The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (32 page)

She heard the waterfall before she saw it: a soft, thudding sound, not unlike that of some distant engine. And when they came to the point on the path where it revealed itself to them, again she stopped, and stood quite still in wonderment, her gaze travelling up the wispy column of water that fell, so effortlessly, like the tail of some supernatural white mare. At the foot of the waterfall, a pool had been hollowed out in rock from which all superficial accretion had been washed away; the pristine water was clear enough to show that the pool was deep in parts, deep enough to swim in, as Hugh had promised.

She looked at him as they stood at the edge of the pool. The sun felt warm, even this late, even at this height, and his brow was damp
from the exertion of the climb, as was hers too. She half turned to find out whether they had lost sight of the sea, which must be behind them now. They had not; the field of blue was still there, and she saw a boat ploughing a tiny white furrow through it, halfway to the island of Mull.

She glanced over at Hugh, who took off his shirt and tossed it down upon a rock. She turned away, involuntarily, and looked again at the sea in the distance.

“I know that boat,” he said from behind her. “It belongs to some divers from Tobermory. They dive for scallops.”

The remark—made as a casual aside—made it easier for her to turn round. She saw him standing on the edge of the water, his clothes abandoned on the rock. He said, “Am I brave enough?”

She wanted to freeze the moment. “Yes, of course you are.” She paused, her hand upon the buttons of her blouse. “And I’ll try to be brave too.”

It was cold, cold to the bone, as he had said it would be, but they became accustomed to the temperature within minutes, again as he had said they would. She swam beside him, letting her hair float about her on the surface; he held her hand lightly, under the water. The spray from the waterfall was delicate upon her face; touched it, and disappeared.

He said, “I love this place so much.”

“I know. And I can see why.”

He swept his hair back, a wet slick across his forehead. “I want to live here, you know. I have to.”

She spoke without hesitation. “I know that too.”

“My father’s got only one chance of staying here—staying on the farm—and that’s if I help him with the hydro scheme. He can’t do it himself.”

“Then you must do it.”

“And you?”

“I want to be where you are. That’s all.”

How easy, she thought; how easy it was to change a life, to give up everything. A few words could do it.

He pressed her hand. She felt his leg touch hers. He was holding her, cradling her, so that she need not swim. “There’s an old place, a cottage that was used by the shepherd. It’s been empty for years. We could do it up—we could take our time, and do a little bit each year, as we can afford it.”

She looked up at the sky. Under which I shall live, she thought; and her decision was made. “We can do it right away. I can sell my flat in London and we can use the money to do up the cottage and live on the rest for … well, for ages, I expect.”

“If you find a buyer. It can take some time, can’t it?”

“I have a buyer.” She would sell it to Rupert. He had always wanted it, and now she would give it to him. She did not want to leave London to begin her new life in anything but a state of grace, which was what this place, this holy place, now asked of her, and would be given.

W
ILLIAM
F
RENCH’S SON
, Eddie, had been an utter disappointment to his father, and to his late mother, his teachers, his scout leader and most of his friends—except, of course, the loyal, uncritical Steve. His failure to achieve anything had begun early—at nursery school, in fact—and had continued throughout his brief period of tertiary education, when he had been given a last-minute place on an under-subscribed course at a struggling university in a remote part of the city. The course in film studies was not unduly onerous, requiring not much more than the watching of a certain number of films each week, but even that proved a strain on Eddie’s staying power, and he had dropped out. After that he had taken to spending
the morning in bed in the flat he shared with his father in Corduroy Mansions.

Eddie had ignored his father’s frequent hints that he should find a place of his own. These had become more and more direct, and had eventually included offers to help with a mortgage. But why move? If one had a comfortable, reasonably central flat with porterage (father) and all meals provided (father), then why rough it in a shared flat where cooking would have to be done (Eddie) and contributions made to electricity (Eddie), gas (Eddie) and telephone (Eddie) bills? No, in common with many contemporary twenty-something-year-olds, Eddie saw no reason to leave the entirely comfortable nest that his father so thoughtfully provided.

