William Boyd: Restless

'Oh that's no gentleman friend,' the man with the moustache said, making a solemn face. 'That's what you call an English cad.'

They all laughed at this and Eva noticed one of the men across the table – fair-haired with a freckly complexion and a big, easy, slouching presence – who smiled at the joke, but smiled inwardly, as if there were something else funny about the statement that amused him and not the obvious slur.

She discovered that all three of them were lawyers attached to the Irish Embassy, working in the consulate office in Clarges Street. When it was the fair-haired man's turn to buy the next round, she let him go to the bar and then excused herself to the others, saying she had to go and powder her nose. She joined the man at the bar and said she'd changed her mind and would rather have a half pint of shandy than another gin and orange.

'Sure,' he said. 'A half pint of shandy it shall be.'

'What did you say your name was?' she asked.

'I'm Sean. The other two are David and Eamonn. Eamonn's the comedian – we're his audience.'

'Sean what?'

'Sean Gilmartin.' He turned and looked at her. 'So what would be your name again, Sally?'

'Sally Fairchild,' she said. And she felt the past fall from her like loosened shackles. She stepped closer to Sean Gilmartin as he presented her with her half pint of shandy, as close as she could without touching him, and she lifted her face to his quietly knowing, quietly smiling eyes. Something told her that the story of Eva Delectorskaya had come to its natural end.

'SO THAT WAS HOW you met my dad?' I said. 'You picked him up in a pub.'

'I suppose so.' My mother sighed, her face momentarily blank

– thinking back, I assumed. 'I was looking for the right man – I'd been looking for days – and then I saw him. That way he laughed to himself. I knew at once.'

'Nothing cynical about it, then.'

She looked at me in that hard way she had – when I stepped out of line, when I was being too smart-aleck.

'I loved your father,' she said, simply, 'he saved me.'

'Sorry,' I said, a bit feebly, feeling somewhat ashamed and blaming my sourness on my hangover: I was still paying the price for Hamid's farewell party. I felt sluggish and stupid: my mouth was dry, my body craving water, and my earlier 'mild' headache had moved into the 'persistent/throbbing' category in the headache leagues.

She had quickly told me the rest of the story. After the encounter in the Heart of Oak there had been a few more dates – meals, an embassy dance, a film – and they realised that slowly but surely they were growing closer. Sean Gilmartin, with his diplomatic-corps connections and influence, had smoothed the processes involved in Sally Fairchild acquiring a new passport and other documentation. In March 1942 they had travelled to Ireland – to Dublin – where she had met his parents. They were married two months later in St Saviour's, on Duncannon Street. Eva Delectorskaya became Sally Fairchild became Sally Gilmartin and she knew now that she was safe. After the war Sean Gilmartin and his young wife moved back to England, where he joined a firm of solicitors in Banbury, Oxfordshire, as a junior partner. The firm prospered, Sean Gilmartin became a senior partner, and in 1949 they had a child, a girl, who they named Ruth.

'And you never heard anything more?' I asked.

'Nothing, not a whisper. I'd lost them completely – until now.'

'What happened to Alfie Blytheswood?'

'He died in 1957, I believe, a stroke.'

'Genuine?'

'I think so. The gap was too big.'

'Any lingering problems with the Sally Fairchild identity?'

'I was a married woman living in Dublin – Mrs Sean Gilmartin – everything had changed, everything was different; nobody knew what had happened to Sally Fairchild.' She paused and smiled, as though recognising her past identities, these selves she had occupied.

'Whatever happened to your father?' I asked.

'He died in Bordeaux, in 1944,' she said. 'I got Sean to track him through the London embassy, after the war – I said he was an old friend of the family…' She pursed her lips. 'Just as well, I suppose – how could I have gone to him. I never saw Irene, either. It would have been too risky.' She looked up. 'What's the boy up to now?'

'Jochen! Leave it alone!' I shouted, crossly. He had found a hedgehog under the laurel bush. 'They're full of fleas.'

'What're fleas?' he called back, stepping away all the same from the dun, prickly ball.

'Horrible insects that bite you all over.'

'And I want him to stay in my garden,' my mother shouted as well. 'He eats slugs.'

In the face of these joint remonstrations Jochen backed off some more and crouched down on his haunches to watch the hedgehog cautiously unroll. It was Saturday evening and the sun was lowering into the usual dusty haze that did duty for dusk in this endless summer. In the thick golden light the meadow in front of Witch Wood looked bleached-out, a tired old blonde.

'Have you got any beer?' I asked. I suddenly wanted beer, some hair of the dog, desperately, I realised.

'You'll have to go to the shop,' she said and glanced at her watch, 'which will be shut.' She looked shrewdly at me. 'You do look a bit the worse for wear, I must say. Did you get drunk?'

'The party went on a bit longer than expected.'

'I think I've got an old bottle of whisky somewhere.'

'Yes,' I said, brightening. 'Maybe a little whisky and water. Lots of water,' I added, as if that made my need less urgent, less blameworthy.

So my mother brought me a large tumbler of pale golden whisky and water and as I sipped it I began, almost immediately, to feel better – my headache was there but I felt less jangled and tetchy – and I reminded myself to be extra specially nice to Jochen for the rest of the day. And as I drank I thought how perplexing life could be: that it could arrange things so that I should be sitting here in this Oxfordshire cottage garden, on a hot summer evening, with my son pestering a hedgehog, and my mother bringing me whisky – this woman, my mother, whom I had clearly never really known, born in Russia, a British spy, who had killed a man in New Mexico in 1941, become a fugitive and who, a generation later, had finally told me her story. It showed you that… My brain was too addled to take in the bigger picture that the story of Eva Delectorskaya belonged to, all I could enumerate were its component parts. I felt at once exhilarated – it proved we knew nothing about other people, that anything about them was possible, conceivable – and at the same time vaguely cast down as I realised the lies under which I had lived my life. It was as if I had to start to get to know her all over again, reshape everything that had passed between us, consider how her life now cast mine in a different and possibly unsettling new light. I decided, there and then, to leave it for a couple of days, let it brew for a while before I attempted fresh analysis. The events of my own life were sufficiently complicated enough: I should worry about myself, first, I said to myself. My mother was made of stronger stuff, clearly. I should think it over when I was more alert, more intellectually articulate – ask Dr Timothy Thoms a few leading questions.

I looked over at her. She was idly turning the pages of her magazine but her eyes were fixed elsewhere – she was looking fixedly, anxiously across the meadow at the trees of Witch Wood.

'Is everything all right, Sal?' I asked.

'You know there was an old woman – an elderly woman – killed in Chipping Norton the day before yesterday.'

'No. Killed how?'

'She was in a wheelchair, doing her shopping. Sixty-three years old. Hit by a car that mounted the pavement.'