Sunday 18 August 2024

Flash fiction: Cold

Everything is cold here 

“Dammit.”

“What?”

“This form. It wants her place of birth.”

He was a compact man of 30 with slicked-back hair and wore a white silk shirt bought, at some expense, in Jermyn Street; the stripes of his tie were a little bright.

A.Dombrowski/Creative Commons
“You could leave it for now,” said his wife, fingering her pearl necklace. 

She turned to the window, admiring her reflection. There was a windy wet squall outside and a spray of rain hit the pane and glistened briefly in the light from the gas fire across the room. She turned towards it; Great-Aunt Lisa was hidden by her armchair, the back of which was towards her. But she could see the old lady’s hand on the armrest, the skin pale and mottled and papery with age.

“I can’t leave it. We must get the power of attorney and sort out the will,” he replied.

“Darling, that sounds awfully mercenary.” She mauled her pearls.

“It’s not mercenary,” he said. “Everything is ours really. We don’t want her leaving it all to that wretched Thai maid or something.”

She looked across at the maid, who was sitting on the footstool in front of Great-Aunt Lisa. She was reading aloud from the local paper; every now and then she looked at the old lady and smiled.

“I don’t think Maria’s Thai,” she said. “I think she’s a Filipina.”

“For God’s sake, it’s the same thing.” He leant back in his chair. “Where the hell was she born? Not Maria. Great-Aunt Lisa. I’m sure she told us once.”

“She said in the east somewhere, I think.”

“Oh God, somewhere turgid like Norwich or Ipswich or Harwich I suppose.”

“Harwich,” said Great-Aunt Lisa, quite suddenly.

“I am sorry?” asked Maria. She looked over the top of the paper.

“I’ll put Harwich then,” he said, after a moment.

Great-Aunt Lisa had been listening to Maria read an item on the toilets being refurbished in the Market Square. But now she looked from side to side and nodded slowly.

“Harwich,” she repeated. “It was Harwich.”

Maria put down the paper. “Would you like to go to bed now?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, time for bed.” She smiled back, a little vaguely.

*

Later, Maria straightened the coverlet and made to turn out the bedside light. As she did so her phone chirruped.

“See who that is, dear,” said Great-Aunt Lisa. “Maybe it’s your mother.”

“I will call her later, in the night. The time difference…”

“Yes.” Great-Aunt Lisa looked back at her, suddenly focused. “Are you ever sad, dear? Are you angry?”

“Why, madam?”

“Leaving your family. On the other side of the world. Leaving your mother to care for someone else’s. Isn’t it sad?”

Maria felt her employer’s gaze. Every now and then she would be lucid like this and you could see what had been – sharp, kind, shrewd.

“Yes,” she said. “But it is what we do.”

Great-Aunt Lisa nodded.

“People are cold here, aren’t they,” she said. “Everything is cold.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Maria, surprised. She blinked once or twice and sat slowly down on the bed. Great-Aunt Lisa was looking past her, straight ahead.

“My parents. They were on the platform waving. I was nine. My little brother Willy, he was four. She held him up so he could wave. Bye, Liese, they were shouting out, good luck. It took hours and hours in the train and I was seasick and then I came to Harwich. Port of Arrival, it said on the card. Harwich. There were all these ladies on the quay and they gave us tea from a big beige urn and it tasted funny. And this horrid cardboard box. You had to carry that all the time. I never opened it though. It had my gas mask in it and it looked so evil. Like a horrible insect.”

She looked at Maria. “Do you see people again when you pass over? Are they waiting?”

“We think so in our church,” said Maria.

Great-Aunt Lisa closed her eyes. “I’ll sleep now,” she said.

Maria pulled the counterpane up so that it would cover the old lady’s shoulders. She picked up the empty glass and cup from the bedside stand and turned down the light. As she did so Great-Aunt Lisa murmured:

“I never saw them again, you see. Mutti and Vati and Willy. I thought they would follow. But it was the last train.”

“Oh,” said Maria. She waited a moment, but the old lady said nothing more; after a while she fell asleep, her breathing regular. Maria went down to the kitchen. From the living room came the sound of voices.

“We must make sure the will is correct,” he was saying. “After all, we are family.”

“Yes,” his wife replied. “Of course. How funny that she was born in Harwich.”

Maria looked through the kitchen window. Another brief gust scattered raindrops on the window. Yes, she thought, it is cold here.


Harwich Memorial: Safe Haven,
by Ian Wolter

More flash fiction:

Homecoming
A sort of love story

Solitude
A Cold War memory

Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
A question of social geography

Hiraeth
A yearning…

Strange Places
A spirit in the sky 

A Sideways Journey
Things might have been different

Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street

Belonging
Do you? Where?

Leaving Home
A house has memories


Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 
available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.

Sunday 4 August 2024

Politics on the Edge

Rory Stewart’s memoir Politics on the Edge has been a huge hit. Should you read it? What does it tell us about British politics? And what should we make of Stewart himself?

