In the end, I choose Tring, and Diana Jewell. I'm desperate to get away from the house, with its complement of staff buzzing around my mother like worker bees around a queen, and from London, with its seething hordes of gape-jawed tourists and grimy, muggy July heat. Unable to take refuge in work, and with everything that has happened in the last few weeks pressing in on me until I can barely draw breath, I am only too glad to leave the city behind, and motor towards the Dorset coast. Aunt Emily sees me off, assuring me that she will keep an eye on Mother, who doesn't appear to have registered that I'm going away; indeed, she has hardly left her bedroom, except to be driven by Gerald to yet another specialist's appointment. Cardiologists, physicians, psychologists, naturopaths and massage therapists… I've lost track of them all, lately. I know I should pay closer attention, but I just can't seem to focus…
"Go, love, and get yourself sorted. We'll manage well enough here without you, won't we, Milly?" Aunt Emily had begun, when I had broached the subject two nights ago. My mother had looked up from the Radio Times, and nodded vaguely. "Mmm? Oh, yes, I'm used to him leaving me here all by myself… ooh, look, the new series of Antiques Roadshow is starting this week. I do like that Michael Aspel." As my mother's attention had returned to the magazine, Aunt Emily had rolled her eyes – it's hopeless – and added acerbically, "Well, you won't be alone this time, will you? There's a whole houseful of people to dance attendance on you now." Sarcasm, though, was wasted on my mother, who had only nodded and agreed. "Yes, I certainly feel better having Gerald about; and the doctors say it helps to manage my anxiety, you know." I had sighed, "I'm very glad to hear it, Mother," before silently leaving the room.
To escape my mother's seeming indifference, I had gone straight out into the hall, rung Diana Jewell, and booked myself into Tring. Then I had gone upstairs to pack, for once leaving suits and ties behind, and choosing instead lightweight cotton chinos and half-sleeved Viyella shirts in summer checks. Nights can still be cool near the coast, even at the height of summer, I had reminded myself, taking my purple cashmere pullover out of the chest of drawers, and stopping dead. It still smells faintly of Ruth, the scent of a garden after rain clinging to the soft fibres, and it takes me back to the night of my birthday, when Ruth had first taken me to the heights of physical sensation, and then shattered all my hopes with her reaction to finding the engagement ring I had intended to give her. I had buried my face in the garment, breathing her in one last time, and then thrown the pullover into the laundry hamper to be dry-cleaned until every last trace of her is gone, before choosing a dark blue Aran jersey to pack instead.
The traffic is light, considering the time of year, and I make good time down to Dorset, before taking a B road that wends its way through the countryside to bring me to the gates of Tring just before noon. I can't quite believe that I am back here so soon, and yet I find that I am looking forward to speaking with Diana. She's so calm, so sensible, so eminently rational in everything she says and does… no wonder she's in charge of the spook shrink tank. The Rover's tyres crunch over the gravel carriage sweep, and I spot Diana standing on the front step, talking to one of the inmates. Guests, I correct myself, we're all guests here, although there are some who would stretch the definition. "Malcolm, it's lovely to see you!" she greets me warmly as I step out of the car with a small leather overnight bag. It holds a few changes of clothing, pyjamas, my inhaler, and a wash kit; that's all, for Diana has warned me not to bring any gadgets, books, or other distractions. I hope it will be enough; I don't want to be here any longer than I have to be, for I am keenly aware that there are no technical officers in Section D at present. Jo had sent me a text the day after Colin's memorial service to ask when I might be back, as the secondment from Section C was not working out as well as could be hoped. I had stared at the screen a long time, before deleting her message and flipping the phone shut. I hadn't known what to tell her, for the truth is, I don't know. I don't know if I will ever go back. I just… don't know.
