by Jack Treby
We had shut up shop at the office early on Friday afternoon, leaving William Battersby to deal with the last of the paperwork. He was in a sullen mood, observing the small group as we piled into the cramped taxicab, having only just discovered that Miss Bunting would be coming with us. The fact that Frederick Reeves had been the one who had invited her added particular salt to the wound.
Emily Bunting did not help matters with her breezy manner. She was a solid, attractive girl in her early twenties, cheerful and well-turned out, with a fluff of curly blonde hair and a button nose. It was no surprise that William, who had led a rather sheltered life, had fallen under her spell. ‘We’ll bring you back a sack of coffee,’ she teased through the open window, as we settled into the back of the decrepit automobile.
Freddie Reeves was in equally good spirits as we arrived at the train station. He was a slim, fair-haired fellow, some years older than Miss Bunting, with a smooth, inoffensive face and a cheerfully relaxed manner. He looked rather dapper today in a light suit, brogues and a broad-brimmed hat. Freddie had done well for himself in his diplomatic career, reaching the dizzy heights of Second Secretary in his early thirties; not bad for a grammar school boy from a red brick university. ‘You’ll like Gunther,’ he told me, as the train chugged away from the station. ‘He’s got a well-stocked bar.’
Gunther Weiman was the owner of the plantation we were visiting.
‘It was kind of him to invite me,’ I said, settling back into my seat, which was barely more than a plank of wood. The railroad was owned by United Fruit – the banana people – and paying passengers were something of an afterthought. ‘There’s nothing like playing second fiddle to a crate load of bananas!’ I muttered, shifting my backside uncomfortably.
A tarantula was hanging from the luggage rack on the far wall. I had made sure to sit well away from it, but Miss Bunting was peering up at the odious creature with undisguised fascination. She had foregone her usual work clothes – the formal white blouse and dark skirt – in favour of a pleasant summer dress, which Freddie was already eyeing up appreciatively.
The railway could only take us so far, however. A horse and cart were waiting at the far station and, from there, it was a bumpy and tortuous ride up into the mountains. The clouds opened as we made our way along the dirt track but we had come prepared and by the time we arrived in the rather muddy village adjacent to the Weiman estate the sky had cleared completely. A few other guests had arrived at the same time as us and were busily surveying the rustic scene; the water pump and low houses of a typically small mountain community.
Our driver hopped down from his cart and gestured across to a parade of small horses which had been prepared for us. We took a moment to stretch out our legs before mounting up. Miss Bunting was already cooing with delight at the thought of a bit of horse riding. I was less enthusiastic. I have ridden my fair share of horses over the years but I have never been much of an equestrian. I struggled up as best I could onto my allotted horse, a surly brown beast who took an instant dislike to me. Freddie gamely helped Miss Bunting into her saddle before grabbing his own mount.
We left Maurice behind in the village to sort out another cart for the luggage while the rest of us trotted off on the final leg of our journey.
The road up to the hacienda was new and only partially dug out. We followed a line of telegraph poles for a mile or so before a second dirt track arced right and up a steep incline. This road, it transpired, was also a work in progress. It stretched for a couple of hundred yards and then stuttered to a halt.
A group of labourers were busily working to level the surface. A white supervisor in a straw hat stood watching idly as the coloured men toiled with their picks and shovels, digging out rocks and shifting the earth. It was back breaking work, in the blistering heat of the late afternoon, and most of the negroes were barefoot and stripped to the waist. Miss Bunting averted her gaze, in an uncharacteristic display of modesty.
If only she had shown me the same courtesy, I thought, when she had burst into my apartment last night. It had been an awkward encounter for both of us.
It was not the first time I had been caught in such a compromising position. My double life had been discovered once before, back in England – albeit in slightly less embarrassing circumstances – and that had led to my speedy departure to the continent and an abrupt change of identity. The possibility of it happening a second time had always seemed rather remote to me. Perhaps I was becoming a little complacent, but with my bandages in place and having a fairly masculine aspect, I doubted anyone would ever simply guess the truth. It had certainly never occurred to me that I might be discovered coming out of my own bathroom dressed in nothing but a towel. Such is life, I suppose.
