Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  ‘You’ll be missing out, Penny. Thought I’d go to the Bahamas for a spot of sun and swimming. You know the kind of thing – luxury hotel, white beaches, cocktails at sundown …’

  ‘You’re as bad as James,’ I told him. ‘Anyone would think you’d been reading the same book of chat-up lines. Now go away and turn those blue eyes on some gullible young thing.’

  I was still smiling when Bill materialised at the door. ‘He’s a brave lad,’ he said. ‘Had a helluva trip out. First made his way to Berlin, where he was nearly caught trying to go through some new tunnel under the Wall. Got away in the nick of time. Seems like they’ve redoubled security on the checkpoints and no one’s getting through in cars. So then he had to trek back across the whole country, on foot, in the back of lorries, by train when he could, to some Black Sea port where he managed to stow away on a series of cargo ships, ending up in Istanbul. Caught the first plane out yesterday evening. Looks in surprisingly good shape considering. Even the Old Man was impressed. Encouraging news, by the way, from Kingston. Sounds as if James is going to pull through. He’s not out of the woods yet, but his vital signs have stabilised and the doctors say that, barring unexpected complications, he should regain consciousness in the next couple of days and make a full recovery.’

  I will be able to sleep tonight.

  Tuesday, 10th December

  R is dead. I feel numb, furious, distraught, lost. I don’t know what I’m doing or how to control my grief. I’m writing this almost as a way of holding myself together, and also to force myself to accept it has happened. Helena is next door, packing my things. R is dead. I don’t want to believe it, but it’s true – horribly, terribly, undeniably.

  Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready for work, my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Bill. He took my hand and led me to the sofa. I knew it must be something bad, but it still hit like a thunderbolt. R was shot and killed late last night in East Berlin. He had been living there, under deep cover, since he left London, Bill told me. He had established good contacts in the Stasi and was trusted by them. He had just returned from a trip to Moscow, where he had positively identified Boris as Vladimir Ilyich Grushenko, stepson of Aleksandr Nikolayevich Shelepin, the former Chairman of the KGB. ‘He’d found proof that he was the same man as James’s “Colonel Boris” who had briefed him before his attempt on M’s life,’ Bill said. ‘This Boris was also behind the scare tactics used against you and Hamilton in Dorset. Hamilton was certainly a target. Boris has risen to an important position as a result of his connections, but he’s apparently unpopular within the KGB and regarded as a loose cannon. There’s been talk of a drink problem.

  ‘In his last report, Hamilton said that he’d learnt of a dossier being prepared by Boris’s detractors, listing his numerous contraventions of discipline and operational failures. Through his contacts, Hamilton had been able to influence the content of the dossier. He was confident that Boris was close to being stripped of his position and thus his passport. He would no longer have been a threat.’

  As I sat there, Bill’s words seemed to flow over me. I tried hard to conjure up R’s face, but all I could see was a single trail of footprints on a beautiful white beach in North Uist. I got up and walked over to my bookcase and removed the Spanish phrase book into which I had tucked my only photograph of him. I looked at us standing arm in arm in front of the Sagrada Familia, smiling at each other. The picture had been taken by a passing tourist, three days after we met, when I thought he was an architect and he believed I worked for the Foreign Office. So much has happened since then. What havoc did I wreak on this poor man’s life? He wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for me. Boris came into my life, not R’s. R only became involved when he tried to help me. Now, as a direct result of that, he’s gone. I don’t know what to do or feel. Guilt, fear, loss – a potent cocktail of them all is bubbling inside me as I try to stem my tears and the racking, painful absence of R in the future.

  Dear, dear Bill stopped talking and looked at me with his kind eyes. He took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I took the liberty of contacting your sister before I came here,’ he said. ‘She’s on her way. Please take as much time as you need. M sends his commiserations. He says on no account are you to hurry back to the Office.’

  I turned to look at Bill. ‘What else can I do? What else is there for me? I have no other life.’

