So he’s been at it again, has he? That drunken buffoon. Did Churchill mention that it’s the American arms companies lining his pockets? Who do you think pays for that huge mansion with so many servants licking his boots? Oh, my friends, I can’t tell you how much freer we are in the Republic of Great Britain. So the next time the fat old fool comes on to make fun of you, turn it off.

Alec Mathers, broadcast on RGB Station 1,
Wednesday, 26 November 1952

It was the sight of my dress on the bare bedroom floor and a shard of morning light through the window that told me where I was. Downstairs in the pub, a girl was sweeping up. I paid her for the room, brushed some of the mud off my shoes and opened the door. Somewhere across the fields and streams stood Mansford Hall. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there.

The railway station was bright in the morning sun, washed clean by the night’s rain. Its telephone box shone spick and span. I dropped a penny into the slot.

‘Mansford.’

‘May I speak to Mr Cutter?’

‘Whom may I say is calling?’

‘A guest from last night.’

‘Please wait, ma’am.’

There it was, that relic of the old way of things: ma’am. The woman’s voice on the other end of the telephone was old too. I wondered if she had even served Churchill when he had visited.

‘Hello.’ The sound was cheerful. Adam might have been half-cut last night but he was fresh today.

‘Hello, Adam.’

‘And who might that be?’ he called down the crackling and echoing line.

‘It’s Jane Cawson.’

A pause. ‘Hello,’ he repeated suspiciously.

‘You do remember last night?’

‘I do.’

‘Good. Did Nick know that Lorelei was getting married?’

‘What?’ he blurted out.

His surprise was too sharp and quick to be feigned. ‘She was getting a marriage exit visa.’

‘But she …’ He broke off.

‘But what?’ Silence. ‘What were you going to say?’

‘Just …’ He broke off again, as if the words were restricted.

‘Just what?’ He was beginning to annoy me, acting like a child caught in a lie. I hardened my voice. ‘Shall I show Comrade Fellowman the note you sent Lorelei about him? I don’t think he’ll like that you’ve been talking about him behind his back.’

‘Please.’

‘What do you think he’ll do? Make your house his?’ I changed my tone to sound more sympathetic. ‘Adam, Lorelei’s dead; there’s no need to keep her secrets now.’

There was hissing on the line. I waited. Then he spoke three words in that quiet vocal parody of the old carefree upper class. They beat in my head one by one.

‘She was pregnant.’