‘Yes – or rather, no. I was. I’m –’
‘Right, you’re American now. Aren’t we all? We just jump off the boat, and presto! Two thousand years of history just goes up in smoke.’ She laughed. ‘Go on then. You were English. Not poor either, from the sound of you. But you came over here. No family. No cash. You’re working in a manual job. Why? Must be either prison, or debt, or –’
‘I was a prisoner of war for two and a half years. I almost died. There was nothing left for me in England when I returned. I’d sooner be poor here than the King’s Own Bootlicker back in England. And for your information, I enjoy what I do.’
‘You were a prisoner of war? I’m sorry. I was too hard on you. I apologise.’
‘That’s all right. It’s OK.’
‘No it isn’t. I hate it when I do that. I’m sorry.’
They finished the bottle of wine. Rebecca wiped her mouth and made a face. ‘That was horrible, but thank you.’
Tom laughed. The wine had indeed been awful, but it had been a pleasure to share it with someone who knew it. But Rebecca’s manner had changed once again. She wasn’t exactly looking at her watch or getting up to go, but she was clearly signalling that it was time for her to get back to work. Tom even realised that she was letting him know that if he changed his mind and wanted to pay her for sex, then she was available then and there.
Tom had no problem with prostitution. Back in France, he’d usually been able to find girls who’d have sex without presenting him with a bill, but when he hadn’t been able to, he’d paid for his pleasure without thinking twice about it. But Rebecca, from the very start, was different. He didn’t know why and didn’t really bother to ask himself the question. She unsettled him. Her businesslike approach bothered him and made him angry.
‘Back to work now?’ he said, with needless brutality. ‘Should be a profitable night, huh?’ He gestured at some young roustabouts who were already far gone in drink and were making leering faces at the prostitutes by the bar.
‘You promised no sympathy. This is what I get instead, is it?’
‘Hell, it’s just a business, isn’t it? What’s wrong with that? That guy there looks flush. Have a quick screw with him, you should be able to find another couple of clients before the place closes.’
Rebecca stared coldly back at Tom, then quite deliberately undid a couple of buttons on her blouse. She stood up and walked, hips swaying, over to the man he’d pointed out. She stood there for a moment, hand on hip, deliberately provocative, and was then clearly urged to sit down amidst a torrent of drunken lecherous laughter from the nearby roustabouts. Tom looked on with a strange mixture of jealousy, fury and confusion. He slammed some money down on the table for the wine and stomped out of the bar.
And as he left, he emerged into a town transformed. The air had been cold but now it was snowing thickly enough for the street to be carpeted in white. A team of horses that had been caught out on the wagon trail emerged from the newly frozen mire on to the main street, amidst a stream of curses and blue language. Tom stood transfixed by the sight.
He wanted money and he wanted it soon. Now, for the first time, he knew how to get it.
61
From tiny beginnings, the Anglo-Persian Oil Company was becoming one of the world’s leading oil companies. This year it would drill and ship one and a half million tons of the precious liquid. Its refinery at Abadan was on the way to becoming the biggest in the world.
The Finance Director extended his hand. It was a small, dry hand without power in the grip. Alan shook it too hard and took his seat. Tea arrived in delicate porcelain, and the Finance Director fussed over cups and saucers like a maiden aunt taking tea with a bishop. Alan felt like a sunburned Persian bear, his hands still rough from his long stay in the Zagros.
‘The concession, yes, the concession,’ said the director, in his high-pitched voice. ‘We’d like all of it, of course. The split concession … well, it’s an irritation to us. I can’t put it more strongly than that – but, yes, an irritation certainly.’
Alan nodded. ‘It’s an irritation I can let you dispose of.’
‘But, you see, on the other hand, our geology people say there’s really nothing to be had in the south and from my own point of view, paying out money to the Shah for the right to drill for nothing doesn’t exactly make financial sense.’
‘I can see that. I just wanted to give you the opportunity to bid.’
‘To bid? To bid? You mean to imply there are bidders?’