I felt oddly calm, standing over by the drinks table, adjusting my towel and looking back across the living room at Miss Emily Bunting, whose eyes were still boggling. ‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re...’
‘A woman, yes,’ I responded briskly. There was no point in dissembling. ‘I...have been for some time.’
Miss Bunting blinked and then frowned, her face a picture postcard of confusion. ‘Does Mr Richards know?’ she asked at last.
‘No. Nobody knows, apart from Maurice and I. And now you.’
Miss Bunting was having some difficulty digesting the fact. ‘All this time...’ she breathed, incredulously. ‘You’ve been living as a man? Pretending to be a man?’
I nodded, gazing at the girl intently, trying to guess how she would react when the idea had properly settled in. Would she be appalled? Horrified?
Her mouth expanded into a broad smile. ‘That’s absolutely marvellous!’ she declared; and, all at once, she began to laugh. That was the last reaction I had been expecting. Now I was the one on the back foot. ‘I would never have believed it,’ she exclaimed, chuckling heartily, as if it were some silly prank. ‘Crumbs, I had you down as a grumpy old stick in the mud. Oh, no offence, Mr....Mrs Buxton?’
I pursed my lips. ‘Mr Buxton will do.’
She laughed again, her eyes twinkling with pleasure. ‘Mr Buxton. I think I could do with a drink, if you don’t mind.’ She gestured to the glass in my hand and moved forward into the room.
Events were not flowing in quite the way I had anticipated. Not that I had anticipated this at all. ‘Yes, well, help yourself,’ I said. ‘I’d...better put on some clothes. Then perhaps we can talk properly. I was going to have dinner shortly. There’ll be enough for two, won’t there, Morris?’
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the valet confirmed.
I hurried into my bedroom to change and Miss Bunting poured herself a drink.
Supper was a peculiar affair. The girl was full of questions, naturally enough, and I had little choice but to answer some of them. I told her about my father and the bizarre set of circumstances which had led me to become, in effect, a male impersonator. I explained how, as an adult, I had gradually come to accept the situation and outlined the considerable advantages I had found in living my life as a man. There were things a man could do, I told her, even in this day and age, that were denied to a woman. Miss Bunting listened intently, her initial surprise giving way over the course of the soup dish to a burgeoning sense of admiration.
‘I wish I had the nerve to do what you’re doing,’ she told me seriously, setting down her soup spoon as Maurice cleared away the first course. As a modern, emancipated woman, Miss Bunting had some sympathy for my position. ‘Men can do whatever they like. They can be diplomats, ambassadors, spies. But women...what can we do? I’ve got as far as I can go in the civil service already.’
Maurice moved in to serve the main course.
‘You haven’t done too badly,’ I suggested, ‘for a young slip of a thing.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said, eyeing up the meat and two veg. The girl had an admirably healthy appetite. ‘Crumbs, my parents would be so shocked, if they knew what I really did.’ She giggled. ‘Working for the secret service, on the other side of the w
orld.’ Miss Bunting, like Freddie Reeves, was a grammar school girl. Her parents were domestic servants, according to her file. ‘It’s all such a long way from Northampton. I wish I could tell them the truth! Sending coded messages and compiling secret reports for the government.’
‘You see?’ I said. ‘It’s not all bad.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘But there’s nowhere left for me to go, is there? At best, if I work really hard, I might become an office manager, and then only if I give up any hope of marriage and children. That’s why I think you’ve got the right idea, Mr Buxton. Dressing up as a man and beating them at their own game.’ She grinned. ‘Showing them what a bunch of clots they are, ignoring the potential of half the population.’ She picked up her fork. ‘You never know, you could be the head of the secret service one day.’
I spluttered in surprise. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely. Even if I had the aptitude, I certainly don’t have the inclination.’