I find it a positive relief to switch off my mobile phone and hand it to Diana, which I do when asked. "Any newspapers, magazines, or other reading material in there?" she asks, looking at my bag, and I shake my head. "Not so much as a bookmark," I assure her, and she leads the way into the long hall, and up the stairs to the residential floor. "We've given you one of the nicest rooms, I think," she tells me cheerfully, opening the door to a room at the far end of the hall. Cautiously, I step inside, and set my bag down. The floor is polished wood, covered with a rug in muted tones; there is a single bedstead with a blue duvet neatly folded at its foot. The furniture is light oak, and it looks like a perfectly nice, if unremarkable room in a posh B & B, the sort that use the word "boutique" in the brochure. Strolling towards the end of the room, I take in the view from the window, which looks towards the old weeping willow, leaning over the pond. "This will do very nicely, thank you," I assure Diana, as she opens a door I hadn't noticed. "There's an ensuite, too." I peer at the gleaming fixtures, and nod my approval. "Would I be able to get something to eat, a sandwich or a few biscuits?" I ask apologetically as my stomach rumbles loudly at the thought of food, and for the first time in weeks, I experience real, sharp hunger pangs. Diana chuckles, "Oh, I think we can do a bit better than that," as we go back downstairs, and out into a large, sunlit conservatory with sturdy palms in planters, and large hanging pots of ferns. There are a number of unoccupied tables and chairs set about the space, and I turn to Diana, puzzled. "Lunch isn't for another half hour, but take a seat and I'll see what I can rustle up."
She disappears, and I walk around the conservatory, looking at the plants. Nothing out of the ordinary, I note, and think of my own poor plants, sadly neglected for months now. Some specimens have died, others grown leggy, others struggling to hang on by a single, yellowing leaf. None are flowering. Aunt Emily had clicked her tongue in disapproval when she had seen the state of things, for she loves green and growing things even more than I. "Well, this is a pretty state of affairs," she had begun, taking in the dead and the dying with dismay. "What on earth have you been doing, fy nai? This one needs repotting, and that one needs cutting back desperately, and this poor thing here's half dead, as well as very rare...what's happened?" I had shrugged, "None of this seems to matter very much now, and then for months, I was so taken up with other things, that I just didn't come in here." She had looked at me, one eyebrow raised, and sighed, "Where do you keep the garden tools? I'll do what I can, while I'm here. It'll be good for me to have something to work on." Something to nurture and coax and love and urge back to life and health, I had added silently, then reframed this thought. Something else…she is so good to me, and to Mother. I don't know what I'd do without her. I had left her tending to an expiring lady's slipper orchid, secateurs in one hand, speaking softly to it in Welsh, and stepped outside for a little weep at the thought of what I would do, and what would become of me, without her. I've been doing that a lot, lately. The tears just come, and there's nothing I can do to hold them back, once the dam is breached, for I lack both the strength and the will, mortifying though it is to admit it.
"Malcolm?" I hear Diana's concerned voice behind me, and I hastily dab at my damp eyes with my handkerchief, before turning around. "S…sorry, you must think me an absolute goose, blubbing over nothing." She shakes her head, "I don't think anything of the sort. I see this sort of thing a lot here; it's that sort of place. Now, if you're ready, I've wangled lunch out of the cook early, and that's no mean feat." I see that she's brought a tray with two steaming bowls of soup, a basket of crusty bread, a couple of apples, and a wedge of cheese; my stomach growls at the enticing aroma of food. "That's very kind," I say, and mean it, before joining her at the table. Diana smiles back at me, "There's something very comforting about soup, I always think." For the first time since Colin's death, I taste everything I put in my mouth. The rich, savoury flavour of chicken and leek soup; the tangy denseness of fresh sourdough; the tart sweetness of an early apple, eaten in alternate bites with a chunk of sharp, well-matured Cheddar. It all tastes so overwhelmingly good, I could cry into my soup; but Diana is watching me, those clear grey eyes noting everything, and so I force myself to make small talk instead, as the other residents slowly filter into the room and take their places for lunch. No one acknowledges me, but Diana assures me that this is normal. "I've got a couple of sessions this afternoon, but I thought we could meet at about four o'clock for a chat," she suggests, coming back with two mugs of tea, "if that suits you, that is?" Even though she is phrasing it as an invitation, we both know why I'm here, and I nod in response. "I'll see you then," I reply, as she drains her mug to the dregs and stands up. "No rest for the wicked," she observes wryly, and then she is gone. I return the empty tray to the servery area, and go upstairs to my room for a nap, unaccountably exhausted; the drive down has evidently worn me out.
