Here he was entertained royally with the best meal he had had in years, a couple of glasses of lager and a fat cigar. Later, in their officers’ mess, he had been quizzed again, this time out of curiosity. Most wanted to know what life was like in the Communist East and how he had endured the concentration camp and the gulag. It was dawn when they found him a bed and he collapsed exhausted into it.
Later that day, a gum-chewing driver and a lieutenant with a pistol in a holster took him by jeep to Bonn, the capital of West Germany, where he was left with an aide to the British ambassador. Here he was debriefed thoroughly and given accommodation, while they verified his identity. Two days later he was on a plane heading for London.
The interrogation and the debriefings at the Foreign Office went on for several days, even though they must have been sent the notes of his interrogation in Bonn. When they were satisfied he was who he said he was, he was asked what he intended to do. It was a question he could not readily answer. A quick look at the telephone book had confirmed that Sir Edward Stoneleigh still lived at Upstone Hall and he had been tempted to ring him but decided not to; if he went there he would have to see Lydia, and how could he go there and not tell her he had seen Yuri?
‘I need work,’ he said. ‘And somewhere to live.’
‘You have a job here and all your back pay – years of it.’
‘Thank you, but I’ve had enough of the diplomatic corps. I need to be out of doors, leading the simple life.’
He recognised he was not the man he had been, nor ever would be again. What he had been through would colour the rest of his days. The man of decisive action had been too long inured to obeying orders instantly, to half expecting the blows raining on his shoulders for no reason except the guard was in a bad mood, or one of his fellow prisoners suspected him of stealing his food. After years and years of communal living, of not being able to call his soul his own, he needed solitude. He bought a smallholding in Northacre Green, a small village near East Dereham in Norfolk, where he grew vegetables and reared a few pigs and chickens and kept himself to himself.
Sir Edward Stoneleigh’s obituary in The Daily Telegraph had caught his attention and dragged him, unwillingly, back into the real world.
Robert was working on the deck of the Merry Maid, lovingly polishing the brass work, when Alex found him. ‘Hallo, Rob,’ he said quietly.
Robert whipped round. ‘God God, Alex Peters! It is you, isn’t it? You’re as thin as a rake.’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘We thought you were dead. Sir Edward heard it through the embassy. Where the devil have you been?’
‘Here and there. In a German POW camp and then Siberia. It’s a very long story.’
‘Come aboard and tell me about it.’
Alex walked up the gangplank and jumped on deck. After shaking hands, Robert led the way down to the cabin. It was clean but untidy. ‘Don’t mind the mess. I’ve been too busy on deck to clean up.’ He filled a kettle and lit the gas ring. ‘When did you get back?’
‘About six months ago.’
Robert whistled. ‘Why have you waited so long to contact us? Why didn’t you come to the house? Sir Edward died, you know, two months ago now. Poor Lydia was devastated. You did know we had married?’
‘Yes. It’s why I didn’t go. Thought it best.’
‘Appreciate that, old man.’
Alex smiled. They seemed to be talking in a kind of shorthand but it conveyed their meaning perfectly. He watched Robert put a tea bag in each of two mugs and pour the boiling water on them. He stirred them thoughtfully. Alex could almost hear his brain ticking over.
‘We have two children: Bobby, who’s twelve, and Tatyana, who’s ten.’ He sniffed at the bottle of milk, decided it hadn’t gone off and added some to the mugs. Alex could not get used to drinking tea with milk in it. He watched Rob dip a teaspoon into an open bag of sugar and put some in his tea. He followed suit.
‘I know that too. I congratulate you.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked at Alex over the rim of his mug. ‘Come on, out with the story.’
So Alex told it yet again, while the other drank his tea and listened in silence, until he came to his return to Moscow, a free man. ‘If you can call it freedom,’ he added.
‘How did you get out of Russia and back here?’ Robert asked. ‘It could not have been easy.’
‘That’s another story and, in a way, is why I’m here. I went to Balfour Place, thinking that perhaps you stayed there without Lydia sometimes. The janitor told me where to find you.’
‘Wondering when you were coming to that.’
‘I need your advice.’
‘Go on.’
Alex told him about finding Yuri and both his and Olga’s reaction. ‘I’d like your advice on what to do about it,’ he said. ‘Should Lydia be told or not?’
‘That’s a tough one,’ Robert said, looking thoughtful, while Alex waited, understanding the man’s hesitation. ‘If the boy is so anti the West and Olga hasn’t told him about Lydia, should we upset her all over again? Is that what you’re asking me?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘Then I would say, no, don’t tell her. Sir Edward tried to locate Yuri soon after the war ended, but failed. She has accepted the boy is lost. Think of the emotional upheaval for everyone, not least Bobby and Tatty. And all for what? It won’t reunite Lydia with Yuri, will it?’
‘No. You’re right.’ He drained his mug. ‘Does Lydia come on the boat with you?’
‘No, she looked it over when I first bought it, but she hates the sea. We had a rough crossing coming back from Russia and she’s never forgotten it. This is my private passion.’
‘Doesn’t she mind?’
‘Not at all. She knows how much I miss the sea since I came out of the service.’
Alex stood up to leave. ‘Good luck with it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I shan’t trouble you again. If, at any time in the future, you want to tell Lydia what I have told you, then that’s up to you.’
They shook hands and Alex went up on deck and jumped down onto the towpath. He took a huge breath of air before striding off towards the city and the railway station. He was exhausted. The encounter had taken more out of him than he would have believed possible. What was more, he had condemned himself never to see Lydia again. He knew Robert would not breathe a word.
BETRAYAL
1961 – 1964
Chapter Twelve
‘Mum, stop fussing. You look gorgeous.’ Tatty was sitting on her mother’s bed watching her dress.
Lydia stopped twisting herself in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and smiled at her daughter in its reflection. If anyone looked gorgeous it was Tatty in a lilac print frock patterned all over with tiny white flowers. She had skilfully used a little make-up, blusher and eyebrow pencil and a pale-pink lipstick. Long-legged, enviably slim, full of vitality and so popular there was always a crowd of friends of both sexes visiting Upstone Hall during school holidays. Lydia supposed that one day there would be a special young man and a wedding and she didn’t know how she would feel about that. Tatty always laughed at that idea. ‘I’m not going to get married, Mum, I’ll be too busy enjoying myself.’
Lydia made no comment; she had heard it all before. ‘I can’t believe Bobby is old enough to leave school,’ she said. ‘Where have the years gone? It only seems five minutes since he was a baby.’
‘All mothers say that,’ Tatty said, standing up. ‘Just don’t say it in his hearing, that’s all. Are you ready?’