Rory Stewart is now 51. Educated at Eton and Oxford, he was a soldier (briefly), diplomat, and adventurer, and lectured at both Harvard and Yale. Then in 2010 he was elected as Tory MP for a large, beautiful rural seat, Penrith and the Borders. He looked forward to progressing to a ministerial role and eventually a Cabinet seat. 

But this was where things started to go wrong.

It’s all described in Politics on the Edge (Jonathan Cape, 2023), published in the US as How Not to be a Politician. In it, Stewart describes the horrible life of a backbench MP, the authoritarian party whipping, the mad way ministers are appointed, and the steamy horrors of the Brexit period – from which he emerged with honour, but with his political career in tatters.

The reviews for Politics on the Edge have been excellent. Writing in The Guardian, former Labour Home Secretary Alan Johnson compared it to “Orwell down the coal mine, Swift on religious excess. We should be grateful it was written.” In the US, Andrew Moravcsik in Foreign Affairs called it “the poignant tale of a genuinely decent human being …and …the revelation that the political hypocrisy and ignorance surrounding him will thwart his efforts.” The book quickly hit the No. 1 spot in the Sunday Times bestseller list; it’s now out in paperback and is still at No. 3 in Amazon UK’s non-fiction charts after eight months. 

It's helped that Stewart’s had a high profile since he left Parliament; The Rest is Politics, the politics podcast he co-presents with Alastair Campbell, has been very popular (and has been said, by Nick Duerden in The i,  to net him £70,000 a month). And Stewart is a frequent interviewee on TV, radio and the net; the more so since the book; in fact he has spread across the media like Japanese knotweed.

But the fact that critics think it a good book does not make it one. Is it?

The short answer is yes, absolutely; anyone who cares about the way Britain is run should read it. It is also well-written and engaging. But at times it did irritate, even anger, me. And it raises too many questions it doesn’t answer.


The honourable gentleman
At the start of the book, Stewart says he wanted to enter politics as a Conservative because he wanted to make a difference. (Everyone who’s been in politics says they wanted to ‘make a difference’.) He decides the best way to find a seat is to go and see the Leader of the Opposition, David Cameron. Told that Cameron will give him a short appointment, he flies back to Britain. He does meet Cameron, who is not encouraging. He finds a seat anyway, in the Border country. A few months later, he wins it in the 2010 General Election. It’s a safe Tory seat. But his enthusiasm for the Borders and the people seems very real, and he explores the constituency on foot, in winter.

Stewart’s introduction to Parliament, however, is jarring. It starts with the new intake being summoned to a meeting with the Chief Whip, who tells them they are lobby fodder and their job is to shut up and vote the way they are told. They might be called legislators, says the Chief Whip, but they shouldn’t regard debates as occasions for open discussion, and “are not intended to overly scrutinise legislation”. Although Stewart doesn’t say so, this is surely a contempt of Parliament. As the term progresses, Stewart feels increasingly tainted by the tawdry hypocrisies of life at Westminster; the craven text messages one sends to the PM to congratulate him on a speech, or to support a colleague who has been caught with their pants down. “We attended award ceremonies hosted by MPs who had been suspended for corruption; some continued to drink with MPs accused, and later convicted, of assault and rape.” He does like some of his fellow-MPs, but friendship is rare – and not without reason: “Too many of our private conversations seemed to get back to Number 10 and the whips.”

He is under pressure to vote for things he thinks are wrong. In particular, Cameron wants MPs to vote for initial legislation on Lords reform, something he doesn’t want himself but has promised his LibDem coalition partners. Stewart, deeply conservative with a small C, is against it. I think he was wrong about that. But he’s horribly right about something else – Afghanistan; Stewart knows the country and sees that the West’s nation-building efforts are deeply unwise, that you cannot tell a people what to be. This cuts no ice with Cameron. But Stewart will eventually be vindicated. He has since argued (in the influential American journal Foreign Affairs) that the West might have achieved more had it tried to do less. From my own experience (not in Afghanistan but elsewhere), I agree.

Border country: Stewart's constituency,
Penrith and the Borders


Stewart quickly realises that as a backbench MP he has no agency. But for a long time he isn’t offered a ministerial post, even a PPS, because Cameron does not like him. After the 2015 election, however, Cameron does give him a junior ministerial position at the Department of the Environment, working under Liz Truss. It is a frustrating experience. He finds it hard to get anything done. He also finds Truss asking him for a 25-year plan for the environment, insisting it be ready in a few days. He then finds she has quietly given the task to several other people as well. So they combine their drafts –which doesn’t please her. He finds Truss is interested in no-one’s view but her own, and has a brain that transmits, albeit erratically, but does not receive. Reading this, one is appalled that she ever held ministerial office at all, let alone the Premiership.

Later, under Theresa May, Stewart becomes the Minister of State at the Department for International Development (DfID) – later rising to Secretary of State for International Development and a Cabinet seat. This is appropriate, as unlike other MPs he has hands-on experience in development, in Afghanistan; but he finds the job frustrating and the civil servants obstructive. In between these two development posts he serves as Prisons Minister. Here he begins improvements to security and discipline and also renationalises the Probation Service, the privatisation of which was clearly a blunder. These steps are taken with support from his boss, Justice Minister and Lord Chancellor David Gauke. Stewart has praise for very few senior politicians but he does for Gauke (and for May herself, who he served loyally to the end). Still, Stewart finds ministerial office frustrating, and thinks the way ministers are moved around is arbitrary, frequent and not conducive to good government. I’m sure he’s right.


