own wishes.
From my own point of view I rather welcomed the new ideas. It was time the old gang were shaken up a bit. Frank agreed, but with less enthusiasm.
'I'm too old to welcome changes just for the sake of change, Bernard. I was in the Department with your father back in 1943. I did a training course with Sir Henry Clevemore – "Pimples" we called him – a damned great hulking kid. He fell into a drainage ditch on one of the assault courses. It needed four of us to haul him out.' He drank some more wine, and after a reflective pause added, 'My wife says I've given my life to the Department, and a large chunk of her life too!' It was a heartfelt declaration of pride, resentment and regret.
He went on talking about the Department through the cottage pie, the bread and butter pudding and the Cheddar cheese. No matter how long he lived here, and how assimilated he became, the output from Frank's kitchen remained defiantly British public school. I was happy to listen to him, especially when he mentioned my father. He knew that of course, and all the stories he told showed my father in such a glorious light that I knew he was just putting it on for me. 'Your dad sat for days and days in some filthy apartment with only this German fellow for company: arguing and swearing most of the time according to your dad's account. They were waiting for news of Hitler's assassination. When the news came that the assassination attempt had failed, in came this Gestapo agent. Your dad was ready to jump out of the window but it turned out that it was the other chap's brother… I'm probably getting it all muddled,' said Frank with a smile. 'And I'm sure it was all just one of your father's yarns. But whenever your dad could be persuaded to tell that story he'd have me, and everyone else, in fits of laughter.' Frank had some more wine and ate some cheese. 'None of the rest of us had ever been in Nazi Germany of course. We hung on your dad's every word. Sometimes he'd be pulling our leg mercilessly.'
'The other day someone hinted that the Department might get to me through my father,' I said as casually as I could.
'Pressure you?'
'That was the implication. How could they do that, Frank? Did Dad do anything…'
'Are you serious, Bernard?'
'I want to know, Frank.'
'Then may I suggest you seek clarification from whoever gave you this bizarre idea.'
I changed the subject. 'And Fiona?' I asked as casually as I was able.
He looked up sharply. I suppose he knew how much I still missed her. 'She keeps a very low profile.'
'But she's still in East Berlin?'
'Very much so. Flourishing, or so I hear. Why?'
'I was just curious.'
'Put her out of your mind, Bernard. It's all over now. I suffered for you but now it's time to forget the past. Tell me about the new house. Do the children like having a garden?'
Our conversation was devoted to domestic small-talk. By the time we went back to the drawing room to drink coffee, Frank was in a mellow mood. I said, 'Remember the last time we were together in this room, Frank?'
He looked at me and after a moment's thought said, The night you came over asking me to get Bret Rensselaer off the hook. It is really that long ago? Three years?'
'You were packing your Duke Ellington records,' I said. 'They were all across the floor here.'
'I thought I was retiring and going back to England.' He looked round remembering it all and said, 'It changed my life, I suppose. By now I would have been pensioned off and growing roses.'
'And been Sir Frank Harrington,' I said. 'I'm sorry about the way it all worked out, Frank.' It was generally agreed that the debacle resulting from my intervention had deprived Frank of the knighthood he'd set his heart on. London Central had been saved from humiliation, by my warning and Frank's unilateral action, but they'd still not forgiven either of us. We'd been proved right, and for the mandarins of the Foreign Office that was a rare and unpardonable sin.
'It must be nearly
From my own point of view I rather welcomed the new ideas. It was time the old gang were shaken up a bit. Frank agreed, but with less enthusiasm.
'I'm too old to welcome changes just for the sake of change, Bernard. I was in the Department with your father back in 1943. I did a training course with Sir Henry Clevemore – "Pimples" we called him – a damned great hulking kid. He fell into a drainage ditch on one of the assault courses. It needed four of us to haul him out.' He drank some more wine, and after a reflective pause added, 'My wife says I've given my life to the Department, and a large chunk of her life too!' It was a heartfelt declaration of pride, resentment and regret.
He went on talking about the Department through the cottage pie, the bread and butter pudding and the Cheddar cheese. No matter how long he lived here, and how assimilated he became, the output from Frank's kitchen remained defiantly British public school. I was happy to listen to him, especially when he mentioned my father. He knew that of course, and all the stories he told showed my father in such a glorious light that I knew he was just putting it on for me. 'Your dad sat for days and days in some filthy apartment with only this German fellow for company: arguing and swearing most of the time according to your dad's account. They were waiting for news of Hitler's assassination. When the news came that the assassination attempt had failed, in came this Gestapo agent. Your dad was ready to jump out of the window but it turned out that it was the other chap's brother… I'm probably getting it all muddled,' said Frank with a smile. 'And I'm sure it was all just one of your father's yarns. But whenever your dad could be persuaded to tell that story he'd have me, and everyone else, in fits of laughter.' Frank had some more wine and ate some cheese. 'None of the rest of us had ever been in Nazi Germany of course. We hung on your dad's every word. Sometimes he'd be pulling our leg mercilessly.'
'The other day someone hinted that the Department might get to me through my father,' I said as casually as I could.
'Pressure you?'
'That was the implication. How could they do that, Frank? Did Dad do anything…'
'Are you serious, Bernard?'
'I want to know, Frank.'
'Then may I suggest you seek clarification from whoever gave you this bizarre idea.'
I changed the subject. 'And Fiona?' I asked as casually as I was able.
He looked up sharply. I suppose he knew how much I still missed her. 'She keeps a very low profile.'
'But she's still in East Berlin?'
'Very much so. Flourishing, or so I hear. Why?'
'I was just curious.'
'Put her out of your mind, Bernard. It's all over now. I suffered for you but now it's time to forget the past. Tell me about the new house. Do the children like having a garden?'
Our conversation was devoted to domestic small-talk. By the time we went back to the drawing room to drink coffee, Frank was in a mellow mood. I said, 'Remember the last time we were together in this room, Frank?'
He looked at me and after a moment's thought said, The night you came over asking me to get Bret Rensselaer off the hook. It is really that long ago? Three years?'
'You were packing your Duke Ellington records,' I said. 'They were all across the floor here.'
'I thought I was retiring and going back to England.' He looked round remembering it all and said, 'It changed my life, I suppose. By now I would have been pensioned off and growing roses.'
'And been Sir Frank Harrington,' I said. 'I'm sorry about the way it all worked out, Frank.' It was generally agreed that the debacle resulting from my intervention had deprived Frank of the knighthood he'd set his heart on. London Central had been saved from humiliation, by my warning and Frank's unilateral action, but they'd still not forgiven either of us. We'd been proved right, and for the mandarins of the Foreign Office that was a rare and unpardonable sin.
'It must be nearly
Similar Books
