Читать книгу Spy Hook - Len Deighton - Страница 7

When they ask me to become President of the United States I’m going to say, ‘Except for Washington DC.’ I’d finally decided while I was shaving in icy cold water without electric light, and signed all the necessary documentation as I plodded through the uncleared snow to wait for a taxi-cab that never came, and let the passing traffic spray Washington’s special kind of sweet-smelling slush over me.

Now it was afternoon. I’d lunched and I was in a somewhat better mood. But this was turning out to be a long long day, and I’d left this little job for the last. I hadn’t been looking forward to it. Now I kept glancing up at the clock, and through the window at the interminable snow falling steadily from a steely grey overcast, and wondering if I would be at the airport in time for the evening flight back to London, and whether it would be cancelled.

‘If that’s the good news,’ said Jim Prettyman with an easy American grin, ‘what’s the bad news?’ He was thirty-three years old, according to the briefing card, a slim, white-faced Londoner with sparse hair and rimless spectacles who had come from the London School of Economics with an awesome reputation as a mathematician and qualifications in accountancy, political studies and business management. I’d always got along very well with him – in fact we’d been friends – but he’d never made any secret of the extent of his ambitions, or of his impatience. The moment a faster bus came past, Jim leapt aboard, that was his way. I looked at him carefully. He could make a smile last a long time.

So he didn’t want to go to London next month and give evidence. Well, that was what the Department in London had expected him to say. Jim Prettyman’s reputation said he was not the sort of fellow who would go out of his way to do a favour for London Central: or anyone else.

I looked at the clock again and said nothing. I was sitting in a huge soft beige leather armchair. There was this wonderful smell of new leather that they spray inside cheap Japanese cars.

‘More coffee, Bernie?’ He scratched the side of his bony nose as if he was thinking of something else.

‘Yes, please.’ It was lousy coffee even by my low standards, but I suppose it was his way of showing that he wasn’t trying to get rid of me, and my ineffectual way of disassociating myself from the men who’d sent the message I was about to give him. ‘London might ask for you officially,’ I said. I tried to make it sound friendly but it came out as a threat, which I suppose it was.

‘Did London tell you to say that?’ His secretary came and peered in through the half-open door – he must have pressed some hidden buzzer – and he said, ‘Two more – regular.’ She nodded and went out. It was all laconic and laidback and very American but then James Prettyman – or as it said on the oak and brass nameplate on his desk, Jay Prettyman – was very American. He was American in the way that English emigrants are in their first few years after applying for citizenship.

I’d been watching him carefully, trying to see into his mind, but his face gave no clue as to his real feelings. He was a tough customer, I’d always known that. My wife Fiona had said that, apart from me, Prettyman was the most ruthless man she’d ever met. But that didn’t mean she didn’t admire him for that and a lot of other things. He’d even got her interested in his time-wasting hobby of trying to decipher ancient Mesopotamian cuneiform scripts. But most of us had learned not to let him get started on the subject. Not surprising he’d ended his time running a desk in Codes and Ciphers.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they told me to say it.’ I looked at his office with its panelled walls that were made of some special kind of plastic on account of the fire department’s regulations. And at the stern-faced President of Perimeter Security Guarantee Trust framed in gold, and the fancy reproduction antique bureau that might have concealed a drinks cupboard. I’d have given a lot for a stiff Scotch before facing that weather again.

‘No chance! Look at this stuff.’ He indicated the trays laden with paperwork, and the elaborate work station with the video screen that gave him access to one hundred and fifty major data bases. Alongside it, staring at us from a big solid silver frame, there was another reason: his brand-new American wife. She looked about eighteen but had a son at Harvard and two ex-husbands, to say nothing of a father who’d been a big-shot in the State Department. She was standing with him and a shiny Corvette in front of a big house with cherry trees in the garden. He grinned again. I could see why they didn’t like him in London. He had no eyebrows and his eyes were narrow so that when he grinned those super-wide mirthless grins with his white teeth just showing, he looked like the commander of a Japanese prison camp complaining that the POWs weren’t bowing low enough.

‘You could be in and out in one day,’ I coaxed.

He was ready for that. ‘A day to travel; a day to travel back. It would cost me three days’ work and quite frankly, Bernie, those goddamned flights leave me bushed.’

