John LeCarre - A New Collection of Three Novels Part 16

"What was he wearing?"

"A suit, sir. Grey."

"Did he give his rank?"

"Inspector."

Brotherhood smiled. A wonderful, comforting affectionate smile. "You silly chump, he was a Foreign Office inspector. That's just a flunkey from your dad's shop. That's not a policeman, son; that's a half-a.r.s.ed clerk from Personnel Department with too little to do. Caird got it wrong as usual."

Tom could have kissed him. He nearly did. He straightened up and felt about nine feet taller, and he wanted to bury his face in the thick tweed of Uncle Jack's sports coat. Of course he wasn't a policeman! He didn't talk like a policeman, he didn't feel like a policeman, he didn't have big feet or short hair like a policeman, or a policeman's way of being separate from you even when he was being nice. It's all right, Tom told himself in glory. Uncle Jack's made it right, the way he always can.

Brotherhood was holding out his handkerchief and Tom scrubbed his eyes with it.

"So what did you tell him anyway?" Brotherhood said. And Tom explained that he didn't know where his father was either, he'd talked about losing himself in Scotland for a few days before returning to Vienna. Which had made Dad somehow seem at fault, a sort of criminal or worse. And when Tom had told his Uncle Jack everything else he remembered about the interview, the questions, and the telephone number in case Dad surfaced--Tom didn't have it, but Mr. Caird did--Uncle Jack went to the phone in Mary Lou's parlour and rang Mr. Caird, and got an extension for Tom till nine o'clock, on the grounds that there were family matters that needed talking about.

"But what about my bells?" said Tom in alarm.

"Carter Major's doing them," said Uncle Jack, who understood absolutely everything.

He must have rung London too, because he took a long time and gave Mary Lou an extra five pounds to fill what he called her Christmas stocking, which had them both in fits again, and this time Tom joined in.

How they came to be talking about Corfu, Tom was afterwards never sure and perhaps there was no real path to their conversation any more; it was just chat about what they had both been up to since they had last met, which after all was before the summer holidays so there was ma.s.ses to talk about if you were in a talking mood. And Tom was; he hadn't talked like this for ages, maybe ever, but Uncle Jack had the ease, he had that mixture of tolerance and discipline that for Tom was the perfect blend, for he loved to feel the strength of Uncle Jack's frontiers as well as the safe ground inside.

"How's your confirmation going?" Brotherhood had asked.

"All right, thanks."

"You're of an age now, Tom. Got to face it. In some countries you'd be in uniform already."

"I know."

"Work still a problem?"

"A bit, sir."

"Still got your eye on Sandhurst?"

"Yes, sir. And my uncle's regiment says they'd take me if I do all right."

"Well you'll have to swot, won't you?"

"I'm really trying actually."

Then Uncle Jack drew nearer and his voice dropped. "I'm not sure I should tell you this, son. But I'm going to anyway because I think you're ready to keep a secret. Can you do that?"

"I've got lots of secrets I've never told to anyone, sir."

"Your father is rather a secret man himself actually. I expect you knew that, didn't you?"

"You are too, aren't you?"

"Quite a great man as well, he is. But he's got to keep it quiet. For his country."

"And for you," said Tom.

"A lot of his life is blocked off completely. You could almost say from human gaze."

"Does Mummy know?"

"In principle, yes, she does. In detail, next to nothing. That's the way we work. And if your father has ever given the impression of lying, or being evasive, less than truthful sometimes, you can bet your boots it was his work and his loyalty that were the reason. It's a strain for him. It is for all of us. Secrets are a strain."

"Is it dangerous?" Tom asked.

"Can be. That's why we give him bodyguards. Like boys on motorbikes who follow him round Greece and hang about outside his house."

"I saw them!" Tom declared excitedly.

"Like tall thin men with moustaches who come up to him at cricket matches--"

"He did, he did! He had a straw hat!"

"And sometimes what your dad does is so secret he has to disappear completely. And not even the bodyguards can have his address. / know. But the rest of the world doesn't and it mustn't. And if that inspector comes to you again, or to Mr. Caird, or if anybody else does, you must tell them whatever you know and report to me immediately afterwards. I'm going to give you a special phone number and have a special word with Mr. Caird too. He deserves a lot of help, your father does. And gets it."

"I'm really glad," said Tom.