The Finance Director’s voice had risen to a squeak. In his excitement, he’d let some watery tea slop into his saucer. It formed a little circular lake, like a pool of oil.
Sometimes success comes from luck, sometimes from circumstance, sometimes by accident. In the case of Royal Dutch Shell, one of the two big gorillas of the international oil world, success was born of an individual: a Dutchman named Henri Deterding.
Right now, Deterding was glaring incredulously at Alan.
‘South Persia? South Persia? The south of the country?’
‘That’s correct. Bandar-e Deylam to Persepolis and everything south.’
‘And this is your survey, eh?’
Deterding had acquired the manners of an English country squire. His behaviour during the war had been emphatically pro-British. All the same, where business was concerned his manners became brusque, almost rude.
‘Yes.’
‘Of course, you can’t expect us to rely on your own survey. You might tell us anything.’
‘I have set down only what is true.’ Alan spoke coldly. He was an English gentleman, and was not used to people suggesting he might lie. His coldness was for another reason as well: a guilty conscience. His maps contained nothing that was false, but they did not contain everything that was true. In particular, a certain red cross with its handwritten comment, ‘Oil seepage!’, had been left off the copies that Alan now handed round.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘You’ll find that, except for a few details where I’ve corrected previous work, my report is exactly in line with previous investigations – although more detailed. I would naturally invite you to send your own experts, only …’
‘Yes? What? Only what?’
‘Sorry. I spoke hastily. If you want to cover the ground again with your own geologists, then you must do as you see fit.’
‘But you were saying something. Only. Only what?’
‘I was starting to say that there are a couple of other companies with some interest in the possibility. They may be willing to act more quickly.’
‘Other companies?’ Deterding’s small face with its trim moustache was suddenly alive. ‘Who? Ha! Anglo-Persian. By God, I can believe they’d be keen to keep us away. God, yes, that’d be a smack in the face for them, what? Shell getting all friendly with the Shah, and who knows what might happen to the concession in the north … But you said two companies. Two. Who’s the other?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Not the Americans, surely? Not –’
Standard Oil was the biggest, the strongest, the richest, the toughest.
Their man in London was a big-jawed American, Huckleberry Grant, who’d started out with his own independent refining outfit, before being ‘sweated’ to death by Rockefeller’s operation. Grant had joined his enemy and risen far and fast.
‘This is a helluva good job on the geology. Your own work?’
Alan nodded.
‘Nice. We’ve had some of our own guys take a look at it. We can’t confirm everything, but this squares with anything that we know.’
Alan nodded.
‘And what we know is there’s not much there. Maybe a little. Not a lot.’
Alan nodded. ‘You may be right.’
‘You’re not exactly selling yourself here, feller. You don’t think your concession is up to much?’
‘It’s not what I think it’s worth, it’s what others think it’s worth.’
‘But we’ve got the first look over this
, right? You came here first?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Grant, perhaps I should have done. Unfortunately there are a couple of companies closer to home with an interest in the property.’
‘Anglo-Persian, I can see – but, goddamn, you mean Shell, don’t you?’
‘I was with Henri Deterding this time yesterday.’
‘Deterding, Jesus.’ The big American crashed his big fist against the desk. Among the ornaments sitting there was an eight-inch fishtailed drill bit, well worn and still dirty in the pockmarks. Grant’s fist shook the desk and the drill bit began to roll to the edge. Alan caught it and returned it.
‘Thanks. Hit a gusher with this back in ’eighty-five. Molly Moran 2, name of that well. Three hundred fifty barrels a day it did at its best. Sweet old Molly Moran.’ Grant weighed the bit in his hand, deep in thought. ‘Deterding, huh?’
62
Christmas Eve.
Up on the hills, a second oil strike had been made, one-eighty barrels a day, and the lucky well this time no more than a mile and a half from one of Lyman Bard’s. The excitement was formidable, but drilling conditions had turned from difficult to near impossible. The snow was thick, the cold savage. On days when the wind blew and snow fell, nobody left his lodgings. On clear days, the drilling crew set out at dawn, and did what they could in the short days and the bitter cold.