‘I thought you might like a chance to see the family,’ I said. Then I waited while the secretary – a tall girl with amazingly long red tapering fingernails and a mane of silvery yellow wavy hair – brought in two paper cups of slot-machine coffee and put them down very delicately on his huge desk, together with two bright yellow paper napkins, two packets of artificial sweetener, two packets of ‘non-dairy creamer’ and two plastic stirrers. She smiled at me and then at Jim.

‘Thank you, Charlene,’ he said. He immediately reached for his coffee, looking at it as if he was going to enjoy it. After putting two sweetener pills and the white ‘creamer’ into it, and stirring energetically, he sipped it and said, ‘My mother died last August and Dad went to live in Geneva with my sister.’

Thank you London Research and Briefing, always there when you need them. I nodded. He’d made no mention of the English wife he’d divorced overnight in Mexico, the one who had refused to go and live in Washington despite the salary and the big house with the cherry trees in the garden: but it seemed better not to pursue that one. ‘I’m sorry, Jim.’ I was genuinely sorry about his mother. His parents had given me more than one sorely needed Sunday lunch and had looked after my two kids when the Greek au pair had a screaming row with my wife and left without notice. I drank some of the evil-tasting brew and started again. ‘There’s a lot of money – half a million perhaps – still unaccounted for. Someone must know about it: half a million. Pounds!’

‘Well, I don’t know about it.’ His lips tightened.

‘Come along, Jim. No one’s shouting fire. The money is somewhere in Central Funding. Everyone knows that but there’ll be no peace until the book-keepers find it and close the ledgers.’

‘Why you?’

Good question. The true answer was that I’d become the dogsbody who got the jobs that no one else wanted. ‘I was coming over anyway.’

‘So they saved the price of an air ticket.’ He drank more coffee and carefully wiped the extreme edge of his mouth with the bright yellow paper napkin. ‘Thank God I’m through with all that penny-pinching crap in London. How the hell do you put up with it?’ He drained the rest of his coffee. I suppose he’d developed a taste for it.

‘Are you offering me a job?’ I said, straight-faced and open-eyed. He frowned and for a moment looked flustered. The fact was that since my wife had defected to the Russians a few years before, my bona fides was dependent upon my contract with London Central. If they dispensed with my services, however elegantly it was done, I might suddenly start finding that my ‘indefinite’ US visa for ‘unlimited’ visits was not getting me through to where the baggage was waiting. Of course some really powerful independent corporation might be able to face down official disapproval, but powerful independent organisations, like these friendly folks Jim worked for, were usually hell-bent on keeping the government sweet.

‘Another year like last year and we’ll be laying off personnel,’ he said awkwardly.

‘How long will it take to get a cab?’

‘It’s not as if my drag-assing over to London would make a difference to you personally …’

‘Someone told me that some cabs won’t go to the airport in this kind of weather.’ I wasn’t going to crawl to him, no matter how urgent London was pretending it was.

‘If it’s for you, say the word. I owe you, Bernie. I owe you.’ When I didn’t react, he stood up. As if by magic the door opened and he told his secretary to phone the car pool and arrange a car for me. ‘Do you have anything to pick up?’

‘Straight to the airport,’ I said. I had my shirts and underwear and shaving stuff in the leather bag that contained the faxed accounts and memos that the embassy had sent round to me in the middle of the night. I should have been showing them to Jim but showing him papers would make no difference. He was determined to tell London Central that he didn’t give a damn about them or their problems. He knew he didn’t have to worry. When he’d told them he was going to Washington to work, they’d taken his living accommodation to pieces and given him a vetting of the sort that you never get on joining: only on leaving. Especially if you work in Codes and Ciphers.

So Jim clean-as-a-whistle Prettyman had nothing to worry about. He’d always been a model employee: that was his modus operandi. Not even an office pencil or a packet of paper-clips. Rumours said the investigating team from K-7 were so frustrated that they’d taken away his wife’s handwritten recipe book and looked at it under ultraviolet light. But Jim’s ex-wife certainly wasn’t the sort of woman who writes out recipes in longhand, so that might be a silly story: no one likes the people from K-7. There were lots of silly stories going round at the time; my wife had just defected, and everyone was nervous.

‘You work with Bret Rensselaer. Talk to Bret: he knows where the bodies are buried.’

‘Bret’s not with us any more,’ I reminded him. ‘He was shot. In Berlin … a long time back.’

