A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (15 page)

‘Please, William, you will behave yourself.’

‘I’ll do what ever’s required – and, if being rude and outrageous is required, I will do that too.’

‘Oh, please don’t. Listen, you’ll love Dora – she is so warm.’

‘And long suffering.’

‘They have an understanding and the marriage works – and the daughters are lovely and happy.’

‘I’m going to vomit.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Don’t think for one second, Frances, that I’m being judgemental about where Gaiters… do the smart set really call him that?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Where Gaiters puts his plonker is not relevant – even though that’s what everyone gossips about. What does matter is what he’s doing to the Labour Party – and to our country. He’s a shit; he’s what my French comrades used to call a
collabo
– and there’s no worse insult than that.’

‘The comparison is totally unfair – the Americans are not the Germans. Shhh. Listen.’

‘What?’

‘Music.’ Frances looked at Catesby; she was swaying in sync. ‘Don’t you recognise it? Isn’t your dip cover cultural attaché?’

Catesby smiled. ‘It’s Miles Davis playing “Solar” – but I think it’s only a gramophone.’

‘It’s coming from their house – maybe Miles Davis is there.’

The jazz musician wasn’t there, but it was a glittering party. The first person Catesby recognised was Isaiah Berlin who, not surprisingly, was talking to a group who were hanging on his every word – as well they should. They had just been greeted by the Gaitskells’ eldest daughter, a perfectly mannered teenager, who relieved them of their coats and gestured to a huge sitting room where her mother was talking to a man in his forties – the gramophone playing Miles Davis was beside them. Dora Gaitskell smiled warmly at Frances and greeted her with open arms and a double kiss. She shook hands with Catesby who was impressed by her solidity and warmth. Dora seemed ten times more genuine than her errant husband.

‘I’d like you to meet Joe,’ said Dora.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Joe. He had an American accent with a hint of Eastern Europe.

Catesby knew who he was, but was going to pretend he didn’t.

‘Joe,’ said Dora, ‘has just brought us this new release of Miles Davis – hot off the presses. And I couldn’t wait to hear it.’

‘I love Davis – and Charlie Parker too,’ said Catesby. His words were true – he did admire the jazz musicians – but the polite tone was false. Catesby imagined that the record had recently arrived via diplomatic bag. It was round one of the Culture War. The Soviet Union launched the Bolshoi Ballet and America retaliated with jazz – played by black musical geniuses who couldn’t ride in the front of an Alabama bus. Rosa Parks had just been arrested the previous month for so doing.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Joe winking and pointing his glass of champagne at two men on the opposite side of the room, ‘you guys have got some culture too.’

Catesby turned and looked. Lucian Freud was having an intense conversation with Francis Bacon. They were oblivious of the social whirl around them. Catesby and Frances slightly knew Freud. His family had a house in Walberswick and they sometimes met him walking on the Dingle marshes.

Frances gave Lucian a little wave and the painter winked back.

Catesby nudged his wife. ‘Get your clothes off, Frances, and see if he wants to paint you.’

Frances frowned and kicked Catesby, but Dora and Joe laughed. It was the sort of remark you could make at a ‘smart’ Frognalite party. But Catesby immediately wished he hadn’t said it.

Hugh Gaitskell was now making the rounds and pouring champagne. He looked directly at Catesby with a winning smile. ‘Nice seeing you again, so glad you could come.’

Catesby smiled back. It was the first time he had ever met Gaitskell. ‘Warmest congratulations,’ said Catesby lifting his champagne flute. He didn’t need to say congratulations for what. Everyone knew – it was what the party was all about. Gaitskell had seen off the left wing of the Labour Party and been elected leader the previous month.

Gaitskell gave Catesby a wink and a nod and moved on.

Catesby sensed Joe staring at him and trying to place him. It was the sort of party where you didn’t tell people who you were. They either knew who you were to begin with – or they found out by other means.

‘Hugh is a wonderful host,’ said Joe.

Catesby could see that Joe was fishing; trying to get Catesby to recollect former parties that might explain who he was.

‘He’s also a wonderful dancer,’ said Catesby launching into a smokescreen lie. ‘I was with him in New York in 1951 just after he was named Chancellor. He took us all to a jazz nightclub to celebrate. We were exhausted, but Hugh was still dancing at half-past four in the morning. And, you know, I can’t remember the name of that club – I was a bit blotto.’

