Five
John Gower bet himself she’d say something by the third crossroad and lost, because they’d gone through the frustration of hay-hauling tractors and school-pool Volvos and were five miles up the motorway towards London before Marcia finally spluttered and broke into laughter. ‘I just couldn’t believe it!’
‘She’s old-fashioned!’ Gower said, defensively. He didn’t really think of his mother as old-fashioned. Not old at all.
‘It was like something out of a Noel Coward play, creeping from bedroom to bedroom!’ Marcia protested.
‘I’m sorry.’
Marcia Leyton felt reassuringly for his hand. ‘I’m just playing with you! It was a wonderful weekend. And I like her …’ There was a pause. ‘Do you think she liked me?’
Gower accelerated past a crocodile of lorries and said: ‘I know she did.’ It had been the first time his mother had met Marcia: he wasn’t sure which of the three of them had been more anxious.
‘You don’t sound convinced,’ Marcia said, wanting more.
‘I am,’ said Gower, honestly. ‘She loved you.’ He coasted into the cruising lane, looking across at her. They had the sun-roof open: a stray flick of blonde hair had escaped from beneath her headscarf but was blowing backwards so she wasn’t bothering to restrain it. Her face, devoid of make-up, shone in the morning light: she wasn’t looking back but staring straight ahead, so that he could see her sharp, nose-tilted profile. He guessed many girls – probably all girls – with such perfect features would have intentionally sat as she was sitting now, displaying themselves for admiration. But not Marcia. She was the most exquisitely beautiful girl he had ever known, but someone completely and ingenuously unaware of it. He found it difficult to believe she loved him as much as she said she did; it was like stealing, taking something that didn’t belong to him by right.
His weekend for meeting her parents had been a month before, and much more difficult than the one just past, even though he and Marcia had not stayed in the family house because it had too few bedrooms: Marcia’s much younger, electronically crazed brother lived in one computer cave and her father’s bed-ridden sister was regally suspended in the other spare room in a miasma of disinfectant and lavender perfume. Marcia’s father, a retired bank inspector, had spent most of the time trying to initiate a debate about the intricacies of the European Exchange Rate Mechanism and European monetary union. The mother had baked a cake with nuts in it and Gower didn’t like nuts. He was worried his ignorance of finance and small appetite at tea had been misunderstood as lack of interest.
‘I don’t expect to be back from Manchester until Wednesday,’ announced Marcia. She was a visual display director for an advertising agency, which involved a lot of travelling, particularly to exhibitions.
‘I’ve no idea what this new course is about,’ he said in return. ‘I’ll probably be busy: certainly until it settles down.’ Closer to London the motorway was becoming more congested and Gower wished he had given himself more time to get ahead of the rush hour: he hated being late for appointments, especially first-time encounters.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, slowly. ‘Don’t you think it’s stupid, us living like we do …’ She squeezed his hand again, in further reassurance, and said quickly: ‘OK! I’m not getting heavy. I am not sure I want the absolute commitment of marriage, either. I’m talking simple practicality. Keeping two separate flats is bloody mad: if I’m not out of town, like I’m going to be the next few days, we’re with each other all the time. There’s no point in living apart, is there?’
The traffic was getting heavier: Gower could see it at a standstill, far ahead. ‘I suppose not,’ he agreed, reluctantly, suspecting she had steered their conversation. Gower was frightened of their being permanently, more constantly together, although for none of the normal reasons that might make a person apprehensive of a stable relationship. His statutory inability to discuss his job with her would inevitably create a gap between them. And he didn’t want anything between them. The paradox was that he wanted to be with her all the time, probably surer of their relationship than she was.
‘That was begrudging,’ she said, disappointed.
‘Look at the bloody traffic!’
‘We’ve got all the time in the world,’ she said, truthfully. ‘And we’re not discussing the traffic. We’re discussing living together because it might be nice. At least I am. If you don’t want to, why not say so?’
‘You know I want to.’
‘Fine!’ she said, a person of quick decisions. ‘So let’s do it! Whose place? Mine or yours? I think yours is more convenient but my flat is in a better area. My lease has some time to run …’
‘Wait a moment!’ halted Gower. ‘Where’s the panic?’
‘Where’s the reason for delaying?’
‘I’m still going through courses: you know I’m starting one today.’
‘You’re already in the Foreign Office. There’s job security, carved in stone, for the rest of your life. Why should a course affect our living together?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, unhappy at not finding more convincing avoidance.
‘I think I know what you’re not sure about.’
He finally had to stop. Ahead the road was clogged as far as he could see. They had only just passed the airport turn-off, so he estimated he had at least another eight miles of jammed motorway. ‘That’s not so.’
‘Let’s forget it.’ She was staring straight ahead again.
‘Why have we got to make a decision now, in the middle of a bloody traffic jam? Let’s talk about it when you get back from Manchester.’
‘What’s there to talk about, apart from whose flat it’s going to be?’
‘You trying to make a row?’ They rarely argued: he couldn’t remember the last time.
‘No.’
