And once: "Old Lippsie's got the guilts she isn't dead like them."

Pym's intermittent enquiries after Dorothy led him nowhere. Your mum's poorly, Syd would say; she'll be back soon, and the best thing our Magnus here can do for her meantime is not fret over her, because it will only get to her and make her worse.

Rick took a wounded line. "You'll just have to put up with your old man for a while. I thought we were having fun then. Aren't we having fun?"

"All the fun in the world," said Pym.

On the subject of his recent absence Rick was as sparing as the rest of the court, so that soon Pym began to wonder whether they had ever been on holiday at all. Only the occasional hint convinced him that they had shared a cementing experience. Winchester had been worse than Reading because of those b.l.o.o.d.y gypsies off of Salisbury Plain, Pym once overheard Morrie Washington tell Perce Loft. Syd backed him up. "Those Winchester gyppos was rough you wouldn't believe," said Syd with feeling. "The screws was no better, either." And Pym noticed that their holiday had made hearty eaters of them. "Eat your peas now, Magnus," Syd urged him amid much laughter. "There's worse hotels than this one, we can tell you."

It wasn't till a year or more later, when Pym's vocabulary had grown equal to his intelligence gathering, that he realised they had been talking about prison.

But their leader did not share these jokes and they ceased abruptly, for Rick's gravitas was something no man tampered with lightly, least of all those appointed to uphold it. Rick's superiority was manifest in everything he did. In the way he dressed even when we were very broke, his clean laundry and clean shoes. In the food he required and the style to eat it in. The rooms he had in the hotel. In the way he needed brandy for his snooker, and scared everyone into silence with his brooding. In his preoccupation with good works, which involved visiting hospitals where people had taken bad knocks and seeing the old people right while their children were away at the war.

"Will you see Lippsie right too, when the war's over?" Pym asked one day.

"Old Lippsie's crackerjack," said Rick.

Meanwhile we traded. What in, Pym never rightly knew and nor do I now. Sometimes in rare commodities, such as hams and whisky, sometimes in promises, which the court called Faith. Other times in nothing more solid than the sunny horizons that sparkled ahead of us down the empty wartime roads. When Christmas approached somebody produced sheets of coloured crepe paper, thousands of them. For days and nights on end, augmented by extra mothers recruited for this vital war-work, Pym and the court crouched in an empty railway carriage at Didcot, twisting the paper into crackers that contained no toys and would not crack, while they told each other wild stories and cooked toast by laying it on top of the paraffin stove. Some of the crackers, it was true, had little wooden soldiers inside them, but these were called "samples" and kept separate. The rest, Syd explained, was for decoration, t.i.tch, like flowers when there isn't any. Pym believed it all. He was the most willing child labourer in the world, so long as there was approval waiting for him round the corner.

Another time they towed a trailer filled with crates of oranges which Pym refused to eat because he overheard Syd saying they were hot. They sold them to a pub on the road to Birmingham. Once they had a load of dead chickens that Syd said they could only move at night when it was cold enough, so perhaps that was what had gone wrong with the oranges. And there is a clip of film running forever in my memory. It shows a scraggy moonlit hilltop on the moors, and our two cabs with their lights out winding nervously to the crest. And the dark figures standing waiting for us on the back of their lorry. And the masked lamp that counted out the money for Mr. Muspole the great accountant while Syd unloaded the trailer. And though Pym watched from a distance because he hated feathers, no night frontier crossing later in his life was ever more exciting.

"Can we send the money to Lippsie now?" Pym asked. "She hasn't got any left."

"Now how do you know a thing like that, old son?"

From her letters to you, Pym thought. You left one in your pocket and I read it. But Rick's eyes had their flick-knife glint so he said "I made it up," and smiled.

Rick did not come on our adventures. He was saving himself. What for was a question n.o.body asked within Pym's hearing and certainly he never asked it for himself. Rick was devoting himself to his good works, his old people and his hospital visiting. "Is that suit of yours pressed, son?" Rick would say when as a special privilege father and son embarked together on one of these high errands. "G.o.d in heaven, Muspole, look at the boy's suit, it's a d.a.m.ned shame! Look at his hair!" Hastily a mother would be ordered to press the suit, another to polish his shoes and get his fingernails proper, a third to comb his hair till it was orderly and sensitive. With flimsy patience Mr. Cudlove tapped his keys on the car roof while Pym was given a final check-over for signs of unintentional irreverence. Then away at last they sped to the house or bedside of some elderly and worthy person, and Pym sat fascinated to see how swiftly Rick trimmed his manner to suit theirs, how naturally he slipped into the cadences and vernacular that put them most at ease, and how the love of G.o.d came into his good face when he talked about Liberalism and Masonry and his dear dead father, G.o.d rest him, and a first-cla.s.s rate of return, ten percent guaranteed plus profits for as long as you're spared. Sometimes he brought a ham with him as a gift and was an angel in a hamless world. Sometimes a pair of silk stockings or a box of nectarines, for Rick was always the giver even when he was taking. When he was able Pym threw his own charm into the scales by reciting a prayer he had composed, or singing "Underneath the Arches," or telling a witty story with a range of regional accents that he had picked up in the course of the crusade. "The Germans are killing all the Jews," he said once, to great effect. "I've got a friend called Lippsie and all her other friends are dead." If his performance was wanting, Rick let him know this without brutality. "When somebody like Mrs. Ardmore asks you whether you remember her, son, don't scratch your old head and pull a face. Look her in the eye and smile and say, 'Yes.' That's the way to treat old people, and to be a credit to your father. Do you love your old man?"