Eventually the worm had turned, and Eddie had been driven out of Corduroy Mansions by William’s friend Marcia, who had stood up to him in a way his father had singularly failed to do. Smarting, Eddie had moved into a flat with his friend Steve, a move that would eventually have resulted in trouble over unpaid bills had it not been for a singular stroke of luck in meeting Merle. She was ten years his senior, but endowed with an overwhelming advantage that would cancel out any drawback in age: she had a beach house in the Windward Islands, where she owned a thriving marina and yacht chandlery. Eddie liked Merle, and she for some inexplicable reason reciprocated his affection. They set up home together, spending six months each year in the Windward Islands and six months in London. Eddie thought the arrangement ideal. He took to wearing a Greek merchant navy captain’s cap, and spending his mornings at the marina telling the staff what to do.

“Sure thing, Captain Eddie,” they replied. But they never did what he asked them to do, and Eddie never noticed. So everybody was content.

Eddie and Merle were now back in London, and Eddie had decided to visit his father, whom he had not seen since his return. William had hoped that Eddie would bring Merle—he had never
met her—but apparently she had business to do in Southampton and was unable to come.

“Next time, Dad,” said Eddie. “Merle’s not going anywhere.”

William thought this remark applied very aptly to Eddie, but did not say so. Instead he said, “I look forward to meeting her. She sounds very … very nice.” The trite praise was lame, but he wondered what else he could say about a person whom he had never met. She would probably be blowsy, he thought, a bit like a younger version of Marcia … He stopped himself. That was a disloyal thought. Marcia was not blowsy, or perhaps only a little bit. It was disloyal to think such things about a woman who had offered him nothing but friendship, and brought round to the house all those marvellous surplus snacks from the diplomatic receptions for which she catered.

“So, what are you up to, Dad?” asked Eddie cheerfully. “Same old, same old, I suppose.”

William drew a deep breath. He would not allow his son to condescend to him. He should point out that at least he worked, whereas Eddie did the same old, same old
nothing
. But he did not say it; he simply replied, “The usual. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” said Eddie. “It must be pretty boring.” He paused, looking around the room. “Where’s the dog? Where’s Freddie de la Hay?”

William looked out of the window. “He’s …”

He broke off. What could he tell Eddie?

Eddie looked suspicious. “Yeah? He’s what? Has he kicked the bucket?”

“No, he hasn’t.” William glared at his son. “He’s serving his country!”

“Come again?” said Eddie. “A dog? Serving his country?”

“I’ve lent him to MI6,” said William softly. “They asked whether he might help them with surveillance duties. They put a transmitter in his collar and he was passed on to a group of Russians—”

He did not finish. Eddie leaped to his feet. “You lent him to MI6? Have you gone off your rocker? What happens if …”

It had already happened, and William confessed to Eddie that Freddie de la Hay had been exposed and gone missing as a result. Eddie listened with growing horror.

“You hear this, Old Man,” he said. “You go and get that dog back, you hear? You go and rescue Freddie de la Hay.”

“I don’t know—” began William.

“You just go,” shouted Eddie. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re not fit to own a dog, you know!”

William said nothing. He feared that Eddie was right. He was not fit, and he felt miserable about it.

E
DDIE STORMED OUT
, leaving his father profoundly shaken. For a few minutes after his son’s departure, Eddie’s final words of condemnation ringing in his ears, William stood quite still in the middle of his entrance hall, staring at the pattern on the rug beneath his feet. He had never expected that Eddie, his feckless and inconsiderate son, would berate him in quite such a way—and with such clear justification. Eddie was in general in no position to criticise anybody, but on this occasion William had to acknowledge that he was absolutely right. Yes, he had behaved with complete disregard for Freddie de la Hay’s feelings; yes, he had let the trusting dog down. He had handed him over without any enquiry as to provisions for his welfare, taking instead the vaguest of assurances as to how he would be looked after. And all the time his head had simply been turned by two female agents of MI6. What a fool he had been! Of course they would use women to deal with him—they must have known his susceptibility. And Tilly Curtain, who had seemed so attractive and
interested in him, was probably laughing behind his back all along, thinking how easy it was for her to trap this middle-aged wine dealer (well, only just fifty, late forties really) into a harebrained scheme to listen in to the gossip of Russian gangsters in Notting Hill.

