A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (41 page)

‘Hello, Bridie.' It was Tim, standing in the doorway, holding the door open. ‘How are you, Aunt Evie?'

He had his hat in his hand. Evie returned to watching the bacon. ‘I'm fine, lad. How goes it with you?'

He didn't reply, just said, ‘I'd like to talk to Bridie, only for a moment, if I may? Perhaps outside? It's not cold.'

Bridie just shook her head. He stayed in the doorway. ‘I'm not going until you come. Please, Bridie, I'll stay here all day otherwise, and that will cause a draught, and Mrs Moore might get a chill, and I'd be sorry about that.'

The dogs were at his feet now, whining for a stroke, which he gave them, laughing softly.

Her mam looked across at her. ‘He's got Jack's look about him, the one before his fist fights when he was a hewer in Auld Maud, so he won't go away. But it's not going to trouble her, is it, bonny lad? If it is, I'll come too.'

Bridie almost smiled, because her mam had exactly the same look on her face. Tim said quietly, ‘Do you really think I'd hurt our Bridie, Aunt Evie?' He was shaking his head. He was pale, and tired. He'd lost more weight, Bridie thought.

Tim hushed the dogs now and sent them back to Mrs Moore, who waved at him and said to Bridie, ‘By, go with the lad. He hasn't grown horns, not that I can see anyway, pet.'

Bridie's heart was thumping in her chest. She
longed to be with him, but it was also the last thing she wanted. ‘Wait for me outside, and shut the door. You weren't born in a barn, were you?'

Looking as though she'd slapped him, he turned on his heel and shut the door, shouting, ‘I'll be at the cedar tree.'

Evie stared at Bridie, then understanding dawned. ‘You'd best go, and stop being rude. It doesn't solve anything and makes you sound like a three-year-old, and your feelings don't belong with a child. Go and talk it out with the lad. Love deserves that.'

Bridie looked at Mrs Moore for support, but the old cook said, ‘Aye, rude as anything, I'd call that, and cowardly. Get yourself up those stairs. The sooner you get there, the sooner it'll be sorted.' The dogs were scratching at the door, wanting to be out with Tim, but Mrs Moore called them back. As Bridie left she heard her asking Evie if she'd seen her size ten knitting needle.

Bridie made herself walk up the steps, when she wanted to run to him because she had seen the love in his eyes. But it could go nowhere because of what he was. She braced her shoulders and walked through the stable yard, calling softly to Terry, who was looking out from his stall. He whinnied. ‘In a moment, pet,' she said, amazed that her voice was so calm.

Tim was watching her as she headed across the grass towards him, skirting the small marquee erected a week ago for a small wedding reception
next week. She held her head high. This man that she loved admired the people who had hurt Dr and Mrs Gerber. He went to those dinners of Sir Anthony's. He danced with smug-face. He wore a fascist badge, and went to their meetings. He went to Berlin, and who knew what he did there, with Penny and without her? Trust him, James had said. The boy was mad, and should know better.

Her fury was in place by the time she reached him. He looked at her. He said, ‘I love you. I can't live with you thinking of me as you do.'

She shouted then, ‘How can I think otherwise? You're a fascist, you're hand in glove with Heine; I hate you for it, because I want to love you back.' She ended on a high-pitched wail, longing for him to hold her, to make things better as he had always done, but how? How?

He made no move to comfort her, and had he done so, she would have beaten him back.

Instead, he stood quite still, and said, ‘I don't know where to begin, really.'

She said, ‘Then I will. What I feel for you is love, and I hate you for it.'

He smiled. ‘So you keep saying. I understand that you hate me, loud and clear. But I also understand that you love me.' He moved now, and gripped her arms. He loomed over her, but his face was gentle, his eyes intense. ‘Please trust me, Bridie. Things aren't always what they seem. There's a battle being waged, and soon we will be at war. Sometimes we
have to pretend to be what we aren't. I can't say more than that. Trust me, love me as I love you.'

She almost saw the words coming from his mouth, and she couldn't understand. ‘What do you mean, things aren't what they seem? You're as bad as Mrs Moore, she doesn't come straight out with things.'

‘Why do you think that is?' His voice was almost a whisper, and he maintained his grip.