"Of course I do."

"Well then. How was your steak last night?"

"It was super." .

"There's not twenty boys in England ate steak last night, do you know that?"

"I know."

"Give us a kiss then."

Syd was less reverent. "If you're going to learn to shave people, Magnus," he said over a lot of winks, "you've got to learn how to rub the soap in first!"

Somewhere near Aberdeen, without warning, the court became interested only in chemists' shops. We were a limited company by then, which to Pym was as good as being a policeman. Rick had found a new banker with Faith, Mr. Cudlove's live-in friend Ollie signed the cheques. And our product was a concoction of dried fruit that we pulped with a handpress in the kitchens of a great country house belonging to a dashing new mother called Cherry. It was a large house with white pillars at the front door and white statues all like Lippsie in the garden. Even in Paradise the court had never stayed anywhere so grand. First we stewed the fruit and pulped it in the press, which was the best bit; then we added gelatine to make lozenges out of it, which Pym rolled round and round in Company sugar with his bare palm, licking it clean between batches. Cherry had evacuees and horses, and gave parties for American soldiers who presented her with cans of petrol in the t.i.the barn. She owned farms and a great park with deer, and an absent husband in the Navy whom Syd referred to as "the Admiral." In the evenings before dinner, a pack of King Charles spaniels was whipped by an old game-keeper. They swarmed over the sofas yapping till they were whipped out again. At Cherry's, for the first time since St. Moritz, Pym saw silver candles on the dinner table lighting bare shoulders.

"There's a lady called Lippsie who's in love with my father and they're going to marry and have babies," Pym told Cherry helpfully one evening as they walked together down the ride; and was greatly impressed by how seriously Cherry took this news, and how intently she questioned Pym concerning Lippsie's accomplishments. "I've seen her in the bath and she's beautiful," said Pym.

And when they left a few days later, Rick took something of the dignity of the place with him, and something of its proprietor also, for I remember him striding down the great stone steps with a white hide suitcase in each hand--Rick always loved a fine suitcase--and sporting a smart country outfit of the sort no admiral would wear to sea. Syd and Mr. Muspole followed after him like circus midgets, clutching the chipped green filing cabinet between them and shouting, "Your end, Deirdre!" and "Gently down the stairs, Sybil!"

"Don't you ever talk to Cherry about Lippsie again, son," Rick warned him, in his heaviest moralistic tone. "It's high time you learned it's not polite to mention one woman to another. Because if you don't learn that, you'll waste your advantages and that's a fact."

It was through Cherry also, I suspect, that Rick formed the determination to turn Pym into a gentleman. Until now it has been a.s.sumed that Pym was already of the aristocracy. But Cherry, a forceful and superior woman, taught Rick that true English privilege was obtained by hardship, and that the best hardship was to be found at English boarding-schools. She also had a nephew at Mr. Grimble's academy by the name of Sefton Boyd, but better known to her as my darling Kenny. A second and less tender influence was the army. First Muspole became its casualty, then Morrie Washington, then Syd. Each with a rueful smile of failure packed his little suitcase and disappeared, returning only seldom and with very short hair. Then one day to his hurt surprise Rick himself was summoned to the flag. In later life he took a more tolerant view of the pettiness of the society entrusted to his care, but the sight of his call-up papers on the breakfast table provoked an outburst of righteous anger.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Loft, I thought we'd taken care of all that," he raged at Perce, who was exempt from everything.

"We did take care of it," said Perce, jabbing a thumb in my direction. "Delicate kid, mother in the nut-house, it's watertight compa.s.sion."

"Well where the devil's their compa.s.sion now then?" Rick demanded, shoving the buff doc.u.ment under Perce's nose. "It's a d.a.m.n shame, Loft. That's what it is. Get after it."

"You never ought to have told old Cherry about Lippsie," Perce Loft fumed at Pym later. "She went and peached on your dad out of spite."