Posh boy makes good?
But there were moments in this book when Stewart did piss me off. Early on he goes to see Cameron and notes that the Tory leader is surrounded by floppy-haired old Etonians – but what the hell does he think he is? I can’t condemn Stewart for being born posh (besides, I went to the same school as him till age 13). But he can lack self-awareness. I also questioned his judgments about international development. This was my own field for many years. He has genuine experience of it from Afghanistan, but it is deep rather than broad and while I agree with some of his views, others seem sweeping. If, as he says, he had problems with his civil servants at DFiD, this may be why. (He also recently angered me with a slighting reference on his podcast to VSO, the British equivalent of the Peace Corps; I was a volunteer for five years.)

Moreover there is austerity – which Stewart, as a Tory MP, supported. I was struck by a recent New Yorker piece by Sam Knight (What Have Fourteen Years of Conservative Rule Done to Britain?, March 25 2024). “Between 2010 and 2018, funding for police forces in England fell by up to a quarter,” he says, “Officers stopped investigating burglaries. …Last fall, hundreds of school buildings had to be closed for emergency repairs, because the country’s school-construction budget had been cut by 46% between 2009 and 2022.” There is much more of this in the piece. No doubt Stewart, and other Tories from the time, would argue that the huge debts incurred in the 2008 bailout had given them little option. But this is also about who was made to pay the price. “Poorer communities [that vote Labour] …suffered disproportionately,” says Knight. “In Liverpool …spending, per head, fell more than in any other city in the country. Public-health spending in Blackpool, one of the poorest local authorities in England, was cut almost five times more, per person, than in the affluent county of Surrey, just south of London, whose eleven M.P.s are all Tories.”  In short, the rich brought down the system and the poor then picked up the bill. Stewart, and every other Tory MP of the time, was complicit in this. 

In fact it would be easy to dismiss Politics on the Edge as a self-justificatory memoir by yet another posh boy who somehow thinks he has succeeded on merit. (Russell Barnes in Civil Service World described it as “400-odd pages of how right Rory Stewart was at the time, and how history will prove him to be a visionary.”)

But that would be a pity, because this memoir really does lift the lid on Parliament and government. Other books have done this before (Caroline Lucas’s Honourable Friends; Roy Hattersley’s witty Who Goes Home; Martin Bell’s An Accidental MP; and many more). But for a vision of sheer dysfunction, few accounts beat this one. No-one can read this book and continue to believe that Britain is a fully functional democracy.

Moreover Stewart has earned a hearing. Unlike other posh boys (like Cameron), he didn’t swan out of Oxford into a job as a research assistant then progress smoothly into Parliament, rising without trace. He did a lot with his life before politics. His army service was brief, but he then spent some years as a diplomat, serving in Indonesia and later as British Representative in Montenegro. He also founded, and for three years ran, an NGO in Afghanistan, where he met his American wife, Shoshana. He has written a number of books, including The Prince of the Marshes (now relaunched as Occupational Hazards), in which he describes his stretch as deputy governor of an Iraqi province in the wake of the 2003 invasion. In 2000 he took leave from the Foreign Office to make an epic 18-month walk across Asia; The Places In Between (which is excellent) describes the Afghan section, but he has written little of the journey otherwise, and is sometimes said to have been a spy. This is a bit idle; of course he will have passed any useful information to the intelligence services – he was a serving diplomat. But it’s true he may have had much closer links with them; after all, his father Brian Stewart was a very senior spook. And in general, he’s less David Cameron, more Fitzroy Maclean – a man whose life and background were very like his own.

Stewart as a Foreign Office minister, at a conference on
endangered species in 2018
(Foreign and Commonwealth Office)

Beware the slithy Gove, my son
It’s also clear that Stewart cared about his ministerial briefs. But the Brexit-related chaos in 2016-2019 meant Ministers were shuffled around even more often than usual. Stewart held his junior ministerial posts for little more than a year at most, and his Cabinet post for less than three months. For some Ministers, every reshuffle will have been a career opportunity. But Stewart feels, rightly, that this was no way to run a country. You also sense his disgust at the tawdriness of some of his ‘colleagues’ (I wish Tories would not use that word). In particular, the duplicity of Michael Gove was breathtaking.

In the end, however, it’s Boris Johnson who emerges as the villain of this book. And Stewart confronts him. First he stands against him in the 2019 leadership contest; he was the only One Nation Tory to dare do so – and only because none of the others would, by his account. He doesn’t win, although he is probably the candidate best liked by voters as a whole. Then in September he is one of 21 Tory MPs, many of them former Cabinet ministers, who have the whip removed for voting against Johnson’s government on a Brexit-related motion. Some of the MPs later had the whip restored, but Stewart decides to resign from the Conservative Party altogether. He could contest his seat as an independent in the December election, but doesn’t; he may have felt he would not win, but in Politics on the Edge he says he didn’t want to campaign against people who once campaigned for him. If that was his reason, it was a decent one. Politics on the Edge ends there.

