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with some damned American general in tow. Bret was hauled aboard a US Air Force plane and flown out. I heard they’d put him into that hospital in Washington, where they treat the US Presidents. He was in all kinds of hospitals for a long time: you know what the Americans are like. And then he went to convalesce in a house he owns in the Virgin Islands. He sent me a postcard from there; “Wish you were here”, palm trees and a beach. Berlin -was deep under snow and the central heating was giving trouble. I didn’t think it was so funny at the time. I wondered if he meant that he wished I’d stopped the bullet that he’d taken. I don’t know. I never will know, I suppose.”
    I said nothing.
    There was a lot of prodding at the tobacco. Frank had a special little steel device for pushing it around. He tended that pipe like some Scots engineer at the boiler of an ancient and well beloved tramp steamer. And it gave him time to think about what he was going to say. “I’ve never been told officially, of course. I thought it was funny, the way that Bret always made such a big performance of being English. And then he’s injured and he’s off to America.” Another pause. “As I say, Bret never died officially; he just faded away.”
    “Like old soldiers,” I said.
    “What? Oh, yes, I see what you mean.”
    Then the conversation moved to other matters. I asked about Frank’s son, an airline pilot who’d recently gone from British Airways to one of the domestic airlines. He was flying smaller planes on shorter routes but he was at home with his wife almost every night and making more money too. In the old days Frank’s son had often got to Berlin, but nowadays it was not on any of his routes and Frank admitted that sometimes he felt lonely.
    “I looked around. The house was all beautifully kept up but it was a dark echoing place for one man on his own. I remembered how, many years ago, Frank told me that marriage didn’t fit very well with men “in our fine of business - women don’t like secrets to which they are not a party”. I’d thought about it ever since.
    Frank asked about mutual friends in Washington DC and after talking about some of them I said, “Do you remember Jim Prettyman?”
    “Prettyman? No,” said Frank with conviction. Then Frank asked if everything was all right between me and Gloria. I said it was, because the ever-growing fear that I had, about becoming too dependent upon her, seemed too trivial and childish to discuss.
    “Not thinking of marrying again?” Frank asked. “I’m not free to marry,” I reminded him. “I’m still legally married to Fiona, aren’t V “Of course.”
    “I have a nasty feeling she’ll try for custody of the children agam,” I said. I hadn’t intended to tell him but I’d got to the point where I had to tell someone.
    “I hope not, Bernard.”
    “I had a formal letter from my father-in-law. He wants regular access to the children.”
    He took his pipe from his mouth. “And you think he’s in touch with Fiona?”
    “I’m not going to rule it out; he’s a two-faced old bastard.” “Don’t meet trouble halfway, Bernard. What does Gloria think?”
    “I haven’t told her yet.”
    “Bernard you are an ass. You must stop treating her as if she’s half-witted. A woman’s. point of view, Bernard.”
    “You’re right,” I said.
    “Yes, I am. Stop brooding. Talk to her. She must know the children by now.”
    “I’d better get going, Frank,’ I said. “It’s been like old times.” “I’m glad you stayed to dinner. I wish I’d known you were coming, I could have laid on some decent grub for you.” “It was just like home,” I said.
    “Have you got a car?” he asked.
    “Yes, thanks.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t rent cars -at the airport. It’s not good security.”
    “I suppose you’re right,” I admitted.
    His pipe was burning fiercely now, its smoke so dense that Frank’s eyes were half-closed against it. “Staying with