‘He doesn’t like whisky, he prefers beer,’ Juliet said.
‘I believe, although you didn’t hear it from me, that he’s on his way to Los Alamos. A present for the Yanks. Good of us, eh?’
‘Very. Good of us to acquire the contents of his brain first, too. I don’t suppose we’re telling the Americans that. I expect they would be rather annoyed.’
‘I expect they would. He got out with original blueprints, you know, didn’t leave any copies behind. Soviets’ll have to start from scratch again with his research. Do you want a drink?’ he added hopefully.
‘No – yes, all right. Just coffee. I need to talk to you.’
‘People always say that,’ Hartley said grimly, ‘but usually what they need is not to talk.’
‘Nonetheless,’ she said, indicating a little table in the corner away from the hotel’s busy footfall.
‘Godfrey Toby,’ she said, once the waitress had deposited a pot of coffee in front of them. Hartley took out a small hip-flask and added something from it to his cup. He held out the flask and offered it silently to Juliet. She smelt brandy and shook her head. ‘Godfrey Toby,’ she prompted.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Hartley – I know you remember him.’
‘Do I?’
‘He posed as a Gestapo agent and swept up all the fifth columnists during the war. Perry Gibbons was his handler at first, he set up the operation. I worked with him in Dolphin Square. You’re perfectly well aware that I did. His real name was John Hazeldine.’
‘Who?’
‘John Hazeldine,’ Juliet repeated patiently.
‘Oh, old Toby Jug, why didn’t you say?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
‘Toby Jug?’ He looked hurt at her reprimand. ‘Term of affection.’
‘You hardly knew him.’
‘Neither did you.’
I did, she thought. (Can I get you a cup of tea, Miss Armstrong? Would that help? We’ve had rather a shock.)
‘He was in Berlin after the war.’
‘Berlin?’ she said, surprised.
‘Or maybe it was Vienna.’ Hartley drained his coffee cup. ‘Yes, I think it was. There was a lot of mopping up after the war. Godfrey was good at that. The mopping up.’ Sighing, he said, ‘I was in Vienna, you know. It was a complete hell hole. Mind you, you could buy anything, there was nothing that didn’t have a price. You couldn’t trust anyone though.’
‘Can you now?’
He gave her a sideways glance. ‘I trust you.’ Juliet supposed he was drunk – he was always drunk to one degree or another, even at this time of day.
‘I heard he got shipped off to the colonies after the war,’ Juliet said. ‘Do you think he really was in danger from reprisals?’
‘We’re all in danger. All the time.’
‘Yes, but from reprisals from the war? From his informants.’
Hartley laughed dismissively. ‘Storm in a teacup, all that stuff about the fifth column. Bunch of frustrated housewives, most of them. Gibbons was obsessed with them. Anyway you were looking at the wrong people – you should have been looking at the Communists, they were always the real threat. Everyone knows that. Don’t they?’
Hartley tipped the hip-flask up and shook the last drops into his mouth. ‘I suppose I should report back to the powers-that-be that everything went like clockwork. Thank Christ.’
‘How are the powers-that-be?’
‘Same as ever – secretive, devious. Everything you would expect from the Service. You know that Oliver Alleyne is Deputy Director General now?’
‘I heard. He was always sly.’ He’s rather ambitious, she remembered Perry saying.
‘Yes, he’s a slippery sod. Did very well out of the war. Merton, of course, has parted ways with the Service – taken up a post at the National Gallery.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t you keep in touch?’
‘Why should we?’
Merton and Alleyne, Juliet thought, like hackneyed comedians or an old-fashioned musical duo – Merton on piano and Alleyne (a counter-tenor, almost certainly) performing Schubert’s arrangement of ‘Who Is Sylvia?’ (Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Miss Armstrong.) Her war (and her peace too, she supposed) had been shaped by the men she knew. Oliver Alleyne, Peregrine Gibbons, Godfrey Toby, Rupert Hartley, Miles Merton. She thought they sounded like characters in a novel by Henry James. One of the later, more opaque ones, perhaps. Who, she wondered, was the most opaque of them all?
