Live to Tell (26 page)

I stayed with Mum and Dad for several years. My family apart, I had no friends, and the people I met through temping jobs I worked at seemed embarrassed when they realised I was a widow. They didn’t know what to say to me, so I kept things professional, confining my conversation to work. I studied for more exams and, finally, became an auditor and joined the company that Dad worked for. Stephen Landour, the senior partner, approached me to join the firm. By then I was weary of constantly going to new companies and never feeling that I belonged. Also I was tired of fighting off the unwelcome advances I often encountered that seemed to be particularly reserved for temps—even ones wearing wedding rings.

Living at home saved me. My parents were in mourning, too, but tried to be cheerful, protecting me from further hurt. They and my aunt visited Danny’s grave regularly but I could not. In fact, I took detours to avoid going near his resting place. In an effort to repay my mother for having me around all the time and the disruption to her life, I tried to do the things that she enjoyed. Most weekends I drove her to visit stately homes and gardens and we often stopped for tea somewhere on the way back.

I really had a perfect life for a seventy-five-year-old. The trouble was I was only twenty-eight. That was when it hit me. My thirtieth year was approaching with the speed of an express train and with a shock I wondered where my life had gone. I was only twenty-one when Danny died. Were the next seven years going to be as empty and meaningless as the last? Also, it was not fair to my parents. Not only did they have to come to terms with the prospect of never having grandchildren, but unlike most of their friends, they rarely had any time alone together either. I was always there hanging around like some kind of pariah.

So a few weeks ago at the beginning of June, I moved alone into a small rented flat in North London. At the time it seemed the kindest thing to do. And there I was, living the life of a nun. I knew that behind my back my colleagues called me the ice maiden, but I didn’t really care.

Crossing back to the palace railings, I took one last look at the assembled tributes and wearily returned to Trafalgar Square, glad that I made the effort to go.

Back in my office I saw several post-it notes were stuck to my desk. There seemed to be some crisis breaking while I was away. Stephen put his head round the door.

“Ah, there you are. James has got the flu. He’s supposed to be in Dorchester tomorrow visiting a firm of lawyers representing a client who is going bankrupt. Do you think you could be a sweety and cover it?”

“Sure. Will I have time for a briefing?”

“Well, I’ve given Angela all the papers. When you’ve had a look through, come and see me and I’ll cover anything you’re not happy about. She can change the booking he had to one in your name. I think he usually stays in some local pub. Okay?”

I smiled back. Since joining the firm I usually volunteered to do the work my colleagues didn’t want. This wasn’t because I wished hardship on myself but simply because the jobs tended to involve over-night stays and, as I had no partner or social life, it was immaterial where I slept.

With a jolt it came to me. Dorchester: it must be near Blandford the place that so nearly became my home. I dialled my father’s extension to tell him where I was going.

“Look, you don’t have to cover this job, if you don’t want to. It’s not desperate. They can wait ’til James gets back.”

“No, it’s alright Dad, honestly. I just wanted you to know where I’d be if you needed to speak to me. Can you tell Mum I went to see Princess Diana’s flowers today? She should go there, too, if she can. I know she’d like to see them.”

“Will you ring me when you get back,” he said. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Okay. Love you,” I replied, glad that I had such a caring father.

“Have a good trip. And don’t be too hard on them, promise?”

Since the failed mission in Northern Ireland seven years earlier, Ben Jacob’s Army career progressed apace. The negative outcome in Armagh, when Cpl Danny Powell was killed while under his command, was not put down to Ben’s ineptitude as he expected. It was felt nothing could have prevented the rocket attack that downed the chopper, so no blame was apportioned. The civilian who died at the deserted farmhouse was “known” to the authorities. His death was categorised as the result of an act of self defence during armed conflict.

In the ensuing years Ben served in many theatres of war and was promoted three times. Despite this, he never truly got over or forgot his experience there. For the past ten months he was based in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina, formerly part of the Balkan state Yugoslavia, an area slowly recovering from the catastrophic effects of the 1992-95 war. That was Ben’s second military tour in the region as part of the NATO peace-keeping force engaged mainly in the interrogation of war criminals. Although the work was intense and exhausting, he was surprised to be summoned back to London.

Ben’s flight home from Sarajevo landed at London’s Gatwick airport at 1600hrs British Summer Time.

“Just in time for the rush hour,” he mumbled miserably as he unbuckled his seatbelt. Even though he only had hand luggage, he knew it would take the best part of an hour to clear the airport and at least another thirty minutes to reach central London. “Hey ho, back to the rat race.”

Apart from his uniform, which he was not allowed to wear when travelling, the only clothes he had with him were jeans and a sweatshirt. He stood up, stretched, and pulled his kitbag down from the overhead locker.