William turned round and went back into his sitting room. Eddie had brought a newspaper with him and had left it lying on the floor—even as a visitor, thought William, he leaves the place untidy. He picked up the paper, and grimaced; it was just the sort of paper that Eddie would read—a salacious, hectoring mixture of indignation and populist diatribe. He glanced at a headline:
Espionage Boss Found in River
. He read the few lines beneath the heading: the unfortunate espionage boss in question was French and had nothing to do with MI6, but still the story filled him with alarm. Was this the fate awaiting Freddie de la Hay, or was it the fate that had by now been doled out to him? Was Freddie already floating in the Thames somewhere, or possibly lying in the mud on the river bottom, a block of concrete tied to his collar? William closed his eyes. He could not bear the thought that it was he who was responsible for this. It was his fault.

He reached into his pocket, taking out the piece of paper on which he had jotted Tilly Curtain’s telephone number. They had parted on frosty terms, having barely managed to complete their dinner together. There had been no mention of a further meeting, and all the MI6 agent had promised to do was to telephone William if there was any news of Freddie de la Hay. Well, that was not good enough, he thought. If this is my fault—which it is—then I am going to be the one to do something about it.

He picked up the telephone and dialled the number. “I want to see you,” he said when she answered.

There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. “I’m afraid I’ve got no further news.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” said William. “I want to see you. I insist.”

Tilly agreed—reluctantly—and suggested that they see one another at Farmer Brown’s, a café on a small street off St. Martin’s Lane. William knew the place; he had occasionally dropped in for a cup of coffee or for lunch. They agreed to meet in forty minutes and rang off.

She was already there when he arrived. Although her manner on the telephone had been distant, it struck William as he sat down at the table with her that there was something different now—a sympathy, perhaps, that he had not witnessed at their last meeting.

“I’m very sorry about … about what happened at dinner,” she said. “And I’ve been thinking about it.”

William made a non-committal gesture. He was waiting to see what she would say.

“I was acting on instructions, you see,” she said, her voice lowered. “I was told that I was not to say anything to you. Or at least not to say anything significant.”

He leaned forward. “Oh?”

Tilly lowered her voice further, although there was nobody who could overhear them. The café was virtually empty, apart from a couple of stage designers from a nearby theatre sketching something out on a paper napkin.

“Yes,” said Tilly. “What I was not allowed to tell you is this: Freddie de la Hay is alive. And we know where he is.”

William’s heart gave a great leap. Instinctively he reached out and took her hand, clutching it tightly. “Oh, that’s marvellous, marvellous news. Where is he? And when will he be coming back?”

Tilly frowned. “Well, I don’t actually know. When I said
we know
I meant that the service knows. Ducky does—I’m sure of that. But I don’t know personally.” She paused. “And I shouldn’t really be telling you any of this.”

William looked puzzled. Ever since he had started having dealings with MI6, he had felt that he had wandered into a maze of some sort—a garden of twisting paths and passages, with no signs to show
one the way and nobody to ask for directions. He was pleased that Freddie de la Hay was alive, but he wondered whether this was the same thing as being safe. One could be alive and yet at the same time very unsafe, and perhaps that was the position that Freddie was now in.

“All right,” Tilly went on, her voice now barely a whisper. “Listen to me, William. Freddie de la Hay has been set up. They knew all along that the transmitter in his collar would be discovered. They knew it.”

William stared at her. “Why …”

He did not finish. She raised a finger to silence him. “Ducky wanted to find out where their other place was. He knew that they had somewhere else in London, but we could never find it. He thought that if they discovered Freddie was working for us, they would take him there. And so he fitted a small locating transmitter under Freddie’s skin. It’s been sending out homing signals loud and clear.”