She remembered how Mrs Moore had said it made you think and come to a conclusion. She studied his words, which still hung in the air, somehow. In the end, she asked, ‘How does Dr Gerber know you? He says he doesn't, but I don't believe him.'

He started to shake his head, then said, ‘You need to trust me.'

She pulled free. ‘Well, that's not good enough. You need to tell me the truth, just once, because I'm beginning to think that perhaps, yes, you are living a lie, but living it far too well. Living it in the face of great odds, and if you can do that, how can I ever trust you not to live a lie to me?' There, that was her conclusion.

He held her arms again. She could see the thoughts chasing across his face. Finally he said, ‘I work for the Secret Intelligence Service, undercover in the fascist party. I have become fluent in German. This enables me to glean information from Heine and his SS and SD friends, and even from my mother. I am a trained operative. I can tell if I'm being followed. I could kill if I had to. I learned who the Nazis really
are after a night in the cells, at their hands. I had been blind to them, up to that point. Yes, I was a fascist.' He repeated, ‘I was a fascist. I believed it was the way forward. I was wrong. I've tried to put it right.'

She said nothing, but listened to every word, trying to put them into some sort of sense in her heart.

Tim was drawing closer. ‘I brought out Dr and Mrs Gerber but no-one must know that, because there are Nazi agents here, and there are British fascists working for them. If questions are asked, they are refugees. Bridie, I need to maintain my cover. I will remain in the intelligence service because they are short of people, so my life will be secret, or if you prefer, a lie. The one thing that won't be is my enduring love for you, and everyone here.'

Bridie felt as though she was being buffeted by a turbulent wind, and couldn't grasp anything firm enough to stop the swirling thoughts.

In the end, she said, ‘But you pretend so well, Tim. Perhaps you're pretending now? You must see how I can't love or trust someone like you.'

He let go of her arms. He just nodded. ‘I have said all I can. I love you. I will never lie about that, but there is, and will be, crucial work to do to keep the country safe. All of us will be involved, and this will be my way. That is it, Bridie. That is the sum of it. Now, I have something to do. I will be back for your answer.'

He walked past her. He'd parked his motorbike at the bottom of the drive. She said to his back, ‘I've given you my answer.'

He called back, ‘I'm not accepting it.'

She watched him roar out of the drive, wanting to run after him, but wishing she'd never met him too.

Uncle Potty emerged from behind the marquee, making her jump almost out of her skin. ‘You really are a silly girl. He's a good man. He helped James to return, though he knew it would put him under an obligation to that unpleasant SS officer, Heine. Great shame, really, as he'd just seen his own political leanings as a mistake and wanted to be as far from it all as anyone could. I persuaded him to return to do a double bluff, to work for his country. This he did, though he knew he could tell no-one, and would therefore jeopardise his standing in the community and his family.'

She could still hear his motorbike, as he travelled along the road. It was growing fainter. ‘I gave him permission to tell his parents. I did not give him permission to tell you, but I knew he would, eventually. I did not give him permission to go where he's going, but I knew he would. I just hope he manages to work a miracle. It will save much heartache, and not his so much, this time. Of course, if you ever speak of this, I will have to kill you.'

He walked away, behind the marquee again, and Bridie thought he was teasing but she wasn't sure.
She still didn't know what to think, what to feel, because Tim was her hero again, the person who had always protected her, waited to cross the line, all of them together, the person who made her feel that she could say and do anything, and he'd still be there for her. But she hadn't been there for him.

She walked out from beneath the cedar tree, listening to his fading engine, because if he had always done that, and still professed to do so, then what the hell was she waiting for? She laughed now, lifting her head and watching the clouds racing across the sky. She was waiting for him to return, that's what. Because she knew that, quietly and in secret, she would always know the truth, and be there for him. That's what love was all about.

Tim roared up Searton's drive. It was south of Washington and half an hour from Easterleigh Hall. He had telephoned Sir Anthony early this morning, checking that he was at home. He had said, ‘Come, dear Tim. I drove up last night. I have things to sort out.' He sounded so tired.

Tim parked his motorbike quite close to the front door because he wanted to return to Bridie the minute he had finished here. He drew off his leather gloves and placed them neatly on the saddle, with his leather helmet, not knowing quite what he was going to say, but he must try.

