The Human Factor (12 page)

For the third time with his Remington Daintry went over his face. Scruples of cleanliness grew with loneliness like the hairs on a corpse. He was about to have one of his rare dinners with his daughter. He had suggested giving her dinner at Overton's where he was known, but she told him she wanted roast beef. All the same she refused to go to Simpson's where Daintry was also known because she said the atmosphere was too masculine. She insisted on meeting him at Stone's in Panton Street, where she would expect him at eight. She never came to his flat – that would have shown disloyalty to her mother, even though she knew there was no woman sharing it. Perhaps even Overton's was tainted by the proximity of his flat.

It always irritated Daintry to enter Stone's and to be asked by a man in a ridiculous topper if he had booked a table. The former old-fashioned chophouse which he remembered as a young man had been destroyed in the blitz and been rebuilt with an expense-account décor. Daintry thought with regret of the ancient waiters in dusty black tails and the sawdust on the floor and the strong beer specially brewed at Burton-on-Trent. Now all the way up the stairs there were meaningless panels of giant playing cards more suited to a gambling house, and white naked statues stood under the falling water of a fountain which played beyond the plate glass at the end of the restaurant. They seemed to make the autumn strike colder than the air outside. His daughter was already waiting there.

‘I'm sorry if I'm late, Elizabeth,' Daintry said. He knew he was three minutes early.

‘It's all right. I've given myself a drink.'

‘I'll have a sherry too.'

‘I've got news to give you. Only Mother knows as yet.'

‘How is your mother?' Daintry asked with formal politeness. It was always his first question and he was glad when he had disposed of it.

‘She's quite well considering. She's spending a week or two at Brighton for a change of air.'

It was as if they were speaking of an acquaintance whom he hardly knew – it was odd to think there had ever been a time when he and his wife were close enough to share a sexual spasm which had produced the beautiful girl who sat so elegantly opposite him drinking her Tio Pepe. The sadness which was never far away from Daintry when he met his daughter descended as always – like a sense of guilt. Why guilt? he would argue with himself. He had always been what was called faithful. ‘I hope the weather will be good,' he said. He knew that he had bored his wife, but why should that be a cause of guilt? After all she had consented to marry him knowing all; she had voluntarily entered that chilling world of long silences. He envied men who were free to come home and talk the gossip of an ordinary office.

‘Don't you want to know my news, Father?'

Over her shoulder he suddenly noticed Davis. Davis sat alone at a table laid for two. He was waiting, drumming with his fingers, his eyes on his napkin. Daintry hoped he wouldn't look up.

‘News?'

‘I told you. Only Mother knows. And the other, of course,' she added with an embarrassed laugh. Daintry looked at the tables on either side of Davis. He half expected to see Davis's shadow there, but the two elderly couples, well advanced in their meal, certainly didn't look like members of the Special Branch.

‘You don't seem in the least interested, Father. Your thoughts are miles away.'

‘I'm sorry. I just saw someone I know. What is the secret news?'

‘I'm getting married.'

‘Married!' Daintry exclaimed. ‘Does your mother know?'

‘I've just said that I told her.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Why should you be sorry that I'm getting married?'

‘I didn't mean that. I meant . . . Of course I'm not sorry if he's worthy of you. You are a very pretty girl, Elizabeth.'

‘I'm not up for sale, Father. I suppose in your day good legs put up the market price.'

‘What does he do?'

‘He's in an advertising agency. He handles the Jameson's Baby Powder account.'

‘Is that a good thing?'

‘It's very good. They are spending a huge amount trying to push Johnson's Baby Powder into second place. Colin's arranged wonderful television spots. He even wrote a theme song himself.'

‘You like him a lot? You're
quite
sure . . .?'

Davis had ordered a second whisky. He was looking at the menu – but he must have read it many times already.

‘We are both quite sure, Father. After all, we've been living together for the past year.'

‘I'm sorry,' Daintry said again – it was turning into an evening of apologies. ‘I never knew. I suppose your mother did?'

