The Madness of July Read online

  She remembered, however, how he had spoken of his own awkwardness and confessed that he felt it lifting in her presence. He understood the effect of his manner on his colleagues, he said, and Francesca remembered his relief when he realized that she found nothing embarrassing in his decision to speak to her intimately.

  Flemyng made his call, and Brieve answered the phone himself in Downing Street. ‘I’d like to see you if I can, Will. Away from the office, now. Do you have a few minutes?’

  Briskly, Flemyng agreed without asking why he was making such an unusual request, and suggested that they went to a subterranean bar near Charing Cross, a dingy, dusty place where they both knew it was easy to hide. There were corners where the shadows were deep. Half-burned candles, almost always unlit, stuck out of green bottles on each table, and the air reeked of the sherry dispensed from four great barrels lying end-on behind the bar, their bulging wooden ribs shining as if they sweated alcohol. Flemyng knew of a few affairs that had started in these premises, and some that had ended there. It wasn’t natural Brieve territory; so much the better. They’d meet in fifteen minutes.

  Before leaving, he made one careful rearrangement in his office. Making sure that the door was closed, he took a plain envelope from his briefcase. It had no name on the outside and the flap was open. He checked the sheet of paper inside, read the words again, and placed it in the drawer of his desk, putting the key back in his pocket after he had unlocked it. He pushed the drawer carefully so that it was nearly closed, but not quite.

  He walked across Whitehall, stopping to buy late-afternoon editions of the Standard and Evening News from the wooden shack at the Ministry of Defence corner – the water workers’ strike was still hogging the front pages – and was soon on the precipitous stairway to the cellar bar. Brieve was already established in one of the brick alcoves, seated at a rickety wooden table with two schooners of pale sherry in front of him. Flemyng shook hands and sat down. ‘Tom.’

  Brieve was carrot-haired, freckled and pale. He was taller and thinner than Flemyng as well as a year or two younger, but the gawky façade was misleading. When he opened his mouth Brieve was smooth as silk, speaking in mellifluous tones. From the Foreign Office fast stream, he’d swum off to life at Harvard when he was barely out of his twenties, returning in triumph to the diplomatic whirl. With a speed that his contemporaries thought indecent as well as infuriating, he abandoned the department that once commanded all his loyalty in favour of his new ante-chamber adjacent to the seat of power. In Whitehall, his tracks were visible everywhere.

  ‘Will, I wanted to pick your brains.’ Flemyng drank some sherry and thanked him.

  His curiosity rose as Brieve began a ramble that seemed to have no destination, without any of the discipline that was his hallmark. Flemyng had never heard him speak so aimlessly. ‘I wonder what you think,’ he said more than once in the course of his Middle East tour, but never paused to allow a reply. The coming Paris conference was thrown in, although it had little connection with Flemyng’s territory, and he told a long anecdote which he described as the only funny thing to come out of the latest session of disarmament talks in Vienna, which had stalled again. This was the excuse for some further musing about the Russians, and the scelerotic Kremlin succession that must surely come. Finally Flemyng interrupted him.

  ‘Tom, what’s this all about?’

  Brieve flinched. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Because you’re all over the place, and that’s not like you. What’s up? You can tell me.’

  Brieve’s natural pallor was touched by a flush of pink at Flemyng’s interruption. ‘The first time I met Francesca, I realized she was somebody that I could talk to more frankly than is often the case with me – this job, and so forth. I’ve often hoped that the same might be true of you, although we tend not to speak to each other in that way, or often enough.’ For the first time in Flemyng’s experience, Brieve showed symptoms of rising embarrassment.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Flemyng was sitting back in a wooden captain’s chair, and could feel its struts on his back. Brieve was hunched forward over the table in an attitude of supplication, and he spoke hesitantly. ‘This isn’t about a crisis, it’s more nebulous than that. An atmosphere…’ His head was still down, but his eyes had come up to observe Flemyng’s reaction. ‘Do you know what I’m referring to?’

  Flemyng’s expression didn’t change and he made no effort to ease Brieve’s discomfort. ‘Out with it, Tom. Who?’

