****
Peter suggested walking up to the Adelaide. Better in the house, Aubrey thought. They could talk more freely. ‘We’d have to watch who’s sharing our conversation.’ No wife and child at home: they were coming back from a breather in his country place.
Over brandies, Peter did his set piece on Dinah – Aubrey plainly disbelieving his assertion that an engagement wasn’t on the cards – and asked if the government had arrived at a set of war aims yet.
‘No longer in that neck of the woods. Thank the Lord.’ On the one hand, the war aims discussions were highly political, with recent but socially established recruits wanting promises of a more equal society; on the other, there was a basic disagreement with the French. They were fighting to defeat the Germans; we were fighting to rid the Germans of the Nazis. ‘I’m currently a toiler in the field of public opinion. To be precise, my masters have charged me with drafting a pamphlet to remind people of the British values they’re fighting for.’
‘We? We’re fighting for?’
‘Good point.’ Aubrey nodded absently. His idea, positively received by the under-secretary, was to write it as a dialogue between John Bull and Dr Johnson, both summoned to the colours in the hour of need, as it were. One delivered to every household. ‘If Jerry invades, the people will have it to stiffen their resolve.’
‘Our resolve?’
‘Good point, Peter.’
‘Why not John Bull and Napoleon? English liberties against Continental despotism? And we won. Or John Bull and Cobbett? Free speech and radical democracy. The people’s war?’
‘Too challenging by far for the masses. We want a simple statement of British virtues: decency, tolerance, fair play, straightforwardness, and so on. Things everyone can agree on, no matter what their station.’ Aubrey gave the points of his waistcoat a tug.
‘I’ve heard that there’s a movement inside the government and its supporters to look for a settlement with Germany…’ Peter cocked his head questioningly. ‘The status quo in Europe and the empire guaranteed. The fleet remains supreme.’
‘Where did you hear such a thing? Certainly not HMG policy.’
‘People are talking. Goering is supposed to back it.’
Aubrey went to the end of the long sideboard for the decanter and cigar box. Holding the decanter he said, ‘The fact is, there are people in government and in the country who believe that’s the only way out.’
Peter tested Miriam’s point. ‘Because we’re not in a position to fight?’
‘For that and for other reasons.’ His old friend had finally put the civil servant on one side. ‘What’s it all for? Do you notice how few talk of victory? Most talk of peace. Fat chance of doing anything for Poland. French hopelessly degenerate. Road to social revolution here: the left are quite open about that. A settlement, it’s argued, would be the best of bad job. So far as I can tell, it’s not being officially discussed at the top, but it might be aired in the corridors and lower down.’
Peter joined him. ‘And these people really believe that Goering or some generals would push Hitler out if they had the promise of such an agreement?’
‘There are rumours of the Secret Service arranging meetings in Holland with generals from the German high command.’
‘So it’s not just running on the extreme fringes?’
‘Not at all. Where did you hear this talk?’
Peter waved his glass. ‘That barrister I devil for – Creevey-Adams – seems to be mixed up with a movement for peace.’
‘From what people say, some of those movements may find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. Some aren’t very healthy. I hope your colleague’s isn’t one of those.’ Aubrey leaned back against the sideboard and held out the decanter. ‘Are you with him on this?’
‘He’d like me to be, and he’s been very decent, gone out of his way to be helpful. But no.’ He watched as Aubrey, momentarily preoccupied, swirled his brandy. ‘Not at all. Do you think there’s anything in it?’
Aubrey went to the door. ‘That sounds like Angela. I can say there’s no chance of peace here till she’s heard all about the mysterious Dinah—’
‘The straightforward Dinah.’
‘Seriously, I’m told the military position’s frightening. Do let me know if you hear anything of significance from … what was his name?’
‘Creevey-Adams. He works with a woman called Miriam Baggot, who seems to be the driving force. Formidable. A pity she’s not on the government side.’
****
‘Should we get married?’ His question to Dinah slipped out. He’d been telling her about his drink with Aubrey and his friend’s evident joy at his wife’s return with their baby.
