An Unlikely Spy

by Rebecca Starford

  “What are you sniveling about? Show’s over, love. You needn’t pretend anymore.”

  * * *

  White had made a pot of strong black coffee. He poured a cup and steered it across the desk. Evelyn glanced blearily around his study. It had been tidied, and the shrew and his cage in the corner were gone. When her eyes strayed toward the window she could just make out the pebbles and brown mud of the riverbank, and for a moment she pictured herself standing above gray silky water, inhaling a breeze thick with brine.

  “So,” White said, lighting up a cigarette. “You did it.”

  Evelyn’s face felt bruised, like she had aged years in a single afternoon. She reached for her cup. “Yes, I did.”

  “And are you all right?”

  She bit down on her lip, not saying anything.

  White continued to stare at her, though something in his expression had softened. “These cases test us, Evelyn. They test our resolve and our loyalty. And you’ve come to know these women. You gained their trust. But you did the right thing. We did the right thing—we always do. They’re not good people, you must remember that. They are traitors.”

  Evelyn remained quiet as White peered at her, tapping ash into a saucer. “And nothing else happened during the arrests?” he probed.

  Evelyn felt her gaze glide again, seeking out the patch of white light in the cloudy sky. She knew she should mention that she thought she’d seen Julia across the street, but what was the point? Why drag her into all of this, and the Wesleys too?

  “Nothing else to report,” she replied. “It all went like clockwork.”

  “Good.” White leaned back in his chair. “The Ivanov woman has gone straight to Holloway. They’ll bring forward the trial, next month I’m told, and hold it in camera; these espionage cases are always tried in secret. The others—Randall and Tom Weston—they’ve also been charged with violating the Official Secrets Act, so prison is certain. Five years, I’d say. And you will need to provide testimony.”

  “But that means . . .”

  “Yes.” He watched the smoke drift toward the window and dissipate. “Your cover will be blown, I’m afraid. With these fascist groups, in any case—but we’ve a little more time up our sleeve before that. Most of the others arrested were released without charge, so no one should be suspicious if they find you out and about in the coming days.”

  “I see. And after the trial?”

  “You’ll go back to the Scrubs. John Chadwick is run off his feet in Transport and needs another girl.” White smiled sympathetically; it was not a natural expression for him. “This is just the way it is with counterintelligence, Evelyn. It’s not personal. You have done excellent work.”

  “Just not good enough to keep me here.” Evelyn’s throat grew thick, tears welling in her eyes. How could she not take it personally? She didn’t want to return to Wormwood Scrubs and that dreary little cell she had shared with Chadwick.

  “We may have you back again, in time, and as I said you’ll stay on until the trial . . .” Trailing off, White stood up and went to the window, staring out thoughtfully, one hand pushed deep into his pocket.

  “I’ve just come back from briefings at Whitehall. Chamberlain is worried these arrests will bring on a spill. I don’t imagine the old boy can hold on much longer.” His breath made a fog against the glass. “Still, we roll on. You’ll be happy to know I’ve got a new investigation for you in the meantime.”

  He pointed to a creased leaflet on top of a pile of papers on his desk. Evelyn picked it up and read the headline: End Manchester Capitalism! She had a quick read. There wasn’t much to it; the leaflet promoted collectivism and the German welfare state under Hitler, arguing that by declaring war on Germany the British government sought to keep its own poorest citizens in poverty. There was a small swastika in the top left corner.

  “We had a tip-off last week about someone distributing this propaganda at the Raven Inn over in Battersea,” said White. “Seems the publican is warehousing the leaflets in the keg room before letterboxing them around the neighborhood. As you can see it’s fairly low-grade, but it needs to be shut down. I’d like to know who is responsible for getting the stuff printed.”

  “All right,” said Evelyn. “How would you like me to run this?”

  “Bring Vincent along to the pub to start with. Pretend he’s your brother. Work on the surveillance together. Watch the regulars and the publican. No one needs to know much about either of you except you’ve recently lost your jobs and feel hard done by—it will endear you to the mark. You’re not political but you don’t mind old Adolf. You’ll assume a new name for this investigation, too. Evelyn Varley doesn’t patronize the Raven, but Bea Henry does.”

