Reckless (45 page)

‘I can’t save them,’ said Mary.

‘It’s the devil at work,’ said the priest, brushing the rain off his coat. ‘To riot like that in my church!’

Eamonn peeped out through the shutters.

‘They’re not going away.’

‘I’ll give them not going away,’ said the priest. ‘Open the door for me, Eamonn.’

Eamonn let the priest out and bolted the door after him. They heard him in the rain, raging at the pilgrims, ordering them back to their homes, threatening them with the police, and the bishop, and the wrath of God. The pilgrims listened in silence, but they did not go.

The priest came back into the house.

‘They want you, Mary,’ he said. ‘They say you have a message for them.’

‘I’ve no message at all, Father.’ The pilgrims frightened her. ‘I want to leave. I don’t like this.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ said her mother.

‘Well, there’ll be no leaving till the morning,’ said Father Flannery. ‘In the morning, they’ll be gone. They’ll not spend all night out there. Not in this weather.’

But they did. In the morning, when Eamonn looked out through the kitchen window, he reported that the rain had passed and the pilgrims were still out there. If anything the crowd had grown bigger.

The priest had spent the night on the wooden settle, and was in a foul mood.

‘You’ll have to tell them something, Mary,’ he said. ‘Just to get them to go away.’

‘What can I say, Father?’

‘They’re wanting to be given a date for the end of the world. So give them a date. Tell them Wednesday fortnight.’

‘Wednesday fortnight!’

‘And for pity’s sake someone brew me a mug of coffee.’

‘Of course I want to do something,’ said the prime minister testily. ‘That is the bane of the politician’s life, the urge to
do
something. And, need I add, to be seen to do something. But there are times when the right if inglorious decision is to do nothing.’

‘We are not the principals in this affair,’ said Lord Home. ‘Our place is to support our allies.’

‘Yes, but confound it!’ said Mountbatten. ‘How can we stand by and do nothing when we’re on the brink of being dragged into an entirely unnecessary war? Today is Friday. On Monday the Marines go in. Kennedy doesn’t want it. Khrushchev doesn’t want it. But neither of them can back down. It’s a matter of face. That’s where we come in. We can broker a deal.’

‘There’s nothing I’d like better than to broker a deal,’ said Macmillan. ‘But are you quite sure this contact of yours isn’t using you for some other purpose?’

Mountbatten sighed.

‘Captain Ivanov is a member of the Soviet armed forces. His loyalties are to the Soviet Union. All he’s saying is that the Soviet leadership wants a way out of this mess, but they can’t say so in public because it would involve a loss of prestige, and so he offers to provide a back channel. Yes, he’s using me. And we can use him.’

‘And the proposal is that we call a summit conference in London?’ said the Foreign Secretary.

‘We propose that in private. If Khrushchev signals that he’d accept, we make the proposal to Kennedy, also in private. No one has to back down from a public position of strength. When agreement has been secured on both sides, we here in London make the public proposal, in the interests of world peace.’

Macmillan looked to his Foreign Secretary.

‘What do you think, Alec?’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Lord Home. ‘This proposal comes from a junior Russian spy. I have to ask myself, to put it crudely, what’s his game? None of these embassy boys makes a move without clearing it with Moscow.’

‘Maybe his game,’ said Mountbatten, ‘is staying alive. If this thing goes up, we all go. Imminent global annihilation does tend to concentrate the mind.’

‘Maybe,’ said Home. ‘But I think it’s far more likely that this is part of a strategy to drive a wedge between ourselves and our allies.’

Macmillan nodded.

‘I’m afraid I agree, Dickie. It’s a Soviet ploy.’

‘They play this game all the time,’ said Home. ‘Round up world opinion on some airy platform related to world peace in the hope of isolating the United States. The capitalist warmonger, and so on. If they could recruit us to their parade, it would be a major propaganda coup. This Ivanov of yours has been instructed to lay a bait for our vanity.’

‘So you don’t see any value at all in my back channel?’

‘Let’s stick with the usual sources, Dickie,’ said the prime minister. ‘Safer to leave it to the professionals.’

*

Back in the Ministry of Defence, Mountbatten told Rupert of the failure of their proposal.

‘Leave it to the professionals,’ exclaimed Rupert bitterly. ‘Meaning the same bunch who got us into this mess.’

‘I’m sorry. They’re quite old school, you know. I think both Harold and Alec regard this back channel business as a touch ungentlemanly.’