  The answer surprised him. ‘It’s not a question of who, more a nervousness, a fear really, and I can’t work it out. I’ve got masses of stuff to put together before the Paris conference – the communiqué’s only halfway there, and there are all-nighters to come – but that’s manageable. Drafting’s my business, and we’ll fix it. That’s not my worry. I wanted to ask you if you’d had the same feeling lately – that things are unravelling. People keeping secrets, working against each other, that kind of thing.’

  Flemyng confided none of his own worries. ‘Politics, Tom, politics.’

  If this was a prompt for Brieve to elaborate, to name names, it was ignored. He appeared to regret that he had made the overture, perhaps even that he had suggested a meeting. His expressions of alarm gave way to another rambling foray into the Paris preparations, this time his own skill in winning a concession from Washington. But it was obvious to them both that his enthusiasm for confiding in Flemyng was waning fast. Brieve’s physical awkwardness, always highlighted by its contrast with his actor’s voice, betrayed a desire to get away. He had taken fright.

  Flemyng tried to rein him back. ‘When I asked you “Who?”, it was because there’s always someone in the middle of these upheavals, isn’t there? Somebody pulling the strings, or someone in trouble.’

  But it was too late and so was Flemyng’s rush of regret. His chance had gone. Brieve was slurping his sherry, and with some crude stage business involving his watch he excused himself – Washington calls to take, French egos to be massaged. So it went. ‘’Bye, Will. I really want to have this talk some other time.’ As he left the table, he paused and looked back. ‘Please.’

  Flemyng sat alone for a few minutes when he had gone. Later, he would explain to Francesca his sadness at having allowed the conversation to be sabotaged by his instinctive irritation with his personality. But Flemyng had learned something: there was fear in Brieve’s eyes.

  He walked north towards Covent Garden, unaware of his surroundings, coming close to stepping in front of a number eleven bus. A minute later he was in the dog-legged lane leading to the opera house, aware of a sense of expectation that made him quiver. It was a short walk, fresh in the relative cool of the narrow passage, well-sheltered from the last of the sun, to the side of the theatre. Fifty yards away he stopped at a shop window to check his tie, then followed the cobbles towards the private entrance. As he passed the stage door he could see the flowers piled inside for the ritual first-night celebrations. A slow-moving black limousine with diplomatic plates passed him and pulled up about thirty feet ahead, its nearside wheels on the narrow pavement.

  The Americans had arrived.

  6

  They met at the bottom of the steep private stair. Flemyng introduced himself. ‘Guy,’ said the taller of the Americans, his first word carrying the assumption that Flemyng would know the rest. A moment passed before he added, ‘Sassi. And this is Jackson Wherry.’ Hands shaken all round, they were borne upwards on a cloud of aimless and cheery chatter, Sassi leading the way. At Flemyng’s first assessment he was a year or two younger than him, just on the good side of forty-five, and lithe. Having touched him already on the upper arm, by old habit, Flemyng realized he was in good shape, player of a hard game. His black hair gleamed, and flopped over his collar. Wherry was broad, white and crinkly on top, and older than his colleague. His face bore the traces of wild times past. He was dressed in striped seersucker, the olive-skinned Sassi in dark blue. Each wore a flag pin and Flemyng no
ted a chunky fraternity ring on the little finger of Sassi’s right hand. Their shoes shone and they left a faint trail of scent as they climbed the stairs.

  Waiting for them was Paul, displaying his gift of dressing neatly on the right side of formality when he was away from his desk. His civil service pin-stripes had made way for a summerweight grey suit with a bright green tie and a button-down shirt that was a subtle gesture to his guests. He had a quality of timelessness, which allowed him never to make a point with his appearance nor offer a challenge. His wife Penny was beside him, bubbly and wide-eyed, with the side-to-side gait of a country girl that was deceptive because she knew more about members of the cabinet than some of them knew about themselves. And then – Flemyng turned to his left – there was Francesca.

  She was preparing to bring the two ministers forward. First, she pulled Flemyng towards her and they brushed cheeks. She wore the jasmine perfume he’d brought home from Cairo the previous month and her long dark hair was swinging free. In a cool blue-green dress she seemed immune from the heat. ‘Great night,’ she whispered in his ear. But then she felt the tension in his shoulders.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Later. Don’t worry.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ She tried to keep him from turning away.

