The Diplomat's Wife

by Ridpath, Michael

  ‘He and Freddie seemed very taken with the Soviet system, as I told you, and Kay certainly was. We went to Leningrad and Moscow and then Kiev and Kazan. We saw the Hermitage and the Kremlin and we visited tractor factories and collective farms. It’s true that there isn’t a class system as far as we could tell, and the workers run things not the capitalists, and they are building all kinds of wonderful projects, and the people seem dedicated to making their country work. But we weren’t allowed to talk to anyone, or rather they were too scared to talk to us. The trains were terrible – I remember a nightmare journey to Kiev that took forever with no food or water. Life is tough and people are seriously poor, poorer even than the mining village at home, and that’s saying something. In Kiev they were literally starving, dying in the street.

  ‘Of course, Freddie and Hugh said it was because the economy had been broken under Tsarism, and it would inevitably take a while to sort it out. That may be true. But essentially they claimed that everything they didn’t like was a result of the Tsars, and everything they did like was a result of the new communist world order.

  ‘The thing is, it isn’t a free country.’ Dick grinned. ‘I remember Freddie leaping off the boat in Leningrad shouting “Free at last!” and tripping over a notice in Russian saying “Keep off the grass”. He was probably drunk.’

  I laughed. ‘But you changed Hugh’s mind?’

  ‘My history tutor at Cambridge was originally from the Ukraine. He told me that there was a famine in the Ukraine that the government wasn’t admitting to. He said the secret police was at least as bad as under the Tsars, and that the country was just a giant prison.’

  ‘He must be a counter-revolutionary, then,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what Hugh said. At first. But I introduced them and I think he may have convinced Hugh.’

  I frowned. ‘This history don sounds to me like a Russian bourgeois who can’t bear the people taking his property and giving it to the workers.’

  Dick was taken aback. I don’t think he quite realized how closely I followed Hugh’s beliefs.

  ‘Emma. Don’t be hard on Hugh for changing his mind. He was a good man, probably the best man I know. Or knew. He was always concerned about the poor in our society, the people who have nothing.’

  ‘Then why did he want to become a diplomat?’ I protested.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘It’s about as bourgeois as they come. Eating and drinking in the pursuit of monopoly profits for an imperialist country.’

  Dick raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that what your husband does?’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘And it makes me sick sometimes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Dick,’ I said, afraid I had gone too far. ‘I am a hypocrite, I know it. At least you have lived in a mining town and tried to help the people there. I just read books and have servants wait on me. I hate myself for it. And sometimes I hate Hugh for it.’

  I felt my eyes sting with tears. I didn’t cry often. When I did, it usually had something to do with Hugh or his memory.

  Dick put down his cup. ‘I must be going. It was lovely to see you again, Emma.’

  ‘Oh, Dick. I am sorry. I’ve scared you off! As you can see, I am still upset about Hugh and it affects me in silly ways. But I did enjoy talking to you. Can I see you again?’

  Dick smiled, what seemed to me a genuine smile, although I’m not always very good at telling. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  ‘Tell you what. There is a gruesome cocktail party at the embassy tomorrow night in honour of a whisky distillers’ delegation from Scotland or something. We’re trying to get the French to drink more whisky. Can you come? They always want people to make up the numbers.’

  ‘When you put it like that, how can I refuse?’

  Twelve

  The room was heaving. I should have anticipated that a delegation of whisky distillers would be more popular than the screw manufacturers from Birmingham who had visited the embassy the week before.

  Roland was working hard introducing Scotsmen to French politicians and wine merchants. I was sipping malt whisky with Dick and Cyril. And coughing.

  ‘You must remember never to put ice in a good malt,’ Dick said. ‘And no soda either. Just a drop of water.’

  ‘This is good stuff,’ said Cyril, who seemed to have taken to Dick. Cyril was so slim he was almost emaciated, his body long and concave, but in a room full of elegant men, Cyril was one of the most elegant.

