by Sam Bourne
James decided that the man was extending a hand, that he wanted to be persuaded that James posed no threat. ‘Harbourmaster Hunter, I appreciate what this looks like. Downright odd for a man like me to behave this way. I spent all day travelling here from Oxford and I was, frankly, exhausted. I wanted to be first in the queue to-’
It wasn’t working. He could see that the man remained unmoved.
‘Forgive an intrusive question, but tell me, Harbourmaster, are you married?’
‘I am.’
‘Would I be right in assuming that, if one day, your wife and child were missing, but your wife sent you a note leading you to — I don’t know — let’s say, for the sake of argument, my office in Oxford; would I be right in assuming, in that situation, that you would camp outside my door until you found out where they were?’
A long suck on the pipe, then a cloud of smoke bearing the scent of childhood. Then: ‘Yes, you would be right, Dr Zennor.’ He paused, as if waiting for something more. On an instinct, James reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the postcard and handed it to Hunter.
The harbourmaster examined the picture on the front, then the postmark and finally the message, his eyes closing briefly — the modest gesture of a man acknowledging that he has just intruded into the private space of another. He put his pipe in the ashtray, bowl first, letting the ash tumble out, before standing up and announcing, ‘The ships’ manifests are kept in the log room next door.’
And so, a moment later, James was staring over Hunter’s shoulder as he pulled down the thick volumes containing records of recent traffic in and out of Liverpool. He went first, and deliberately it seemed to James, for a liner called Antonia.
‘ The Antonia,’ James said out loud. ‘Was that bound for Dublin?’
Hunter ignored the question, instead running his finger down the list of names, heading straight for the end of the list. Nothing under Z. He searched again, his finger moving more slowly. Still nothing. Now he checked other traffic, working his way through the passenger vessel manifests before turning to cargo ships, examining the crew lists. They found a Zander, but no Zennor.
It was, James thought, with genuine disappointment that Hunter finally shook his hand and ushered him from the office. ‘I wish you the best of luck, Dr Zennor,’ he said, adding with an extra squeeze of the hand, ‘and well done on fighting in Spain, sir. That was a good cause if ever there was one.’
As James walked away, struggling to repress a sense of defeat, he took another look at the postcard. The picture of the Sagrada Familia: was that purely sentimental, a reminder of happier times, a reminder of why they were together? Or had Florence been trying to tell him something more specific? Was there some clue contained there that he was missing? He looked again at the postmark — Liverpool — and the message: I love you.
He remembered the first letter he had ever had from her. It was after he had seen that press clipping, the one that revealed the ingenious truth about her participation in the Berlin Games. He had written to her, to apologize, of course, but also to express his fierce admiration for the stance she had taken. He was taking his own stand, he explained, fighting the barbarism that spoke in a Castilian, rather than a Bavarian, accent. (He was showing off.) He was fighting for the people who had hosted them so warmly in Barcelona. But the war would not last forever. And when he came back to England, he would very much like to see her again. He had not been sure how to sign off. He had not wanted to seem too infatuated, as if misreading the importance of their week together. Perhaps, for her, it was no more than a holiday romance. In the business of love, for all her freshness, young Florence Walsingham had been no ingenue. So he had opted for ‘Yours’. Capable of two readings, it could simply be the formal, conventional ‘yours’ but surely it could also carry a sense of ‘I am yours,’ as in Walsingham.
James turned around and sprinted back to the office. He burst through the doors, ignoring the shocked expressions of the clerks, and demanded to see Mr Hunter right away. When one official asked him to take a seat and wait his turn, James just spoke right over him until, hearing the commotion, the harbourmaster reappeared.
‘What is it?’
‘Her maiden name. I didn’t try her maiden name,’ James panted, attempting a smile to cover the embarrassment at his own stupidity. ‘Will you check the manifests again? For Florence Walsingham.’
