Dominion

Chapter Six

THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY David left for work at eight as usual, walking up the street to Kenton Station in his bowler, black jacket and pinstripe trousers. Opposite the house was a little park, no more than a small lawned area with flowerbeds; at the far end there still stood one of the square concrete shelters that had been built in 1939 in anticipation of the air raids that never came, squat and ugly and abandoned now. Children went in there to smoke sometimes; there had been a petition to the Council. He nodded to neighbours, other men dressed in similar uniform, also heading for the station. The weather was bright and clear, cold for mid-November. His breath formed a cloud in front of him, like the exhaust of an old Austin Seven sputtering by.

The tube was crowded, the air thick with cigarette smoke. Hanging on to the strap he read The Times. There was a bold headline: ‘Beaverbrook and Butler fly to Berlin today for economic talks’. That was sudden – there had been nothing on the news last night. ‘Optimism on new German trade links’, the article continued. He wondered what the Germans would want in return.

Victoria Station was heaving, thousands of commuters walking through the great vestibule, steam and smoke from the trains belching up to the high ceiling. A group of grey-uniformed German soldiers stood by a platform gate, probably on their way to the base on the Isle of Wight. They were very young, laughing and joking. They had probably been on leave in London. Those with an Isle of Wight posting were the lucky ones; the endless mincing machine of the Russian front had been killing boys like these for eleven years, would probably take these ones too in the end. David felt an unexpected stab of pity for them.

He walked down Victoria Street to Parliament Square, then up Whitehall to the Dominions Office. Sykes was on duty again behind the desk. ‘Morning, Mr Fitzgerald. Another cold day, sir.’

The lift was full, clanking painfully as it rose. David stood next to Daniel Brightman from the Economic Department, who had joined the service at the same time. Like David he was a grammar-school boy, but over the years Brightman had adopted an upper-class drawl. ‘Another day in the salt mines,’ he said.

‘Yes. Keeping busy?’

‘Meeting with the Aussies on wheat tariffs today.’ He sighed. ‘I expect they’ll be shouting as usual. The trials of Empire.’

David got out on the second floor and passed the Registry. The clerks were all in. From behind the counter Carol, at her desk, gave him a quick smile and a wave. He smiled back, guiltily remembering what he had done on Sunday.

Old Dabb, checking a card index at the counter, looked up. ‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘A brief word, if I may.’

‘Of course.’ David noticed dandruff on the old man’s collar.

‘I was concerned, sir,’ the Registrar said in his slow sad voice, ‘to observe you left the High Commissioners’ meeting file on the counter last night, without getting a clerk to sign it back in.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A moment of time now can spare much confusion later.’

‘I’m sorry, Dabb, we’ve been so busy. It won’t happen again.’

It was a quiet morning; David telephoned South Africa House and discussed who might attend the meeting the SS officials were asking for. He had spoken several times that week with an eager young Afrikaner, stressing the need for secrecy. ‘Teach the Russians who’s boss, hey?’ the South African had chuckled. ‘The Germans aren’t settling the Congo, are they, got enough on their hands trying to settle Russia.’

No, David thought, they’re just looting the Congo, like the Belgians did. David hated these apartheid people and their friendship with the Nazis, but he was formally, coolly polite as he discussed which SS officials would go – out of uniform, of course – to South Africa House. Then he studied a report on the forthcoming Birmingham Empire Week, who would be manning stalls from the various High Commissions, the important businesses taking part, like Unilever and Lonrho. He thought he might go for a swim at lunchtime, to the pool at a club he belonged to nearby. He still loved diving down into the empty, peaceful silence.

Late in the morning there was a brusque knock on the door and Hubbold came in, frowning.

‘Word’s come down from the Permanent Secretary. We’ve to stall on the Coronation arrangements at the High Commissioners’ meeting.’

‘The Times said they might tie it in with Hitler’s twentieth anniversary celebrations.’

Hubbold laughed softly. ‘Ah, The Times. Forever planting the right seeds in our minds. Anyway, instructions from on high are for everyone to stonewall. It’s a nuisance, you know how potty the High Commissioners are over royalty. They’ll want to know if it’ll be the spring or summer, whether Hartnell will design the dress. Pity we’ll have to say nothing’s decided, leaves more time for awkward subjects under Any Other Business. I’ve had word the Canadians may bring up the Jew laws again.’

‘Has that come from Canada House, sir?’ David asked, antennae alert.

‘Not officially,’ Hubbold smiled. ‘Arcana imperii, you know. Secrets of authority.’ He liked it to be known he had his own sources; it was another mark of seniority for him. Some of David’s colleagues were on first-name terms with their superiors, but Hubbold had never even suggested David drop the ‘sir’. Hubbold continued, ‘The minister does get rather embarrassed when that one comes up. Anyway, useful for you to know what the nuances will be.’

Shortly after eleven one of the interdepartmental messengers knocked at David’s door. He gave him a letter inside a Colonial Office envelope: Can you meet for lunch at the club at 1.15 not 1.30? Geoff.

When the messenger had gone David sat frowning. The words were a code that meant there was something they needed to talk about; they would meet at the Oxford and Cambridge Club at one fifteen. They never spoke on the telephone if possible, as there were rumours Civil Service phones were routinely tapped by Special Branch now. David lit a cigarette and stared anxiously through the window at Whitehall. This had only happened once before, when Jackson had advance notice of a raid on the Soho brothels, and called off a regular meeting at the flat. But at least it wasn’t an emergency, there was a separate code for that.

David left the Office at one and walked up to Trafalgar Square. A huge poster had been placed on the plinth of Nelson’s Column. We Need Exports. We Work or Want. A Challenge to British Grit. David wondered what the trade talks with Germany would bring; Volkswagens to replace the Hillmans and Morrises chugging round Trafalgar Square?

He turned into Pall Mall. Two Auxiliary policemen in their blue uniforms and caps walked slowly along, guns at their waists, watching the passers-by. Two more patrolled in parallel on the other side of the road. Something was up. He thought, Sarah’s coming into town today for one of her meetings. On Sunday, after the talk about Charlie, they had made love, an increasingly rare occurrence. He had felt detached, the brief moment of warmth quickly gone.

David entered the club. A hum of conversation came from the dining room but he went directly to the library. Few people ever came in at lunchtime and only Geoff was there now, in an armchair with a view of the door. David sat opposite him.

‘Got your message,’ he said quietly.

‘Thanks for coming.’ Geoff leaned forward. ‘Message from Jackson. He wants a scratch meeting tomorrow.’

‘Do we know why?’

‘No. I only heard just before I contacted you. Just that we’ve got to be there. Seven o’clock.’

‘Sarah’s expecting me home. I can’t say we’ve fixed up a special tennis match, not at this notice.’ David thought, my wife has become someone to lie to. He sighed. ‘I’ll think of something.’

‘I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. Easier for me, living alone.’

David looked at his friend. He seemed tired, more nervy than usual. ‘How are your parents?’ he asked.

‘Oh, rolling along in their groove.’ Geoff, like David, was an only child, his father a retired businessman. His parents lived a peaceful life in Hertfordshire, revolved around bowls matches, roses and golf. ‘Keep asking whether I’ve met any nice girls,’ Geoff added. ‘I’m tempted to say, the only ones I know these days aren’t very nice.’ He gave his jerky laugh, then changed the subject. ‘How’s your dad?’