He hadn’t told his wife that he would be rejoining the marital home, even if only for a brief stopover, and was not sure how hostile the reception would be. The order to return to the UK had come so unexpectedly and was so urgent he had no time to think about much at all. Now he was faced with the reality of his return. A dull anxiety about the practicalities of the situation gnawed at him. I’d better phone Julia as soon as I can. Try to explain that although I won’t be hanging around, I’ve got to come home. I hope my clothes are still intact. I’ll need a suit if I’m to work at HQ, even if it’s only for a day or two. Wonder if they still fit? Oh, bugger.

“For the life of me, I can’t understand why a bloody traffic accident has caused this flap, even if it is the Princess of Wales,” he muttered to himself. “Just when I was making some headway with the prisoner. Oh, fuck it.”

Ben’s questioning of a Serbian war lord was peremptorily cut short. The man was thought to have played a part in the massacre at Srebrenica and Ben was sure a breakthrough was imminent. He felt angry at the unnecessary interruption. Surely that was far more important than investigating an accident in Paris even if Princess Diana was the one killed. Still, no point protesting. No one seemed to listen to the opinions of anyone in Sarajevo. Talk about the forgotten army.

If he were honest with himself, he’d half expected the letter when it came and, if he were honest, it was a relief. Irreconcilable differences, his wife claimed, as if quoting from some legal textbook. Well you could say that again. What a waste of time, he thought. Mind you, for anyone marrying me there should be a government health warning.
Keep
clear,
military
personnel,
do
not
approach
. What a waste. He tried to remember his wedding day two years earlier, but it was just a blur. Was I really drunk, he wondered, beneath the
chupah
? What an unmitigated mess.

The Arrivals Hall in the airport was full and Ben had to push his way through the crowds of people who were milling about, waiting for other passengers. For Christ’s sake—doesn’t anybody look where they’re going? Tanned and dirty, he noticed that he was attracting anxious stares and glowered back at them, just glad he hadn’t added to the army of pull-along bags that seemed to clutter every passage way.

The train journey to London took longer than he expected and when, clutching his kitbag, he finally strode into the room that he was told to report to, it was nearly six in the evening. An alarmed-looking, young captain with a shock of black hair rose from a desk littered with papers and confronted him.

“Er, welcome Sir. Er, good flight?” The man wore well pressed pin-stripe trousers, a blue striped shirt, red braces and a Brigade of Guards’ tie. The hand he held out was sweaty but he wiped it down the side of his trousers after contact. He looked at Ben as if there were an unpleasant smell in the air.

What a supercilious bastard, Ben thought. Hasn’t he seen jeans before? What’s wrong with everybody today? A few weeks where I’ve been would do them
all
a load of good and wipe that look off his face.

“The general’s expecting you, Sir. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

The man in the inner room was tall and hawk-like. A pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he eyed Ben over them. Slowly he looked the newcomer up and down and said, “I expect my officers to maintain a certain standard. However, I’ll make allowance for your appearance today, as I understand you’ve only just arrived in the country.”

Makes it sound as if I’ve just jetted in from Bongo-Bongo land. Does the sod expect me to salute and promise to try better next time? “I was told it was urgent, Sir. That’s why I didn’t go home to change. In Bosnia we wear uniform. It helps to maintain discipline.” Gotcha, he thought. You won’t be able to argue with that one. “I was conducting an interrogation on a suspected war criminal at ten hundred hours local time. I was summoned to report here and I came as quickly as flight times allowed.”

“Just so, just so. Sit down for Gawd’s sake. You’re making the place look untidy. Smoke?”

The windows to the office were wide open, but the smell of stale cigarettes still managed to permeate the air. Wonder how he gets to get away with that one, thought Ben. Probably just pulls rank.

“No, Sir, thank you. I don’t.”

“Right, well, the reason you’re here is because of the untimely death of Princess Diana. Understood?” He leaned back and glared.

“I understood it was a road traffic accident. That’s what the papers are saying.”

“Well, if that’s what the papers are saying, then it must be true, mustn’t it,” the general sneered.

Thirty minutes later Ben was still not sure what he was supposed to do in Paris. He’d been told he was to report to the military attaché at the British embassy and that his job was to look after Army interests. Make sure no mud stuck, whatever that meant.

“Just use your eyes and ears, man,” the general said, with an air of exasperation. “There are a damnable load of rumours circulating.”

“You do know that I don’t speak French, Sir?”

“Thought you were supposed to be a language expert. That’s what I was told.”

“German, Czech and Serbo-Croat. That’s all… Sir.”

“Oh, well, improvise.”

What? More bloody interpreters, Ben thought and felt annoyed.

“You need to protect our interests. Before the shit starts flying. Understood?”

By the time Ben picked up his travel documents and exited the building, it was nearer eight than seven and in the fresh air of the street he tried to ring his wife. The reply to his call was a pre-recorded message. Oh bugger, he thought wearily. I can’t just turn up and give her a shock. Perhaps I ought to go and see the flowers on the palace railings, assess the mood of the population at large before going home and shooting off to Paris.