‘What time will Kenneth need to be let in to the Villa?’ I groaned over Boxing Day breakfast at Checkley Manor.
‘I said we would return by noon.’
‘Okay, and your solution to the catering?’
‘It’s all been chilling in the boot of the car since early Christmas Eve. I attempted to absolve myself of all responsibility by going to the posh supermarket and trying to adopt the mind-set of your late Aunt Elisabeth, sir. All charged to the housekeeping card I’m afraid.’
‘Your forgiven.’
‘Take advice from one who has knocked around the world a bit, no good ever comes from staying up until all hours.’ So pronounced Kenneth, when he saw the condition, we were both in.
‘Yes, I don’t mean to pry, but where in the world have you knocked about?’
‘Got as far as Singapore once.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘So, where do we start?’
‘You and I collect two of the old dining chairs from Charlotte’s lair, then we leg it to the top floor, to collect the other four.’
It was as we were coming downstairs that Kenneth paused to admire the garden; ‘You know, apart from going to the bathroom, I was never aloud above stairs during your aunt’s reign, never really had the chance to stand and stare.’
‘I say, that was a bit fierce. Still, you must have lingered surely?’
‘Oh, no. That would never do. Rules were made to be obeyed; however ridiculous they may seem.’
‘Come along in, l must apologise in advance for the seating arrangements.’ I was playing the doorman, Charlie was hiding in the kitchen, whilst Kenneth put the final touches to the reception room. I repeated my mantra of abject inadequacy four times in all. However, upon entering the venue, the distinguished portrait engendered almost universal, positive acclaim. When everyone had settled, I said; ‘So Kenneth, the floor is yours.’
‘Thank you, Anthony. And thank you for allowing me to host, productive though the garden is, we all need something for the long winter evenings. Anthony has agreed to sit-in, I know my book choice is one of his favourites too. Wonderful to see you all, despite the inevitable changes to this room, I do believe Elisabeth’s spirit is to be found throughout the house and garden. Regarding our woes of the last couple of years, I just want to say, friendships must be kept up. Now then, my choice. John Buchan’s, The Thirty-nine Steps, is perhaps our first real thriller, the first British spy novel as we understand them, rather than a novel with spies, if you see what I mean. And a different sort of writing from the procedural crime novel. Written over a century ago and quite un-controversial until the nineteen seventies. Deeply unfashionable now though, for reasons I don’t fully comprehend, it has been a favourite all my life. I’ll say no more for the moment, but take some of your reactions.’
‘I was surprised,’ said the lady who used to work at the library; ‘I’ve seen the movies, the book was nothing like any of them!’
‘Four film versions, and not one of them made a serious attempt to follow the plot.’ I chipped in.
‘There you go, I knew you’d prove useful to have around Anthony.’
‘I read the book as a child,’ said another, ‘I never realised how modern it is, all about psychology and hiding in plain sight. Rather than deal with that, the moviemakers go for the “master of disguise” thing.’
‘They don’t confront the problems of the hunter and the hunted either, just lay on more stunts.’ Said a third.
‘How did you first come upon the book Anthony? You’re the youngest here!’
‘Er, wet lunchtimes at school, spent in the library. I consumed all five of the books in the series in the end. I rather took them all at face value. I saw the films of the first book and was greatly disappointed. I soon learnt I wasn’t meant to like the books. I also learnt to be on the lookout for terms like “abridged” and “unabridged”. Over the years I confess to becoming rather angry at accusations of anti-Semitism, of critics saying the male friendship was really homosexuality, that the books must be bad or racist because they were pro-empire. But to me, he caught my imagination with his realism, strange as that might seem, no one wrote better about being outside, on one’s own in a landscape. The narrator, stroke hero, if you will, is great at observation of the physical world and then greatly shocked to discover that the ability to hide in a physical landscape is so undermined by the invention of aircraft. He’s also very aware of how you can convince others by playing a part, of truly acting a role. But then suddenly all that is undermined as well, when he realises his own blind spots. The things he takes for granted. The enemy is succeeding, not by disguise, but by fitting-in with the social landscape, by playing the ordinary Englishmen.’
I was just wondering how long I should go on for, when the door suddenly flew open, there was a rattle of china, and Sparkwell appeared, appropriately uniformed, propelling the aunt’s old tea trolley before her; ‘Your comestibles, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Oh, I say! You have done us proud Charlie!’ Exclaimed Kenneth.
‘Cucumber sandwiches and ham sandwiches, followed by Black Forest gateaux and English trifle with custard and whipped cream. Whose first for tea?’
‘I think I’m going to die of nostalgia.’ I gasped.
Proceedings, having ground to a halt for a good twenty minutes, got underway again when Kenneth turned and declared; ‘The accusation of anti-Semitism was something of a red herring, I’m sure you’d agree Anthony?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Only really sustainable if you don’t get beyond the first half dozen pages. As you’ll all now, know, an American character, who gets killed a couple of pages later, tells a story alleging the involvement of Jewish financiers in a conspiracy, the narrator is sceptical at the time, later the story is revealed to be complete nonsense. But is was a realistic view to give to a character at that time, the particular conspiracy theory existed in this country, and you could find anti-Jewish feeling throughout Europe and North America. So too, people’s real understanding of male friendship, companionship in arms in wartime. It’s been well said, soldiers don’t fight for their country or their generals, but to protect the men around them.’
‘A better accusation would be to say he was anti-homosexual, but then so were most straight people at the time. Do we think he was racist too?’
‘There is a kind of assumed superiority, Africans are routinely called negro, occasionally the other “n-word” is used by someone, it’s rather taken for granted that the empire is a good thing. All of which is an accurate reflection of society at the time.’
‘But what about real life attitudes to the Germans? And what of spies?’ Someone said.
‘Of course, the novel,’ asserted Kenneth, ‘written in nineteen fourteen after the outbreak of war, and published the following year, has a context; MI6 was only created in nineteen hundred and nine, and the Official Secrets Act was greatly strengthened in nineteen eleven. Anti-German feeling, stoked by the popular press, had only come to the fore, when people realised the size of their navy, and that Britannia might be threatened at sea. But spy mania was rife, yet throughout the war only a handful of German spies were identified, something else Buchan got right.’
‘What a mine of information you are Kenneth.’ I responded.
How long the back and forth might have continued, who knows? But at this point Charlie reappeared and began clearing away tea. She whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear; ‘Hurrah, for Harry, England and St. George!’ From then on, the conversation, as it always did, drifted towards gossip and the state of the world today.
After they were all gone, Charlotte asked; ‘What do we do now?’
‘Clear up. Get back to the proper business of the day.’
‘Which is?’
‘Discovering the true nature of the taste buds of the dining committee, of course!’
End of season six.