I must sink into a sound sleep, for the next thing I know, there is a light, but persistent, knocking on the door, and Diana's voice is calling my name. "Malcolm? You were due to meet me half an hour ago," she says, and I bolt upright. Hastily putting my shoes back on, I open the door. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep like that. I don't know what's wrong with me, sleeping during the day." Her eyes meet mine steadily, but she says nothing, other than to ask if I'd prefer the session to take place indoors, or out. "I thought perhaps by the willow pond, if you'd like? It's a lovely afternoon." I agree, and nothing further is said until we are seated on the low wall next to the pond, watching the koi glide lazily through the water. "So, how are you, Malcolm?" Diana says, and then waits. "I hardly know what to tell you," I reply in a low voice, my eyes on one particularly portly fish; it reminds me of Harry, with its amber eyes and arrogant air of self-assurance. The other koi slide away from its approach, all except for one, smaller fish that darts behind it, mouth working, eyes bulging towards the object of its desires...
Irritably, I toe a pebble into the water, and watch the fish scatter like my thoughts. "My best friend's been murdered, many others also suffered, the country went to the brink of a coup d'etat, and my life will never be the same again; what more is there to say?" Diana waits, and after a moment I add, "I don't know if I want to go back, not just to Section D, but to the Service." She says, "Last time we spoke, I told you that there were a lot of people who needed you, more than you would ever know; but now, I'm going to ask you to think about what you need. You're an anomaly, really, because unlike most of the people employed by Her Majesty's government, you have no need of money. You could do, or not do, anything you like. Given the circumstances, why do you think you've stayed at Five for so long, Malcolm?" Stupidity, I think, cowardice, loneliness, fear of change…or of not being needed; take your pick. Aloud, I say, "Because…because I thought I was doing something useful, I suppose. Something worthwhile. And now, it all seems so pointless. What difference does it make if I'm there, or not? Colin was my responsibility, but I wasn't able to stop his death. We tell ourselves that we're the front line of national security, that without us, civilisation as we know it would end, but the truth is that everything would still go on, in one form or another, if I was there or not. So what's the point? And I'm so very tired. I think I'd like to sleep for a thousand years, like Endymion…"
Blushing at the recollection of Endymion's fate, and praying that Diana is not a classicist, I fall silent; I have said far more than I should. A small silence settles over us, and after a time, Diana speaks. "I think you've stayed because you're an honourable man, one who knows his duty and does it to the very best of his ability. But, Malcolm, even the most honourable of men isn't perfect. We're none of us saints; and then, you're grieving. For the loss of Colin, and for the loss of the life you thought you were going to have, with Ruth. Am I somewhere near the mark with any of this?" I look at her, and she smiles, "I do happen to be rather good at what I do, too." I don't know what to say; she's right about everything, of course, which is a very unsettling thought. "I miss Colin so much," I begin, not wanting to talk about my other loss, and Diana says encouragingly, "Tell me about him," and I do, as the shadows lengthen across the lawn and the koi slip slowly through the water at our feet.
I talk to Diana often, over the next few days; about Colin, and my guilt over his death, and everything that had followed; and then, more reluctantly, about Ruth, and how I had seen no other choice except to end it, and her subsequent behaviour, which has led me to believe nothing about us had been real. I sleep a lot too, which Diana assures me is normal for someone who is dealing with grief. It feels as if I'm cocooned from the world, here in Tring, where there are no newspapers or television, no phones, no interwebs, no intelligence to deal with, or crises to react to, and I begin to understand why the long-term 'guests' generally have such soporific looks on their faces; it's not just to do with their heavy medication schedules, but with being released from all responsibility. It's lovely, but it's not real, or at least that's what I keep reminding myself. On the fourth morning, Diana brings up the subject I have been dreading, and the world outside the walls returns. "We've talked about Colin, and Ruth, and your relationship with your colleagues in Section D, but you haven't spoken about Harry Pearce, with whom you've worked longest. I find that an interesting omission."