‘We’ll sort it out when you get back,’ he insisted. He was glad the traffic began to move. He could at last see the reason for the blockage, a single-line crawl past three cars in a nose-to-tail accident, each driver blaming the other in a hard-shoulder shouting match: beyond the cars were moving fast again.
‘Is this the last course there’ll be?’ asked Marcia, trying for neutral ground.
‘I think so,’ said Gower, uncomfortably. He’d been schooled for conversations like this, actually lectured on the responses and convenient answers.
‘Then something permanent?’
‘That’s the procedure.’
‘I would have thought by now you’d have been given some indication of what it will be.’
‘Probably something in administration.’ Always dismissive, he remembered, from the how-to-reply lecture. ‘It’ll give me time to look around and make my mind up about a definite division.’
They left the motorway and Gower turned through the Chiswick back streets to avoid any more main road crawl: he was taking her directly to the station for the Manchester train.
‘I’m ambitious for you,’ she declared.
‘I’m ambitious for myself And nervous, he privately admitted. Despite all the exhausive training and tuition and one-to-one lectures, just as it had been with his tutor at Oxford, Gower couldn’t visualize what it was really going to be like. He’d actually mentioned it to his last instructor, seeking some guidance. Instead the man had nodded in quick agreement and said it wasn’t a profession for which there was any sensible, practical apprenticeship.
‘I’ll phone tonight,’ promised Marcia, as they stopped at the station. She leaned back in through the door, intending to collect her cases from the rear seat. ‘Best of luck with the course.’
Gower kissed her and said: ‘You’re wrong: you know you’re wrong, don’t you?’
‘About what?’ She knew, but wanted him openly to commit himself, to make her the clear winner of the dispute.
‘Me not being sure. About us. I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you.’
It only took him half an hour to reach the headquart
ers building in Westminster Bridge Road and the boxlike fifth-floor office. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, politely, as he entered. ‘Gower. John Gower.’
Charlie Muffin wondered if being called ‘sir’ would be the only tangible benefit of his new job. ‘Your first mistake,’ he said.
It was so unusual for a foreigner to travel hard-seat – the lowest, cheapest class on Chinese trains, on wooden benches without upholstery and which did not convert into sleeping bunks – that Snow attracted even more attention than he might normally have done, simply by being a waiguoren, a foreigner. Snow attracted attention not merely by being a foreigner. He was an unnaturally tall 6" 5†, a spindly-limbed man whose long-ago purchased chain-store clothes never seemed to fit but to hang upon him, too short at the legs and arms.
From experience he didn’t try to force any conversation, waiting for the other travellers to practise their English upon him, which several did, from the moment he left Beijing. Again from experience, he let the talk range at the whim of those who approached him, never asking a direct question. Always, however, he quickly disclosed his ability to speak Mandarin, to avoid offending anyone into thinking he was trying to be superior or eavesdrop on the birdlike chatter fluttering around him. Before the first overnight disembarkation he thought two passengers – a young girl student from Shanghai and a middle-aged man who said he was a doctor – were going openly to criticize the government, but although he encouraged further conversation neither, ultimately, did so.
On that third day he saw on its way northwards a long convoy of army trucks carrying soldiers along a road parallel to the railway track. The trucks looked new and not of Chinese manufacture. In such crowded, unknown surroundings – unsure of informers among his fellow passengers – Snow held back from taking photographs. He counted a total of forty-seven lorries.
Later that same day the train stopped for water almost directly opposite a series of camouflaged but obviously newly erected factory buildings. On that occasion, pretending to photograph the steam-skirted railway engine in the foreground, Snow managed three exposures.
He was going to be very restricted, accompanied by an escort: possibly unable to achieve anything worthwhile at all. But already he felt he had enough to justify the journey. So London were going to be very impressed. The self-judgement stayed in his mind. If they were impressed – which they really couldn’t fail to be – he’d be in a position to seek favours: make demands even. So he would protest against the entirely unnecessary way he was being forced to operate. Foster said it was upon London’s insistence, but Snow didn’t believe him. He was sure London would be guided by what they were told, not try to impose unworkable difficulties from afar. So it was Foster’s doing, nobody else’s. So it was Foster’s fault if enquiries were made, after the protest.
Not unchristian, Snow repeated to himself, needing the reassurance. Simply common sense, that’s all. And he’d make his case sensibly and truthfully, not going behind the man’s back.
Six
There was a lengthy period of mutual examination, when Charlie thought Gower’s eagerness was practically flashing like a neon sign: like me, like me. Charlie wondered if he would. Gower was an averagely tall, averagely built man: maybe 5′ 9″, possible eleven and a half stone – perhaps a little heavier – and clearly fit, although not in a hand-clenching, chest-thrusting way. His dark hair was closely cropped although very full: if it hadn’t been well barbered it would have fallen untidily about the man’s face. That face was square-chinned and rather long, the nose aquiline. The mouth was full, made more so by the hopeful, please-like-me smile: the clearly new and still untrained moustache didn’t help. The eyes had the same anxiety, beneath heavy eyebrows. Good enough, judged Charlie, ticking off a mental check-list like a motor-car mechanic going through an approved service manual. The clothes were a problem. The suit was dark blue but with a heavy chalk stripe, waisted for the jacket skirt to flare immaculately. The sleeves were short enough to half-reveal the personal initial monogram on the left cuff, which was secured by heavy gold links, of a pink shirt that was fronted by a striped blue Eton tie. Obviously hand-made brogue shoes gleamed from a lot of daily polishing. Charlie guessed, enviously, that they were very comfortable: concealed beneath the desk, he’d eased the Hush Puppies off completely.