But the army declined to surrender, and the depleted court, consisting of Perce Loft, a clutch of mothers, Ollie and Mr. Cudlove, duly uprooted itself to a drab hotel in Bradford, where Rick was obliged to reconcile the ignominy of the parade ground with the burdens of financial generalship. Using the hotel's coin box and the hotel's credit, typing and filing in the hotel's bedrooms, storing their mysterious wares in the hotel's garage, the court fought a gallant rearguard action against dissolution, but in vain. It was Sunday evening in the hotel. Rick in his private's uniform, freshly pressed, was preparing to return to barracks. A new dartsboard was wedged under his arm, which he planned to present to the sergeants' mess, for Rick had his heart set on the post of catering clerk, which would enable him to see us right in the shortages.

"Son. It's time for you to set those fine feet of yours on the hard road of becoming Lord Chief Justice and a credit to your old man. There's been too much lazy fare about and you're part of it. Cudlove, look at his shirt. No man ever did business in a dirty shirt. Look at his hair. He'll be an airy-fairy before you can say Jack Robinson. It's boarding-school for you, son, and G.o.d bless you and G.o.d bless me too."

One more bear-hug, a final staunching of the tears, one n.o.ble handshake for the absent cameras as, dartsboard at the ready, the great man rode away to war. Pym watched him out of sight, then stealthily climbed the stairs to the provisional State Apartments. The door was unlocked. He smelt woman and talc. The double bed was in disarray. He pulled the pigskin briefcase from beneath it, tipped out the contents and, as he had often done before, puzzled over unintelligible files and correspondence. The Admiral's country suit, donned for a few hours and still warm, was hanging in the wardrobe. He poked in the pockets. The green filing cabinet, more chipped than ever, lurked in its habitual darkness. Why does he always keep it in cupboards? Pym tugged vainly at the locked drawers. Why does it travel separately from everything as if it had a disease?

"Looking for money, are we, t.i.tch?" a woman's voice asked him, from the bathroom doorway. It was Doris, typist elect and good scout. "Spare yourself the trouble, I would. It's all tick with your dad. I've looked."

"He told me he'd left me a bar of chocolate in his room," Pym replied resolutely, and continued delving while she watched.

"There's three gross of army milk-and-nut sitting in the garage. Help yourself," Doris advised. "Petrol coupons too, if you're thirsty."

"It was a special kind of bar," said Pym.

I have never fathomed the machinations that sent Pym and Lippsie to the same school. Were they infiltrated singly or as a package, the one to be taught, the other to supply her labour in payment? I suspect as a package but have no proof beyond a general knowledge of Rick's methods. All his life, Rick maintained a work-force of devoted women whom he regularly discarded and revived. When they were not required in the court they were put out to work for him in the great world, easing his crusade with remittances they could ill afford, selling their jewellery for him, cashing their savings and lending their names to bank accounts from which Rick's name was banned. But Lippsie had no jewellery and no credit with the banks. She had only her lovely body and her music and her brooding guilt, and a little English schoolboy who held her to the world. I suspect now that Rick had already read the warning signs collecting in her, and decided to give her to me to look after. Nevertheless there was profit to our partnership and Rick was nothing if not an opportunist.

If Pym possessed any learning by the time he presented himself to Mr. Grimble's country academy for the sons of gentlemen, then he owed it to Lippsie and not to any of the dozen or so infant schools, Bible schools and kindergartens scattered along the hectic road of Rick's progress. Lippsie taught him writing, and to this day I write a German "t" and put a stroke through my small "z"s. She taught him spelling, and it was always a great joke between them that they could not remember how many "d"s there were in the English version of "address," and to this day I can't be sure of the answer until I have written out the German first. Whatever else Pym knew, apart from meaningless pa.s.sages of the Scriptures, was contained in her cardboard suitcase, for she never came to see him anywhere without whisking him to her room and foisting some piece of geography or history on him, or making him play scales on her flute.

"See, Magnus, without informations we are nothing. But with informations we can go anywhere in the world, we are like turtles, our houses always on our backs. You learn to paint, you can paint anywhere. A sculptor, a musician, a painter, they need no permits. Only their heads. Our world must be inside our heads. That is the only safe way. Now you play Lippsie a nice tune."