He rang the bell. Mr Dorkins, the butler, let him in. He put his hand out for Tim's goggles. He kept
them. Sir Anthony came from his study, and beckoned him in.

‘This is a pleasant surprise, young Tim. I have no package, if that is what you need.'

Tim entered and stood there, on the pale pink Persian rug. It was a light room, one he had never entered before. He had been here for one dinner only. He said, ‘No, I do not need any packages, and neither, I feel, should you give them to me any more, Sir Anthony.'

The man's shoulders seemed to fold, and he almost staggered to one of the elegant French chairs placed either side of the fireplace. He said, as he sat and sank his head in his hands, ‘It's a relief, you know. I knew it was wrong, but I simply had no choice. But that's what we traitors all say, isn't it?' His voice was muffled, and finally he raised his head, to hear Tim's answer.

‘I don't know,' Tim said, which was the truth.

‘And you, Tim. Why is it that you are here? I expected Potty. I knew he was something behind the scenes, but I didn't know what. But you? Yes, I see it now. You don't actually drink the toasts raised by the dreadful Lady Margaret and her equally awful daughter, or indeed, the Edgers. You listen, you say little. Ah yes, I see, I think, so tell me, Tim Forbes, what of you?'

Tim said, ‘I'm not important.'

Sir Anthony half laughed. ‘Do you really think so?'

Tim sat opposite him, wrapping his goggles around
his hand. ‘The thing is, Sir Anthony, everyone holds you in such high esteem, but the net is going to tighten around fascists who pass information. Well, indeed, anyone who passes information, to what we consider the enemy. You have been under surveillance, and it has been noted that you have accessed files that were not in your remit. Over the last several months you have passed misinformation, placed by our intelligence service, to prove that you were indeed doing it. You are by no means alone, and we believe that you are being coerced.'

Sir Anthony shifted in his chair, looking at Tim, startled. Tim said, ‘We suspect that you are being blackmailed.'

Again there was that half-laugh from Sir Anthony.

Tim didn't understand, but continued. ‘People are going to be caught and interned, at the very least, if they can't be turned to work for us. I've come to you, privately, because you are such a good man, someone who has always been a supporter of peace and the disadvantaged.'

Sir Anthony said nothing, just stared down at his hands, which were clasped motionless in his lap. ‘You don't understand, dear Tim Forbes,' he said. ‘You are right, Herr Weber tried to blackmail me, but what is that, when all is said and done? So I refused.'

Tim shifted in his seat, staring at his goggles. Surely this man was not acting out of conviction?

Sir Anthony opened his hands helplessly. He
looked up at Tim. ‘You see, my dear Tim, you travel to see your mother, of course you do. You will continue for as long as the world situation allows it. It was made clear to me that if I faltered, he'd have you arrested when you visited next, and you would be “disappeared”. If I told you and you ceased to visit, he would have agents who could find you. What could I do? What can you do, now? How can we keep you safe?'

Tim felt the shock rock right through him. He felt cold, his mouth dry. He couldn't speak. All this time it was – what? – a double bluff by Heine, when he and Potty had thought they were so clever.

‘So, my dear Tim, through no fault of your own, you are indeed important in this matter.'

The door opened, and Mr Dorkins announced, ‘Colonel Potter for you, Sir Anthony.'

Tim spun round, because he, Tim Forbes, agent of the SIS, should not be here, but Sir Anthony rose and waited for Potty, who had stepped into the room with utter aplomb. He advanced across the carpet as though it were a cocktail party, his hand outstretched, his smile broad. Sir Anthony said, ‘Dear Potty. I fear I have been a menace.' They shook hands.

‘I think not. I did hear most of it, Ant, old lad. Mr Dorkins wasn't at all happy with me putting my lugs to the door, but needs must, as I said to him. Awfully naughty of me, and I do apologise, but I know you too well, Ant, old boy, to believe that
you'd be stupid enough to pass important information lightly. There had to be a reason other than a bit of how's-your-father blackmail, and we just needed to confirm our German agent's findings, which you have just done. Of course, I could just have asked you, but perhaps you would not have told me?' He looked at Tim. ‘Upsy daisy, young man. Time for the old ones to take a seat.'