arranged should be one of the “perks” of being the Berlin Resident, I knew I’d find him in some squalid dug-out, sitting in the middle of a bunch of begrimed infantry officers, looking thoroughly happy as he told them how to fight their war. This day, dressed in borrowed army togs with mud on his knees and elbows, he was delivered to the Grunewald house in a big army staff car.
“I’m awfully sorry, Frank,” I said.
“I was only playing soldiers,’ he said in that disarming way he had. “And Dicky said it was urgent.”
He looked as if he was going to conduct me straight into his study. “It’s not so urgent that you can’t change and take a shower,” I said. I gave him the report from London. He took it and shook it at his ear to listen for its rattle. He grinned. We both knew Dicky. “Go into the drawing room and get yourself a drink, Bernard,” he said. “Ring for Tarrant if you can’t find what you want. You’re going to eat with me I hope?” “Yes. I’d like that, Frank.”
He was a wellspring of cheer after his day with the soldiers. Halfway up the stairs he turned to say, “Welcome home, Bemard,’ knowing how delighted I would be at such a greeting.
For no matter where I went or what I did, Berlin would always be home for me. My father had been Resident long ago - before they were provided with a grand mansion in which to live and an entertainment allowance - and Berlin held all my happy childhood recollections.
When after thirty minutes or more Frank returned he was dressed in what for him were informal clothes: an old grey herringbone tweed jacket and flannels, but the starched shirt and striped tie wouldn’t have disgraced any Mess. Just as I was able to make new clothes look shabby, so Frank was able to invest even his oldest garments with a spruce look. His cuffs emerged just the right amount and there was a moite kerchief in his top pocket and hand-sewn Oxfords that were polished to perfection. He went across to the drinks trolley and poured himself a large Plymouth gin with a dash of bitters. “What have you got there?” he asked.
“I’m all right, Frank,” I said.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a real drink?”
“I’m trying to cut back on the hard stuff, Frank.”
“That bottle must have been on that trolley for years, Is it still all right?” He picked up the bottle I’d poured my drink from, and studied the label with interest, and then he looked at me.
“Vermouth? That’s not like you, Bernard,”
“Delicious,” I said.
He came and sat opposite me. His face had the war-painted look that dedicated skiers wore at this time of year. His skin was dark, with pale surrounds where his goggles had been. Frank knew a thing or two about the good fife. I didn’t ask after his wife. She spent most of the time at their house in England nowadays. She had never liked Berlin, and rumours said there had been a row when Frank accepted the invitation to stay on past his official retirement date.
He’d read the interim report in his bath, he told me. We knew that it had been roughly cobbled together in London and we both knew it was just a lengthy way of saying nothing at all. He flicked through it very quickly again and said, “Does Dicky want me to deposit someone in there?”
“He’s going to great pains not to say so,” I said.
“I’ll do anything for the poor bastards who are in trouble, he said. “But this is Berlin. I can’t think of anyone here who could go to Frankfurt an der bloody Oder and do anything to help them.” He touched his blunt military moustache. It was going very grey.
“They don’t like to sit in London doing nothing,” I said. “How do they think I like it?” said Frank. Just for a moment his face and his voice revealed the strain of the job. I suppose there were plenty of agents being picked up all the time but it was only when there was monitored Soviet radio traffic about them that London got interested and concerned. “The
“I’m awfully sorry, Frank,” I said.
“I was only playing soldiers,’ he said in that disarming way he had. “And Dicky said it was urgent.”
He looked as if he was going to conduct me straight into his study. “It’s not so urgent that you can’t change and take a shower,” I said. I gave him the report from London. He took it and shook it at his ear to listen for its rattle. He grinned. We both knew Dicky. “Go into the drawing room and get yourself a drink, Bernard,” he said. “Ring for Tarrant if you can’t find what you want. You’re going to eat with me I hope?” “Yes. I’d like that, Frank.”
He was a wellspring of cheer after his day with the soldiers. Halfway up the stairs he turned to say, “Welcome home, Bemard,’ knowing how delighted I would be at such a greeting.
For no matter where I went or what I did, Berlin would always be home for me. My father had been Resident long ago - before they were provided with a grand mansion in which to live and an entertainment allowance - and Berlin held all my happy childhood recollections.
When after thirty minutes or more Frank returned he was dressed in what for him were informal clothes: an old grey herringbone tweed jacket and flannels, but the starched shirt and striped tie wouldn’t have disgraced any Mess. Just as I was able to make new clothes look shabby, so Frank was able to invest even his oldest garments with a spruce look. His cuffs emerged just the right amount and there was a moite kerchief in his top pocket and hand-sewn Oxfords that were polished to perfection. He went across to the drinks trolley and poured himself a large Plymouth gin with a dash of bitters. “What have you got there?” he asked.
“I’m all right, Frank,” I said.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a real drink?”
“I’m trying to cut back on the hard stuff, Frank.”
“That bottle must have been on that trolley for years, Is it still all right?” He picked up the bottle I’d poured my drink from, and studied the label with interest, and then he looked at me.
“Vermouth? That’s not like you, Bernard,”
“Delicious,” I said.
He came and sat opposite me. His face had the war-painted look that dedicated skiers wore at this time of year. His skin was dark, with pale surrounds where his goggles had been. Frank knew a thing or two about the good fife. I didn’t ask after his wife. She spent most of the time at their house in England nowadays. She had never liked Berlin, and rumours said there had been a row when Frank accepted the invitation to stay on past his official retirement date.
He’d read the interim report in his bath, he told me. We knew that it had been roughly cobbled together in London and we both knew it was just a lengthy way of saying nothing at all. He flicked through it very quickly again and said, “Does Dicky want me to deposit someone in there?”
“He’s going to great pains not to say so,” I said.
“I’ll do anything for the poor bastards who are in trouble, he said. “But this is Berlin. I can’t think of anyone here who could go to Frankfurt an der bloody Oder and do anything to help them.” He touched his blunt military moustache. It was going very grey.
“They don’t like to sit in London doing nothing,” I said. “How do they think I like it?” said Frank. Just for a moment his face and his voice revealed the strain of the job. I suppose there were plenty of agents being picked up all the time but it was only when there was monitored Soviet radio traffic about them that London got interested and concerned. “The
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