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  ‘Why are you saying this?’

  ‘I’m a banker,’ said James Cotton. ‘I tot up. I began to notice – deficiencies.’

  ‘From your wallet?’

  James Cotton shook his head. ‘Coinage,’ he said primly.

  Cotton stifled a sigh, but his father had not finished.

  ‘She’s quite clever, you know. I left the milk money in the hall. She didn’t touch that, oh no. But I put a shilling on the mantelpiece in the drawing room beside the Christmas cards. That went, all right.’

  ‘Did she dust under the cards?’

  His father looked more confused than offended. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Either you were checking on her dusting or putting temptation in her way.’

  James Cotton did not like this interpretation of his behaviour. ‘I defy you,’ he said, ‘to find the shilling.’

  ‘Have you given Mrs Douglas a Christmas present?’

  ‘Under the circumstances I felt—’

  ‘I don’t like tinned peaches. Do you?’

  ‘Not particularly. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought I’d drop in on Mrs Douglas. I’ll give her the peaches from Joan’s Christmas hamper and have a little chat.’

  ‘I see,’ said James Cotton. ‘All right. You do understand, don’t you? I don’t want to be taken advantage of. This kind of thing did not happen when I was your age.’

  Cotton did not bother to reply. Later he found a Christmas card, got his father to sign it, added his own signature and expressed good wishes to the Douglas family. After a second’s doubt he enclosed a pound note instead of ten shillings – he thought Mrs Douglas probably deserved more than Derek Jennings outside the Astoria in Purley.

  On Christmas Eve he picked up the tin of peaches and drove down to the village in his father’s Riley.

  Mrs Douglas lived in one of a short row of small, brick and flint cottages. Without the roses and sweet peas of summer, the place looked wilfully crooked and bleak. Cotton knocked at the door.

  ‘Oh, Colonel Cotton,’ said Mrs Douglas.

  ‘No Colonel now, Mrs Douglas. I’ve come to wish you and your family a very merry Christmas.’

  He handed over the card.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said, offering the tin of peaches, ‘we’re not very good at wrapping. This is from my sister Joan in America. I’m sorry too that we’re doing this so late. My father’s getting a bit forgetful.’

  ‘This is very kind, sir,’ said Mrs Douglas. ‘Would you – like a cup of tea?’

  ‘You’re very kind, Mrs Douglas.’

  Cotton went in. Mrs Douglas shifted the kettle on the range.

  ‘Tell me about your leg, Mrs Douglas.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Douglas, ‘it’s a silly old leg.’

  It was considerably swollen and had been wrapped round with a crepe bandage from ankle to knee.

  ‘Do you know what the problem is?’

  ‘Varicosities,’ said Mrs Douglas. ‘I caught one of them and it leaks a bit. Nothing grand.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘Well, not really,’ said Mrs Douglas.

  ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  ‘It is an expense, you know, sir.’

  ‘Are you waiting for the new Health Service?’

  ‘That was my intention, sir.’

  ‘You don’t think you might need treatment before that?’

  Mrs Douglas made a face. The kettle whistled. Mrs Douglas made some tea.

  Cotton sighed. ‘Mrs Douglas, my father’s getting on and he’s become a little reduced and worried about himself. I had an aunt who wanted to give everything away when she got old. My father is the reverse. Do you understand me?’

  Mrs Douglas frowned. ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘I mean he’s anxious about losing control of things. He’s even frightened of people taking advantage of him. Can I be honest? He can be insecure enough to sound a little mean-spirited. He can be forgetful. And since he used to look after other people’s money, he keeps counting his own.’

  Mrs Douglas looked rather pained. ‘But he is a good, kind man,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. Just that he gets a little forgetful and can be even a little ratty about it. He doesn’t like change. He forgets where he put things, often imagines the worst.’

  Mrs Douglas looked as if she no longer knew what to say. Cotton took advantage of that.