Tom quit.
‘You what?’ said Bard, when Tom told him.
‘I’m taking off. It’s not like you need a full crew, not with this weather.’
Bard shook his head. In theory, Tom was the most junior of his crew, but in practice Tom was faster, keener, smarter than the rest. ‘The cold getting to you? I guess it don’t snow in England, maybe …’ Bard’s voice trailed off as he tried to remember if England was a snowy country or not. ‘Not like here, anyways,’ he added to be on the safe side.
‘I don’t mind it cold, Lyman. But I guess you’ve taught me enough about drilling for now. I reckon it’s about time I made a little money.’
‘You want a raise? I could find four bucks a day, I guess. Matter of fact, I reckon we could say four bucks fifty.’
But Tom didn’t want a raise. He didn’t want employment. He’d come to America to make his fortune and he’d waited long enough. He drank a last beer with his mentor, shook hands warmly and headed off at a brisk pace down the valley to the railhead.
It was there he found who he was looking for. The pre-Christmas bar was rowdy and loud, the holiday mood only increased by the men’s knowledge that in just four weeks, Uncle Sam was locking up the beer kegs and the whiskey bottles for the rest of time. Tom got to the bar early enough that Rebecca Lewi hadn’t yet started her nightly trade. Tom bought a bottle of wine at the bar, then caught her eyes and held the bottle aloft. She smiled and came over. It was the sixth time they’d shared a drink together. Not once had Tom offered to pay for sex. Not once, after the first time, had she offered it.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said as she sat.
‘And merry Christmas to you.’ She pronounced the word with a kind of grave care, reminding Tom that the festival belonged to him but not to her. He suddenly wondered if it had been her intention to remind him. He felt a brief flash of annoyance, which he quickly damped.
‘I quit today.’
‘I’m sorry? You left? Left work?’ She bent across the table to hear him better. Her hair smelled warm and soft, but alongside that good smell there lurked the one of cheap scent that was as much a part of her profession as the low-cut blouse and dark stockings.
Tom nodded.
‘Why? I thought you loved your job. Oil: isn’t that why you came here?’
Tom gestured outside. ‘We can’t drill in this. Not really. We lose two days for every one we drill.’
‘And instead what will you do?’
Tom grinned. ‘I expect I’ll think of something.’ He refilled her glass and changed the subject. ‘Listen, you were planning to work tonight?’
She nodded.
‘Well, don’t. There’s a restaurant down the road which isn’t terrible. Let me take you there. You shouldn’t be working on Christmas Eve.’
She hesitated a moment. Tom could see that she was calculating whether a dinner with him was worth the sacrifice of an evening’s income. She glanced towards the group of her friends – the other prostitutes who worked the town. Then she turned back and smiled. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
Without finishing their wine, they left the bar. A rigger, who knew Tom and recognised his companion, made an obscene whistle as they left. Tom instantly stiffened and was about to turn back into the bar, fists balled, when he felt Rebecca’s hand on his arm, pulling him back.
‘No fighting!’ she said sharply. ‘I can’t stand it.’
Tom turned away and went outside with her. ‘Don’t you mind? That idiot whistling? The picture he had in his mind?’
‘Thomas,’ she said, turning the pronunciation of his name into something dark and soft and East European, ‘Thomas, I sell myself. It is how I live. This way, people whistle at me but I pay what I owe. It isn’t for ever.’
Snow was still gently falling and her long hair began to be speckled with white. Her deep-set eyes looked unwaveringly into his. He held her gaze a moment or two, then looked away.
‘OK. My Christmas gift to you, then. I won’t punch idiots who whistle.’
