“Blame it on the sweater.” What the hell.
“Why? Why not blame it on your balls?” She was calm. And slightly amused.
“Hey, hey. You’re jumping several stages ahead.”
“Hey, hey, no I’m not. I’m just stopping you from doing what every man does when he fails to score. He blames the woman.”
Silk raised his hands. “Okay. I surrender.”
She ran a finger along his jawline. “Cleancut. I like a man with a cleancut face. Come on, let’s take a stroll.”
He walked beside her. “Is this wise? You hardly know me.”
“Oh, I know you. I should have married you, ten years ago, when you were still fairly sober.”
“You’re confusing me with…”
“Yes, I am. Anyway, he’s dead. Drunk as a skunk, drove flat out, hit a bridge, end of story. Hullo, Millie.” She waved to a friend. “Sings like an angel, cooks like a Borgia,” she told Silk. “Avoid her dinners. They’ll kill you.” She led him behind the summerhouse and through a garden gate. “Where are we going?” he asked. He didn’t care; it was just something to say. They turned right. “Deadman’s Acre,” she said. “Good view.”
“Another fatality. You’re dangerous to know, aren’t you?”
She didn’t laugh, or smile, or reply. Got that wrong. Silk said to himself. This is not going well.
They walked in silence. When she spoke, her voice was different: slack, easy, almost thinking aloud. “Thank God I’m out of there. I hate crowds, and crowds of artists are the worst, all those fragile egos, all that bullshit… I can’t take the noise. I was ready to go and hide in the cellar when you turned up, bellowing like a wounded buffalo. Who are you, anyway?”
Silk explained.
“I’ve met Zoë,” she said. “Ball of fire. Not like me. Slow burner, me. I used to be a model, fairly successful, I knew how to switch on and switch off. I could sparkle when I wanted. Still can, briefly. Brought you running, didn’t I?”
“Did you? Can’t remember. It was ages ago.”
At last she smiled. “I know the signs. I’m thirty-two, Silko. Men have been falling in love with this face of mine since I was fifteen. Face and figure. Love at first sight, that’s what they think, silly bastards. They don’t know me. How can they? So it always ends in tears. Not my tears, hell no, don’t blame me for my looks. You wouldn’t enjoy it if women kept falling in love with you at first sight, would you?”
“I might.”
“Twice a week? Year round?”
“That might be rather a strain.”
They reached Deadman’s Acre and admired the view. Blackbirds sang. Swallows stooged about the sky. One plunged and soared in something like a corkscrew. Hard work, and all to catch a few bugs. But beautiful.
They walked back. He found that her name was Tess Monk. She lived in an old farmhouse, alone. She taught music for a living and worked part-time in a shop for another living. “That’s where the sweater came from,” she said. “You want us to meet again. I can tell by the way you’re chewing your lip.”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to learn the saxophone.”
“You’re lying. And I don’t teach the sax. I teach the cello.”
“That was my second choice,” he said.
On the way home, Zoë said. “I bought a painting of a tree, very ugly, but the artist’s wife is pregnant again.”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” Silk said. “Talking of which, I took your advice. I’m going to learn to play the cello.”
“Golly. Who’s teaching you?”
“A nice old widow-lady. Tess Monk.”
“Oh, her. She’s batty. No, that’s unfair. She lives in a world of her own. I asked her to join Artists Against The Bomb and she said she was against artists. In her experience, they had lousy judgement and bad breath and ninety percent could be A-bombed and the world would be a better place.”
“Damn right.”
“Damn silly.”
“What if you got Laurence Olivier on your soap box? Why should I do what he says? He’s just an actor. Hasn’t got a brain of his own. Why should anyone buy his opinions?”
“I’d have him in a flash, if I could.”
“Just shows that Tess Monk was right.”
“No, Silko. It just shows that your brain is away with the fairies, like hers. And you’ll never learn the cello. I’ve heard you sing. You can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“It’s only a hobby,” he said. “Nothing serious. Like your hobby of dropping little hints about Vulcan operations. You said the four-minute warning begs a large question, but you never explained what that meant.”
“Glaringly obvious. Look at the Vulcan. Look at Blue Steel. Now ask yourself why the Americans keep their B52s armed and flying around the clock, every day of the year. If you can’t work it out, you don’t deserve to know.”
“Look,” he said. “Cows eating grass. Isn’t that amazing?”
They reached The Grange. She packed a briefcase and changed her clothes. The sun was setting as he drove her to Lincoln and saw her onto the London train. Then he drove to the farmhouse where Tess Monk lived. “You again,” she said.
“I passed a pub. The Mason’s Arms. Thought you might like to go for a drink. Maybe a pickled egg. Packet of nuts.”
“You’re full of wild ideas.” She shut the door and took his arm.
ROCK THE PYRAMIDS
“Our information is that she has been an undesirable influence on him,” Brigadier Leppard said. “Possibly subversive. Even seditious.”
“All in twenty-four hours?” Skull said. “My God. It almost makes you feel proud to be British.”
They were standing at the bar of the Bum Steer. It was lunchtime, and only a couple of tables were occupied. The place was, as always, dark.
“Twenty-four hours isn’t enough?” Leppard said. “It’s a day too long for the US Air Force. Captain Black was shipped home last night.”
“That’s fast.”
“You bet your sweet life. My God, it almost makes you feel proud to be American.”
Skull ate some peanuts. “I’ve known her for years. She’s an MP, independent yes, but unpatriotic? Unthinkable.”
“Our Intelligence guys are trained to think the unthinkable. Like thinking that your Mr Profumo, Harrow and Oxford, Secretary of State for War, might be bedding Miss Christine Keeler while she was bedding Captain Romanov, naval attaché at the Russian Embassy.”
“Not simultaneously.”
“You only have his word for that. And the man did lie to your House of Commons… Look, Skulclass="underline" we have our own rotten apples, nobody denies that. So we don’t want to make a big production out of this. The Silks are your problem. We’ll file it and forget – provided it doesn’t happen again.”
“What did happen, exactly?” Skull asked. “And who says?”
The barman was out of earshot, but still Leppard lowered his voice. “Your people. MI5. No details. They referred to Mrs Silk’s links with CND and said her influence on Captain Black was… I can’t remember the exact words.”
“Contrary to good order and discipline, I expect. That’s what we always say when we’re on a slightly sticky wicket.”
“Anyway, he’s gone.”
“What will happen to him?”
“There’s always a need for good men in the Aleutians.”
Skull shuddered. “Have you got time for another?” He signalled the barman. “How’s Operation Ortsac coming along?”
Leppard pretended to look alarmed. “Never heard of it. Doesn’t exist. Routine manoeuvres. Unimportant. Postponed. Cancelled. How did you know?”