"Now then. That letter of his he wrote to you. The long one that came after he'd gone. Did it talk about things like that?"

"I don't know. I haven't read it all. There was a whole lot of stuff about Sefton Boyd's penknife and some writing in the staff loo."

"Who's Sefton Boyd?"

"He's a boy in the school. He's my friend."

"Is he your dad's friend too?"

"No, but his father was. His father was in the school too."

"Now what have you done with this letter?"

Punished himself with it. Squidged it up till it was tight and p.r.i.c.kly and kept it in his trousers pocket where it jabbed his thigh. But Tom didn't say that. He just handed the remnants gratefully to Uncle Jack, who promised to take proper care of them and talk everything over with him next time--if there was anything that needed talking over, which Uncle Jack very much doubted that there would be.

"Got the envelope, have you?"

Tom hadn't.

"Where did he post it from then? There's a clue there, I expect, if we look for it."

"The postmark was Reading," said Tom.

"What day?"

"The Tuesday," said Tom unhappily, "but it could have been after post on Monday. I thought he was going back to Vienna on Monday afternoon. If he didn't go to Scotland, that is."

But Uncle Jack didn't seem to hear because he was talking about Greece again, playing what the two of them called report writing about this weedy fellow with a moustache who had shown up at the cricket ground in Corfu.

"I expect you were worried about him, weren't you, son? You thought he was up to no good with your dad, I expect, although he was so friendly. I mean, if they knew each other that well, why didn't your dad ask him home to meet your mum? I can see that would have bothered you on reflection. You didn't think it very nice your dad should have a secret life on Mum's doorstep."

"I suppose I didn't," Tom admitted, marvelling as ever at Uncle Jack's omniscience. "He held Dad's arm."

They had returned to the Digby. In the great joy of his release from worry, Tom had rediscovered his appet.i.te and was having a steak and chips to fill the gap. Brotherhood had ordered himself a whisky.

"Height?" said Brotherhood, back at their special game.

"Six foot."

"All right, well done. Six foot exactly is correct. Colour of hair?"

Tom hesitated. "Sort of mousy fawny with stripes," he said.

"What the h.e.l.l's that supposed to mean?"

"He wore a straw hat. It was hard to see."

"I know he wore a straw hat. That's why I'm asking you. Colour of hair?"

"Brown," said Tom finally. "Brown with the sun on it. And a big forehead like a genius."

"Now how the h.e.l.l does the sun get under the brim of a hat?"

"Grey brown," said Tom.

"Then say so. Two points only. Hatband?"

"Red."

"Oh dear."

"It was red."

"Keep trying."

"It was red, red, red!"

"Three points. Colour of beard?"

"He hasn't got a beard. He's got a s.h.a.ggy moustache and thick eyebrows like yours but not so bushy, and crinkly eyes."

"Three points. Build?"

"Stoopy and hobbly."

"What the h.e.l.l's hobbly?"

"Like chumpy. Chumpy's when the sea is choppy and b.u.mpy. Hobbly is when he walks fast and hobbles."

"You mean limps."

"Yes"

"Say so. Which leg?"

"Left."

"One more try?" "Left." "Certain?" "Left!"

"Three points. Age?" "Seventy."

"Don't be d.a.m.n stupid." "He's old!"

"He's not seventy. I'm not seventy. I'm not sixty. Well only just. Is he older than me?" "The same." "Carry anything?"

"A briefcase. A grey thing like elephant skin. And he was stringy like Mr. Toombs."

"Who's Toombs?"

"Our gym master. He teaches aikido and geography. He's killed people with his feet, though he's not supposed to."

"All right, stringy like Mr. Toombs, carried an elephant skin briefcase. Two points. Another time, omit the subjective reference."

"What's that?"

"Mr. Toombs. You know him, I don't. Don't compare one person I don't know with another I don't know."

"You said you knew him," said Tom, very excited to catch Uncle Jack out.

"I do. I'm fooling. Did he have a car, your man?"

"Volvo. Hired from Mr. Kaloumenos."

"How do you know that?""He hires it to everyone. He goes down to the harbour and hangs about and if anyone wants to hire a car Mr. Kaloumenos gives them his Volvo."

"Colour?"

"Green. And it's got a bashed wing and a Corfu registration and a fox's tail from the aerial and a--"

"It's red."

"It's green!"