“They’ve been reminded, Winston. I saw in the paper only a few days ago that one of your suppliers has been knighted.”
“Well deserved, I’m sure.”
“I’m glad you’re sure, because I’m not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I knew Gerald Couchman when we were in South Africa together. You might have met him there yourself.”
“I don’t think so. But what of it?”
“My difficulty is that the idea of Gerald Couchman becoming a knight of the realm makes my flesh creep.”
Churchill’s fork froze halfway between the plate and his mouth. “Couchman’s a good man. It’s unlike you to play the traducer, Edwin.”
“Perhaps I’m growing bitter in my old age.”
“You’re younger than I am.”
Which was true. And he was running to fat, whereas the war had kept me in shape if nothing else. Nevertheless, I felt older than he looked. I tried again. “Couch’s record in the Boer War was not that of a white knight and I daresay his commercial career bears no closer inspection.”
“This is shameful stuff, Edwin. Couchman was my best supplier. He’s done enough to put behind him any supposed shortcomings in the past. Some are better forgotten, you know.”
“I thought you deplored the public’s short memory.”
“I was talking about the war we’ve just won. Good service in that deserves its reward. The women who worked in the factories made us forget those who had thrown bricks and bombs, so now we’ve given them the vote. Couchman’s own wife …”
“Yes?”
My interruption made Churchill cautious. He continued more slowly. “She worked as a voluntary nursing sister quite tirelessly, I’m told. She deserves the award as much as her husband. That’s all.”
This mention of Elizabeth set me back somewhat. But I was determined to press on. “I stand corrected. But on the question of memory, do you remember the request I made of you when you visited me in the convalescent home?”
“I don’t believe l do.”
“Let me remind you. You agreed to contact one of the detectives the Home Office uses – Palfrey – and ask him the state of some enquiries he was conducting for me.”
“I’m sorry, Edwin. I don’t remember that. But I may well have forgotten – it was a hectic time.”
“So you didn’t contact Palfrey?”
“No. That’s something I wouldn’t forget. The party and the country were in turmoil then, so I’m very much afraid it must have slipped my mind.”
“Would you be surprised to learn that it slipped Palfrey’s mind as well?”
“Not entirely. I daresay the war must have affected even Mr. Palfrey.”
“It surprised me, Palfrey being an assiduous man of business.”
“It’s true that these men normally look after their interests with great diligence.”
“Quite so.”
A silence fell between us and I announced that I would shortly have to leave. I settled the bill and rose to go. Churchill lingered with his coffee and cigars, wearing a hurt and puzzled expression. He bade me adieu without rising.
“Farewell, Winston,” I replied, drawing on my overcoat. “I hope I’ve not spoiled your luncheon. Your comments about good service compensating for past transgressions – if any – were interesting.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“They leave me wondering when such a rule might be applied in my case.”
I left before he had a chance to respond. What he had said had told me less than what he had not said. For such a garrulous man, this was unusual, but his culpable forgetfulness where Palfrey was concerned, taken together with Palfrey’s own renunciation of duties which he had normally pursued so doggedly, betokened some form of conspiracy. Had I known that much before the war, I would have raged at their throats. Now, I was the subtle scout, in truth unable to descry the route that I must thread through the shell holes of my past. Only the reaction of others told me that there was one to follow.
It led, the following morning, to Woolwich and the Couchman armament works: a vast, whale-backed brick building behind high walls, overshadowing the smaller office building to which my attention was directed. I had arrived early, in steely rain, and mingled with the workers plodding in at dawn to the summoning wail of a siren. I had left them at the gates, reconnoitred the premises, which backed onto railway sidings, then returned to patrol the frontage and await the managing director.
He arrived at ten o’clock, by which time the rain had stopped in his honour and the factory was humming with activity. He swept in at the wheel of a sleek blue Bentley, heedless of an overcoated figure by the gates. But I took careful stock of Couch as he stepped from his car with a jaunty spring, immaculately dressed, hair smoothed down, cigarette in a holder, white scarf and gloves, a hint of a swagger as he strode up the steps towards his office. It was odd to see him again after so many years, still essentially the same but altered forever in my eyes by his trespass upon what was mine. The devil-may-care hedonist had transformed himself into a man of wealth and substance. I hated him in that moment for his success in all the fields where I had failed. Honour, not disgrace, had rewarded his endeavours. The war had made, not broken him; Elizabeth, not lonely introspection, had become his wife.
We were the same age, yet Couch bounded up the steps like a younger, more confident man. It was not just a game leg that sapped my energy but I was not, for all that, a spent force. I called him back as he reached the doors.
“Couch!”
He stopped dead, then turned slowly. There was no recognition in his gaze down at me, but puzzlement.
“I haven’t been called that in years,” he said. “Do I know you?”
I walked to the foot of the steps. “I think so.” I removed my hat: a functional act to aid his memory, neither friendly nor deferential. I looked up at him without smiling and some of the assurance drained from his features. He knew me.
I joined him at the top of the steps. “I’d appreciate a few words with you, Couch.”
