My Name is Eva(29)

For a minute or two, Evelyn hesitated. She really wanted to stay for the second half and hear the lovely Albéniz pieces with their Andalusian rhythms, but what if he didn’t come to another concert? This might be her only opportunity. So she promptly left the hall, coat over her arm, and followed him. As he neared the steps down to the entrance, before he could disappear into the street, Evelyn let the Peter Jones bag fall. Folded packages of velvet and chintz slapped the stairs and reels of cotton bounced. He turned at the noise and, as she had guessed, was far too much of an old-school gentleman not to stop and help her.

As he bent to gather up her shopping, she said, ‘Excuse me, but I rather think we’ve met before, a long time back.’

He stared at her and she knew that she had changed much more than him. Then she had been in her twenties, in uniform, blonde hair, and now, though she was still elegant and trim and her blue eyes still sparkled, her hair was grey. But her voice, her clear, enunciated voice, was recognisable and he seemed to register that.

‘Have we? I’m not sure I can recall.’

‘Bad Nenndorf?’ Evelyn smiled. He would surely be familiar with her engaging smile, but she hoped he didn’t remember the circumstances of her departure. ‘I know it was an awfully long time ago, but I remember it very clearly. You were the officer in charge and I was there to record the interviews.’

He did that strange jerking gesture with his chin and coughed. ‘Ah, right, Miss…’

‘Mrs. Mrs Taylor-Clarke – Evelyn.’ She held out her hand, forcing him to accept.

‘Of course. I think I remember.’

‘I was just about to go for some coffee. Would you like to join me? I’d so like to know if you have any news of our colleagues from that time.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, perhaps just a quick one.’

The restaurant in the vaulted crypt was nearly empty as concertgoers returned to the music. Evelyn headed for a quiet corner table and as she sat down, she said, ‘I always wondered how long the centre continued. I left in the winter of ’45.’

His left eyebrow lifted as he said, ‘We’d barely started then. The workload was simply enormous.’

Evelyn shook her head in agreement. ‘I know. Those times were utterly chaotic. People just don’t realise how important the work was. One war was over, but we were desperately trying to make sure there wasn’t another one.’

‘Exactly. We had to make sure the war stayed won.’

‘So were you there very much longer?’

‘The centre was dismantled in the summer of ’47. There was a bit of a kerfuffle afterwards, but those in the know recognised that security work isn’t always clean and easy and it has to continue.’ He smiled a tight, cold smile, his teeth hardly visible.

‘And after that, did you come back to London?’

‘For a bit. I’m multilingual, so I went wherever I was needed.’

Evelyn smiled as well, but her smile was real and warm. ‘It was languages that got me out there too. Well, not multiple languages, just German mostly.’

Stephen’s chin rose again. ‘I’ve got Urdu and Arabic as well as the European languages.’

‘So you’ve been a valuable asset then.’

‘You could say that.’ At last his face creased into what would normally be called a faint smile. He drained the last of his coffee, then rose. ‘Well, Mrs Taylor-Clarke, it has been a pleasure. I don’t often meet former colleagues now I’m retired.’

She shook his hand and as it extended, she noticed that the edge of his shirt cuff was frayed. A small but sure sign of impoverishment, despite his tailored suit and the crisp pressed handkerchief displayed in his breast pocket.

‘Me neither,’ she said. ‘But perhaps I’ll see you here again soon. Maybe we could have lunch first next time?’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ he said, patting his coat pocket and then fumbling inside his jacket to produce a card. ‘You can get me on this number. I’m planning to come back for the Bach on the seventeenth.’

‘I’ll make a point of being here,’ Evelyn said.

And he turned on his heel with a military air and almost saluted as he left.

She waited for a couple of minutes, slipping into her raincoat to change her appearance, then followed. Another hour of music would have been lovely, but this was more important. He walked briskly, but she kept up, halting at corners, hovering at pedestrian crossings, watching his reflection in windows, taking refuge in crowds. She’d always been good at tailing her mark. Top of the class during her training.

He clearly didn’t suspect he was being followed. Not once did he dodge into a shop, slip into the Underground and out again, browse in a bookshop, look back over his shoulder or do anything to suggest he knew she was following him. Finally he came to a mansion block overlooking a garden square and disappeared into the main entrance. Evelyn checked the card he had given her. It tallied. This was indeed his home address. Reassured, she allowed herself the luxury of hailing a taxi to Waterloo, knowing that if she was never able to tempt him away from London, she at least now knew where he lived.





29





Evelyn, 21 March 1985





Slowly, Slowly, Catchee