The James Bond Anthology

‘I know,’ commented Bond sourly. ‘Free luncheon vouchers every second Friday. Key to M. ’s personal lavatory. New suit to replace the one that’s somehow got full of holes.’ But he kept his eyes fixed on the flitting fingers, infected by Mary Goodnight’s excitement. What in hell was she getting so steamed up about? And all on his behalf! He examined her with approval. Perched there, immaculate in her white tussore shirt and tight beige skirt, one neat foot curled round the other in concentration, the golden face under the shortish fair hair incandescent with pleasure, she was, thought Bond, a girl to have around always. As a secretary? As what? Mary Goodnight turned, her eyes shining, and the question went, as it had gone for weeks, without an answer.

‘Now, just listen to this, James.’ She shook the notebook at him. ‘And for heaven’s sake stop looking so curmudgeonly.’

Bond smiled at the word. ‘All right, Mary. Go ahead. Empty the Christmas stocking on the floor. Hope it’s not going to bust any stitches.’ He put his book down on his lap.

Mary Goodnight’s face became portentous. She said seriously, ‘Just listen to this!’ She read very carefully: ‘IN VIEW OF THE OUTSTANDING NATURE OF THE SERVICES REFERRED TO ABOVE AND THEIR ASSISTANCE TO THE ALLIED CAUSE COMMA WHICH IS PERHAPS MORE SIGNIFICANT THAN YOU IMAGINE COMMA THE PRIME MINISTER PROPOSES TO RECOMMEND TO HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH THE IMMEDIATE GRANT OF A KNIGHTHOOD STOP THIS TO TAKE THE FORM OF THE ADDITION OF A KATIE AS PREFIX TO YOUR CHARLIE MICHAEL GEORGE. [James Bond uttered a defensive, embarrassed laugh. ‘Good old cypherines. They wouldn’t think of just putting KCMG – much too easy! Go ahead, Mary. This is good!’] IT IS COMMON PRACTICE TO INQUIRE OF PROPOSED RECIPIENT WHETHER HE ACCEPTS THIS HIGH HONOUR BEFORE HER MAJESTY PUTS HER SEAL UPON IT STOP WRITTEN LETTER SHOULD FOLLOW YOUR CABLED CONFIRMATION OF ACCEPTANCE PARAGRAPH THIS AWARD NATURALLY HAS MY SUPPORT AND ENTIRE APPROVAL AND EYE SEND YOU MY PERSONAL CONGRATULATIONS ENDIT MAILEDFIST.’

James Bond again hid himself behind the throw-away line. ‘Why in hell does he always have to sign himself “Mailedfist” for “M.”? There’s a perfectly good English word “Em”. It’s a measure used by printers. But of course it’s not dashing enough for the Chief. He’s a romantic at heart like all the silly bastards who get mixed up with the Service.’

Mary Goodnight lowered her eyelashes. She knew that Bond’s reflex concealed his pleasure – a pleasure he wouldn’t for the life of him have displayed. Who wouldn’t be pleased, proud? She put on a businesslike expression. ‘Well, would you like me to draft something for you to send? I can be back with it at six and I know they’ll let me in. I can check up on the right sort of formula with the High Commissioner’s staff. I know it begins with “I present my humble duty to Her Majesty”. I’ve had to help with the Jamaica honours at New Year and her birthday. Everyone seems to want to know the form.’

James Bond wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Of course he was pleased! But above all pleased with M. ’s commendation. The rest, he knew, was not in his stars. He had never been a public figure and he did not wish to become one. He had no prejudice against letters after one’s name, or before it. But there was one thing above all he treasured. His privacy. His anonymity. To become a public person, a person, in the snobbish world of England, of any country, who would be called upon to open things, lay foundation stones, make after-dinner speeches, brought the sweat to his armpits. ‘James Bond’! No middle name. No hyphen. A quiet, dull, anonymous name. Certainly he was a Commander in the Special Branch of the R.N.V.R., but he rarely used the rank. His C.M.G. likewise. He wore it perhaps once a year, together with his two rows of ‘lettuce’, because there was a dinner for the ‘Old Boys’ – the fraternity of ex-Secret Service men that went under the name of ‘The Twin Snakes Club’ – a grisly reunion held in the banqueting hall at Blades that gave enormous pleasure to a lot of people who had been brave and resourceful in their day but now had old men’s and old women’s diseases and talked about dusty triumphs and tragedies which, since they would never be recorded in the history books, must be told again that night, over the Cockburn ’12, when ‘The Queen’ had been drunk, to some next-door neighbour such as James Bond who was only interested in what was going to happen tomorrow. That was when he wore his ‘lettuce’ and the C.M.G. below his black tie – to give pleasure and reassurance to the ‘Old Children’ at their annual party. For the rest of the year, until May polished them up for the occasion, the medals gathered dust in some secret repository where May kept them.