and all. Says she’ll never go back to her husband. They plan to fly on to a film festival in Japan and then to America. She wants to live in Beverly Hills. She said that I was not to worry.’ Frank blew through his pipe and gave me a worried smile. ‘So I’m not worrying.’
So that was what the Duchess and co. had been so excited about. They’d been talking about the Teachers: not about me and Fiona. ‘And London?’
‘London Central have professional worriers on the staff. But there’s no way we can have our chaps lock their wives in the broom cupboard while they’re out at work, eh?’He began to push tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘It’s a pity in some ways we can’t.’
There was the gentle noise of rain dabbing the windows. At first there were huge raindrops that came at measured intervals but soon the drops dribbled and joined and made rivulets and bent the trees and distorted the outside world beyond recognition.
6
I am not paranoid. That is to say I am not paranoid to the extent of distrusting everyone around me. Only some of them. When I went into the office next morning all seemed normal: too normal. When I’d finished looking at my own desk, I was summoned upstairs. Dicky Cruyer, German Desk supremo and my immediate superior, was in a singular mood that I could almost describe as jovial.
‘Good morning, Bernard!’ he said and smiled. He was a slim bony man with pale complexion and a golliwog-style head of curly hair that I suspected he regularly had permed.
During my few weeks of living rough in Berlin I’d reconciled myself to the idea that I would never again see this office. Never again see England, in fact. So now I looked round Dicky’s office and marvelled at it as if seeing it all for the first time. I examined anew the magnificent rosewood table that Dicky used instead of a desk, and behind it the wall filled with photos, mostly of Dicky. I inspected the soft black leather Eames chair and matching footstool and the slightly mangy lion skin on the floor which I noticed he’d positioned less obtrusively. I looked at it all with a feeling of wonder.
‘I hope you’re in a mood for hard work,’ said Dicky. ‘There is plenty to do now your holiday is over.’ He leaned forward, elbows on table with fingertips touching. He was in shirt-sleeves with bright red braces and a floral patternedbow tie. The Deputy had objected to Dicky’s denim and leather and now he wore suits in the office, but the newly acquired loud ties and bright braces were a subtle erosion of these dress restrictions.
I looked at him. ‘Yes, I am.’ He smiled. Did he really think I’d been on holiday? There was no way I could tell from his warm relaxed friendly smile. But the way he touched his fingertips together in a rapid succession of staccato taps betrayed what I judged to be an underlying nervousness.
‘The Deputy Controller Europe wants a pow-wow at ten-thirty. You’d better come along too. Take notes.’
‘What about?’ The Deputy Controller Europe was an Australian named Augustus Stowe. Dicky imperfectly concealed his envy of Stowe and usually referred to him by his title, with sarcastic emphasis as if the position Stowe occupied was self-evidently unsuited to the man’s abilities. This attitude to Stowe, complete with whispered doubts about his competence, was shared by some of Dicky’s immediate circle. Stowe, a formid able childhood prodigy, had stayed on to teach Logic at Perth University, and some now slightingly referred to him as ‘Doctor Stowe’ as if a man with a doctorate was too unworldly for the Department.
‘There are a number of things,’ said Dicky vaguely. It was Dicky’s way of admitting that he hadn’t the slightest idea. I suspected that Dicky was intimidated by Stowe, who had a savage temper when any short-comings were uncovered and so Dicky’s meetings with him were sometimes less than convivial. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ Whatever shortcomings Dicky had
So that was what the Duchess and co. had been so excited about. They’d been talking about the Teachers: not about me and Fiona. ‘And London?’
‘London Central have professional worriers on the staff. But there’s no way we can have our chaps lock their wives in the broom cupboard while they’re out at work, eh?’He began to push tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘It’s a pity in some ways we can’t.’
There was the gentle noise of rain dabbing the windows. At first there were huge raindrops that came at measured intervals but soon the drops dribbled and joined and made rivulets and bent the trees and distorted the outside world beyond recognition.
6
I am not paranoid. That is to say I am not paranoid to the extent of distrusting everyone around me. Only some of them. When I went into the office next morning all seemed normal: too normal. When I’d finished looking at my own desk, I was summoned upstairs. Dicky Cruyer, German Desk supremo and my immediate superior, was in a singular mood that I could almost describe as jovial.
‘Good morning, Bernard!’ he said and smiled. He was a slim bony man with pale complexion and a golliwog-style head of curly hair that I suspected he regularly had permed.
During my few weeks of living rough in Berlin I’d reconciled myself to the idea that I would never again see this office. Never again see England, in fact. So now I looked round Dicky’s office and marvelled at it as if seeing it all for the first time. I examined anew the magnificent rosewood table that Dicky used instead of a desk, and behind it the wall filled with photos, mostly of Dicky. I inspected the soft black leather Eames chair and matching footstool and the slightly mangy lion skin on the floor which I noticed he’d positioned less obtrusively. I looked at it all with a feeling of wonder.
‘I hope you’re in a mood for hard work,’ said Dicky. ‘There is plenty to do now your holiday is over.’ He leaned forward, elbows on table with fingertips touching. He was in shirt-sleeves with bright red braces and a floral patternedbow tie. The Deputy had objected to Dicky’s denim and leather and now he wore suits in the office, but the newly acquired loud ties and bright braces were a subtle erosion of these dress restrictions.
I looked at him. ‘Yes, I am.’ He smiled. Did he really think I’d been on holiday? There was no way I could tell from his warm relaxed friendly smile. But the way he touched his fingertips together in a rapid succession of staccato taps betrayed what I judged to be an underlying nervousness.
‘The Deputy Controller Europe wants a pow-wow at ten-thirty. You’d better come along too. Take notes.’
‘What about?’ The Deputy Controller Europe was an Australian named Augustus Stowe. Dicky imperfectly concealed his envy of Stowe and usually referred to him by his title, with sarcastic emphasis as if the position Stowe occupied was self-evidently unsuited to the man’s abilities. This attitude to Stowe, complete with whispered doubts about his competence, was shared by some of Dicky’s immediate circle. Stowe, a formid able childhood prodigy, had stayed on to teach Logic at Perth University, and some now slightingly referred to him as ‘Doctor Stowe’ as if a man with a doctorate was too unworldly for the Department.
‘There are a number of things,’ said Dicky vaguely. It was Dicky’s way of admitting that he hadn’t the slightest idea. I suspected that Dicky was intimidated by Stowe, who had a savage temper when any short-comings were uncovered and so Dicky’s meetings with him were sometimes less than convivial. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ Whatever shortcomings Dicky had
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