Authors: Francis Bennett
The sound of her laughter attracted Watson-Jones’s attention from the other end of the table.
‘Meredith?’
‘I’m telling Daniel how we met, honey,’ she said guilelessly.
‘I’m sure he won’t be interested in that, my sweet,’ he said, and returned his attention to his guest.
He did not want her to share intimate memories with me because I was eating at their table not out of friendship but out of usefulness, and Meredith was in danger of overstepping the mark. I imagined she had done this before, and wondered if there would be a reckoning to be faced when we had all left.
‘Give me a top-up, will you? There’s a love.’
Bony fingers dug into my arm and a wine glass was held out to me. Sylvia Carr, I was told by the many people who knew her, was well past her best when I met her. That best had been something to behold, they said, but the years had taken their toll. Early promise had not sustained itself and it showed in the hoarse voice, the raucous laugh, the over-bright lipstick and the tight, parchment-brown skin.
But there was an honesty about Sylvia, and, I discovered later, an ability to square up to misfortune, which I came to admire. She was a realist, and she knew the world.
After dinner, Meredith led the women away and we gathered at Watson-Jones’s end of the table. Port appeared, and cigars. I heard someone say, ‘Genuine Havana. How does he do it? Good old Simon.’ The conversation turned quickly to politics, the atmosphere thick with cigar smoke. Berlin seemed like another planet.
I listened and said nothing. The drift was clear. The Attlee government was heartily disliked. We were in debt to the world, our export trade was half what it had been before the war and government spending was out of control because of Labour’s obsession with social experiment.
‘All very well to play around with ideas of equality, but only when you can afford it.’
There was general agreement that the country was being weakened at a time when the Soviet Union was banging its rifle butt harder than ever on Europe’s cardboard door.
‘The Soviets are out to gobble up the world,’ someone said. ‘We can all see that. France and Italy will be a walkover because they’re going communist anyway. Then we’ll have the Russians at Calais and this bloody government saying, “Please come in, Comrade Stalin. We’re allies in the great cause of socialism.”’
Watson-Jones turned to me. ‘You’re stationed in Berlin, Danny. Are we wrong to see the Russians as a threat?’
‘They mean business,’ I said. ‘They’re out for what they can get and they’re very hard to stop.’
‘Playground bullies, is that it?’
He was playing the straight man, feeding me my lines. I hoped I’d got my part right.
‘Playground bullies with toys that explode. What we’ve seen is the tip of the iceberg. They haven’t shown their hand yet. I worry about what happens when they do.’
The room had fallen silent. I wasn’t sure if I was on trial or not.
‘Can we stop them?’ Watson-Jones asked.
‘Not if we don’t do something soon. Nobody’s doing anything at the moment,’ I said, ‘and that’s playing into the Russians’ hands. This government, the Americans, everyone turns a blind eye because officially the Russians are still our allies. They’re a brutal lot. They read our policy as a sign of weakness. They respect strength. If you say no to them loudly enough and stick a bayonet up their arse, then they might back off. If you try to reason with them, they’ll walk all over you. Unless we do something soon, they’ll become a permanent threat.’
‘Time to wake up the world to the demon at the gates, Simon,’ someone called out. ‘Now, there’s a cause to get your teeth into.’
There was laughter at that and conversation broke out in groups once more. One or two people nodded in my direction and I had the impression that I had passed some kind of test.
Watson-Jones was bending over my chair.
‘There’s someone here I’d like to introduce you to. You two should have a lot in common.’
One of the great regrets of my life is that I only met Charlie Faulkner when he was dying. None of us knew it then, including Charlie, and when he did find out, there was a long battle between his will and the disease until it finally conquered him. I suspect that he raged against the illness that was slowly ravaging his body, and from time to time he stunned its advance. He certainly took a long time to die, longer than any of us expected and only in the last days were there any real signs that he was failing.
My first impression that evening was one of solidity, a square head topped with thick, untidy tufts of white hair, a square chin below a wide, often smiling mouth. His body was compact rather than large, his strength concentrated, but he gave the impression of a man almost twice his size. Perhaps it was his hands that did this. He had the largest palms I have ever seen, with short, thick, square-ended fingers.
‘Simon tells me you might be interested in joining us,’ Faulkner
said when Watson-Jones had gone. I recognized the last traces of a Mancunian accent.
