Edward’s superior was one Robin Muir. He was a silver-haired, tall man with a withered left arm, who had become embarrassed when Laura had allowed herself to cry in front of him – a few tears, a tremble in her voice, as she said that she thought Edward was pushing himself over the edge. He had agreed with her, it was time to get him home. He had murmured with an attempt at reassurance that it was only because he was such a good worker that he was finding it all such a strain. She nodded, as she remembered how Edward Last had once been Halifax’s golden boy, Inverchapel’s right-hand man, Oliver Franks’ trusted confidant. ‘I think three ambassadors have rather relied on your husband. He probably has felt the responsibility too much. I’m sure you have too. It must have been difficult for you both.’
As Laura walked back to Sybil’s house, her mind was clouded. But she held onto the main thing: Lvov would see Edward, he had promised secrecy, and even if he did not understand what he was promising to be secret about, it was the best she could do. A quick glass of brandy, she thought, and then I’ll feel better, but she stopped the thought. She must stay in control. It frightened her that twice recently she had been tempted to tell someone about things that must never be told. But had she really been tempted? Letting herself into the hall, taking off her hat, she wondered. Maybe she had just been testing herself, building the walls again. Building them higher.
Going into the living room, she found Edward looking through a book. He seemed to be writing notes on it, absorbed. When he heard her, he looked up and for the first time in a while there seemed to be a smile on his face. He had changed, as everyone had noticed; his face had slackened and yellowed, his demeanour had lost that characteristic certainty. But when energy returned to him, as now, the change was not so obvious. ‘Take a look,’ he said, crossing over to the window. Laura was unsure what she was meant to be looking at. The street was wide and bright, there was nobody there, just a woman with a dog, walking slowly. ‘I mean the motor,’ Edward said, pointing out a blue Austin parked outside. ‘Bought it off Alistair – he didn’t want it any more. Come on, we’re going out for the day, London’s too stifling.’
Sliding into the passenger seat next to Edward, Laura wished she had had time to change her grey dress, which was already sticky under the arms. ‘There must have been an accident,’ Edward said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they sat in a long traffic jam in Bressenden Place. But as they left the city behind, Laura wound down her window and felt the breeze. English spring, later, more tentative, more promising, than spring in Washington, had got into its stride while she hadn’t been looking. All through the edges of south London were ribbons of new housing, but eventually a green patchwork of fields and low hills, drenched in sunlight, asserted itself. The silence between them solidified during the drive, until finally Edward slowed down in a village: a wide green, a pond dappled with light, a few rows of well-kept houses, a pub. ‘This is the spot,’ he said, parking.
As she got out, Laura asked how he knew the place. It was odd to think that he had come here before the war, before they had met, and yet had remembered it. An old university friend had lived nearby, he explained. ‘Will you be warm enough here?’ Here was a garden behind the pub, with wooden tables worn grey and grass going to seed around them. That politeness, he relied on it as she did, covering up the hopelessness between them with the careful give and take of civilised conversation. As he went into the pub to get drinks, a rather mangy cat wound itself around Laura’s legs. She pushed it away, thinking it looked as if it had fleas, and it sloped through the grass as if it did not care, over to another table. Edward came out with a lemonade for himself and a gin and tonic for her, and a menu. She never knew what to choose at places like this, so she let him decide. Although the pie with a thick brown gravy looked unappetising, it was hot and savoury. They soon exhausted talk of the pie, the pub and the cat, which had returned and was pushing its head against Edward’s leg.