9.
THE BRIDGE
Maurice Northcot regarded himself as being lucky, really. He was certainly luckier than most of the people he worked with, he thought. And luckier than most of his neighbours, as well.
For a start, he had met, and eventually married, Marjorie.
For a second thing, they now lived in rather a nice house in North London. Southgate.
For a third thing, he had been left the house by his father, who had died a couple of years ago. His father had been quite well off, which, for a fourth thing, meant that he was now quite well off, too. So he didn’t have a mortgage
And another thing; he had a good job. Foreign Office. The Civil Service wasn’t exactly generous in its pay, but he had been promoted a couple of times, so he was actually paid quite well. And the job promised an excellent pension when he retired. Inflation proofed.
So he was a bit better off than some of his neighbours, although they all thought they were doing well. Indeed, some of them were; in property, solicitors, one was something in the City – that sort of thing. A couple, who neither of them knew well but whose children went to the same school as Peter, were bankers. They had bonuses. Civil Servants didn’t get bonuses.
But his neighbours all tended to be a bit stuck in their ways. Not that Maurice had anything against being in a rut. You know where you are in a rut. You don’t have to think too much, because you know what’s going to happen, because it always does, and, with any luck, because it always will, more or less.
That was another thing. Maurice wasn’t in a rut. He travelled. Quite often. At Her Majesty’s expense. Indeed, he and Marjory had lived abroad more than once, and had actually first met while they were abroad. Both were there on Her Majesty’s business.
Now some people would find that unsettling, leaving the comfy rut, sometimes without much notice, and often for quite a long time. Two week’s holiday in Spain was one thing. You could plan for that. It was almost part of the rut. But Maurice never quite knew when he was next going to be on the move, and more often than not when he ‘travelled’, Marjorie had no idea where he’d gone or how long he would be away.
Neighbour’s wives thought that must be terrible. Poor Marjorie! However did she manage, living a life like that? And if I was Maurice, they thought, I’d resign and find something else to do. Something more settled. With more of a rut attached to it.
And then there was poor little Peter.
Boys needed a father. Peter had one, of course, but he wasn’t always around, like other fathers seemed to be. Always there, to play football; help with the homework; go out somewhere nice – that sort of thing.
On the other hand, Peter was always pleased when Dad was around, and looked forward to seeing him again when he came home. Other chaps at school had their Dad at home all the time, so there was nothing much to look forward to, where their Dads were concerned at least. Their Dads were part of the rut. But neighbours and parents of his school friends tut-tutted. They thought Peter needed more of a father than he’d got.
But it hadn’t always been like that. Although he was too young to remember, Peter had once lived abroad, when his father was posted to serve there. Germany, as a matter of fact, but Peter was too young to remember much about it. Young though he was, though, he had managed to pick up quite a bit of German, and still remembered it. His parents were encouraged. Like his father, he turned out to be good at languages.
In spite of not being in a rut, Maurice was very happy with life and the way it was going.
He had done well enough at school to get into University, from where he had graduated with a first in applied mathematics. Cambridge had something of a reputation for being a breeding ground for spies, but he had gone to Oxford. When he left university, he was recruited into the Foreign Office, and promptly became a spy anyway, working for MI6. Which was why he travelled a lot, and where he met Marjorie. She was a researcher, sifting through all the information delivered by the field officers, trying to make something of it.
In spite of his work, Maurice could talk about it when he got home in the evening. Knowing that Marjorie could be trusted and would understand and be genuinely interested was another good reason for him to be content with life. He wondered how many of his neighbours could do that, whatever their work.
Most mothers who had been on two trips to the school that day, a coffee morning and then shopping, probably did not want to know about the latest commodities price fluctuations or the value of the pound against the dollar and why wasn’t the government doing something about the shocking state of the economy. Marjorie, on the other hand, was keen to know when Maurice got home about developments at the Russian embassy in Helsinki, or how they were getting on trying to ‘turn’ that man at the Iranian Trade Mission.
She was also doing a pretty good job bringing up Peter. He could read and write earlier than most of his peer group, was energetic on the playing field and attentive during lessons. Because he already spoke a bit of German, they gave him extra language tuition after school, when he wasn’t playing rugby or cricket, and had begun to teach him French as well. Peter enjoyed it all, but never more so than when his father was at home.