It has sold very well and must have earned Stewart a pretty penny. I can’t begrudge him that. Other senior Tories rolled over and played along with Boris Johnson although they knew perfectly well what sort of man he was. Stewart, at some personal cost, did not. Moreover he is an interesting man who has packed a lot into his 51 years. And Politics on the Edge is a good book – well-written, forthright, revealing and important. 

But there is something missing from the book: analysis. Stewart is an old-style conservative with a love of tradition and an innate distrust of too much change. This traditional style of British conservatism has deep roots, going right back to the French Revolution and the events that followed. It is not unreasonable. After all, since then radical utopians have likely killed at least as many people as conservatives. Yet change is needed. Britain’s government and parliament, as seen in Politics on the Edge, are sclerotic and in a way corrupt. And we’ve just had an election in which a party won one of the largest majorities in history with just 33.7% of the vote share – and that’s only of the votes cast; 40% of voters didn’t bother voting at all. This has been followed by serious civil disorder. If this had happened in some hapless African republic the Foreign Secretary would be wagging their finger at them and muttering about suspension from the Commonwealth. But we cannot see what is happening to us. 

Britain’s system is rotten and has run its course, at least in its present form. That is clear from the book; but at no point does Stewart really confront the implications or say how we should address it. I think he should have done. Politics on the Edge is one of the best political memoirs I have read and I strongly recommend it. But in that sense, at least, there is a void at its heart.


Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 
available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.


Sunday 21 July 2024

Flash fiction: Homecoming

 A sort of love story

“What are you doing, Tim?” his sister asked. Her voice came muffled from the kitchen.

“I’m reading the paper, Caroline,” he called back.

“No you’re not.” She appeared in the doorway, her hands and wrists white with flour; she was making pastry. “You’ve been sat there an hour.”

Albert Edelfelt, Red-Haired Model
and a Japanese fan (1879)

“Well, there’s a lot in The Times,” he replied.

“No there isn’t. Dad used to read it in 10 minutes on the loo.”

“That was before the central heating. Do you remember, you could see your breath in there in winter.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Caroline perched on the arm of the chintz sofa opposite, holding her floury hands away from the fabric. “You’ve been slumped in Mum’s old chair since lunchtime. You could go and get some fresh air.”

“It’s been raining.”

“It’s only spitting,” she said. The sun had come and gone between light-grey clouds.

“I’ve been thinking what to do about my house.”

“You know what to do about your damn house.”

“I want to keep it. I like Bracknell.”

“No-one actually likes Bracknell, you idiot. Move down here. We’ve got broadband in the village now. You don’t have to be in Bracknell to design databases.”

“But the notches in the door frame,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“We marked the kids’ heights as they grew up. Right up till Carla was 18.”

She didn’t reply for a moment. Then she said:

“Sheila wants to sell, Tim. You can’t keep half a house. Let it go. Sheila’s gone. Let her go. Let it all go.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much but she shagged my sodding boss.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so’?”

“Isn’t that a good reason to start all over again?” She stood up and went back into the kitchen. “Get her right out of your life. Get the house out of your life. Come home. Paint.”

“What?”

“Paint. I don’t know why you stopped. You should never have left Central St Martins really. You could have made a living at it.” Her voice came over the kitchen clatter. “Do you know, Chloe Markham has one of your paintings. And a sketch you did at the river when you were a student.”

“Who’s Chloe Markham?”

“It’s her married name. Chloe from the Grange.”

“What, Chloe Cholmondeley-Ludicrous or whatever her name was? The posh little redhead with no friends? You mean someone actually married her?”

“That’s not very nice, Tim. Yes, her. She married an officer in the Queen’s Dragoon Guards.”

“He must be bored.”

“Not really. He’s dead,” she said. She looked out from the kitchen. “He drove over an IED somewhere in Afghanistan. He got the MC.”

“Oh.” He sounded deflated.

“Her parents died years ago and she was an only, so she got the Grange. She still lives there. She’s fostered several children and she drives the minibus for shopping days and the community centre. We try recipes together sometimes and when I had COVID she got my shopping and walked Bobby every day. You should go and see her.”

“I might.”

“But first go and get some bloody exercise. Take Bobby. He’d like a walk. Labradors need exercise or they run to fat, just like younger brothers. BOBBY!”

Berthe Morisot, Little Girl at Mesnil
(1892)

So Tim went for a walk. It was quite a long walk. (Bobby was all right with this.) They walked through the centre of the village, the soft Devon air still damp from rain earlier in the day, the intermittent sunshine lighting the edges of clouds with a livid white glow. They passed the war memorial, its names clear, the stone clean and white. The road branched here, the left fork for Upper Cringeworthy and the right for Slattern. They took the road to Slattern but after a few yards Tim recognised the bridleway he had always used as a child, when he wanted to slip away up onto the moor; and he followed the stony muddy path until it started to climb past small, tussocky fields with dry-stone walls, and 10 minutes later they were at the edge of the open moor, climbing on a wide grassy sheep-track through the heather and ferns, its surface garnished with rabbit droppings and broken here and there by slabs of granite. The ferns smelled of talc.

