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  ‘Do you mean the actor?’ said Cotton. ‘This Happy Breed, The Way to the Stars—?’

  ‘More his salt-of-the-earth character monologues,’ said Miles. ‘Albert Ramsbottom. Sam Small.’

  The champagne arrived. Miles drank his glass and shrugged. ‘The British are like everyone else. They don’t want justice. They want more for those who deserve it. Themselves, usually. And lashings of sweet sentiment for everybody else. All Major Bertie had to do was make a few flattering adjustments for his constituents: “Are you ready? Lads! Are you ready? Ready for fighting men and working men to get what they fought and sweat for?” Pause. A small growl. “It’s about f-f-flippin’ time!” He had quite a witty line about crusts, you know, tired of “crusts tossed by toffs”.’ Miles looked up and smiled. ‘Are you going to drink that champagne?’

  ‘No,’ said Cotton. ‘Thanks, Miles.’

  Miles laughed and took the glass. ‘The Establishment moves. The only thing that really changes, however, is the style of the gold leaf laid on the rich British ordure.’

  11

  ON NEW Year’s Eve Cotton went along to George Dyce’s house in Cadogan Square. He found he had not been paying attention, and had failed to understand that on the death of his elder brother in the Battle of the Bulge, George had, as well as the London house, inherited very many Scottish acres of grouse moor and deer forest.

  Cotton’s mother had been Scottish, from Aberdeen, and had once told him that there was one thing worse than a snob. That was ‘county’ – ‘Anglo-Scots landowners of an intelligence somewhere between feral and feudal’. She had mentioned a description Henry James had given of one of these men dancing in Highland dress. While it was true Henry James might have been easily upset, she thought the description ‘terrifyingly accurate’.

  George Dyce’s house was like something out of a Henry James novel, full of heavy drapes and Victorian paintings, some of wildlife on moors, some of fairies in woods. Cotton had been told it was black tie but was one of the few men in black trousers. A lot of the others did not have ties at all but bits of white lace on velvet jackets above dress kilts. There were a number of women with tartan sashes.

  Cotton also found George had a Happy Valley side to his family in Kenya. On arrival, a whisky was pushed into his hand and he was introduced to a group round a man in tartan trews called Hector, who was telling a story.

  ‘Well, I woke,’ Hector was saying. ‘Bloody dark! But there’s a strange shape by my bed. I hit it hard, damned hard, with the butt of my pistol. And what do I hear? “Oh, sah! Make you no hit me. Jacob he be sick. I bring you in his place!” It was his nephew with my morning tea. Twelve years old. Balls like a bull. Know what? Didn’t spill a drop. I can’t wait to get back.’

  Hector held up his glass for a toast. ‘Happy days!’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Ten days!’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Cotton.

  George – or Georgie – had organized what was called a traditional Scottish dinner. A dish of haggis and ‘neaps’ (turnips) was piped in and followed by venison and Atholl Brose.

  At dinner Cotton was placed by an elderly gentleman dressed in black.

  ‘How do you know George?’ he was asked.

  ‘From the army.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He had difficulty map-reading.’

  The old man laughed. ‘What do you do now?’

  ‘I’m an economist in the Civil Service.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Just over a year ago I was in the US in Lord Keynes’ baggage train. The woman I was going to marry died and I was offered a job here.’

  ‘Have you thought of banking?’

  ‘Only in the US. Here some banks have a lot of family in them.’

  The old man smiled. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘Oh, you’ll be all right. I say, George’s friends are rather rowdy, don’t you think?’

  For some of the party Cotton was shadowed by a heavy-footed girl in a buttercup-yellow gown and tartan sash who kept fiddling with her hair. At midnight she pressed him against a wall and browsed on and around his lips. At half past midnight the girl leered at him.

  ‘Have you got a big cock?’ she asked. ‘I bet you have!’

  ‘Damn!’ said Cotton. ‘I knew there was something I’d forgotten to put on my list of New Year resolutions.’

