him in the library of the British Embassy, a wood-panelled room from whose walls portraits of past ambassadors stared out mistily. In pride of place above the fireplace was the King, with something of the morose bloodhound about him, looking gloomily similar to his exiled first cousin, the doddery Kaiser Wilhelm, who was now safely confined in Holland, well away from any temptations to power. Around the room burnished leather armchairs rested on slightly threadbare rugs as though a gentleman’s club had been uprooted from Pall Mall and translated to the German capital.
‘Tea is one of those things that can never be the same,’ agreed Leo diplomatically. It sounded like a cliché but he meant it. Tea for any Englishman evoked a cascade of associations, symbolizing consolation and continuity, a pause in the day, a moment of reflection. He doubted very much though that Sir Horace shared the same associations as himself. For Leo, the thought of tea evoked his mother, with her worn apron, reaching for the battered caddy decorated with red-jacketed soldiers, which lived on the shelf above the range, spooning one for each person and one for the brown Bessie pot. The rich, musty scent of Assam brought with it the memory of a hundred afternoons working on the dining room table in the fading light, while his parents tried not to disturb him, a deep russet cup of tea at his elbow. So unlike the pallid offering here before them, in porcelain cups stamped with the British Embassy crest.
‘Sugar?’ said Sir Horace, proffering the bowl.
‘No, thank you.’ Leo took a sip and said, ‘You were going to explain, sir.’
‘Yes, I was, Quinn. All in good time.’ He bit into a biscuit. ‘Tell me, how is it going? You’ve been in Berlin what, a couple of months?’
‘Six months.’
‘And you’re happy? Getting around? In the evenings?’
‘I’m seeing a bit of the clubs, as you do. But to be honest, sir, most evenings now I’m dead beat.’ He laughed. ‘Must be feeling my age.’
‘Feeling your age!’ Sir Horace guffawed, exhibiting teeth as mottled as old piano keys. ‘My goodness, man. How old are you? Barely thirty! At your age I was good for a couple of receptions a night and dancing till dawn. And you’re a single chap too. No lady on the horizon? We shall need to get you sorted.’
The face of Marjorie Simmons rose in Leo’s mind and he wondered if a mention of her appeared on his file. More curtly than intended he said, ‘This is not about my social life, I take it.’
‘Only tangentially.’
‘Sir?’
‘It’s a simple brief really. Now, you were at Oxford. Not at the House, were you?’
Leo flinched inwardly at the assumption that he would not have attended the upper-crust Christ Church, popularly known as “the House”.
‘I was at Balliol, sir.’
‘Of course. Well, you’ll have seen
The Times.
This vote in the Union. “This House would not in any circumstance fight for King and Country”.’
In fact, Leo had read the report that very morning. The sensation caused by the Oxford Union’s vote against fighting was picked up by newspapers throughout Europe, including the
Vossische Zeitung,
the liberal-leaning paper that Leo read daily over his coffee and roll.
The university’s debating chamber, the Union, liked to think of itself as a miniature House of Commons, and might as well have been, given the number of men who graduated pretty seamlessly from one to the other. The result of the debate had prompted headlines everywhere. Winston Churchill had called it “abject, squalid and shameless”. But Leo had not bothered to accord it much attention. For one thing he recoiled from the kind of undergraduate posturing he remembered only too well. For another, he was too damned busy. The pressure of work was keeping him awake at night. Being called in to see Rumbold, while intriguing, only meant more piles of paperwork when he returned.
‘It’s in the nature of undergraduates, sir, to be
‘Tea is one of those things that can never be the same,’ agreed Leo diplomatically. It sounded like a cliché but he meant it. Tea for any Englishman evoked a cascade of associations, symbolizing consolation and continuity, a pause in the day, a moment of reflection. He doubted very much though that Sir Horace shared the same associations as himself. For Leo, the thought of tea evoked his mother, with her worn apron, reaching for the battered caddy decorated with red-jacketed soldiers, which lived on the shelf above the range, spooning one for each person and one for the brown Bessie pot. The rich, musty scent of Assam brought with it the memory of a hundred afternoons working on the dining room table in the fading light, while his parents tried not to disturb him, a deep russet cup of tea at his elbow. So unlike the pallid offering here before them, in porcelain cups stamped with the British Embassy crest.
‘Sugar?’ said Sir Horace, proffering the bowl.
‘No, thank you.’ Leo took a sip and said, ‘You were going to explain, sir.’
‘Yes, I was, Quinn. All in good time.’ He bit into a biscuit. ‘Tell me, how is it going? You’ve been in Berlin what, a couple of months?’
‘Six months.’
‘And you’re happy? Getting around? In the evenings?’
‘I’m seeing a bit of the clubs, as you do. But to be honest, sir, most evenings now I’m dead beat.’ He laughed. ‘Must be feeling my age.’
‘Feeling your age!’ Sir Horace guffawed, exhibiting teeth as mottled as old piano keys. ‘My goodness, man. How old are you? Barely thirty! At your age I was good for a couple of receptions a night and dancing till dawn. And you’re a single chap too. No lady on the horizon? We shall need to get you sorted.’
The face of Marjorie Simmons rose in Leo’s mind and he wondered if a mention of her appeared on his file. More curtly than intended he said, ‘This is not about my social life, I take it.’
‘Only tangentially.’
‘Sir?’
‘It’s a simple brief really. Now, you were at Oxford. Not at the House, were you?’
Leo flinched inwardly at the assumption that he would not have attended the upper-crust Christ Church, popularly known as “the House”.
‘I was at Balliol, sir.’
‘Of course. Well, you’ll have seen
The Times.
This vote in the Union. “This House would not in any circumstance fight for King and Country”.’
In fact, Leo had read the report that very morning. The sensation caused by the Oxford Union’s vote against fighting was picked up by newspapers throughout Europe, including the
Vossische Zeitung,
the liberal-leaning paper that Leo read daily over his coffee and roll.
The university’s debating chamber, the Union, liked to think of itself as a miniature House of Commons, and might as well have been, given the number of men who graduated pretty seamlessly from one to the other. The result of the debate had prompted headlines everywhere. Winston Churchill had called it “abject, squalid and shameless”. But Leo had not bothered to accord it much attention. For one thing he recoiled from the kind of undergraduate posturing he remembered only too well. For another, he was too damned busy. The pressure of work was keeping him awake at night. Being called in to see Rumbold, while intriguing, only meant more piles of paperwork when he returned.
‘It’s in the nature of undergraduates, sir, to be
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