  ‘He finds it difficult to respond to other people,’ he said. ‘He gets emotional and upset. He doesn’t like seeing you like this. But on the other hand he gets unsettled, even suspicious, if there are other people in his home. So what I’m going to do is this. Call in on the doctor and get you an appointment. My father will gladly pay for the treatment.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘In one way, it’s a little selfish. I’m only sorry this wasn’t done before.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Douglas. ‘It’s a lot to ask.’

  ‘But you haven’t asked, have you?’

  ‘No, sir. Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Neither, thanks,’ said Cotton.

  Mrs Douglas was surprised but poured. She liked, Cotton saw, very strong tea.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Douglas.’

  Mrs Douglas also liked lots of milk. Instead of rationed sugar she used honey as a sweetener. She appeared a little more relaxed or at least relieved and talked about her husband, Walter, a farm worker, her son, an apprentice at the local butcher’s, and her daughter who wanted to be a hairdresser. She also said her children wanted to move to Australia.

  ‘My husband’s not so keen,’ she said. ‘It’s a big change.’

  ‘I’m sure it is worth thinking about,’ said Cotton.

  ‘And I’ve got your father.’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘My sister Joan is trying to get him to move to the USA.’

  ‘Is she now?’

  Cotton had found Mrs Douglas almost gruesomely deferential. The local doctor was not. A tweedy old party called Powell, fond of shooting, with considerable faith in phrenology and his own bluff dignity, he showed no surprise to see Cotton.

  ‘Ah, Cotton,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if your father would say anything.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘My guess? Congestive heart failure.’

  ‘Did you tell him that?’

  ‘Not in so many words. I just said his ticker was showing its age. He’d been complaining of breathlessness, you see. And his legs don’t work so well any more.’ He looked up. ‘It’s not operable. I am keeping an eye on him. I’m giving him a little rat poison to thin his blood. You should keep an eye on his legs. If they swell up or anything like that—’

  ‘Does that mean he’s liable to suffer a heart attack or a stroke?’

  Dr Powell made a face. ‘If I’m right and it is congestive heart failure, it’s other organs you have to worry about. The kidneys mostly, though there is always the liver.’ He looked up. ‘Can’t really give you a timescale. He could chug on for quite a bit yet. On the other hand, if he is lucky, he could pop off quite quickly.’

  ‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘Thank you for that. Now I have another question. My father is looked after by a Mrs Douglas.’

  ‘Down in those cottages?’

  ‘Yes. She has a problem with one of her legs. As far as I understand, her varicose veins leak and she caught one vein on something sharp.’

  Dr Powell shrugged. ‘Those damned socialists are bringing in a health service. Why doesn’t she wait for that?’

  ‘Because I work in town and need her to be looking after my father.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dr Powell. ‘Right you are. Are you taking this matter on then?’

  ‘I am,’ said Cotton. He got out his card. ‘This is my address. You will bill me, please.’

  Dr Powell took the card but then looked doubtful. ‘I hate to mention this but, well, your father – how shall I put this?’

  ‘Hasn’t posted his cheque?’

  ‘
I imagine something like that.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. I’ll find out what’s happened and get it dealt with. My telephone number is on the card in case you need to contact me.’

  ‘You see?’ said Dr Powell. ‘This health service thing can’t hope to compete with the doctor–family relationship already in existence.’

  Cotton nodded but did not answer. ‘What time will I tell Mrs Douglas her appointment is for?’

  Dr Powell looked startled.

  ‘She hasn’t got a telephone, you see.’

  ‘No, quite.’ Dr Powell looked at his diary. ‘I’m shooting on Tuesday,’ he said.

  ‘Monday then.’

  Dr Powell flicked back a page. ‘Four thirty?’ he said.

  ‘That’s absolutely splendid,’ said Cotton. ‘Thank you so much, Doctor. I really want her in top form as soon as possible. My father needs it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Dr Powell. ‘I can see your point of view. Quite.’

