“Who’s Sefton Boyd?”
“He’s a boy in the school. He’s my friend.”
“Is he your dad’s friend too?”
“No, but his father was. His father was in the school too.”
“Now what have you done with this letter?”
Punished himself with it. Squidged it up till it was tight and prickly and kept it in his trousers pocket where it jabbed his thigh. But Tom didn’t say that. He just handed the remnants gratefully to Uncle Jack, who promised to take proper care of them and talk everything over with him next time — if there was anything that needed talking over, which Uncle Jack very much doubted that there would be.
“Got the envelope, have you?”
Tom hadn’t.
“Where did he post it from then? There’s a clue there, I expect, if we look for it.”
“The postmark was Reading,” said Tom.
“What day?”
“The Tuesday,” said Tom unhappily, “but it could have been after post on Monday. I thought he was going back to Vienna on Monday afternoon. If he didn’t go to Scotland, that is.”
But Uncle Jack didn’t seem to hear because he was talking about Greece again, playing what the two of them called report writing about this weedy fellow with a moustache who had shown up at the cricket ground in Corfu.
“I expect you were worried about him, weren’t you, son? You thought he was up to no good with your dad, I expect, although he was so friendly. I mean, if they knew each other that well, why didn’t your dad ask him home to meet your mum? I can see that would have bothered you on reflection. You didn’t think it very nice your dad should have a secret life on Mum’s doorstep.”
“I suppose I didn’t,” Tom admitted, marvelling as ever at Uncle Jack’s omniscience. “He held Dad’s arm.”
They had returned to the Digby. In the great joy of his release from worry, Tom had rediscovered his appetite and was having a steak and chips to fill the gap. Brotherhood had ordered himself a whisky.
“Height?” said Brotherhood, back at their special game.
“Six foot.”
“All right, well done. Six foot exactly is correct. Colour of hair?”
Tom hesitated. “Sort of mousy fawny with stripes,” he said.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“He wore a straw hat. It was hard to see.”
“I know he wore a straw hat. That’s why I’m asking you. Colour of hair?”
“Brown,” said Tom finally. “Brown with the sun on it. And a big forehead like a genius.”
“Now how the hell does the sun get under the brim of a hat?”
“Grey brown,” said Tom.
“Then say so. Two points only. Hatband?”
“Red.”
“Oh dear.”
“It was red.”
“Keep trying.”
“It was red, red, red!”
“Three points. Colour of beard?”
“He hasn’t got a beard. He’s got a shaggy moustache and thick eyebrows like yours but not so bushy, and crinkly eyes.”
“Three points. Build?”
“Stoopy and hobbly.”
“What the hell’s hobbly?”
“Like chumpy. Chumpy’s when the sea is choppy and bumpy. Hobbly is when he walks fast and hobbles.”
“You mean limps.”
“Yes.”
“Say so. Which leg?”
“Left.”
“One more try?”
“Left.”
“Certain?”
“Left!”
“Three points. Age?”
“Seventy.”
“Don’t be damn stupid.”
“He’s old!”
“He’s not seventy. I’m not seventy. I’m not sixty. Well only just. Is he older than me?”
“The same.”
“Carry anything?”
“A briefcase. A grey thing like elephant skin. And he was stringy like Mr. Toombs.”
“Who’s Toombs?”
“Our gym master. He teaches aikido and geography. He’s killed people with his feet, though he’s not supposed to.”
“All right, stringy like Mr. Toombs, carried an elephant skin briefcase. Two points. Another time, omit the subjective reference.”
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Toombs. You know him, I don’t. Don’t compare one person I don’t know with another I don’t know.”
“You said you knew him,” said Tom, very excited to catch Uncle Jack out.
“I do. I’m fooling. Did he have a car, your man?”
“Volvo. Hired from Mr. Kaloumenos.”
“How do you know that?”
“He hires it to everyone. He goes down to the harbour and hangs about and if anyone wants to hire a car Mr. Kaloumenos gives them his Volvo.”
“Colour?”
“Green. And it’s got a bashed wing and a Corfu registration and a fox’s tail from the aerial and a—”
“It’s red.”
“It’s green!”
“No points,” said Brotherhood firmly, to Tom’s outrage.
“Why not?”
Brotherhood pulled a wolfish smile. “It wasn’t his car, was it? How do you know it was the bloke with the moustache who hired it when two other blokes were riding in it? You lost your objectivity, son.”
“He was in charge!”
“You don’t know that. You’re guessing it. You could start a war, making up things like that. Ever met an Auntie Poppy at all, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Uncle?”
Tom giggled. “No, sir.”
“A Mr. Wentworth a name to you?”
“No, sir.”
“No bells at all?”
“No, sir. I thought it was a place in Surrey.”
“Well done, son. Never make it up if you think you don’t know and ought to. That’s the rule.”
“You were teasing again, weren’t you?”
“Maybe I was at that. When did your dad say he’d see you again?”
“He didn’t.”
“Does he ever?”
“Not really.”
“Then there’s no fuss, is there?”
“It’s just the letter.”
“What about the letter?”
“It’s as if he’s dead.”
“Bollocks. You’re imagining. Want me to tell you something else you know? That secret hideaway of your dad’s that he’s gone to. It’s all right. We know about it. Did he give you the address?”
“No.”
“Name of the nearest Scottish town?”
“No. He just said Scotland. On the sea in Scotland. A place to write where he’s safe from everyone.”
“He’s told you all he can, Tom. He’s not allowed to tell you any more. How many rooms has he got?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Who does his shopping then?”
“He didn’t say. He’s got a super landlady. She’s old.”
“He’s a good man. And a wise man. And she’s a good woman. One of us. Now don’t you worry any more.” Uncle Jack glanced sideways at his watch. “Here. Finish that up and order yourself a ginger beer. I need to see a man about a dog.” Still smiling, he strode to the door marked toilets and telephone. Tom was nothing if not an observer. Points of happy colour on Uncle Jack’s cheeks. A sense of merriness like his own and everybody absolutely fine.
* * *
Brotherhood had a wife and a house in Lambeth, and in theory he could have gone to them. He had another wife in his cottage in Suffolk, divorced it was true but given notice willing to oblige. He had a daughter married to a solicitor in Pinner and he wished them both to the devil and it was mutual. Nevertheless they would have had him as a duty. And there was a useless son who scratched a living on the stage and if Brotherhood was feeling charitable towards him, which oddly enough these days he sometimes was, and if he could stomach the squalor and the smell of pot, which he sometimes could, he would have been welcome enough to the heap of greasy coverlets that Adrian called his spare bed. But tonight and for every other night until he had had his word with Pym he wanted none of them. He preferred the exile of his stinking little safe flat in Shepherd Market with sooty pigeons humping each other on the parapet and the tarts doing sentry go along the pavement below him, the way they used to in the war. Periodically the Firm tried to take the place away from him or deduct the rent from his salary at source. The desk jockeys hated him for it and said it was his fuck-hutch, which occasionally it was. They resented his claims for hospitality booze and cleaners he didn’t have. But Brotherhood was hardier than all of them and more or less they knew it.