few years, but they were, and in his next message he proposed a meeting to discuss an unspecified matter that might interest me, suggesting lunch at any hotel I could recommend for his stay.
I doubted whether I could really be very much use to him, as the papers had been essentially a theoretical exercise based on others’ practical experience rather than my own. However, those others were probably no longer around, a free lunch seldom goes amiss, and in any case I was intrigued, so I was quite happy to make an arrangement for the following month.
Grigoriev was of course much older than I remembered him, and rather stouter, but still as agreeable as before. He introduced a woman in perhaps her mid-thirties as his daughter Svetlana, acting as his chauffeur since after a recent cataract operation he was not yet fit to drive himself. She seemed rather subdued, and later he privately told me that a few months earlier she had lost a good husband to cancer and his real purpose in bringing her along rather than his regular driver was in the hope of taking her mind off it as far as possible. I doubt whether that particular conversation helped her very much, but the general idea was good.
When we got down to brass tacks after the meal, it emerged that Grigoriev was a partner in a private company in the energy sector, looking for ways to expand, and had noticed a widespread revival of interest in thorium after a long period when it had fallen below the horizon. In particular he had read about a novel kind of fuel, based on thorium, proposed by one Walter Gruneberg, but although trials at the Kurchatov Institute were mentioned, nothing seemed to be emerging from them. His work evidently had a similar context to mine; did I know anything about the project?
As it happened, I did. I had got to know Gruneberg fairly well during the 1990s, although by then he was very old, probably little more than a figurehead for his organisation, and my main contact was his chief assistant with whom over the years I came to a good understanding. I can get on comfortably with most people, but Gruneberg himself (to adapt a comment in a play I once saw) was not just a first-class pain in the neck, he was Olympic standard. At every opportunity he would insist that if we carried on as we were doing, disaster was inevitable. It was like Cato’s “Carthago delenda est.” I admired his ingenuity, but he strained my patience to the limit by buttonholing me whenever we met and, however many times I’d told him, demanding yet again why I wouldn’t support his pet idea.
“And why wouldn’t you?”
“Because his scheme would cost billions, it couldn’t really make much difference to his supposed disaster, and there was a serious question of whether it would work at all.”
“What sort of question? Something wrong with his calculations?”
“No, they were way beyond me. It was a straightforward mechanical problem. The scheme involved replacing conventional fuel elements with a composite type - a core with an outer blanket. Gruneberg’s whole idea depended on changing each core every few years, but after the distortion that occurs in a reactor, I didn’t think it could be done, at least not reliably enough to satisfy the operators. I imagine that’s why we’ve heard nothing from the Kurchatov.”
“But your papers don’t mention it.”
“No, I was working on a completely different kind of scheme. Not one I’d really recommend, as things are, but I’d been asked to work something out and if nothing else it provided an opportunity to inject a bit of common sense into other discussions. In any case it might be needed if supplies of uranium ran out. For various reasons thorium couldn’t be a direct substitute ...”
At that moment Grigoriev’s phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. He was gone for quite a time and I tried to make conversation with Svetlana. She had good English, very fortunately since my Russian doesn’t go much beyond transliteration, and it turned out that we had a common interest in music. Moreover, she was particularly keen on Borodin and Rachmaninov, among my own favourites.
Grigoriev eventually returned and, deeply embarrassed, asked if I would do him a very great favour. An emergency had arisen demanding his immediate attention, he might be away for up to a week and he couldn’t take Svetlana. She would stay on at the hotel, but he was anxious about leaving her alone in a strange environment, especially in her current state of depression; could I possibly keep an eye on her and provide some entertainment? All expenses paid, of course.
My commitments for that time were not too heavy and I was glad to oblige. Grigoriev, greatly relieved, explained that he was to be picked up by helicopter in an hour’s time, so Svetlana would have the use of his hire car and he urged her not to stint it. He then went to pack the necessities for his departure; Svetlana had seemed to offer help, evidently declined.