  ‘Ah, there is the Vicomte de Montfaucon. I must introduce him to Mackenzie. I know the vicomte likes his Scotch.’

  Cyril left us to attend to his duties.

  ‘You know what we were saying about Freddie,’ said Dick, nodding after Cyril’s retreating figure.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Really! How can you tell?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling. I may be wrong, of course.’

  ‘I never would have guessed. I have always thought Cyril was quite good-looking.’

  ‘So does the vicomte,’ said Dick. It was true: the middle-aged elegant Frenchman was touching the sleeve of the young elegant Englishman. They did seem quite taken with each other.

  ‘Good evening, Emma.’ A small trim man with a small trim moustache took my hand, bowed over it and clicked his heels.

  ‘Kurt! How nice to see you! How did you get in here?’ I spoke in German.

  ‘I am the second secretary at the German Embassy with special responsibility for whisky,’ the man said with a smile.

  I introduced the German diplomat, whose name was Kurt Lohmüller, to Dick. ‘Kurt, do you think Cyril Ashcott is a homosexual?’ I switched to English for Dick’s benefit.

  Kurt raised his mobile eyebrows. His face was intensely mobile, unlike his body, which retained a Germanic stiffness. I liked him.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said.

  ‘Dick here thinks he is.’

  Dick blushed rather sweetly, pinkness appearing on his cheeks and reddening his neck. ‘I was merely speculating, Emma.’

  Kurt looked over the room to where Cyril and the vicomte were deep in conversation. ‘I hadn’t thought of it, but Dick may be right.’

  ‘It’s very clever of him. Mind you, I can spot communists in the same way,’ I said. ‘Like you, for example, Kurt.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Kurt with mock shock.

  ‘Don’t deny it. I’ve spoken to you enough about politics.’ That was indeed the reason Kurt and I were friends. We would seek each other out at the end of diplomatic functions, when we were both a little tipsy and Kurt’s diplomatic duties – such as they were – had been discharged. I would explain my ideas about politics, and Kurt would listen with a mixture of amusement at my naivety and interest at what he said were my original opinions.

  I liked the attention.

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Loxton, I am not a communist,’ Kurt said to Dick. ‘I admit Emma and I have discussed Soviet politics at length. Before Paris, I was stationed in Moscow.’

  ‘Bosh,’ I said.

  ‘I have no idea what “Bosh” means. I assume something like “Absolutely, Herr Lohmüller”?’

  ‘Double bosh.’

  ‘Unless you mean “Boche” and are accusing me of being German?’

  ‘You know jolly well what I mean.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Loxton, I am a good National Socialist,’ Kurt said.

  ‘More bosh.’

  ‘It’s true! I have just joined the party.’

  This brought me up short. ‘Oh, no. Really?’

  ‘I have to. We diplomats were exempted for a while, but now we all have to become members.’

  ‘But what about your principles, Kurt?’

  ‘My principles are clear. I serve my country. Just like your husband.’

  ‘I say, Emma, isn’t that your ma?’

  Dick nodded behind me, and I turned.

  ‘Emma, darling! I just bumped into Roland and he told me you were here.
’

  ‘And you were invited?’

  ‘I came with Antoine Meyronne.’

  He was the new agriculture minister, I remembered, a man whose thick moustache rivalled Clémenceau’s. I made sure to memorize all the French ministers as they came and went, which they did with bewildering speed. France had already held two elections that year, and it was only May.

  ‘I had no idea you were coming to Paris.’ But I had to admit it wasn’t much of a surprise. She almost never warned me of her arrival.

  ‘I have a fitting tomorrow. But perhaps you could join me for luncheon afterwards. At the Ritz?’ Then she turned to Dick. ‘Aren’t you Hugh’s friend, Dick? How nice to see you!’

  ‘I am, Lady Chaddington.’

  My mother charmed Dick and also Kurt. Dick treated her like his best friend’s mother. Kurt showed a different kind of interest. At forty-five, my mother was still an attractive woman. She wore her hair short and curled; her nose was tiny but pointed and seemed to be constantly sniffing out titbits. She was tall and slim; good clothes looked magnificent on her. Although her milky-white complexion was etched with tiny, barely visible lines, it still seemed fresh.

