A Small Town In Germany Read online

Jenny Pargiter was warming to her task. The Neue Zürcher had a speculative piece on our chances in Brussels, she was saying; she considered it vital that everyone in Chancery read it most closely. De Lisle sighed audibly. Would Bradfield never turn her off?

  'The writer says we have absolutely no negotiating points left, Rawley. None. HMG is as played out as Bonn; no support with the electorate and very little with the parliamentary party. HMG sees Brussels as the magic cure for all the British ills; but ironically can only succeed by the goodwill of another failing Government.'

  'Quite.'

  'And even more ironically, the Common Market has virtu­ally ceased to exist.'

  'Quite.'

  'The piece is called The Beggar's Opera. They also make the point that Karfeld is undermining our chances of effective German support for our application.'

  'It all sounds very predictable to me.'

  'And that Karfeld's plea for a Bonn-Moscow trade axis to exclude the French and the Anglo-Saxons is receiving serious attention in some circles.'

  'What circles, I wonder?' Bradfield murmured and the pen descended once more. 'The term Anglo-Saxon is out of court,' he added. 'I refuse to have my provenance dictated by de Gaulle.' This was a cue for the older graduates to raise a judicious intellectual laugh.

  'What do the Russians think about the Bonn-Moscow axis?' someone ventured from the centre. It might have been Jack­son, an ex-Colonial man who liked to offer common sense as an antidote to intellectual hot air. 'I mean, surely that's half the point, isn't it? Has anyone put it to them as a proposition?'

  'See our last despatch,' de Lisle said.

  Through the open window he fancied he could still hear the plaintive chorus of the farmers' horns. That's Bonn, he thought suddenly: that road is our world; how many names did it have on those five miles between Mehlem and Bonn? Six? Seven? That's us: a verbal battle for something nobody wants. A constant, sterile cacophony of claim and protest. However new the models, however fast the traffic, however violent the collision, however high the buildings, the route is unchanged and the destination irrelevant.

  'We'll keep the rest very short, shall we? Mickie?'

  'I say, my God, yes.'

  Crabbe, jerking into life, embarked upon a long and unintelligible story he had picked up from the New York Times correspondent at the American Club, who in turn had heard it from Karl-Heinz Saab, who in turn had heard it from some­one in Siebkron's office. It was said that Karfeld was actually in Bonn last night; that after appearing with the students in Cologne yesterday, he had not, as was popularly believed, returned to Hanover to prepare for tomorrow's rally, but had driven himself by a back route to Bonn and attended a secret meeting in the town.

  'They say he spoke to Ludwig Siebkron, you see, Rawley,' said Crabbe, but whatever conviction his voice might once have carried was strained thin by innumerable cocktails. Bradfield, however, was irritated by this report, and struck back quite hard.

  'They always say he spoke to Ludwig Siebkron. Why the devil shouldn't the two of them talk to one another? Siebkron's in charge of public order; Karfeld has a lot of enemies. Tell London,' he added wearily, making another note. 'Send them a telegram reporting the rumour. It can do no harm.' A gust of rain struck suddenly upward at the steel-framed window, and the angry rattle startled them all.

  'Poor old Commonwealth Sports,' Crabbe whispered, but once again his concern received no recognition.

  'Discipline,' Bradfield continued. 'Tomorrow's rally in Han­over begins at ten-thirty. It seems an extraordinary time to demonstrate but I understand they have a football match in the afternoon. They play on Sundays here. I cannot imagine it will have any effect on us, but the Ambassador is asking all staff to remain at home after Matins unless they have business in the Embassy. At Siebkron's request there will be additional German police at the front and rear gates throughout Sunday, and for some extraordinary reasons of his own, plain clothes men will be in attendance at the sports this afternoon.'

  'And plainer clothes,' de Lisle breathed, recalling a private joke, 'I have never seen.'

  'Be quiet. Security. We have received the printed Embassy passes from London and these will be distributed on Monday and shown at all times thereafter. Fire Drill. For your infor­mation there will be a practice muster at midday on Monday. Perhaps you should all make a point of being available, it sets an example for the Junior Staff. Welfare. Commonwealth Sports this afternoon in the rear gardens of the Embassy; eliminating races. Once again I suggest you all put in an appearance. With your wives of course,' he added, as if that placed an even heavier burden on them. 'Mickie, the Ghana­ian Chargé will need looking after. Keep him away from the Ambassadress.'