The arrangement at Mr. Grimble's was the perfect flowering of this relationship. Their world was inside their heads, but it was also contained in a brick-and-flint gardener's cottage at the end of Mr. Grimble's long drive, designated the Overflow House and occupied by the Overflow Boys of whom Pym was the newest recruit. And Lippsie, his lovely lifelong Lippsie, their best and most attentive mother. They knew at once they were outcasts. If they didn't, the eighty boys up the drive made it plain to them. They had a pallid grocer's son without an "h" to his name, and tradesmen were ridiculous. They had three Jews whose speech was spattered with Polish, and a hopeless stammerer called M-M-Marlin, and an Indian with knock-knees whose father was killed when the j.a.panese took Singapore. They had Pym with his spots and wet beds. Yet under Lippsie they contrived to glory in all these disadvantages. If the boys up the drive were the crack regiment, the Overflow Boys were the irregulars who fought all the harder for their medals. For staff, Mr. Grimble took what he could get, and what he could get was whatever the country didn't need. A Mr. O'Mally punched a boy so hard across the ear he knocked him out cold, a Mr. Farbourne beat heads together and fractured someone's skull. A science master thought the marauding village boys were Bolsheviks and fired his shotgun into their retreating rumps. At Grimble's, boys were flogged for tardiness and flogged for untidiness, flogged for apathy and flogged for cheek, and flogged for not improving from the flogging. The fever of war encouraged brutality, the guilt of our non-combatant staff intensified it, the intricacies of the British hierarchical system provided a natural order for the exercise of sadism. Their G.o.d was the protector of English country gentlemen and their justice was the punishment of the ill-born and disadvantaged, and it was meted out with the collaboration of the strong, of whom Sefton Boyd was the strongest and most handsome. It is the saddest of all the ironies of Lippsie's death, as I see it now, that she died in the service of a Fascist state.

Each leave-out day, on Rick's standing orders, Pym presented himself at the entrance to the school drive in readiness for Mr. Cudlove's arrival. When n.o.body appeared, he hurried gratefully to the woods in search of privacy and wild strawberries. Come evening he returned to the school boasting of the great day he had had. Just occasionally the worst happened and a carload would appear--Rick, Mr.Cudlove, Syd in private's uniform, and a couple of jockeys crammed in anyhow--all well refreshed after a pause at the Brace of Partridges. If a school match was in progress they would roar support for the home side and hand round unheard-of oranges from a crate in the boot of the car. If none, then Syd and Morrie Washington would press-gang any boy who happened to be pa.s.sing on his bicycle, and mount a handicap race round the playing fields while Syd belted out the commentary through his cupped hands. And Rick personally, dressed in the Admiral's suit, would start them off with a mayoral wave of his handkerchief, and Rick personally would present an unimaginable box of chocolates to the winner, while the pound notes changed hands around the court. And when evening came Rick never failed to install himself at the Overflow House, bringing a bottle of bubbly along to cheer old Lippsie up because she seemed so glum--"What's got into her, son?" And Rick cheered her up all right; Pym heard it going on, thump, creak and scream, while he crouched outside her door in his dressing-gown wondering whether they were fighting or pretending. Back in bed, he would hear Rick tiptoeing down the stairs, though Rick could tread as lightly as a cat.

Till a morning came when Rick did not leave quietly at all. Not for Pym, not for the rest of the Overflow Boys, who were greatly excited to be woken by the clamour. Lippsie was bawling and Rick was trying to quell her, but the nicer he was to her the more unreasonable she became. "You made me to be a teef!" she was yelling between great big whoops while she took another gulp of air. "You made me teef to punish me. You were bad priest, Rickie Pym. You made me to steal. I was honest woman. I was refugee but I was honest woman." Why did she speak as if it was all last year? "My father was honest man. My broder also was honest man. They was good men, not bad like me. You made me to steal until I was criminal like you. Maybe G.o.d punish you one day, Rickie Pym. Maybe He make you to weep, too. I hope He will. I hope, I hope!"

"Old Lippsie's having a touch of her wobblies, son," Rick explained to Pym, finding him on the stairs as he made to leave. "Slip in there and see if you can make her laugh with one of your stories. Is old Grimble feeding you up there?"

"It's super," said Pym.

"Your old man is seeing them right, know that? The healthiest school in Britain, this is. Ask them at the Ministry. Want a half-crown? Well then."

To reach Lippsie's bicycle Pym used a walk he had acquired from Sefton Boyd. You kept your hands lightly linked behind your back, shoved your head forward and fixed your eyes upon some vaguely pleasing object on the horizon. You stalked wide and high, smiling slightly, as if listening to other voices, which is how the flower of us wear authority. He was too small to sit on the tartan saddle but a lady's bicycle has a hole and not a bar, as Sefton Boyd was always happy to point out, and Pym swayed through the hole pumping his legs from side to side as he swung the handlebars between the rain-filled craters in the tarmac. I am the official bicycle collector. To his right was the kitchen garden where he and Lippsie had Dug for Victory, to his left the coppice where the German bomb had fallen, hurling bits of blackened twig against the window of the bedroom he shared with the Indian and the grocer's boy. But behind him in his terrified imagination was Sefton Boyd with his lictors in full cry, mimicking Lippsie at him because they knew he loved her: "Vere are you goink, mein little black market? Vot are you doink mit your sweetheart, mein little black market, now she be dead?" Ahead of him was the gate where he had waited for Mr. Cudlove, and to the left of the gate was the Overflow House with its iron railings ripped away for the war effort, and a policeman standing in the gap.

