MI5 and Me

by Charlotte Bingham

  Finally she confessed when we went for a coffee: ‘I think I might be right. Monty could well be a spy.’

  I sighed inwardly. This was how MI5 got at its employees, however humble. They made you think that there was someone at every corner either listening in or, in the case of Monty, serving you breakfast

  ‘Oh, no, surely not? Anyway,’ I thought for a minute, ‘spies don’t really cook, not as well as that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I didn’t, of course, but since my friendships with Melville and Hal I had the feeling that I was becoming a bit of an expert on agents.

  Arabella leaned forward, lowered her voice and then said the one thing I had been dreading.

  ‘The thing is, Lottie, for a long time now I have had a horrid feeling that my mother is one too. That is why I think Monty is probably one as well, and of course Sergei. I think my mother is working for the Russians and that is why there is so much vodka and caviar about the place. It’s a thought that must have plagued you as well? Do admit it.’

  I wondered quickly what my father would have me say to this, and promptly came up with what I can only describe as a conversational double back clip.

  ‘If your mother were working for the Russians, she would not be so careless about the vodka and the caviar and letting Sergei take her to concerts. I mean she wouldn’t be so overt, would she? And under those circumstances, she could not be going to stay with friends near the Pentagon because that is somewhat overt as well.’

  I could see that Arabella was impressed by this line of thought.

  ‘But still,’ she said finally, ‘that doesn’t mean Monty isn’t a spook.’

  ‘Spies don’t cook like that,’ I said, sticking to my guns. ‘Besides he wants us to pick up something for him from that corset shop opposite, so that too is a bit overt. I mean no spook would want us to pick up something for him from there if they were busy being undercover, would they? They would keep their corset orders, or whatever it is he wants us to get, to themselves, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘What would he want us to go there for?’

  ‘It’s something for his mother’s birthday actually. It’s all paid for.’

  We duly picked up the parcel in question and although I knew that we were both itching to open it, we also knew without saying so that we would never be able to pack it back together again.

  Monty snatched the parcel, and almost ran off with it to his quarters, which made Arabella give me her did-you-see-that look, before laying aside all suspicions about him in order to devour the lunch of fried trout with almonds and lemon mousse that he set before us. After which, now full of both breakfast and lunch, she fell asleep on the deeply upholstered drawing-room sofa, only to be woken by the telephone which rang just twice, before being picked up elsewhere.

  ‘A company called Trigata called and wanted to know our orders, so I asked them what they had in fresh and they said salt cod and pickled herring,’ Monty reported. ‘“No, I don’t think so,” I said. Something to go with this Sergei’s taste in vodka, I suppose.’

  As he turned to leave I privately wondered if salt cod and pickled herring were perhaps code words, and if so what they stood for.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Monty, very kind of you, and you’re quite right – neither salt cod nor pickled herring would be to our taste. No need to take any more calls for us, we can answer the telephone ourselves, really we can. We are both trained secretaries,’ Arabella told him.

  I knew that Commander Steerforth had cross-referenced Trigata and duly come up with what could be matters of grave interest to the state. Trigata imported and exported any number of items, and they were of course a cover, but no one could quite discover what kind of cover, or for whom, or why.

  This was where being on our own in Mater’s flat could come in useful.

  The whole matter came to a head on Monday, and it was Monty who set alarm bells ringing in my head.

  ‘If,’ he said, slinging his little wickerwork shoulder bag on a string over one shoulder, ‘Trigata rings again, tell them it is still no to salt cod and pickled herring, and do make sure to insist on that – because they will not take no for an answer. And they sound so foreign it’s enough to make you think they’re up to no good. Thick foreign accents are not what is wanted, let alone salt cod and pickled herring. Dear me, before we turn round they will be dancing to “The Red Flag” at a Buckingham Palace ball.’

  ‘If Trigata rings when you’re out, Monty – we will order and see what happens,’ Arabella replied, a determined look in her eyes.

