‘Why, is he Welsh?’
‘I was being sarcastic. I shouldn’t think it pleases him in the least. Spragge. I don’t know whether you —’
‘The informer?’
‘That’s right. He’s gone — or going, I’m not sure which — to South Africa. All expenses paid.’
Manning hesitated. ‘I… don’t think you should feel nothing useful came out of that. I showed Eddie Marsh your report and… he was rather impressed actually. As I was. He thought it was… very cogently argued. Very effective.’
‘It may have been cogently argued. It certainly wasn’t effective. She’s still in prison.’
Manning smiled. ‘The point is —’
The french windows were thrown open, and a chubby-cheeked child peered, blinking, into the dark interior. ‘Daddy?’
‘Not now, Robert,’ Manning said, turning round. ‘Ask Elsie.’
Manning’s face softened as he watched the child close the door carefully behind him. His delight in his house and family was so obvious it seemed churlish to wonder if he ever regretted the empty rooms of early spring, the smells of soot and fallen plaster, the footsteps that had followed him upstairs to the maids’ bedroom.
‘The point is that being able to organize an array of complicated facts and present them succinctly is quite a rare ability. And just the sort of thing we’re looking for in my line of work.’
‘Which is…’
‘Health and safety. To cut a long story short, I’m offering you a job.’
‘Ah.’
‘I think you might find it worth while. Since it’s basically protecting the interests of the workers.’
Prior was in no hurry to reply. He had resigned himself, not entirely with reluctance, to going back to Scarborough, to resuming the boring, comfortless life of an army camp in England. At the same time he knew Manning’s offer was one for which a great many men would have given an arm or a leg, and not merely in the meaningless way that expression was normally used. ‘Is Rivers behind this?’
‘No.’
Prior wasn’t sure he believed him. ‘I’m very grateful, Charles — don’t think I don’t appreciate it — but I’m afraid I can’t accept.’
‘Why not?’
‘Sarah — that’s my girlfriend — she’s in the north. I’d be able to see quite a lot of her if I was in Scarborough. And — that’s a big factor. And… I’m not sure how much I want a cushy job.’
Manning hesitated. ‘It does have one very big advantage. It’s most unlikely you’d be sent back to France. Though I suppose that’s not very likely anyway.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘What rating are you?’
‘A4.’
‘That’s a long way from the top.’
‘With a Board in two weeks’ time.’
‘Rivers wouldn’t let it happen.’
‘Rivers has nothing to do with it. I was given my original rating on the basis of my asthma.’
‘But he’d write to the Board if you asked him.’
‘I know. In fact I think Rivers could be quite eloquent on the subject of my unfitness for France. The point is, he won’t be asked.’
‘How are you really?’
‘A lot better.’
Manning toyed with his glass. ‘What was the trouble exactly?’
Prior smiled, remained silent just long enough for Manning to feel embarrassed by the intrusiveness of the question, then answered it. ‘Memory lapses. Black-outs, I suppose. They do seem to be over.’
‘Do you know what you did during them?’
‘Yes.’ Prior smiled again. ‘Nothing I don’t have a tendency to do.’
Manning became aware that he was looking almost indecently curious, and quickly corrected his expression.
‘How about you?’ Prior said.
‘Mending. It was much harder work than I thought it would be.’
‘Rivers? Oh, yes.’
‘I mean, he’s an absolute slave-driver. And you can’t grumble because you know he’s driving himself even harder.’
A glance of amusement and shared affection. Then Manning said, ‘You sound almost as if you want to go back.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do, in a way. It’s odd, isn’t it? In spite of everything — I mean in spite of Not Believing in the War and Not Having Faith in Our Generals and all that, it still seems the only clean place to be.’
‘Yes. My God, yes.’
They stared at each other, aware of a depth of understanding that the surface facts of their relationship scarcely accounted for.
‘Not an option for me, I’m afraid,’ Manning added, stretching out his leg. ‘But I do know what you mean.’
‘Do you think we’re mad?’
‘Both been in the loony bin.’
‘You’d better not let Rivers hear you calling it that.’
‘I wouldn’t dare. The offer’s open for the next few days, you know,’ Manning said, putting down his glass. ‘I shan’t be seeing Marsh till —’
Prior smiled and shook his head. ‘No. Thank you, but no.’
‘You don’t think you might regret it?’
Prior laughed. ‘Charles, if I get sent back — if, if, if, if — I shall sit in a dug-out and look back to this afternoon, and I shall think, “You bloody fool.”’
‘Well,’ Manning said, standing up. ‘I tried.’
In the hall a maid came forward carrying Prior’s cap and cane. Prior glanced at her: she was sallow-skinned, middle aged, about as old as his mother, he supposed. He stared at her uniform, remembering how he’d pressed his face into the armpits, smelling the careworn, sad smell. Manning was saying something, but he didn’t hear what it was. He turned to him and said, ‘Now I come to think of it, Spencer did mention other names.’
Manning said smoothly, ‘Thank you, Alice. I’ll see Mr Prior out.’
‘Winston Churchill and Edward Marsh.’
Manning gave an astonished yelp. ‘Churchill?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he is mad.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’ Prior walked to the door, then stopped. ‘He said Churchill and Marsh spent an entire afternoon beating each other’s buttocks with a plaited birch.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean “yes”?’
‘Churchill was Home Secretary at the time.’
‘Oh, well, that explains everything.’
‘It was a new kind of birch.’ Manning looked impatient. ‘I don’t know the details, there’d been some sort of controversy about it. I think people were saying it was cruel. So naturally they —’
‘Tried it out on each other.’
‘Yes.’ Manning’s expression hardened. ‘They were doing their duty.’
‘What conclusion did they reach?’
‘I think they both thought they’d had worse beatings at school.’
Prior nodded, glanced round to make sure they were unobserved, then took hold of Manning’s pudgy cheeks and chucked them. ‘There’ll always be an England,’ he told him and ran, laughing, down the steps.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The reader may find it useful to have a brief outline of the historical events that occurred in 1917–1918 on which this novel is based.
Beattie Roper’s story is loosely based on the ‘poison plot’ of 1917. Alice Wheeldon, a second-hand clothes dealer living in the back streets of Derby, was accused and convicted of having conspired to murder Lloyd George, Arthur Henderson and other persons by poisoning. The poison, in the case of Lloyd George, was to be administered by a curare-tipped blowdart. The trial depositions are in the Public Record Office, Chancery Lane, and provide a fascinating insight into the lives of absolutist pacifists on the run, and the Ministry of Munitions agents who spied on them. Mrs Wheeldon was convicted on the unsupported evidence of such informers and sentenced to ten years’ hard labour, despite her insistence that the poison she had procured was intended for the guard dogs at a detention centre. After the war she was released, but, weakened by prison diet, hard labour and repeated hunger strikes, died in 1919.