  Frankly, it was hard to tell we were related.

  I felt a flash of jealousy at Kurt’s interest, and a touch of anger that no one mentioned Hugh’s name, after Mama’s initial identification of Dick.

  I interrupted my mother in mid-sentence as she was discussing a trip to Lake Annecy Kurt was planning to take the following month.

  ‘Did Hugh like whisky, Dick?’

  Mama glared at me, whether it was for my rudeness or for the reminder of my brother and her son, I didn’t know and didn’t care. As Dick answered me, my mother floated off to find her minister.

  Thirteen

  ‘Are you related to the portrait painter?’

  Colonel Vivian seemed nonplussed by my question. We were in one of the smallest rooms in the Chancery building. Roland had asked me to meet ‘two fellows over from London’. Why, I had no idea.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Vivian, looking at me suspiciously through his monocle. He wore a toothbrush moustache. I distrusted toothbrush moustaches. He was accompanied by a much younger colleague, Kenneth Heaton-Smith, who was clean-shaven, alert and rather good-looking.

  ‘Comley Vivian?’ I persisted. ‘I’m not too keen on his portraits, but I once saw a very good painting of a Venetian palazzo by him.’

  I realized I had said the wrong thing. I really needed to up my game, especially amongst embassy people, if I was going to avoid embarrassing Roland. I should probably have talked about the weather. ‘It’s a bit hot today,’ I added.

  Vivian frowned, and then decided to ignore my babble. ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Mrs Meeke,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to you about a somewhat sensitive issue. When you hear what I have to say, you will understand that you mustn’t repeat any of it to anyone.’

  ‘Not even Roland?’

  Vivian hesitated. ‘Not even your husband. The less discussion there is on this matter within the embassy, the better. Although it was your husband who suggested I speak to you.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ve come from London to follow up on indications that sensitive information has been leaked to a foreign power from here in the Paris embassy.’

  My mind raced. The foreign power must be Russia! They knew about Hugh. They thought I was a spy.

  ‘I see,’ I said, trying and possibly succeeding to keep my tone neutral.

  ‘Naturally we have been interviewing the staff here, but your husband suggested that we speak to you. He said you had particularly strong powers of observation.’ Colonel Vivian permitted himself a smile. ‘I must say I liked my father’s Venetian paintings too.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. It sounded as if I was not to be accused of anything. And neither was Hugh.

  ‘So, have you noticed anything?’

  I hesitated. ‘It would help if you could tell me to which foreign power you are referring.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Germany.’

  ‘Ah.’ My mind darted around the embassy, its diplomatic staff, the other wives, the domestic staff. ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. A thought occurred to me. Perhaps I was under suspicion after all. I decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘I am rather good friends with one of the diplomats from the German embassy in Paris. Herr Lohmüller. I’ve always had the impression that he wasn’t frightfully keen on the Nazis.’

  ‘Yes, we know that,’ said Vivian.

  ‘Is there anything I could say to him?’ I asked. ‘Obviously nothing directly. But some stratagem?’ My brain raced. ‘I don’t know, perhaps you could plant some false information that only certain people may have seen, and I could check whether Kurt knew it?’

  Vivian smiled. ‘I like the way you think, Mrs Meeke. But please don’t mention any of this to him. For now. But if we do come up with a . . . stratagem, we will bear you in mind. I’m confident we will find the leak. In the meantime, if you do think of something, do let Mr Heaton-Smith or me know. Mr Heaton-Smith will see you out.’

  And he did. As we emerged from the old stable block and into the semi-circular courtyard, Heaton-Smith chuckled. ‘Nice job, Mrs Meeke. It’s rare for people to put Vee-Vee on the back foot like that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Here’s my card,’ he said. ‘If you need to get in touch with me back in London. Although I will be based at the embassy here in Paris for the next few days.’