  Evelyn nodded. “And how do I get these men to talk?”

  White’s expression was harder now. “I’ll leave that for you to decide. I don’t think there’s much you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it. So wear something nice, won’t you, in the field? And some lipstick, some rouge. That hat you wore when we first met.”

  Evelyn gripped the corner of the desk, feeling color surge to her cheeks. Deep down she had been expecting this day; perhaps there had even been a hint of licentiousness during that first lunch at the Ritz. And now, after everything she had done, everything she had achieved, White expected her to put herself forward like a piece of meat. It was humiliating. All the same, she made herself smile. If she did a good job, perhaps he would reconsider her transfer back to the Scrubs.

  “Fine,” she said. “If I must.”

  White turned to the window again. “You’ll thank me for this, Evelyn, you really will. It’s best to keep yourself busy after an investigation like the Lion Society. You don’t want to go dwelling on the particulars—that way madness lies.”

  After he’d gone, Evelyn sat in the grim silence, the flat groaning with the push and pull of wind. She gazed toward the window, wondering what White had been looking at outside. A solitary light twinkled somewhere far off, but the rest of the city was black.

  * * *

  Later that night Evelyn stared at the watery shadows shifting against her bedroom wall, all the while alert to an instinct that the flat was being watched. She got out of bed a few times to press her nose to the window, but there was nothing to see on the street below, and she closed the blinds. Eventually she tiptoed downstairs to run herself a bath.

  When she returned to her bedroom, she changed into her flannel pajamas and wandered through to the sitting room. Fay was out again, but her door was ajar, giving Evelyn a glimpse of her cluttered dressing table and the corner of an unmade bed. She sat on the sofa and flicked through a few magazines, but her mind wouldn’t settle. The silence was like the slow drip of a tap. She switched on the wireless, turning up the volume as far as it would go, making the sound ricochet off the walls and shudder in her ears. For a while it drowned out her thoughts, but eventually she flicked it off and made her way back down the hallway to her bedroom.

  As she climbed into bed, her mind strayed to her parents, and she considered telephoning them in Lewes. If she told them the truth, there was a chance, however slim, that they might offer some words of understanding, of comfort even. They might even tell her to come home, that they would look after her, and how could she refuse an imperative like that? From downstairs, the telephone continued to beckon like a weak sonar signal. For that was how Evelyn had started to feel: cast out somewhere on a dark ocean, desperate for someone to find her.

  This time the tears came—great racking sobs, so loud she had to put a pillow over her face to smother them. Finally, having exhausted herself, she yanked the covers to her chin and closed her eyes. Her last thought was of that sliver of the Thames she could see glinting from her window at Chemley Court. She had read somewhere that parts of the river had frozen over in a recent blizzard, but she hadn’t believed it. As the slender weight of sleep tugged her down, Evelyn imagined herself sprawled across that thin sheet of ice, the soft cries of gulls suspende
d above the water, waiting to swoop when the surface cracked.

  March 1948

  Nineteen

  THE KNOCK AT Evelyn’s door woke her with a start. She sat up, shivering, her head full of the distorted fragments of a fitful dream—Nina forced into that black car; the shriek of Mrs. Ivanov from the restaurant doorway; the little boy with scabby knees standing across the road, watching it all. She had fallen asleep in the armchair in front of the fireplace and the flat was now cold and very dark. Outside the streets were quiet. When another knock sounded, this time more insistent, she threw back the blanket and went quietly to the door, pressing her ear to the wood.

  “Who is it?”

  There was no answer. If she screamed her landlord would hear; he lived in the flat beneath her. She could strike the floorboards, or make a terrific racket from the fire escape. That would surely wake the building. Maybe the young couple from next door would make an appearance on the landing, the menacing husband in his drawers, eager for a fight. She opened the door a fraction, peering into the gloom. She stood like that, her breath growing moist against the jamb, until a man’s face shifted into focus, the strong odor of whisky blasting through the gap between the chain and the lock.