  ‘Too much.’

  The ministers, out of his line of sight, stepped forward together. Though Francesca was tall, Jonathan Ruskin seemed to tower over her. For a moment Flemyng seemed thrown, as if he had expected someone else, and his eyes veered from one to the other. Francesca saw Paul moving towards him from one side with hand outstretched. But Flemyng had bounced back. ‘Jonathan!’ Then, ‘Harry!’ as Sorley appeared from behind Ruskin. It seemed to Francesca that the scene froze for a moment.

  The ministers went through the preliminaries with the Americans and champagne was poured, so the volume of conversation rose. The bright red programmes went round. Eugene Onegin. Paul checked that everyone knew something about the opera without making it a test. Sassi was beaming and, taking the floor with ease, revealed that he’d studied at the Julliard and still played in a friend’s string quartet when he was in New York. He gestured to Wherry. ‘And Jackson’s a Broadway man, music in the veins. So we’re grateful that this was possible. Truly.’ He inclined his head towards Paul, who had his hands out ready to receive thanks.

  Sorley, who always carried with him a sensitivity about his place, was getting the idea that his role might be to set himself up as Wherry’s partner, and launched into a clumsy question-and-answer session with Paul to set the scene. Director, singers, the conductor’s reputation. ‘Bonkers, I hear,’ said Sorley, missing the beat as usual. Flemyng listened without a word, and began to smile. Wherry was a type he recognized, and would have done his homework, with Pushkin at bedtime to avoid mistakes. He watched Sassi scanning the room.

  They enthused about the atmosphere, although none of them had yet seen a single member of the audience. Francesca said there was pandemonium backstage with a coughing scare in the principals’ corridor, but nerves always helped. Flemyng winked at her, and she realized he was trying to reassure her. ‘English asparagus,’ she announced, and they sat down. Sassi, next to Paul with Ruskin to his right, opened things up wide. ‘So we’re off to Russia tonight. Familiar?’

  He grinned straight at Flemyng as he spoke, apparently looking for a sign of pleasure.

  To the table at large, he added, ‘Jackson’s an old Moscow hand. He sings the songs.’

  Flemyng glanced at Paul, who stepped in. ‘The thing about Onegin for me – shaming, I think – is that Russian children know the story by the time they’re seven.’

  ‘Life,’ said Wherry, ‘a tragedy.’ And he hummed a phrase from the climactic scene. Sorley clapped.

  ‘You’ll like the crowd here,’ Ruskin said, gesturing towards the auditorium. ‘Getting a bit stuffy. Mind you, the roof is starting to fall down.’ The American said, ‘I care, you know. Some of us do, even in Washington.’

  Ruskin knew Sassi missed nothing that went on in that town. And London couldn’t compete with its political obsession. ‘Just as well when I think what sometimes goes on at Westminster, especially in the heat. It’s good to have those walls around us.’ With Sassi’s encouragement he launched into one of his party-stoppers about a girl being dangled by her ankles over the terrace on the Thames on the hottest night of the previous summer, the happy climax to a night out with a posse of drunken backbenchers. A cross-party group, he added to get an extra laugh. Everyone at the table watched him use his long arms to show how she’d been held just above the waterline. ‘Thank God there weren’t any voters in sight,’ he said. ‘We chase them away when it gets dark.’

  Even in the bubbling cauldron of the whips’ office, he said, where a melodrama was cooked up every day before lunch, they’d talked about it for a couple of weeks. The girl visited Westminster occasionally, until she realized that no one had forgotten. They never do, she was told.

  ‘We know each other’s past. That’s the thing,’ said Ruskin.

  Sassi laughed. ‘It’s why I’m glad I’m not in politics.’

  And Ruskin leaned across, his eyes bright. ‘Your game’s even worse.’

  Paul shot him a glance, and he flinched.