‘One day, yes. Please.’ Her tone was serious. ‘But now, Peter, you are not ready, and I cannot possibly at this moment. We don’t know what will happen to us. With the war. But if you are serious, I am too. I ask you only to be patient until the time is right.’
‘I will be patient, but how will we know?’
‘We will know. I promise. Now we give each other our word.’
‘You have mine.’ He took her hand and kissed it.
‘Did your friend agree there were people in government circles who wanted a settlement. To give Hitler his position in Europe in exchange for your empire?’
‘And fleet. I’m sorry to say he did.’
‘Sorry, Peter?’
‘I don’t see how we can let go now.’
‘Did he say who in government circles? Mention any names?’
‘No. It’s not being discussed at the very top officially. But perhaps in the corridors and lower down in government some are talking about the possibility. They think Hitler’s generals would overthrow him given such a chance.’
‘And this is just politicians or also officials?’
‘Aubrey wasn’t that precise. I imagine both. And fringe figures. Peers, former officers, men who move in the same circles. Our spies might even have some contacts in Holland with the German high command.’
‘He said that? And you know some of these people?’
‘As a matter of fact I do know one quite well. That barrister I do work for. He’s always trying to involve me in his peace group.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘In fact, he’s even asked me to be at some dinners organised to influence the government into seeking a settlement with Germany.’
‘Organised by?’
‘A woman, Miriam Baggot. Quite formidable.’
‘But Peter, how interesting it would be to go to such dinners. To go just now.’
‘You couldn’t. Some of these pro-settlement people are vile anti-semites.’
‘We still need to know if they are winning. It could change everything for my grandfather and me, and other refugees.’
‘They are unpleasant and they’re dangerous for us all. Miriam is very dangerous.’
‘Because they are dangerous we need to know. Our future is at stake. Peter, you must be our spy. Please.’
****
Unheralded dinner invitations arrived—Miriam’s pulling the strings, he supposed. A dedicated organiser, he thought again, who should be running the war effort, not opposing it.
With some hosts he was already acquainted or they knew his father or other members of his father’s family, but a previously unknown hostess would still greet him as if a regular visitor to her house. Among his fellow guests might be people he knew or who knew of him. With one he’d shared a pew at the major-general’s memorial service. Then round the table he might see a junior member of the government, a solid backbencher, a peer, a senior official, a city banker or broker, a company chairman with political connections, a prominent constituency chairman and lord lieutenant, a political hostess, a leading churchman.
He noted how easily Miriam’s policy was broached, yoked to the boredom – or defeatism – of the common people, the woeful state of British armaments, the unreliability of the French, Hitler’s lack of enmity to England. Aubrey had be
en right: hopes were always for “peace” never “victory”. The war’s inevitably bringing social revolution rang fearful bells, he could see. Miriam’s agents used the fear: ‘It’s certain that if we fight the war, capitalism will give way to socialism. As their price, the workers will demand fundamental change in our social and economic structure. The total mobilisation required will end the present economic system. The present class system can’t survive so titanic a struggle. That or military defeat.’
At the outset, his role, thankfully, seemed only a walk-on’s, one of the acquiescent chorus, perhaps chipping in with a question. He could have done the arguments by rote; they were straightforward, if you believed in them, and logical, if you accepted the premise. But, he admitted to himself, the whole experience was fascinating. As he’d once half-joked to Ella, “Mingling with the crowd, the flâneur secretly resists any engagement with them. He disguises himself as a participant but his true role is to seek out the mysteries hidden below the surface. His sole credo is ‘observe, penetrate, track’. To do this, he must simultaneously occupy the passing scene and remove himself from it. Curiosity his total passion.” He described the evenings to Dinah as graphically as he could. She seized on each occasion, hungry for every detail—and the flâneur seemed not to miss much.