"I've been sent to collect my nature-study book," said Pym to the policeman, looking him straight in the eye as he leaned Lippsie's bicycle against a brick post. Pym had lied to policemen before and knew you must look honest.

"Your nature book, have you?" said the policeman. "What's your name, then?"

"Pym, sir. I live here."

"Pym who?"

"Magnus."

"Hop along then, Pym Magnus," said the policeman but Pym still walked slowly, refusing to show any sign of eagerness. Lippsie's silver-framed family was queued up on the bedside table, but Rick's heavy head dominated the lot of them, sensitive and political in its pigskin frame, and Rick's sage eyes followed him wherever he went. He opened Lippsie's wardrobe and breathed the smell of her, he shoved aside her frilly white dressing-gown, her fur cape and the camel-hair overcoat with the pixie's hood that Rick had bought her in St. Moritz. From the back of her wardrobe he pulled out her cardboard suitcase. He set it on the floor and opened it with the key she kept hidden in the Toby jug on the tiled mantelpiece next to the soft toy chimp who was Little Audrey who laughed and laughed and laughed. He took out the book like a Bible that was written in little black sword blades, and the music books and reading books he didn't understand and the pa.s.sport with her picture in it when she was young, and the wads of letters in German from her sister Rachel, p.r.o.nounced "Ra-ha-el," who no longer wrote to her, and from the very bottom of the case Rick's letters, tied into bundles with bits of harvest twine. Some he knew almost by heart, though he had difficulty unravelling the portent seething beneath their verbiage:"It is a matter of weeks no days my darling before the present besetting clouds will be dispersed away as a permanency. Loft will have obtained my Discharge and you and I can enjoy our well-deserved Reward.... Look after that boy of mine who regards you as a Mother and make sure he doesn't turn out airy-fairy...."Your doubts regarding Trust completely misplaced ... you should not trouble your Head as it is a further worry to me here waiting for the Bugle's summons Perhaps never to Return... what is involved here will bring untold benefits to Many such as Wentworth... don't go on at me about W or his wife, that woman is a professional troublemaker of the worst kind out....

"My regards to Ted Grimble whom I consider a great Educationist and Headmaster. Tell him a further Hundred-weight of prunes on its way... he should prepare kitchen for Two gross best fresh oranges also. Loft has got me Out on three weeks compa.s.sionate which means I Recommence my basic from scratch if I am recalled. Regarding Another Matter, Muspole says to continue sending items as before. Please oblige quickly owing purely Temporary problem of liquidity this end which is preventing decent people like Wentworth being seen right....

"If you don't send more fee cheques immediately, you may as well send me back to Prison and all the Boys excepting Perce as usual and that's a Fact.... Talk about killing yourself is Foolishness with so many Killing each other round the World in this Senseless and Tragic war.... Muspole says if you send poste restaurant express Tomorrow he will be at P.O. when they open Sat.u.r.day and send on to Wentworth immediately...."Lippsie's letter, which he had left till last, was by contrast a marvel of conciseness:"My dear darling Magnus, "You must be good boy always, darling, play your music and be strong like a man to your father, I love you.

Lippsie"Pym made a bundle of them, Lippsie's included, stuffed them inside his nature book and the nature book inside his belt. He rode past the policeman slowly, feeling cats' claws on his back. The school boiler was a brick furnace built into the bas.e.m.e.nt, fed by a chute in the kitchen yard. To approach the chute was a beatable offence, to burn paper was a Quisling act and sailors would drown for it. A fierce rain was blowing from the Downs, the chalk hills were olive against the storm-clouds. Standing before the open chute, shoulders high against his neck, Pym shoved the letters into it and watched them disappear. A dozen people must have seen him, staff and inmates, and some for sure were allies of Sefton Boyd. But the openness with which he had proceeded convinced them he was acting on authority. Certainly it convinced Pym. He shoved in the last letter, which was the one that told him to be strong, and walked away without once turning to see if he was being noticed.