  The girl stepped back and blinked. ‘There’s no need to be unfriendly, you know.’

  Cotton saw his elderly dinner companion was leaving. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. I’m having a little medical treatment. But that’s a secret, of course.’

  The girl stared at him, raised her eyebrows and then guffawed. ‘Oh Christ,’ she said. She then called out. ‘I say! Peter’s got the clap!’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said George Dyce when he was seeing Cotton out. ‘Should have warned you about my cousin. We call her Mimi Trousers, you know. A couple of drinks and her interest in male appendages comes to the fore.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cotton. ‘It’s been a lovely party.’

  ‘You’re a terrible liar.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘Not at all,’ he said.

  But George Dyce did not let it go. ‘I meant it’s odd that someone like you doesn’t lie well.’

  ‘Come on, George.’

  ‘No, no. I understand you’re involved in what they call the dark arts, hush-hush stuff.’

  Cotton laughed. ‘Life can’t be that dreary for you, George.’

  ‘No? The family bank – that old man you were talking to at dinner – has just said they don’t want me any more. He could have waited till I wasn’t drunk, don’t you think? Now there’s talk of my becoming the lowest of the low.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A stockbroker.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you, George. I get to work for the Colonial Office and spend a lot of time on the Sterling Area. Drop in and see me. We can have stewed tea and divide a biscuit some time. And you can see how fascinating all those columns of figures are.’

  George sighed. ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ said Cotton.

  ‘I say,’ said George, frowning very sincerely, ‘you will look after us, won’t you?’

  Cotton looked at him. Was this a joke? George looked maudlin.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, George. You’ve got a family bank to keep you warm.’

  Cotton walked home. It was not far. He began the walk irritated and depressed, irritated that he had allowed himself to be depressed, thinking there had been times during the evening when he would have posted in his passport. By the time he arrived in Wilbraham Place he was looking forward to sleep and no work for the rest of 1 January 1947.

  But when he let himself into the building he found Monsieur Shalhoub and his two little daughters downstairs. Monsieur Shalhoub worked in the Lebanese Embassy, had a square jaw, a thick moustache, but large, rather soft eyes. He spoke very quietly, with a breathy, slightly flat-tongued restraint. He was dressed in a dark blue velvet smoking jacket and was wearing monogrammed slippers. The girls were in coats, had rugs, a doll and a teddy bear.

  ‘I am quite at my wits’ end,’ said Monsieur Shalhoub.

  Cotton had to strain to hear him but did not really have to ask why. Shrieking noises and loud music were coming down the stairwell. He frowned and pointed at the board. The General’s daughter, Margot Fenwick, was the Shalhoubs’ neighbour.

  ‘My girls, you see, are becoming a little alarmed, even agitated.’

  Cotton looked. The tired little girls, about five and three years old, were huddled together on a sort of settle. Their eyelashes looked wet.

  He held out his hand. ‘Peter Cotton,’ he said.

  ‘I know. My name is Shalhoub, Michel.’ Michel Shalhoub performed a minimal bow from the neck.

  They shook hands. Monsieur Shalhoub did not believe in firm grips.

  ‘Are you down here because you’ve ca
lled the police?’ asked Cotton.

  Monsieur Shalhoub considered this. ‘I have been very near to calling them.’

  ‘But you’ve forborne to do so until now?’

  Monsieur Shalhoub shrugged. ‘I had some doubts about whether, tonight of all nights, your admirable police force would have the available manpower for a caller with a foreign accent.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Miss Fenwick’s guests?’

  ‘That was not successful,’ said Monsieur Shalhoub. ‘They opened the door but my suggestion that they reduce the level of noise was not welcomed.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Cotton.

  Monsieur Shalhoub almost mouthed. ‘Well, they slammed the door, you see.’

  Cotton nodded and looked at his watch – it was one fifteen. He tried a smile on the little girls. ‘They must be getting awfully tired,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to have a try?’