  He took me in his arms and held me tight, stroking my hair. The doorbell rang. As soon as Helena came in, I started to weep. I think Bill must have left soon after. I cried for most of the day and Helena sat with me all the time. It was the first she’d heard of R. I never met his parents, or his sister. I don’t think they even knew of my existence. We had hoped for some sort of future together, but now he’s gone it’s as if we had no past. At dusk, I was overcome with a feeling of desperate exhaustion. Helena gave me a cup of warm milk and put to bad.

  I woke at midnight and she was there on the bed beside me, wrapped in a quilt. My dear sister. As I was looking at her, she opened her eyes. ‘Will you come with me to Kenya?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow – I mean today.’

  She sat up.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I told her. ‘I can’t go to the funeral, meet his family, try to explain who I was and what he meant to me. What we had was private and I can mourn him privately. I need to go home. Please come with me.’

  She nodded and said she’d call Lionel in the morning to come down with her passport.

  He arrived before lunch. Our plane leaves this evening. I know I am running away, but it’s the only way. I’m probably subconsciously searching for Ma and my lost innocence. I also know she’s not going to be there, but at last I don’t fear the memories. I just want to be under those African skies and to be able to grieve for R in a place that has nothing to do with him.

  Wednesday, 11th – Sunday, 22nd December

  This magical, beautiful, cruel continent. I feel myself surrendering to its siren call. Just being here has made my senses tingle. On the plane, Helena fell asleep holding my hand, and when we landed and the doors opened to let in that sweet and sour smell of heat and the tropics, I almost burst into tears – though this time they would have been tears of relief. I’ve missed it so much. I didn’t realise. Why has it taken us so long to return?

  Daisy was waiting at the airport to meet us, a decade and three children older, but still slim as a whippet and crackling with energy. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you in the Land Rover,’ she said, shepherding the older child in front of her, with the younger two clinging to each hip. I was too busy looking around me, at the flags and the bunting, strung everywhere in advance of the extended independence celebrations, to wonder what it was. Then, when we reached the car, my heart somersaulted. There, in the open back, was Moses, our old head syce. I’d known him for longer than I can remember. He looked after our horses and, after Pa went, took me for long rides into the bush. He’d been a father to me for longer than my real one.

  He looked much older now, with opaque rheumy eyes which stared straight past us with no flicker of recognition. It was only when I went close up to him and said hello that a slow smile cracked his gloriously familiar face. ‘Miss Jane, Miss Helena, karibu,’ he said, standing formally in the back of the open pick-up. I jumped up and gave him a hug, which he didn’t return, remaining stiff and, I imagine, embarrassed. Had he not had such inky skin, I’m sure I would have seen him blush. ‘Mzé, I can’t tell you how good it is to be home, especially now, with Uhuru.'1 And it was home, I realised suddenly. A past home, maybe, but, despite the pomp and ceremony and recently planted rhododendron bushes, still wonderfully, recognisably home.

  Daisy and Pieter, our old classmate and her childhood sweetheart – now husband – have taken over her parents’ farm, near Karen. It was just as I had remembered in every detail, except for the new corrugated-iron roof, shining silver in the sunlight. Dogs were dozing on the porch, the bougainvillaea swarming over th
e fence and the song of small birds all around us. ‘It’s wonderful to be here,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell you. I’ve been through hell, but this is just the antidote.’ She smiled and led me into the garden. There was a rustling in the bushes and suddenly a warthog burst out and started trotting across the lawn towards us, tail held high. I turned to Daisy in astonishment. ‘It’s not… ?’

  ‘No, sadly Winnie died, but the next best thing, her daughter, Clemmie.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve got her. Daisy, you are wonderful.’

  ‘We’ve got Tsarvo too. She’s a bit old and stiff now and we pensioned her off years ago, but she survived the droughts and it appears was determined to see you again.’

  After a joyful reunion with my old pony, and breakfast of fresh mangoes and pawpaws and bacon and eggs, I collapsed between cool white sheets for a couple of hours of rest.

