by Tony Walker
"Why didn't you answer when I called?"
"I didn't feel like it."
"What about the girls? The fire's on. They could have burned themselves."
"But they didn't."
"That's hardly the point. Karen what's the matter with you?"
She put the book down and glared at him angrily. "The matter with me? Are you saying I'm mental?"
He shook his head. "I didn't say that. But you're not looking after the girls."
"And where have you been?"
"At work. You know that."
"So you haven't been looking after the girls either."
"No, but..."
"But that's my job? While you go out and enjoy yourself with your important work."
He stood in the door. "I thought that's what we'd agreed. One of us needs to work. You wanted to give up teaching to look after the kids. You said children needed their mother. I said we could afford the loss in salary so you could do that."
"Oh, you're so fucking noble. I'm surprised you don't make yourself sick with your own sweetness."
"Karen, I don't think you're well. Maybe you should go and see the doctor."
"And always you have that card up your sleeve. If Karen misbehaves she must be going mental again. Scary Karen - what will she do now?"
He sat down at the end of the bed. "I'm worried about you."
"Not worried enough to be home on time."
He sighed. "I rang you."
"And who have you been with?"
"My colleagues. My normal work colleagues."
She snorted in derision. "You don't seem to be here even when you are here. Are you having an affair John?"
"I've never touched another woman since I met you." That was the first lie he ever told her, and he kidded himself it was close enough to the truth to make no difference. A job where he kept lies and truth apart so they did not touch helped in that.
She looked at him, searching his eyes.
"Honestly," he said and he promised himself that the kiss would never happen again.
She appeared mollified. "Good," she said. "I believe you. It's just you work such long hours."
He put his arm around her. "Do you want me to give up the job? We could go back to Scotland. We'd be closer to families for support with the kids."
She shook her head. "I couldn't ask you to do that. What would you do?"
"I could do my teacher training. I could teach Russian or German. Probably more demand for German. You said I'd be happier as a teacher."
She shook her head. "You said you'd never do teaching. You're too soft natured to get the little bastards to behave anyway."
"I would. And if not that, maybe I could do translating from home. Set myself up freelance."
"You would really do that?"
He nodded emphatically. "Of course." He meant it.
She said, "Well I can look in the Times Educational Supplement. If you teach in a private school you don't need a teaching certificate. They'll take you on the strength of your degree. What about trying the Heriot School? Do you think any of your old teachers are still there."
"I can make enquires," he said but he knew he couldn't go yet. "But Karen, I still think you should go to the doctors. Maybe you can get some tablets to make you feel happier."
Her expression grew stony. "I tell you what John. You get an interview for a job in Edinburgh and I'll go to the doctors." He looked at her for a long time but did not speak. Then he remembered the babies and went through to find them hugging each other and laughing. He knelt down and picked them up - one in each arm. He said, "If being your father was the only good thing I ever did, it would justify my life." Eilidh reached out and pulled his ear and Morag laughed at her for doing it.
The next day John received a phone call from Alastair in A2A. "How you doing dude?"
"Ok, tovarisch. What's up?"
" I've got some stuff on Vinogradov that you K3 people might be interested in."
"What's that?"
"He's going up to the Durham Miners Gala as a representative of the Embassy to show working class solidarity with the struggle."
"That's unusual."
"Yes, the first time for ages. My guess is that Reagan's speeches about the Evil Empire and the Soviets supporting world revolution have upset them enough to remind they really ought to be. Also it will be one in Maggie's eye as she hates the Sovs and the miners both. She doesn't like working class solidarity one bit."
"So he's just going to show his face?"
"Probably also to bung the Communist Party representatives some solidarity money too."
"Is he staying overnight?"
"Most unusually yes."
"He'll have to file a travel request with the Foreign Office so we'll get it anyway, but where?"
"The County Hotel."
"I know it."
"I forgot you were at Uni there. Take care Johnnie. Don't work too hard."
John put the phone down and went over to the coffee percolator. Ailsa walked in.
"What time do you call this?" he said.
"I am not your brother and neither are you my keeper," she said.
He said, "Do you want to go out for a coffee? I want to talk about Vinogradov."
She pointed at the percolator. "Here is coffee." She gestured at the office, "And here is talk space."
"I just thought we could get out. It's a nice day."
"You're not on holiday John. This is work." She went to her desk then said, "But ok. I'm meeting a rather attractive student for lunch. I'm going to get him to try and get a job teaching English to one of the Embassy wives."
John felt a flash of jealousy.
She turned over a report on her desk and said, "So, after lunch? I'm meeting him near Waterloo."
"South Bank Centre at 2:30?"
"Ok."