She was clearly too worried to pay much attention to me. From the little she said, I gathered that there was some danger involved in her father’s mission but it seemed best not to inquire further.
The arrival of the chopper caused quite a stir among the hotel staff, who had probably never seen one at such close quarters. Neither had I, for that matter. Grigoriev appeared with a suitcase and a smaller bag that he entrusted to his daughter. After a quick hug, he boarded and was gone.
I’d thought of suggesting a run to local beauty spots, but the sky darkened, a squall blew in from the sea and was followed by steady rain. The hills vanished under cloud, and I thought the best thing was to take Svetlana home and let her rummage through my collection of music recordings. Rachmaninov would be a bit heavy for the circumstances, but as she had mentioned Borodin, for a start while she made her own choice I put on the second quartet, easy listening but still classically respectable.
She seemed undecided, but said that she was unfamiliar with British music and would I suggest something? Since she evidently favoured the later romantics, I tried a bit of Elgar that she thought she might come to like on closer acquaintance. Some carefully-chosen Vaughan Williams was another possibility, Holst was borderline but Britten got a definite thumbs down: too modern, so I tried some of Finzi’s settings of Thomas Hardy; they suited her much better.
After absenting myself for a few minutes I returned to find her scanning my bookshelves. She explained that with worry over her father, she would probably have difficulty sleeping, and as she hadn’t thought to bring any substantial reading matter, could she borrow something to pass the night?
“What sort of something?”
“Serious enough to hold my attention, but not too demanding.”
I offered various possibilities and she settled on a Rumpole omnibus. After that it was time to return to her hotel, and I ran her back there. I was about to ask what time to meet her the next day when she said she had strict instructions from her father to give me dinner there.
I couldn’t resist asking if she always followed his instructions. “Not always to the letter,” she admitted with a hint of mischief that I thought showed encouraging signs of recovery from her gloom.
The next day started sunny, so I suggested a run round the western lakes. She was going to take the hire car, but I pointed out that she couldn’t appreciate the scenery as driver, I wasn’t going to risk driving an unfamiliar vehicle round some of the roads involved, and mine was probably better suited to them anyway. She saw the logic, but insisted on paying when I refuelled, and I had no objection.
It was Saturday, and in the evening she surprised me by saying that she would like to go to church the following day. I don’t really know why it was a surprise, as Russians have a reputation for being religious, but the possibility simply hadn’t occurred to me. So far as I knew there was no Orthodox church within striking distance, but she said the Orthodox and Anglican churches were in communion. Even better, if I was going to another she’d like to come with me, assuming that it would be acceptable.
I assured her she’d be very welcome, and in fact everyone made a great fuss of her. Later I got a fair amount of ribbing about it, and it was no use protesting that I was more than old enough to be her father, especially since not very long before an elderly neighbou
r had acquired an attractive young Spanish wife who within a year presented him with a son. But that’s by the way; the immediate outcome was a string of invitations long enough to fill her time for a fortnight.
In the event she could take up only a few. To her immense relief her father called the next evening to say he would return in the following afternoon. The reunion was very emotional. Grigoriev then thanked me effusively for looking after his daughter in a difficult situation, and I assured him quite truthfully that it had been a pleasure. He was too tired to talk business just then, but would be in touch. After collecting his remaining belongings from the hotel they made their farewells, with a hug from Svetlana that left me breathless.
The next few days felt rather empty.
A few weeks afterwards a bulky parcel arrived with a Moscow postmark. In the covering letter, Grigoriev explained that in view of my advice he had decided not to pursue his tentative interest in thorium, but in appreciation and especially in gratitude for my care of Svetlana he hoped I would accept the enclosed gift - a splendid and lavishly-illustrated book on treasures of the Kremlin. I certainly wasn’t going to send it back.
I thought that was the end of the matter. However, about a year later, a
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