‘Yeah; I forgot. Poor Bret, I heard about that. Bret sent me over here the first time I came. I have a lot to thank him for.’

‘Why would Bret know?’

‘About the slush fund Central Funding set up with the Germans? Are you kidding? Bret master-minded that whole business. He appointed the company directors – all front men of course – and squared it with the people who ran the bank.’

‘Bret did?’

‘The bank directors were in his pocket. They were all Bret’s people and Bret briefed them.’

‘It’s news to me.’

‘Sure. It’s too bad. If half a million pounds took a walk, Bret was the man who might have pointed you in the right direction.’ Jim Prettyman looked up to where his secretary stood at the door again. She must have nodded or something for Jim said, ‘The car’s there. No hurry but it’s ready when you are.’

‘Did you work with Bret?’

‘On the German caper? I okayed the cash transfers when there was no one else around who was authorized to sign. But everything I did had already been okayed. I was never at the meetings. That was all kept behind closed doors. Shall I tell you something, I don’t think there was ever one meeting held in the building. All I ever saw was cashier’s chits with the authorized signatures: none of them I recognized.’ He laughed reflectively. ‘Any auditor worth a damn would immediately point out that every one of those damned signatures might have been written by Bret Rensselaer. For all the evidence I have, there never was a real committee. The whole thing could have been a complete fabrication dreamed up by Bret.’

I nodded soberly, but I must have looked puzzled as I picked up my bag and took my overcoat from his secretary.

Jim came with me over to the door, and through his secretary’s office. With his hand on my shoulder he said, ‘Sure, I know. Bret didn’t dream it up. I’m just saying that’s how secret it was. But when you talk to the others just remember that they were Bret Rensselaer’s cronies. If one of them put his hand in the till, Bret will probably have covered it for him. Be your age, Bernie. These things happen: only rarely I know, but they happen. It’s the way the world is.’

Jim walked with me to the elevator and pushed the buttons for me the way Americans do when they want to make sure you’re leaving the building. He said we must get together again, have a meal and talk about the good times we had together in the old days. I said yes we must, and thanked him and said goodbye, but still the lift didn’t come.

Jim pressed the button again and smiled a crooked little smile. He straightened up. ‘Bernie,’ he said suddenly and glanced around us and along the corridor to see that we were alone.

‘Yes, Jim?’

He looked around again. Jim had always been a very careful fellow: it was why he’d got on so well. One of the reasons. ‘This business in London …’

Again he paused. I thought for one terrible moment that he was going to admit to pocketing the missing money, and then implore me to help him cover it up, for old times’ sake. Or something like that. It would have put me in a damned difficult position and my stomach turned at the thought of it. But I needn’t have worried. Jim wasn’t the sort who pleaded with anyone about anything.

‘I won’t come. You tell them that in London. They can try anything they like but I won’t come.’

He seemed agitated. ‘Okay, Jim,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell them.’

‘I’d love to see London again. I really miss the Smoke … We had some good times, didn’t we, Bernie?’

‘Yes, we did,’ I said. Jim had always been a bit of a cold fish: I was surprised by this revelation.

‘Remember when Fiona was frying the fish we caught and spilled the oil and set fire to the kitchen? You really flipped your lid.’

‘She said you did it.’

He smiled. He seemed genuinely amused. This was the Jim I used to know. ‘I never saw anyone move so fast. Fiona could handle just about anything that came along.’ He paused. ‘Until she met you. Yes, they were good times, Bernie.’

‘Yes, they were.’

I thought he was softening and he must have seen that in my face for he said, ‘But I’m not getting involved in any bloody inquiry. They are looking for someone to blame. You know that, don’t you?’

I said nothing. Jim said, ‘Why choose you to come and ask me …? Because if I don’t go, you’ll be the one they finger.’

I ignored that one. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to go over there and tell them what you know?’ I suggested.

My reply did nothing to calm him. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Jesus Christ, Bernie, how can you be so blind? The Department is determined to get even with you.’

‘Get even? For what?’

‘For what your wife did.’

‘That’s not logical.’

‘Revenge never is logical. Wise up. They’ll get you; one way or the other. Even resigning from the Department – the way I did – makes them mad. They see it as a betrayal. They expect everyone to stay in harness for ever.’

‘Like marriage,’ I said.