Once again Hunter opened first the record for Antonia, running his finger along the names until he stopped and turned to James. ‘I thought as much. There, you can see for yourself.’
James stepped forward, finding the spot where in a clerk’s Victorian hand it stated simply, ‘Walsingham, Florence. F. Age, 25.’ Next to it was an entry for ‘Walsingham, Harry. M (minor). Age, 2 yrs 10 mths.’
His blood cannoning through his veins, James looked at the harbourmaster. ‘Where is this ship going?’
‘Canada.’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘The ship is sailing to Canada, sir.’
‘Canada? But that-’ His voice gave way, unable to push through his own incredulity. Canada? That was half a world away. Why on earth would Florence go there, why would she take Harry so far from his own father? Ireland would have been bad enough, but at least it was just a ferry ride away. Canada: she might as well have decided to live on another planet.
He forced his voice to speak, emitting a croak that implored the harbourmaster. ‘When do they leave?’
‘I’m afraid you’re too late, Dr Zennor. The Antonia set sail yesterday morning.’
Chapter Ten
London, later that same day
He checked himself in the mirror and was pleased with what he saw. He had never worn ‘white tie’ before and feared he would look like a two-bit Fred Astaire, but he found the whole get-up flattered him immensely. Back home no one outside Hollywood ever dressed like this, but these Brits knew what they were doing. Any man who wasn’t a cripple could look suave and dashing wearing tails.
He looked again at his invitation, printed on a card so stiff you could use it as a drinks tray. Dinner at the Russian Tea Room in South Kensington, 7.30 pm for 8 pm. And there was his own name, rendered in fancy, curly script, as if he were a regular earl or viscount.
Of course the invitation omitted the crucial information, about the host. Sure, there was a name of an individual, but that didn’t reveal the full picture. Keeping it vague was smart, given the nature of the gathering. And also exciting.
He checked his shoes: clean without being mirror-clean. One thing he was beginning to understand about these Brits: no time for those who tried too hard. ‘Amateur’ was an insult back home in the States, but here it was a compliment. An English gentleman gave the appearance that he regarded everything as a game. Anyone who was in earnest was automatically a bore.
Why, he asked himself again, had they invited him? The obvious answer was Anna. She had made him her… what was he exactly? An escort, a protege, a plaything? If that last was it, then he did not object. It was a privilege to be toyed with by such a woman. She was at least ten years older than him, far from beautiful, her features uneven, her nose positively crooked. But she was sexy. Her manner oozed sin and smoke. She made even the most mundane task a seduction; the way her fingers caressed the length of her cigarette-holder when lighting up, why, he had to look away. She would glance up, notice his embarrassment and rock her head back with lascivious laughter, showing her throat, her lips parted. The dresses she wore, the way the satin moved around her hips and ass, the cloud of perfume that hovered over her, carrying the whiff of afternoon sex…
So Anna was the obvious explanation. She would only have had to mention his name to her husband and that would have been enough. It wouldn’t be like that back home in the States of course. No husband could tolerate such behaviour in a wife, it would be too humiliating: most would give her a good beating. And the way she conducted herself in public, they would be quite within their rights. But this, Taylor Hastings
was coming to realize, nine months to the day after he had arrived in London, was not the States. This was Europe. Different, more decadent standards applied.
Here it was quite possible to believe an adulterous wife would introduce her cuckolded husband to her lover and that, far from punishing the affair, the husband would regard the association as a recommendation. ‘Come on in, Taylor, old boy. I hear you’re engaged in bit of hanky-panky with my better half. Well, good for you, old chap. Only a thoroughly good egg would do that.’ Nine months in and he hoped he was getting the hang of how these guys spoke. The old lingo.
He stepped beyond the porch and into Cadogan Square. Still light, there was the smell of summer rain. Only a July shower, it had left the city smelling fresh rather than damp, as if it had been cleansed. He hailed a cab and asked for Fifty Harrington Road, Kensington, his voice further betraying his good mood.