‘It sounds like it might have been Birdland on West 44th Street.’

‘I think you might be right.’ Catesby felt Frances tugging on his sleeve. ‘Excuse me, Joe. I think my wife has urgent business. Maybe I forgot to take my tablets.’

‘Sure.’

Catesby found himself being dragged towards the front door. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got to leave.’

They found the eldest daughter who offered to get their coats, but Frances insisted they get the coats themselves. All the coats were hanging from racks or piled on beds in a spare room. Frances closed the door behind them.

‘Have you seen someone you’re trying to avoid?’

Frances nodded. ‘I’m supposed to be a French au pair.’

‘Your surveillance cover?’

‘A bit more than that.’

Catesby frowned. ‘You’re a honey-trap?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing’s happened yet. He’s arrived early. We didn’t expect him to take up post so soon.’

‘Who’s the target?’

‘The new CIA Head of Station. He’s operating under dip cover as a senior political officer.’

‘Fucking great.’

‘Help me find my coat.’

‘Shit.’

‘You’re annoyed?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be? My wife’s being dangled as a honey-trap whore – and, on a lesser professional note, MI5 can’t be fucking bothered to tell us about such an important change of personnel.’

‘Stop swearing – and I’m not a whore.’

‘Here’s your coat.’

Frances began to put it on. ‘You don’t have to leave.’

‘I’m not going to. It’s a great party – maybe I’ll pull.’

‘I hope you do.’

‘Now you’re turning bitter.’

‘Sorry.’ Catesby thought of Hampstead Garden Suburb, which now seemed so much healthier than Frognal Gardens. ‘I just wish that we could have had a more normal life.’

‘Look at yourself.’

‘You’re blaming. Sorry, let’s stop squabbling.’

‘Stop apologising.’

‘Okay,’ Catesby forced a smile. ‘Who is the new Head of Station?’

‘Kit Fournier.’

Catesby laughed. ‘I’m definitely staying.’

‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

‘It is very odd.’

‘What is?’

‘Your gang trying to do the dirty on Fournier. I thought MI5 and CIA were best pals.’

Frances looked away.

‘You’re being furtive.’

‘No one at Five knows about the surveillance except the DG and myself.’

The DG, Dick White, was the one person in MI5 for whom Catesby had complete respect. He was a professional with complete integrity trying to control a service that was poisoned by rogue elements with political agendas.

‘What,’ said Catesby, ‘is White up to?’

‘I think he realises that some of our officers are making unauthorised contacts with the CIA and he wants to know who they are.’

‘Why didn’t you just tell him?’

‘I haven’t proof – but there’s something…’

‘Go on.’

‘I shouldn’t tell you.’

‘Let me guess. Henry Bone?’

‘You guessed right. He was at the meeting with the DG – and said that you passed on a Fournier file to him from Germany.’

Catesby smiled. Blaming Bone for being a duplicitous bastard was like blaming the sun for rising.

‘Don’t think, William, that Henry betrayed you. He didn’t want you to know because he didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’

‘What feelings?’

‘Jealousy.’

Catesby looked at Frances.

‘There’s hurt in your eyes.’

‘So your plan for getting Fournier isn’t just a flirtation, but a full honey-trap with cameras whirring away.’

‘I hope not, but I will if I have to. Don’t look so despondent.’

‘For fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to look?

‘But it probably won’t be a honey-trap – how could it be?
Fournier is a single man, there’s no blackmail potential. It’s a question of surveillance.’

‘Close surveillance?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Just like the war, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The women of Britain were issued with utility knickers – one yank and they’re off.’

‘Or in my case, a Canadian.’

‘Thanks for reminding me.’

‘But, Will, I’ll just be keeping an eye on him.’

‘But if it goes further than that, ask Bone to show you the Fournier file in its entirety. It might be an idea to dress up as a Roman Catholic nun and tell him that you’re his long-lost twin sister. A full psycho-sexual portrait of Kit Fournier makes an interesting canvas.’

Frances smiled. ‘We’ll have to ask Lucian to paint it.’

‘I’d love to see him paint you.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m sure that he’d reveal complexities that I’ve missed.’