He needed the staff lavatory again. He needed his secret St. Moritz with its panelled seclusion, he needed the secret majesty of its bra.s.s taps and mahogany-framed mirror, for Pym loved luxury as only those can who have had love taken from them. He gained the forbidden staircase to the staffroom; he reached the half-landing. The lavatory door was ajar. He pushed it, slipped inside, locked it behind him. He was alone. He stared at his face, making it harder, then softer, then harder. He ran the taps and washed his cheeks till they shone. His sudden isolation, added to the grandeur of his achievement, made him unique in his own eyes. His mind whirled with the vertigo of greatness. He was G.o.d. He was. .h.i.tler. He was Wentworth. He was the king of the green filing cabinet, TP's n.o.ble descendant. Henceforth, nothing on earth need happen without his intervention. He took out his penknife, opened it and held its big blade uppermost before his face in the mirror, taking an Arthurian vow. By Excalibur I swear. The lunch bell rang but there was no roll-call for lunch and he was not hungry; he would never be hungry again, he was an immortal knight. He thought of cutting his throat but his mission was too important. He thought of names. Who has the best family in school? I have. The Pyms are cracker-jack and Prince Magnus is the fastest horse in the world. He pressed his cheek against the wood panelling, smelling cricket bats and Swiss forests. The knife was still in his hand. His eyes went hot and blurred, his ears sang. The divine voice inside him told him to look, and he saw the initials "KS-B" carved very deeply into the best panel. Stooping, he gathered the splinters at his feet and put them into the lavatory where they floated. He pulled the plug but they still floated. He left them there, went to the arts hut and completed his Dornier bomber.

All afternoon he waited, confident nothing had happened. I didn't do it. If I went back it wouldn't be there. It was Maggs in third form. It was Jameson who owns a kukri, I saw him go in. An oik from the village did it, I saw him sneaking round the grounds with a dagger in his belt, his name is Wentworth. At evensong he prayed that a German bomb would destroy staff lavatory. None did. Next day, he presented Sefton Boyd with his greatest treasure, the koala bear Lippsie had given him after his appendix operation. In break he buried his penknife in the loose earth behind the cricket pavilion. Or as I would say today, cached it. It was not until evening line-up that the full name of the Honourable Kenneth Sefton Boyd was called out in a voice of doom by the duty master, the s.a.d.i.s.t O'Mally. Mystified, the young n.o.bleman was led to Mr. Grimble's study. Mystified himself, Pym watched him go. Whatever can they want him for--my friend, my best friend, the owner of my koala bear? The mahogany door closed, eighty pairs of eyes fixed upon its fine workmanship, Pym's also. Pym heard Mr. Grimble's voice, then Sefton Boyd's raised in protest. Then a great silence while G.o.d's justice was administered, blow by blow. Counting, Pym felt cleansed and vindicated. So it wasn't Maggs, it wasn't Jameson and it wasn't me. Sefton Boyd did it himself, otherwise he would not have been beaten. Justice, he was beginning to learn, is only as good as her servants.

"It had a hyphen," Sefton Boyd told him next day. "Whoever did it gave us a hyphen when we haven't got one. If I ever find the sod I'll kill him."

"So will I," Pym promised loyally and meant every word. Like Rick he was learning to live on several planes at once. The art of it was to forget everything except the ground you stood on and the face you spoke from at that moment.

The effects of Lippsie's death upon the young Pym were many and not by any means all negative. Her demise entrenched him as a self-reliant person, confirming him in his knowledge that women were fickle and liable to sudden disappearances. He learned the great lesson of Rick's example, namely the importance of a respectable appearance. He learned that the only safety was in seeming legitimacy. He developed his determination to be a secret mover of life's events. It was Pym, for instance, who let down Mr. Grimble's tyres and poured three six-pound bags of cooking salt into the swimming-pool. But it was Pym who led the hunt for the culprit too, throwing up many tantalising clues and casting doubt on many solid reputations. With Lippsie gone, his love for Rick became once more un.o.bstructed and, better, he could love him from a distance, for Rick had once more disappeared.

Had he gone back to prison, as he had promised Lippsie that he would? Had the police found the green filing cabinet? Pym did not know then and Syd, I suspect by choice, does not know now. Army records grant Rick an abrupt discharge six months before the period in question, referring the reader to the Criminal Records Office for an explanation. None is available, perhaps because that Perce had a friend who worked there, a lady who thought the world of him. Whatever the reason Pym floated out alone once more, and had a fair amount of fun. For weekend leave Ollie and Mr. Cudlove received him at their bas.e.m.e.nt flat in Fulham and pampered him in every imaginable way. Mr. Cudlove, fit as ever from his exercises, taught him how to wrestle, and when they all went out for a toot on the river together, Ollie wore ladies' clothes and did a squeaky voice so well that only Pym and Mr. Cudlove in all the world ever knew there was a man inside them. For his longer holidays, Pym was obliged to trek over Cherry's vast estates with Sefton Boyd, listening to ever more awful stories about the great public school of which he would soon become a member: how new boys were tied into laundry baskets and flung down flights of stone stairs, how they were harnessed to pony traps with fish-hooks through their ears and made to haul the prefect round school yard.

