For a few seconds there was an awkward silence, then he pulled a scrap of cardboard from his pocket: ‘Your brother sent me this. It’s from Helmut Lange.’
She turned the piece of cigarette packet over to read the message, scribbled in a small neat hand.
‘He remembers “lovely lady”,’ said Lindsay with a broad smile, ‘It must have worried your brother.’
‘Why does he want to thank us?’
‘I think he regards me as his rescuer. As for you, he’s struggling with the old certainties — Fatherland and Fuhrer — and you reminded him there are other choices.’
‘I only met him for a few hours.’
Lindsay squeezed her arm playfully. ‘And in those few hours… perhaps it was your eyes.’
Mary pulled a face at him. ‘And the “Sorry”?’
‘Ah, well in the end it didn’t work.’
‘Work?’
‘He hasn’t the courage to follow his conscience.’
‘Did you want him to?’
‘He might have been useful.’
‘I thought you liked him.’
‘I do.’
Lindsay began to propel Mary gently by the elbow towards the Royal Albert Hall.
‘What are we going to hear?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
They bought a programme in the foyer: Elgar and Beethoven — the Fifth Symphony — Rachmaninov and Wagner. The hall was almost full already and a little too warm. The audience seemed younger, less grand than before the war, and judging by the faces and uniforms more international. They took their seats in the stalls and Lindsay reached across for her hand: ‘I’m surprised about the Wagner, Hitler’s so devoted to him.’
‘Keep the war out of the concert hall,’ said Mary with a smile.
But it was advice she failed miserably to follow. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts broke free of the music, drifting from the hall to the war. She felt a little guilty, as if she was letting the orchestra down. Lindsay was shifting awkwardly in his seat beside her, clearly struggling to concentrate too. She felt sure his thoughts were full of interrogations and codes and the new piece of information he was bursting to share with her. Perhaps it was naive but she hoped he would forget the whole thing. It was an obsession, dangerous for both of them.
Lindsay dropped Mary’s hand. The Albert Hall was bursting with applause.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ he shouted across at her.
‘Oh yes, especially the Wagner. What about you?’
‘Oh yes, the Wagner.’
The chattering, cheerful audience swept them from the concert hall and on to the pavement. Most people were walking west towards Kensington High Street and the Underground, the sky in front of them yellow and orange, strewed with deep grey cloud. Blackout was at a little after eleven.
‘We could have some supper,’ said Lindsay.
‘Where? No, it’s all right, I don’t feel very hungry.’
He turned her shoulders so she was facing him: ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Fine, honestly.’
‘Would you like to come back to my flat? I can make us something to eat.’
Mary hesitated. Fleming had said: ‘Careful.’ She wanted to be with Lindsay but perhaps it was better to wait until the dust he had kicked up had settled a little.
‘Please.’
‘I think…’
‘Please.’
‘Yes, all right,’ she heard herself say.
Lindsay took her hand and led her from the concert crowd in search of a taxicab. They found one parked outside the American Ambassador’s house in Princes Gate. It was a short journey round Hyde Park Corner into Piccadilly, the city drawing down its blinds, retreating into darkness. Mary stared silently out of the window, frustrated and surprised by her own weakness. The cab passed the sad shell of Wren’s modest masterpiece, St James’s Church, turned right into the Haymarket, then on into St James’s Square, where it pulled up outside a tall smoky-black brick house in the south-east corner.
‘My home,’ said Lindsay almost apologetically.
‘I’m sure it’s very nice.’
‘It’s gloomy.’
At the top of the stairs, Lindsay opened the door and turned on the light to reveal burgundy walls and a heavy mahogany hall table.
‘Mother’s choice,’ he explained.
Mary walked slowly around the small sitting room, picking up family photographs while Lindsay made them some tea.
‘I spoke to my mother last night,’ he shouted from the kitchen. ‘She needed cheering up so I told her about you.’
‘Why did she need cheering up?’
It was some time before he answered, but when he did:
‘I told her I was in a little trouble. She was upset. She thinks I should keep my head down — she does.’
‘And your father?’
‘He’s busy with the war effort: his company is turning out munitions now.’
Lindsay brought the tea into the room and they sat together on his mother’s uncomfortable sofa.
‘But my mother was pleased to hear about you.’
‘I’m glad. Are you close to your mother?’
Lindsay began to laugh.
‘Why are you laughing?’ she asked.
‘Does your question have something to do with Dr Freud?’
Mary laughed too: ‘Well, you’re clearly a troubled soul.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said quietly. He put down his cup and reached across for hers: ‘The Navy, your brother, cups and a hard sofa — all very troubling…’
She let him pull her towards him and they kissed, slowly at first and then deeply, passionately. And after a time Lindsay led her through to his bedroom where they stood before the blue London night, kissing and caressing with growing urgency. Then he bent to lift her dress up and over her head, her hair falling loose about her shoulders. She stood there, self-conscious but trembling with excitement as he bent again to slip her pants down her thighs and then down her calves. And she could hear his breath sharp and short. Reaching under her hair, he pulled her head gently towards him. They kissed again, intense, wild kisses, until she broke free and pushed him away. And slowly, deliberately, she sat on the edge of the bed, and then she lay back on the bed, raising and parting her knees.
Later they lay quietly together, naked, wet with perspiration, her cheek against his chest. She could feel its easy rise and fall and the steady beat of his heart. And from time to time he leant forward to kiss and smell her hair.
‘You’re beautiful.’
Mary turned her head to kiss his chest, then said: ‘I’m not but thank you.’
‘Please allow me to be the judge.’
They were silent for a minute or so before Mary said: ‘I don’t want them to send you away, Douglas.’
‘Oh you’ll find somebody else,’ he said breezily.
She raised herself quickly, a cross frown on her face: ‘Why did you say that?’
‘Sorry. A silly joke.’
