sexually abused. I have ordered her ribs to be retaped, and have put her on a protein drip. Mister Cunningham, can you stay for three weeks? As I say, she may die well before that. She doesn’t answer my questions. Does she speak to you?’
‘Not so far. But she held my wrist on the plane.’
‘Then good. We’ll do everything we can for her. If you want to stay at night, we’ll make up a cot for you beside her bed.’
He asked her questions to which he received no answer. But she wanted him to sit on her bed and hold her hand. Above her bed hung a picture of W. G. Grace in his cap, resting on his bat before the wickets. The script on the frame confided that this picture was dedicated to a certain Lawrence Hungerford, who had died in the bed that Beth now occupied. Wes asked the nurse to take it away, and she did. In the blank space, she hung a picture of Monet’s, a woman in a floating white dress in a field of flowers. Far more acceptable.
Most of the time, Beth didn’t look at him, but she held his hand. Feeling the strength in her grip, he was sure she wouldn’t die. On the fourth day, the drip feeding into her left arm, he asked her if she would like him to read to her. She shook her head, but then reached up and pulled his head to her lips and spoke the first words she’d uttered to him since Moscow. She whispered, ‘Famous Five.’
The Enid Blyton books. ‘Really?’
She shook her head.
‘Nothing, then?’
She gave no response.
He stroked her short hair. He remembered when it was so much longer, and how it curled down her forehead but turned away from her eyes, as if she were being granted clear vision. He said, ‘Beth, I’m here forever.’ She reached behind her for his hand and put her lips to it.
She was given, each day, five medications: three for her bruised kidneys, a painkiller and an ointment that was rubbed into her ribs when the tape was removed. The ointment smelt like burning rubber. Wes and a nurse helped her to the bath in the late afternoon of each day. Beth indicated that she wanted Wes to stay while she was bathed, but the nurse told him that only a husband could remain in the bathroom. Wes waited outside to help support Beth back to her room. The nurse evidently thought that singing contributed to her patient’s therapy and sang as she bathed Beth. Always the one song: ‘How Much Is That Doggie in the Window’.
Early each day, Beth was administered a sedative that put her to sleep for three hours, and while she slept, Wes wandered the corridors, made friends with other patients, played chess with one aged woman who beat him every game. ‘I’m not going to last terribly much longer,’ she said, ‘so it’s good to get a few more wins under my belt. Wesley, I must tell you, don’t lead with your knight every time. It makes your game so predictable.’
One midday, after her sedative had worn off, Beth turned onto her back and made a writing gesture.
‘You want to write something?’
She nodded.
He had a notebook in his coat pocket, and a fountain pen.
She wrote with difficulty: Dickens.
The hospital kept a small library made up of books left behind by former patients. The only Dickens on the shelves was Barnaby Rudge. Wes brought it back and showed it to Beth. She shook her head. Then wrote on the notepad: Oliver.
‘I’ll get it for you.’
She then wrote: Lenin, What Is to Be Done. The book.
He went by tube to Foyles in Charing Cross Road—he knew how to get there after his earlier stay in London.
When he returned, Beth was asleep. He waited for her, and for her to be fed her lunch—she was now eating twice a day small servings of solid food. When she was done—how little she ate!—he held up Oliver Twist in his right hand, the Lenin in the left. She nodded at the Lenin. He pulled a chair closer to the bed.
‘Skip the introduction?’
She nodded, and he launched into the opening. Ten pages in, she waved her hands and shook her head. She wrote on the pad: No more. Oliver.
For the next two hours, he read her the Dickens.
At the end of the Oliver reading, he asked her why she wouldn’t speak, but she said nothing and wrote nothing.
She seemed to Wes and to the doctor to be improving. Ewan, the doctor, no longer thought there was any danger of her dying. ‘But there is still blood in her urine. Always a concern. Ten more days.’
Four days were enough to finish Oliver Twist. Beth gazed at him steadily while he read. She wrote on the notepad: More.
‘More Dickens?’
She wrote: ‘You choose.’
Wes went to Foyles again and came back with an armful of books, including a Barbara Pym, an anthology of English poetry, Martin Chuzzlewit and a couple of Raymond Chandlers recommended to him by an assistant who claimed they far exceeded in quality any of the Agatha Christies.
He was reading her The Big Sleep in the afternoon of her eleventh day in the Kensington hospital, displaying a knack for rendering the various voices of the characters, particularly that of Marlowe, when one of the nurses showed in a small man in a cream-colored suit. Beth was on her back with pillows holding her almost in a sitting position. The man, smiling and deferential, begged the pardon of everyone—Beth and Wes—for interrupting. He was holding a large envelope. He said in heavily accented English, ‘I regret to say that Miss Elizabeth must sign one of the documents again. One of the Russian documents which, most unfortunately, was signed below the line.’
Beth who had said nothing for two weeks, glared at the little man with implacable hatred.
The Bride of Almond Tree Page 19