Turner put down his glass and opened his notebook.
'I arrived here just before Christmas,' Jenny Pargiter said," 'from London. Before that I was in Djakarta. I returned to London intending to be married. You may have read of my engagement?'
'I think I must have missed it,' said Turner.
'The person to whom I was engaged decided at the last minute that we were not suited. It was a very courageous decision. I was then posted to Bonn. We had known one another for many years; we had read the same subject at university and I had always assumed we had much in common. The person decided otherwise. That is what engagements are for. I am perfectly content. There is no reason for anyone to be sorry for me.'
'You got here at Christmas?'
'I asked particularly to be here in time for the holiday. In previous years, we had always spent Christmas together. Unless I was in Djakarta of course. The... separation on this occasion was certain to be painful to me. I was most anxious to mitigate the distress with a new atmosphere.'
'Quite.'
'As a single woman in an Embassy, one is very often overcome with invitations at Christmas. Almost everyone in Chancery invited me to spend the festive days with them. The Bradfields, the Crabbes, the Jacksons, the Gavestons: they all asked me. I was also invited by the Meadowes. You have met Arthur Meadowes no doubt.'
'Yes.'
'Meadowes is a widower and lives with his daughter, Myra. He is in fact a B3, though we no longer use those grades. I found it very touching to be invited by a member of the Junior Staff.'
Her accent was very slight, provincial rather than regional, and for all her attempts at disowning it, it mocked her all the time.
'In Djakarta we always had that tradition. We mixed more. In a larger Embassy like Bonn, people tend to remain in their groups. I am not suggesting there should be total assimilation: I would even regard that as bad. The A's, for instance, tend to have different tastes as well as different intellectual interests to the B's. I am suggesting that in Bonn the distinctions are too rigid, and too many. The A's remain with the A's and the B's with the B's even inside the different sections: the economists, the attachés, Chancery; they all form cliques. I do not consider that right. Would you care for more sherry?'
'Thanks.'
'So I accepted Meadowes' invitation. The other guest was Harting. We spent a pleasant day, stayed there till evening, then left. Myra Meadowes was going out - she had been very ill, you know; she had a liaison in Warsaw, I understand, with a local undesirable and it very nearly ended in tragedy. Personally I am against anticipated marriages. Myra Meadowes was going to a young people's party and Meadowes himself was invited to the Corks, so there was no question of our remaining. As we were leaving, Harting suggested we went for a walk. He knew a place not far away; it would be nice to drive up there and get some fresh air after so much food and drink. I am very fond of exercise. We had our walk and then he proposed that I should go back with him for supper. He was very insistent.'
She was long looking at him. Her fingertips were pressed together on her lap, making a basket of her hands.
'I felt it would be wrong to refuse. It was one of those decisions which women find extremely difficult. I would have been quite glad of an early night, but I did not wish to cause offence. After all, it was Christmas Day, and his behaviour during the walk had been perfectly unobjectionable. On the other hand it must be said that I had barely seen him before that day. In the event, I agreed, but I said that I would not wish to be late home. He accepted this provision and I followed him to Königswinter in my car. To my surprise I found that he had prepared everything for my arrival. The table was laid for two. He had even persuaded the boilerman to come and light the fire. After supper, he told me that he loved me.' Picking up her cigarette she drew sharply upon it. Her tone was more factual than ever: certain things had to be said. 'He told me that in all his life he had never felt such emotion. From that first day that I had appeared at Chancery meeting, he had been going out of his mind. He pointed to the lights of the barges on the river. "I stand at my bedroom window," he said, "and I watch every one of them, right through the night. Morning after morning, I watch the dawn rise on the river." It was all due to his obsession for me. I was dumbfounded.'
'What did you say?'