‘She guessed, naturally.'

‘She sees more of you than I do.'

He felt like a man who was departing into a long exile and who looks back from the deck of a ship at the faint coastline of his country as it sinks below the horizon.

‘He wanted to come tonight and be introduced, but I told him this time I wanted to be alone with you.' ‘This time': it had the sound of a long good-bye; now he could see only the bare horizon, the land had gone.

‘When are you getting married?'

‘On Saturday the twenty-first. At a registry office. We aren't inviting anybody, except of course Mother. And a few of our friends. Colin has no parents.'

Colin, he wondered, who's Colin? But of course he was the man at Jameson's.

‘You'd be welcome – but I always have the feeling that you're frightened of meeting Mother.'

Davis had given up whatever hope he may have had. As he paid for the whiskies, he looked up from the bill and saw Daintry. It was as though two emigrants had come on deck for the same purpose, to look their last on their country, saw each other and wondered whether to speak. Davis turned and made for the door. Daintry looked after him with regret – but after all there was no need to get acquainted yet, they were sailing together on a long voyage.

Daintry put his glass sharply down and spilt some sherry. He felt a sudden irritation against Percival. The man had no evidence against Davis which would stand up in a court of law. He didn't trust Percival. He remembered Percival at the shoot. Percival was never lonely, he laughed as easily as he talked, he knew about pictures, he was at ease with strangers. He had no daughter who was living with a stranger in a flat he had never seen – he didn't even know where it was.

‘We thought afterwards we'd have some drinks and sandwiches at a hotel or perhaps at Mother's flat. Mother has to get back to Brighton afterwards. But if you'd like to come . . .'

‘I don't think I can. I'm going away that week-end,' he lied.

‘You do make engagements a long time ahead.'

‘I have to.' He lied again miserably, ‘There are so many of them. I'm a busy man, Elizabeth. If I'd known . . .'

‘I thought I'd give you a surprise.'

‘We ought to order, oughtn't we? You'll take the roast beef, not the saddle of mutton?'

‘Roast beef for me.'

‘Are you having a honeymoon?'

‘Oh, we'll just stay at home for the week-end. Perhaps when the spring comes . . . At the moment Colin's so busy with Jameson's Baby Powder.'

‘We ought to celebrate,' Daintry said. ‘A bottle of champagne?' He didn't like champagne, but a man must do his duty.

‘I'd really rather just have a glass of red wine.'

‘There's a wedding present to think about.'

‘A cheque would be best – and easier for you. You don't want to go shopping. Mother's giving us a lovely carpet.'

‘I haven't got my cheque book on me. I'll send the cheque round on Monday.'

After dinner they said good-bye in Panton Street – he offered to take her home in a taxi, but she said she preferred to walk. He had no idea where the flat was that she shared. Her private life was as closely guarded as his own, but in his case there had never been anything much to guard. It was not often that he enjoyed their meals together because there was so little for them to talk about, but now, when he realized that they would never again be alone, he felt a sense of abandonment. He said, ‘Perhaps I could put off that week-end.'

‘Colin would be glad to meet you, Father.'

‘Could I perhaps bring a friend with me?'

‘Of course. Anyone. Who will you bring?'

‘I'm not sure. Perhaps someone from the office.'

‘That would be fine. But you know – you really needn't be scared. Mother likes you.' He watched as she made her way east in the direction of Leicester Square – and after? – he had no idea – before he turned west for St James's Street.

CHAPTER II

1

T
HE
Indian summer had returned for a day, and Castle agreed to a picnic – Sam was growing restive after the long quarantine and Sarah had a fanciful notion that any lingering last germ would be whisked away among the beech woods with the leaves of autumn. She had prepared a thermos of hot onion soup, half a cold chicken to be dismembered in the fingers, some rock buns, a mutton bone for Buller, and a second thermos of coffee. Castle added his flask of whisky. There were two blankets to sit on, and even Sam had consented to take an overcoat in case the wind rose.