  Monsieur Shalhoub was a diplomat. ‘I can see that might be quite a good idea,’ he said, ‘but I should hate to put you to any inconvenience or impose on you when there might, after all, be a degree of personal risk involved. I have the impression that some of the guests have drunk a very great deal.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Cotton.

  Cotton went upstairs. He could hear Margot laughing as if she were being mercilessly tickled. Artie Shaw’s Everything is Jumpin’ was being played very loud. Cotton leant on the doorbell to Margot Fenwick’s flat.

  The bell was one of the shrill, peremptory kind, as penetrating as an alarm, but it took a good half-minute before the door was flung open. Cotton did not stop ringing the bell.

  A small, red-haired man, wearing, with the help of a chin strap, an extraordinarily pink dildo on his head, white make-up on his face, and a black patch round his left eye staggered slightly and then squinted at him.

  ‘Mr Faun?’ asked Cotton. ‘Or are you trying to be a unicorn?’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I’m ringing the bell.’

  The man winced. ‘But what do you want? Do you want to come in?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Cotton. ‘I was hoping to get Margot’s attention.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like your tone.’

  ‘Good. We’re making progress. Go and get Margot. Is she still upright?’

  The man swayed and frowned. ‘Oh God,’ he complained, ‘you’re being manly.’ He raised his chin. ‘That’s all over, I assure you. I was a conchie, you know. Mm? What did you do in the war?’

  As he said this he tried, rather clumsily and slowly, to swing the door shut. Cotton moved forward and blocked the swing. The door juddered.

  Cotton leant forward until he could see just how bloodshot the little man’s eyes were.

  ‘Whenever I was slitting children’s throats, I always gave them a sweet beforehand so that they could go out on a happy gurgle. Have you got that? You’re frightening children, Mr Peaceful. Time to stop.’

  Behind him Margot appeared looking flushed and sweaty and uncomfortable. Though at least ten years older than Cotton, she behaved as if he were scolding her.

  ‘I didn’t invite quite so many people as this,’ she said.

  Cotton took his finger off the bell.

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ He straightened up. ‘Do you want any help? Moving them out, that is?’

  Margot was confused or possibly just sulky.

  ‘I thought he was going to punch me!’ said the little man.

  ‘Do you want any help, Margot?’

  ‘No,’ said Margot very quietly. ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Then get someone to stop the music, will you? If you want, I can come back, all right?’

  As Cotton went downstairs the music stopped, though the record got scratched.

  ‘I think we’re nearly there,’ he said to Monsieur Shalhoub. ‘What would you like to do? I imagine revellers will start appearing quite shortly. You carry one child. I’ll carry the other. What do you say?’

  Cotton picked up the plumper child, smiled at her and started up the stairs. On the first floor they were passed by a swaying middle-aged lady in a costume that included medieval sleeves to the floor and kind of gauzy train. She paused.

  ‘Children are spoilsports,’ she said. ‘I simply can’t abide them.’

  ‘Now that, girls, is a veritable sourpuss,’ said Cotton. He called after her. ‘If you’re driving, madam, be careful of the Isadora Duncan neck snag – at least until you are out of earshot.’

  Monsieur Shalhoub looked quite shocked. Cotton did not mind. He put the little girl down outside the Shalhoub front door, smiled and wished Monsieur Shalhoub a happy New Year. He looked down the corridor at Margot’s progress – a small group of people were being seen off by the small red-haired man with the white face and doggy black patch, who had removed the very pink dildo – and walked upstairs to his own flat.

  Cotton let himself in, loosened his tie and collar and went to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. He wasn’t sure. Had he fallen asleep on his feet? A buzz sounded, possibly again. Cotton went to his front door and opened it.

  The little red-haired man was now accompanied by a girl dressed in an outfit of parachute green that had patches of paint on it. Cotton had no idea what she was dressed as. She looked like a knowing elf in camouflage she had long grown out of. Her very large eyes showed she had drunk a very great deal.

  ‘Falcon wants to speak to you,’ said the little man.