‘The subject’s come up, yes.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I’d like to know more.’
‘Ask me.’
‘Why me? The universities must be crammed with young men who would jump at a chance like this. Surely you could have your pick?’
Faulkner laughed. ‘Simon warned me you wouldn’t think too much of yourself. I’m looking for doers, not thinkers. Thinkers are two a penny these days.
‘What makes you think I’m a doer?’
‘You’ve been in the war, son. You can organize other people, make things happen. I’ve seen your record. I’d say you’d be a good man for the job.’
He leaned towards me. ‘The wrong mob’s in power at the moment and we’ve got to get them out. We were too busy winning the war to spot how the war was changing the world we were trying to save. It’s time for a rethink: new ideas, new faces, get the party moving again. Well, Simon’s got ideas, he’s got the courage to challenge the shibboleths. What he needs is a bit of organization behind him, help spread the word. That’s what we’re talking about. Something to believe in again.’
They’d found premises in Pimlico, convenient for the House, and in a week or two the office would be ready. It was an exciting challenge for a young man, to be in at the start of a movement that was going to take the country forward once more. If Charlie had his time over again, he’d jump at the chance. It was clear from everything he said that I was not being looked over, I was being sold to.
‘There’s more to it than that.’ He leaned forward. ‘The Soviets are winning the propaganda war hands down at the moment. They say one thing and do the opposite and nobody calls them to account. We’re letting them get away with murder. You’re in Berlin, you know that better than I do. We’re a soft touch because we can’t bring ourselves to believe the Russians are as evil as you and I know them to be. So what’s happening? They’re running rings round us one minute and knocking us down like dominoes the next. Well, some of us think it’s time we woke people up before it’s too late.’
How he was going to do this he didn’t explain.
‘Well, what do you think?’ He looked at me eagerly.
‘Isn’t that the question I should ask you?’
‘I’m happy if you are.’
There it was, as simple as that. The possibility of escape from Berlin, a new life outside the army. No more doubts about what I should do. It was being decided for me. All I had to do was say yes.
‘Darling,’ said a voice behind me. ‘I’m a teeny bit squiffy and it’s way past my bedtime. Would you be an angel and drive me home?’ Sylvia Carr was holding out her keys for me. Then she saw who I was talking to.
‘Charlie, I’m sorry. Am I taking Danny away from something important? You will forgive me, won’t you?’ She leaned over and kissed his forehead.
‘This young man and I were just getting to know one another,’ Charlie said, winking at me. ‘But we can carry on some other time. Sleep on it,’ he said to me. He was writing a telephone number on a piece of paper. ‘Give me a ring. You can reach me here.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Now you take care of this young lady, Danny, and see her home safe and sound. She’s very precious to some of us.’
‘Tell me about Meredith,’ I said when we were in the car.
‘It’s her money,’ Sylvia replied, ‘and he spends it.’ She clearly had no time for Watson-Jones. ‘Meredith’s a sweetie, far too good for him. Everyone loves Meredith. It’s not real money, darling. Very nouveau. Grandpa Devereaux started the business, he was some kind of mechanic, then Daddy Devereaux made a success of it. He makes bits for aeroplanes – they’re the bits that matter because everyone wants them. Two generations, that’s all it took. No time at all. I suppose that’s America for you, isn’t it?’
‘Where does Charlie Faulkner fit in?’ I asked as we turned into the King’s Road.
‘He was almost an old flame of mine,’ she said, ‘except that bitch of a wife Muriel kept too close an eye on him.’
‘What’s his background?’
‘Charlie’s a shopkeeper, or was; he had grocery shops all over the Midlands. He made a lot of money in the ’thirties and got drafted in to work for the government during the war. That was when he got bitten by politics. He never wanted to be an MP, but he loves the political process, the comings and goings, the atmosphere of
power. That’s where he puts his energy now, behind political causes like Simon.’
‘He thinks a lot of Simon.’
‘Simon thinks a lot of Simon too.’
‘Other people speak well of him. He seems to be a coming man.’
‘Oh, Simon’s coming all right. He’s been coming since the day he was born.’ I was surprised at her bitterness. ‘He’s always had an eye for the main chance. Shrewd and shifty is how I’d describe him. If you want my advice, stay away from Watson-Jones. The man’s ice-cold inside. Cares for no one but himself. Look how he treats Meredith.’