‘God save us from British gentlemen.’

Rupert was disappointed. But he had not given up yet.

‘You know what?’ he said. ‘The back channel is based on a nod and a wink. Nothing in writing. Why don’t I tell Ivanov to pass back the hint that London would be open to brokering peace, if given a strong enough nod from Moscow? Maybe if we start the ball rolling, the professionals can pick it up and run with it.’

‘You’re proposing to lie to Ivanov?’

‘Is it a lie? Macmillan wants the conference. He gets to be the peacemaker, the wise elder statesman. He just doesn’t want to initiate the proposal. But once we get it out there, once there are voices calling on him to step forward and save the world, don’t you think he’d accept?’

‘He’d think Christmas had come early,’ said Mountbatten. ‘I didn’t have you down as a Machiavelli, Rupert.’

‘I can go one step further,’ said Rupert. ‘You know nothing about this. Whatever I do, I do on my own initiative. As far as you’re concerned, the matter was closed by your conversation with the PM today. This conversation has not taken place.’

‘And still isn’t taking place?’

‘Even as we speak.’

‘Then let me add this last thought. Harold’s secret fear is that Britain’s views no longer carry any weight in the United States. And his secret pride is that he has a fatherly influence on Jack Kennedy. They’ve spoken on the phone every evening, you know, since this crisis began. So if there were to be some sort of peace summit, he would see himself as the natural chairman.’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Rupert. ‘I shall now go and not act on all that we haven’t said.’

*

Rupert met Ivanov as before, in Stephen Ward’s flat. Stephen Ward was present. A little to his annoyance, Rupert learned that Stephen had also been pursuing contacts for Ivanov.

‘I’ve talked to Godfrey Nicholson,’ he said. ‘He sits on the backbenches, but he’s highly respected. He’s willing to get on to the Foreign Office for us. And I’ve been on to Lord Arran, who’s a good friend, and he’s willing to meet you.’

‘Don’t bother with the Foreign Office,’ said Rupert. ‘And actually, Stephen, I’m not sure that roping in Uncle Tom Cobley and all is going to do us much good.’

‘I will meet anybody,’ said Ivanov. ‘The situation is critical.’

‘Just doing what I always do, old chap,’ said Stephen. ‘Getting people together.’

‘Listen, Eugene,’ said Rupert. ‘Mountbatten’s had a word with the PM. Macmillan is definitely interested. But any proposal for a peace summit can’t come from him. So you’re going to have to deliver on two fronts. First, Moscow has to signal they want this to happen. Second, they have to prompt a third party to make the proposal.’

‘Rupert! My friend! This is wonderful news!’

‘Do you think you can deliver that?’

‘Of course! All they’re waiting for is the hint that the offer will be welcomed. You know, Rupert, great leaders of proud nations are like lovers. They don’t wish to ask for a date until they know they will be accepted.’

He reached for his coat, and then, his coat on, he embraced Rupert.

‘I go now, to save the world.’

From the window, they watched him stride away up the mews.

‘Well done, Rupert,’ said Stephen.

‘We’re not there yet,’ said Rupert.

It was almost the end of Friday afternoon when Pamela arrived at the Kenya Coffee House on Marylebone High Street. She had suggested to Susie that they meet here, but had not told her friend that it was a favourite haunt of Stephen Ward’s. Pamela wanted to see Stephen again, and to talk to him, but she didn’t want him to know she wanted to see him.

Susie appeared, only a little late, wearing a fawn-coloured suit and too much make-up. She looked to Pamela like a middle-aged child.

‘Darling Pammy, it’s been ages! I’ve so much to tell you! What have you been doing? Where have you been hiding?’

She looked round the café as they settled down.

‘No nude models here, as far as I can see.’

They both lit up cigarettes. Pamela was shocked by the experience of seeing Susie again. They had been such good friends at school. That now seemed as if it had been a hundred years ago.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Susie, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Though I bet you’ve guessed already.’

‘No,’ said Pamela. ‘Tell.’

Susie flashed her ring finger. A diamond winked.

‘You’re engaged!’

Susie nodded, bursting with pride.

‘Who is it?’

‘Logan, of course,’ said Susie.

‘I thought he was your cousin.’

‘He’s only a sort of a cousin. And anyway, you’re allowed to marry your cousin.’