  Cotton looked from the little man to the girl. Both were about five foot four. The girl looked as if she was about to speak but suddenly frowned. She turned and knuckled the little man on his upper arm.

  ‘Ow! That hurt!’

  ‘My name’s Anna Melville,’ she said.

  Cotton shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘But that’s what I was saying!’ said the little man. ‘She’s a Czech refugee.’

  ‘Apart from the Anna, Melville is my new name for Britain.’

  ‘And what was your old name?’ said the little man.

  ‘Sokol.’

  ‘That’s what I said! It means falcon, sometimes falconer.’

  Cotton sighed. ‘Why not Anna Falconer then?’

  ‘Ooh, consonance,’ said the red-haired man. ‘F and K, old man. She doesn’t want people to think she’s a girl who ruts on kitchen floors.’

  The girl laughed and hit him again on the upper arm.

  ‘I was a Jew there,’ said the girl. ‘I’m certainly not going to be a Jew here.’

  ‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘I’m pleased you feel you have the choice.’

  ‘Don’t you think her English is fabulous?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve learnt on the hoof.’

  ‘Really? Who do you speak like, darling? Who was your model?’

  ‘I tried Edith Evans but settled for Margaret Lockwood.’

  ‘Christ! I thought you were imitating Wendy Hiller but adding a dirty snort.’

  The girl looked as if she was about to hit him again, but as soon as Cotton started closing the door she spoke up. ‘We think Margot might invite you to dinner – to make amends, you see. She sent us to make peace. She’s so awfully sorry.’ Anna Melville paused and frowned. ‘She says you’re rather upright. Have I got that word correct?’

  ‘No. But you’re talking to the wrong person. It’s the Shalhoub girls you want and I’m sure they would prefer a little tea party. Banana sandwiches, pop, that kind of thing. I suspect that at this time of night they’d prefer a written invitation though. Why don’t you post it to them?’

  ‘Buggeration!’ exclaimed the girl. She sounded admiring. She fumbled in her small bag, found and put on a pair of spectacles and leant forward.

  ‘I had wondered if you were hard all the way through. He said you were like seaside rock but salty.’

  ‘And you actually believed him?’ said Cotton.

  The girl laughed and poked her head through the half-open door.

  ‘I say!
Do you live here all on your own?’

  ‘Not quite like Margot. You concentrate on the Shalhoub girls.’

  ‘I think she’s going to send them presents.’

  ‘Wonderful. I’m sure they’ll love them. Can we end this now? Time to go home.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ said the girl. ‘You don’t even know how far we have to go.’

  ‘No, I really don’t,’ said Cotton.

  The girl paused, then giggled. ‘You really don’t care what people think of you.’

  Cotton smiled politely and looked at the little man. The eye surrounded by black greasepaint was closed. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Take her home.’

  ‘Oh come off it!’ said the girl. ‘I’ve seen you! You’ve been ogling my breasts the whole time!’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You can play with them if you give me a bed.’

  ‘Oh dear God,’ said the red-haired man. ‘I do apologize. We’re theatre people, you see.’

  ‘I had understood that. Why don’t you rescue her?’

  The girl looked down at her feet. Cotton winced. He recognized that sway as she tried to focus.

  ‘I’m not being melodramatic,’ said the girl. ‘I’m just out on my feet.’

  The little man started to put an arm round her. ‘I know you are, darling. But I’m worried about you snoring.’

  The girl laughed and then passed out. The red-haired man caught her. Cotton checked. She was not pretending.

  ‘Take her to Margot?’ said Cotton.

  ‘I think she’s rather overrun by sleepers on the floor already.’

  Cotton carefully took the girl’s spectacles off. They brought her in and put her on the sofa. Cotton got a blanket and put it over her.

  ‘Don’t you pass out,’ he said to the red-haired man.

  The man frowned. ‘I don’t pass out,’ he said. ‘Ever. I’m Gus.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘Is she going to be all right?’

  ‘God knows. I think she just needs to sleep it off. I say this is all a tad embarrassing. Can I go?’