last night, without getting a
clerk to sign it back in.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A moment of time now can spare much confusion later.’
‘I’m sorry, Dabb, we’ve been so busy. It won’t happen again.’
It was a quiet morning; David telephoned South Africa House and discussed who might attend the meeting the SS officials were asking for. He had spoken several times that week
with an eager young Afrikaner, stressing the need for secrecy. ‘Teach the Russians who’s boss, hey?’ the South African had chuckled. ‘The Germans aren’t settling the
Congo, are they, got enough on their hands trying to settle Russia.’
No, David thought, they’re just looting the Congo, like the Belgians did. David hated these apartheid people and their friendship with the Nazis, but he was formally, coolly polite as he
discussed which SS officials would go – out of uniform, of course – to South Africa House. Then he studied a report on the forthcoming Birmingham Empire Week, who would be manning
stalls from the various High Commissions, the important businesses taking part, like Unilever and Lonrho. He thought he might go for a swim at lunchtime, to the pool at a club he belonged to
nearby. He still loved diving down into the empty, peaceful silence.
Late in the morning there was a brusque knock on the door and Hubbold came in, frowning.
‘Word’s come down from the Permanent Secretary. We’ve to stall on the Coronation arrangements at the High Commissioners’ meeting.’
‘
The Times
said they might tie it in with Hitler’s twentieth anniversary celebrations.’
Hubbold laughed softly. ‘Ah,
The Times
. Forever planting the right seeds in our minds. Anyway, instructions from on high are for everyone to stonewall. It’s a nuisance, you
know how potty the High Commissioners are over royalty. They’ll want to know if it’ll be the spring or summer, whether Hartnell will design the dress. Pity we’ll have to say
nothing’s decided, leaves more time for awkward subjects under Any Other Business. I’ve had word the Canadians may bring up the Jew laws again.’
‘Has that come from Canada House, sir?’ David asked, antennae alert.
‘Not officially,’ Hubbold smiled. ‘
Arcana imperii
, you know. Secrets of authority.’ He liked it to be known he had his own sources; it was another mark of
seniority for him. Some of David’s colleagues were on first-name terms with their superiors, but Hubbold had never even suggested David drop the ‘sir’. Hubbold continued,
‘The minister does get rather embarrassed when that one comes up. Anyway, useful for you to know what the nuances will be.’
Shortly after eleven one of the interdepartmental messengers knocked at David’s door. He gave him a letter inside a Colonial Office envelope:
Can you meet for lunch at
the club at 1.15 not 1.30? Geoff.
When the messenger had gone David sat frowning. The words were a code that meant there was something they needed to talk about; they would meet at the Oxford and Cambridge Club at one fifteen.
They never spoke on the telephone if possible, as there were rumours Civil Service phones were routinely tapped by Special Branch now. David lit a cigarette and stared anxiously through the window
at Whitehall. This had only happened once before, when Jackson had advance notice of a raid on the Soho brothels, and called off a regular meeting at the flat. But at least it wasn’t an
emergency, there was a separate code for that.
David left the Office at one and walked up to Trafalgar Square. A huge poster had been placed on the plinth of Nelson’s Column.
We Need Exports. We Work or Want. A Challenge to British
Grit.
David wondered what the trade talks with Germany would bring; Volkswagens to replace the Hillmans and Morrises chugging round Trafalgar Square?
He turned into Pall Mall. Two Auxiliary policemen in their blue uniforms and caps walked slowly along, guns at their waists, watching the passers-by. Two more
clerk to sign it back in.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A moment of time now can spare much confusion later.’
‘I’m sorry, Dabb, we’ve been so busy. It won’t happen again.’
It was a quiet morning; David telephoned South Africa House and discussed who might attend the meeting the SS officials were asking for. He had spoken several times that week
with an eager young Afrikaner, stressing the need for secrecy. ‘Teach the Russians who’s boss, hey?’ the South African had chuckled. ‘The Germans aren’t settling the
Congo, are they, got enough on their hands trying to settle Russia.’
No, David thought, they’re just looting the Congo, like the Belgians did. David hated these apartheid people and their friendship with the Nazis, but he was formally, coolly polite as he
discussed which SS officials would go – out of uniform, of course – to South Africa House. Then he studied a report on the forthcoming Birmingham Empire Week, who would be manning
stalls from the various High Commissions, the important businesses taking part, like Unilever and Lonrho. He thought he might go for a swim at lunchtime, to the pool at a club he belonged to
nearby. He still loved diving down into the empty, peaceful silence.
Late in the morning there was a brusque knock on the door and Hubbold came in, frowning.
‘Word’s come down from the Permanent Secretary. We’ve to stall on the Coronation arrangements at the High Commissioners’ meeting.’
‘
The Times
said they might tie it in with Hitler’s twentieth anniversary celebrations.’
Hubbold laughed softly. ‘Ah,
The Times
. Forever planting the right seeds in our minds. Anyway, instructions from on high are for everyone to stonewall. It’s a nuisance, you
know how potty the High Commissioners are over royalty. They’ll want to know if it’ll be the spring or summer, whether Hartnell will design the dress. Pity we’ll have to say
nothing’s decided, leaves more time for awkward subjects under Any Other Business. I’ve had word the Canadians may bring up the Jew laws again.’
‘Has that come from Canada House, sir?’ David asked, antennae alert.
‘Not officially,’ Hubbold smiled. ‘
Arcana imperii
, you know. Secrets of authority.’ He liked it to be known he had his own sources; it was another mark of
seniority for him. Some of David’s colleagues were on first-name terms with their superiors, but Hubbold had never even suggested David drop the ‘sir’. Hubbold continued,
‘The minister does get rather embarrassed when that one comes up. Anyway, useful for you to know what the nuances will be.’
Shortly after eleven one of the interdepartmental messengers knocked at David’s door. He gave him a letter inside a Colonial Office envelope:
Can you meet for lunch at
the club at 1.15 not 1.30? Geoff.
When the messenger had gone David sat frowning. The words were a code that meant there was something they needed to talk about; they would meet at the Oxford and Cambridge Club at one fifteen.
They never spoke on the telephone if possible, as there were rumours Civil Service phones were routinely tapped by Special Branch now. David lit a cigarette and stared anxiously through the window
at Whitehall. This had only happened once before, when Jackson had advance notice of a raid on the Soho brothels, and called off a regular meeting at the flat. But at least it wasn’t an
emergency, there was a separate code for that.
David left the Office at one and walked up to Trafalgar Square. A huge poster had been placed on the plinth of Nelson’s Column.
We Need Exports. We Work or Want. A Challenge to British
Grit.
David wondered what the trade talks with Germany would bring; Volkswagens to replace the Hillmans and Morrises chugging round Trafalgar Square?
He turned into Pall Mall. Two Auxiliary policemen in their blue uniforms and caps walked slowly along, guns at their waists, watching the passers-by. Two more
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