  'Can I just make a point here, Rawley?' Crabbe writhed nervously; the cords of his neck were like chicken legs, stiff­eners in the declining flesh. 'The Ambassadress is presenting the prizes at four, you see. Four. Could everyone sort of gravi­tate to the main marquee at quarter to? Sorry,' he added. 'Quarter to four, Rawley. Sorry.' It was said that he had been one of Montgomery's aides in the war and this was all that was left.

  'Noted. Jenny?'

  Nothing that they would listen to, her shrug declared.

  De Lisle addressed them all, using as his focal point that middle air which is the special territory of the British ruling class.

  'May I ask whether anyone is working on the Personalities Survey? Meadowes is pestering me for it and I swear I haven't touched it for months.'

  'Who's it marked out to?'

  'Well, me apparently.'

  'In that case,' Bradfield said shortly, 'presumably you drew it.'

  'I don't think I did, that's the point. I'm perfectly happy to take the rap, but I can't imagine what I would have wanted with it.'

  'Well, has anyone got it?'

  All Crabbe's statements were confessions.

  'It's marked out to me, too,' he whispered, from his dark place by the door, 'you see, Rawley.'

  They waited.

  'Before Peter, I'm supposed to have had it, and put it back. According to Meadowes, Rawley.'

  Still no one helped him.

  'Two weeks, Rawley. Only I never touched it. Sorry. Arthur Meadowes went for me like a maniac. No good, you see. Didn't have it. Lot of dirt about German industrialists. Not my form. I told Meadowes: best thing is ask Leo. He does Personalities. They're Leo's pigeon.'

  He grinned weakly along the line of his colleagues until he came to the window where the empty chair was. Suddenly they were all peering in the same direction, at the empty chair; not with alarm or revelation, but curiously, noticing an absence for the first time. It was a plain chair of varnished pine, different from the others and slightly pink in colour, hinting remotely at the boudoir; and it had a small, embroidered cushion on the seat.

  'Where is he?' Bradfield asked shortly. He alone had not followed Crabbe's gaze. 'Where's Harting?'

  No one answered. No one looked at Bradfield. Jenny Parg­iter, scarlet in the face, stared at her mannish, practical hands which rested on her broad lap.

  'Stuck on that dreary ferry, I should think,' said de Lisle, coming too quickly to the rescue. 'God knows what the farmers are doing that side of the river.'

  'Someone find out, will they?' Bradfield asked, in the most disinterested tone. 'Ring his house or something, will you?'

  It is a matter of record that no one who was present took this instruction as his own; and that they left the room in curious disarray, looking neither at Bradfield nor at one another, nor at Jenny Pargiter, whose confusion seemed beyond all bearing.

  The last sack race was over. The strong wind, whipping over the waste land, dashed pebbles of rain against the flapping canvas. The wet rigging creaked painfully. Inside the marquee, the surviving children, mostly coloured, had rallied to the mast. The small flags of the Commonwealth, creased by stor­age and diminished by secession, swung unhappy in disarray. Beneath them, Mickie Crabbe, assisted by Cork the cypher clerk, was mustering the winners for the
prize-giving.

  'M'butu, Alistair " Cork whispered. 'Where the hell's he got to?'

  Crabbe put the megaphone to his mouth:

  'Will Master Alistair M'butu please come forward. Alistair M'butu...Jesus,' he muttered, 'I can't even tell them apart.'

  'And Kitty Delassus. She's white.'

  'And Miss Kitty Delassus, please,' Crabbe added, nervously slurring the final 's'; for names, he had found by bitter experi­ence, were a source of unholy offence.

  The Ambassadress, in ragged mink, waited benignly at her trestle table behind a motley of gift-wrapped parcels from the Naafi. The wind struck again, venomously; the Ghanaian Chargé, despondent at Crabbe's side, shuddered and pulled up the fur collar of his overcoat.

  'Disqualify them,' Cork urged. 'Give the prizes to the run­ners up.'

  'I'll wring his neck,' Crabbe declared, blinking violently. 'I'll wring his bloody neck. Skulking the other side of the river. Whoopsadaisy.'