‘What you got to be so cheerful about?’ the driver asked. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
Hastings mumbled something, the sound rather than the words doing the work of apology. The last thing he wanted was to get drawn into a mindless conversation with some British prole. He wanted to stay with this train of thought. He was enjoying the ride.
His dalliance with Anna — or, rather, her dalliance with him — only went so far as an explanation for tonight’s invitation. He knew the summons had not come solely on account of his sparkling dinner table wit and the quality of his conversation over brandy. (Less comfortably, he knew that Anna’s interest in him did not solely draw on the appeal of a former college football player in his twenties whose physique represented hard granite to her husband’s wrinkled prune.) He was young, no denying that. But he was not naive. He knew that he was expected at the Russian Tea Room because of his job.
Or rather his place of work. He had not yet confided the details of his duties to this circle, though he half-feared he had given Anna enough clues over the course of four months of pillow talk for her to have worked it out. Half-feared and half-hoped. The desire to impress her, especially when he knew that his reward might be some new and previously unimaginable delight in bed, was too hard to resist. Anyway she had sworn she would say nothing to her husband. ‘My lips are sealed,’ she had said, licking them as she said it, then rolling over as if to offer herself up to him.
Could he believe her? Did it matter? He stepped out of the taxi, the door held open for him by a doorman, successfully avoiding the small puddle that had collected just in front of the sidewalk, and swept inside, his head up and his shoulders back, handing his hat and coat to the second man inside. He announced the name of his host with pleasure, gratified by the nod of recognition the name prompted. He let himself be led up the staircase, noting the portraits of assorted Russian aristocrats, most of whom he guessed had lost their heads to the Bolsheviks, then followed as the butler turned and headed down one thickly-carpeted corridor and through a heavy door.
On the other side stood what he estimated were two dozen gentlemen dressed, as he was, in white tie, around a table laden with silver, china and crystal, apparently set for a feast. He wondered what his censorious cab driver would make of this little scene, where there was not a ration book in sight. Don’t you know there’s a war on?
He checked his watch, worried that he had arrived too late. But his host, standing at the head of the table moved fast to dispel any anxiety. ‘Ah, Hastings, perfect timing. We’re just about to drink a toast. Come on someone, give the man a glass! That’s it. All right then.’ He raised his flute of champagne, so that it caught the light from the candles and even the glow of his white hair. ‘To the Right Club!’
The other twenty-odd men, each standing behind his chair at the table, echoed the words back, full and hearty. None heartier or more enthusiastic than the young American in their midst who felt the uniquely delicious joy of the man who had arrived. He could hear his own voice in among the chorus as he too chanted, ‘To the Right Club!’
Chapter Eleven
James must have visibly weakened, perhaps he had even stumbled backwards, because the next thing he could remember was watching the steam rise from a thick mug of sweet tea, placed on the near side of the harbourmaster’s desk before him. He could not remember when it had appeared or who had asked for it.
Canada. What sense did that make? Leaving him was one thing, but to head to the other side of the world? Why would Florence do such a thing? Had living with him really become that unbearable?
Meanwhile, he could hear Hunter speaking. The man seemed to be answering a question James could not remember asking. There were knots and nautical miles in the sentences that were coming from the official’s mouth; put together, he seemed to be explaining why it was impossible for James to catch up with Florence’s ship and join her on board. Had he really asked such a question? He needed to pull himself together.
He looked at the tea in front of him. That was the way they always ended their long walks, his parents and their fellow Quaker friends. Through the New Forest or perhaps taking the chain ferry over to the Isle of Purbeck, wherever they had gone, the day would always conclude the same way. Hot cup of tea in his parents’ front room, heavily sweetened by his mother: a reward for their exertions. Somehow he guessed Rosemary Hyde allowed no such indulgences to her walking women; they needed to be lean, fit and strong if they were to lead the proletariat to the Marxist utopia or some such rubbish. No sweet tea for them.