‘Till death do us part,’ said Jim. ‘Right. And they’ll get you. Through your wife. Or maybe through your father. You see.’

The car of the lift arrived and I stepped into it. I thought he was coming with me. Had I known he wasn’t I would never have let that reference to my father go unexplained. He put his foot inside and leaned round to press the button for the ground floor. By that time it was too late. ‘Don’t tip the driver,’ said Jim, still smiling as the doors closed on me. ‘It’s against company policy.’ The last I saw of him was that cold Cheshire Cat smile. It hung in my vision for a long time afterwards.

When I got outside in the street the snow was piling higher and higher, and the air was crammed full of huge snowflakes that came spinning down like sycamore seeds with engine failure.

‘Where’s your baggage?’ said the driver. Getting out of the car he tossed the remainder of his coffee into the snow where it left a brown ridged crater that steamed like Vesuvius. He wasn’t looking forward to a drive to the airport on a Friday afternoon, and you didn’t have to be a psychologist to see that in his face.

‘That’s all,’ I told him.

‘You travel light, mister.’ He opened the door for me and I settled down inside. The car was warm, I suppose he’d just come in from a job, expecting to be signed out and sent home. Now he was in a bad mood.

The traffic was slow even by Washington weekend standards. I thought about Jim while we crawled out to the airport. I suppose he wanted to get rid of me. There was no other reason why Jim would invent that ridiculous story about Bret Rensselaer. The idea of Bret being a party to any kind of financial swindle involving the government was so ludicrous that I didn’t even give it careful thought. Perhaps I should have done.

The plane was half-empty. After a day like that, a lot of people had had enough, without enduring the tender loving care of any airline company plus the prospect of a diversion to Manchester. But at least the half-empty First Class cabin gave me enough leg-room. I accepted the offer of a glass of champagne with such enthusiasm that the stewardess finally left the bottle with me.

I read the dinner menu and tried not to think about Jim Prettyman. I hadn’t pressed him hard enough. I’d resented the unexpected phone call from Morgan, the D-G’s personal assistant. I’d planned to spend this afternoon shopping. Christmas was past and there were sale signs everywhere. I’d glimpsed a big model helicopter that my son Billy would have gone crazy about. London was always ready to provide me with yet another task that was nothing to do with me or my immediate work. I had the suspicion that this time I’d been chosen not because I happened to be in Washington but because London knew that Jim was an old friend who’d respond more readily to me than to anyone else in the Department. When this afternoon Jim had proved recalcitrant I had rather enjoyed the idea of passing his rude message back to that stupid man Morgan. Now it was too late I was beginning to have second thoughts. Perhaps I should have taken up his offer to do it as a personal favour to me.

I thought about Jim’s warnings. He wasn’t the only one who thought the Department might still be blaming me for my wife’s defection. But the idea that they’d frame me for embezzlement was a new one. It would wipe me out, of course. No one would employ me if they made something like that stick. It was a nasty thought, and even worse was that throwaway line about getting to me through my father. How could they get to me through my father? My father didn’t work for the Department any more. My father was dead.

I drank more champagne – fizzy wine is not worth drinking if you allow the chill to go off it – and finished the bottle before closing my eyes for a moment in an effort to remember exactly what Jim had said. I must have dozed off. I was tired: really tired.

The next thing I knew the stewardess was shaking me roughly and saying, ‘Would you like breakfast, sir?’

‘I haven’t had dinner.’

‘They tell us not to wake passengers who are asleep.’

‘Breakfast?’

‘We’ll be landing at London Heathrow in about forty-five minutes.’

It was an airline breakfast: shrivelled bacon, a plastic egg with a small stale roll and UHT milk for the coffee. Even when starving hungry I found it very easy to resist. Oh well, the dinner I’d missed was probably no better, and at least the threatened diversion to sunny Manchester had been averted. I vividly remembered the last time I was forcibly flown to Manchester. The airline’s senior staff all went and hid in the toilets until the angry, unwashed, unfed passengers had been herded aboard the unheated train.

But soon I had my feet on the ground again in London. Waiting at the barrier there was my Gloria. She usually came to the airport to meet me, and there can be no greater love than that which brings someone on a voluntary visit to London Heathrow.