‘I had better go.’ Frances turned up her collar. ‘I hope he doesn’t see me.’ Catesby accompanied his wife to the door and saw her into the cold night. He blew her a kiss, but she didn’t turn to see it.

Catesby went back into the house. He wanted a drink and found his way to the kitchen where he swapped his champagne flute for a glass of white wine. As he began to drink, he felt someone at his elbow. A silky familiar voice said, ‘Hello, William.’

It was Stuart. They had trained together as Army officers. Although Stuart had a first in Literae Humaniores from Balliol College, he proved totally incapable of disassembling and assembling a Sten gun and was transferred to military intelligence. They had worked on intelligence matters after the war before Stuart returned to academia.

‘Shh,’ said Catesby, ‘I’m undercover.’

‘How interesting. But you can tell me, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m here to get drunk, meet glamorous people – and, if possible, get laid. What about you, Stuart?’

‘My heart is palpitating over Sonia.’

‘Sonia who?’

‘Peter Quennell’s wife.’

‘Good luck.’

‘My luck won’t be good. She even turned down Lucian Freud.’

‘I’m sure he only wanted to paint her. Where are you now?’

‘I’m disappointed that you don’t know. Am I not important enough to be under surveillance?’

‘Last I heard you were tap dancing in a top hat and spats in front of semi-naked ladies at a club in Paris?’

‘No, no, you’re confusing me with Guy Burgess. No, I’m back at All Souls where I’m a resident fellow. Have you read my book on Spinoza?’

‘Not yet, but I will.’

‘I remember that you were fond of Spinoza – we used to talk about him in France.’

‘You thought he was a logical positivist.’

‘But tonight I’m more interested in women. Aren’t they glam? What do you think of her?’

‘Which one?’

‘The vamp wearing the off-the-shoulder number.’

‘Does she like Spinoza?’

‘I don’t think she’s read him, but I’ll tell you what she likes.’

‘Go on.’

‘The important thing is not to judge her, but to understand her – and to understand why she likes the things she likes. Do you know who she is?’

‘Very flinty eyes,’ said Catesby, ‘and I’m sure the pearl necklace is priceless. I bet she’s the real hostess and half the people here are from her address book.’

‘Well done. Gaiters didn’t collect her; she collected him. She wants a prime minister for her trophy room. And now she’s looking at you.’

‘What does she like?’

‘In the state of nature, wrong-doing is impossible – and nothing is forbidden by the law of nature, except what is beyond one’s power.’

‘Spinoza?’

‘Well done again. You ought to apply for a fellowship – and here’s the question I set: “Does the moral character of an orgy change when the participants wear Nazi uniforms?”’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that all?’

Catesby shrugged. ‘Nothing more to say.’

‘Congratulations and welcome to All Souls. I’m going to circulate, see you later.’

As soon as Stuart was gone, the woman looked at Catesby and picked up a bottle of champagne. She came over to him. ‘You need a top-up.’

‘I’m drinking white Sauvignon.’

‘Finish it and I’ll fill you up.’

Catesby did as he was told.

‘Stuart’s an old friend of mine, horribly clever. Where do you know him from?’

‘The Army.’

‘He often talks about some beastly prisoner you had to execute.’

‘It wasn’t his decision – and it wasn’t mine either.’

‘Stuart treats it as a philosophical dilemma.’

‘The prisoner refused to talk unless we promised him that he wouldn’t be executed. So we lied and he talked. The Maquisards shot him the next morning. Stuart thought the lie was an ethical dilemma.’

‘Why didn’t you just torture him? He would have talked then.’

‘Telling the lie seemed more humane.’

‘Stuart does have some funny ideas. He’s a bit of a Lefty you know.

‘So I gather.’

‘My husband and I used to have him around for dinner to explode his pathetic belief in equality – and now we have the same problem with Hugh.’

‘Have you succeeded?’

‘More with Hugh than Stuart. Hugh’s political life is pretty dire and boring. He needs pleasure and intellectual stimulation.’

‘Don’t we all?’

‘Hmm.’

Catesby was leaning back against a kitchen unit with his hand on the corner of the unit. The woman also leaned back against the unit – with her bottom firmly resting on Catesby’s hand.

‘Have you ever been to the West Indies?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘My husband spends a lot of time there – we have a place on a bay with a private beach.’ The woman paused. ‘Why don’t you squeeze my buttock?’