So it was a great shock to everybody when Marjorie Northcot died, quite suddenly.
It turned out to be a heart attack, but it was an appalling tragedy because nobody was expecting it at all. There were no real signs, early on. At first, her friends and few relatives did not know what to do – where to start.
There is never a good time to die, but, although she had no real say in the matter, this was about the worst time she could have picked.
Her husband, Maurice, was abroad, so it was said, and couldn’t be contacted immediately. They all knew he was ‘something’ at the Foreign Office, although no-one, not even Marjorie, was ever quite sure what, in spite of her background. Neither was anyone quite sure what he did or where he was. One thing soon became clear, though. He was not ‘abroad’ in the sense of ‘gone to a conference’ or anything like that.
He was travelling abroad.
One official at his office thought he had flown to Singapore, while another thought it had been Hong Kong. One chap, a clerk of some sort, even suggested he had gone to Korea, but nobody took much notice. Not that Maurice had a proper office either, really. Not the sort one commutes to every day, because that is something Maurice never did. Commute every day.
His ‘office’ was home to the people who sent him overseas on operations. He did not have a desk of his own there.
In the end, when they did eventually track him down, it turned out that they were all wrong, as he had intended.
He had gone to Helsinki, but only a couple of senior people knew. They’d sent him there.
So it took some time to find him, and even longer, since he was travelling, for him to get home for what, in the end, turned out to be a much delayed funeral for Marjorie.
Not that it made much difference to her, of course. The one who really suffered was son Peter.
He was only ten at the time, and devoted to his mother, as well as to his father. She was gentle and kind and loving, but strict just the same. She spent as much time as she could with Peter, and realised that what he really needed was a father who was with him more often. Peter realised this too, but he never saw much of him because he was always travelling. When he was home, though, they got on like a house on fire. Football, fishing, long walks with the dog, playing with the train set – everything. But recently, only ever for a day or so at a time - never for long enough. His mother was useless at fishing, didn’t play football or enjoy watching it, and didn’t understand about railways, real or toy.
Suddenly, Peter was a very lonely, small boy. No mother at all, and not much of a father either.
He had no time to wonder what might happen to him, because it happened anyway, and immediately.
Aunt Elizabeth moved in, for the time being, especially to look after him. After the funeral, when they had finished packing all his stuff, like toys and books and clothes and so on, they took him back to their place. He ended up staying there for ever, with Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Norman. His old home was put up for sale, and his Dad bought a small cottage somewhere else.
Now; there was nothing wrong with Aunt Elizabeth, or her husband, Uncle Norman, who was OK, too. But they were no substitute for a real Mum and Dad, and they had no children of their own, so he still had no-one at home to play with. However, it was as strange for them to have Peter staying there as it was for Peter to be staying with them. It soon became obvious that he was not just staying there, either – he was living there. This was his new home. Uncle Norman and Aunty Liz had a nice house, in a sort of rural area, and they had a dog, and they had a decent sized garden where you could kick a ball about without annoying the neighbours, who were also OK by the way, and the nearby school he was sent to was, in many ways, better than the one he had started at and just left.
But somehow it wasn’t home, and never would be. No Mum and a Dad who wasn’t there much.
Peter and the dog got on really well; he made a lot of new friends there, at school, and, for some reason, seemed to be learning a lot. He was probably quite happy, given the stress and upheaval and sadness he had recently gone through. But he longed for the rare visits his father was able to make. He knew his father couldn’t visit more often, but, for a few months, actually saw him now more often than he had when his mother was alive. But it wasn’t half often enough, and the visits quickly became less and less frequent.
One day, not long after Peter had moved to his new home, his father sent him a letter. There was not a lot of news in it, and his father didn’t say where he was, but the envelope had a London postmark, so Peter guessed he was not ‘travelling’.
My Dear Peter,
I thought I would drop you a line just to see if you are all right, and to send you my love. It was wonderful to see you again the other day, and I wish I could see you more often, but you know my work keeps me away from home quite a bit now. I’m afraid I shall be away quite a long time this trip. Aunty and Uncle tell me that you are well, and I hope you are starting to settle in with them OK. They are good people and are very fond of you so I am sure you will be all right staying there. But I know it is not the same as being at home, and perhaps one day we shall be able to live together again in another home of our own. That will be really nice, and it is something I shall look forward to. They say you are doing well at school, which is good news, so keep working hard. If you get the time, it would be nice to get a letter from you to hear your news. The address at the top will always get to me.