‘It's crazy to have a picnic in October,' Castle said with pleasure at the rashness of it. The picnic offered escape from office caution, a prudent tongue, foresight. But then, of course, the telephone rang, clanging away like a police alarm while they packed the bags on their bicycles.

Sarah said, ‘It's those men with masks again. They'll spoil our picnic. I'll be wondering all the time what's happening at home.'

Castle replied gloomily (he had his hand over the receiver), ‘No, no, don't worry, it's only Davis.'

‘What does he want?'

‘He's at Boxmoor with his car. It was such a fine day he thought he'd look me up.'

‘Oh, damn Davis. Just when everything's prepared. There's no other food in the house. Except our supper. And there's not enough of that for four.'

‘You go off alone if you like with Sam. I'll lunch at the Swan with Davis.'

‘A picnic wouldn't be any fun,' Sarah said, ‘without you.'

Sam said, ‘Is it Mr Davis? I want Mr Davis. We can play hide-and-seek. We aren't enough without Mr Davis.'

Castle said, ‘We could take Davis with us, I suppose.'

‘Half a chicken among four . . .?'

‘There are enough rock buns already for a regiment.'

‘He won't enjoy a picnic in October unless he's crazy too.'

But Davis proved as crazy as the rest of them. He said that he loved picnics even on a hot summer's day when there were wasps and flies, but he much preferred the autumn. As there was no room in his Jaguar he met them at a chosen rendezvous on the Common, and at lunch he won the wishbone of the half chicken with an agile turn of the wrist. Then he introduced a new game. The others had to guess his wish by asking questions, and only if they failed to guess could he expect his wish to be granted. Sarah guessed it with a flash of intuition. He had wished that one day he would become ‘top of the pops'.

‘Oh well, I had little hope of my wish coming true anyway. I can't write a note.'

By the time the last rock buns had been eaten the afternoon sun was low above the gorse bushes and the wind was rising. Copper leaves floated down to lie on last year's mast. ‘Hide-and-seek,' Davis suggested, and Castle saw how Sam gazed at Davis with the eyes of a hero-worshipper.

They drew lots to decide which of them should hide first, and Davis won. He went loping away among the trees huddled deep in his camel-hair overcoat, looking like a strayed bear from a zoo. After counting sixty the rest set off in pursuit, Sam towards the edge of the Common, Sarah towards Ashridge, Castle into the woods where he had last seen Davis go. Buller followed him, probably in hope of a cat. A low whistle guided Castle to where Davis hid in a hollow surrounded by bracken.

‘It's bloody cold hiding,' Davis said, ‘in the shade.'

‘You suggested the game yourself. We were all ready to go home. Down, Buller. Down, damn you.'

‘I know, but I could see how much the little bastard wanted it.'

‘You seem to know children better than I do. I'd better shout to them. We'll catch our death . . .'

‘No, don't do that yet. I was hoping you'd come by. I want a word with you alone. Something important.'

‘Can't it wait till tomorrow at the office?'

‘No, you've made me suspicious of the office. Castle, I really think I'm being followed.'

‘I told you I thought your phone was tapped.'

‘I didn't believe you. But since that night . . . On Thursday I took Cynthia out to Scott's. There was a man in the lift as we went down. And later he was in Scott's too drinking Black Velvet. And then today, driving down to Berkhamsted – I noticed a car behind me at Marble Arch – only by chance because for a moment I thought I knew the man – I didn't, but I saw him again behind me at Boxmoor. In a black Mercedes.'

‘The same man as at Scott's?'

‘Of course not. They wouldn't be as stupid as that. My Jaguar's got a turn of speed and there was Sunday traffic on the road. I lost him before Berkhamsted.'

‘We're not trusted, Davis, nobody is, but who cares if we're innocent?'

‘Oh yes, I know all that. Like an old theme song, isn't it? Who cares? “I'm innocent. Who cares? If they take me unawares, I'll say I only went, To buy some golden apples and some pears . . .” I might be top of the pops yet.'