  “Stephen?”

  He smiled crookedly. “Who did you think it would be—your War Office friend?”

  She undid the chain and he pushed his way inside, stomping toward the fireplace, where he stopped, swaying slightly. He was drunk, Evelyn realized. She had never seen Stephen like this before, and for some reason it frightened her more than anything else about the past few days.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said with a hiccup.

  Evelyn moved behind an armchair, her fingertips kneading the chenille back.

  “I fell asleep. You startled me.” She squinted at her wristwatch. It was after two. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  Stephen made a mess of removing his coat and tossed it on the ground. Evelyn stared at it, then looked back to him.

  “Did you get your work done?”

  “Yes, yes. Went to the club afterward. Had a few drinks with the chaps.”

  Stephen continued to stare at her, his eyes small. She’d always thought he had lovely eyes, hazel-colored, with neat freckles on his eyelids, but tonight they were blank and spiritless. He was angry, she could see that, but he was also struggling with another emotion. They had never strayed into this territory before, these murky waters of pain and confusion.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked, moving toward the stove. “A cup of tea?”

  “Got any whisky?”

  “No, just tea, I’m afraid.”

  She could feel him watching her as she brewed up a pot. She wished he wouldn’t—something about his glazed, wounded expression made her want to scream.

  “Look here, Stephen,” she said, returning to her seat in the armchair once she’d handed him the steaming mug, “I am sorry about the other night, really I am.”

  He shrugged. Again she thought how odd it was to see him like this; Evelyn had only ever known him to be calm, restrained. Now his fair hair was disheveled, some sweaty strands plastered to his forehead.

  “Won’t you sit down?” She pointed to the other chair. “Stephen?”

  He shook his head, his mouth a hard line. He looked around the flat as if he were searching for something, his eyes finally settling on Evelyn.

  “I’m not staying. I’m sorry it’s so late and that I gave you a fright, but I came over to tell you something.” He laughed raggedly. “Only now I’m here I don’t quite know how to say it.”

  Evelyn leaned back, her eyes throbbing. So it had come to this—this rupture. She had always known the day would arrive when Stephen announced he no longer cared to spend time with her. In many ways, she had been preparing herself for it from the moment they met. She thought about the way he had looked down on her that first afternoon in the gardens. He had sat beside her on that bench, they had got talking, and eventually he had offered Evelyn half of his sandwich. She had already eaten, but she had sensed a difference in this young man that made her accept it anyway; there was something expectant in his eyes, almost hopeful, as he passed over the paper bag. Later she had wondered what he had seen to make him look at her that way.

  “It’s fish paste,” he’d said as Evelyn bit into the bread. “I have it every day. That’s rations for you, I suppose. Do you like it?”

  “Mm, oh yes.” She managed a disgusting mouthful and smiled. “Thank you.”

  Stephen had watched her for another moment, then turned away with a chuckle, saying, “It’s all right. I won’t be offended by the truth.”

  Afterward he had asked for her number, and telephoned the flat the following evening. He wanted to buy her a drink. And though Evelyn had been out with men from time to time, she had felt something unprecedented toward Stephen as she hung up the receiver, something warm and unfurling. She carried this around with her in the days before they met again, unable to pinpoint the exact sensation he had elicited in her. But now she understood, as she stared at Stephen across the room, that it had been a kind of unmasking. That he was the first man since the war who had managed to guide her out, pale and bare, into the light.

  Evelyn cleared her throat. “Whatever you have to say, Stephen, just say it.” But her voice wasn’t steady, her hands trembled in her lap. She didn’t want him to say it; she wanted him to sit down and put his arm around her. But he was looking at her like she was wearing that mask again.

  He began pacing in front of the fireplace, his left leg dragging behind him. Eventually he folded both arms against the mantelpiece and stood there with his head bowed, still swaying as if he could hear music, until he snapped around to face her.