With much love,
Dad.
The address at the top was just ‘Dept. OS 19, The Foreign Office, London, SW1.’
Peter wrote back, almost at once, thinking his Dad would do the same.
Dear Dad,
Thank you for your letter. I hope you are well. I am alrite and getting used to things. But I miss you and Mum of course. School is OK and I am playing football. We have started French which I like and am good at. Please write again soon.
Love Peter, xxxx
But he didn’t write soon. In fact, he didn’t write for a month or so, during which time Peter had sent at least two more letters. Eventually, they managed to keep up a pretty regular flow of correspondence, which, in time, became the only contact between them, as Maurice spent more and more time away. Their letters became a bridge between them.
But Maurice’s letters to Peter never contained much news, and always seemed to be posted in London. “I never have much news, as nothing much ever happens for me to tell you about. I just seem to work all the time”, he once explained. In fact, he had plenty to talk about, but dared not.
Peter, on the other hand, always had lots to talk about, and the older he grew, the more he enjoyed writing about his life. It was obvious to his father that he was doing well at school, and that he was particularly good at languages. He eventually started talking about his own future, and even thought he might one day join the Army, if he could get to university first. Maurice was delighted to read this, and was full of encouragement, both when he wrote and on the rare occasions when he was at home and they could meet. That was best of all, for both of them.
***
It was some years since Peter and his father had met, and yet through all this time, their exchange of letters was maintained to the point that they both felt that they knew one another quite well. But Peter was curious to know more about what his father did, and where he was, to the point that he once even phoned the Foreign Office. He didn’t really know where to begin, so asked to be put through to the mysterious “Dept. OS 19”.
“I’d like to know the whereabouts of Mr Maurice Northcot, please,” he asked the man who answered the phone.
“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to tell you that,” replied the man.
“Why not?”
“I’m just not allowed to, that’s all. But I could pass a message if it’s urgent.”
“But you must know where he is, because I write to him at your address all the time,” protested Peter.
“That’s the point,” said the man. “We’re just a sort of post office here, passing messages to and fro.”
“But I’d like to know where he is so that I can talk to him for a change.”
“We don’t do telephones,” said the man, “just letters and messages. We send them on via the Diplomatic Bag service.”
“But he’s my father, and I want to talk to him. He wouldn’t mind – he writes quite often. In fact I’m sure he’d be pleased and surprised if I rang him up. Why can’t you give me his number?”
“I’m not allowed to, that’s why,” said the man, irritably. “You’ll just have to keep writing, but you could ask him to ring you or give you his number.”
“I have asked him, but he says he’s never in the same place long enough.”
“There you are, then.”
“So how do my letters get to him?”
“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, but one of the Queen’s Messengers takes it to the nearest British Embassy, which passes it on to him. The same thing happens in reverse when he writes you,” explained the man.
“And you get it and post it on to me, do you?”
“Exactly.”
“At least I know now why his letters are always posted in London. For a long time I thought he worked there,” said Peter.
“I’m sure sometimes he does,” said the man.
Maurice was very amused by Peter’s account of this, and not a little proud of the fact that his son had shown such initiative. For the first time ever, he rang the boy for a chat, but even then wouldn’t say where he was. Thrilled though he had been to talk to his father after so long, it turned out to be a unique event, and the regular exchange of letters was maintained afterwards.
His father only ever rang Peter on three other occasions during that regular exchange of letters.
The first was to congratulate him on getting into university to study languages, the second was to congratulate him on being accepted for Army training at the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, and the third, a year later, was to say how pleased he was that he had graduated and joined the Intelligence Corp.
***
Peter Northcot was 23 when he graduated from Sandhurst. It had been a year’s really hard work, both physically and mentally, but he had done well, narrowly missing being awarded the Sword of Honour. As always, the Sovereign’s Parade on graduation was a splendid and colourful affair. The Salute was taken by the Duke of Cambridge, himself a previous graduate. Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge was there too, and all his fellow students on parade had their wives, girlfriends, or parents in the grandstand to proudly witness the spectacle.
Peter had nobody.