The path narrowed, and twisted between the boulders. Above them was the grey mass of a large tor; it looked close but it was nearly an hour before they arrived. The tor was a field of scattered granite boulders and slabs. Tim sat down on one of the bigger slabs, Bobby’s lead folded in his hand..

“Well, that was good exercise,” he said. Bobby wagged his tail and snuffled at the base of some ferns. Rabbits, thought Tim. He looked out over the valley; he could see Upper and Lower Cringeworthy clearly to his right and the hamlet of Slattern to the left. The road between them was bordered by high hedges but now and then he could see the roof of a tiny car move along it, lost like a beetle in the landscape.

“I should never have married Sheila,” he said.

(“You should never have married Sheila,” Caroline said once. “Mind your own business,” he had replied.)

Then he started to think about Chloe.

*

She was very pale and had flyaway red hair and freckles. She wasn’t in the village in term-time. She was sent away to a girl’s prep school somewhere, then to Cheltenham Ladies’ College. In the holidays her parents would arrange a party for her and they would all be invited (“Lt-Gen Sir Gordon and Lady Smythe-Butler request the pleasure of

TIMOTHY’S

company… RSVP The Grange, Lower Cringeworthy).  She would greet them politely and stiffly and looked absolutely terrified. Her parents would urge her to lead them in party games and she tried; once he saw her bite her lip so hard it almost bled. When she went through the village the boys would hide on the hedges and throw dried cow-dung at her. Sometimes she bent her head and ran. He couldn’t take part. Somehow he knew that her school, too, must have been hell. As they entered their teens he saw her less and less. Then she went off to Lady Margaret Hall and he went to Central St Martins and the others in the village went to work. That was 20 years ago. The last time he had seen her was the following summer, and it had not occurred to him to think of it since. Now he remembered.

One warm day, home from Central St Martins for the long vacation, he had taken his sketch-pad down to the river that rushed through the wooded gorge below Slattern. On a bright afternoon the spray from the eddies around the rocks caught the sunlight, as did the wings of the insects; there was a fresh, damp scent from the river. He hadn’t started to sketch anything, preferring to enjoy the afternoon. Then the bushes on the opposite bank parted and a slim figure stepped between them, dressed in a simple white shift and sandals. She was only 15 feet or so away and they looked at each other in surprise.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. I do beg your pardon.”

“Why?”

“You seem to be sketching. I must have disturbed you.”

“So what? It isn’t my river.”

“I’ll leave you in peace,” she said, and lifted the branches.

“Stop,” he said, without quite knowing why. “Sit down.”

She sat on a rock just out from the bank and he picked up his sketch block. He worked quickly, glancing from the paper to his subject and back again.

“Are you drawing me?” she asked. “Do you want to? You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said. “Do you know the sun is catching your hair?” 

He saw her relax; she took off her sandals, tossed them on the bank and put her feet in the cool water, then sat forward, her chin on her hands. She smiled, and he realised he’d never seen her do that before; a nervous, frightened grin perhaps, but not like this. She looked straight at him.

“Your eyes are blue,” he said. “I’d never noticed that before.”

It didn’t take him long. He held it up for her to look at, and she opened her eyes wide. “That’s too nice. I don’t look like that.”

“You do, you know.”

After a pause, he said: “You can keep it if you like.”

He tore it off the block and stood in the river, passing it carefully. She looked at it and drew in her breath sharply.

“I must go now. Mama and Papa do not like me to be late for sherry before dinner,” she said, but her eyes looked different from before.

He let her go. Later he wished he had asked her to stay. But a few weeks later he met Sheila.

*

Franciszek Żmurko, Study of a Female Head (1900)
Bobby’s muzzle was pushing at his hand. It was now early evening; the clouds had mostly cleared away and the valley had that limpid greenness you sometimes see after rain. “I suppose you want your tea,” he said. He stood up, then felt his phone buzz. “I bet it’s Sheila’s lawyers,” he thought, but it was from Caroline, so he opened it.

When are you coming home? Dinner’s ready about seven. BTW if you want to ring Chloe it’s Cringeworthy 6645.

“Yes, I’m coming home,” he muttered. He dialled the number.


More flash fiction:

Cold
Everything is cold here

Solitude
A Cold War memory

Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
A question of social geography

Hiraeth
A yearning…

Strange Places
A spirit in the sky 

A Sideways Journey
Things might have been different

Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street

Belonging
Do you? Where?

Leaving Home
A house has memories


Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 
available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.

Saturday 20 July 2024

Flash fiction: Solitude

 A Cold War memory

“Nikolai Ivanovich, it is time.”

Nikolai stood, steadying himself with a hand on the luggage rack; the they were still moving a little. There was a loud hiss from the engine, a carriage ahead; a cloud of steam passed the window, lit by the dim lights from the platform and the news kiosk. On the platform was a knot of men in valenki and ushanka hats, their heavy winter coats flecked with snow. They carried machine-pistols.

