Part 23 (2/2)

Lennie was pleased with the compliment. ”I'll tell the morris dancers,” he said. ”I used to dance a bit with them in my younger days. Maybe they need a Green Man.”

Berthea thought it highly likely that they did. Even as she expressed her agreement, she was mulling over in her mind the possibility of a paper for the International Journal of Psychoa.n.a.lysis. It would be an exploration of our need for Pan-like figures a need that seemed to survive our loss of Arcadia and an explanation of the role such figures play. The Green Man, she thought, was a reminder of our suppressed knowledge that ultimately we all relied on the growth of plants; no matter how a.s.siduously we covered our world with concrete, we knew at heart that without gra.s.s and leaves we would simply not survive. The Green Man, then, was a figure of rea.s.surance: we might have made his life difficult by destroying his habitat but he was still there, lurking in the inmost recesses of our consciousness.

She looked at Lennie Marchbanks. Here was a man whose life was one of machinery, and yet he had reverted so quickly and easily to a man of the woods and hedgerows. The entire Age of Machines had been rendered as naught by the simple application of dabs of glue and a few laurel leaves.

Berthea brought herself back to the business in hand. ”Right,” she said. ”Now, if you wouldn't mind, you go and hang about in the rhododendron bushes, and I shall bring Terence out for a walk.”

”Will do,” mumbled Lennie. ”Do we need to synchronise our watches?”

Berthea laughed. ”I don't think that'll be necessary, Mr Marchbanks. But please remember one thing: I won't see you. So don't look at me, and I won't look at you. Just look at Terence.”

Lennie Marchbanks nodded, causing a leaf to fall off the end of his nose. Berthea retrieved it from the ground and stuck it back on. ”Premature autumn,” she remarked. ”A well-known hazard for green men.”

They made their way back to the garden. While Lennie Marchbanks burrowed into the thick foliage of the rhododendrons, Berthea returned to the house, where she found Terence still meditating in the conservatory.

”Terence,” she said. ”It's lovely outside. I think we should have a little walk together.”

”Perhaps later, Berthy,” said Terence. ”I've just reached a jolly high level of inner calm.”

”An ideal state in which to commune with nature,” she said briskly, taking his arm in encouragement.

They went outside. ”Let's look at those beds first,” said Berthea. ”What lovely pinks. And freesias, too. I've always loved freesias. Such a delicate smell, and such beautiful colours too. And look at those lilies over there, Terence.”

”Lilies are so contented,” said Terence. ”They neither spin, nor do they toil, yet Solomon in all his glory ...”

”Indeed,” said Berthea. ”Mind you, I've always imagined that Solomon wore rather dull clothes. I'm not surprised the lilies eclipsed him. But enough of flowers, let's go down there, Terence. Over by the rhodies.”

Berthea glanced at the large ma.s.s of greenery that was the cl.u.s.ter of rhododendrons. She thought she detected a movement, but was not sure.

”Berthy,” Terence said suddenly. ”I think I can see something in the rhodies.”

”Really? I can't.”

They moved closer. At that moment Lennie Marchbanks's leaf-covered face emerged from within the green embrace of the bushes.

”Beware!” he called.

Terence grabbed his sister's arm. ”Berthy! Look! Look! The Green Man!”

”Oh don't be so ridiculous, Terence. There's nothing there.”

”Beware!” Lennie Marchbanks called again. ”Beware of a person within your house, O mortal!”

Berthea was impressed with Lennie's acting, but could not show it of course.

”Why are you shaking like that, Terence?” she asked. ”Are you cold?”

There was a further movement in the bushes and Lennie Marchbanks disappeared.

”Let's go back to the house, Terence,” said Berthea, leading her brother away. ”You've obviously been meditating far too hard and it's gone to your head. A cup of tea will bring you back, no doubt. It always does.”

Chapter 72: A Meeting with MI6.

There are few harsh words that have greater effect than those spoken by child to parent. A home truth delivered by our offspring is for most of us far less easily ignored than one emanating from a colleague or a friend. Et tu, Brute is bad enough; et tu, fili tends to be uttered with real reproach.

William had been shocked by the upbraiding that he had received from his son, Eddie. Part of this reaction was attributable to astonishment on his part that Eddie, who had shown f.e.c.klessness since early childhood, should believe himself to be in a position to criticise anybody, let alone his father. If there is high moral ground usually claimed by politicians then there must also be a middle moral ground normally claimed by most of the rest of us and, of course, a low moral ground. This low terrain, susceptible to moral flooding, was that occupied by Eddie and his friends, and it was ground from which one might not expect much moral advice to be issued. But Eddie had given such advice in clear and unequivocal terms: William should never have let Freddie de la Hay be used by MI6; to do so was to ignore the moral obligation that people owed to their animal charges, and in this case it made William unfit to own a dog.

The shock had spurred William into action. He had demanded a meeting with Tilly Curtain, at which she had told him that Freddie de la Hay was still alive and, most importantly, that her colleague Sebastian Duck knew where he was. Now, back in Corduroy Mansions, William dialled Sebastian Duck's number, determined to confront him over Freddie's whereabouts.

”Mr Duck?”

”Yes, Duck here. And that's you, Mr French?”

Once again, William could not help experiencing a moment's surprise at being recognised but then if MI6 did not know who was phoning them, who would?

William came straight to the point. He wanted to see Sebastian Duck, and he wanted to see him immediately.

”By immediately, do you mean-”

”Immediately.”

Sebastian Duck was surprisingly obliging, and they arranged to meet in a coffee bar on Brook Street. When William arrived, the other man was already there and beckoned him over.

”I know you like latte,” Sebastian Duck said. ”I've taken the liberty of ordering for you.”

William frowned. How did he know that he liked latte?

Sebastian Duck seemed to have antic.i.p.ated the question. ”You'll remember that we told you we'd been watching you,” he said quietly. ”In a friendly way, of course.”

William felt his irritation grow. How dare these people spy on others. And then he thought, well, they are spies ... But that did not excuse it in his case.

”I want my dog back,” he said bluntly. ”I agreed to lend him to you, not to give him. So, if you don't mind, I'd like him back right now.”

Sebastian Duck stared into his coffee cup. ”Would that the world was as we wanted it to be, Mr French. But it isn't, is it?”

William glared at him. ”That's a somewhat opaque thing to say. And I don't see what it's got to do with my dog.”

Sebastian Duck looked up. ”Oh really? It has everything to do with your dog, I'm afraid, Mr French. You would like your dog back, and I'm telling you that there are some requests that are frankly impossible to meet. Your dog, I'm very sorry to say, is lost.”

William tried to remain calm. ”Lost in what sense?”

<script>