  ‘I shouldn’t bother, Miss Arabella. I mean today I put in an order for lobster because Harrods was out, but that seemed to send them right up the pole and back down again. They kept shouting at me they didn’t have lobster! They didn’t have any something lobster. They were being really tiresome about it.’

  Of course I couldn’t tell Arabella about Commander Steerforth and the trace, or the file that had nothing in it, so I just quickly flicked through a copy of the Tatler which was on a nearby table and wished that I could be smart like the people in it, who were seemingly quite unaware of the huge lengths that people like Arabella and I went to protect them from being called decadent because they liked wine and nice frocks.

  The next day I suggested to Commander Steerforth that we send for the Trigata file, particularly since at the moment there was nothing in it. We might add to it with details of the calls to Mater’s flat. It seemed a good thing to do, so we sent for the file, and in it came, but it was no longer thin.

  ‘We seem to have a great deal of new info about Trigata,’ Commander Steerforth said excitedly. ‘You can see from this recent intercept an order has come up mentioning lobsters – which apparently is setting all sorts of alarm bells ringing – and when one looks at what that code word means, one can understand why. I tell you, lobsters is serious stuff, Lottie. By that I mean lobsters,’ he added with a meaningful look, which I’m afraid meant nothing to me. ‘Lobsters, Lottie? Lobsters?’ he repeated, now adding a mime for what I took to be inverted commas.

  I realised at once that in this case all roads were not leading to Rome, and found myself wondering if I should perhaps come clean and confess as much to Commander Steerforth.

  ‘Actually the lobsters were for our dinner tonight,’ I explained. ‘The chap who is helping at the flat ordered them.’ As Commander Steerforth looked interested I went on: ‘He was so fed up with Trigata ringing us up day in, day out, constantly asking if we wanted salt cod and pickled herring, that he decided to annoy them and ordered lobster.’

  Commander Steerforth looked impressed.

  ‘That will have put them all in a complete panic,’ he said. ‘As you will see from the decoding here, Trigata’s only really been dealing in salt cod and herring, importing the stuff all over the place, so they will be rocking in their boat after this particular order.’ He looked serious. ‘I wonder whether we should go ahead and have them deliver the lobster?’

  ‘But that is just the point, Commander,’ I said, panicked by the thought of what this might do to our proposed dinner. ‘If they have no lobster, only salt cod and herring, then shouldn’t we really leave it at that?’

  ‘Well, lobster is a very dangerous new path for Trigata to be embarking on. We are having a bad enough time, spotting where the salt cod and the herring are going and stopping them before they do any harm.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ever helpful. ‘Next time they ring, I’ll make sure we cancel the lobster order.’

  ‘In the interests of everyone concerned, I think perhaps that might be best.’

  That evening, after supper, I told Arabella to tell Monty to make sure to cancel the order, and we sat down to listen to the radio and varnish our toenails, which is always such a job.

  ‘Oh, I already told him – but, you know, it’s very strange,’ she said, looking up from her toes. ‘Monty is convinced Trigata is nothing to do with fish at all. He thinks they’re something much mo
re sinister on account of the thick foreign accents and Sergei and all that vodka.’

  I nodded.

  ‘He might be right,’ I said, trying to cover the mark on the sofa where I had spilled some varnish. ‘Trigata could be a cover for anything.’

  ‘Who knows?’ she wondered. ‘Monty might have well and truly set the cat among the pigeons. I mean supposing lobster is code for something much more sinister? You know – like – like guns, say? Or grenades? Or even maybe missiles?’

  I gave a forced laugh.

  ‘I know. Or supposing lobsters just means lobsters?’

  ‘You’re no fun when it comes to fantasies,’ Arabella grumbled.

  It was thinking about our intended dinner being a threat to everyone’s safety that had made me a bit humourless, but I soon cheered up when I saw what Monty had made us instead – the most delicious-smelling Boeuf Bourguignon – better than any lobster surely?

  Before we put our lights out Arabella shared her secret with me.

  ‘I’ve worked out why Monty is such an odd shape,’ she said.