His Aunt and Uncle were too frail to attend, and everyone knew his father was in Warsaw. Travelling. His father had made sure that everyone knew he was abroad, but only a few knew where.
Suddenly, Peter felt quite lonely.
So did his father, Maurice, sitting alone in the grandstand.
He had not dared to tell his son Peter that he would be there. Even today, of all days, he simply had to maintain his cover.
One day, Peter would be told he had been there, and would understand. He was, after all, joining the Intelligence Corps. One day, perhaps even he would need to deceive those close to him to maintain secrecy.
But today was special, and Maurice had yearned to be close to his son Peter, to sit with him at the graduation lunch, to be taken by him on a tour of the grand college buildings and splendid Sandhurst estate. He wanted Peter to know how proud he was, and how much he cared.
Maurice wept quietly, and disappeared into the dispersing crowd of spectators. He made his way to his car, parked outside Churchill Hall, and left the Royal Military Academy, to the A30 and eventually to Heathrow.
Nobody knew he’d been to Sandhurst, or even to England. Everyone knew he was in Warsaw.
In fact, his return flight took him to Indonesia, where he was secretly working, unknown to all but a very few.
He dozed fitfully in his business class seat, a half-finished glass of malt whiskey on the seat-back tray in front of him.
Maurice had always loved being based in London while spending his time working abroad – he knew no other life.
But the more he tried to concentrate on what he had to do tomorrow, the more he began to think he’d had enough.
He had lived the lie for too long.
***
It must have been something he’d said.
For the life of him, though, he couldn’t remember what, or to whom, or when, or where, or why he had said it, whatever it was.
But here he was, in James Piper’s office.
“I hear on the grapevine, that you’d like a break from overseas work,” said his boss, the Head of Section 7.
“Whatever makes you think that?” asked Maurice, playing for time.
He hadn’t been expecting this; a new assignment abroad, perhaps, but not this.
“A little bird told me that you were beginning to think you’d had enough.”
“Who?”
“Can’t remember,” James lied.
“When?”
“Shortly after your visit to Sandhurst.”
“You weren’t supposed to know about that,” said Maurice. “Nobody was.”
James Piper, stood up from behind his desk, and went to his bookcase.
“Scotch?”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s stop playing around,” he said. “We both know you’re the best field operator we’ve got, and have been for years. We both know, too, that life’s not been any easier for you since Marjory died. Shocking blow that was, for you and for Peter. So I’m not surprised if you feel like a change for a bit. Something quieter – less stressful.”
Maurice sipped his glass of malt.
“And you shouldn’t be surprised either, that word got back that you had been to the Royal Military Academy to see Peter graduate. I can’t blame you for that. Anyone else would have done the same. Anyone else, though, would have asked.”
“And been refused.”
“Anyone else, perhaps. But not you, Maurice.”
James grinned.
“It was a bloody good effort, if I may say so, and you almost got away with it.”
“I knew it was risky, going to the heart of the military establishment like that. But I simply had to be there. I just hoped nobody would spot me.”
“Nobody did.”
“So how do you know?”
“You were looking through the Sovereign’s Parade programme on the return aircraft out east. One of the crew noticed, and mentioned it to our Military Attaché in Singapore, who just happened to be on the same flight.”
“I didn’t know Alastair Carter was on the aircraft.”
“He recognised you.”
“I hadn’t had time to look through it properly until then. I should have thought that someone might notice. I must be slipping.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m not sure I want to jack it in just yet, though.”
“We don’t want you to, either. But when you do want to, you only have to say. We can’t afford to have people like you filling a vital role when their mind isn’t on the job.”
“Total commitment.”
“That’s what we want. And that’s what you’ve always provided.”
“Things are a bit different, now.”
“Since Marjorie died, you mean?”
“Yes. Twenty-four years ago, that was. That, and the fact that Peter is doing his own thing now. The Army and all that.”
“No roots any more.”
“I suppose that’s it, in a way.”
“You’ve got your place in Hampshire.”
“But I never get there. It isn’t home, somehow. Nothing is, until you’ve lived there a bit.”
“Good fishing though.”
“What I’ve always wanted. A quiet place on the river, with my own trout fishing when I want it.”
“But you never get there.”
“Peter uses it more than I do. Sometimes we get there together, for the odd day. But not often.”