  That evening, it seemed as if the whole of Nairobi – black Nairobi, at least – was out in the streets, lining the roads to the airport and stadium. We saw Prince Philip being driven in the old Embassy Rolls, and waved and cheered with the crowds. At midnight, as the new yellow and green and black flag of the independent country of Kenya was raised and we sang the new national anthem, I felt lumps of pride and joy rise in my mouth, tinged with nostalgia. I wished Ma could have been there to see it. She would have been dancing and ululating with the Kenyan mamas.

  Daisy seemed to be enjoying it as much as we were, but Pieter had stayed firmly at home, insisting he needed an early night as he had a full day’s harvesting ahead of him. ‘He’s not so keen on the whole thing,’ Daisy confided later. ‘Along with most of our folk, he sees it as a one-way track to rack and ruin. He’s probably right, but then again, as I’ve said to him, it’s their turn now and surely they have the right to ruin their own country? He doesn’t see it like that. Nor, I’m sad to say, do most of our friends. A lot of them have already jumped ship.’

  That didn’t surprise me. Daisy and I were always the only two msungus at the meetings of the student liberation group at university. We had such dreams then, of helping the country towards an independent future. Look at us now – Daisy a hard-working farmer’s wife living in the house she was born in, and me a secretary in London. Hardly what we’d planned. Then again, Kenya made it to this point without our help.

  After three days of rest and recuperation and long lunches with old friends who hadn’t emigrated or disappeared up-country to escape the week-long marathon of Uhuru parties, Helena and I borrowed Daisy’s Land Rover and drove along the dusty roads to our old farm. I was anxious to see as much of the country as I could. Somehow, as long as we were moving, I didn’t dwell on R, though every corner, every familiar tree and kopje, was suffused with memories of Ma and Pa. It was almost as though they came alive here, where they belonged, while R was like a mirage, an optical illusion that melted into the dust whenever I tried to conjure his face.

  It was wonderful having Helena there, beside me, sometimes talking for hours, sometimes sitting silently with our thoughts and memories. Visiting the farm was profoundly moving. The land was so familiar – the forest where we’d hunted monkeys, the rich red soil which turned to glue when the rains came, the lake where I’d sit and read for hours. Every place was peppered with stories of our childhood, but the new owners were away and none of our staff remained and it seemed, to me anyway, to have lost its soul. We didn’t stay long, but headed north, towards Nanyuki and the cool foothills of Mount Kenya.

  There had been no reply from Miles Pitman by the time we left London, but I remembered his PO box number and harboured great hopes of tracking him down. In the close-knit world of farmer-settlers, everyone knows everyone. We were staying with old friends of Ma and Pa’s, on a beautiful ranch a couple of hours east of Nanyuki, where we’d stayed many times in our childhood. Their daughter had been Helena’s greatest friend and now lived in another cottage on the farm with her husband, another childhood friend, and their children. As we had lunch with them the day after we arrived there, I couldn’t help but reflect that, but for our parents’ sudden deaths, this might have been our lot too. We would have lived each day amid the majesty and power of the African landscape. While our physical horizons would have been vast – there’s nothing to touch a sunset out here, sitting on a hill watching the shadows creep across the unending miles of beauty before you – our mental horizons would have been stunted. The conversation has not changed in twenty years: the rains, the crops, the state of the roads and the natives. Politics in the outside world have no import here. Governments could change, spies defect and ministers resign and it would make no difference. I don’t think I could live like that, not now, certainly not for ever. This trip has made me realise, though, that I need it from time to time, to remind me who I am and what I can withstand. Every day that I’m here, I feel stronger.

  One evening, while Helena was out riding, I asked our hosts whether they knew Miles Pitman. Of course they did – known him all their lives. He’d returned after the war and bought a small farm on land adjoining theirs, just an hour’s drive away. Good man, bit of a loner – his wife had bolted and nowadays he rarely left his farm. He’d be glad of a visit, they said.