  ‘He’s half man, half lobster?’ I suggested.

  ‘Because he wears ladies’ corsets.’

  ‘How sweet,’ I said, and fell asleep wondering if perhaps I should tell Commander Steerforth this, but put it firmly out of my mind. Corsets might easily turn out to be code for something much more deadly. No, no, let Monty enjoy his corsets in peace, and leave us at MI5 to safeguard it.

  WHY

  It was a shame for everyone, especially me, when Mater came back early from the US of A. Her reason for returning was not clear, but I was sad to have to pack up and leave Arabella, Monty and Knightsbridge for downtown Kensington. I felt that everything that had happened at the apartment had changed me, but not as much as my bedroom at Dingley Dell had changed. It was now far more in the taste of Mater than my mother. The bedcover was chintzy and squishy, and the pillows, despite fresh linen, smelled distinctly of My Sin, a very fashionable scent that women who were not exactly ladies were prone to wear. I’d had barely enough time to hang up my clothes before my mother appeared.

  ‘Your father has been auditioning plants,’ she said, in a melancholy tone. ‘You should see some of them – very exotic, verging on the tropical. It’s to do with his work. Melville is advising him, but most of them seem to know Hal better than they know Melville.’

  I was surprised. My father had always been adamant that exotic plants were no use to him. He needed to take on plants no one would suspect. The Miss Smiths of this world, he called them. But according to my mother, too many Miss Smiths planted in all sorts of left-leaning places had had their cover blown, and so a more exotic plant was now needed

  ‘It’s a real bother, Why—’

  ‘Probably,’ I said, determined to be reasonable, ‘it’s part of his stopping propaganda in the entertainment world – keep it all from being left-leaning. Much more Passport to Pimlico than Family Fun in Siberia.’

  ‘No, Lottie, not why why – Why is the name of a new film directed by this chap Leslie Robertson. It is called Why, and is being directed by this very rich communist with left-wing views, who is determined to bring down the establishment from inside. This is why your father needed to audition all these plants, but none of them were any good for what he wanted. He needed a pretty young woman with shorthand and typing, but none of these ladies, if they could be called such, were good at anything except being pretty, which was only to be expected since they all seem to have been put up for the job by Hal.’

  I felt sorry for my mother, who always bore the brunt at Dingley Dell, but at that moment I felt sorrier for myself, seemingly cemented into a very dull job. Rosalie had written such a glowing report about Arabella that she was now destined to leave our Section and go on to higher and greater things. To shake off my mood of self-pity, I asked her to Sunday lunch at Dingley Dell.

  The usual cast were present and the atmosphere happy and jolly as Melville played some of my father’s favourite tunes, while Hal boomed at my mother about some new playwright, who was due to have a play put on at the Royal Court Theatre.

  ‘All scratch and spit, dear lady – not a decent line to be heard anywhere. I have a luckless friend in it who’s in despair, but what can you do? He needs the work – like us all, he needs to be seen.’

  ‘Just as well you have the film, Hal,’ my mother was saying as Arabella and I came into the drawing room, and I went to the drinks cupboard for some wine.

  I don’t think Hal had paid much attention to my mother’s words of comfort, because the moment he had clapped eyes on Arabella he became mesmerised. Of that there was no doubt. It was as if he had never seen her before. He moved towards her straight away. My mother, who was quite used to him by now, took it in good part.

  ‘You know Lottie’s friend Arabella, of course, Hal,’ she said to his back as he abandoned her.

  I gave Arabella a glass of wine and went over to the piano. It was not just my mother who was used to Hal and his ways – even Mrs Graham had given up on ever reforming him.

  ‘This is serendipitous indeed,’ Hal boomed at my father after lunch. ‘We have found our Miss Smith, my dear sir – we have found her.’

  Since by now Arabella had gone home and with my mother upstairs taking a siesta, and Melville back playing piano in the drawing room, there was no one else in the room but myself so Hal was able to speak his mind.

