Read Online Snowleg by Nicholas Shakespeare - Free Book Online Page B

thing about school chums, Mrs Hithersay. Never. Let. You. Down. Your husband and I, we share the same moral compass. Always have. Which is why I’ve come here tonight with a little old proposizione ,” and raised his glass. “Anchors away!”
    His mother plainly thought Silkleigh insufferable, but Rodney was tempted to believe every word. Peter see-sawed between the two.
    Only when discussion turned to Peter’s departure for Germany did Silkleigh’s face take on a sober aspect. “Rodders did mention your German connection,” and then to the undiminished horror of Peter’s mother, Silkleigh went on confidingly: “I know these East Germans. Infuriating lot. Eavesdrop on each other from dawn to dusk. It wouldn’t get off the ground here. Have you any idea where they put their cameras? They put them in the ruddy gnomes! Can you imagine anything stupider?”
    â€œYou’ve been to East Germany?” asked Peter, very interested.
    â€œOh, yes, I’ve been. Ruthless place. Quite the vilest regime in the Communist bloc.” He helped himself to more singed sprouts, his appetite for them contributing to a demented look. “Everyone turns a blind eye to what’s going on, but you don’t have to be a Fellow of All Souls to see that it’s a police state. Most of their lady shot-putters have penises. And the dogs they get over there! We had one retired to North Africa once. Astonishing creature. He could smell out almost anything. Kept him in the laundry, so when anyone lost their knickers I could say: ‘Oh, Mrs Herbert, is this yours?’ And you know, it always was.”
    â€œDarling, could that be your pudding?” asked Rodney.
    Once Peter’s mother had disappeared into the kitchen, Silkleigh plucked at Peter’s arm and said in a hushed voice: “Going back to your father, young Peter, a note of Silkleigh caution. It’s perfectly natural that you should think him a romantic hero and all that, but have you ever thought he could be working for the other side? For all you know he could be the chief of the dark forces.”
    Peter was still at that stage where it was hard for him to believe bad things of his father’s country, or of his father. “You’re just making that up.”
    â€œI’m afraid I’ve rather overcooked the next course,” said his mother, coming back into the room and fixing Silkleigh with an expression of marked antipathy.
    â€œCourse I am. Course I am.”
    After dinner Rodney took Silkleigh off to his studio. They reappeared an hour later.
    â€œDon’t worry, old soul, I’ll make my own way out,” said Silkleigh, wrenching open what he thought was the front door and sailing with tremendous brio into the saucepan cupboard – “Why have all the stars gone out?” – after which Rosalind had to be escorted to bed.
    â€œHe’s barking,” giggling so violently she was weepy.
    â€œI suppose he is,” said Rodney, who kept it secret for several weeks that he had tentatively agreed to go into partnership with him.
    â€œHe’s not coming back?” asked Peter’s mother.
    Next morning Peter flew to Hamburg.
    He was leaving with the express idea of trying to see whether, partly in response to his grandfather, he couldn’t sacrifice himself to the memory of what Germany had meant to England. He refused to become like Milo Potter or Tristram Leadley. He didn’t think like that. He had never thought like that. He was going to be like one of those two old boys at St Cross who had given their lives to their country. In his visored vision he was anxious to accept both England and Germany. At St Cross he had become aware of the great Protestant Alliance and of the chivalric links that had existed between both nations. He wanted to exemplify the bridge, the alliance, the best of each tradition. He had spent his first 18 years as the son of an English