‘So that’s not why you do it?’ she asked, peering across at me with curiosity. She popped a small chunk of meat into her mouth.
‘Not for the career, no. I’d sooner not work at all. How’s the lamb?’
She took a moment to digest it. ‘Very nice, thank you. Your valet’s a smashing cook.’
I peered down at my plate. ‘I’m not sure I would agree with that.’ I grunted. ‘He’s always trying to sneak in lots of herbs and spices. That’s the Frogs for you. I keep telling him, plain and simple.’
‘Has he been with you long, Monsieur Sauveterre?’
‘No, not that long. About eighteen months, I think. To be honest, I’m still breaking him in.’
There was a half smile on Miss Bunting’s lips. ‘And does he...dress you and everything?’ She had noticed Maurice entering my bedroom earlier on, when I was getting changed.
‘It’s a purely professional relationship,’ I assured her hastily. ‘I’m just a sack of potatoes, as far as he’s concerned. Isn’t that right, Morris?’
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the valet agreed.
Miss Bunting laughed. ‘I believe you,’ she said, cutting a potato in half.
‘I assure you it is.’ I stabbed my fork into a chunk of lamb. ‘But, as I’ve said, it’s not about my career. There are just so many advantages to living as a man. One is afforded so much more latitude.’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘You mean you can get away with more.’
‘Well, quite. Look, Miss Bunting, I dare say this has come as quite a shock to you.’
‘I’ll say!’ She grinned again.
‘And I realise it’s probably a lot to ask...’
The girl was ahead of me. ‘You want me to keep quiet about it.’
‘Er...yes, if you would. I would be very grateful. This job, it’s a new start for me.’ I put down my fork. ‘It’s not exactly where I wanted to find myself, but if I do all right here, it might lead to better things.’ Maybe a posting back in Europe. ‘If the truth about my sex were to come out, it would mean the end of my career.’
‘Yes, I do see that.’ She nodded seriously.
‘Oh, I dare say I could start again, if I needed to.’ I had a couple of spare passports written out, in case of emergencies. ‘But, given the choice, I would much rather not.’ I dabbed my lips with a napkin. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
‘Of course,’ Miss Bunting agreed. ‘I do understand.’ She reached a hand across the table and placed it gently on top of mine. I bit my lip and ignored the over familiarity. ‘You can rely on me, Mr Buxton. Or whatever your real name is.’
‘Hilary,’ I said.
‘You can rely on me, Hilary. I won’t say a word. All girls together, eh?’
‘Er...well, yes.’ I coughed. ‘Although I think perhaps we should stick to more formal titles in public.’
‘Of course, Mr Buxton.’ She sat back in her chair and took a moment to reflect upon the situation. ‘Crumbs! What would William say if he knew the truth? Or Mr Richards?’
‘I sincerely hope they never find out.’
‘Well, they won’t hear it from me. Oh!’ she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the purpose of her visit. ‘I must give you back your key. That was why I came round in the first place.’ She pulled the item out of her handbag, which was resting on the floor next to the table, and placed the key in front of me. She smiled as I took it, and glanced around the room. The electric lighting flickered briefly. ‘It’s a lovely flat, isn’t it?’
‘It’s serviceable,’ I agreed, preparing a mouthful of potato. ‘How long did you live here, before I arrived?’
‘Not long. Just two or three weeks.’
‘You took over from Miss...Stanton, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, she moved on to Mexico City.’
‘And did you ever meet Giles Markham?’
‘No, he died just before I arrived. William cleaned the flat out. Not that there was much here. I should have gone into digs with the other girls, but as the rent on the place had already been paid they said I might as well stop here instead.’ Her gaze fixed mournfully on the bedroom behind me. ‘It’s much nicer than where I am now.’
‘Still a little cramped,’ I said. Two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. It was not what I was used to. ‘And the balcony’s next to useless. No room out there at all.’
‘Is that how he got in? The burglar?’ she asked.