  Janet Cork, heavily pregnant, had located the missing chil­dren and added them to the winners' enclosure.

  'Wait till Monday,' Crabbe whispered, raising the mega­phone to his lips, 'I'll tell him a thing or two.'

  He wouldn't though, come to think of it. He wouldn't tell Leo anything. He'd keep bloody clear of Leo as a matter of fact; keep his head down and wait till it blew over.

  'Ladies and Gentlemen, the Ambassadress will now present the prizes!'

  They clapped, but not for Crabbe. The end was in sight. With a perfect insouciance that was as well suited to the launching of a ship as to the acceptance of a hand in marriage, the Ambassadress stepped forward to read her speech. Crabbe listened mindlessly: a family event... equal nations of the Commonwealth... if only the greater rivalries of the world could be resolved in so friendly a fashion... a heartfelt word of thanks to the Sports Committee, Messrs Jackson, Crabbe, Harting, Meadowes...

  Lamentably unmoved, a plain clothes policeman, posted against the canvas wall, took a pair of gloves from the pocket of his leather coat and stared blankly at a colleague. Hazel Bradfield, wife of the Head of Chancery, caught Crabbe's eye and smiled beautifully. Such a bore, she managed to imply, but it will soon be over, and then we might even have a drink. He looked quickly away. The only thing, he told himself fer­vently, is to know nothing and see nothing. Doggo, that's the word. Doggo. He glanced at his watch. Just one hour till the sun was over the yardarm. In Greenwich if not in Bonn. He'd have a beer first, just to keep his eye in; and afterwards he would have a little of the hard stuff. Doggo. See nothing and slip out the back way.

  'Here,' said Cork into his ear, 'listen. You remember that tip you gave me?'

  'Sorry, old boy?'

  'South African Diamonds. Consols. They're down six bob.'

  'Hang on to them,' Crabbe urged with total insincerity, and withdrew prudently to the edge of the marquee. He had barely found the kind of dark, protective crevice which naturally appealed to his submerged nature when a hand seized his shoulder and swung him roughly round on his heel. Recovering from his astonishment he found himself face to face with a plain clothes policeman. 'What the hell - ' he broke out furiously, for he was a small man and hated to be handled. 'What the hell - ' But the policeman was already shaking his head and mumbling an apology. He was sorry, he said, he had mistaken the gentleman for someone else.

  Urbane or not, de Lisle was meanwhile growing quite angry. The journey from the Embassy had irritated him considerably. He detested motor-bikes and he detested being escorted, and a noisy combination of the two was almost more than he could bear. And he detested deliberate rudeness, whether he or someone else was the object of it. And deliberate rudeness, he reckoned, was what they were getting. No sooner had they drawn up in the courtyard of the Ministry of the Interior than the doors of the car had been wrenched open by a team of young men in leather coats all shouting at once.

  'Herr Siebkron will see you immediately! Now, please! Yes! Immediately, please!'

  'I shall go at my own pace,' Bradfield had snapped as they were ushered into the unpainted steel lift. 'Don't you dare order me about.' And to de Lisle, 'I shall speak to Siebkron. It's like a trainload of monkeys.'

  The upper floors restored them. This was the Bonn they knew: the pale, functional interiors, the pale, functional repro­ductions on the wall, the pale unpolished teak; the white shirts, the grey ties and faces pale as the moon. They were seven. The two who sat to either side of Siebkron had no names at all, and de Lisle wondered maliciously whether they were clerks brought in to make up the numbers. Lieff, an empty-headed parade horse from Protocol Department, sat on his left; opposite him, on Bradfield's right, an old Polizeidirektor from Bonn, whom de Lisle instinctively liked: a battle-scarred monument of a man, with white patches like covered bullet­holes in the leather of his skin. Cigarettes lay in packets on a plate. A stern girl offered decaffeinated coffee, and they waited until she had withdrawn.

  What does Siebkron want? he wondered for the hundredth time since the terse summons at nine o'clock that morning.

  The Conference began, like all conferences, with a resumé of what was said at a previous occasion. Lieff read the minutes in a tone of unctuous flattery, like a man awarding a medal. It was an occasion, he implied, of the greatest felicity. The Polizeidirektor unbuttoned his green jacket, and lit a length of Dutch cigar till it burned like a spill. Siebkron coughed angrily but the old policeman ignored him.