She looked radiant: tall, on tiptoe, waving madly. Her long naturally blonde hair and a tailored tan suede coat with its big fur collar made her shine like a beacon amongst the line of weary welcomers slumping – like drunks – across the rails in Terminal Three. And if she did flourish her Gucci handbag a bit too much and wear those big sunglasses even at breakfast time in winter, well, one had to make allowances for the fact that she was only half my age.

‘The car’s outside,’ she whispered as she released me from the tight embrace.

‘It will be towed away by now.’

‘Don’t be a misery. It will be there.’

And it was of course. And the weathermen’s threatened snow and ice had not materialized either. This part of England was bathed in bright early-morning sunshine and the sky was blue and almost completely clear. But it was damned cold. The weathermen said it was the coldest January since 1940, but who believes the weathermen?

‘You won’t know the house,’ she boasted as she roared down the motorway in the yellow dented Mini, ignoring the speed limit, cutting in front of angry cabbies and hooting at sleepy bus drivers.

‘You can’t have done much in a week.’

‘Ha, ha! Wait and see.’

‘Better you tell me now,’ I said with ill-concealed anxiety. ‘You haven’t knocked down the garden wall? Next door’s rose beds …’

‘Wait and see: wait and see!’

She let go of the wheel to pound a fist against my leg as if making sure I was really and truly flesh and blood. Did she realize what mixed feelings I had about moving out of the house in Marylebone? Not just because Marylebone was convenient and central but also because it was the first house I’d ever bought, albeit with the aid of a still outstanding mortgage that the bank only agreed to because of the intervention of my prosperous father-in-law. Well, Duke Street wasn’t lost for ever. It was leased to four American bachelors with jobs in the City. Bankers. They were paying a handsome rent that not only covered the mortgage but gave me a house in the suburbs and some small change to face the expenses of looking after two motherless children.

Gloria was in her element since moving in to the new place. She didn’t see it as a rather shabby semi-detached suburban house with its peeling stucco and truncated front garden and a side entrance that had been overlaid with concrete to make a place to park a car. For Gloria this was her chance to make me see how indispensable she was. It was her chance to get us away from the shadow of my wife Fiona. Number thirteen Balaklava Road was going to be our little nest, the place into which we settled down to live happily ever after, the way they do in the fairy stories that she was reading not so very long ago.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved her. Desperately. When I was away I counted the days – even the hours sometimes – before we’d be together again. But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t see how ill-suited we were. She was just a child. Before me her boy-friends had been schoolkids: boys who helped with logarithms and irregular verbs. Sometime she was going to suddenly realize that there was a big wide world out there waiting for her. By that time perhaps I’d be depending on her. No perhaps about it. I was depending on her now.

‘Did it all go all right?’

‘All all right,’ I said.

‘Someone from Central Funding left a note on your desk … Half a dozen notes in fact. Something about Prettyman. It’s a funny name, isn’t it?’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No. It’s all been very quiet in the office. Unusually quiet. Who is Prettyman?’ she asked.

‘A friend of mine. They want him to give evidence … some money they’ve lost.’

‘And he stole it?’ She was interested now.

‘Jim? No. When Jim puts his hand in the till he’ll come up with ten million or more.’

‘I thought he was a friend of yours,’ she said reproachfully.

‘Only kidding.’

‘So who did steal it?’

‘No one stole anything. It’s just the accountants getting their paperwork into the usual chaos.’

‘Truly?’

‘You know how long the cashier’s office takes to clear expenses. Did you see all those queries they raised on last month’s chit?’

‘That’s just your expenses, darling. Some people get them signed and paid within a week.’ I smiled. I was glad to change the subject. Prettyman’s warnings had left a dull feeling of fear in me. It was heavy in my guts, like indigestion.

We arrived at Balaklava Road in record time. It was a street of small Victorian houses with large bay windows. Here and there the fronts were picked out in tasteful pastel colours. It was Saturday: despite the early hour housewives were staggering home under the weight of frantic shopping, and husbands were cleaning their cars: everyone demonstrating that manic energy and determination that the British only devote to their hobbies.

The neighbour who shared our semi-detached house – an insurance salesman and passionate gardener – was planting his Christmas tree in the hard frozen soil of his front garden. He could have saved himself the trouble, they never grow: people say the dealers scald the roots. He waved with the garden trowel as we swept past him and into the narrow side entrance. It was a squeeze to get out.