“Are those necessary?” he asked.

“Yes. The other side may try to trick us. Besides, we have no reason to trust you.”

Wikimedia Commons/Sealle
“No, I suppose you don’t.” He lifted his coat and valise from the luggage rack; he had nothing else.

“Why did you do it?”

“What?” He paused and looked the other in the face. “Alexander Pavlovich, we have talked of this for so long.”

They had. The long hours in the bleak interrogation room with its single bulb; the genuine puzzlement on his boss’s face. He asked again, for the last time: “I thought I knew you so well. And you had such a life of – of privilege. We all did. Because we defend the people. So why did you betray us?”

“I didn’t,” he said quietly. “The revolution was betrayed long ago.”

Alexander said nothing for a few seconds, then nodded briskly; he was back at work.

“Leave the car by the nearest door,” he said. “They know where to take you.”

As Nikolai opened the door to the car, Alexander called out:

“Nikolai Ivanovich, you will be alone over there. No-one will love you. No-one will trust you. It is not your own soil. You will know solitude as you have never known it before.”

Nikolai turned back for a moment, then turned away and stepped down onto the platform. The guards nodded to him and indicated that he should follow them; two walked behind. They passed the enormous engine, wreathed in steam, the low electric light gleaming off its green matt paintwork, the white-rimmed wheels standing out in the gloom. It was snowing – a thin, wet, bleak veil, as if the snow itself were tired of winter; it was nearly March.

I wonder what summer is like over there, he thought, I wonder what they do; and for a moment he was back beside the Baltic in the sunshine, the sand warm underfoot, and Ekaterina was throwing bits of driftwood for Viktor, and Viktor was charging around with little barks, and he called out: “Be careful! He is a running dog! He may be a traitor!”, and she laughed and called him a bloody idiot then chased after Viktor, leaving a long line of footprints in the sand. I wonder if I will ever see Ekaterina again. I am sorry, Katyusha. Now I wish I had told you. I wonder if there is someone like that for me over there. But it won’t be her, will it. He remembered her shock when they came for him, in the early evening; when the doorbell rang she thought it was the laundry. Why are they here? What has he done? He is a good man.

The station was only really manned when a train was to cross the border, and then the passengers would pile out with their baggage and would be there for hours. Tonight it was empty. They went through the archway into the forecourt and got into a black GAZ saloon. He noticed a dent in the door, then wondered why he had noticed it. They only went a few hundred metres, past several booths, and barriers that opened for them; then a last barrier opened, but they did not drive through.

“Get out.” He did, and stood uncertain by the car. He could see the shapes of several vehicles about 400 metres away. The driver flashed his headlights several times. One of the cars opposite did the same.

“Go now. Walk straight ahead until you reach them. Do not look back.”

He did not look back. He walked steadily – not too fast, and he made no sudden movement. This was not a time or a place to confuse anyone as to one’s intentions. He built up a sort of rhythm, feeling the snow beneath his feet; it was still scrunchy, but the falling snow was getting wetter, the west wind more bitter so it stung his face. He saw a figure approaching from the other side; walking deliberately, like him, so nothing would happen suddenly. He was a tall thin man, dressed in tweeds with a Homburg hat with a long wide woollen scarf below which a white collar and dark tie were just visible; like Nikolai he carried only a valise. As he drew closer Nikolai could see that he had an angular, thin face with prominent cheekbones that stood out in the sodium lights that lit him from above.

Diamond.

Wikimedia Commons/Dödel
He knew the face; from life – but they had only met once or twice – and a hundred grainy black-and-white prints shot with telephoto lenses at discreet meetings in whatever city Diamond had been stationed as he clawed his way up through the Foreign Office, gently encouraged by Nikolai, his handler. Poor Diamond, he thought. You never knew how much of the information you gave us was garbage because London made sure it was, because they knew what you were. Because I had told them. When I was unmasked, London knew they might as well finish with you too. Oh Diamond, you silly little Cambridge man dazzled by the man in your year who went to fight in Spain, shamed by Appeasement, with a vague nagging guilt that a College servant made up your fire. Have fun in Moscow, Diamond. Enjoy our winters. I suppose you’ll miss those summer days at Wimbledon, the strawberries and cream, a colleague’s fragrant wife as company. Those afternoons loafing in the British Museum. Dinners with Labour people at the Gay Hussar, probing their weak points, seeing what they’d give us; you enjoyed that, didn’t you. Don’t worry. They’ll look after you there. A nice flat and warm winter clothes and caviar and Georgian wine and trips to Leningrad to the Kirov and to the Crimea in the winter. But you will always be alone.

They passed each other without a glance.

He walked beneath the barrier. It dropped behind him with a clank of chains and squeal of metal. There were several vehicles. A man smiled and opened the back door of a white Mercedes saloon. “Get in, out of the cold,” he said. He climbed in; there were three others in the car. He couldn’t see their faces. The man in the front passenger seat looked over his shoulder.