‘We think so. The window wasn’t locked and the blind was only partway down.’
‘I wonder what he could have wanted.’
‘I really have no idea,’ I admitted.
After the meal, we packed the girl off home and I settled myself on the sofa. Maurice cleared away the dessert bowls and moved into the small kitchenette to begin the washing up. ‘Do you think she’ll keep her word?’ I called out to him. My valet had always been a good judge of character.
‘I believe so, Monsieur.’
‘I hope so, anyway.’ I laughed, suddenly remembering the look on Miss Bunting’s face when that towel had slipped. It was the sort of moment I had fretted about so many times in my youth, but now that it had actually happened, I felt strangely light-headed. Exhilarated, almost. It was a surprisingly pleasant experience, being able to talk about it all with somebody. ‘You’re right, though. She seems a good sort. I think she’ll keep quiet.’
‘Just so long as she does not let it slip out accidentally, Monsieur.’
Maurice always knew how to spoil the mood.
‘That’s not a happy thought,’ I muttered.
Miss Bunting had proved as good as her word, however. The following day, in the office, she had been her usual efficient self. For all her frivolity in private, she was a steady, reliable worker and had a fine eye for detail. It was only when we were leaving for the train station that that mischievous gleam had returned to her eyes.
Ahead of us, the path was scarcely more than a mud track. The labourers had moved to the side of the road to let the horses through and as soon as we had passed them by, the overseer – an overweight fellow in a casual shirt – had bellowed at them to resume their labour.
The last half mile was an awkward uphill climb, but finally the hacienda and its associated buildings lurched into view, with the volcano bubbling benignly above them. A stable yard off to the right sat parallel to the front lawn, and half a dozen locals arrived to take charge of the horses.
I swung my leg over the top and thumped down onto the gravel with some relief. My thighs were aching badly. It was uncomfortable enough riding on a flat road but the bumps and judders of an uphill trek had left my legs feeling stretched to exhaustion. I would probably have to hobble the last few yards up to the hacienda.
Freddie Reeves handed the reins of his horse to one of the Indians. ‘What do you think?’ he asked me, gesturing to the estate.
The farm – or “finca” to use the correct term – was spread out over quite a large area. The hacienda was the focal point, but there were buildings all over the place; processing plants, worke
rs’ accommodation, administrative shacks. The finca was a small village in its own right. And, all around us, I could see huge trees stretching up the mountainside and away to the east. The waning sun bathed the valley in a warm glow, reinforcing the impression of a rural idyll. I have never been much of a country person, but after several weeks in the fetid sewer of Guatamala City, it was a joy to breathe some clean air. ‘Looks very promising,’ I said.
‘You’ll love it,’ Freddie assured me, with a grin. The man had an absurdly cheerful demeanour. If the two of us had met back in England, I doubted we would have become friends, but my standards had slipped somewhat of late. Freddie was the only member of the inner sanctum who had been remotely friendly towards me. The rest of the diplomats reserved their charm – what little they had – for the dignitaries. The worst excesses of Freddie’s London accent had been beaten out of him by some thoughtful teacher and it was only the occasional dropped “aitch” which betrayed his working class origins. It was a tribute to his skill and diligence that he had managed to rise to the position of Second Secretary at such a young age, though it seemed unlikely that he would progress much further.
‘Gunther’s a lovely bloke,’ he told me again. ‘You’ll like him. He’s an Anglophile. He can be a bit reserved but he makes a fine host.’
Freddie had promised me a weekend of gambling and drinking, but the guests who were dusting themselves down in the stable yard did not suit that picture at all. There were at least two married couples among them.
‘You did say there would be a few games?’
‘Don’t worry, Henry. There’s going to be lots of gambling.’ He grinned again. ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunities to lose your shirt. Oh, here’s Steven.’ A wiry, middle-aged man had descended the steps from the front terrace. ‘He’s the estate manager,’ Freddie whispered, leaning in. ‘Steven Catesby. An Englishman. You remember I told you about him?’