They shuffled around some paperwork in silence. The room felt awkward. John got up and went to see Rob in K4 just for a chat. When he came back Ailsa had left. He felt restless. He went out at lunchtime and walked to the British Museum where he spent half an hour among the Assyrian Sculptures and grabbed a sandwich from a café on Coptic Street before returning to work. Then he caught the tube down to Waterloo station. As he came up the Tube steps into the mainline station he looked around. Standing under the clock, where people always meet, he saw Ailsa. He took in her figure; flattered by her powder blue suit - the skirt accentuated her narrow waist and stopped just below her knees, showing off her legs. She was talking to a long-haired, artistic looking young man - the sort school girls fall in love with. They were smiling at each other. Then he saw Ailsa look at her watch and say something. She leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek and one of her flirty smiles. Then he walked off and she turned and made her way to the main stairs. He caught up with her.
"Hi," he said.
"Bloody hell," she said taken by surprise. Then she smiled. "Hello. I didn't realise I was under surveillance."
"Losing your touch. I've just arrived on the Tube."
"I hate the South Bank you know," she said. "All those pretentious Hampstead intellectuals with their wounded hearts and broken artistic souls. They make me sick. I much prefer the honest fascist or the no-nonsense road sweeper."
"Well, it's just the closest place I could think of that's likely to be clean and offer something that isn't a bacon sandwich."
"I didn't realise you had airs and graces. Bok Choy juice and dill weed anyone? Anyway, I don't want to eat. Oh bugger," she said, reaching down to her right shoe. "This heel's dodgy. Just hold me up a sec." She leaned on him while she stood on one foot and examined her high heel. "It's Louis Vuitton you know."
"That means nothing to me," he said. He liked the feel of her hand on his arm. She put the shoe back on.
"It'll last for today at least."
They walked through the underpass. Under the dark concrete flyovers supporting the roads above was what was called Cardboard City. In the gloom, hundreds of homeless people l
ay on broken cardboard boxes. There were lots of homeless people all over London but Cardboard City was their most famous ghetto.
John reached into his pocket and pulled out a pound coin which he dropped into a polystyrene cup held out by a grimy faced man. "Wait," said Ailsa. She opened her purse and took out some coins which she gave to another man. There were some shufflings and movements from others nearabout, hard to make out in the darkness. Overhead was the sound of traffic and the constant drip of water as yesterday's rain soaked through the concrete creating mini modern stalactites on the ceiling. Most of the homeless had no energy to get up and crowd them for money. John and Ailsa walked on. Ailsa said, "I feel sorry for them but they frighten me."
John said, "We accept them being there as inevitable. Great poverty cheek by jowl with great wealth in this city."
"The poor are always with us, to paraphrase Our Lord."
"This isn't divine providence - this is Thatcher's doing. There didn't used to be homeless people here. She's cut the day centres and they can't get homes because she's sold off all the council houses to families who will sell them on to spiv landlords who can rent them out at great profit."
Ailsa laughed. "You said that with great venom. I didn't realise that you were a red under the bed."
They emerged into the daylight and walked alongside the river.
"It's not a crime," he said.
"Oh but it is according to vetting people. I'm sure there are some non- Conservatives in MI5 and MI6, it's just I've never met any of them. Except you John Gilroy. You are a surprise and delight to me."
"I don't normally talk politics at work."
"I voted Liberal you know at the last election," she said sounding pleased with herself. "Mainly to piss Duncan off. He is an arch Tory as you might guess."
"I did guess. Do you want to sit inside or should I get a coffee and we can drink it at one of these tables looking at the river?"
"That would be nice. Get me a cappuccino - with a shot of brandy?"
"You shouldn't drink at work."
"Jesus Christ, you are a Stalinist aren't you? If you won't get it, I will."
He smiled. "I'm not a Stalinist. Some things are right and some things are wrong."
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
He came back with two coffees. She was gazing at boats going by on the river. The slight breeze ruffled her hair and she had put her Wayfarer sunglasses on. He put the coffee down. "That's the one with brandy."
"And yours?"
"Decaff."
She laughed. "Puritan."
"So," he said. "Our man. He's going to the Durham Miner's Gala to represent the Embassy in a show of solidarity. And he's staying overnight."
She sat forward with interest. "Ooo, that's good. Do we know where?"
"Yes. The County Hotel."
"Sounds like a fleapit. Do I have to stay there?"
"Yes. We'll try and get the next table to his at breakfast. I'll bung the waiter. It's not a fleapit. I was at University at Durham."
"Were you? My cousin went to Durham. She's a barrister now."
"I don't think I know her."
"How do you know you don't? I haven't said her name."
"Believe me, I didn't know her."
She looked puzzled. "If you're making a point, I don't get it." He didn't reply. She shook her head in dismissal. "You're weird sometimes. As well as arrogant. Anyway, what cover are you going to use in Durham?"
He sat forward, pleased with himself. "Richard McIntosh - map salesman. We have a contact at Stanford's Map shop on Longacre."
"The dreary one full of maps of places no one wants to go to?"
"Well, that's the shop, though I don't think it's dreary. The owners are on-side and will back up the cover. I like maps. When I was a boy I looked at maps and dreamed of going to Samarkand and Timbuctoo."
"I've been to both. Hot and sandy. Interesting in their way though. My mental picture of you is continuing to develop - John Gilroy the romantic. it goes with the revolutionary. They're romantics too, and you remember what Joni Mitchell has to say about that: ' all romantics meet the same fate someday- Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café.'
