Every Secret Thing (40 page)

‘I didn’t see it coming,’ he admitted to me now. ‘I was too young. Too inexperienced. But I could sure let the next man know what to expect, and who to keep an eye on.’

I said, ‘And the next man was Deacon.’

‘That’s right. We’d had our crack at it; the British wanted their turn. He was perfect for it, really. I was just a lowly lawyer, but he had the knowledge of art, the experience, that gave him a good chance at getting much closer to Reynolds than I could have done. So I briefed him, and helped get him ready to go.’

He’d gone to the apartment with an image in his mind. They’d only told him Andrew Deacon was an Englishman who dealt in art, so Jim had pictured someone very witty and flamboyant – not the quiet, down-to-earth man he had found. The wife, too, had been a surprise. She was not at all glamorous, and more attractive, in Jim’s eyes, because of it.

He’d developed a great fondness for Amelia Deacon as the days had passed.

If she hadn’t been a married woman, he might well have tried to make a play for her himself. She was so lively, and so young. She lit the room when she walked in. When they ate lunch, the three of them together in the small apartment kitchen, Jim always tried to make her laugh so he could hear the sound – her laughter was infectious. It even made her husband smile, and that was an accomplishment.

It wasn’t that Andrew Deacon was humourless. Far from it. The man had a very dry wit, and a drier delivery. But he was the quietest man Jim had met. Sometimes, when Jim and Amelia were talking and laughing together, it seemed as though they were in one world while her husband sat back and looked on from another, as though he wasn’t sure himself just how to bridge the gap and join them.

But Amelia Deacon bridged it for him. If he sat too long in silence, she would twist the conversation round to bring him in. ‘Tell Jim about the time…’ she’d start, and he’d be with them once again, not on the sidelines anymore, but in the game.

Small wonder Andrew Deacon loved his wife. And she loved him. Jim saw it clearly, in the way they interacted; in the way they smiled, and touched, and in the way they watched each other when they thought the other person wasn’t looking.

Jim would have given a lot to have somebody love him like that.

‘Do you have a girl, Jim?’ she asked one day, as she handed him his tea.

‘No. Too much work,’ he said, and grinned. ‘You have to take them dancing, buy them flowers.’

‘I love flowers,’ she admitted. ‘Roses, most of all. Except, of course, the yellow ones.’

Jim raised an eyebrow, curious. ‘What’s wrong with the yellow ones?’

‘They have an ugly meaning. Every flower has a meaning, don’t you know? My grandmother had this old book, a Victorian book, called
The Language of Flowers
, and it listed all of the meanings, so lovers could send secret messages in their bouquets. It all sounded very romantic.’

Jim thought it sounded very complicated. ‘What do yellow roses mean?’

The answer came from Andrew Deacon, sitting in his corner. ‘They mean jealousy.’ Then, to his wife’s surprised look, he explained with a half-smile, ‘We had the same book in our house, when I was a boy.’

The talk, from there, turned to gardens, then to birds, and then, in that associative way all conversations had, to airplanes.

Jim could feel the change. He felt the tension in the room, and though he knew that it was coming from Amelia, he could not imagine why. Usually, she poured herself a second cup of tea. Today, she didn’t finish drinking the first; she just glanced at the clock and said, ‘Is that the time already? I should go. I have to find a dress to wear tonight.’

She gave them both a smile, and rose, and left the kitchen.

Jim looked at Andrew Deacon. ‘Did I say anything to upset her?’

‘No. No, she doesn’t like airplanes, that’s all.’ She’d left a handkerchief behind her, lying on the table. Andrew Deacon picked it up and neatly folded it, and tucked it in his pocket. ‘Shall we start?’

It seemed to Jim, that afternoon, that Andrew Deacon’s mind was somewhere else. The man was unusually restless. If he wasn’t pacing the living room, he was standing in front of the window, hands clasped at his back, looking over the
snow-covered
rooftops towards Central Park.

There wasn’t much left to go over. Jim went through the few final points, and then finished with a summary. ‘The daughter, like I said, might be some help to you, so get to know her. She’s a nice kid. I felt sorry for her, actually. She’s not allowed to have much fun. But she’s no fool – you’ll learn a lot from talking to her.’