‘How does he treat Meredith?’
‘He married her for her money. That should tell you everything you need to know.’
We had reached her house in Beaufort Street.
‘That was kind of you. I hope I haven’t taken you too far out of your way.’ I opened the door for her. ‘Give me a call sometime. I’m in the book.’
*
I didn’t sleep on it. I made up my mind as I walked back from Sylvia’s house. I heard the answer as I listened to the water lapping against the Embankment. I sensed it in the eternally thoughtful gaze of Sir Thomas More as he stared across the river. I saw it in the reflected moonlight bouncing across the underside of Albert Bridge. I felt it even in the enquiring glance of the tart standing by a lamp-post near Lambeth Bridge. I heard it in the refrain of my own footsteps on the pavement of the Embankment.
Why not? Why not? Why not?
It seemed a good offer. It had come to me out of the blue. I hadn’t had to work for it. It would be good to get away from Berlin, to escape from the war-torn buildings and the war-torn lives. It would be good to get out of khaki too.
‘Why not? Why not?’ the voice inside my head kept repeating. Why not? was about as positive as I had felt about anything in a long time.
She is one of the first to arrive. She takes her seat at the back of the auditorium. Her head is pounding.
Do nothing unusual, Andropov has instructed. Behave normally. Don’t excite attention until the right moment.
She watches her colleagues drift in to take their seats, leaving the two rows at the front unused. She realizes how everyone sits in the same seats, how no one has ever sat at the front. She wonders if the director will address them. It is rare for him to do so. She is not surprised when Assistant Director Dimitriov leads in Assistant Deputy Directors Miskin and Tomsky and the stout, drab form of Senior Technician Maximov. They are followed by the two political commissars, ever-present observers to ensure the correct political line is held. One by one they take their places at the table. Conversation stops.
Maximov, who seldom speaks, claps her hands and the meeting is called to order. Deputy Director Dimitriov opens the proceedings.
‘Comrades. I am sorry to report that our esteemed Comrade Director is unable to be with us today. He sends his apologies.’
She tries to remember an occasion when their esteemed Comrade Director did
not
send his apologies. There is a silence as Dimitriov puts on his spectacles. He leans over his text and begins.
‘Report for the month ending 31 December …’
The unvarying rhythm of his delivery as he reads his prepared text and the boring content of what he has to say make these exercises in worker participation pointless and exhausting. She looks around without turning her head. In row after row, bodies are sitting in the accustomed manner, long-practised postures, head and shoulders hunched forward over open pads of paper, pen in hand as though in the act of note-taking. But no hand moves. No notes are taken.
The pads, a blotchy grey, remain untouched. Behind the camouflage, eyes are closing. Those on the dais are too high up to notice.
Even the commissars seem bored. Dimitriov recites the month’s achievements and the month’s failures. He assumes the achievements are routine (‘this is the level of performance expected’), so he concentrates as the commissars have instructed him to do on the failures.
‘… the failure to remove cups from desks, the wastage of pencils, the removal of pads of paper from the stationery office and their reappearance in the toilets …’
Beside him Senior Technician Maximov nods furiously as each crime is read out (it was she who spotted the pads in the staff toilets and triumphantly returned them to the stationery cupboard) while the two commissars stare in front of them, their faces blank.
The pounding in her head continues.
In her mind she repeats the instructions that Andropov has given her. (‘Stand up slowly. Speak clearly. Use your notes if that helps.’) She holds her notes tightly; they are creased now and some of the words have been smudged by her damp hands. She does not want to refer to them if she can avoid it.
Irrefutable facts and figures derived from statistical studies of the nuclear explosions in Japan.
‘These are your questions,’ Andropov said to her. ‘Raise them at the next monthly progress meeting of the Project task force. We hear the director may be there.’
Dimitriov ends his recital, which he has read without once looking up. He looks very white and for one hilarious moment she wonders if he is not boring himself to death. He closes the file and says quietly: ‘I submit my report for your approval.’
There are the usual unintelligible murmurs around the room which are taken for assent. Bodies resume the upright position. Eyes open once more. One or two openly stretch, in anticipation of the end of proceedings.
