A Perfect Spy

Mary Lou was a gypsy, Uncle Jack said, though Tom thought her more like a pirate. She was fat-bottomed and black-haired and had false lips drawn over her mouth like Frau Bauer in Vienna. She cooked cakes and served cream teas in a wooden café at the edge of the Common. Tom asked for poached eggs on toast and the eggs were creamy and fresh like the eggs at Plush. Uncle Jack had a pot of tea and a piece of her best fruitcake. He seemed to have forgotten everything Tom had been talking about, which Tom was grateful for, because he was feeling headachey from the fresh air and embarrassed by his own thoughts. It was two hours and eight minutes till he had to ring the bell for evensong. He was thinking he might take his father’s advice and run away.

“So what was all this about the police again?” said Brotherhood a little vaguely, long after Tom had decided he had forgotten or not heard.

“They came and saw Caird. Then Caird sent for me.”

“Mr. Caird, son,” Brotherhood corrected him perfectly kindly and took a grateful pull of tea. “When?”

“On Friday. After house rugger. Mr. Caird sent for me and there was this man in a raincoat sitting in Mr. Caird’s armchair, and he said he was from Scotland Yard about Dad, and did I by any chance have his leave address because in his absentmindedness after Granddad’s funeral Dad had taken leave and not told anyone where he was.”

“Bollocks,” Brotherhood said after a long time.

“It’s true, sir. It really is.”

“You said they.”

“I meant he.”

“Height?”

“Five foot ten.”

“Age?”

“Forty.”

“Colour of hair?”

“Like mine.”

“Clean-shaven?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes?”

“Brown.”

It was a game they had played often in the past.

“Car?”

“He took a taxi from the station.”

“How do you know?”

“Mr. Mellor brought him. He takes me to cello and works from the station cab-rank.”

“Be accurate, boy. He came in Mr. Mellor’s car. Did he tell you he’d come by train?”

“No.”

“Did Mellor?”

“No.”

“So who says he was a policeman?”

“Mr. Caird, sir. When he introduced me.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A suit, sir. Grey.”

“Did he give his rank?”

“Inspector.”

Brotherhood smiled. A wonderful, comforting affectionate smile. “You silly chump, he was a Foreign Office inspector. That’s just a flunkey from your dad’s shop. That’s not a policeman, son; that’s a half-arsed clerk from Personnel Department with too little to do. Caird got it wrong as usual.”

Tom could have kissed him. He nearly did. He straightened up and felt about nine feet taller, and he wanted to bury his face in the thick tweed of Uncle Jack’s sports coat. Of course he wasn’t a policeman! He didn’t talk like a policeman, he didn’t feel like a policeman, he didn’t have big feet or short hair like a policeman, or a policeman’s way of being separate from you even when he was being nice. It’s all right, Tom told himself in glory. Uncle Jack’s made it right, the way he always can.

Brotherhood was holding out his handkerchief and Tom scrubbed his eyes with it.

“So what did you tell him anyway?” Brotherhood said. And Tom explained that he didn’t know where his father was either, he’d talked about losing himself in Scotland for a few days before returning to Vienna. Which had made Dad somehow seem at fault, a sort of criminal or worse. And when Tom had told his Uncle Jack everything else he remembered about the interview, the questions, and the telephone number in case Dad surfaced — Tom didn’t have it, but Mr. Caird did — Uncle Jack went to the phone in Mary Lou’s parlour and rang Mr. Caird, and got an extension for Tom till nine o’clock, on the grounds that there were family matters that needed talking about.

“But what about my bells?” said Tom in alarm.

“Carter Major’s doing them,” said Uncle Jack, who understood absolutely everything.

He must have rung London too, because he took a long time and gave Mary Lou an extra five pounds to fill what he called her Christmas stocking, which had them both in fits again, and this time Tom joined in.

* * *

How they came to be talking about Corfu, Tom was afterwards never sure and perhaps there was no real path to their conversation any more; it was just chat about what they had both been up to since they had last met, which after all was before the summer holidays so there was masses to talk about if you were in a talking mood. And Tom was; he hadn’t talked like this for ages, maybe ever, but Uncle Jack had the ease, he had that mixture of tolerance and discipline that for Tom was the perfect blend, for he loved to feel the strength of Uncle Jack’s frontiers as well as the safe ground inside.

“How’s your confirmation going?” Brotherhood had asked.

“All right, thanks.”

“You’re of an age now, Tom. Got to face it. In some countries you’d be in uniform already.”

“I know.”

“Work still a problem?”

“A bit, sir.”

“Still got your eye on Sandhurst?”

“Yes, sir. And my uncle’s regiment says they’d take me if I do all right.”

“Well you’ll have to swot, won’t you?”

“I’m really trying actually.”