  Cotton drove back to the cottages, told Mrs Douglas her appointment with Dr Powell was at four thirty on Monday afternoon and that his father was paying the bill for the doctor and any prescriptions, but asked her not to say anything about it since she knew how withdrawn and sentimental he was getting.

  ‘Oh, he’s a proper gentleman,’ said Mrs Douglas. She put her hand on Cotton’s forearm. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

  Cotton shook his head.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Douglas. ‘Thank you for handling this matter so tactfully. I’ve been thinking about what you said. Maisie won’t be going again.’

  Cotton told his father he had arranged a doctor’s appointment for Mrs Douglas.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So she can get better.’

  ‘I’m not paying.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I said I’d meet the costs.’

  ‘But you have other things to pay.’

  ‘I do. But you don’t want Maisie here again and Mrs Douglas is not fully fit, I thought we could at least get her better before she went off to Australia.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That life is changing. People are getting other choices. They’re thinking of emigrating.’

  ‘In Maisie’s case, I imagine Australia would welcome her with open arms.’

  Cotton ignored this. ‘You do know you’ve never met your grandchildren? Joan has been asking you for years to visit them. Why don’t you sail over when spring comes? In a couple of years’ time you may find it too arduous.’

  ‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’

  ‘Then the sooner you go the better.’

  James Cotton frowned. ‘Did the doctor say anything else?’

  ‘About what?’

  James Cotton grunted. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Oh, he did say something about a bill.’

  His father shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’s a very good doctor. He pretends to understand, you know.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘Yes, he does give the impression of being happier shooting pheasants than treating patients.’

  ‘All right. I’ll deal with it. I say—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m thinking perhaps someone should take a look at the basement. I haven’t been down for years.’

  Cotton went down to the basement and groaned. Electric wires hung from the rafters as if ready for Christmas decorations but carrying generations of spiders’ webs instead. The large boiler, never used, was rusty, resembled some aged apparatus from the industrial revolution. He opened a hatch and peered in. The size of two cement mixers, the burning chamber contained some elderly silver ash. Cotton tracked the chimney. He was unsure whether or not the thing would still function, certainly with any safety, and did not know what fuel had originally been burnt. His father had stocks of wood but Cotton knew wood did not burn like coal. He was also aware the thing would need to be fed, something his father could not do. He found some old packing straw, lit it and tossed it into the furnace. A few seconds later smoke issued from a crack in the furnace itself and a little after that from a crack in the flue. The house needed a new boiler, new wiring and probably new plumbing.

  He went upstairs, washed dust off his hands and face and told his father.

  ‘Yes,’ said James Cotton calmly. ‘I imagined that would be the case. I’m thinking of having the place improved, now that the war is over and things should start getting back to normal.’

  ‘Good idea. Why don’t you go ahead?’

  Cotton wrote a letter to his sister:

  Dear Joan

  Once again, very many thanks for the Christmas parcel. Very much appreciated, since supplies here are even worse than last year.

  The local doctor has told me he thinks our father has heart problems – congestive heart failure is his initial diagnosis. It is not clear quite how bad this is but he is looking thin and tired and his temper is not too festive.

  Of course I am aware that you and Todd have been encouraging him to visit you for a long time. May I suggest we organize it for him, get him a passage on a liner for spring, April say, so that he can spend a couple of months with you? The weather at that time of year shouldn’t be too hot for him and, you never know, once he sees your children, he may get out of himself more. We could also get another medical opinion, from a doctor with a more positive interest in his patients and some grasp of the relationship between fee and the quality of his professional attention.

  Cotton felt some relief when he had sealed and addressed the envelope, probably at the prospect of being free of his father for a spell.

  On Christmas Day – they had agreed not to exchange presents – they ate tinned chicken soup, tinned ham and tinned asparagus from the USA. They managed to blind bake some pastry and fill it with tinned pears.