“Hallo, Tie-Rack,” he said. “You know who I am.” They shook hands.

“Yes," said Nikolai. “Hallo, Cobbler. We know each other well, don’t we?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “We will look after you.”

But Nikolai knew he would never know the man’s real name. And it was then that he did feel alone.


More flash fiction:

Cold
Everything is cold here

Homecoming
A sort of love story

Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
A question of social geography

Hiraeth
A yearning…

Strange Places
A spirit in the sky 

A Sideways Journey
Things might have been different

Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street

Belonging
Do you? Where?

Leaving Home
A house has memories


Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 
available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.

Tuesday 7 May 2024

Bite-sized fiction

Succulent chunks of fresh fiction, cooked at your table and served sizzling hot, with our special spicy sauce

Over the last few months I’ve posted bits of flash fiction on the blog. They’re usually about 500-1,500 words, and are a challenge to write; as there is little space for context, it must be presented by implication. Flash fiction has a long history, but has become more popular in recent years, driven in part by the Internet – to which it is well suited. It’s a form that I’ve got into since joining a writing group, as when we meet each member presents a piece on a theme set at the previous meeting.

A fun feature of our meetings is the 5-minute writing exercise. Someone throws out a title (we don’t know it in advance) and we each prepare a story in that time. The result is, I suppose, what is now known as micro-fiction; a purist might say that this should be exactly 100 words, but these are pieces of about 150-250 words. I set the first title (The Night of my Downfall), but the others came out of the blue. There is no time to think; one starts writing straightaway. I rather enjoy it.

I’ve been through my notebook from the meetings and deciphered my handwriting (no easy task, I tell you), and hereby present these seven succulent, bite-sized fiction chunks. I have not edited them; they’re as I wrote them, served fresh and, I hope, piquant.


Don't Look Now

"Don't look now," he said. "It's not nearly ready for you to see."

"But I'm interested in how you work," she said.

"I prefer to keep that private. It's like wanting to watch a burlesque performer make up, otherwise. You miss the effect."

She laughed. "Well, let's get on with it." She took her time returning to the chair, letting him see the way she moved. She resumed her pose perfectly, her hand draped over the arm of the chair. The grey, flat light seeped in through the studio skylight. He took up his palette, delighted with the diffuse daylight.

"It is so grey today," she said. "I shall look like Whistler's Mother."

"On the contrary. The flat light will model your features evenly." He peered over the top of his canvas. A smile was spreading from the corners of her mouth.

"My husband knows you've slept with me, by the way," she said.

His hand jerked and a swathe of blue paint ran down the image. 

"It was a sudden inspiration," he said later, when the picture had won the BP Portrait Award. "I saw blue within her and knew she could not hide it. From the public, maybe. But not from a true artist."

The interviewer nodded sagely.


The Night of my Downfall

At about 1AM, I saw Mr Smithers waddle between the tables in my direction. His chain of office glittered in the harsh fluorescent strip lights. The other four were in train behind him. Why are provincial aldermen so fat and pompous, I thought.

“I think we should declare shortly," he said. "Perhaps you might mount the platform.”

I followed the others. A hush descended on the hall, the tellers exhausted, the scrutineers too. I had watched the piles of votes as they mounted up through the night and I knew.

I knew.

Smithers sidled up to the mic and tapped it twice.

“Being the returning officer for the constituency of Much Cursing and Little Gibbon, I declare the votes cast as follows.”

I listened, numb; 20 years as an MP were at an end.

I would have to find a job.

 

Can We Skip Winter?

“Can we skip winter?” she said.

I had been about to load the dishwasher. To do this I had had to lift the cat from the back of the machine. She sneaks in there when I’m not looking; her other favourite is the washer-dryer.

“I want to skip winter,” she repeated. “Let’s go to Greece. Or Italy. Or we could go and see Uncle Sidney in Sydney.”

She was always like that. She never thought of the money.

“We have to have those roof tiles done,” I said. “And I must get Thing over to clean the patio, and there’s the boiler, we’ll have to replace it in the spring. Where is the money coming from?”

She looked up at the skylight over the kitchen; a steady rain was falling.

I looked away to grab the cat, which was trying to get back into the dishwasher.

“I want to skip winter,” she said again, and I remember now – I didn’t notice it then – that she had a faraway look in her eyes. She looked away from the rain-spattered roof and went back to scrubbing the frying-pan. I thought no more of what she had said.

“Let’s watch telly,” she said. “It’s nearly time for the news.”

And yet I know, now, that that was the moment my marriage started to end.

 

The Elephant in the Room

We didn’t discuss it at the Board meeting in January. Or February. By March my patience was exhausted, not least because I arrived late.

“Ah, Sir John,” said the Chairman. “How nice of you to put in an appearance.”

“My apologies,” I snapped. “I was delayed by an elephant.”

“A what?”

“Perhaps he was on a trunk route,” said Peters. Everyone tittered.

“An elephant,” I said, “that has been in the room at every meeting of the Board for the last year.”

I reached into my briefcase and brought forth copies of Autocar, Motor and Motoring Which. I had marked the pages. I began to read.