‘Susie, how wonderful! Congratulations!’

Pamela did her best to come up with the appropriate ecstasy. In fact she was appalled. How could Susie be married? She knew nothing about anything. It was all a game to her.

‘He’s as thick as a brick, of course,’ said Susie blithely, ‘but he’s an absolute sweetheart. I’m so lucky.’

‘So tell me how it happened. When did he propose?’

‘Actually on midsummer’s day. It was so romantic. He got a ring and everything. He took me out to dinner, and to be honest I half-guessed. He ordered champagne! Then when we were clinking glasses, he pushed this little box across the table!’

‘Oh, Susie! So what did he say?’

Pamela could picture the scene all too easily: pink-faced Logan, shiny-faced Susie, the champagne, the ring. The ritual gestures copied from a thousand magazine articles. She could even predict the words, some charming bumbling non-communication that only served to show how masculine he was.

‘He said’ – Susie covered her mouth and giggled – ‘he said, “How about it, old girl?”’

She burst into laughter.

‘Darling Logan. He’s no poet. But he’s a sweetheart. And Pammy, it’s all your fault!’

‘What did I do?’

‘You made us go to that club, remember?’ Once again she lowered her voice. ‘With the showgirls.’

‘I remember.’

‘Logan got very amorous after that. In the car, after we dropped you off, it got quite steamy. He had his hands all over
me. When it started to get a bit too much, I said, Little boys have to learn to wait for their treats.’

‘You actually said that?’

‘I said it. And he knew I was right. You know how boys are, Pammy. They have to have their noses smacked, like puppies, or they’ll be forever jumping up at you.’

Pamela listened in awed silence.

‘So have you or haven’t you?’ she said.

Susie giggled.

‘Not all the way. But after he proposed I let him go a jolly sight further, I can tell you.’

‘How far?’

Soundlessly, Susie mouthed, ‘Knickers off.’

Pamela tried to picture this scene, and failed. She could get no further than a half memory from childhood of playing doctors and nurses.

‘And you really love him?’ she said.

‘Madly. I can’t wait for the wedding night.’

‘But you will.’

‘Oh, well, we might as well. It’s not so long now. Then it can be special, the way it’s meant to be.’

‘Yes. Of course.’

She grasped Pamela’s hands across the table, her over-made-up eyes shining.

‘Now tell me all about you,’ she said.

Pamela had no intention of doing any such thing.

‘Oh, there’s nothing much to tell,’ she said. ‘You’re the one with the exciting news. So when’s the big day?’

‘We want it to be a spring wedding. We haven’t quite settled on a date yet. Mummy thinks May.’

‘My God! Can you wait that long?’

‘Oh, there’s masses to do. That’s only six or seven months away. I don’t know that we’ll have enough time as it is.’

‘No, I meant – is Logan happy with that?’

‘Logan does as he’s told. You have to start as you mean to carry on.’

Pamela could see the marriage stretching out before her, like a view of a landscape from a hilltop. The early excitement, the home-making, the babies. The boredom, the infidelity, the thickening waists.

At this moment Stephen Ward walked into the café. He saw Pamela at once and came over with a smile.

‘Pamela! What a delight!’

‘Hello, Stephen. You remember my friend Susie?’

Stephen smiled for Susie and pulled out a chair.

‘May I?’

‘Of course you may.’

Pamela was surprised to find how pleased she was by his arrival.

‘Two lovely young ladies! Just the pick-me-up I need.’

‘Are you hung-over, Stephen?’

‘No, no. I don’t drink. You know that. But I’ve just had an hour of Eugene ranting at me.’ To Susie, with a smile, ‘Eugene’s a Russian friend of ours. He’s full of some scheme of his that he swears will stop war breaking out.’

‘War!’ said Susie.

‘It’s this Cuba business. Eugene kept on telling me how strong and proud his people are. He’s been telling me that if Kennedy invades Cuba, the sleeping bear will wake!’

He spoke the last words in a Russian accent.

‘Is this the missiles row?’ said Susie, trying to keep up.

‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘Khrushchev’s gone and put nuclear missiles on Cuba.’

‘But they’ll sort it out, surely? I mean, no one wants a nuclear war.’

‘These things can happen by accident.’

‘By accident?’ Susie stared in bewilderment. ‘A nuclear war?’

‘All it takes is a ship to be fired on, or a plane to be shot down. Then the real shooting starts.’