Edward Wilson: Portrait of the Spy as a Young Man

‘It all happened so quickly. On reflection, we should have stayed in place and waited for the relief column – and then machine-gunned them too, and the survivors of the ambush who had crawled beneath their vehicles. We had just had a big supply drop of Brens to blast them with – so much more lethal than the Stens. Then we could have disappeared into the hills. If the Bushell girl had been with us, that’s what she would have demanded.’

‘Who was she?’

‘Don’t you know? Violette. She had been married to a Foreign Legionnaire named Szabo who got killed in North Africa. She was a fantastic shot, the best in SOE, but spoke French with a South London accent that stood out and…’ Catesby stared out the window and went silent.

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing.’ He turned to face his granddaughter and smiled. ‘Why are you so good and so beautiful?’

‘I’m pleased that you think so, but not everyone shares your opinion.’

‘Where was I?’ said Catesby. ‘My mind is turning into a butterfly.’

‘You were telling me about an ambush and Bren guns – and how you disappeared into the hills. You also mentioned Violette Szabo. I didn’t realise that you had known her. She’s famous. Haven’t you seen the film?’

‘I’ve never seen the film – or any film about the Resistance. And I’ve never read a book about it either.’

‘I can understand why.’

‘But there was passion, excitement and fun too. Nothing like the repetitive humdrum of ordinary life – and losing that exhilaration, losing it forever, is just as bad, maybe worse, than friends dying.’ Catesby shook his head. ‘I’m talking bullshit nonsense again. There was also boredom – long endless periods of soul-destroying boredom.’

‘Perhaps, Granddad, it would be better if you just talked to me. I could record or take shorthand notes. Your brain is a repository of unrecorded history. We mustn’t lose it.’

‘The things I remember most vividly are the personal – the historical facts can go hang.’

‘Can I make you another cup of tea?’

‘Don’t treat me like an invalid.’

‘How about if I put some brandy in it?’

‘You know how to twist my arm. Make sure it’s not the good stuff, but the cooking brandy. And make one for yourself too.’

‘You once told me that Henry Bone only used twenty-five-year-old VSOP.’

‘You should have interviewed him. Henry knew where all the bodies were buried and put many of them there himself.’

Henry Bone was an enigma that no one ever solved. He was a typical English gentleman in looks and speech – but one who had been a close confidant of Blunt, Philby and the rest of the Moscow gang. No one would ever know the truth about Henry. Had he protected the traitors, or had he exposed them? Henry Bone wore his supercilious smile like a coat of armour.

‘Did you ever meet him during the war?’

‘Oddly enough, I did. The first time was at the Café Royal in 1942. Henry was with Anthony Blunt. They were sitting at a marble-topped table drinking absinthe – the Café Royal was the only place in London where you could get absinthe during the war. Absinthe is quite a palaver. I remember an elaborate silver device in the shape of a nude woman dripping ice-cold water through a block of French sugar on to a perforated absinthe spoon balanced over the glass of absinthe itself. Years later, Henry showed me his collection of absinthe spoons – an excellent birthday present for someone who has everything. The slow drip of ice water causes the absinthe to “bloom” thus releasing its aromas and flavours. The process is called “louching” – from where we get the word louche. As those who indulged in too much absinthe inevitably became.’

‘I love your attention to detail.’

‘It’s part of the art of spycraft, my career, you know. Why are you looking at me in that tone of voice?’

‘Granddad, how did you, a working-class boy from the docks of Lowestoft, end up in the Café Royal when you were barely out of your teens?’

‘I was still in my teens – just. The war was the best thing for social mobility that ever happened to England. I was still in training with the Suffolk Regiment when I met a fellow soldier called Ewan Phillips. He was a few years older than me and had already made a name for himself in the art world as a curator. Ewan was extremely nice and generous – and curious to know how a rough kid from Lowestoft spoke French and had been to Cambridge. Two suggestions for social mobility: get in a war and have a Belgian mother. The Bushell girl, Violette, was another example. Her mother was a French seamstress. Ewan and I both had Christmas leave and he invited me to spend a few days at his family home in North London, Crediton Hill. It was a large flat full of art and antiques. They didn’t have much money, but lots of style. There were bronze busts of Ewan’s parents by Jacob Epstein. The family exuded civilised values. They were the sort of people the Nazis wanted to destroy – and, yes, I would have given my life to defeat that monstrosity. I digress. During the visit, Ewan took me to the Royal because, as he said, “You ought to see this place at least once.” But he was pretty dismissive of it. He said it began to lose its magic in the mid-thirties and never recovered. But, I suppose, if you want to sip absinthe…’

‘Thanks for that tip, Granddad. I must never go there again. Oh god, I’ve forgotten the tea!’

Catesby stared out the window. The sweet memories could be as painful as the horrible ones.

There was a clink of cups and saucers as Leanna came back into the studio.

‘Oh dear, you’ve used the bone china, no problem – but I hope you didn’t use the good brandy.’

‘Nothing is too good for you, Granddad.’

‘There are those who would argue that.’

As she put the tea down, his granddaughter noted something Catesby had written on the French magazine. She read it out. “ Et tout d’un coup… And all at once, the memory appears before me.” Are you getting back into Proust, Granddad?’

‘How clever you are for recognising the quote. No, Proust is getting back into me.’

‘Were you thinking of Violette Szabo?’

‘No, I was thinking of another woman. Her face and everything about her suddenly appeared.’

‘Did you love her?’

‘That’s a difficult question.’ Catesby smiled. ‘But don’t worry Granny about her. She was a lot older than me and would no longer be alive. Time and memory are funny things. People die, but passion never dies.’

Cambridge: Michaelmas Term, 1941

It didn’t feel right being a student at Cambridge University with a war going on and other young men dying. When Catesby told his mother that he was going to turn down the offer of a place and volunteer for military service, she flew into a rage. Which made him even more determined to volunteer. But somehow Mr Bennett, who had been his form tutor at Denes Grammar, got wind of the rumour that Catesby was considering turning down his Cambridge place. The teacher turned up, unannounced, at the family home on a warm summer’s afternoon.

Catesby was surprised and embarrassed to see Mr Bennett standing in the doorway. It was unusual to see him not wearing his academic gown – which hid the fact that one of his arms was missing. Bennett had lost his arm at the end of the Great War – the same day, in fact, that Wilfrid Owen was killed. Bennett joked that it was a lucky escape. The lost limb not only saved his life, but spared the world his own posthumous poetry.

‘As it’s so warm,’ said Mr Bennett, ‘I’m in shirtsleeve.’

Catesby gave a half-smile to Bennett’s joke. Not all the students appreciated the teacher’s sense of humour, but Catesby found it made his lessons memorable – or at least bearable.