A Perfect Spy

“Pitch the launcher right next to the pylon and shoot away from it!” Tom had shouted back joyfully, and as he shouted he felt the last bits of worry go out of his chest, and his shoulders settle on his back, and he knew that with a wind like this whipping over the hilltop he could tell anything he wanted to anybody. Uncle Jack launched ten clays for him and he brought down eight with eleven cartridges, which was his absolute best yet considering the wind. And when it was Tom’s turn to launch, Uncle Jack had a fight on his hands just to match him. But match him he did and Tom loved him for it. He didn’t want to beat Uncle Jack. His father maybe, but not Uncle Jack; there would be nothing left. In his second ten Tom did less well but he didn’t mind because his arms were aching, which wasn’t his fault. But Uncle Jack stayed steady as a castle. Even when he was reloading, the white head stayed forward to meet the rising butt.

“Fourteen eighteen to you,” Tom shouted as he galloped about collecting empty cartridges. “Well shot!” And then, just as loud and cheerful: “And Dad’s all right, is he?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” Brotherhood shouted back.

“He seemed a bit down when he came to see me after Granddad’s funeral, that’s all.”

“I should think he bloody well was down. How would you feel if you had just buried your old man?”

Still shouting in the wind, both of them. Small talk while they loaded the 20-bore and cranked back the launcher for another go.

“He talked about freedom all the time!” Tom yelled. “He said nobody could ever give it to us, we’ve got to grab it for ourselves. I got rather bored with it, actually.”

Uncle Jack was so busy reloading that Tom even wondered whether he had heard. Or if he had, whether he was interested.

“He’s dead right,” said Brotherhood snapping the gun shut. “Patriotism’s a dirty word these days.”

Tom released the clay and watched it curl and burst to powder under Uncle Jack’s perfect aim.

“He wasn’t talking about patriotism exactly,” Tom explained, delving for another couple of cartridges.

“Oh?”

“I think he was telling me that if I was unhappy I should run away. He said it in his letter too. It’s sort—”

“Well?”

“It’s as if he wanted me to do something he hadn’t done himself when he was at the school. It’s a bit weird actually.”

“I shouldn’t think it’s weird at all. He’s testing you, that’s all. Saying the door’s open if you want to bolt. More like a gesture of trust by the sound of it. No boy had a better father, Tom.”

Tom fired and missed.

“What do you mean letter, anyway?” said Brotherhood. “I thought he came and saw you.”

“He did. But he wrote to me as well. A great long letter. I just thought it was weird,” he said again, unable to get away from a favourite new adjective.

“All right, he was cut up. What’s wrong with that? His old man dies, he sits down and writes to his son. You should feel honoured — good shot, boy. Good shot.”

“Thanks,” said Tom and looked on proudly while Uncle Jack marked a hit on his scorecard. Uncle Jack always kept the score.

“That’s not what he said, though,” Tom added awkwardly. “He wasn’t cut up. He was pleased.”

“He wrote that, did he?”

“He said Granddad had gobbled up the natural humanity in him and he didn’t want to gobble it up in me.”

“That’s just another way of being cut up,” said Brotherhood, unbothered. “Your dad ever talk about a secret place, by the by? Somewhere he could find his well-earned peace and quiet, ever?”

“Not really.”

“He had one though, didn’t he.”

“Not really.”

“Where is it?”

“He said I was never to tell anyone.”

“Then don’t,” said Uncle Jack firmly.

Suddenly, after that, talking about one’s father became the necessary function of a democratic prefect. Mr. Caird had said it was the duty of people of privilege to sacrifice what they held most dear in life, and Tom loved his father beyond bearing. He felt Brotherhood’s gaze on him and was pleased to have aroused his interest even though it did not seem to be particularly approving.

“You’ve known him a very long time, haven’t you, Uncle Jack?” said Tom, getting into the car.

“If thirty-five years is a long time.”

“It is,” said Tom, for whom a week was still an age. Inside the car there was suddenly no wind at all. “So if Dad’s all right,” he said with false boldness as he buckled on his seat belt, “why are the police looking for him? That’s what I want to know.”

* * *

“Going to tell our fortunes today, Mary Lou?” Uncle Jack asked.

“Not today, darling, I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re always in the mood,” said Uncle Jack, and the two of them had a huge laugh while Tom blushed.