"My father's gone to prison and escaped," Pym told him in return. "He's got a pet jackdaw that looks after him." He imagined Rick in a cave on Dartmoor, with Syd and Meg taking him pies wrapped in a handkerchief while the hounds sniffed his trail.

"My father's in the Secret Service," Pym told him another time. "He's been tortured to death by the Gestapo but I'm not allowed to say. His real name is Wentworth."

Having surprised himself by this p.r.o.nouncement Pym worked on it. A different name and a gallant death suited Rick excellently. They gave him the cla.s.s Pym was beginning to suspect he lacked and made things right with Lippsie. So when Rick came bouncing back one day, not tortured or altered in any way, but accompanied by two jockeys, a box of nectarines and a brand-new mother with a feather in her hat, Pym thought seriously of working for the Gestapo and wondered how you joined. And would have done so, too, for sure, had not the peace ungraciously robbed him of the chance.

A last word is also needed here about Pym's politics during this instructive period. Churchill sulked and was too popular. De Gaulle, with his tilted pineapple head, was too much like Uncle Makepeace, while Roosevelt, with his stick and spectacles and wheelchair, was clearly Aunt Nell in disguise. Hitler was so wretchedly unloved that Pym had more than a fair regard for him, but it was Joseph Stalin whom he appointed to be his proxy father. Stalin neither sulked nor preached. He spent his time chuckling, and playing with dogs, and picking roses in news cinemas while his loyal troops won the war for him in the snows of St. Moritz.

Putting down his pen, Pym stared at what he had written, first in fear, then gradually in relief. Finally he laughed.

"I didn't break," he whispered. "I stayed above the fray."

And poured himself a Poppy-sized vodka for old times' sake.

5.

Frau Bauer's bed was as narrow and lumpy as a servant's bed in a fairy-tale and Mary lay in it exactly as Brotherhood had dumped her there, roly-polyed in the eiderdown, knees drawn up in self-protection, clutching her shoulders with her hands. He had slid off her, she could no longer smell his sweat and breath. But she could feel his bulk at the foot of the bed and sometimes she had a hard time remembering that they had not made love a few moments earlier, for his habit in those days had been to leave her dozing while he sat as he was sitting now, making his phone calls, checking his expenses or doing whatever else served to restore the order of his all-male life. He had found a tape-recorder somewhere and Georgie had a second in case his didn't work.

For a hangman Nigel was small but extremely dapper. He wore a waisted pinstripe suit and a silk handkerchief in his sleeve.

"Ask Mary to make a voluntary statement, will you, Jack?" Nigel said, as if he did this every week. "Voluntary but formal is the tone. Could be used, I'm afraid. The decision is not Bo's alone."

"Who the h.e.l.l says voluntary?" said Brotherhood. "She signed the Official Secrets Act when she joined, she signed it again when she left. She signed it again when she married Pym. Everything you know is ours, Mary. Whether you heard it on top of a bus or saw the smoking gun in his hand."

"And your nice Georgie can witness it," said Nigel.

Mary heard herself talking but didn't understand a lot of what she said because she had one ear in the pillow and the other was listening to the morning sounds of Lesbos through the open window of their little brown terrace house halfway up the hill that Plomari was built on, to the clatter of mopeds and boats and bouzouki music and lorries revving in the alleys. To the scream of sheep having their throats cut at the butcher's and the slither of donkey hoofs on cobble and the yells of the vendors in the harbour market. If she squeezed her eyes tight enough, she could look over the orange rooftops across the street, past the chimneys and the clotheslines and the roof gardens full of geraniums, down to the waterfront and eut to the long jetty with its red light winking on the point and its evil ginger cats soaking themselves in the sunshine while they watched the tramper putter out of the mist.

And that was how Mary saw her story henceforth as she told it to Jack Brotherhood: as a nightmarish film she dared look at only piecemeal, with herself as the meanest villain ever. The tramper draws alongside, the cats stretch, the gangway is lowered, the English family Pym--Magnus, Mary and son Thomas--file ash.o.r.e in search of yet another perfect place away from it all. Because nowhere is far enough any more, nowhere is remote enough. The Pyms have become the Flying Dutchmen of the Aegean, scarcely landing before they pack again, changing boats and islands like driven souls, though only Magnus knows the curse, only Magnus knows who is pursuing them and why, and Magnus has locked that secret behind his smile with all his others. She sees him striding gaily ahead of her, clutching his straw hat against the breeze and his briefcase dangling from his other hand. She sees Tom stalking after him in the long grey flannels and school blazer with his Cub colours on the pocket, which he insists on wearing even when the temperature is in the eighties. And she sees herself still doped with last night's drink and oil fumes, already planning to betray them both. And following them in their bare feet she sees the native bearers with the Pyms' too-much-luggage, the towels and bed linen and Tom's Weetabix and all the other junk she packed in Vienna for their great sabbatical, as Magnus calls this once-in-a-lifetime family holiday they have all apparently been dreaming of, though Mary cannot remember it being mentioned until a few days before they left, and to be honest she would rather have gone back to England, collected the dogs from the gardener and the long-haired Siamese from Aunt Tab, and spent the time in Plush.

