A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

‘Be quiet. Security. We have received the printed Embassy passes from London and these will be distributed on Monday and shown at all times thereafter. Fire Drill. For your infor­mation there will be a practice muster at midday on Monday. Perhaps you should all make a point of being available, it sets an example for the Junior Staff. Welfare. Commonwealth Sports this afternoon in the rear gardens of the Embassy; eliminating races. Once again I suggest you all put in an appearance. With your wives of course,’ he added, as if that placed an even heavier burden on them. ‘Mickie, the Ghana­ian Chargé will need looking after. Keep him away from the Ambassadress.’

‘Can I just make a point here, Rawley?’ Crabbe writhed nervously; the cords of his neck were like chicken legs, stiff­eners in the declining flesh. ‘The Ambassadress is presenting the prizes at four, you see. Four. Could everyone sort of gravi­tate to the main marquee at quarter to? Sorry,’ he added. ‘Quarter to four, Rawley. Sorry.’ It was said that he had been one of Montgomery’s aides in the war and this was all that was left.

‘Noted. Jenny?’

Nothing that they would listen to, her shrug declared.

De Lisle addressed them all, using as his focal point that middle air which is the special territory of the British ruling class.

‘May I ask whether anyone is working on the Personalities Survey? Meadowes is pestering me for it and I swear I haven’t touched it for months.’

‘Who’s it marked out to?’

‘Well, me apparently.’

‘In that case,’ Bradfield said shortly, ‘presumably you drew it.’

‘I don’t think I did, that’s the point. I’m perfectly happy to take the rap, but I can’t imagine what I would have wanted with it.’

‘Well, has anyone got it?’

All Crabbe’s statements were confessions.

‘It’s marked out to me, too,’ he whispered, from his dark place by the door, ‘you see, Rawley.’

They waited.

‘Before Peter, I’m supposed to have had it, and put it back. According to Meadowes, Rawley.’

Still no one helped him.

‘Two weeks, Rawley. Only I never touched it. Sorry. Arthur Meadowes went for me like a maniac. No good, you see. Didn’t have it. Lot of dirt about German industrialists. Not my form. I told Meadowes: best thing is ask Leo. He does Personalities. They’re Leo’s pigeon.’

He grinned weakly along the line of his colleagues until he came to the window where the empty chair was. Suddenly they were all peering in the same direction, at the empty chair; not with alarm or revelation, but curiously, noticing an absence for the first time. It was a plain chair of varnished pine, different from the others and slightly pink in colour, hinting remotely at the boudoir; and it had a small, embroidered cushion on the seat.

‘Where is he?’ Bradfield asked shortly. He alone had not followed Crabbe’s gaze. ‘Where’s Harting?’

No one answered. No one looked at Bradfield. Jenny Parg­iter, scarlet in the face, stared at her mannish, practical hands which rested on her broad lap.

‘Stuck on that dreary ferry, I should think,’ said de Lisle, coming too quickly to the rescue. ‘God knows what the farmers are doing that side of the river.’

‘Someone find out, will they?’ Bradfield asked, in the most disinterested tone. ‘Ring his house or something, will you?’

It is a matter of record that no one who was present took this instruction as his own; and that they left the room in curious disarray, looking neither at Bradfield nor at one another, nor at Jenny Pargiter, whose confusion seemed beyond all bearing.

The last sack race was over. The strong wind, whipping over the waste land, dashed pebbles of rain against the flapping canvas. The wet rigging creaked painfully. Inside the marquee, the surviving children, mostly coloured, had rallied to the mast. The small flags of the Commonwealth, creased by stor­age and diminished by secession, swung unhappy in disarray. Beneath them, Mickie Crabbe, assisted by Cork the cypher clerk, was mustering the winners for the prize-giving.

‘M’butu, Alistair ” Cork whispered. ‘Where the hell’s he got to?’

Crabbe put the megaphone to his mouth:

‘Will Master Alistair M’butu please come forward. Alistair M’butu…Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘I can’t even tell them apart.’

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