A Perfect Spy

“Don’t be so silly, Mr. Canterbury,” Miss Dubber was saying. “You know I never have a second cup. Come back and watch the news.”

At the far end of the square, in the shadow of the church, a small light went on and off.

“Not tonight, Miss D, if you don’t mind,” he called to her. “I’ve had nothing but politics all week.” He ran the tap and waited till the Crimean War geyser caught before he rinsed the mugs. “I’m going to put myself to bed and give the world a rest, Miss D.”

“Well you’d better answer the telephone first,” she replied. “It’s for you.”

She must have lifted the receiver at once for he had not heard it above the sobbing of the geyser. It had never rung for him before. He returned to the kitchen and she was holding the receiver out to him and he saw the scare in her face again, accusing him, as he reached out a steady hand to take it. He put the phone to his ear and said “Canterbury.” The line went dead but he kept the phone to his ear and gave a quick bright smile of recognition to the middle distance of Miss Dubber’s kitchen, somewhere between the picture of Pilgrim slogging up the hill past the hookers, and the picture of the little girl in bed with her hair brushed, about to eat her boiled egg.

“Thank you,” he said. “Well thank you very much indeed, Bill. Well that’s very handsome of you. And of the Minister. Thank him for me, will you, Bill? Let’s have lunch about it next week. On me.”

He rang off. There was a lot of heat in his face and he was no longer quite sure, now that he looked at Miss Dubber, what her expression was doing, or whether she was aware of the pains he was getting around the shoulders and neck and in the right knee, which he had ricked when he was skiing at Lech with Tom.

“Apparently the Minister’s rather pleased with the work I did for him,” he explained to her a little blindly. “He wanted me to know that my efforts hadn’t been in vain. That was his private secretary. Bill. Sir William Wells. Friend of mine.”

“I see,” Miss Dubber said. But she was not enthusiastic.

“The Minister’s not terribly appreciative as a rule, to be honest. Doesn’t let it show. Hard man to please. Practically never been known to hand out a compliment in his life. But we’re all rather devoted to him. Warts and all, as you might say. We do all rather tend to be a bit fond of him notwithstanding, if you follow. We’ve all rather decided to accept that he’s part of life’s rich pageant, and not some sort of monster. Yes, well I’m tired, Miss D. Let’s put you to bed.”

She had not moved. He talked harder.

“It wasn’t Himself of course. He’s in all-night session. Liable to be there on and off for a long while. This was his private secretary.”

“So you told me.”

“‘That’s medal material, Pym dear boy,’ he said. ‘The old man actually smiled.’ The old man, that’s what we call the Minister. Sir William to his face, but ‘the old man’ behind his back. Be nice to have a gong, wouldn’t it, Miss D? Put it over the fireplace. Polish it at Easter and Christmas. Our own private medal. Earned on the premises. If anyone’s deserved it, you have.”

He stopped speaking for a while because he was blurting a bit and his mouth was dry and he had the worst ear-and-throat thing he could remember. I really ought to go to one of those private health clinics and have the complete sheep-dip. So instead of speaking he stood over her with his hands dangling so that he could haul her to her feet and give her the old good-night bear-hug that meant so much to her. But Miss Dubber did not oblige. She did not want the hug.

“Why do you call yourself Canterbury if your name is Pym?” she demanded sternly.

“That’s my first name. Pym. Like Pip. Pym Canterbury.”

She had thought for a long time about that. She studied his dried-up eyes and his cheek muscles that were writhing for no known reason. And he noticed that she didn’t like much what she saw, and was disposed to quarrel. But as he strained his smile at her, and willed her with all the life that was left in him, he was rewarded by a strict nod of acceptance.

“Well we’re both too old for Christian names now, Mr. Canterbury,” she said. After which she did finally hold out her arms and he did gently take hold of them above the elbows, and he did have to remember not to pull too hard, because he was so keen to have her against him and get himself off to bed where he belonged.

“Now I’m glad about that medal,” she announced as he led her along the passage. “I’ve always admired a man who gets a medal, Mr. Canterbury. Whatever he’s done.”