Page 77 of These Old Lies
Miss Forbes’ knock at Ned’s office door later that day was perfunctory, and she already had it open before Ned looked up from the reports he’d been attempting to read. “A Mr George Roland to see you.”
“Come in, come in!” Ned got up from his desk and beckoned to the stuffed chairs by his fireplace. In the decades since George had helped recruit Ned to government, he had advanced in his own career, perhaps not as senior as Ned, but he had his fingers in every pie at the Treasury. While Ned’s office at the Cabinet Office was only a few hundred yards down the street from George’s in the Treasury, it had still been a good number of months since their paths had crossed.
As he clasped the other man’s clammy hand, Ned could tell this was not a social visit. George was sweating buckets, and his normally soft face was furrowed with lines. Checking that the door was closed, Ned leaned in closer. “What’s the matter? Shall I have Miss Forbes scrounge up some tea?”
“Do you have anything stronger?” George was white as a sheet, his voice barely above a whisper.
Without hesitating, Ned went to the bottom drawer of his desk, the same drawer where he had dropped Charlie’s file a few hours earlier, and extracted the other secret in his office: a bottle of whiskey, a birthday present from his father.
He poured a glass and passed it to George. “Have some of that and tell me what is going on.”
George took a long sip before he spoke. “Hugh was arrested for homosexual acts at the Victoria Arches public toilets three nights ago.”
“Oh Jesus.” Ned fought the urge to down his whiskey in a single go. “The Met is pressing charges?”
“He was on his knees with another man’s cock down his throat. Hard to say it was all a terrible misunderstanding.”
“So stupid!” Ned began pacing the room. “How many times did you tell Hugh to be careful? Did I tell him? Why on earth was he cottaging?”
The last time he had seen Hugh was almost a year ago at one of Sophie’s parties. The man had been as bombastic and charming as ever.
George answered Ned sharply, “You know what I thought when Freddy rang me? But for the grace of God. But for the grace of God.”
Ned stiffened. “Don’t tell me you’re familiar with the Victoria Arches’ toilets?”
“Not all of us can still turn the heads of young men in the pubs, Edmund. Some of us are old and fat and on a civil servant’s salary.” Ned wasn’t quite sure how to take that. George reached for the bottle of whiskey. “That wasn’t what I meant. What I meant was, luck is running out.”
“There is a way to go about things. You know it, I know it. People—”
“—don’t see what is right in front of them,” George finished. “Except maybe theyarepaying attention now. Or the rules have changed. It used to be simple—don’t wear make-up and don’t kiss men in public. Then you couldn’t wear your trousers too tight or laugh too high pitched. Now you can’t wear bright colours. I’ve no idea whether one should have short hair or not, but it feels like every year something that used to be safe is now a risk.”
Ned slouched into his chair, the defeat in George’s voice seeping into him. “They used to focus on the most defiant and leave the rest of us alone. Yet every year the noose seems to tighten.”
“Such disgust at deviants.” George stared into his whiskey. Ned hated that, even in the privacy of his own office, he didn’t dare take the hand of his dear friend to offer comfort.
“One would hope that the Met would have better things to do with their time. What with the war and the rationing and the Blitz.” Ned knew he was lashing out at paper tigers.
“The vice squad has such vigorous energy for stamping out indecency.”
“Not unless you cut the funding for it,” Ned countered.
That at least got a small smile from George. “I try every year.”
“Cheers to that.” Ned and George clinked their glasses in quiet defiance.
Ned had gotten a bit rounder in recent years, but he wasn’t fat. His slightly too large facial features had always radiated kindness and, despite the defeat in his voice now, they still did. Sitting across from each other like this made Ned vividly remember other, more pleasant cosy drinks. Drinks that had turned into a nightcap at home. Holidays along the Devon coast. A stone cottage to themselves. A casual suggestion that they share a flat. An equallycalm reply about not wanting to overly entangle their lives. George taking an early train back to London. Ned walking the coast by himself. With a look, their whole affair played out in each other’s eyes.
It had been a regrettable dalliance. Ned knew a lot of the blame rested on his shoulders for indulging George and then letting it carry on when it became clear neither of them enjoyed taking the lead in bed. That their friendship had survived was something that Ned was eternally grateful for.
Ned cleared his throat. “What do you think Hugh will get? A warning with a bit of public humiliation?”
“Freddy is worried about hard labour, but it’s hard to tell.” George’s factual reply hid the horror they both felt at such a public shaming, at the dangers and violations of prison. The idea of it made Ned feel physically nauseous.
“We will get the charges dropped.” Ned spoke more defiantly than he felt.
Ned sipped his whiskey and grimaced at the burn of it going down his throat. There was no way to predict the costs of saving Hugh. Would his name be tarred for sticking his neck out for a sexual deviant? Would his own private life be exposed to scrutiny and ridicule?
“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” Ned whispered.How sweet it is to die for my country.His mantra for his time in the trenches, but also after, during the difficult days, to remember that sacrifice for one’s country was a privilege.