With obvious ceremony, Senior Technician Maximov takes the paper from Dimitriov, signs and dates it. She makes a show of waiting for the ink to dry. As there is no blotting paper (when did they last have blotting paper?) she must wave the page in the air ostentatiously. There is silence while she does this, broken only by the snapping of lighters as cigarettes are lit. Pale clouds of blue smoke unfurl above them, rise to the ceiling and dissolve. She senses the general relief that the meeting is almost over for another month.
‘Before I call the meeting to a formal halt, are there any questions from the floor?’
There never have been any questions, it is unheard of that anyone should ask anything, everyone wants to get out as quickly as they can. Already the comrades are gathering up their papers; some are standing up, the seats of their chairs snapping back into the upright position in a syncopated rhythm; others are making their way to the door.
‘Comrade Deputy Director.’ She is on her feet. ‘I have a question.’
The room turns towards the small woman at the back. Deputy Director Dimitriov, halfway out of the auditorium, stops in his tracks.
‘Comrade Dr Marchenko?’
‘I would like to ask a question about the risks to the scientific staff and the local civilian population of work currently being undertaken in the Laboratory of the Victory of October the Tenth, otherwise known as D4.’
Dimitriov is as taken aback as anyone by her words. He looks for guidance to Senior Technician Maximov, the mistress of procedure. She can do nothing because on the agenda in front of her is typed the final item: Questions.
She leans towards Dimitriov and whispers in his ear. She shows him the agenda. Dimitriov looks at Ruth. He is more authoritative this time, Maximov having prompted him with what he should say.
‘The floor is yours, Comrade. What is your question?’
There is silence in the room. No one moves. All are astonished. She knows them well enough to guess what they are thinking but she sees none of them because she is not looking at her audience nor at the dais: she is addressing the lights on the ceiling.
Plutonium, she reminds them, is a highly toxic material and D4 is now engaged in developing techniques for casting plutonium. The danger arises if the metal oxidizes in the atmosphere, forming a fine powder of radioactive particles. Breathing in these particles can cause
injury or death. What arrangements, she asks, have been made to protect the technicians in D4 in the event of an accident? Or indeed any civilians living in the nearby apartment blocks?
At once a murmur runs around the room. The audience swivels round to look at Deputy Director Dimitriov. He has been writing as she speaks. Now one of the political commissars passes a note to him and then leans across to whisper something. Dimitriov nods.
‘Thank you for your question, Comrade Marchenko.’
She sees Maximov writing furiously. A foil minute of her question will be completed soon after the meeting ends and copies forwarded to the director and, of course, the political commissars, just as Andropov has said they would be. Then they will be sent to Moscow Central Intelligence, where they will end up on Andropov’s desk. At least, that is what he has told her. She hopes he is right.
‘Soviet technicians are not subject to any danger at all,’ he says. ‘Our advanced casting techniques allow our technicians to handle radioactive materials without danger to themselves or indeed anyone else. There is no possibility of such an accident. Therefore there is no risk to anyone. Your concerns are without foundation, Comrade Marchenko.’
Dimitriov prepares to leave the room. She is on her feet once again. (‘Make an impression,’ Andropov has instructed her. ‘Push yourself forward.’)
‘Is the Comrade Deputy Director aware that there have already been two instances of oxidization in D4? Due to the prompt reaction of the scientific personnel, any risks were avoided. Is Comrade Deputy Director not concerned by what has happened?’
Dimitriov looks desperate. ‘I am fully aware of the work undertaken in D4, Comrade Marchenko, and I am wholly satisfied with all safety arrangements.’
Inside her head she hears Andropov’s voice urging her on. But she has another motive. She is beginning to enjoy the sight of Deputy Director Dimitriov, whom she has never liked, squirming like a fish at the end of a line.
‘Would it not be prudent to move the civilian population away from the area while there is some risk during the casting process? Or should we consider transferring this process away from D4 to a more isolated laboratory?’
There is a whispered consultation on the platform.
‘I have no further comment to make, Comrade.’
‘So we are prepared to risk condemning the civilians in the apartments near D4 to the possibility of a slow and painful death from many forms of radiation-induced cancer because we cannot be bothered either to move them to other, temporary accommodation or to find another site for our testing.’
That is not a question, it is a political statement, and a dangerous one at that. There is more murmuring around the room. Deputy Director Dimitriov looks furious as he gathers up his papers.
‘I am only empowered to take questions, Comrade. The meeting is now closed,’ he says and sweeps out of the room.