  “You know, Evelyn, for months I’ve wanted to take you to meet my parents in Bristol. To show you off. My mother is always asking about that clever girl from Lewes and will I ever bring her to visit . . . ? And I want to more than anything, but I’ve been so anxious about what this introduction would reveal to them—and to me. You see, I’ve come to realize that after all this time we’ve spent together I still really don’t know you.”

  Stephen’s expression had become entirely sober, his voice clear, as he moved toward the window, gaze fixed on the empty street below.

  “I know the small things, of course—where you like to go for dinner, what films you might enjoy—but you shut me out whenever I stray any closer. I’m not sure you know you’re doing it. It’s second nature, I think. But the hardest part of it all is that the more you pull away, the more I want you. I’ve never met anyone like you, Evelyn. A woman who gives me room to be myself. Someone I can talk to for hours—for days on end if I could—and still look forward to our next time together, for the possibility of it. Because I think that’s what I see in you that you can’t see in yourself: I can see the person you could be. You have such warmth just below the surface, yet it’s almost as if you’re afraid of it, because every time it reveals itself you seem to snatch it from me. And though I’ve tried to understand why you might do that, and have come up with a dozen reasons, none of them change the fact that it hurts to be treated in this way. To have never had”—here his voice wavered—“your trust.”

  Finally he turned back to her. His face was drawn, as if some grief had arrived in his life unannounced. He was a good man. Evelyn had always known that, but she had somehow managed to push this understanding to one side, and now her heart was actually aching. A good, kind man—someone she had grown to care for deeply, perhaps even love. They could have a life together. They could be happy. But this goodness was where it had gone wrong for them, she realized. Stephen had no secrets from her; his past held no mystery. He was an open person—no guile, no artifice. How had they come together in the first place? It was nothing short of miraculous!

  Stephen was shaking his head, still regarding her with incredulity. “I just wish I could understand what has made you this way.”

  �
��What way?” she said tiredly.

  “So . . . cold.”

  And then, astonishingly, he began to cry. It was a dreadful sight, his face transforming into a blotchy mess. Evelyn watched for a while and, unable to comfort him, she began to wonder if there was indeed something wrong with her.

  “I only want to know you,” he wept.

  “Stephen—”

  “You know all about me.” His breathing began to slow, his face wan again as he wiped his eyes. “Where I grew up. Where I went to school. My first girlfriend’s name . . . And you also know the larger things. The fears, the nightmares.” He pointed to his foot. “I watched my friends die in France, I washed their blood from my own skin. I’ve spoken to you about that terrible time, and it has been a comfort, Evelyn, to share that part of myself.”

  “But you know things about me too.”

  “I know the facts. Some facts. For goodness’ sake, I don’t even know what you really did in the war! But most of all I don’t know what’s going on inside your head.” He tapped his chest. “Or what’s going on in your heart.”

  Evelyn looked away. She had never heard him talk like this. Part of her felt light at his words, but she was fighting against her own instincts, even as she sensed herself being towed along by a current toward a monstrous whirlpool.

  “No one ever knows what goes on in another person’s head, let alone their heart.”

  It came out more coolly than she intended, and Stephen stared at her with red eyes.

  “You don’t think that.”

  “But I do.”

  “Why?” Stephen stepped closer. “Tell me why. You needn’t be afraid of me.”

  Evelyn looked over her shoulder to the door. The latch was down, the bolt fixed. If I were to disappear, she thought, the world would continue just as it always has. Nothing would change. I would have never made an imprint. I would never be remembered. But she also knew if she kept living like this she would disappear anyway. Dwindle, reduce, evaporate. She could already feel herself diminishing. It had been gradual, wearing her away like the sea against rock. She was exhausted, and it was tempting to simply give in. But give in to what? Didn’t she deserve some happiness? Didn’t she deserve this man? Stephen was still crying, and Evelyn slumped forward, a low sound escaping from somewhere inside her. She slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified, but she couldn’t stop it. Stephen stared, his face shiny and distorted.