“My God, the Labour Party’s lucky to have you,” said Giles. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“Thank you,” said Griff. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. Truth is, I’ve always been a cynic. Goes with the territory, I suppose. So let’s hope I’m wrong this time. Mind you, I’ve never gone much on fairy tales. So if you do change your mind about standing, I can hold off appointing a selection committee for at least a couple of weeks.”
“Won’t you ever give up?”
“Not while there’s the slightest chance of you being the candidate.”
*
As Giles sat alone in the first-class carriage on the way to Truro, he thought carefully about what Griff had said. Was he sacrificing his whole political career for a woman who might not even have given him a second thought since Berlin? Had he allowed his imagination to override his common sense? And if he did meet Karin again, would the bubble burst?
There was also the possibility—the strong possibility, which he tried to push to the back of his mind—that Karin had been no more than a Stasi plant, simply doing her job, proving that his veteran agent was not a cynic, but simply a realist. By the time the Penzance Flyer pulled into Truro station just after six, Giles was none the wiser.
He took a taxi to the Mason’s Arms, where he had agreed to meet John Pengelly later that evening. Once he had signed the register, he climbed the stairs to his room and unpacked his overnight bag. He had a bath, changed his clothes and went down to the bar a few minutes before seven, as he didn’t want to keep Karin’s father waiting.
As Giles walked into the bar, he spotted a man seated at a corner table, at whom he wouldn’t have taken a second look had he not immediately stood and waved.
Giles strode across to join him and shook his outstretched hand. No introduction was necessary.
“Let me get you a drink, Sir Giles,” said John Pengelly, with an unmistakable West Country burr. “The local bitter’s not half bad, or you might prefer a whisky.”
“A half of bitter will be just fine,” said Giles, taking a seat at the small, beer-stained table.
While Karin’s father was ordering the drinks, Giles took a closer look at him. He must have been around fifty, perhaps fifty-five, although his hair had already turned gray. His Harris Tweed jacket was well worn, but still fitted perfectly, suggesting he hadn’t put on more than a few pounds since his army days, and probably exercised regularly. Although he appeared reserved, even diffident, he clearly wasn’t a stranger to these parts, because one of the locals seated at the bar hailed him as if he were a long-lost brother. How cruel that he had to live alone, thought Giles, with his wife and daughter unable to join him, for no other reason than that they were on the wrong side of a wall.
Pengelly returned a few moments later carrying two half-pints, one of which he placed on the table in front of Giles. “It was kind of you to make such a long journey, sir. I only hope you’ll feel it’s been worthwhile.”
“Please call me Giles, as I hope we’ll not only be friends, but that we’ll be able to help each other’s causes.”
“When you’re an old soldier—”
“Not so old,” said Giles, taking a sip of his beer. “Don’t forget we both served in the last war,” he added, trying to put him at ease. “But tell me, how did you first meet your wife?”
“It was after the war when I was stationed with the British forces in Berlin. I was a corporal in the supply depot where Greta was a stacker. The only work she could get. It must have been love at first sight, because she couldn’t speak a word of English, and I couldn’t speak any German.” Giles smiled. “Bright though. She picked up my language much quicker than I got the hang of hers. Of course, I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to be plain sailing. Not least because my mates thought any Kraut skirt was only good for one thing, but Greta wasn’t like that. By the time my tour of duty came to an end, I knew I wanted to marry her, whatever the consequences. That’s when my problems began. A leg over behind the Naafi canteen is one thing, but wanting to marry one of them was considered nothing less than fraternization, when neither side would trust you.
“When I told the orderly officer that I intended to marry Greta, even if it meant I had to stay in Berlin, they put every possible obstacle in my path. Within days I was handed my demob papers and told I would be shipped out within a week. I became desperate, even considered deserting, which would have meant years in the glasshouse if they’d caught me. And then a barrack room lawyer informed me they couldn’t stop me marrying Greta if she was pregnant. So that’s what I told them.”
“Then what happened?” asked Giles.