Andrew Deacon promised to remember.

‘So that’s it, really,’ Jim said, with a shrug. ‘I guess you’re ready.’

‘I guess I am.’

Jim didn’t know exactly how to talk to that impassive face. ‘It could be any day, now, so you’ll have to be prepared. It all depends on when the Clipper leaves. There may not be much warning – they’ll just send me to come get you.’

‘And what happens to Amelia?’ Andrew Deacon asked.

Jim knew his answer mattered. ‘I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.’

From the hall, they heard the front door close, and then Amelia’s cheerful voice called out, ‘Hello!’

Jim’s eyes were fixed on Andrew Deacon’s face as he was turning from the window, and he saw a flash of deep emotion, almost like a private pain, that twisted Jim’s own gut because he felt so damned responsible. It was because
he’d
failed with Ivan Reynolds that another man was being sent to Lisbon, and a married man, at that – a man with more at stake than Jim had ever had, and so much more to lose.

‘Just see she gets home safely,’ Andrew Deacon asked him quietly. And then he turned again to greet his wife as she passed by the open doorway of the living room. He told her, ‘You’re back early.’

‘Yes, well…’ She held up the dress bag. ‘I found what I wanted.’ She looked at Jim. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘Oh, no. I was just going,’ said Jim, with a smile. He didn’t say anything further. Truth was, he didn’t trust his voice.

He spent the rest of the day in a black mood, feeling angry with himself, and with the war, and with the world in general. He knew that, in his business, he couldn’t afford to care what would become of the people he met. He had to keep his focus on the bigger picture if he was to be of any use to those he worked for. But in this case, he
did
care. He couldn’t help it.

He was reading when the phone rang.

For a moment, he just let it ring, and looked at it. He knew that it was probably the call that he’d been waiting for – the call to say the Pan Am Clipper was preparing to take off from New York harbour, and it was time for him to pick up Andrew Deacon and escort him to the plane.

He considered what might happen if he simply didn’t answer it, but he knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Someone else would get the call, instead of him, and Andrew Deacon would still have to leave tonight and fly to Lisbon.

With a sigh, he reached to pick up the receiver, said, ‘Hello?’ and then relaxed when he heard Andrew Deacon’s voice.

‘Hello, Jim. Look, there’s been a change of plans. We’ve left the party. If you need to find us, we’ll be at the Roosevelt Hotel. In the ballroom.’

‘Right. Thanks.’ He wrote the information down, and hung up feeling happier. At least, he thought, they’d have a last night on the town together, to enjoy. And he might just have time to have that drink that he’d been putting off.

He rose to get it. Took the bottle from the cupboard in the kitchen. But before he could unscrew the cap, the telephone began to ring again.

They were dancing.

He could see them at the far edge of the dance floor, Amelia Deacon’s red hair gleaming bright above the dress she’d bought that afternoon – a black dress, beautiful, with some kind of fringe on the shoulders reflecting the low ballroom lights like a shower of sparkling diamonds each time that she moved.

Her cheek was resting on her husband’s cheek, and both their eyes were closed.

Jim couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the dance. He motioned to the man who had come in with him to stand his ground, and listened for a moment to the orchestra, the song. It was from something he had seen a few years back, he thought, on Broadway.

The mellow-voiced singer was crooning the chorus again for the last time, the swell of the music behind him a sign he was nearing the end:

‘Might as well make believe I love you,

For to tell the truth,

I do.’

The music swelled again and stopped, and Jim saw the Deacons had stopped too. They stayed on the dance floor, still looking at each other, neither letting go the other’s hand, as though even that small separation would be too much to endure. Jim felt his black mood returning as he walked towards them, with the other man in tow.

Amelia was the first to be aware of him. She turned her head a fraction, and Jim said apologetically, ‘I hate to spoil your evening, but it’s time.’

Andrew Deacon dropped his hand reluctantly and let go his wife’s fingers.

Jim went on, ‘We have to get you to the wharf in less than half an hour. There’s a car outside, and your suitcase is already in it. Frank, here, will go with you.’ He saw Amelia’s eyes begin to mist, and quickly reached across her to shake Andrew Deacon’s hand. ‘Good luck,’ Jim said.