  We stopped in the courtyard, and Heaton-Smith looked straight at me. ‘You thought the “foreign power” was Russia, didn’t you?’

  I almost answered ‘yes’ immediately, but then I hesitated. Was this attractive young man getting me to lower my guard? About Hugh? About my own communist leanings?

  At that moment I saw a figure I recognized emerge from the main embassy building.

  ‘Freddie!’ I called.

  It was indeed Freddie Pelham-Walsh, looking very dapper, his pink silk handkerchief matching his pink silk tie.

  ‘Emma, my dear!’ He grinned widely. ‘I was rather hoping I might bump into you here.’

  I turned to introduce Freddie to Heaton-Smith, but the spy, or counter-spy, or whatever he was, had beaten a retreat back to the Chancery building.

  ‘I had no idea I would bump into you!’ I said. ‘What are you doing in Paris?’

  ‘Oh, a bit of work, you know. But actually just now I was visiting Lady Clerk. She is an absolute scream. Do you know, she offered to cure my backache? How did she even know I had backache?’

  ‘I think she has faith or something,’ I said.

  ‘Her painting is much better than I expected. Some of it I would rate as highly as mediocre.’

  ‘Such a generous critic, Freddie.’

  ‘Always. Mind you, there was one rather lovely nude. I asked her who the model was, but she wouldn’t say.’

  I could feel my face burning. Suddenly the enormity of my idiocy at allowing myself to be painted naked became very clear to me. Why had I done it? Sometimes I was just very very stupid. As was Lady Clerk.

  Freddie grinned. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I am quite sure most people won’t notice. I have an eye for these things. What are you doing now? Do you have time for a little something?’

  So we found a café on the Faubourg, I had a cup of coffee, Freddie took a glass of cognac – even though it was barely eleven o’clock – and he prattled on. I enjoyed listening to him. Partly because I needed a link to Hugh at that moment, partly because he was amusing company.

  He was in Paris visiting the offices of an international communist student organization I had vaguely heard of. Some friends in London had recommended he drop in on Lady Clerk, and he was hoping to meet some more fashionable ‘indigenous artists’, as he called them, while he was in Paris. He asked me whether I knew Gertrude Stein, the American critic, and I admitted I had met her a couple of times, although she probably wouldn’t remember who I was. We didn
’t talk politics, at least not then. I was wary after my conversation with Colonel Vivian. I did tell him that Dick was in Paris, something he didn’t know, and gave him Dick’s address on the Île Saint-Louis.

  But as I walked home over the Pont de la Concorde, I couldn’t help thinking about my conversation with Colonel Vivian. Someone had been giving ‘sensitive information’ to the Germans.

  Who?

  Fourteen

  June 1979, Paris

  * * *

  Emma and Phil spent the afternoon sightseeing. They started with the Jeu de Paume, a short walk from the British Embassy. It was a couple of years since Phil had visited an art gallery – the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square – and he was amazed by the paintings. He vaguely remembered seeing a couple of impressionist paintings in the National, but he was sixteen at the time, and not that interested.

  He must have changed in the last couple of years. Seeing so many fantastic pictures by Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, Cézanne and all the others overwhelmed him. Emma was amused by his reaction. They spent two and a half hours there. Afterwards, they walked through the gardens of the Tuileries and examined the queue for the Louvre, deciding to leave it for another day. But then Emma took him to an amazing church on a nearby island in the Seine, whose soaring interior was lit up by sunshine streaming through stained-glass windows. Once again, Phil was overwhelmed by the beauty of it.

  His parents had traipsed around Wells Cathedral with him the previous summer. Was that as beautiful? Or had he simply not noticed?

  Phil felt as if his eyes had been opened, as if for the first time he had been allowed to see all that stuff he had found boring as a child, but as an adult he would appreciate. The idea was exciting. Beyond Paris stretched a whole continent of these pleasures, which had been tantalizingly outlined in the pages of the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide that he had pored over so thoroughly.