‘Yes. Keeping busy?’
‘Meeting with the Aussies on wheat tariffs today.’ He sighed. ‘I expect they’ll be shouting as usual. The trials of Empire.’
David got out on the second floor and passed the Registry. The clerks were all in. From behind the counter Carol, at her desk, gave him a quick smile and a wave. He smiled back, guiltily remembering what he had done on Sunday.
Old Dabb, checking a card index at the counter, looked up. ‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘A brief word, if I may.’
‘Of course.’ David noticed dandruff on the old man’s collar.
‘I was concerned, sir,’ the Registrar said in his slow sad voice, ‘to observe you left the High Commissioners’ meeting file on the counter last night, without getting a clerk to sign it back in.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A moment of time now can spare much confusion later.’
‘I’m sorry, Dabb, we’ve been so busy. It won’t happen again.’
It was a quiet morning; David telephoned South Africa House and discussed who might attend the meeting the SS officials were asking for. He had spoken several times that week with an eager young Afrikaner, stressing the need for secrecy. ‘Teach the Russians who’s boss, hey?’ the South African had chuckled. ‘The Germans aren’t settling the Congo, are they, got enough on their hands trying to settle Russia.’
No, David thought, they’re just looting the Congo, like the Belgians did. David hated these apartheid people and their friendship with the Nazis, but he was formally, coolly polite as he discussed which SS officials would go – out of uniform, of course – to South Africa House. Then he studied a report on the forthcoming Birmingham Empire Week, who would be manning stalls from the various High Commissions, the important businesses taking part, like Unilever and Lonrho. He thought he might go for a swim at lunchtime, to the pool at a club he belonged to nearby. He still loved diving down into the empty, peaceful silence.
Late in the morning there was a brusque knock on the door and Hubbold came in, frowning.
‘Word’s come down from the Permanent Secretary. We’ve to stall on the Coronation arrangements at the High Commissioners’ meeting.’
‘The Times said they might tie it in with Hitler’s twentieth anniversary celebrations.’
Hubbold laughed softly. ‘Ah, The Times. Forever planting the right seeds in our minds. Anyway, instructions from on high are for everyone to stonewall. It’s a nuisance, you know how potty the High Commissioners are over royalty. They’ll want to know if it’ll be the spring or summer, whether Hartnell will design the dress. Pity we’ll have to say nothing’s decided, leaves more time for awkward subjects under Any Other Business. I’ve had word the Canadians may bring up the Jew laws again.’
‘Has that come from Canada House, sir?’ David asked, antennae alert.
‘Not officially,’ Hubbold smiled. ‘Arcana imperii, you know. Secrets of authority.’ He liked it to be known he had his own sources; it was another mark of seniority for him. Some of David’s colleagues were on first-name terms with their superiors, but Hubbold had never even suggested David drop the ‘sir’. Hubbold continued, ‘The minister does get rather embarrassed when that one comes up. Anyway, useful for you to know what the nuances will be.’
Shortly after eleven one of the interdepartmental messengers knocked at David’s door. He gave him a letter inside a Colonial Office envelope: Can you meet for lunch at the club at 1.15 not 1.30? Geoff.
When the messenger had gone David sat frowning. The words were a code that meant there was something they needed to talk about; they would meet at the Oxford and Cambridge Club at one fifteen. They never spoke on the telephone if possible, as there were rumours Civil Service phones were routinely tapped by Special Branch now. David lit a cigarette and stared anxiously through the window at Whitehall. This had only happened once before, when Jackson had advance notice of a raid on the Soho brothels, and called off a regular meeting at the flat. But at least it wasn’t an emergency, there was a separate code for that.
David left the Office at one and walked up to Trafalgar Square. A huge poster had been placed on the plinth of Nelson’s Column. We Need Exports. We Work or Want. A Challenge to British Grit. David wondered what the trade talks with Germany would bring; Volkswagens to replace the Hillmans and Morrises chugging round Trafalgar Square?
He turned into Pall Mall. Two Auxiliary policemen in their blue uniforms and caps walked slowly along, guns at their waists, watching the passers-by. Two more patrolled in parallel on the other side of the road. Something was up. He thought, Sarah’s coming into town today for one of her meetings. On Sunday, after the talk about Charlie, they had made love, an increasingly rare occurrence. He had felt detached, the brief moment of warmth quickly gone.
David entered the club. A hum of conversation came from the dining room but he went directly to the library. Few people ever came in at lunchtime and only Geoff was there now, in an armchair with a view of the door. David sat opposite him.
‘Got your message,’ he said quietly.
‘Thanks for coming.’ Geoff leaned forward. ‘Message from Jackson. He wants a scratch meeting tomorrow.’
‘Do we know why?’
‘No. I only heard just before I contacted you. Just that we’ve got to be there. Seven o’clock.’
‘Sarah’s expecting me home. I can’t say we’ve fixed up a special tennis match, not at this notice.’ David thought, my wife has become someone to lie to. He sighed. ‘I’ll think of something.’
‘I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. Easier for me, living alone.’
David looked at his friend. He seemed tired, more nervy than usual. ‘How are your parents?’ he asked.
‘Oh, rolling along in their groove.’ Geoff, like David, was an only child, his father a retired businessman. His parents lived a peaceful life in Hertfordshire, revolved around bowls matches, roses and golf. ‘Keep asking whether I’ve met any nice girls,’ Geoff added. ‘I’m tempted to say, the only ones I know these days aren’t very nice.’ He gave his jerky laugh, then changed the subject. ‘How’s your dad?’
‘Fine. Had a letter last week. It’s spring in Auckland, he went with his brother’s family to look at Rotorua last week. It wasn’t raining for once.’
‘Still hasn’t met a nice Kiwi widow?’
‘He’ll never marry again. He was too devoted to Mum.’
A shadow crossed Geoff’s face; David guessed he was thinking of the woman in Kenya. He changed the subject. ‘Heard about Beaver-brook flying out to Berlin?’
‘Yes. According to the club tickertape, Hitler isn’t going to be able to meet him.’
‘Maybe it’s true Hitler’s dead, he hasn’t been seen in public for what – two years?’
Geoff shook his head firmly. ‘He’s not dead. The Nazi leaders would be fighting for his crown; they fought like rats over Göring’s economic empire when he died.’
‘I wish Hitler were dead.’
‘Amen to that,’ Geoff replied with feeling.
When he was growing up in Barnet David did not think much about being Irish. He knew bad things had happened in Ireland and that his parents had brought him to England when he was very small. His father’s parents still lived in Dublin and visited them occasionally when David was young; they died within six months of each other when he was ten. His mother never spoke of her family; over the years David gathered there had been some sort of quarrel.
There was always a burden of expectation from his mother. His father was a solid, unruffled, easy-going man, but Rachel Fitzgerald was small and thin and excitable, always busy, always chatting in her loud sing-song voice to her husband or David, the daily woman or her female friends from the Conservative Club. When not talking she was usually listening to the radio, humming along to the tunes and sometimes playing them, surprisingly well, on the piano in the dining room. She was forever telling David to work hard at school; with all the unemployment in the country since the War it was important to get qualifications. She spoke anxiously, as though their safe, secure life might suddenly be snatched away.