“All right. Let’s go into my office.” Even as he spoke he recovered himself somewhat. He led the way into the building. The foyer was dark, but richly decorated, with a leather settee, chairs and potted plants at the foot of a broad staircase. To the right, behind a counter, an earnest young lady in spectacles was perched by a telephone switchboard. The hall beyond ended in double doors, one of which stood open to a large room full of clerks and stenographers.
“Good Morning, Mr … Sir Gerald,” said the bespectacled young lady. Couch did not respond, but led me up the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the young lady pout with annoyance. At the top, we went straight into a secretary’s office. “No interruptions, Dorothy,” was all Couch said to the lady behind the desk – who looked startled by his curtness – before carrying on into his office and closing the door behind us.
It was a large, airy room, thickly carpeted and hung with oil paintings of whiskery old men. There were several framed certificates of technical excellence and a world map covering one wall. Behind Couch’s desk, windows overlooked the rear of the factory: the loading bay and railway sidings. Beyond them loomed the cranes and gantries of Thameside wharves.
“Sit down, Edwin,” said Couch. “You look as if you need to.”
I sat in a leather armchair in front of his desk. “My leg tends to stiffen up if I stand on it too long,” I explained.
Couch sat behind his desk facing me. “A war wound?”
“Yes. The Somme.”
“Sorry to hear it ... you were standing a long time waiting for me?”
“Some hours.”
“You must have something important to say, then.”
I had been simmering as we minced through these false salutations and this last remark took me over the top. “Of course I’ve something important to say, Couch. You’ve helped to ruin my life. Isn’t that important?”
“Need we be melodramatic, old
man?”
There was one advantage a lame war veteran had over a contemporary softened by success: a sinewy strength heightened now by anger. I rose, reached across the desk and pulled him out of his chair by the collar of his pinstriped jacket.
“We certainly can be melodramatic … old man, if you require it.” With that, I let him fall back into his chair. He looked unnerved by this sudden show of force.
“All right,” he said breathlessly. “Cards on the table. What do you want of me?”
“An explanation.”
“What’s there to explain? I’ve prospered, you haven’t. It’s the luck of the draw.”
“Just tell me about Elizabeth.”
“It was all over between you and Elizabeth before I ever met her.”
“How did you meet?”
“Through some mutual friends – the Lambournes. I courted Elizabeth because I realized how good she would be for me. Eventually, I was lucky enough to persuade her to marry me.”
“When did all this take place?”
“We first met, let me see, late in 1910 or early in 1911. I forget precisely when.”
“Strange you should be so vague.”
“I was never too hot on dates.” He smiled weakly, then caught himself and stopped.
“You were married on 20th June 1914. I’ll be precise if you can’t.”
“That’s one date I remember.”
“Good. What about all this?” I gestured expansively at the office and the works beyond.
“Another spot of luck.” His words were invested with less relish than would normally have been the case, but he knew no other form for them. “My father died the year before we married. I hadn’t seen the old man for ages, but he left me quite a nest egg. Elizabeth had taught me not to squander my advantages, so I invested some of it in this place. Bought out a small-timer named Pound, who made fireworks would you believe. Ploughed a lot into the plant – new machinery for shell casings and the like. Turned out to be just the right time.”
“The war was quite a windfall for you, then.” He detected my sarcasm.
“As it happened. But somebody had to make the bloody stuff and we did it well. I bid for all the contracts, got a lot of business once Lloyd George had gingered up supply, expanded no end. We met the deadlines and produced reliable munitions. The military thanked me for our contribution to the war effort.”
“Don’t expect me to add my thanks.”
“I shan’t. But don’t expect me to apologize for doing well I know it must have been hell for you in France, but I worked hard here for what I’ve got. I’ve known bad times too. Remember when you swanned off home from South Africa to fight an election, leaving me stuck in a war that dragged on for two years?”
“Be thankful that you know why times have changed for you, Couch. My transformation is a mystery to me. So tell me what happened to you in South Africa.”
“It wasn’t anything like Colenso, if that’s what you think. Kitchener shut up the entire population in camps and we had to patrol them while snipers took pot shots at us. When that was over, I was posted to India, where I drank, gambled and played polo. Then I got sick of the whole business, resigned my commission and came home.”
“And then?”
“Then I met Elizabeth. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I gripped the arms of my chair to remain calm. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me, too.”
“Then you shouldn‘t have let her go.”
“I didn’t, as you must know.”
“On the contrary. Elizabeth’s never told me why you broke up and I haven’t pressed her on the point. It’s something she doesn’t want to discuss. It’s obviously a painful memory, best left alone to heal.”
Suddenly, I found myself questioning my anger. That I resented Couch’s material success was undeniable. That he had won what I had lost, the love of Elizabeth, was a thorn in my flesh. That Couch’s past did not suggest an honourable or courageous man was not necessarily to the point. After all, Elizabeth was a fine enough person to have improved if not reformed him. Perhaps in me there had been, after all, too little to change.
But what was I thinking? There remained a mystery which could not be dismissed, which insisted on driving me on. What was there left for me but to seek the reason why I had been brought so low? Perhaps Couch knew nothing. Perhaps he was just the lucky beneficiary of my rift with Elizabeth: he had always been lucky at other people’s expense. Yet somebody knew, for somebody had called off Palfrey from the scent, somebody not a thousand miles from the Cabinet which I had left as precipitately and inexplicably as I had lost Elizabeth. Who and why? Somebody knew but nobody was telling.
