Page 22 of The Paris Agent
“I’ve never received any letters.”
“Well,” she says, eyebrows rising. “Now that doesn’t sound right at all. I know I sent them.”
“I... I don’t know what to say to you, Mrs. White,” Dad says, after shooting me a bewildered look. “I’d never so much as heard of Professor Read until last week.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. White says, in a tone which suggests she’s certain Dad is lying but she can’t be bothered arguing with him. She waves to a bank of chairs. “Can I get you some tea?” We obediently take our seats as we all agree tea would be nice, and Mrs. White leaves the room, her cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray, a cloud of cloying perfume lingering in her wake.
“She’s not what I expected,” I whisper to Theo as he takes the plastic chair beside me.
“She sees it as her role to be Harry’s gatekeeper. I’m not surprised you found her unhelpful when you first called, but when I spoke to Professor Read yesterday he told me he’s been trying to reach your father for some time.”
“Theo,” a voice booms from the door, and Theo rises anxiously as a much older man enters the room. Professor Read is at least eighty years old. His pale blue eyes sit beneath heavy white eyebrows, and there’s much sparser white hair curved around a high forehead marked by age spots. He shakes Theo’s hand, but his gaze is slightly guarded. “Good to see you, son.” Read turns his attention to me and Dad and a broad smile transforms his face. “Well! You must be Noah and Charlotte. Welcome.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Dad says, standing.
Read clasps the hand Dad extends toward him as he replies, “Truly, Noah, the pleasure is all mine. Please, come join me in my office.”
We follow Harry Read down another long corridor, past a long series of tiny, windowless offices, winding toward the front of the building.
“Quite a rabbit warren up here, isn’t it?” I remark.
“It’s dormant over the summer but a hive of activity during term time. I’ve lost more than one graduate student up here over the years,” Read jokes.
The nameplate on the thick oak door at the end of the corridor tells us that we’ve finally reached his office. Theo, Dad and I take the three chairs in front of Read’s desk and we make small talk. Once Mrs. White has delivered a tea service on a shiny silver tray, Read motions for Theo to close the door behind her.
This office is less chaotic than Mrs. White’s but no less crowded. Behind Read’s desk there are floor-to-ceiling shelves and every single inch of space is filled with books. There’s a door to another room behind Professor Read with an impressively intimidating lock—possibly the largest lock I’ve ever seen on an internal door. The window is wide open and framed by white gauze curtains which wave slowly in the slight breeze. There’s not a hint of Mrs. White’s cigarette smoke back here—the room smells exactly like the library at my college. Old books and leather, a deep note of pervasive dust.
Read pulls a small transcriber from his desk and motions toward my father.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation, Noah? I’d like to have one of my students interview you properly at a later date but if we cover the basics now, I’ll be better placed to figure out who that should be.”
“I don’t need to be interviewed,” Dad says stiffly. “I only wanted to speak to you because I want to find Remy.” Dad’s eyes seem locked on that recorder, as if he’s willing for it to disappear. While Read waits in a patient silence, Dad clears his throat and shifts awkwardly on his chair. “There were many heroes in the SOE, Professor Read. I’m quite certain I was not one of them.”
“Everyone who served in the SOE is a hero, Mr. Ainsworth,” Read says, suddenly aghast. But his lips thin and perhaps his eyes narrow just a little as he adds slowly, “Except the double agents, of course.” My father shifts again, lifts his teacup off the desk to cradle it in both hands. “Wehavesent you many letters over the years.”
Dad shakes his head.
“So your secretary told me. I’m not sure what address you’ve been—”
Read spins a manila folder on his desk toward us. There are three addresses on the front cover—two have been crossed out, and our current address—the house we’ve lived in for more than fifteen years—is on a typed label beneath them. Read opens the folder to reveal a stack of copied letters inside.
“We’ve sent one every few years. Since about 1948,” Read says quietly, flicking through the pile. “You aren’t the only former agent who ignores them but we do keep sending them unless they specifically ask us to stop.”
“I didn’t ignore them,” Dad says. He reaches forward and picks the top letter up, scans it quickly, then sets it back down. He raises his gaze to Read’s, his expression twisted with bewilderment. “I’ve never seen these before. How did you even know where I lived?”
“We are fortunate to access quality information from other government agencies. And theyareyour addresses, no?”
Dad gives me a bewildered look. The professor closes the folder again and I lean forward to read the addresses for myself.
“The first one was the flat me and Geraldine moved into after we married. The next was our first detached house, and the last house is our home even now,” Dad murmurs. Our current house was my mum’s dream house. She and Dad saved for years to build it and I know it was a struggle to afford the mortgage at first because Dad’s business was still getting off the ground. The house is a single-story bungalow with four bedrooms plus an office. I was ten when we moved in but I vividly remember Aunt Kathleen playfully calling the house “ostentatious” because it had a second bathroom andtwoliving areas. It certainly was a step up from the homes most of our friends had at the time.
“I never received these letters,” Dad says stiffly. “I might not have agreed to an interview, but I wouldn’t have simply ignored you.”
“It’s perfectly fine if youdidignore me,” Read says, but it’s clear to me that he does not for a second believe my father is telling the truth. “I’m just glad you’re here now. And I have of course heard from Theo that you want to track this Remy down. Let’s get down to it, then. Tell me what you know of him.”
“I don’t know much at all,” Dad says. It’s warm in the office but not unbearably so. There are small beads of sweat over Dad’s forehead and I wonder if this is anxiety, rather than the heat. He takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt and mops his brow. “I woke up in a hospital at Brive-La-Galliarde sometime after D-Day. I’d been shot and—” he points to the jagged scar beside his temple. “My skull was fractured. I completely lost my memory at first—all I really knew was that I was British and a fish out of water in occupied France. I couldn’t remember my name. I couldn’t even figure outhowI knew French.”
“How terrifying that must have been for you,” Professor Read murmurs. Dad shrugs awkwardly.