“The Forsyte 100 2-Litre is a fine car in many ways,” said Autocar. “But every test car we have had has had a faulty gearchange. Do Forsyte Motors not realise that their reputation rests on…”

Peters interrupted me. “As Chief Engineer I am well aware that there is a minor matter concerning our gearbox…”

“Minor!” I spluttered. “I am a Director of Forsyte Motors. I do not expect to call the AA on my way to Board meetings.”

“Peters had assured us that this is under investigation,” said the Chairman. “I propose that we proceed to Item 1 on the agenda, which is Directors’ Emoluments.”

I slumped back in my seat. “Gentlemen,” I said, “our gearbox is the elephant in the room. And we are discussing our emoluments!”

“Of course, Smithson,” said the Chairman smoothly. “Everything is under control. We are a great British car company.”

 

What Was Here Before?

During the morning session, my wife called.

I was quite glad. I offered the facilitator an apologetic shrug and slipped out.

“Darling, thank you so much,” I said. “You’ve rescued me from Advanced Diversity Training Module Seven.”

She chuckled. “What’s the Wilford Conference Centre like?”

“The usual. No smoking, digital keys, a gym and overcooked breakfasts.”

She hung up, and I decided I needed a cigarette. It had been raining, but the clouds were clearing and patches of pale blue spring sky appeared.

“Wilford,” I said out loud.

“I beg your pardon?”

I looked behind me. A pleasant middle-aged lady in an overall held mountains of washing.

“Wilford,” I said. “I am sure I heard the name when I was younger. The conference centre is quite new though. What was here before?”

Roger Cornfoot/Wikimedia Commons
“Not much in my time,” she replied. ”But in the war. I know what was here them.”

It clicked. The areas of broken concrete at the back, the remains of an old Quonsett hut.

“Of course. This is the aerodrome the secret agents flew from.”

“Yes, that’s right.” She nodded. “That’s what was here then. What are you doing here?”

“Diversity training,” I said.

She smiled, and bustled on her way.

 

Stuck

We got stuck. I knew we would. Woldejesus was good, but the Chief Driver had given me Salim for the day. Salim was OK provided A) he was sober and B) it was the dry season. Today there was a faint whiff of araki on his breath. As for B), it was in the middle of the rains, and the road to Atbara was like the Somme.

The Land Cruiser made a satisfying splat as the right side bogged down in a rut the size of the Marianas Trench. Salim tried to power out of it. This just made the car dig itself in like a terrified vole that has seen a sparrowhawk.

I left Salim to it and squelched away through the black cottonsoil. I lit a cigarette. All around me the baked-earth plain, so arid and brown, had burst into life with the rain. Green shoots were everywhere. The sky, usually an empty pale blue or white, had taken on a richer blue and the white clouds billowed across the landscape. I almost felt I was in Norfolk.

“Do you know,” I said to no-one in particular, “I’m glad we got stuck.”

 

Fun

I had my usual meeting with P.J. at 10 on Tuesday. As always, I reported the receipts and outgoings for the previous week, gave the running totals for the month and summarised the liabilities.

Meetings with P.J. were at least safe. I could walk in there in a micro-skirt and leather boots if I wanted, and he wouldn’t notice. Other men were different and I had learned not to go into the office kitchen with more than one of them.

Today was as normal. He sat there in his dark suit and subdued tie. I was answering a question on our ground rent for the next financial year when the devil took me, and I said:

“P.J., have you ever had any fun?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mick Garratt/Wikimedia Commons
“I mean, have you ever gone on a fairground ride and enjoyed it more than the kids? Or run naked through a wood in spring, loving the bluebells?”

“Why on earth would I do that?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. The ground rent…”

“No, I haven’t really,” he said. “Had fun, I mean.”

He had turned away and was staring out of the window. It had been raining, but the sun had come out and the leaves, bright green, glistened against the blue sky.

“No,” he said. “No, I never really have.”

 

Heartstopping

“Well now, what happens when you call the IT helpdesk?” she asked.

“I guess they usually say, have you tried switching it off and switching it on again?” I replied.

“OK. Well, that’s pretty much what we’re gonna do to your heart,” she said.

I gulped.

“Er, what if it won’t reboot?” I blinked.

“It’ll reboot,” she said. “Like, your heart, it ain’t still running on Windows 7, is it?”

“I think it’s an Apple Mac,” I said.

“Then it’s been downloading patches for the last 60 years.” She grinned. “Relax, OK? You’re gonna be just fine.”

I recounted this conversation to my wife over dinner.

“Knowing you, your heart’s probably full of viruses from porn sites,” she said. She giggled.

“Hey, give me some support here,” I said. I’m frightened.”

She stopped smiling.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ll be there. I love you.”


More flash fiction:

Cold
Everything is cold here

Homecoming
A sort of love story

Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
A matter of human geography

Hiraeth
A yearning

Strange Places
A spirit in the sky 

A Sideways Journey
Things might have been different

Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street

Belonging
Do you? Where?

Leaving Home
A house has memories


Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 
available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.