Juliet debated whether or not to show Hartley the note. You will pay for what you did. He might feel obligated to report it back to someone – Alleyne, perhaps – and she really didn’t want that.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m not interested in Service gossip.’ (Not entirely true.) ‘You can get me a cab, Hartley. Some of us have proper jobs to go to.’
‘Ah, the good old Corporation,’ Hartley said. ‘I miss it. Do you think they’d have me back?’
‘Probably. They take anyone, to be honest.’
They went outside, to the front entrance this time. Hartley bypassed the doorman and opened the door of a cab that was already parked outside the Strand Palace. ‘The BBC, quick as you like,’ Hartley said to the driver, and once she was in he slapped the taxi’s flank as if sending a horse on its way. It was only when the taxi pulled away from the kerb that Juliet realized it was the same driver as before. She sighed and said irritably, ‘You’re one of theirs, aren’t you? You work for them,’ but he just pointed at his ear and said, ‘Can’t hear a thing, love.’
‘The Blitz, I expect,’ Juliet said. ‘You should get a medal. I’m not paying, by the way. Hartley is.’
She had a sudden image of Pavel’s face, the look of fear. And the grey men. They had given her no password, no colour of any shade. What a nonsense it all was.
‘Gosh, where’ve you been, Miss Armstrong?’ Daisy said. ‘I was about to send out the troops to look for you. You didn’t have an accident, did you? An appointment you forgot to tell us about? I told everyone that you had to see the optician.’
‘You didn’t have to lie on my behalf. I simply had some matters I had to attend to.’
‘I was worried. You do look a bit off the pace.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You should get a telephone, you know. You’d find it useful.’
Juliet frowned. ‘How do you know I don’t have one already?’
‘Well, you would have called if you had, wouldn’t you?’
There was no refuting her logic. And yet.
‘I need to listen to Past Lives, Daisy.’
‘The Medieval Village? It went out this morning.’
‘How did that happen? I haven’t listened to it.’
‘Past Lives always goes out in the morning. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Mr Lofthouse checked it.’
‘Charles?’
‘I would have done,’ Daisy said, ‘only I had to take Miss Hastie home. She was here all night. She had become quite feral by the time she was released. You missed the drama.’
I had my own, Juliet thought.
Juliet ate lunch in the cafeteria. It wasn’t Friday and yet it was fish, or at least an attempt at fish. Small irregular shapes that had been crumbed in something offensively orange and then baked in the oven. The fish inside the orange crumb was grey and gelatinous. It made her think again of Lester Pelling and his fishmonger father. Even a bastard, she thought, wouldn’t want to sell a fish like this, if fish it was. Over-boiled potatoes and tinned peas completed the assemblage.
Prendergast loomed. He sat down opposite her and gazed at her plate.
‘I’ve eaten better,’ Juliet said.
‘I’ve eaten worse,’ he said gloomily.
He watched her eat. It was unnerving. She put her cutlery down and said, ‘Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘You must finish you
r lunch.’
‘I don’t think I can eat any more.’
‘Oh, but you normally have such a good appetite.’
Dear God, she thought, was that what she was known for? Although it was true she was an eater – she had eaten her way through grief, she had eaten her way through what had passed for love, she had eaten her way through the war (when she could). She sometimes wondered if there was some emptiness inside that she was trying to fill, but, really, she suspected that she was just hungry a lot. She drew the line at this fish though. ‘I have a headache coming on.’
‘Oh dear.’ His features contorted in sympathy. ‘Miss Gibbs said you had to visit the optician. I do hope everything is all right?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight,’ Juliet said testily. ‘Forgive me,’ she relented. ‘I’ve had rather a trying morning.’
‘Perhaps I should leave you in peace?’ Prendergast gazed at the sugar bowl with an awkward tenderness that she supposed was meant for her.
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘Have you heard of the British Actors’ Equity Association?’ he asked. ‘It appears that Mr Gorman is a member.’
‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’
‘Ralph Gorman? His speciality is the lute. He was hired for something yesterday and was dropped at the last minute.’
‘Is it a problem?’
Prendergast looked distraught, but she recognized this as his usual demeanour. ‘No, no, no. Just feathers that need soothing. You know how it is. And then there’s the little matter of Morna Treadwell. You know who she is?’
‘I do.’
‘Apparently she happened to listen to the broadcast this morning – one of her scripts. She didn’t seem to recognize it.’
‘I improved it. It was terrible.’
‘Yes, she is rather ghastly, isn’t she? But you know she has the ear of the DDG.’
‘She can have his eyes and nose as well, she still can’t write.’
‘Apparently the script – your improved script – was quite – how shall I say …?
‘Good?’ Juliet offered.
‘“Sensational”,’ he countered, treading delicately around the word. ‘More ruffled feathers, I fear. They’ve had quite a few calls coming in to the switchboard over the road at BH, from teachers. Children who were upset and so on. I believe you tackled leprosy.’
One day, she thought, it will all be on television, and it will be so much better. Not a thought to be shared with Prendergast – it would have horrified him, he would never see beyond radio. She had been offered a television production course at Alexandra Palace. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that either.
‘It’s as well they don’t have the Black Death to cope with then, isn’t it?’ she said, rather sharply.
‘I know, I know. And the word “dratted”, it’s not really, you know …’ he trailed off into a place of airy vagueness that Juliet had grown used to. He returned to earth eventually. ‘Can I tempt you to a pudding?’ he asked solicitously. ‘It might help your head. There’s a very good treacle sponge.’
‘No. Thank you. Was there anything else, Mr Prendergast?’
‘Well, there’s Miss Hastie, of course. You know who she is, I suppose? She was locked in a studio all night, apparently.’
‘Well, I didn’t lock her in,’ Juliet said. (Or did she? She seemed to remember once locking Hartley in his cell at the Scrubs.) ‘I imagine her feathers were excessively ruffled.’
‘The woman is all feathers,’ Prendergast said, a spasm of pain seizing his canine features. ‘Quite a catalogue of mishaps,’ he added sorrowfully.
‘Do you want to fire me?’ Juliet asked. ‘You can, you know. I really wouldn’t mind.’
He clutched his hands to his heart in horror. ‘Oh, goodness, Miss Armstrong. Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s sound and fury, nothing more.’
Juliet felt a pang of disappointment. She had been horribly attracted by the idea of simply walking away. A disappearing act. But where would she go? There was always somewhere, she supposed. She hoped.
Returning to her office, Juliet walked past a rehearsal room, and as she did so the door opened, unleashing a blast of ‘Bobby Shafto’. The door closed and Bobby Shafto and his golden hair disappeared. Across the road, the purpose-built rehearsal rooms and studios were buried deep in the core of Broadcasting House, wound round protectively with the offices. Sound and its opposite, silence, were everything, but over here the haphazard nature of the building meant that they were forever stumbling across each other’s programmes.
Singing Together, Juliet thought. Schools seemed to be fixated on an Old England of sea shanties and ballads and folk songs. And maidens, lots of maidens. ‘Early One Morning’ and ‘Oh, No John, No John, No John, No’. (What an irritating song!) ‘Dashing Away with a Smoothing Iron’. Ridiculous. They were reinventing England, or perhaps inventing it. A memory rose up – during the war, driving past Windsor Castle in the early-morning light, Perry Gibbons turning to her and saying, ‘This England – is it worth fighting for?’ It depended whose side you were on, she supposed.
Fräulein Rosenfeld was trundling along the corridor towards her, hampered somewhat by – amongst other things – the large Langenscheidt dictionary that accompanied her everywhere. She was also juggling a heavy workbook with ‘Intermediate German’ written on the cover. The hem of her worn tartan pleated skirt had come undone in places and Juliet itched to find a needle and thread and sew it up again. The Fräulein had a particular musty scent – nutmeg and the ancient oak of churches, not entirely unpleasant. She could be relied upon to be always in the building, as if she had no other place to go. Juliet sometimes wondered if she spent the night roosting in a Listening room somewhere instead of going home.