Gloria opened the newly painted front door with a proud flourish. The hall had been repapered – large mustard-yellow flowers on curlicue stalks – and new hall carpet too. I admired the result. In the kitchen there were some primroses on the table which was set with our best chinaware. Cut-glass tumblers stood ready for orange juice, and rashers of smoked bacon were arranged by the stove alongside four brown eggs and a new Teflon frying pan.

I walked round the whole house with her and played my appointed role. The new curtains were wonderful; and if the brown leather three-piece was a bit low and so difficult to climb out of, with a remote control for the TV, what did it matter? But by the time we were back in the kitchen, a smell of good coffee in the air, and my breakfast spluttering in the pan, I knew she had something else to tell me. I decided it wasn’t anything concerning the house. I decided it was probably nothing important. But I was wrong about that.

‘I’ve given in my notice,’ she said over her shoulder while standing at the stove. She’d threatened to leave the Department not once but several hundred times. Always until now she’d made me the sole focus of her anger and frustration. ‘They promised to let me go to Cambridge. They promised!’ She was getting angry at the thought of it. She looked up from the frying pan and waved the fork at me before again jabbing at the bacon.

‘And now they won’t? They said that?’

‘I’ll pay my own way. I have enough if I go carefully,’ she said. ‘I’ll be twenty-three in June. Already I’ll feel like an old lady, sitting with all those eighteen-year-old schoolkids.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Morgan stopped me in the corridor last week. Asked me how I was getting along. What about my place at Cambridge? I said. He didn’t have the guts to tell me in the proper way. He said there was no money. Bastard! There’s enough money for Morgan to go to conferences in Australia and that damned symposium in Toronto. Money enough for jaunts!’

I nodded. I can’t say that Australia or Toronto were high on my list of places to jaunt in, but perhaps Morgan had his reasons. ‘You didn’t tell him that?’

‘I damned well did. I let him have it. We were outside the Deputy’s office. He must have heard every word. I hope he did.’

‘You’re a harridan,’ I told her.

She slammed the plates on the table with a snarl and then, unable to keep up the display of fierce bad temper, she laughed. ‘Yes, I am. You haven’t seen that side of me yet.’

‘What an extraordinary thing to say, my love.’

‘You treat me like a backward child, Bernard. I’m not a fool.’ I said nothing. The toast flung itself out of the machine with a loud clatter. She rescued both slices before they slid into the sink and put them on a plate alongside my eggs and bacon. Then, as I began to eat, she sat opposite me, her face cupped in her hands, elbows on the table, studying me as if I were an animal in the zoo. I was getting used to it now but it still made me uneasy. She watched me with a curiosity that was disconcerting. Sometimes I would look up from a book or finish talking on the phone to find her studying me with that same expression.

‘When did you say the children would be home?’ I asked.

‘You didn’t mind them going to the sale of work?’

‘I don’t know what a sale of work is,’ I said, not without an element of truth.

‘It’s at the Church Hall in Sebastopol Road. People make cakes and pickles and knit tea cosies and donate unwanted Christmas presents. It’s for Oxfam.’

‘And why would Billy and Sally want to go?’

‘I knew you’d be angry.’

‘I’m not angry but why would they want to go?’

‘There’ll be toys and books and things too. It’s a jumble sale really but the Women’s Guild prefers to call it their New Year Sale of Work. It sounds better. I knew you wouldn’t bring any presents back with you.’

‘I tried. I wanted to, I really did.’

‘I know, darling. That wasn’t why the children wanted to be here when you arrived. I told them to go. It’s good for them to be with other children. Changing schools isn’t easy at that age. They left a lot of friends in London; they must make new ones round here. It’s not easy, Bernie.’ It was quite a speech; perhaps she’d had it all prepared.

‘I know.’ I was still examining the awful prospect of her taking a place at the university next October, or whenever it was the academic year started in such places. What was I going to do with this wretched house, far away from everyone I knew? And what about the children?

She must have seen my face. ‘I’ll be back every weekend,’ she promised.

‘You know that’s impossible,’ I told her. ‘You’ll be working damned hard. I know you; you’ll want to do everything better than anyone’s ever done it before.’

‘It will be all right, darling,’ she said. ‘If we want it to be all right, it will be. You’ll see.’

Muffin, our battered cat, came and tapped on the window. Muffin seemed to be the only member of the family who’d settled in to Balaklava Road without difficulties. And even Muffin stayed out all night sometimes.