'I had no chance to say anything. He wished to give me a present. Even if he never saw me again, he wished me to have this Christmas gift as a token of his love. He disappeared into the study and came back with a parcel, all wrapped up and ready, with a label, "To my love." I was naturally completely at a loss. "I can't accept this," I said. "I refuse. I can't allow you to give me things. It puts me at a disadvantage." I explained to him that though he was completely English in many ways, in this respect the English did things differently. On the Continent, it was quite customary to take women by storm, but in England courtship was a long and thoughtful matter. We would have to get to know one another, compare our views. There was the discrepancy in our ages; I had my career to consider. I didn't know what to do,' she added helplessly. The brittleness had vanished from her voice: she was helpless and a little pathetic. 'He kept saying, after all it was Christmas; I should think of it as just an ordinary Christmas present.'
'What was in the parcel?'
'A hair-dryer. He said he admired my hair above everything. He watched the sun shine on it in the mornings. During Chancery meeting, you understand. He must have been speaking figuratively; we were having a wretched winter.' She took a short breath. 'It must have cost him twenty pounds. No one, not even my ex-fiancé during our most intimate period, has ever given me anything so valuable.'
She performed a second ritual with the cigarette box, ducking her hand forward and arresting it suddenly, selecting a cigarette as if it were a chocolate, not this one but that one, lighting it with a heavy frown. 'We sat down and he put on a gramophone record. I am afraid I am not musical, but I thought that music might distract him. I was extremely sorry for him, and most reluctant to leave him in that condition. He just stared at me. I didn't know where to look. Finally he came over and tried to embrace me, and I said I had to go home. He saw me to the car. He was very correct. Fortunately we had two more days of holiday. I was able to decide what to do. He telephoned twice to invite me to supper and I refused. By the end of the holiday, I had made up my mind. I wrote him a letter and returned the gift. I felt no other course was open to me. I went in early and left the parcel with the Chancery Guard. I explained in my letter that I had given great thought to all he had said and I was convinced I would never be able to return his affection. It would therefore be wrong for me to encourage him, and since we were colleagues and would be seeing a lot of each other, I felt it was only prudent to tell him this immediately, before -'
'Before what?'
'The gossip started,' she said with sudden passion. 'I've never known anywhere for such gossip. You can't move without them making up some wicked story about you.'
'What story have they made up about you?'
'God knows,' she said uselessly. 'God knows.'
'Which Guard did you leave the parcel with?'
'Walter, the younger one. Macmullen's son.'
'Did he tell other people?'
'I particularly asked him to regard the matter as confidential.'
'I should think that impressed him,' Turner said.
She stared at him angrily, her face red with embarrassment.
'All right. So you gave him the bird. What did he do about it?'
'That day he appeared at Chancery meeting and wished me good morning as if nothing had happened. I smiled at him and that was that. He was pale but brave... sad but in command. I felt that the worst was over... Fortunately he was about to begin a new job in Chancery Registry and I hoped that this would take his mind off other things. For a couple of weeks I barely spoke to him. I saw him either in the Embassy or at social functions and he seemed quite happy. He made no allusion to Christmas evening or to the hair-dryer. Occasionally at cocktail parties he would come and stand quite close to me and I knew that... he wished for my proximity. Sometimes I would be conscious of his eyes on me. A woman can tell these things; I knew that he had still not completely given up hope. He had a way of catching my eye that was... beyond all doubt. I cannot imagine why I had not noticed it before. However, I continued to give him no encouragement. That was the decision I had taken, and whatever the short-term temptations to alleviate his distress, I knew that in the long term no purpose could be served by... leading him on. I was also confident that anything so sudden and... irrational would quickly pass.'
'And did it?'
'We continued in this way for about a fortnight. It was beginning to get on my nerves. I seemed unable to go to a single party, to accept a single invitation without seeing him. He didn't even address me any more. He just looked. Wherever I went, his eyes followed me... They are very dark eyes. I would call them soulful. Dark brown, as one would expect, and they imparted a remarkable sense of dependence... In the end I was almost frightened to go out. I'm afraid that at that stage, I even had an unworthy thought. I wondered whether he was reading my mail.'
'Did you now?'
'We all have our own pigeonholes in Registry. For telegrams and mail. Everyone in Registry takes a hand at sorting the incoming papers. It is of course the custom here as in England that invitations are sent unsealed. It would have been quite possible for him to look inside.'