The Intermediate German – inevitably – slipped out of Fräulein Rosenfeld’s grip and fell to the ground, pages fluttering, like a heavy dead bird. ‘Intermediate German’ would be rather a good name for Fräulein Rosenfeld herself, Juliet thought. She retrieved the workbook and replaced it in the Fräulein’s arms, where it balanced precariously. I should invite her for a meal, Juliet thought. Pagani’s up the road maybe. She would fit in awfully well in Moretti’s, but that would hardly be a treat for her.
‘What is that?’ Fräulein Rosenfeld asked, her old freckled face furrowing inquisitively at the sound of the music that had escaped again from its confines.
‘“Bobby Shafto”,’ Juliet said. ‘He’s gone to sea with silver buckles on his knees.’ This explanation seemed to satisfy Fräulein Rosenfeld, who nodded and trudged on her way. The burden of Europe was on her dowager’s hump. It weighed heavily.
‘Miss Armstrong, Miss Armstrong.’ An urgent whisper halted her progress along the corridor again. Juliet looked around but couldn’t see anyone. The door to a small playback room was open and when she peered inside she found Lester Pelling, his face blanched to the colour of thin milk and looking as if he were in the middle of having a heart attack.
‘Are you all right, Lester?’
‘I thought I’d listen to Past Lives.’ His earphones were still round his neck. ‘It went out this morning.’
‘Apparently.’
‘And I wasn’t here because Miss Gibbs needed a hand with Miss Hastie. She was raging,’ he said, looking suddenly fearful at the memory.
‘And?’ Juliet prompted gently.
‘Miss Gibbs said you were at the optician, and so Mr Lofthouse listened instead.’
‘I know.’
‘Well …’ He put on a bold face and said, ‘I don’t like him, miss. Mr Lofthouse. I don’t like him.’
‘It’s all right, Lester, neither do I.’
‘And it’s not just his leg, his ears aren’t all they should be either. You need to listen to it, Miss Armstrong.’ He was wringing his hands. Juliet didn’t think she’d seen anyone do that since the war. Lester had been a child during the war, of course.
She was beginning to feel
alarmed. ‘What is it exactly, Lester?’
Silently, he handed her a second pair of earphones and put his own back on. Dropping the stylus gently on to the disc, he said, ‘About here, I think.’
They listened together.
‘Oh, dear God,’ Juliet said. ‘Play it again.’
They listened again. It was just the same. The voice of Roger Fairbrother – Miller, First Serf and understudy Cook – incanting, in his rather delicate, feminine tones, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.’
They took their headphones off and stared fixedly at each other. Anyone walking in on them might have presumed that they had recently been turned to stone at a moment of absolute horror. Pompeii, perhaps.
They came back to life slowly.
‘He had some trouble with his lines,’ Juliet remembered. ‘He did get a bit flustered. He was at Dunkirk, I believe. Prendergast said there were a lot of complaints, but they didn’t go much beyond objecting to “dratted”,’ she puzzled. ‘Although they do say that you only hear what you’re expecting to hear.’ We believe what we want to believe, Perry had said to her once.
‘I don’t expect the Juniors were expecting to hear that,’ Lester said, gesturing towards the turntable. They both stared at it as if they could see the words still revolving.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck,’ Juliet murmured and Lester flinched – not so much at the word, she suspected (his father was a bastard, after all) but at the consequences of the word. There was an interesting ethical debate to be had about the difference, but now was most certainly not the time. ‘You have to admire the rhythm, I suppose,’ Juliet said.
‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked.
‘I think we should keep mum.’
‘And hang on to it?’
‘God, no. The opposite. We need to get rid of it. And then if anyone complains, we’ll deny it. Or say we sent it to Recorded Programmes and they lost it. They would never send it to Archive anyway – all our stuff goes straight in the Scrap. Oh, damn and blast, why couldn’t we have done it live? We could have just said people were mistaken. Now there’s evidence.’