Morris Oxford and was alone.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he said. It was his standard form of greeting.
“So was I. Next time choose a boozer.”
“There’s a reason we’re meeting here.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Let’s walk,” he said. This was too much.
“For Christ’s sake give me a break. I’m not in a position to go anywhere at the moment.” He took the point and we stood and looked at the Sunday throng and the scenery for ten minutes. His face bore an expression that said it was ten minutes of his life he was never going to see again. After a while I nodded and we walked off down a path that headed vaguely for the Isabella Plantation, the pretty little wooded estate in the centre of the park.
“How’s it going with Bryant?” he asked suddenly.
“Bryant?” I queried disingenuously. “... Oh!” Realization.
“... You mean Chris. Oh, great.”
“You’re seeing him then?”
I nodded ambiguously.
“Anyway, don’t kid me you didn’t know,” I added.
“I don’t. We’ve kept well clear of you since we last saw you.”
“The money?”
“We’d post that anyway. That’s still the retainer. I told you, we’re talking about big money.”
“Good,” I said, “... because at the moment I think you’re a bit light on payment.”
“That’s no problem.”
“It is to me,” I said. We hacked on a bit further through the ferns, now turning golden and sweeping up and down the gentle slopes like the light swell of the sea. Once all of suburban south west London must have looked like Richmond Park. It must have been quite something.
“What d’you think of him?” said Toby.
“He’s a well meaning Joe... He doesn’t know what he is himself. Harley Street doctor, friend of aristocracy and the underworld, sexual polyglot. A sort of Post-Hiroshima Renaissance Man.”
“Very poetic.”
“He’s OK. He’s a well meaning kind of guy. I don’t really know him at all. He doesn’t let you get close. He’s got a lot of complexes, keeps the mask close to the face. All we’ve done is wined and dined, gone to the pictures, and a party.” I told Toby my selected impressions of the party.
“Is he keen on you?”
“I don’t really know. I think so, but then again I’m not seeing him ‘til Tuesday, so he can’t be that bothered can he?”
Toby agreed.
“D’you wonder why we’ve got you to do this?” he asked. Then he asked me if I wondered who he was or what he represented.
“Would you believe that I got you to meet me here, and then come on this walk to make absolutely certain we’re not being spied upon?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Would you believe me if I told you that Christopher Bryant is a spy?”
“No,” I said.
“He is. A very amateur, dilettante spy. He meddles. But he meets people.”
“Who does he spy for? Mars or the Minor Planets?”
Toby stopped abruptly. He was quite wound up.
“Look. If we’re going anywhere together, if you want to see any of your ‘big’ money, get this straight..... I’m not stupid. Everything I tell you is fact, and I’m not telling you for my, or still less your, amusement... got it. I’m telling you because I want it to sink into your egocentric, decadent little brain.... Got it?”
I nodded, this time less ambiguously.
“Alright. I’m telling you. Bryant meets people. Politicians, cabinet ministers even. Newspaper proprietors, generals, admirals - English, American .... Russian. He meets a hell of a lot of people. And they talk.”
“What d’you want me to do? Get to know them?”
“D’you think I want you to work your arse off?” Toby’s attempt at wit took me by surprise. I had discovered an unexpected fluency in a foreign language.
“... No Alex. I’m afraid I can’t rely on them all being queer. Quite the opposite in fact. And anyway, I’m only interested in one, and he’s very definitely hetro.”
“Well thank God for that... What do you want
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he said. It was his standard form of greeting.
“So was I. Next time choose a boozer.”
“There’s a reason we’re meeting here.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Let’s walk,” he said. This was too much.
“For Christ’s sake give me a break. I’m not in a position to go anywhere at the moment.” He took the point and we stood and looked at the Sunday throng and the scenery for ten minutes. His face bore an expression that said it was ten minutes of his life he was never going to see again. After a while I nodded and we walked off down a path that headed vaguely for the Isabella Plantation, the pretty little wooded estate in the centre of the park.
“How’s it going with Bryant?” he asked suddenly.
“Bryant?” I queried disingenuously. “... Oh!” Realization.
“... You mean Chris. Oh, great.”
“You’re seeing him then?”
I nodded ambiguously.
“Anyway, don’t kid me you didn’t know,” I added.
“I don’t. We’ve kept well clear of you since we last saw you.”
“The money?”
“We’d post that anyway. That’s still the retainer. I told you, we’re talking about big money.”
“Good,” I said, “... because at the moment I think you’re a bit light on payment.”
“That’s no problem.”
“It is to me,” I said. We hacked on a bit further through the ferns, now turning golden and sweeping up and down the gentle slopes like the light swell of the sea. Once all of suburban south west London must have looked like Richmond Park. It must have been quite something.
“What d’you think of him?” said Toby.
“He’s a well meaning Joe... He doesn’t know what he is himself. Harley Street doctor, friend of aristocracy and the underworld, sexual polyglot. A sort of Post-Hiroshima Renaissance Man.”
“Very poetic.”
“He’s OK. He’s a well meaning kind of guy. I don’t really know him at all. He doesn’t let you get close. He’s got a lot of complexes, keeps the mask close to the face. All we’ve done is wined and dined, gone to the pictures, and a party.” I told Toby my selected impressions of the party.
“Is he keen on you?”
“I don’t really know. I think so, but then again I’m not seeing him ‘til Tuesday, so he can’t be that bothered can he?”
Toby agreed.
“D’you wonder why we’ve got you to do this?” he asked. Then he asked me if I wondered who he was or what he represented.
“Would you believe that I got you to meet me here, and then come on this walk to make absolutely certain we’re not being spied upon?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Would you believe me if I told you that Christopher Bryant is a spy?”
“No,” I said.
“He is. A very amateur, dilettante spy. He meddles. But he meets people.”
“Who does he spy for? Mars or the Minor Planets?”
Toby stopped abruptly. He was quite wound up.
“Look. If we’re going anywhere together, if you want to see any of your ‘big’ money, get this straight..... I’m not stupid. Everything I tell you is fact, and I’m not telling you for my, or still less your, amusement... got it. I’m telling you because I want it to sink into your egocentric, decadent little brain.... Got it?”
I nodded, this time less ambiguously.
“Alright. I’m telling you. Bryant meets people. Politicians, cabinet ministers even. Newspaper proprietors, generals, admirals - English, American .... Russian. He meets a hell of a lot of people. And they talk.”
“What d’you want me to do? Get to know them?”
“D’you think I want you to work your arse off?” Toby’s attempt at wit took me by surprise. I had discovered an unexpected fluency in a foreign language.
“... No Alex. I’m afraid I can’t rely on them all being queer. Quite the opposite in fact. And anyway, I’m only interested in one, and he’s very definitely hetro.”
“Well thank God for that... What do you want
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