David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

The two women were sitting next to each other on the sofa. He now saw that it was the elder of the two who was wearing black. A plain mourning dress by its appearance, with none of the frills and adornments that had been popular before the war. She had removed her veil and he could see that she was probably in her fifties, with a sharp nose that gave her face the impression of tapering to a point and concluding with disapproval. She peered at Paul through a lorgnette as if she might be wondering if he had just been washed aboard by a passing wave. Her companion, by contrast, was young with rather a pretty face to which the sea air had imparted some colour. A pair of intelligent brown eyes just stopped her prettiness from appearing vapid. Though not dressed in full mourning, she wore a black choker and some black lace on her sleeves to impart the fact the she, too, had lost someone. A book lay open in her lap and she had begun to read as Pinker stepped towards them.

‘Good morning, ladies. Sleep well?’

‘Satisfactorily, Mr Pinker, thank you,’ said the elder of the two.

Her voice bore a trace of an accent Paul couldn’t place. She gave Pinker a sour smile which remained on her lips as her gaze fell on Paul. The young girl looked as if she was about to speak, but then said nothing and she dropped her eyes to her book again.

Paul took a chair and lit another cigarette, only then spotting the other man in the room. The dog collar would have given the Reverend Pater away even if Pinker’s description of him had not. He sat ramrod-straight, his face chiselled from granite. His iron-grey hair had been clipped severely short, except for a single tuft which protruded from the top of his head in a manner reminiscent of a sprouting root vegetable. The man’s attitude, Paul thought, exuded the impression of someone waiting for Judgement Day, the expression on his face intimating he didn’t think he had long to wait. The reverend’s gaze took in the two new arrivals and didn’t change. Paul nodded to him curtly, more to demonstrate a lack of fear of damnation than out of any attempt at cordiality. Pinker though, perhaps harbouring a greater concern for salvation, went over and took the chair next to Pater, saying something to the reverend to which he didn’t deem to reply.

The Russians, conversing in their own language, were making no attempt to keep their voices down. Paul assumed they thought no one else would understand them. The fat Trotsky was talking about the now defunct Russian Constituent Assembly but the other cut him short, and made an obvious reference to Pater, peering in the reverend’s direction to see if it had any effect. Pater, obviously not understanding, didn’t bat a granite eyelid. Lenin turned to Paul.

Afraid they were going to ask his business aboard the boat and that he would have to say something to them about pit props, Paul began searching his jacket in the pretence he had forgotten something and to use the fact as an excuse to leave. He had meant to spend some time making a few notes on lumber to flesh out his assumed character although, with so much else on his mind, every time it occurred to him all he was able to do was resurrect visions of the endless Russian birch and conifer forests. All Paul knew about timber bracing was that if a trench collapsed someone would shout for the sappers to come and shore it up again. Beyond that, the thought of being buried in a collapsed dugout or, worse, go tunnelling with the men who laid mines under the opposing trenches, was enough to bring him out in a cold sweat.

Going through his jacket now, he found a piece of paper in an inside pocket and gratefully pulled it out to use as a diversion. It had been some while since he’d worn the coat and he had no idea what the paper was but, as he unfolded it, found after reading a few lines that it contained the notes he had made while listening to Valentine expound on the process of extracting radium from pitchblende. He had not understood Valentine at the time and had thought taking notes might be a good idea. Looking at them now he found an incomprehensible jumble of words and odd diagrams. Still, since the whole business had been a confidence trick, he supposed there was no reason at all why any of it should make sense.

He glanced surreptitiously at the Russians and saw they had gone back to talking to each other again. Pinker was still making little headway with Reverend Pater, and the women both had their noses in books.

Paul put away the piece of paper, stubbed out his cigarette and took another from the packet. He struck a match as the door to the deck opened again and a man paused on the threshold. Squinting up through his cigarette smoke, Paul glanced at him idly and froze. His jaw, hanging open, spilled the lighted cigarette onto the chair between his legs. The burning match followed it.

‘Good afternoon,’ Valentine said cheerily, stepping into the saloon.

The acrid aroma of singing fabric jerked Paul back to his senses. Jumping out of the chair he began flicking at his trousers. The cigarette fell onto the floor and he ground it out with his shoe, leaving a smudge on the threadbare rug and the smell of burnt wool in the air. Looking up he saw the other passengers staring at him. A gong sounded and the doors to the dining room opened.

‘Something up, Filbert?’ Pinker asked.

‘I dropped my cigarette,’ Paul said, examining his trousers for holes.

‘Steady on. Ladies present.’

Paul took a moment to snuff out the smouldering chair fabric and followed the others into the dining room. He saw the captain sitting at the head of the table and the first officer at the foot. Valentine had taken the seat next to the younger of the two women and Paul, last to be seated, took the last chair next to the podgy Trotsky. The Reverend Pater sat across the table from him glowering like the wrath of God.

Paul stole a glance at Valentine while the steward, Turner, circled the table with the soup tureen. Paul thought there was something different about the swindler and it took a moment for him to realise that Valentine was no longer wearing glasses. While selling the wonders of pitchblende extraction Valentine had adopted an air of a studious scientist — glasses, slight hunch of the shoulders, lank blond hair a little too long… Now he was well-groomed, his fashionable clothes immaculate, hair trimmed and fastidiously parted; the epitome of urbanity.

‘Darling,’ he said to the astonishment of the young lady sitting next to him. ‘Peter Darling.’ He smiled at the seated company. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I was rather late getting aboard last night, I’m afraid.’

Paul’s brain belatedly engaged a neglected gear. Valentine … Darling … Hart … synonyms and pseudonyms. He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen through it. Cumming had assumed he knew Hart which meant the pitchblende business had been a ruse to put Paul in debt and in a position where he was unlikely to refuse their offer. Had that been Cumming’s idea or Valentine’s? It hardly mattered. They had made a fool of him and worse — they had thought it necessary to entrap him, as if they had already decided that an appeal to his patriotic instincts wouldn’t be enough to secure his compliance. An opinion formed courtesy of the other Ross and his card-sharping, Paul supposed.

‘Can we thank you for our delay?’ Lenin asked, tucking a napkin into his collar.

Valentine remained unruffled. ‘I had planned to join the ship at Yarmouth but was unavoidably detained. Something came up at the last minute.’

‘Something of importance obviously,’ Lenin remarked, ‘if Captain Nordvik delayed sailing to accommodate you.’

Valentine inclined his head towards the captain. ‘Government business,’ he said to Paul’s amazement. ‘I’m going to Sweden to consult with their diplomatic service. A matter of prisoner of war welfare. Captain Nordvik was good enough to wait for me.’