And not only Dinah, as it turned out. Miriam wanted his impressions: could he possibly manage that? She had questions to be answered: how seriously the cause had been taken; if the idea of a negotiated peace had been seen as proper or improper; who had come aboard, who opposed; the nature of the opposition; what prospect of moving government policy; how long before people wanted the subject changed; if talk of a settlement made them nervous … She asked him if he could make a note – ‘while your impressions are still fresh’ – and bring it to a meeting with her.
Initially put out by her request, he began to enjoy the challenge of writing up the dinners – atmosphere and characters, flow of debate, telling anecdotal moments – and to enjoy these occasional encounters, in the lounges of railway hotels – Cannon Street, Charing Cross, Victoria – and once in a women’s club near Hyde Park, in the darkly furnished room by the back stairs kept for male guests.
His unwilling admiration for Miriam’a abilities grew with each meeting, the sharpness of her observation, the keenness of her ear, her willpower. She was monitoring the progress of the campaign through what she called ‘outcomes’ in the press and parliament, and seemed to have some kind of reporting system for whether the case was getting through to ordinary people, what they were saying in shops, libraries, offices and pubs. He reflected that he had no real idea of her, though a stray reference or two led him to think she had been brought up in India and had been involved in social work.
She would ask him to bring the locked red folder from chambers, inserting his reports, making notes or adding papers, before returning it for Creevey-Adams to keep, though in fact Peter usually had it in his desk. Once, when Miriam couldn’t manage it, he met the ever-smiling Foxy, Helen, in the Russian Tea Rooms. She took the folder away. ‘It’s needed for a meeting upstairs.’ He must have looked anxious. ‘You’re not expected. Miriam likes to keep her different activities separated.’ Miriam gave the folder back to him at their next encounter.
He wondered whether to mention all this to Aubrey. But what? That men dined and discussed the desirability of peace?
****
Dinah invited him to dinner with her grandfather. ‘You can’t eat only fine cuisine in fine houses with fine ladies.’ On her afternoon off, she would cook a traditional winter dish for him: brisket of beef cooked very slowly with vegetables and barley, such as his mother must have made.
‘I’m sure it will be much tastier than anything my mother ever cooked.’
He’d arrived slightly early – blacked-out buses made evening travel unpredictable – and an unexpectedly long pause followed his knock. Then the door opened a crack. The professor’s bird-like features peered out; a pencil of torchlight flickered across Peter’s face. ‘Ah, the agitator, freshly arrived from rousing the toiling masses and seducing my granddaughter. Or is it the other way round?’ He snickered. ‘How kind of you to visit.’ He opened the door and stood back. Behind him, in the glimmer from the near-shut door of the front room, Peter discerned a tall male figure. ‘I have just ended a lesson in German for one of your compatriots.’
Peter retreated a pace to allow the figure to pass. His hat was pulled down, shadowing his face, and he was turning up his greatcoat collar. But in saying ‘Bis bald’ – ‘Goodbye for the moment’ – the professor waved his torch, allowing Peter a glimpse of the figure’s features, the finely moulded nose, arching eyebrows, blue eyes, luxurious mouth—almost matinée idol.
‘Davidson, isn’t it?’ Peter spoke involuntarily. First class honours; passed the Diplomatic Service exam, all 18 papers of it, at his first shot. ‘Hill. We were at last year’s House dinner.’
‘Peter, you are here.’ Dinah was in the hall. ‘Please don’t stand on the doorstep. Come in.’
‘I fear you are mistaken …’ The figure ducked away from the light and vanished into the darkness.
Inside, with the front door shut and the light on, Peter surrendered his flowers and chocolates to Dinah and, unembarrassed, she kissed him in front of her grandfather. While she disappeared into the back of the house, he went with the professor into the front room. The wireless was humming and the professor turned it off, then gestured towards a tray with glasses and decanters perched on the Hölderlin: Dokumente seines Lebens. ‘Sherry? Schnapps? Aniseed?’
‘Sherry, thank you. I’m afraid I seem to have disturbed your pupil. Mr Davidson?’
