‘You both present the same point of view about the need for peace,’ I said. ‘You pretend to debate the finer points. It creates the impression that peace with Germany’s a natural conclusion. You have the young chap go off the rails about the royals, which gives the crowd something to feel scandalised about. Meanwhile, you hope that one or two of them start to ask their friends about Poland, or about the Rothschilds.’
‘You think we’re being too obvious?’ he asked.
‘I’m the wrong person to ask about the finer points of propaganda,’ I said. ‘Plus, I don’t agree with you.’
‘What’syoursolution to the Jewish problem?’ Vaughn asked.
‘You’re doing it again,’ I said. You’re stating an opinion as a fact, inviting me to debate you on the finer points.’
‘You don’t think it’s a problem that the great families of Europe are in debt to people who don’t claim allegiance, or owe any duty, to any country?’
‘I don’t know anyone in high finance,’ I said. ‘The only banker I know’s George Crafts, who holds the loan on my land. Hard to imagine anyone getting particularly worked up over that arrangement.’
I had more to say about Vaughn’s theories, but I was interrupted by a roar overhead. A flight of Spitfires, returning from the continent. Seventeen planes, two formations of six, and one of five. One man lost.
‘All right,’ Vaughn said, as the roar of the Merlin engines receded. ‘What doyoubelieve in?’
Margaret put her hand on my arm.
‘I believe in England,’ I said. ‘This countryside. Those people who came out to the church hall to educate themselves, to better themselves. I believe it’s worth fighting for, and I believe I’ll die fighting for it, likely sooner rather than later.’
Vaughn leant towards me and refilled my wine glass.
‘Ibelieve,’ he said, ‘that we all need to get hammered.’
He raised his glass in a toast.
‘To the delectable Lady Margaret –’ he took a deep draught – ‘and her gentleman farmer, Mr Cook, who’s going to die fighting for us all, sooner rather than later.’
20
It was dark by the time we got rid of Vaughn, his car roaring off down the drive. He’d polished off most of the wine, and he drove recklessly. I gave him a fifty per cent chance of navigating the drive home without incident. I had my own feeling as to which side of that fifty per cent I’d prefer.
‘You didn’t mention you’d had a fling with him,’ I said, as I picked up the glasses.
‘I didn’t, because I didn’t,’ Margaret said, with a certain amount of amusement evident in her voice. ‘He’s too old for me now, and he was certainly too old for me when I was in India. Plus, he’s a bore. He was a bore then, and now he’s a double-bore.’
‘So that was all a story?’
‘It’s Vaughn being Vaughn,’ she said. ‘He’ll say anything to get a reaction. You’ve listened to him talk for the last few hours.’
‘Unfortunately.’
The house was big, and dark, and empty. It smelt of old stone, like a church, damp even in the middle of the longest, hottest summer on record. I took the stairs two at a time, forcing Margaret to hurry to keep up, a childish way of punishing her.
‘Cook!’ she called out, as I reached the bedroom door.
I stopped. She was twenty yards behind me, still only halfway along the corridor.
I let her catch up. Told myself I was being ridiculous. She passed me as I held the door open. I followed her into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. We were alone in the house, no soul within a mile radius, but closing the door changed things. A private space.
She took out her earrings and put them on top of the chest of drawers. She had an old saucer she kept her things in.
‘Do you want to argue about Vaughn, or do you want to make love?’
She took her necklace off.
‘I can see the merits of both,’ I said.
