A Perfect Spy

At the cricket in Corfu Magnus was closer to Tom than he had ever been. They lay on the grass, munched ice creams, rooted for their favourite players and had those mannish chats that were so crucial to Tom’s happiness: for Tom loved Magnus to distraction; he was a man’s boy, always had been. As to Mary, she had taken up pastels because Corfu in summer was really too hot for her style of water-colours, the paint just dried on the page before she could get near it. But she was drawing well, getting nice likenesses and shapes, and playing hostess to half the dogs on the island because the Greeks don’t feed them or look after them or anything. So everyone was happy, everyone absolutely fine and Magnus had a cool conservatory to write in, and inland walks for his restlessness, which came to him first thing in the morning and again in late evening after he had held it off all day. They lunched late, usually in a taverna — and often rather a liquid affair, to be honest, but why not, they were on holiday. Then long sexy siestas while Mary and Magnus made love on the balcony and Tom lay on the beach studying the nudies across the bay with Magnus’s binoculars, so as Magnus put it everybody was getting his pound of flesh. Until one day the clock stopped dead and Magnus came back from a late walk and confessed he had hit a bit of a block with his writing. He just strode in, poured himself a stiff ouzo, flung himself into a chair and said it straight out:

“Sorry, Mabs. Sorry, Tom, old chap. But this place is too damned idyllic. I need roughing up a bit. I need people, for Christ’s sake. Smoke and dirt and a bit of suffering around us. It’s like being on the moon here, Mabs. Worse than Vienna. Truly.”

He was sweet about it but he was adamant. He’d been drinking, obviously, but that was because he was upset. “I’m going bonkers, Mabs. It’s really getting to me. I told Tom. Didn’t I, Tom? I said I really can’t take much more of this and I feel a shit because you two are having such a good time.”

“Yes, he did,” said Tom.

“Several times. And today it’s just hit me, Mabs. You’ve got to help me out. Both of you.”

So of course they both said they would. Mary rang Tab at once, so that she could put the house back on the market, they all had a bear-hug and went to bed feeling resolved, and next day Mary packed while Magnus went off to town to do tickets and fix the next stage of their odyssey. But Tom, over washing-up which was always a talkative time for him, had a different version of why they were leaving Corfu. Daddy had met this mystery man at cricket. It was a really super match, Mum, the best two teams on the island, a real vendetta. We were watching it like mad and suddenly there was this wise, stringy man with a sad moustache like a conjuror’s and a limp, and Dad got all uptight. He came up to Dad smiling, they talked a bit, they walked round and round the ground together with the thin man going slowly like an invalid, but he was terribly kind to Dad although Dad got so emanated.

“Animated,” Mary corrected him automatically. “Don’t talk too loud, Tom. I think Daddy’s working somewhere.”

And there was this really incredible batsman, said Tom. Called Phillippi. Just the absolute best batsman Tom had seen ever. “He scored eighteen in one over and the crowd went absolutely ape, but Dad didn’t notice, he was so busy listening to the kind man.”

“How do you know he was so kind?” said Mary with a strange irritation. “Keep your voice down.” There was no light in the conservatory, but sometimes Magnus sat there in the dark.

“He was like a father with him, Mum. He’s senior to him but sort of calm. He kept offering Dad a ride in his car. Dad kept saying no. But he didn’t get angry or anything, he was too wise. He gentled him and smiled.”

“What car? It’s just a great big romance, Tom. You know it is.”

“The Volvo. Mr. Kaloumenos’s Volvo. One man was driving and another man in the back. They kept up with them on the other side of the fence when they went round and round talking. Honestly, Mum. The thin man never lost his temper or anything, and he really likes Dad, you can tell. It’s not just holding arms. They’re friends to each other. Much more than Uncle Grant. More like Uncle Jack.”

Mary asked Magnus that night. They’d packed, she was excited to be moving, and really looking forward to the Athens museums.

“Tom says you were harassed by some tiresome man at the cricket match,” said Mary while they enjoyed a rather stiff nightcap after their heavy day.

“Was I?”

“Some little man who chased you round and round the ground. Sounded like an angry husband to me. He had a moustache, unless Tom imagined it.”

Then vaguely Magnus did remember. “Oh that’s right. He was some boring ancient Brit who kept pressing me to go and see his villa. Wanted to flog it. Bloody little pest actually.”

“He spoke German,” said Tom, next day at breakfast while Magnus was out walking.

“Who did?”