The gas-fire hissed dully while the professor poured the sherry and composed his thoughts. ‘Possibly embarrassed a man to a minor degree, so to speak, at being caught, a government servant, learning German from an enemy alien.’ The professor laughed shrilly. ‘After all, it could be so easily a matter of misinterpretation.’
‘A wise move, I would think. There’s a shortage of German-speakers in the government and the services.’
‘Although Germany is the historic enemy and German the language of scholarship?’
‘The historic enemy is France. We happen to be at war with Germany. And the services and scholarship traditionally aren’t on speaking terms. My father spent eighteen months at Göttingen and Berlin and was never forgiven for it when he went into the army.’
‘What did he study there?’
‘Roman history. He’s a great admirer of Mommsen. But the government will have to call up scholars now, particularly those with German.’
‘Do you know any who are serving the government?’ Dinah had come back. ‘Or might want to learn some German before they start? Your Cambridge friends?’
‘Some have found posts in the civil service. I’ll ask around about German. Perhaps I should myself.’
‘I will be your loving teacher. And now we eat.’
They ate in the back parlour. A small blackened iron stove glowed dull red in the fireplace, giving out a comfortable heat. A kettle rested in the grate. The table was covered in a silver-embroidered damask cloth too long for it; the cutlery and cruet were solid continental silver, the china and glass a mix of continental and Woolworth. Beyond, he’d glimpsed a small kitchen with a tiny iron gas stove, a deep stone sink with a single tap, a geyser above a copper, a wall-cupboard, a small fridge on legs.
Given time and shortages, he marvelled, she had done wonders. Pickled herring with pickled cucumbers and apple, the brisket with barley and red cabbage, dark bread with caraway seeds, apfel-strudel.
‘Delicious. The store?’
‘No, no. Whitechapel market.’
The professor tucked his napkin into the collar of the plum smoking jacket and applied himself to clearing his plate, as did Dinah. Peter wondered, did it run in families or was this cultural? Eat before the Cossacks come? Only the secure eat slowly and unguardedly.
When he put dow
n his knife and fork, the old man talked of Novalis. Soon, very soon, he would have brought together all Novalis’s countless fragments … he had charted his development as a man hand in hand with his development as a poet … unravelled his mysticism, plumbing its hidden depths and its sublime transcendence of reason … In his papers next door, finally, he was ready to expose the uncovered Novalis where he belonged, on the peak of Olympus, the mists cleared, in public view. But when Dinah went into the kitchen to make tea, the professor grasped Peter’s lapel and whispered, ‘Why has the general strike not been called? It must be organised without delay. Down tools and take over the streets. The forces of capitalist repression must be faced down. Strike now! Raise the consciousness of the masses and bring them out. Rise up. Rise up in the mines, factories and fields. Are you ready to call to them? The German toilers will follow as one man.’ His eyes bored into Peter’s.
As he groped for a response, Dinah came back into the room with tea glasses on a tray. For the moment he was spared, but how could he tell his future father-in-law he was not an agitator, had never been near the masses, believed a general strike would be madness?
Over black tea and plum brandy, Dinah said, ‘Dear grandfather. Peter and I.’ She took Peter’s hand. ‘He loves me and I love him. We will marry, one day. We have given our word.’
‘When the way ahead is clear?’
‘When it’s clear,’ said Peter. ‘I love Dinah with all my heart and want to marry her. I am overwhelmed and deeply honoured that she will marry me. I hope when that day arrives, you will come to live with us.’
The professor acknowledged him with a nod and asked Dinah, ‘Have you told your dear mother and father?’
‘I have sent them a letter to say I love a perfect English gentleman and, while the day is uncertain, I will marry him. I think they will be very happy for me.’
‘And you, Mr Hill, have you informed your parents?’
‘Please call me Peter. I have told my mother all about Dinah, and she’s looking forward to meeting her and will do everything to support her. My sister will shortly be telling my father in Egypt.’
Innocence To Die For Page 13