The bearers set down their burdens. Magnus, generous as ever, tips each of them from Mary's handbag while she holds it open for him. Stooped gawkily over the reception committee of Lesbos cats, Tom declares they have ears like celery. A whistle sounds, the bearers hop up the gangway, the tramper is returned to the mist. Magnus, Tom and Mary the traitor stare after it like every sad story of the sea, their life's luggage dumped around them and the red beacon dripping slow fire on their heads.

"Can we go back to Vienna after this?" asks Tom. "I'd like to see Becky Lederer."

Magnus does not answer him. Magnus is too busy being enthusiastic. He will be enthusiastic for his own funeral and Mary loves him for this as she loves him for too much else, does still. Sometimes his sheer goodness accuses me.

"This is it, Mabs!" he cries, waving an arm grandly at the treeless conical hill of brown houses that is their newest home. "We've found it. Plush-sur-mer." And he turns to her with the smile she has not seen until this very holiday--so gallant, so tired-bright in its despair. "We're safe here, Mabs. We're okay."

He throws an arm around her, she lets him. He draws her to him, they hug. Tom squeezes between, an arm round each of them. "Hey, let me have some of that," he says. Locked together like the closest allies in the world, the three move off down the jetty, leaving their luggage till they have found a place to put it. Which they achieve within the hour, for clever Magnus knows just the right taverna to go to first time, whom to charm and whom to recruit in the surprisingly pa.s.sable Greek ident.i.ty he has somehow cobbled together for himself on their journeying. But there is the evening yet to come and the evenings are getting worse and worse, they hang over her from when she wakes, she can feel them creeping up on her all through her day. To celebrate their new home Magnus has brought a bottle of scotch though they have agreed several times in the last few days to lay off the hard stuff and stick to local wine. The bottle is nearly empty and Tom, thank G.o.d, is finally asleep in his new bedroom. Or so Mary prays, for Tom has recently become a f.a.g-ender, as her father would have said, hanging around them for whatever he can pick up.

"Hey, come on, Mabs, that's a bit of a bad face, isn't it?" says Magnus, jollying her up. "Don't you like our new Schloss?"

"You were being funny and I smiled."

"Didn't look like a smile," says Magnus, smiling himself to show her how. "More like a bit of a grimace from where I sits, m'dear."

But Mary's blood is rising and as usual she cannot stop herself. The prospect of her uncommitted crime is already laying its guilt on her.

"That's what you're writing about, is it?" she snaps. "How you waste your wit on the wrong woman?"

Appalled by her own unpleasantness Mary bursts out weeping and drives her fists on to the arms of the rush chair. But Magnus is not appalled at all. Magnus puts down his gla.s.s and comes to her, he taps her gently on the arm with his fingertips, waiting to be let in. He puts her gla.s.s delicately out of reach. Moments later the springs of their new bed are pinging and whining like a bra.s.s band tuning up, for a desperate erotic fervour has latterly come to Magnus's aid. He makes love to her as if he will never see her again. He buries himself in her as if she is his only refuge and Mary goes with him blindly. She climbs, he draws her after him, she is shouting at him--"Please, oh Christ!" He hits the mark for her, and for a blessed moment Mary can kiss the whole b.l.o.o.d.y world goodbye.

"We're using Pembroke, by the way," Magnus says later but not quite late enough. "I'm sure it's unnecessary but I want to be on the safe side in case."

Pembroke is one of Magnus's worknames. He keeps the Pembroke pa.s.sport in his briefcase, she has already located it. It has an artfully muddy photograph that might be Magnus or might not. In the forgery workshop in Berlin they used to call photographs like that floaters.

"What do I tell Tom?" she asks.

"Why tell him anything?"

"Our son's name is Pym. He might take a little oddly to being told he's Pembroke."

She waits, hating herself for her intractability. It is not often that Magnus has to hunt for an answer even when it concerns guidance on how to deceive their child. But he hunts now, she can feel him do it as he lies wakefully beside her in the dark.

"Yes, well tell him the Pembrokes own the house we're in, I should. We're using their name to order things from the shop. Only if asked, naturally."

"Naturally."

"Those two men are still there," says Tom from the door, who turns out to have been part of their conversation all this while.