  'You have no objection to these minutes, Mr Bradfield?' Siebkron usually smiled when he asked this question, and although his smile was as cold as the north wind, de Lisle could have wished for it today.

  'Off the cuff, none,' Bradfield replied easily, 'But I must see them in writing before I can sign them.'

  'No one is asking you to sign.'

  De Lisle looked up sharply.

  'You will allow me,' Siebkron declared, 'to read the follow­ing statement. Copies will be distributed.'

  It was quite short.

  The doyen, he said, had already discussed with Herr Lieff of Protocol Department, and with the American Ambassador, the question of the physical security of diplomatic premises in the event of civil unrest arising out of minority demon­strations in the Federal Republic. Siebkron regretted that additional measures were proving necessary, but it was desir­able to anticipate unhappy eventualities rather than attempt to correct them when it was too late. Siebkron had received the doyen's assurance that all diplomatic Heads of Missiori would cooperate to the utmost with the Federal authorities. The British Ambassador had already associated himself with this undertaking. Siebkron's voice had found a hard edge which was uncommonly close to anger. Lieff and the old policeman had turned deliberately to face Bradfield, and their expressions were frankly hostile.

  'I am sure you subscribe to this opinion,' Siebkron said in English, handing a copy of the statement down the table. Bradfield had noticed nothing. Taking his fountain pen from an inside pocket, he unscrewed the cap, fitted it carefully over the butt and ran the nib along line after line of the text.

  'This is an aide-memoire?'

  'A memorandum. You will find the German translation attached.'

  'I can see nothing here that requires to be in writing at all,' Bradfield said easily. 'You know very well, Ludwig, that we always agree on such matters. Our interests are identical.'

  Siebkron disregarded this pleasant appeal: 'You also under­stand that Doktor Karfeld is not well disposed towards the British. This places the British Embassy in a special category.'

  Bradfield's smile did not flinch. 'It has not escaped our notice. We rely on you to see that Herr Karfeld's sentiments are not expressed in physical terms. We have every confidence in your ability to do so.'

  'Precisely. Then you will appreciate my concern for the safety of all personnel of the British Embassy.'

  Bradfield's voice came quite close to banter. 'Ludwig, what is this? A declaration of love?'

  The rest came very fast, thrown down like an ultimatum: 'I must accordi
ngly ask you that until further notice all British Embassy staff below the rank of Counsellor be confined to the area of Bonn. You will kindly instruct them that for their own safety they will please be in their residences-' he was reading again from the folder before him - 'henceforth and until further notice, by eleven o'clock at night, local time.' The white faces peered at them through the swathes of tobacco smoke like lamps through an anaesthetic. In the momentary confusion and bewilderment, only Bradfield's voice, fluent and decisive as the voice of a commander in battle, did not waver.

  It was a principle of civil order which the British had learnt by bitter experience in many parts of the world, he said, that unpleasant incidents were actually provoked by over-elaborate precautions.

  Siebkron offered no comment.

  While making every allowance for Siebkron's professional and personal concern, Bradfield felt obliged to warn him strongly against any gesture which might be misinterpreted by the outside world.

  Siebkron waited.

  Like Siebkron, Bradfield insisted, he himself had a responsi­bility to preserve Embassy morale and thus fortify the Junior Staff against strains yet to come. He could not support any measure at this stage which would look like a retreat in the face of an enemy who as yet had barely advanced... Did Siebkron really wish it said that he could not control a handful of hooligans?...

  Siebkron was standing up, the others with him. A terse inclination of the head replaced the obligatory handshake. The door opened and the leather coats led them briskly to the lift. They were in the wet courtyard. The roar of the motorcycles deafened them. The Mercedes swept them into the carriageway. What on earth have we done? de Lisle wondered. What on earth have we done to deserve this? Whoever has thrown the rock through teacher's window?

  'It's nothing to do with last night?' he asked Bradfield at last, as they approached the Embassy.

  'There is no conceivable connection,' Bradfield retorted. He was sitting bolt upright, his expression stiff and angry.

  'Whatever the reason,' he added, more as a memorandum to himself than by way of a confidence to de Lisle, 'Siebkron is the one thread I dare not cut.'