"I like that song. Good album."
"I see you one day in some rundown foreign café desperate to meet someone who speaks English and when you do, boring the pants off them about your lost, wasted life as an idealist."
"Thanks for the inspiring prediction."
"I can see you're excited about your cover though," she said. "I promise I'll make all the right noises of approval to keep you happy."
"Hmm," he said. "I think it's a great cover. It lets me go wherever I want, and I don't and arouse suspicion by being a 'journalist'".
"Yes, the boring nature of it could be useful. Or it could make them avoid you for fear you'll try to sell them maps of Moldavia."
Her response made him sulk. She saw it and reached out and patted his hand. "But your boyish enthusiasm is endearing."
"Alluring even?" he grinned.
She shook her head. "Nerdish."
"So what are you going to be?" he asked.
"Isobel Parker - journalist."
He grinned. "Well it's better than Isobel Parker - jodhpur model."
She winked. "They get that if they are very good boys. But, I could try a new cover. Isobel Parker - collier's daughter. " She put on a mock Northern accent. "Bloody Thatcher, bloody Tories, closin' dahn our bloody pits. Bloody southerners. Ah'll 'ave pie and mushy peas ma duck."
He laughed again, "That was an awful accent. It veered between Derbyshire and Hovis Bread advert. It could be considered offensive by some."
"I'll stick to posh journalist bird then. I know my strengths."
"You're very pretty," he said suddenly.
"Well gosh am I? If I had a penny for every time some man has said that to me I could retire. As if it was the silver key to my heart. Or even my knickers. Beauty's on the inside you know, Johnnie." Then she added in her awful northern accent, " 'Andsome is as 'andsome does as my old nan used to say," He felt awkward. They were quiet while they drank their coffee. She appeared to be lost in thought looking out at the river. Then suddenly she recited:
" Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air."
"Wordsworth," he said.
"Yes. I love poetry. Duncan doesn't. He's a total philistine." She smiled. "I'm glad you knew the poem."
"Was it a test?" he asked. She looked at him but was inscrutable behind her sunglasses. He couldn't tell if she was searching for something in his face or looking past him towards the city behind. Finally she said, "So we get another night away together."
He nodded, unsure what to say. Unsure what he wanted except he wanted to be with her for longer.
"I promise I won't drink too much," she said.
They checked out a buttercup yellow Vauxhall Cavalier from the MI5 garages and drove up the A1. After they had been going around 200 miles Ailsa said she was hungry.
"Want to stop at a Happy Eater?" John asked.
She wrinkled her face in disgust.
"I was joking," he said.
"Oh you're a very funny man. We're near Yorkshire now aren't we?"
He nodded.
"I've been for a couple of weekends at a friend's place up here. We ate at a restaurant in Harrogate. Wasn't too bad."
"Not just black pudding and whippet burgers then?"
"No. French as I recall. Could we take a look?"
He shrugged. "We're running early so I don't see why not."
They ate at an expensive French re
staurant in Harrogate. He agreed with Ailsa that it wasn't too bad. She insisted on wine at lunch. John didn't have any because he was driving. They got to Durham just after four o'clock. The weather was fine. John had arranged for Ailsa to be booked into the County where Vinogradov was staying but got himself a room at a cheaper place in town. He dropped her off and went and left his baggage at his hotel. It was Friday. The Miner's Gala was the next day. He walked back to The County and met Ailsa at the door.
"It's not too bad at all really," she said.
"Lots about the North is better than you imagined then. Good. I'm glad you like it."
"Why do you care what I think?"
"I have a proprietorial feeling towards Durham because I lived here. I want you to like it. Let's go for a walk."
"We do lots of walking you and I. When we should be spying."
"Sometimes you can combine them both."
"I know Johnnie. I'm an old hand."
He led her into the town from the County Hotel over Elvet Bridge and then left up the narrow North Bailey with its high Georgian houses on either side, some with coats of arms and plaster fanwork above the doors. The Cathedral lay off on a road up and to the right, just below University College, a place he had once called a home of sorts. He led her round the winding outer street that marked the medieval boundary wall of the city.
"It's very pretty John. And quiet too. It's like something out of Trollope. Or Jude the Obscure."
They walked along past a small church to their right and then past a walled garden. A gardener stood taking a rest and drinking water from a plastic bottle. A greenhouse stood behind him full of tomato plants, lush and green and heavy with red fruit. It was hot.
"That must be a nice job," said John.
"A bit boring," said Ailsa. "You can do it when you retire."
"You'll let me?"
"Probably won't be anything to do with me."
They walked down through the large wooden gate in the high stone wall that led out of the South Bailey down through trees towards the river and Prebends Bridge. The sun was cutting through the trees. On the river below swans sailed majestically. A blonde woman jogged past carrying a shopping bag. They turned up and walked along the path just below the Cathedral walls and eventually back into the Bailey through Windy Gap.