  The next morning, I got up at dawn and, leaving a message for Helena, drove over the escarpment towards Pitman’s farm. It was a perfect African morning and, as I passed the waterhole, a family of elephants loped across the road in front of me, returning from their morning drink. I wished, for the thousandth time, that I had included Helena in my search for Pa. In the beginning, my expectations were so low that I didn’t want to give her false hope. Then, when details started to emerge about his traumatic adventures, I tried to save her from anguish. Now, though, I would have loved it if she could have sat beside me on this miraculous drive. I pressed on, my stomach knotted in anticipation.

  I soon found his house, a low brick cottage with a tin roof painted green. The lawn was neatly tended and there were frangipani bushes along the drive. The door opened before my knock: it is impossible to surprise someone in Africa – a plume of dust heralds your arrival from miles away. A small man was standing there, spry in khaki shorts, long socks and a well-pressed shirt fraying at the collar. ‘I can guess who you are,’ he said, taking my hand into his. ‘You’re the image of your father. Come in, please.’ If he was surprised to see me, he showed no sign of it.

  He didn’t waste time with small talk either, just poured me a cup of coffee from the saucepan bubbling on the old iron stove, and began to speak. ‘I received your letter only a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘I’ve already started my reply.’ He gestured at a small escritoire, standing in front of a pair of windows overlooking a dam. ‘You can take it with you, but far better to talk in person.’ He crinkled up his eyes and looked me up and down, like a dealer appraising a horse, before a smile finally dawned on his weathered face. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet you, and Helena too,’ he said.

  He led me on to the veranda, from where I could see Mount Kenya in the distance, its twin peaks etched into the clear morning sky. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it magnificent? Hugh and I were bound together by our love for this country. We got along from the first time we met, when the operation was still in the planning stage. You know about Ruthless?’

  I told him as much as I’d learnt – that he and Pa had been taken on a German minesweeper after crashing their plane into the Channel. The other members of their team, Patrick Derring-Jones and Peter Smithers, had managed to escape. Pa was never seen again.

  Miles Pitman gave me a sad smile. ‘Not in England, perhaps. I spent the next five years with him, though, give or take a day or two. I owe him my life ten times over. When things got really bad, he would always pick me up and tell me that it could only get better. Your father was an incorrigible optimist.

  ‘We had a rough time of it after we were taken in the Channel. We were all dressed as Germans, of course, which meant they could treat us as spies and shoot us on sight. That
poor marine who was with us, he hit the water pretty sharpish with a hole in his chest. We knew we couldn’t muck about, but Hugh, with his perfect German and his charm, managed to talk our way out of the executioner’s sights and into a Polish Ilag – that’s a camp for civilians. It wasn’t as good as an Oflag; we weren’t covered by the Geneva Convention and had to work and had no contact with outside. We were the only Brits there – no way of getting a message home. Hugh wasn’t going to stand for that. He found the weakest spot in the defences and started to tunnel. Both of us were at it, every night for seven months. It worked, though – we got out and started running. Made it to Warsaw, where we were lucky enough to be found by a wonderful Scotswoman, Mrs M, the wife of one of the leaders of the Polish resistance. She looked after us for months. We were both in a bad state. Hugh had contracted pneumonia – the first of several bouts – and I also had chest problems. She fed us and got us back on our feet, and as soon as we were fit, we slipped out of the city, heading towards Bulgaria.

  ‘We might have made it, but for one sharp-eyed guard at the border. He spotted something he didn’t like in our papers – forged of course – and the next thing we knew, we were on a train headed for Colditz. This was January 1944. There was a big influx of British and American officers. Our names and ranks were taken. Hugh insisted on sticking to his pseudonym, as we had been instructed to over three years before, at the outset of Ruthless. It was a brave decision: the War Office had no record of any Hugh Sterling, they had never been initiated into Ruthless and had no idea of the pseudonyms of the participating officers. That is why no one knew Hugh was alive.

  ‘There’s not much I can tell you about Colditz that you won’t have learnt from the books. It was cold most of the time and your father was in and out of the sick ward. It was cramped and grey and oppressive. We did our best to entertain each other, but time hung heavy. You can’t imagine what a succession of days with nothing to do except wait for the next Appell and dream about home and a good meal does for one’s spirit. That is why so many minds turned to escape. It was all that kept us from madness.’