She sits back, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the window of the clinical suite we are meeting in, while I wonder wildly where this line of questioning is leading. "Erm, well, Harry. What can I say. He's the best at what he does, and he's been doing it for a long time. We're fortunate to have his leadership." Diana makes a note on her clipboard, and looks up, waiting for me to continue. When I remain silent, she prompts, "How would you characterise your relationship with him?" I shuffle my feet uncomfortably. "Professional. I'm his senior technical officer, he's my section chief. We respect each other." Diana frowns, "So, when you called him a pompous old fool on the night of Colin's death…" I wonder where she's gotten that from, for I certainly haven't mentioned it. Ruth, I decide, telling tales out of school in defence of her idol. "I was under considerable emotional strain at the time, and I've never spoken to anyone like that in my life before or since," I defend myself, and Diana assures me, "You certainly have an unblemished conduct record, and all your annual performance assessments are exemplary. And yet, an outburst like that suggests you have some deeply held feelings towards Harry, wouldn't you say?" No, I decide, I am not going to be drawn on this. I don't know where she's going with this, or why, or who's behind it…
"Malcolm, I'm here to help you, as I hope you would know by now." I fold my arms tighter across my chest, and she continues, "Here's how I see it. You had a good working relationship with Harry, perhaps even admired him, until Miss Evershed arrived and a romantic triangle developed. When your relationship with Ruth foundered, it also undermined your relationship with Harry, as you felt that you couldn't trust either of them. Now you're faced with a decision: to walk away from it all, or to find a way forward. So, what does an honourable man do?" I glance at the wrist-watch my father had given me, all those years ago, and she sighs. "Saved by the bell; but I'll be here when you're ready to talk." Diana gathers her things together, and I rise as she leaves the room, ashamed of my silent refusal to discuss my feelings towards Harry, but my mind is already turning inwards. Something about the way the sunlight had caught my watch-face is tugging at the edges of my memory, dragging me back into the past…
A room flooded with morning light, and a tiny, frail figure lying in a high hospital bed, almost unrecognisable…the bright light glinting off the crystal face of my watch, as shiny as the day I received it, six years earlier.
My voice, younger, trembling with emotion as I beg my father, "What should I do? I'm so unhappy at the Home Office, and now there's this offer to join Simon's new company…Father, I think I could do something really useful if I take this chance, but I'm afraid," and my father's eyes slowly opening, crinkling at the corners as he focuses on me and smiles through a haze of powerful painkillers.
"But as God hath distributed to every man, as the Lord hath called every one, so let him walk," he says, each word spoken on a breath, and I stare at him, confused. He's so small now, so wasted…the cancer that is consuming him from the inside out is visible beneath his yellowish skin, claiming him as its own. "I… I don't understand," I whisper, and with a great effort, he raises one translucent hand, beckoning me closer.
My fingers close around his, and I lean over the bed railing to hear him better. "You must walk the path God has set out for you, son; and if it is leading you in this new direction, then you must follow it. Only you can know what the right choice is; He tells each of us only our own story." My father's eyes flutter closed, for even these few words have exhausted him, and tenderly, I replace his hand next to his side, and tiptoe from the room to make a telephone call…
Tremulous at the thought of giving up the security of a Civil Service job, but determined to break away from a lifetime of making only safe decisions, I had joined a tiny media start-up founded by my father's godson, Simon Muir, better known to the world at large as the CEO of Wizzfizz Media, and one of the first dotcom boom millionaires in Britain. It had, quite literally, been the making of me, and now I recall why I had decided to join Five in the first place: to give something back to society, after I had been made so unexpectedly, and thoroughly, wealthy, when the company had floated on the stock exchange in the early 1990s. The question is, do I still feel the same way? Lost in thought, I leave the clinical suite, and wander into the garden, seeking the calm of cool, green spaces.
And there she is, standing awkwardly on the gravel carriage sweep before the front door; my heart lurches at the sight of her familiar figure, before breaking into a ragged, racing rhythm, and my breathing grows laboured. Why is she here, and what does she want? Acting on instinct, I duck into the dark shadow of a large fir tree, and watch as she looks uncertainly at the imposing bulk of the house, before squaring her shoulders, setting her jaw in the way I know so well, and striding up the steps, no doubt in search of me. Unbidden, a fragment of Bible verse circles my aching brain, as I stand under the fir and wonder what to do. Tring, it seems, is no longer a cocoon insulating me from the world, but a crucible in which my mettle is about to be tested.
And if any man think that he knoweth any thing, he knoweth nothing yet as he ought to know.
A/N: Malcolm's father quotes 1 Corinthians 7:17, and Malcolm is thinking of 1 Corinthians 8:2 as he stands under the fir tree.