Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

S ir Gideon walked across the park, his copy of The Times tucked under his arm, and took a seat on a bench in the rose garden, not far from the Serpentine, enjoying the brisk, frost-sharpened air after the fug of the Foreign Office. London, once the sun got through the coal smoke, looked positively pretty from here. After a few minutes perusing the classified advertisements, he heard someone settling on the bench next to him, and looked sideways at his new companion as he turned the page.

‘What news upon the Rialto?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t quote Shakespeare before I’ve had my lunch,’ the new arrival said. ‘It makes me bilious. If by “upon the Rialto”, you mean from Marakovia, then there is a lot, and very little of it good, I’m afraid.’

Sir Gideon folded his newspaper and looked more carefully at the man sitting next to him.

He was a handsome chap, long-limbed and rangy, with chestnut hair and large blue eyes. He had his legs crossed and his arm thrown out along the back of the bench. His fingers were tapping on the wood. Colonel Osman had had an excellent war on paper – the youngest colonel in his regiment’s history, a fistful of medals and the appreciation of a grateful nation. It had left him a bit nervy, however, and contemptuous of authority. Not the sort of man Gideon would have chosen to send wandering in central Europe to gather information, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Osman’s father was a viscount who had fallen for a very beautiful – if rather free-willed – Marakovian. His dubious heritage had given Osman valuable language skills and connections in her native country, while his father made him acceptable to Gideon’s masters.

He returned his attention to the slumbering rose garden.

‘Well?’

‘The expulsion of Grand Duke Nikolai has put Andrei, the king’s brother, in the ascendancy. He’s been consolidating his power in the capital, and Crown Prince Stefan is increasingly isolated.’

Sir Gideon sniffed. ‘Prince Andrei seems like a stabilising influence to some of us.’

‘He’s a fascist,’ Osman said simply.

‘And how is Nikolai Kuznetsov being spoken of?’

‘The newspapers are full of bile,’ Osman replied, with a frown, ‘but I believe the people still think of him fondly. Listen, Gideon, I want to know whose side I’m on here. Have you seen what Mussolini’s lot are doing in Italy? You can’t want Marakovia to go the same way! There is a chance with Prince Stefan to establish a stable democracy, if he’s given the right encouragement . . .’

‘And you think the right encouragement will come from Nikolai?’ Sir Gideon scoffed. ‘Did you see the picture of him with that woman in front of the theatre?’

‘With the pantomime poster? Yes, I saw it. The Times syndicated it from the local paper. And, yes, I know Kuznetsov’s politics are not to your taste,’ Osman continued as Sir Gideon arched an eyebrow. ‘But at least he is a democrat.’

‘Who the Marakovians choose to kick out of their country is up to them. And when one can make friends on both sides of the political divide, one should, shouldn’t one, Osman?’

‘No, Gideon. Not if it means making friends with people like Andrei.’

Sir Gideon folded up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. ‘Don’t leave the country. The Prince of Wales wishes to hear from someone who has more current knowledge on the conditions in Marakovia than I, in advance of the Crown Prince’s visit next year.’ He delivered the news with the smallest suggestion of a sneer. ‘You are to accompany me on our next briefing. When His Highness can fit us in between rounds of golf.’

Sally liked the municipal gardens in the centre of Highbridge. It was a bit of a walk for Dougie to get there, but they could get the tram back if he looked tired. It was a neat space, laid out with walkways and benches, flowerbeds that were a burst of colour in the spring and summer, and even with December on them, the holly and laurels looked cheering on a cold day and the paths had a frosty crunch to them. There was a pond where the children of the richer inhabitants sailed model boats, and though the weather was a bit too cold for them to be splashing about now, there were still the ducks to look at.

It was nice to spend the day with Dougie, too. She’d be starting at The Empire next week, so this was a holiday for them both. Knowing there’d be money coming in had made her easier in her mind about spending a shilling from her private purse on going out and about.

Next to the white park house, where they sold ices in the summer, was an aviary, built by Sir Barnabas Lassiter to celebrate Queen Victoria’s Jubilee, and the birds which lived in it – cockatoos and budgies, parrots and finches – seemed to have taken to the Highbridge air. Dougie liked to whistle at them through the wire.

As they turned off the yew avenue, he spotted the cages and went tumbling off to see them. It wasn’t good for him, running like that in the cold weather after their walk, but he looked so eager and happy as he dashed towards them, Sally didn’t have the heart to call after him and tell him to slow down.

Just as Dougie was reaching the aviary a male figure, his head down, turned the other corner. Dougie barrelled into him, making the man drop his package, and fell back on his bottom on the path.

Sally started forward, expecting to hear a shout and Dougie crying, but the male figure had bent down and was helping Dougie up, ignoring his fallen package, and was brushing off the boy’s trousers instead. Sally hurried towards them, and by the time she arrived at the cages, filled with perches and nest boxes, the boy and man were next to each other by the wire, pointing at the fluffed-up birds. She heard Dougie laugh.

Sally bent down and picked up the parcel. It was tightly bound in brown string and addressed to Francis, Day & Hunter Ltd: music publishers in London.

