The Ministry of Fear by Graham Greene Page A

his wife’s. There was really no resemblance, but it was so long since he had spoken to a woman, except his landlady or a girl behind a counter, that any feminine voice took him back . . . ‘Please. Who is that?’
    â€˜Is that Miss Hilfe?’
    â€˜Yes. Who are you?’
    He said as if his name were a household word, ‘I’m Rowe.’
    There was such a long pause that he thought she had put the receiver back. He said, ‘Hullo. Are you there?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I wanted to talk to you.’
    â€˜You shouldn’t ring me.’
    â€˜I’ve nobody else to ring – except your brother. Is he there?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You heard what happened?’
    â€˜He told me.’
    â€˜You had expected something, hadn’t you?’
    â€˜Not that. Something worse.’ She explained, ‘I didn’t know him .’
    â€˜I brought you some worries, didn’t I, when I came in yesterday?’
    â€˜Nothing worries my brother.’
    â€˜I rang up Rennit.’
    â€˜Oh, no, no. You shouldn’t have done that.’
    â€˜I haven’t learnt the technique yet. You can guess what happened.’
    â€˜Yes. The police.’
    â€˜You know what your brother wants me to do?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Their conversation was like a letter which has to pass a censorship. He had an overpowering desire to talk to someone frankly. He said, ‘Would you meet me somewhere – for five minutes?’
    â€˜No,’ she said. ‘I can’t. I can’t get away.’
    â€˜Just for two minutes.’
    â€˜It’s not possible.’
    It suddenly became of great importance to him. ‘Please,’ he said.
    â€˜It wouldn’t be safe. My brother would be angry.’
    He said, ‘I’m so alone. I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve got nobody to advise me. There are so many questions . . .’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    â€˜Can I write to you . . . or him?’
    She said, ‘Just send your address here – to me. No need to sign the note – or sign it with any name you like.’
    Refugees had such stratagems on the tip of the tongue; it was a familiar way of life. He wondered whether if he were to ask her about money she would have an answer equally ready. He felt like a child who is lost and finds an adult hand to hold, a hand that guides him understandingly homewards . . . He became reckless of the imaginary censor. He said, ‘There’s nothing in the papers.’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜I’ve written a letter to the police.’
    â€˜Oh,’ she said, ‘you shouldn’t have done that. Have you posted it?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Wait and see,’ she said. ‘Perhaps there won’t be any need. Just wait and see.’
    â€˜Do you think it would be safe to go to my bank?’
    â€˜You are so helpless,’ she said, ‘so helpless. Of course you mustn’t. They will watch for you there.’
    â€˜Then how can I live . . . ?’
    â€˜Haven’t you a friend who would cash you a cheque?’
    Suddenly he didn’t want to admit to her that there was no one at all. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes. I suppose so.’
    â€˜Well then . . . Just keep away,’ she said so gently that he had to strain his ears.
    â€˜I’ll keep away.’
    She had rung off. He put the receiver down and moved back into Holborn, keeping away. Just ahead of him, with bulging pockets, went one of the bookworms from the auction-room.
    â€˜Haven’t you a friend?’ she had said. Refugees had always friends; people smuggled letters, arranged passports, bribed officials; in that enormous underground land as wide as a continent there was companionship. In England one hadn’t yet learned the technique. Whom could he ask to take one of his cheques? Not a tradesman. Since he began to