Charlie’s Apprentice

‘I’m still going through courses: you know I’m starting one today.’

‘You’re already in the Foreign Office. There’s job security, carved in stone, for the rest of your life. Why should a course affect our living together?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, unhappy at not finding more convincing avoidance.

‘I think I know what you’re not sure about.’

He finally had to stop. Ahead the road was clogged as far as he could see. They had only just passed the airport turn-off, so he estimated he had at least another eight miles of jammed motorway. ‘That’s not so.’

‘Let’s forget it.’ She was staring straight ahead again.

‘Why have we got to make a decision now, in the middle of a bloody traffic jam? Let’s talk about it when you get back from Manchester.’

‘What’s there to talk about, apart from whose flat it’s going to be?’

‘You trying to make a row?’ They rarely argued: he couldn’t remember the last time.

‘No.’

‘We’ll sort it out when you get back,’ he insisted. He was glad the traffic began to move. He could at last see the reason for the blockage, a single-line crawl past three cars in a nose-to-tail accident, each driver blaming the other in a hard-shoulder shouting match: beyond the cars were moving fast again.

‘Is this the last course there’ll be?’ asked Marcia, trying for neutral ground.

‘I think so,’ said Gower, uncomfortably. He’d been schooled for conversations like this, actually lectured on the responses and convenient answers.

‘Then something permanent?’

‘That’s the procedure.’

‘I would have thought by now you’d have been given some indication of what it will be.’

‘Probably something in administration.’ Always dismissive, he remembered, from the how-to-reply lecture. ‘It’ll give me time to look around and make my mind up about a definite division.’

They left the motorway and Gower turned through the Chiswick back streets to avoid any more main road crawl: he was taking her directly to the station for the Manchester train.

‘I’m ambitious for you,’ she declared.

‘I’m ambitious for myself And nervous, he privately admitted. Despite all the exhausive training and tuition and one-to-one lectures, just as it had been with his tutor at Oxford, Gower couldn’t visualize what it was really going to be like. He’d actually mentioned it to his last instructor, seeking some guidance. Instead the man had nodded in quick agreement and said it wasn’t a profession for which there was any sensible, practical apprenticeship.

‘I’ll phone tonight,’ promised Marcia, as they stopped at the station. She leaned back in through the door, intending to collect her cases from the rear seat. ‘Best of luck with the course.’

Gower kissed her and said: ‘You’re wrong: you know you’re wrong, don’t you?’

‘About what?’ She knew, but wanted him openly to commit himself, to make her the clear winner of the dispute.

‘Me not being sure. About us. I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you.’

It only took him half an hour to reach the headquarters building in Westminster Bridge Road and the boxlike fifth-floor office. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, politely, as he entered. ‘Gower. John Gower.’

Charlie Muffin wondered if being called ‘sir’ would be the only tangible benefit of his new job. ‘Your first mistake,’ he said.

It was so unusual for a foreigner to travel hard-seat – the lowest, cheapest class on Chinese trains, on wooden benches without upholstery and which did not convert into sleeping bunks – that Snow attracted even more attention than he might normally have done, simply by being a waiguoren, a foreigner. Snow attracted attention not merely by being a foreigner. He was an unnaturally tall 6' 5†, a spindly-limbed man whose long-ago purchased chain-store clothes never seemed to fit but to hang upon him, too short at the legs and arms.

From experience he didn’t try to force any conversation, waiting for the other travellers to practise their English upon him, which several did, from the moment he left Beijing. Again from experience, he let the talk range at the whim of those who approached him, never asking a direct question. Always, however, he quickly disclosed his ability to speak Mandarin, to avoid offending anyone into thinking he was trying to be superior or eavesdrop on the birdlike chatter fluttering around him. Before the first overnight disembarkation he thought two passengers – a young girl student from Shanghai and a middle-aged man who said he was a doctor – were going openly to criticize the government, but although he encouraged further conversation neither, ultimately, did so.

On that third day he saw on its way northwards a long convoy of army trucks carrying soldiers along a road parallel to the railway track. The trucks looked new and not of Chinese manufacture. In such crowded, unknown surroundings – unsure of informers among his fellow passengers – Snow held back from taking photographs. He counted a total of forty-seven lorries.

Later that same day the train stopped for water almost directly opposite a series of camouflaged but obviously newly erected factory buildings. On that occasion, pretending to photograph the steam-skirted railway engine in the foreground, Snow managed three exposures.

He was going to be very restricted, accompanied by an escort: possibly unable to achieve anything worthwhile at all. But already he felt he had enough to justify the journey. So London were going to be very impressed. The self-judgement stayed in his mind. If they were impressed – which they really couldn’t fail to be – he’d be in a position to seek favours: make demands even. So he would protest against the entirely unnecessary way he was being forced to operate. Foster said it was upon London’s insistence, but Snow didn’t believe him. He was sure London would be guided by what they were told, not try to impose unworkable difficulties from afar. So it was Foster’s doing, nobody else’s. So it was Foster’s fault if enquiries were made, after the protest.

Not unchristian, Snow repeated to himself, needing the reassurance. Simply common sense, that’s all. And he’d make his case sensibly and truthfully, not going behind the man’s back.

Six

There was a lengthy period of mutual examination, when Charlie thought Gower’s eagerness was practically flashing like a neon sign: like me, like me. Charlie wondered if he would. Gower was an averagely tall, averagely built man: maybe 5? 9?, possible eleven and a half stone – perhaps a little heavier – and clearly fit, although not in a hand-clenching, chest-thrusting way. His dark hair was closely cropped although very full: if it hadn’t been well barbered it would have fallen untidily about the man’s face. That face was square-chinned and rather long, the nose aquiline. The mouth was full, made more so by the hopeful, please-like-me smile: the clearly new and still untrained moustache didn’t help. The eyes had the same anxiety, beneath heavy eyebrows. Good enough, judged Charlie, ticking off a mental check-list like a motor-car mechanic going through an approved service manual. The clothes were a problem. The suit was dark blue but with a heavy chalk stripe, waisted for the jacket skirt to flare immaculately. The sleeves were short enough to half-reveal the personal initial monogram on the left cuff, which was secured by heavy gold links, of a pink shirt that was fronted by a striped blue Eton tie. Obviously hand-made brogue shoes gleamed from a lot of daily polishing. Charlie guessed, enviously, that they were very comfortable: concealed beneath the desk, he’d eased the Hush Puppies off completely.

On the little finger of Gower’s left hand was a family-crested signet ring of the sort Charlie had expected but failed to discover on the new and remote Director-General.

Gower was completely disorientated by the appearance of the man confronting him – as well as by the greeting – in what didn’t look like an office at all, more a caretaker’s booth. Gower’s physical training instructors had worn track suits but his other lecturers had invariably been neat, precise men even when they wore the tweeds or sports jackets of academics.

Gower couldn’t find an appropriate description for this man. That much of the suit Gower could see was subdued green, with possibly a muted check although he wasn’t sure. It was bagged and shapeless and clearly cheap from the way the jacket reared away as if in embarrassment from the crinkle-collared shirt. The tie, a