Certainly not Sir Gerald Couchman, who sat opposite me in his plushly appointed office, cowed a little but still, I could have sworn, laughing silently at me.
“Why not give it up, Edwin?” he suggested. “Why not just get on with your life and leave us to ours?”
I did not answer. There was no need. I had no life with which to proceed. There was only one other person I could look to now for the truth and it was the one person I could not bear to confront. Yet there were one or two shots left in the locker for Couch first.
“I can’t help noticing,” I said, “how well you’ve served and been served by former colleagues of mine – Lloyd George, Churchill …”
“Both Ministers of Munitions, Edwin. Obviously I’ve had dealings.”
“Lloyd George is now Prime Minister. And they say he can be persuaded to name a price for any honour. What is it for a knighthood?”
Couch turned grim. “That’s enough. You’ve no right to insult me.”
“Haven’t I? Wouldn’t a lot of people be surprised at how a knight of the realm conducted himself at Colenso?”
“Save your breath, Edwin. Nobody would believe your malicious lies.”
“They wouldn’t be lies.”
Couch rose and walked to the window. He gazed out at the activity in the yard beneath him. Then he turned and spoke. “We are what we are, Edwin. But strangely enough, I’m a better man than I was. I employ hundreds of people and make a good deal of money. Yet that’s not what I mean by better. What I mean is that I have a loving wife and a young son …”
“A son?”
“Yes – born last summer. He and Elizabeth have given me a home and commitments. I’m not the young wastrel I once was, nor the coward you think me. I’m not sorry I succeeded where you failed – with Elizabeth – but I am sorry for you because of it. A lot of people have come home from the war with not much to return to. If there’s something material I can do to help you, I’d be pleased to …”
I rose from my chair and looked levelly at him across the desk. “The last thing I need from you is charity. I’ll tell you what I think and you can make what you will of it. I don’t know why Elizabeth rejected me and maybe I never will. But if I ever find that you had some part in it, I’ll kill you: you have my word as a gentleman on that.”
Did I really mean it? I cannot tell. In the heat of that moment, with Couch’s offer of knightly largesse ringing contemptuously – and contemptibly – in my ears, I suppose I did. At all events, Couch’s blanched countenance told me that he believed I meant it. He made no attempt to interrupt me.
“Just after your marriage, I hired a private detective to investigate you, but his enquiries were stopped – by somebody in a powerful position. Since I only told one person what I had done, I suspect he may be that somebody. It so happens that he was one of those Ministers of Munitions you served so faithfully during the war. I have no precise allegations to make, only this feeling that such coincidences add up to something suspicious. Maybe you are innocent – but it would be unlike you.”
“I told you I’d changed.”
“Not that much.”
I walked to the door, but he called after me. “Edwin, think about what I said when you’ve calmed down.” I paused and he walked to my elbow, becoming alm
ost confidential in his manner. “You should exploit whatever advantages are available – or are offered. After all, I know you have in the past.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, let’s face it, old man, I didn’t marry a virgin.”
That is when I struck him, before the curl of his mouth could broaden into an insufferable smile. The blow took him on the chin and sent him sprawling onto his dense Turkish carpet.
“You’re wrong,” I said. “You’re no better than you ever were – and that’s worse than I once thought.”
I turned on my heel and walked out. I slammed the door behind me, exchanged a swift glance with the secretary in the outer office, then hastened from the building.
The Couchman residence in Hampstead was a large, gabled house set well back from the road in wooded grounds. Had it not been winter, I could not have seen beyond the wrought iron gates and sweeping drive. Yet the view through the bare trees afforded me no intelligence when I first made my way there on the afternoon following my visit to Couch at his works. I lingered on the sloping edge of the heath that ran along the roadside opposite the house, hoping for some glimpse or glimmer that would tell me how best I might approach Elizabeth. I had not the nerve to walk straight in, so awaited some other opportunity, which did not come my way that afternoon. A tramp eyed me balefully while he shuffled around the bench on which I sat and the light slowly failed and nothing else happened until Couch’s Bentley sped up the drive and I knew that it was time to retreat.
Saturday was more promising: a bright, sharp day, with the frost still on the Heath when I reached Hampstead in mid-morning and strolled with assumed nonchalance where I could keep watch on the house. The war had taught me patience and perseverance in the long intervals between acts of conflict – had made me, in fact, savour the lull – so I was content to await my chance. The war had also given me the sapping cough which the chill air aggravated that morning and which made me more conspicuous than I had hoped. Still, I sustained my patrol well into the afternoon.
By then, the sun was stronger and, well-muffled on a bench, I could almost imagine that it was warm. Certainly I had fallen into a reverie, if not a doze, when I caught myself up at the sight of a figure pushing a perambulator down the drive. As it reached the gates, I realized that it was not – as I had feared – a nanny, but Elizabeth herself. I might have known that she would take her son out herself on an afternoon stroll and the characteristic act suited my purpose.
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