Page 125 of The Gathering Storm

Culbeath laughed. ‘That’s right. Always protect your source. And didn’t you once release a fox in the chapel vestry?’

The – surprisingly youthful – brigadier had drifted closer. ‘What, Angus? Is this that Compton? I didn’t realise it was the same person.’ He shot out a hand and Basil shook it, bemused. ‘I’ve heard good things about you from Gilbert Comstock.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Basil murmured. He was surprised the editor had ever spoken about him to anyone, though he was not surprised he knew the Deputy Military Secretary. The Editor seemed to know everyone.

‘Seems to think you did rather well in Spain,’ Jenner went on. ‘I read the articles. Jolly good! Damned shame about young Zennor, though. I knew his mother before she married – distant cousin of mine.’

It confirmed in Basil a belief that all the important people in Britain were related to one another: it was, in fact, how the trick was worked.

‘I expect you and he were close, thrown together in difficult circumstances,’ Jenner went on.

Basil thought again, painfully, of Bob Zennor’s wasteful, pointless death. He tried not to think about him too often. He shut his lips tight.

Jenner and Culbeath exchanged a glance, and Basil somehow gleaned that his reaction had not been held against him – the contrary, in fact.

‘Look here,’ Jenner said, lowering his voice a little, ‘when the balloon goes up, we’re going to need men like you.’

Basil was surprised at such directness. ‘You think there will be a war?’ he said. ‘What about “peace for our time”?’

‘Don’t be taken in by that,’ Culbeath said. ‘Delaying tactic. We’ll have to deal with the Germans sooner or later, but the PM has to hold them off until we’re ready, got all our pieces on the chessboard and so on.’

‘Are we ready?’ Basil asked. He was flattered that these senior people were talking so frankly to him – but nervous too. He suspected something was about to be asked of him. You didn’t get that sort of voluntary exposition for nothing.

‘Working on it,’ said Jenner. ‘Next year, or 1940 at the latest. And when it comes, it’s not going to be like the last war. We’ll have to employ different tactics. We’re going to need men who can think on their feet.’

‘Irregulars,’ Culbeath said, nodding.

‘Of course,’ Jenner said, with an air of placating jealous gods, ‘there’s nothing wrong with the regimental system. Backbone of the army.’

‘But we’ve already discussed recruiting … shall we say special services?’ said Culbeath, with emphasis. ‘Men of ingenuity, who can operate outside the conventional.’

‘I see,’ Basil said. He didn’t, but he had an odd feeling he was going to.

‘Just keep it in mind,’ Jenner said, patting his arm. ‘When the time comes … Comstock knows all about it. He’ll keep you in the picture. This is all hush-hush, by the by. You won’t mention this little conversation to anyone.’

‘Of course not, sir.’ Basil felt he was being rolled up. He tried a last-minute protest. ‘I was never in OTC, you know. Didn’t go to university.’

‘We know,’ said Culbeath.

‘What I mean is, I have no military background.’

‘All the better,’ said Jenner.

‘Irregulars,’ Culbeath said again. ‘Like you were in Spain.’ One of the other guests was approaching, and he ended the topic. ‘We’ll talk some more at a later date. Enough of this now. Tell me, your father was a fighter pilot in the war, wasn’t he? Quite a hero. Air ace, taken prisoner twice, decorated at the highest level. VC, wasn’t he?’

‘A lot to live up to,’ Jenner said.

They both gave Basil a pointed look that went on a little too long to be comfortable. The approaching guest was one of the financial people, and the conversation turned to the stock exchange, about which Basil had nothing to say. He eased his way backwards out of the group and drifted away to find another more congenial. He felt as if he’d been scoured.

Polly and Lennie had been walking in the rose garden, where Polly had been trying to find enough late blooms to decorate the table; Lennie helped by singing ‘The Last Rose Of Summer’ in his surprisingly fine tenor. The dogs had come with them, never ones to miss the opportunity of going out, but no-one else had followed. It was a space of precious privacy.

The flowers cut, they sat down on a bench. The dogs came and sat before them, looking willing, and then, seeing that talking was the order of the day, settled down to wait in the hope of better things to come.

The subject was their future together – one still so new to Polly that she could not tire of it – and the immediate topic what Lennie would do after they were married. He was talking about radio.

‘The market in the States is so mature there really aren’t the opportunities any more to make big profits. Television could still take off. Once they’ve sorted out the technical stuff, it could be the next big thing over there. But the radio market here is wide open. Demand for radio sets is growing, and I can replicate my manufacturing operation here, with the added advantage that, as far as I can see, no-one else is doing much about it yet. I can get in first and clean up. A Manning’s radio in every home!’

‘I like the sound of that.’