The harbourmaster was watching him, a look that combined concern and fear, a look that said this man in my office could be capable of anything. James decided it was time to get out. He spoke with a clarity that surprised even himself. ‘Mr Hunter, I need to make an urgent telephone call in the light of the information you have so kindly given me. To Oxford. I wonder if I could use your-’
‘That’s a trunk call.’
‘It is, I’m afraid. But I will be brief, I assure you.’
The harbourmaster took a hard look at James, as if he were worried that he had taken in some kind of lunatic. In a bid to reassure him, James added that the man he needed to telephone was the master of his Oxford college. And so, after a convoluted conversation with a telephone operator and multiple clunks and clicks, he heard his own voice meet down a crackling line with that of Bernard Grey, scholar, broadcaster and guiding sage of the British intellectual left. James pictured him as he had glimpsed him just before he sped away from Oxford, in the muddy green uniform of a commanding officer of the Local Defence Volunteers, the cloth as thick as carpet. The image still struck him as ludicrous.
‘Professor Grey, it’s Dr Zennor.’
‘James, you sound terrible. Where in God’s name are you?’
‘I’m in Liverpool.’
There was a hesitation, followed by, ‘Ah. I see.’
‘I’m here because Florence has taken our son Harry on a ship bound-’ He stopped himself. ‘What do you mean, “I see”?’
‘You followed Florence to Liverpool. Did you see the ship off?’
‘No, I missed it by twenty-four hours. I don’t understand. How do you know about the ship?’
‘Are you all right, James? You sound distressed.’
The calm, consoling voice had precisely the reverse of its intended effect; James felt his initial politeness congealing into cold anger. ‘Yes, I am distressed rather. My wife has fled thousands of miles away from me and taken my child with her. And while this has come as an enormous shock to me you seem already to be in the picture. So in fact “distressed” barely begins to cover it, Professor Grey.’
‘James, I think you had better return to Oxford where we can discuss all this in person. In my lodgings. You could dine afterwards at high table. We are to be joined tonight by William Beveridge. Do you know his work? Excellent ideas on the appropriate allocation of citizen rights to those with what he calls “general defects”. Unsentimental fellow and the detail is a bit wobbly but-’
‘I have no intention of returning to Oxford, Master. I want
to find my wife and my child and I now know they are nowhere near Oxford.’ He seized on the mental recording he had made and which was now playing back in his mind. ‘And what do you mean, “all this”?’
‘I’m sorry James, I’m afraid you’re not making much sense.’
‘You said “all this”. We can discuss all this. What did you mean by that?’
‘Oh I see. You don’t know.’
‘Know what?’ On hearing a moment’s silence, James repeated the question, shouting it this time. ‘I don’t bloody know what?’ Through the glass of the harbourmaster’s office door he could see secretaries’ heads turning and staring. For all his efforts, he was once again the crazy man who had been found sleeping rough.
Eventually Bernard Grey began speaking, his voice low and regretful, as if he had been forced into saying something he had hoped to avoid. ‘I sincerely thought someone would have informed you of this by now. At least Virginia if no one else.’
‘Master.’
‘Your wife and child are on a ship together with twenty-five Oxford mothers and approximately one hundred and twenty-five children. They are on their way to Yale College, which has graciously offered them a place of refuge during the war.’
‘Yale? In America? But she’s going to Canada.’
‘Canada is a stopping-off point. I believe they are to be accommodated at the Royal Victoria College in Montreal for a few days, before travelling by rail to New Haven in the United States.’
‘Yale,’ James repeated, uselessly. ‘In America.’ Whatever the precise geography, this seemed so much more remote. Canada at least was a dominion of the British Empire, under the same King and fighting the same war. But the United States? For the first time, he wondered if he would ever see his wife and child again.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on this moment and on the words he had just heard, ‘How long have you known about this?’