'Why was the thought unworthy?'
'It was untrue, that's why,' she retorted. 'I taxed him with it and he assured me it was quite untrue.'
'I see.'
Her voice became even more pedagogic; the tones came very crisply, brooking no question whatever.
'He would never do such a thing. It was not in his nature, it had not crossed his mind. He assured me categorically that he was not... stalking me. That was the expression I used; it was one I instantly regretted. I cannot imagine how I came on such a ridiculous metaphor. To the contrary, he said, he was merely following his usual social pattern; if it bothered me he would change it, or decline all further invitations until I instructed him otherwise. Nothing was further from his mind than to be a burden to me.'
'So after that you were friends again, were you?'
He watched her search for the wrong words, watched her balance awkwardly at the edge of truth, and awkwardly withdraw.
'Since the twenty-third of January he has not spoken to me again,' she blurted. Even in that sad light, Turner saw the tears running down her rough cheeks as her head fell forward and her hand rose quickly to cover them. 'I can't go on. I think of him all the time.'
Rising, Turner opened the door of the drinks cupboard and half filled a tumbler with whisky.
'Here,' he said gently, 'this is what you like; drink it up and stop pretending.'
'It's overwork.' She took the glass. 'Bradfield never relaxes. He doesn't like women. He hates them. He wants to drive us all into the ground.'
'Now tell me what happened on the twenty-third of January.'
She was sitting sideways in the chair, her back towards him, and her voice had risen beyond her control.
'He ignored me. He pretended to lose himself in work. I'd go into Registry to collect my papers and he wouldn't even look up. Not for me. Not any more. He might for other people, but not for me. Oh no. He had never taken much interest in work - you only had to watch him in Chancery meetings to realise that. He was idle at heart. Glib. But the moment he heard me come along, he couldn't work hard enough. He saw through me, even if I greeted him. Even if I walked straight into him in the corridor, it was the same. He didn't notice me. I didn't exist. I thought I'd go off my head. It wasn't right: after all, he's only a B, you know, and a temporary; he's nothing really. He carries no weight at all, you only have to hear how they talk about him... Cheap, that's what they say of him. A quick mind but quite unsound.' For a moment she was far above his grade. 'I wrote him letters. I rang his number at Königswinter.'
'They all knew, did they? You made a display of it, did you?'
'First of all he chases after me... besieges me with declarations of love... like a gigolo really. Of course, I mean there's part of me that sees through that all right, don't you worry. Running hot and cold like that: who does he think he is?'
She lay across the chair, her head buried in the crook of her elbow, her shoulders shaking to the rhythm of her sobbing.
'You've got to tell me,' Turner said. He was standing over her, his hand on her arm. 'Listen. You've got to tell me what happened at the end of January. It was something important, wasn't it? Something he asked you to do for him. Something political. Something special you're afraid of. First of all he made up to you. He worked on you, took you by surprise... then he got what he wanted: something very simple he couldn't get for himself. And when he'd got it he didn't want you any more.'
The sobbing started.
'You told him something he needed to know; you did him a favour: a favour to help him along the line. All right, you're not unique. There's a good few others have done the same thing one way or the other, believe me. So what is it?' He knelt down beside her. 'What was it that was injudicious? What was it that involved third parties? Tell me! It was something that frightened the life out of you! Tell me what it was!'
'Oh God, I lent him the keys. I lent him the keys,' she said.
'Hurry.'
'The Duty Officer's. The whole lot. He came to me and begged me... no, not begged. No.'
She was sitting up, white in the face. Turner refilled her glass and put it back in her hand.
'I was on duty. Night Duty Officer. Thursday January the twenty-third. Leo wasn't allowed to be Duty Officer. There are things temporaries can't see: special instructions... contingency plans. I'd stayed in to cope with a rush of telegrams; it must have been half past seven, eight o'clock. I was leaving the cypher room... just going to Registry, and I saw him standing there. As if he'd been waiting. Smiling. "Jenny," he said, "what a nice surprise." I was so happy.'