Pat Barker - Noonday

Elinor — I’ve had two goes at this already, so this is it, has to be, because we’re moving forward soon and there’ll be no time for writing after that. There’s no way of saying this without sounding melodramatic, and I really don’t think I am. In fact, I feel rather down-to-earth and matter-of-fact about it all. I don’t think I would even mind very much, except I know it’s going to be a shock to you — and I can’t think of any way of softening the blow.

I won’t be coming back this time. This isn’t a premonition or anything like that. I can’t even explain why. I used to think officers’ letters weren’t censored, but they are sometimes, not by the people here, but back at base. They do random checks or something, and I can’t afford to risk that. I hate not being able to tell you. If you ever want to know more, I suggest you ask your friend Kit Neville — assuming he survives, and I’m sure he will. He’s been no friend to me. I know you’ll take care of Mother as best you can. Father’ll be all right, I think — he’s got his work. And Rachel’s got Tim and the boys. I don’t know what to say to you. Remember

How easy it is to feel superior to the dead: we know so much more than they did. I didn’t look after Mother. Father wasn’t all right — he died of a heart attack in the back of a taxi on his way to work less than two years after Toby’s death. He never even looked like “getting over it”—whatever that means.

Toby’s last letter. Unfinished, not signed. Never sent. It survived only by accident because there was a hole in his tunic pocket and it had slipped through into the lining. And the sentence about Kit had been crossed out. As Paul said at the time: a crossed-out sentence in a letter never finished, never signed, never sent. What possible significance can you attach to that? But I did attach significance to it. And I was right.

But there’s no point going over all that now. Now, the only word that matters is: “Remember.”

But I didn’t remember. If I’d remembered, I could never have gone to bed with Kit. I talk about Paul betraying me and use it to justify a far worse betrayal. Because it wasn’t Paul I betrayed — I don’t owe Paul any more loyalty than he’s shown me, and God knows, that’s been little enough — no, it was Toby I betrayed.

I look at his photograph, the one of him in uniform when he first joined up. It’s the one Featherstone used to do that awful portrait. He’s young, so much younger than I am now, but it’s not an unformed face, not by any means. There’s great strength there, great determination, but no trust. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more guarded expression. I miss him.

Kit. I can’t say, as Paul said about that girl — Sandra, whatever her name was — that it wasn’t important. That it didn’t matter. It was important. It does matter. But it can’t go on. And I’ve no idea what I’m going to say to him. I do know one thing: I don’t want to rake over the past, or try to explain why it’s impossible. We’d only start arguing about things that can’t be helped.

No. I think by far the easiest thing — well, easiest for me, and I hope for him — is just to let it slide. Not get in touch and — Well, I’d like to say: not see him again; but of course there’s no hope of that. There’ll be times when we’re working the same shift, however hard I try to avoid it. I’ll just have to be — cool, I suppose. And after all I might be imagining a problem where there isn’t one. I mean, for all I know, he’s regretting it every bit as much as me.

London again, tomorrow. So I suppose I’ll soon know.

This was supposed to be a job interview, but it didn’t feel like one. Half an hour into the meeting, wreaths of cigarette smoke hung stagnant on the air, swirling a little when a secretary came in with tea and biscuits, before settling into new patterns, rather like the marbled endpapers of books. A lot of people had been “interviewed for jobs” here: Neville could smell them. Essence of anxiety lingered on the air.

The questions focused mainly on his knowledge of German. The time he’d spent in Germany between the wars. His German wife. All the way back to his father’s allegedly pro-Boer sympathies in the Boer War.

“He wasn’t pro-Boer,” Neville said. “He was anti — concentration camp, which at the time we were running. I think you can safely assume his sympathies with Hitler would have been zero.”

His answers became increasingly acerbic as the questioning went on, though they produced no response beyond a brisk nod and occasionally a smile. And then the next question. “Why do you speak German so fluently?”

He’d have liked to say: Because of the brilliant foreign-language teaching at Charterhouse, but decided not to. “I had a German nursemaid when I was a child.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Why?”

“How should I know? My mother didn’t consult me about the domestic arrangements.”

“So you were fluent before you met your wife?”

God, this was exasperating. “Look, I can translate German, I can do everything I’m required to do here. And yes, I can hold a conversation fairly easily. Parachute me into Berlin? No, I wouldn’t last five minutes. But that isn’t what this is about, is it?”

Dodsworth was tapping the papers in front of him into a neat pile. He looked up. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”

But Neville felt accused. On the way back to his office, he became increasingly angry. What right did Dodsworth, who’d been too young for the last war and seemed to be driving a desk in this one, have to question his loyalty? Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Bollocks. It was an investigation, couldn’t be anything else, and he found it insulting. He’d returned to England voluntarily and he’d volunteered to work in the fucking, bloody ministry. He wasn’t one of the people who queued up for jobs here to get out of joining the army. No, he’d been entirely motivated by…insanity. Only insanity could account for somebody volunteering to work here.

But then, look at it from Dodsworth’s point of view. If Neville was a German spy, what would he do? Get back to England as fast as possible and use his knowledge of German to secure a job at the Ministry of Information, where he’d have constant access to classified files. Perhaps he should just clear out. Go and live at the back of beyond somewhere and paint pretty little pictures of lakes and things. Get Dodsworth off his back, if nothing else.

He was passing Kenneth Clark’s office. Never an easy moment. Still no letter, no invitation to tea and biscuits in the great man’s office, though God knows that bloody little exhibition of his could have done with an infusion of talent. He’d almost made it to the other side of the landing when the door opened and Clark came out, accompanied by — oh my God — Nigel Featherstone. Now that really was scraping the barrel. Featherstone’s “paintings”—and that was stretching the term till it sagged like a whore’s knicker elastic — hung in every major public building in the country. You noticed them, if you noticed them at all, only to remark on how completely they blended into their surroundings — like frightfully well-chosen sofa cushions. Neville turned to face the wall, giving them plenty of time to get past because this was more than a brisk handshake and nice-to-see-you. As they walked towards the lift, Clark’s hand rested momentarily between Featherstone’s shoulder blades.

Neville found himself looking at Ullswater again. Was it one of Tarrant’s? It had to be by somebody distinguished because it was positioned directly opposite Clark’s door, though, looking at it again, Neville was inclined to acquit Tarrant. It pained him to admit it, but Tarrant was better than this. At the moment, any thought of Tarrant was painful. He was out of hospital — five or six cracked ribs, but apparently there’s not a lot you can do about them, other than bind up the chest and wait for them to heal. Neville hadn’t been to see him in hospital. It would have been awkward. His memories of that night were chaotic, but he remembered enough to know his behavior had been a bit odd. But of course he’d been in shock, and people in shock do and say the most extraordinary things.