  ‘A long time since we’ve eaten like this,’ said James Cotton. ‘The Americans do have a sweet tooth though, don’t they? I feel sorry for your generation, you know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re having to grow up rather late.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘What exactly are you talking about?’

  ‘That while wars are drastic, gruesome, brutal and all the rest of it, they are also rather simple. Live or die, really. What you’ve all missed is the kind of experience of the world that allows you to judge people when they’re not hiding behind uniforms. It’s not a good training for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Do you resent us?’

  ‘On the contrary. Rather grateful, of course. I’m merely pointing out the drawbacks or costs involved. You’ve got to start all over again and your references are out of date.’

  As James Cotton spoke the sound of wavering singing started up outside.

  James Cotton groaned. ‘It’s those bloody carol singers again.’

  He got up and went out. When he came back he shook his head.

  ‘I gave them money rather than punch.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘Are you now advising me to get out of what I am in?’

  James Cotton considered. ‘No. I was just thinking you’re looking rather drawn. I wondered whether or not it was stress. Dealing with the great and the good, I suppose.’

  ‘Not so great and not so good.’

  His father smiled. ‘There is something to be said for a quiet life, you know. A quiet life is usually quite stressful enough. There’s something I want to listen to on the radio.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Cotton.

  9

  BACK AT work on 27 December, Cotton found that Miles Crichton had been right to suggest that Major Briggs had a manager. Alfred Perlman had sent him a note. Perhaps Colonel Cotton would like to call in at his office at 6 p.m. that evening.

  At 5.50, Cotton walked up the hill from his office and into Jermyn Street. The Turkish baths the novelist Trollope had frequented in the nineteenth century had been bombed in 1941. There were a couple of tiles still left on the clea
red bombsite. The other Turkish baths in the street, at 92 and still functioning, was almost opposite Alfred Perlman’s office or chambers. There was a discreet but highly polished brass plaque for Perlman & Eaves. He rang the bell and was let into the building.

  The office was on the main floor. A trim, white-haired lady let Cotton in. She accompanied him to a double door, knocked and went straight in.

  ‘Mr Cotton to see you, sir,’ she said and withdrew.

  Alfred Perlman was on his feet and mostly dressed in formal evening wear. A middle-aged lady was in front of him, one knee on a chair, trying to tie his white tie. The lawyer did not shake hands, instead held out his fingers as if about to put them in a finger bowl. The fingers made three wearily small shooing gestures.

  ‘Do sit,’ he said. ‘I’m late for an important function. I’m always late.’

  Alfred Perlman sounded as if he had a blocked nose.

  ‘I think we need that chin up a bit,’ said the lady.

  Alfred Perlman held up a hand.

  ‘What would be the direction of any conversation you might have with my distinguished client?’

  He then pushed his chin upwards. The lady used one hand to push up his jowls and sighed. She needed two hands for the tie.

  ‘Largely to avoid misunderstandings,’ said Cotton. ‘We also want to avoid possible embarrassment or working at cross purposes. And, of course, to assist in the resolution of any conflict that might arise involving national security interests, party interest and the sovereignty of Parliament.’

  Cotton thought his mother would have described what he had just said as ‘absolute, if reasonably fluent, tosh’. He would have agreed, but was interested to see whether or not this was Alfred Perlman’s sort of language.

  Still with his face towards the ceiling, Alfred gave him to understand he was not displeased but needed more. That hand gave a languid cranking gesture.

  ‘You will know, I hope,’ Cotton went on, ‘that I’m neither with MI5 nor MI6 but have been seconded from another intelligence agency. I’d also point out that your distinguished client’s keen interest in security matters is known to other, foreign agencies, including the Americans and the Soviets. A meeting would allow me to run over certain checks – entrapment and other dangers. I’m not saying your client is unaware of these dangers, simply that if the Intelligence Services are clear he knows of potential pitfalls, there will be less possibility of misunderstandings.