“Not often enough.”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps it is often enough,” said Maurice thoughtfully. “Could I really settle there, after everything?”
“It would certainly be a change of lifestyle. Very different,” agreed James.
“Nothing to do all day? Doesn’t sound like me, somehow, and yet sometimes I wonder.”
“Better than ‘travelling’, perhaps.”
“But I really enjoy that. The challenges keep me going. I’m not sure I could manage without the adventure of working overseas.”
“Keep going then, for a bit longer.”
Maurice sipped his whiskey.
“Perhaps I will then. Just for a bit longer.”
“Finish the job you’re on?” asked James.
“Of course.”
“Going well, I hear.”
“I’m happy with progress so far. I think we shall pull it off in the end.”
“You will, you mean. How long?”
“Four months or so, with luck. Maybe sooner”
“That would be perfect,” said James with a smile.
“Why?”
“I have something else in mind. Timing could be about right, and it would mean being based here for a bit. Give you a change. You could spend some time in Hampshire.”
“With Peter.”
“Depending on where he’s posted by then.”
“What sort of job is it?”
“Recruiting, shall we say.”
“Who?”
“A guy we want on our side. With any luck, he’ll be in London about then. If you can turn him for us, you would well end up working overseas again, with him when he gets back home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Never mind. Later will do, if the job’s still on.”
“Important chap?”
“Very. Could be a major coup for us, which would have the Americans begging at our doorstep. If we can pull it off.”
“A few months based back here might help me to decide, I suppose.”
“If you do decide to keep going, there will always be work for you somewhere overseas if you want it. Or you could stay here in London. It’s up to you.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s agreed, then.”
Maurice stood to leave.
“There’s one other thing to bear in mind,” said James.
“What’s that?”
“No promises or anything.” James put his finger to his lips. “But I shall be retiring in a year or so, and ‘C’ will want a safe pair of hands to sit here when I go. When you do get back from Jakarta, you can sit next door. As Deputy Head.”
Maurice looked around the office.
“No promises or anything.”
***
So Maurice went back to Jakarta, although most people thought he’d gone to Warsaw, where they all knew he was working. Or thought they knew.
He wasn’t able to make contact with Peter before he returned. For a start, Peter didn’t know he’d been in London, or even to Sandhurst, and for a second thing Maurice wasn’t sure where Peter was, either.
It was some time since they’d exchanged letters, what with the graduation parade and everything.
It was only their letters that kept them in touch, really.
They were a bridge between them, and always had been, since Marjorie died.
***
Suddenly, though, the Jakarta job stopped going as well as it had been. It nearly stopped altogether.
It was as if they knew what he was up to. Somebody somewhere had got suspicious, or talked or something.
It was an ambush, of sorts.
His car was rammed on an isolated road, miles from anywhere, and he ended up in the ditch. He recognised the car that had forced him off the road, and guessed who was driving it.
He saw the car stop, and the driver and passenger get out. It was them, all right. They ran towards his smashed car.
He played dead. He nearly was anyway. But his trusted contact and driver, lying on top of him, was still alive enough to try to get out of the wrecked car. Maurice could do nothing to stop him.
A bullet in the head did that.
Somehow, Maurice survived. It flashed through his mind that it was 24 years since Marjorie died. She hadn’t been to Sandhurst, like he had. He just wished that Peter had known he had been there. One day he’d tell him, perhaps. If he survived a bit longer.
One more time.
He watched the assassin’s car drive off at speed. He drifted off, sure he was dying.
Eventually, the police turned up, and called the para-medics.
He was in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and knew he was running out of time to complete his mission.
He was getting much better now.
Recovering quite quickly now, he thought, and when he pulled the drips and wires and everything away one night and nothing much happened, he made for the door.
Still nothing much happened, so he had decided he was better enough.
He kept going.
He knew who had been responsible. They could be sorted later. Meanwhile, he had a job to finish. At least the opposition thought he was dead. Otherwise, he’d have collected a bullet in the head as well. In the end, it took him longer to finish the operation than he had planned. Five months since his chat with James Piper, not the four he had forecast. But at last he was able to send a ‘mission accomplished’ message to the Head of Section 7.
He eventually got home, wanting a few days with Peter at the cottage.
But Peter had been posted to Hong Kong.
The bridge had collapsed.
***