It was cold outside and they hurried on to the restaurant. The food wasn’t special, but it was OK. They talked non-stop. Rebecca’s father had once been a pharmacist with a substantial shop in one of the better districts in Vilnius. In talking about their life there, she happened to mention that they had employed two maids to help them. Tom was struck by the similarity in their stories. She: robbed by war, exiled from a prosperous home, was now in effect without family. He – for all that he was an English gentleman, not a Lithuanian Jew – his story was the same. They ate steak and fried potatoes, chopped cabbage, a sticky date Christmas cake washed down with wine and coffee.
‘Thank you, Thomas. It is a pleasure to feel like a lady for a change.’
Tom flung some money on the table. ‘Here. I’ve got something to show you.’
Out on the snowy street, by the light of the moon and a flashlight that Tom carried with him, they walked together to the yard behind the railway depot. Tom led them down a side alley, to a small wooden shed, padlocked shut. He produced a key, unlocked it and swung open a door. He shone the flashlight inside.
The shed was full with cases of whiskey, four complete barrels of beer, all of it bedded under straw to keep the frost away.
‘It’s why I quit my job,’ he said. ‘The way I see it, Prohibition is a goldmine. A fellow only needs to be willing to dig.’
Rebecca’s face looked gravely disappointed; upset even. ‘You quit your job for this?’
‘Yeah, and I know how I can get more. But listen, I’ve got a proposition. It’s one thing to have the hooch, it’s quite another to sell it. What with your job and all, I figure you’re the perfect person to sell the stuff.’
Rebecca backed away. In the darkness, Tom couldn’t see her face. Her shoes slipped a couple of times on an icy wagon-rut. Tom put out an arm but she waved it away. When she spoke, her voice was close to tears.
‘Why? Why do you have to do this? Why can’t you just leave me alone?’
‘What? What d’you mean? I’ll give you your share, of course. Don’t you want to pay off your debts? I can’t believe you’d rather … do what you do than sell a little liquor.’
Rebecca had begun walking as fast as she could back up the little alley. In the darkness, she was unable to see where she was going and she came close to falling. Tom slammed the door of his shed closed and locked it again before racing to join her. His head was full of arguments, but she spoke before he could get to them.
‘Thomas, Thomas, why can’t you leave my job out of things? Most of the time you hate what I do. You want to fight people, you are angry at me for wo
rking. Now … now you want to use me. You want to use my body to sell your alcohol. You are no better than … No, that isn’t true. You are better. But … Sorry, Thomas. Sorry. It is time for me to go home.’
Pushing aside his torch, his arm, his words of apology, she hastened away from him into the night. She didn’t once look back.
63
It was late at night and raining. Gaslight shone down on the puddled streets. Any motor-taxis that were still cruising for business seemed to move slowly, with a watery hiss of their wheels.
Alan walked slowly. The New Year celebrations that had ushered in the 1920s had just faded into a cold and wet January. Alan had been staying with Guy, whose hospitality he never quite enjoyed but which he was too poor to be able to turn down. Guy lived in a buzz of fast women, rich men, and much more expense and wildness than Alan was happy with.
He longed to escape. He had loved the wild Zagros. The hardships he’d endured there had been trivial compared with anything he’d been through in the war, and the loneliness had suited his mood. With Tom dead and Lottie out of reach, London felt like a wasteland – and Guy’s home felt like its flashy, dead heart. He fled to Hampshire and Whitcombe House whenever he could get away.
Meantime, he trudged on west down Piccadilly, head down, hat tilted to keep the rain off his neck. Ahead of him, a hotel porter held open a door, spilling bright electric light out onto the wet pavement. A flock of young people, Alan’s age, tumbled out, laughing, joking, and singing the dance tunes that reverberated dimly from inside. Alan stepped aside, when one of the women, not seeing him, stumbled into him and almost fell.
He caught her and held her upright, until she’d recovered her footing. She had a slender figure, and her hair was cut very short in the ultrafashionable ‘bob’ that Alan so disliked.
‘How silly of me. Thank you, whoever you –’
The woman turned. The light fell on her face. It was Lottie.
Alan didn’t know what his face must have looked like, but Lottie’s face registered something like shock, perhaps longing, perhaps even love. He stepped towards her.
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