On the little finger of Gower’s left hand was a family-crested signet ring of the sort Charlie had expected but failed to discover on the new and remote Director-General.
Gower was completely disorientated by the appearance of the man confronting him – as well as by the greeting – in what didn’t look like an office at all, more a caretaker’s booth. Gower’s physical training instructors had worn track suits but his other lecturers had invariably been neat, precise men even when they wore the tweeds or sports jackets of academics.
Gower couldn’t find an appropriate description for this man. That much of the suit Gower could see was subdued green, with possibly a muted check although he wasn’t sure. It was bagged and shapeless and clearly cheap from the way the jacket reared away as if in embarrassment from the crinkle-collared shirt. The tie, a clashing blue, had two spotted motifs: the white the designer had intended and the darker stains of long wear and mislaid food. There was no style to the man’s grey-flecked hair, which looked as if it had been chewed rather than cut and that, whatever the method, a long time ago. The face was round, and here Gower was further confused because the expression was of unlined, open innocence: practically naïvety. That same impression was carried by the brown eyes, which Gower saw flick over him, in one encompassing examination, and then come back directly to his.
‘I was told to report here, sir. This room.’ Gower offered the appointment chit that had been endorsed at the ground-floor security check, listing the office number.
Had he ever been as uncertain as this, wondered Charlie: called instructors sir? He probably had: it had been a long time ago. ‘What reason were you given, for coming here?’
‘I wasn’t.’
Charlie nodded, pleased the man hadn’t had time to clutter his mind with preconceptions. ‘Told by whom?’
‘The deputy Director.’
Charlie gestured to the side of the room to an upright, wooden-backed chair with a plaited-cane seat bowed by age. ‘Don’t tilt back on the rear legs. It’s buggered: it’ll collapse under you.’
Gower brought the chair slightly nearer the desk and sat cautiously. Was this man being intentionally rude? Or just naturally brusque? Gower was reminded of a Classics tutor at Oxford with an offensive manner, like this man: his Year had decided it was caused by the sexual frustration of being a bachelor until the tutor was arrested for importuning in a public lavatory near Balliol College. ‘I wasn’t given your name, either.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Were you, of other instructors?’
Gower hesitated, unsure of his reply. ‘We came to know each other, naturally.’
‘By name?’
‘Of course.’
‘Christian name? Surname? Or both?’
Gower’s uncertainty grew. ‘Both, I suppose.’
‘You underwent arrest training? How to respond to interrogation? Physical pressure?’
Gower permitted himself a different smile, this time of satisfaction. ‘I achieved the maximum, every time.’
‘Would you disclose the identities of your instructors if you were detained? Put under intensive interrogation: tortured, even?’
‘Of course not!’ said the younger man, indignantly.
‘What would you do?’
‘Refuse, of course! Resist! I know how to do that.’
Charlie nodded, briefly looking down at his desk. Eyes still averted, he said: ‘That a family ring you’re wearing?’
Gower was so accustomed to the platformed gold band that he looked at it as if surprised to see it on his finger. ‘Very minor. No proper title: no money either.’
‘But there’s a family crest?’
Gower frowned again. He di
dn’t want it to show but he was growing angry. ‘Yes.’
‘What do you think of that poster on the door behind you?’ demanded Charlie.
Gower swivelled his head: the uncertain chair creaked precariously. Groping for comprehension he said: ‘Very nice.’ It was a mountain scene, with long-haired Scottish cattle.
‘I think it’s dreadful,’ said Charlie, who’d put it up minutes before Gower’s arrival. ‘You’re right-handed, aren’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’
Charlie ignored the question. ‘And you came here by car, didn’t you?’
Gower had to hold tightly on to his temper. ‘We spent the weekend in the country with my mother: came up this morning. Why?’
‘So clothes are important to you?’
Gower regarded Charlie with total confusion. ‘I don’t understand any of this!’
‘What’s the name of the deputy Director-General?’
Gower blinked across the cramped office. ‘Patricia Elder.’
‘She tell you her name?’
Gower made a vague movement of his shoulders. ‘I … I can’t remember. Yes …’ There was a momentary pause. Then, in immediate contradiction, he said:’No. It was Personnel. When I was told to go to see her, to be told to come here, they said her name was Patricia Elder.’
‘Let’s go back to your being detained. Would you disclose her identity, under questioning?’
‘Of course not!’ said Gower, as indignantly as before.
‘You’d refuse? Resist?’ said Charlie, offering the words back.
‘Yes.’
‘How many times have you been here, to Westminster Bridge Road?’
Gower paused. ‘Four times.’
‘You know it’s the headquarters building?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t disclose it, under duress?’
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