  Francesca saw that he was screwing up a napkin in his hand, as if he might throw it, although his smile stayed in place. Ruskin stopped in mid-flow and the moment was strange enough to bring silence down on the room for the first time. Flemyng took it on himself to lift it as a matter of duty, but Francesca sensed anxiety when he spoke.

  ‘Well,’ he said, with emphasis, ‘let’s hope we don’t have any of the troubles we’re going to see in the next three hours.’ He finished weakly. ‘I’ve never fancied a duel.’

  The company ordered itself, splitting into twos, everyone well-versed in the rules of the table. Flemyng watched Francesca at the far end being amused by Ruskin next to her, leaning forward with a wide grin and now relaxed. He was in the middle of a story. Wherry was on his other side, with Sorley beyond him, trundling on about the education bill, though its interest to the Americans was zero, as Ruskin leaned across to point out, interrupting his own anecdote to slap Sorley down. Being cursed with a face that gave everything away, he folded in embarrassment.

  Flemyng knew the reason for Francesca’s squeamishness about Sorley – the hair on the back of his hands. As he made a point to Wherry, he stretched both of them out on the table and revealed the thick black whorls that disappeared under his cuffs and up his arms. Francesca used to say that it must culminate in a thatch on his chest that needed work with a little lawnmower at weekends. She had once wondered if Sorley had a special wax to make it grow, and for a moment, Flemyng was transfixed. But Wherry was asking questions about parliamentary procedure, putting on a show of interest at Sorley’s explanation of an arcane legislative wrinkle. ‘It’s hard to explain… It just happens. One of our funny ways.’

  Wherry gave a sympathetic nod, and drank.

  Both Ruskin and Sorley were able to contribute something from their American experiences long ago and Ruskin chipped in with an anecdote about his own time at Princeton, his dalliance with the anti-war movement in the high old days – ‘I even marched on the Pentagon,’ he said with a laugh – and rolled out a couple of tried and tested routines, one of them featuring Flemyng as hero when he’d become a Foreign Office minister two years before on the lowest rung. Europe was the new diplomatic game, and at his first Brussels summit as a stand-in Flemyng had run rings round the Germans in such a way that to the few who understood what was happening he became an instant celebrity. He’d been promoted six months later. ‘Ministers don’t come much smoother than our Will,’ said Ruskin, finishing it off with a friendly salute.

  ‘One of our gilded boys,’ Sorley added, betraying a touch of sourness. ‘Brings some class to proceedings.’

  But Ruskin kept command, giving a health check on his own government that verged on the reckless, and had Pa
ul smiling. Then, from the box alongside them, they heard the sound of the theatre filling up. Paul got to his feet and gave a soft clap. The orchestra had tuned up, the lights were down. They filed through the door at Francesca’s gentle urging and took their places in the box, moving the chairs, high ones like bar stools at the back, so that they all had a good view of the stage below. Flemyng was in the shadows towards the rear when the curtain rose on a Russian cornfield.

  The atmosphere was high, everyone on alert. It was hot, with a sea of red programmes waving as makeshift fans down below, but they had a stream of air from the half-open door behind them, and there was none of the soporific feeling that might have taken hold. Wherry and Sassi were at the front, intent. They barely moved. Ruskin and Sorley were behind them, and from his perch at the back Flemyng could watch them all.

  For more than an hour there was almost no movement, the cheerful patter having been a preparation for an intense and wary period of stillness that couldn’t be attributed to the music alone. Francesca wondered about Sassi, pondered the length of time he had devoted to Ruskin and not to Paul at the table, concluded that Wherry was an odd fish but a friendly one, and watched Paul maintain his familiar state of relaxation that she compared with an athlete’s ability to be loose and alert at the same time. Then Sorley scratched a hairy wrist and the spell was broken. Gathering her thoughts when the curtain came down for the interval, she was convinced that the company was waiting for something, and knew not what.

  They chattered their way to the table at the interval where a platter of lobster and crab was waiting. After fifteen minutes the party broke up for the first time. Paul stood and said, ‘Would you please excuse us?’ He and Sassi moved back into the box, clicking the door shut behind them. The auditorium was almost empty, only a few members of the audience lingering in their seats, and the long velvet curtains round the box gave them cover. They could talk unseen and unheard.