married they’re expected to stop work and stay home, unless they have a job like yours. It’s not fair.’
‘I agree.’
‘Will you teach me how to do the foxtrot?’
‘Now . . . when it’s my turn to get the dinner ready?’
‘After dinner will do fine. In return I’ll cook it for you. What’s more, tomorrow, when it’s my proper turn, I’ll make a lamb hotpot with suet dumplings.’
Es grinned. ‘Mmmmm . . . you’re on.’
Nicholas Cowan’s eyelids barely quivered when his father looked over
The
Times
newspaper at him and announced, ‘Sir James Bethuen will have an opening in his department in a month or two. I’ve put your name forward. It will be an opportunity for you especially if war breaks out, since it’s a desk job. At least you’ll be out of the fighting, unless Hitler manages to set foot on English soil, then every man, woman and child will take up arms.’
Nick had known his idle life was coming to an end. He’d spent two years settling into his manhood, mostly on the Continent, supposedly studying but doing very little apart from living the life of a well-heeled young viscount with very little responsibility. Nick never did anything by half. He sailed the Mediterranean coast, picking up awards for his skills in the racing circles, entertained a smart crowd of several nationalities at his villa, and collected a smattering of languages along the way, something that came surprisingly easy to him. His father, who had an eye on the diplomatic service for him, had called him home six months previously.
‘If war breaks out I want you this side of the English Channel. In the meantime I’ll keep an ear open for an opportunity for you.’
Carefully, Nick cut a generous strip of crisply fried bacon from his rasher, dipped it into his egg yolk and ate it. The egg was just as he liked it, the yolk not runny, but not quite firm either, and the outside edge of the egg browned, but not burned.
Dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin he gazed at his father – at his handsome face and the grey moustache he’d recently grown. He reminded Nick somewhat of Anthony Eden, who’d resigned the year before as secretary of state after a disagreement with Chamberlain. The Italian dictator Mussolini had referred to Eden as, ‘The best dressed fool in Europe.’ Something Nicholas was inclined to agree with. ‘What does Sir James have in mind?’
‘Who knows? Some sort of information gathering, I think. Nothing that would stretch your intellect to any great degree I should imagine, since James was a duffer at school. He hints at cloak and dagger stuff to attach importance to himself. Anyway, he can fit you in the day after tomorrow. Lunch at his club one p.m. He owes me a favour so don’t be late. It doesn’t pay to rub civil servants up the wrong way.’
When Nicholas nodded in reply his father folded the page back and ducked down behind the paper again. The crossword was in full view and Nicholas slanted his head to one side. He’d solved several of the clues in his mind and had eaten most of his breakfast before his father turned to the next page and informed him, ‘That burglar has been at it again . . . the one who disguises himself as a policeman. This time somebody saw him and gave a good description. He’s an ugly looking customer. Apparently he has dark staring eyes, crooked teeth and a flattened nose, as though it had been broken. They’ve put a drawing of him in the paper.’
Nick didn’t think he’d have anything to worry about, since his eyes were grey, his teeth straight and his nose as handsome as that of a Roman senator . . . or so his mother had told him.
He had a short, poignant memory of her hugging him tight, his handsome nose pressed against the tickling fur flung over one shoulder, and breathing in her perfume as he fought against the urge to sneeze. He’d been about thirteen. ‘ Never forget that I love you. Promise you’ll be all right without me, my lovely boy . . .
‘I agree.’
‘Will you teach me how to do the foxtrot?’
‘Now . . . when it’s my turn to get the dinner ready?’
‘After dinner will do fine. In return I’ll cook it for you. What’s more, tomorrow, when it’s my proper turn, I’ll make a lamb hotpot with suet dumplings.’
Es grinned. ‘Mmmmm . . . you’re on.’
Nicholas Cowan’s eyelids barely quivered when his father looked over
The
Times
newspaper at him and announced, ‘Sir James Bethuen will have an opening in his department in a month or two. I’ve put your name forward. It will be an opportunity for you especially if war breaks out, since it’s a desk job. At least you’ll be out of the fighting, unless Hitler manages to set foot on English soil, then every man, woman and child will take up arms.’
Nick had known his idle life was coming to an end. He’d spent two years settling into his manhood, mostly on the Continent, supposedly studying but doing very little apart from living the life of a well-heeled young viscount with very little responsibility. Nick never did anything by half. He sailed the Mediterranean coast, picking up awards for his skills in the racing circles, entertained a smart crowd of several nationalities at his villa, and collected a smattering of languages along the way, something that came surprisingly easy to him. His father, who had an eye on the diplomatic service for him, had called him home six months previously.
‘If war breaks out I want you this side of the English Channel. In the meantime I’ll keep an ear open for an opportunity for you.’
Carefully, Nick cut a generous strip of crisply fried bacon from his rasher, dipped it into his egg yolk and ate it. The egg was just as he liked it, the yolk not runny, but not quite firm either, and the outside edge of the egg browned, but not burned.
Dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin he gazed at his father – at his handsome face and the grey moustache he’d recently grown. He reminded Nick somewhat of Anthony Eden, who’d resigned the year before as secretary of state after a disagreement with Chamberlain. The Italian dictator Mussolini had referred to Eden as, ‘The best dressed fool in Europe.’ Something Nicholas was inclined to agree with. ‘What does Sir James have in mind?’
‘Who knows? Some sort of information gathering, I think. Nothing that would stretch your intellect to any great degree I should imagine, since James was a duffer at school. He hints at cloak and dagger stuff to attach importance to himself. Anyway, he can fit you in the day after tomorrow. Lunch at his club one p.m. He owes me a favour so don’t be late. It doesn’t pay to rub civil servants up the wrong way.’
When Nicholas nodded in reply his father folded the page back and ducked down behind the paper again. The crossword was in full view and Nicholas slanted his head to one side. He’d solved several of the clues in his mind and had eaten most of his breakfast before his father turned to the next page and informed him, ‘That burglar has been at it again . . . the one who disguises himself as a policeman. This time somebody saw him and gave a good description. He’s an ugly looking customer. Apparently he has dark staring eyes, crooked teeth and a flattened nose, as though it had been broken. They’ve put a drawing of him in the paper.’
Nick didn’t think he’d have anything to worry about, since his eyes were grey, his teeth straight and his nose as handsome as that of a Roman senator . . . or so his mother had told him.
He had a short, poignant memory of her hugging him tight, his handsome nose pressed against the tickling fur flung over one shoulder, and breathing in her perfume as he fought against the urge to sneeze. He’d been about thirteen. ‘ Never forget that I love you. Promise you’ll be all right without me, my lovely boy . . .
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