‘Why?’
‘You don’t know much about women, do you? Apart from how our bodies work.’
‘Do I know enough about that?’
‘Almost, but you don’t know how we think, do you?’
‘You could always teach me.’
She said, ‘Not a chance,’ and trained one of her breasts on me again. The nipple was still large. I think it spoke to me. It was telling me to shut up.
We ate at a new Indian restaurant in Hounslow. Occasionally I put my hands under the table, and ran them over her legs. She always stopped speaking in mid-sentence when I did that. We finished with a green tea which was new to me.
I asked her, ‘Are you still going to marry . . . ?’ I couldn’t even remember his bloody name.
‘Eric. Eric Tripp. Haven’t made my mind up yet.’ She had been engaged to a soldier in 1951, until the poor bugger had been captured by the Chinese in North Korea. She had thought him dead, and was still grieving when I came on the scene a couple of years later. Then he came back, which spoiled things for a while. His experiences in a POW camp had made him as mad as a monkey anyway, and after he tried to kill a domesticated Chinaman somewhere in London, he was stuck in an asylum. It still might have worked out between us, but, just as I was getting the green light again, the government had sent me to Egypt for six months. Enter Eric Tripp: he had stepped in before I got back, and she had ended up engaged to marry again.
‘Are you making me an offer?’
‘I can’t make up my mind either,’ I told her, ‘but I’m going to be based along at Panshanger from now on, so I could get up to see you more often.’
‘Ask me again when you have made your mind up. Then I’ll tell you.’
‘But you’ll still go out with him?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘And sleep with him?’
‘None of your business, boss. Are we going back to my place tonight?’
Boss? I suppose that was technically right. The last thought I had before I slept, was that the boys would be pleased.
When I awoke in the morning she was staring at me, lying on her stomach, her chin propped up in her hands. It was a nice stare. Uncomplicated. Maybe even fond. She said, ‘I’m going to say something rather bold.’
‘OK.’
‘I like you in my bed.’
‘So do I.’
All the best relationships are based on having something fundamental to agree on.
Chapter Two
Hello, Pete
C. H. Browne of the FO sipped his coffee and asked, ‘Well?’
‘There was something I wanted to ask you, something we glossed over yesterday.’
‘What was that?’
‘Exactly what were the allegations these foreign countries have made about me? You said the file of letters you had was full of them.’
He still had both files on his desk. We were in a smaller office this time. He had a smaller desk, and the smaller chairs were comfortable. Maybe he no longer needed to impress. He read from the letters one by one.
‘The Germans suspect you of racketeering, operating on the black market, and illegally owning bars, clubs and a brothel.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Communist Germany accuses you of illegal entry. Russia, according to a confidential source, has you meeting with persons since executed for treason. France complains of illegal entry and smuggling, and Egypt claims that you are co-owner of a nightclub in contravention of civil ordinances . . . and that you consorted with known terrorists. Turkey has reported you, again for illegal entry – have you a problem with passports and boundaries, Mr Bassett? – and for being involved in a murderous shoot-out in a singularly remote region. They also claim that you consort with terrorists – Kurdish Nationalists this time.’
‘Any more?’
‘The Shah of Persia would like us to extradite you to face charges of conspiring to bring down a legal government, and, as I indicated yesterday, the Americans aren’t all that keen on you either.’ He closed the file again. I thought the Commies’ rejection of me a bit rich: I’d joined the CP in London, by accident, in 1947 – and as far as I knew no one had unjoined me yet. Again, that’s another story.
‘Can I still go to Scotland?’
‘I think so, but I can’t think why anyone should want to . . .’
CB’s intelligence dossier on me was obviously a bit dodgy.
‘My father lives there. Some people are funny that way.’ I sat back in my chair. I desperately wanted to smoke my pipe but couldn’t see an ashtray. So I asked, ‘Where can I go, then?’
He stared at me and blinked slowly, just once. The old smile was back.
‘You can always go to Cyprus, but we’ll tell you when.’
Bugger it.
I’ve always had this problem. When someone tells me I can’t do something, I find I simply have to do it.
So I drove down to Lympne and gave my secretary, Elaine, a nice dry peck on the cheek. It stopped there these days because her husband was around more often. Elaine was the first ex-lover I was still happy around. I liked to think that our comfortable and professional relationship was the result of us having put our wilder days behind us. I sometimes gave her a second glance, and she did me, but wasn’t sure whether that derived from appetites or memories. You know how it is.
Then I explained what was happening to all the air crew and groundies kicking around. Some of them would move airfields with us, and some would probably sign up with Skyways. I was still a bit pissed off when I hopped onto Randall’s old Airspeed Oxford. I didn’t even bother to take my passport: if the Gestapo picked me up in Berlin with it in my pocket they’d still fling me