  My father looked at him with something close to affection. He liked his new life among actors and, although I knew he worried when Hal got insanely drunk, he trusted him more than he did a great many of his other people.

  ‘Who and what have you found, Hal?’

  ‘Why – the pretty young lady who was just here! She does shorthand and typing – so in she goes to the production office, surely? Just the plant you were looking for – we were all looking for.’ Hal looked as if he was about to doff an Elizabethan hat and bow to my father, he was so excited.

  At first I could hardly believe what he was saying, and then I realised that he was right. Arabella would make the perfect plant. The unsuspecting production office – seething with Lefties according to Hal – would happily take on a beautiful young woman with shorthand speeds that could not be matched by many and hands that managed to fly over an old Underwood as if they were driving a Grand Prix racing car.

  My father frowned. This was always a good sign.

  ‘Arabella?’ His frown grew deeper, another good sign. ‘Do you know, I think you’re right, Hal. She would be perfect. She can take compassionate leave and be moved in via one of our loyal theatrical agencies, keeping us informed from the inside.’

  Hal beamed.

  ‘Just one thing, Hal. I don’t want anyone giving her a bottle of My Sin. Frightful stuff. I’d say it’s got skunk in it.’

  ‘Comfort yourself, sir, my job lot of that particular perfume has run out.’

  ‘Just as well,’ my father said, tersely. ‘Mrs Graham was threatening to use DDT to drown it out, and that would never do.’

  Now I saw the writing on the MI5 wall I suddenly felt depressed, something I usually avoid. I went up to my room and lay down on the bed. I had never really bothered to make any more friends in the Section, but now I would have to, for with Arabella gone I would have to find myself another canteen crony, and not even Commander Steerforth’s devotion to cakes would alleviate the boredom of my day.

  Arabella was soon on her way, the story being that she was taking a few weeks’ leave to look after her ailing mother. Meanwhile I was to stand in for her as Commander Steerforth was also taking leave.

  ‘I shall miss Arabella but hopefully she will soon be back. We need people like her in the Section,’ Rosalie said, putting a Biro in her mouth in the same way that she used to put a cigarette there and speaking round it. ‘Just tell me if I dictate too fast, won’t you?’

  Of course I knew Rosalie dictated like a snail on brandy, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I just smiled and hoped I
would make a new friend in the Section to take the place of Arabella. Someone soon stopped by my Underwood.

  ‘I expect you’re missing Arabella, aren’t you?’

  I knew her name was Mary Claire. I also knew and admired her typing technique, which was stupendous because she had the most perfectly manicured nails I had ever seen. They would put a professional manicurist to shame. Long and red, so long that she typed with flat fingers but at such a speed it was little short of extraordinary.

  ‘Yes, I am missing Arabella. Shall we go for coffee?’ I asked her, despite the fact that I can’t ever help feeling suspicious of anyone who wants to be friends with me, always thinking they ought to be able to find someone better.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ she agreed, and we soon settled down to important matters such as where to have lunch.

  Mary Claire was very different from Arabella. She never looked you in the eye, and was so restless I thought she might be in pain. Whereas Arabella was at pains always to seem composed, Mary Claire was quite the opposite: she could not even drink a coffee without getting up and changing the sugar on our table for the sugar on someone else’s. She gazed around the room as if she was about to swap my company for someone else’s, and worst of all, she smoked in a very unnerving way. She tapped the cigarette constantly against the tin ashtray. I found myself wishing I had never suggested having coffee with her, but it was an unwritten rule in the Section that once you agreed to go to coffee with someone, you were on the same side, probably for life.

  All in all, except for Rosalie, who was an absolute dear, I was soon feeling quite down, and as usual my father seemed to sense this.

  ‘Hal and I were wondering if you would like to be an extra on Why?’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You could take a week or two’s leave and learn to mill about, or whatever they do, couldn’t you? Section can move someone else in as usual. Means you’ll get to see Arabella, you’ll like that.’

  I thought this sounded a suggestion from heaven. When should I start? What sort of extra would I be?