Sally brushed the grime from the package, and the man talking to Dougie turned round. It was the fellow from the pub – the one who had put the song in her head. He almost fell over himself when he saw her.

‘It’s you!’

She laughed. ‘It is me. That’s my lad who almost sent you flying. Did you apologise to the gentleman, Dougie?’

‘Yes, Mum! He’s called Tom. And he said it didn’t matter and he used to run to the cage when he was my age, too.’

‘That’s very nice of him.’

Dougie had moved on to more important things. ‘The one that talks,’ he said to Tom, pointing out a blue and yellow parrot which was cracking nuts with its terrible-looking beak, ‘is called a macaw. It’s from South America.’

‘Well, I never. And where is South America?’ Tom asked.

Dougie grinned, enjoying the game. ‘It’s on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.’

Tom stood up and straightened his heavy winter coat. He was taller than she remembered, with a good six inches on her, and his brown eyes were very dark, with heavy eyelashes.

‘Apparently the first one they bought for the aviary had a very colourful vocabulary,’ Tom said. ‘They had to retire it to a pub in Liverpool and get this one. Much more respectably brought up.’

The macaw regarded them with a certain wary detachment, while Dougie hung on to the wires with his fingers and stared.

Sally handed Tom the package. ‘Here you go. It’s not too messy, I think.’

He took it and tucked it under his arm. ‘Oh, I wrapped it tight enough to withstand a few knocks. Do you remember my friend in the pub? This is her music I’m sending to town.’

‘And they’ll publish it?’

‘Oh, yes. She’s Ruby Rowntree. They publish lots of her music.’

Sally had heard of Ruby Rowntree. ‘Glad I didn’t know that when you and her were in the pub. I’d have been nervous.’

‘She loved you,’ he said, looking her straight in the eyes, then he blushed a little. A long moment stretched between them, and the frost seemed to sparkle as if a brighter sun had passed over them.

‘Can budgies talk?’ Dougie asked.

Tom turned and chatted to him about the birds, and their different abilities. He seemed, Sally thought, to be having a genuinely good time talking to her son, and when the excitements of the aviary were exhausted, it felt natural to walk on together. Dougie told Tom about his favourite subjects at school, and how he liked drawing maps, because he was going to be an adventurer, then found a stick and became absorbed in dragging it through the frost, or battling some invisible dragon with it. Tom and Sally walked on together, he making general observations about the weather and she replying. She mentioned how it got on to Dougie’s chest, and found herself talking about his asthma. He asked sensible questions, and seemed to listen to the answers. She felt strangely aware of him – the dulling winter light falling over his shoulder, the faint smell of tobacco and hair cream – and this strange crackling energy between them. They were almost at the gates back into town when he cleared his throat.

‘And what does your husband do, Mrs Blow?’

Sally felt the familiar pang, like a lightning strike going though her from shoulder to toe.

‘Noah was a factory worker. Died when Dougie was only a baby. And do call me Sally.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tom said, stopping just as they reached the pavement. It was as if, Sally felt, they both wanted to stay in the garden a little longer, before they got swept out into the world and all its worries again.

‘Feels like a lifetime ago,’ Sally replied. She turned. Dougie was still battling ghosts on the frosty grass. ‘Dougie! Come on, now.’

Dougie ambled towards them, dragging his stick.

‘I don’t have much family,’ she went on, half to herself. ‘And Noah’s mum and dad are in Sheffield, so we were very glad when Belle and Alf took us in. We feel like a family in the Bricklayers Arms now.’

He smiled – that warm, golden smile. ‘The accidental families we find are sometimes the best. That’s how it feels to me, anyway.’

‘You not got family, Tom?’

His expression became a little sadder. ‘My mother is alive, but we’re not very good friends, I’m afraid.’ Beyond the garden, the skies were beginning to darken. The street lamps glowed in the hazy gloom and the rattle of a passing tram seemed distant and muffled in the evening fog. Dougie came up to them, took Sally’s hand and shivered.

Tom pulled off his scarf, and wrapped it round Dougie’s neck. ‘Here – for when you go exploring in the Antarctic, like Shackleton.’ Then he turned up his own collar.

‘He can’t take that, Tom!’

‘Of course he can. Anyway, I have a confession.’

She frowned, her head on one side.

‘Go on.’

‘I came to listen to you last week, then I had to go for supper and didn’t manage to get to your tip jar before I left.’

She laughed. ‘I didn’t even see you! Well, in that case it’s owed and you’re lucky we don’t take your gloves, too.’

Tom bent down and he and Dougie compared hand sizes.

‘I don’t think they’d fit, Mum,’ Dougie said solemnly. ‘I’ll keep my wool ones.’

‘In that case . . .’ Tom got to his feet again. ‘I’ll wish you a good afternoon, Dougie, Sally.’

She shook his hand and he headed off down the street. She watched him go, his tall slender frame disappearing into the fog, thinking about how it had felt to hear him say her name.

‘Mum?’

Sally shook herself. ‘Right, let’s get you home.’