‘Yes, I…thank you.’ Andrew Deacon took a moment to collect himself; then, looking at his wife, repeated, for some reason, ‘Thank you’.

The reference was clearly a private one. Trying to smile, she replied, ‘It was nothing’.

‘No,’ said Andrew Deacon, and he raised a hand to touch her cheek, a gesture of farewell. And then his fingers slid beneath her hair to gently cup her neck, and he leant close to her and murmured something not for Jim to hear, and kissed her forehead.

Amelia’s face was hidden; Jim couldn’t see her expression. But he saw Andrew Deacon’s. He saw the passion in that kiss, and saw how the Englishman closed his eyes tightly as if to contain his emotions. He didn’t quite manage it.

Straightening, Andrew Deacon searched his wife’s face with a curious intensity, the way a man with failing eyes might try to make a memory of a thing he will not see again. And then he simply said, ‘Goodbye’.

‘Goodbye,’ Amelia answered him, still trying hard to smile, but as her husband walked away Jim saw her give up the attempt. She looked away, biting her lip as she fought back the tears that were starting to well up along her dark eyelashes. Stepping in closer, Jim pressed his own handkerchief into her hand, trying to shield her from the curious eyes of the dancers around them.

Andrew Deacon had stopped at the door, to look back. Above Amelia’s head, Jim met his eyes and gave a quiet nod of promise, and then slowly, with an effort, Andrew Deacon turned around again, and left.

‘Come on,’ said Jim to Amelia, and he took hold of her shoulder in an understanding grasp. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘Not home.’ Her voice was shaking, just a little, but she dried her eyes deliberately, and raised her lovely, stubborn face to say, ‘I want to see the Clipper leave.’

‘Amelia…’

‘Please,’ was all she said.

He should have told her no. He should have said it was impossible; that he’d been given orders…but he couldn’t, somehow, looking in those eyes.

He fetched her coat.

The drive was short. She didn’t speak at all, just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her fingers working at the wedding band she wore, turning it round and round against her whitened knuckle. Her face looked almost normal…if you didn’t look too closely.

Jim glanced at her. ‘I can’t let you get out of the car, you understand that. My boss would have my head if he found out I’d even brought you here.’

‘I understand.’

He didn’t go right to the wharf where the seaplane was waiting – they would have been seen – but he did park as close as he could, so she’d have a good view.

There wasn’t much to see. The plane looked small against the dark sky and the harbour, rolling with the swells of water, at the mercy of the elements. A light, soft snow had started falling. Some of the flakes struck the windshield and melted to droplets that clung to the glass before losing their hold as the wind chased them off again.

Jim watched Amelia, as she watched the plane. She didn’t cry. He found that worse, somehow, than if she had. It hurt him more to see her being strong; to watch her red-rimmed eyes shine bright with all the tears that she refused to shed; to see her lips compressing as she tried to stop them quivering; to see her look on steadily, unmoving save for that small, ceaseless turning of her wedding band. She sat like that, not speaking, while the Clipper made its final preparations, and she stayed there till the aircraft finally loosed its moorings, turned, and nosed its way into the blackness of the night, rising from the water like a great, unnatural bird on wings of steel, until at last it vanished altogether, and was gone.

Even then, she didn’t cry. Her muscles tensed, as though she were attempting to hold on to something precious, something vital, that was being wrenched away from her. And then she pulled her gaze from where the plane had been, and turned to Jim, and in a very quiet voice said, ‘Thank you. You can take me back to the apartment now.’

Not ‘home’, he thought. She hadn’t told him, ‘take me home’. Perhaps it wouldn’t feel like home to her, without her husband there. Starting up the car, he wheeled it back the way they’d come and started driving, searching for the words to reassure her, to give comfort. But he couldn’t think of any.

He glanced over at her, once, then wished he hadn’t. Never, in his whole life, had he seen a woman look so lonely.

Talk to me
, he thought,
I’ll listen. Please, Amelia, talk to me
. But she stayed silent in her seat, face turned towards the window and the blur of whirling snowflakes, holding in the tears, as though to let them fall would somehow be a failing, on her part.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Jim said. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll come back to you all right.’