us sometimes.’
‘But how do I get it?’ David asked.
Jackson exchanged a look with Geoff. ‘Tell me about Miss Bennett.’
‘She’s one of the 1939–40 intake, when they allowed women into the administrative grades because of the war.’
Jackson nodded. ‘I often think those women who stayed after the Treaty must feel very out of place. Unmarried, of course, or they would’ve had to leave. What’s Miss Bennett
like?’
David hesitated. ‘A nice woman. Bored, I think, wasted in that job.’ He thought of Carol, her desk behind the counter with the buff files with red crosses marked ‘Top
Secret’, a cigarette usually burning in her ashtray.
‘Attractive?’ Jackson asked him.
David could suddenly see where this might be going, and felt something sink in his chest. ‘Not really.’ Carol was tall and thin, with large brown eyes and dark hair, a long nose and
chin. She always dressed well, always with a touch of colour, a brooch or a bright scarf, in tiny defiance of the convention that women in the Service should dress conservatively. But he had never
been remotely attracted to her.
‘Interests? Hobbies? Boyfriend? What sort of life does she have outside the office?’
‘I’ve only spoken to her a few times. I think she likes concerts. She’s got a nickname, like a lot of the junior staff.’ He hesitated. ‘They call her the
bluestocking.’
‘So, possibly lonely.’ Jackson smiled encouragingly. ‘How about if you became friendly with her, took her out to lunch a couple of times, say. She might be flattered by the
attention from a handsome educated fellow like yourself. You might be able to contrive a way of seeing the key.’
‘Are you suggesting I . . .’ He looked round the small group. Natalia was smiling at him a little sadly.
‘Seduce the girl?’ she said. ‘Ideally no. That could lead to gossip and even trouble, given you’re married.’
Jackson looked at him. ‘But you could make friends with her, lead her along a little.’
David was silent. Natalia said, ‘We all must do things we do not like now.’
And so David made friends with Carol, going towards her end of the long counter if he had papers to book out or return, taking the opportunity to chat. It had been easy. Carol
wasn’t popular in the dusty, conservative atmosphere of the Registry and was pleased to have someone to talk to. He remarked casually that he had heard she had been to Oxford, like him. She
told him she had read English at Somerville, that her real love was music but she had been hopeless at any instrument she tried. He learned how lonely she was, with only a couple of women friends
and her elderly, difficult mother, whom she looked after.
They had told him to take his time, but it was Carol who, a month later, diffidently took the initiative. She said that sometimes she went to lunchtime concerts at local churches and wondered if
he might like to come to one. He had pretended an interest in music and he could see the hesitant hope in her eyes.
And so they went to a recital. Snatching a quick lunch in a British Corner House afterwards Carol asked, ‘Doesn’t your wife like music?’
‘Sarah doesn’t like going out much just now.’ David hesitated. ‘We lost a little boy, at the start of the year. An accident in the house.’
‘Oh, no.’ She looked genuinely distressed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
David couldn’t answer; he felt suddenly choked. Tentatively, Carol put out a hand to touch David’s. He withdrew it sharply, and she reddened a little. ‘Sorry,’ he
said.
‘I understand.’
‘It helps to get away from things at lunchtime, do something different.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
There were more recitals, more quick lunches, after that. She told him of her problems with her mother. And sitting together at the concerts, she would try to make sure their bodies touched. He
hated what he might be doing to her. But his commitment to the Resistance was hardening and so,
‘But how do I get it?’ David asked.
Jackson exchanged a look with Geoff. ‘Tell me about Miss Bennett.’
‘She’s one of the 1939–40 intake, when they allowed women into the administrative grades because of the war.’
Jackson nodded. ‘I often think those women who stayed after the Treaty must feel very out of place. Unmarried, of course, or they would’ve had to leave. What’s Miss Bennett
like?’
David hesitated. ‘A nice woman. Bored, I think, wasted in that job.’ He thought of Carol, her desk behind the counter with the buff files with red crosses marked ‘Top
Secret’, a cigarette usually burning in her ashtray.
‘Attractive?’ Jackson asked him.
David could suddenly see where this might be going, and felt something sink in his chest. ‘Not really.’ Carol was tall and thin, with large brown eyes and dark hair, a long nose and
chin. She always dressed well, always with a touch of colour, a brooch or a bright scarf, in tiny defiance of the convention that women in the Service should dress conservatively. But he had never
been remotely attracted to her.
‘Interests? Hobbies? Boyfriend? What sort of life does she have outside the office?’
‘I’ve only spoken to her a few times. I think she likes concerts. She’s got a nickname, like a lot of the junior staff.’ He hesitated. ‘They call her the
bluestocking.’
‘So, possibly lonely.’ Jackson smiled encouragingly. ‘How about if you became friendly with her, took her out to lunch a couple of times, say. She might be flattered by the
attention from a handsome educated fellow like yourself. You might be able to contrive a way of seeing the key.’
‘Are you suggesting I . . .’ He looked round the small group. Natalia was smiling at him a little sadly.
‘Seduce the girl?’ she said. ‘Ideally no. That could lead to gossip and even trouble, given you’re married.’
Jackson looked at him. ‘But you could make friends with her, lead her along a little.’
David was silent. Natalia said, ‘We all must do things we do not like now.’
And so David made friends with Carol, going towards her end of the long counter if he had papers to book out or return, taking the opportunity to chat. It had been easy. Carol
wasn’t popular in the dusty, conservative atmosphere of the Registry and was pleased to have someone to talk to. He remarked casually that he had heard she had been to Oxford, like him. She
told him she had read English at Somerville, that her real love was music but she had been hopeless at any instrument she tried. He learned how lonely she was, with only a couple of women friends
and her elderly, difficult mother, whom she looked after.
They had told him to take his time, but it was Carol who, a month later, diffidently took the initiative. She said that sometimes she went to lunchtime concerts at local churches and wondered if
he might like to come to one. He had pretended an interest in music and he could see the hesitant hope in her eyes.
And so they went to a recital. Snatching a quick lunch in a British Corner House afterwards Carol asked, ‘Doesn’t your wife like music?’
‘Sarah doesn’t like going out much just now.’ David hesitated. ‘We lost a little boy, at the start of the year. An accident in the house.’
‘Oh, no.’ She looked genuinely distressed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
David couldn’t answer; he felt suddenly choked. Tentatively, Carol put out a hand to touch David’s. He withdrew it sharply, and she reddened a little. ‘Sorry,’ he
said.
‘I understand.’
‘It helps to get away from things at lunchtime, do something different.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
There were more recitals, more quick lunches, after that. She told him of her problems with her mother. And sitting together at the concerts, she would try to make sure their bodies touched. He
hated what he might be doing to her. But his commitment to the Resistance was hardening and so,
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