A Sentimental Traitor by Dobbs Michael

Author:Dobbs, Michael [Dobbs, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780857203694
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
Published: 2012-02-16T00:00:00+00:00

‘A beautiful day, my love.’

‘Isn’t it just, Felix? Simply perfect.’

They were walking along the South Bank in the shadow of the London Eye whose great wheel was moving magisterially through a freshly washed blue sky. It was the Easter holiday, the weather warm, the spring sun generous. Couples and young families were spreading across the grass, turning their backs on winter.

‘It’s good to have you home for a while, Patricia.’

‘Just for a few days.’ Before she returned to her other home.

‘You’ve been so busy these past months.’

‘Let’s just say, Felix, that the time has been profitably invested.’

‘Mr Jones?’

‘Is no longer a problem.’

‘He’s not yet been charged.’

‘But disgraced. That’s enough.’

They walked on in silence beneath Westminster Bridge, sharing their thoughts, until they were opposite the Houses of Parliament. There was little sign of life. The Palace was closed, except for tourists, the river terraces empty but for the striped canvas awnings that were used as hospitality marquees.

‘Hideous,’ Felix muttered. ‘Look at it, an extraordinary Victorian Gothic palace, a most wondrous gingerbread confection that was once the envy of the world, and now look at it. Despoiled with those hideous tents.’

She looked at where his finger was pointing. The tents – pavilions, as they were pretentiously described – seemed hideously out of place, and shabby. ‘They have no idea how ridiculous they look from the outside,’ she said.

‘The tents?’

‘The entire place.’

‘You know, if this were France, or Berlin or Rome or Madrid, those awnings would have been ripped out and replaced with something significant, something truly cultural. But instead they make it look like a village fête.’

‘Don’t upset yourself, Felix. It simply doesn’t matter any more. Best leave the place as it is. A tourist attraction.’

They watched as a boat filled with tourists leaning on rails, their cameras clicking, turned at the end of its run up from Greenwich, negotiating the current, churning up the heavy silt waters.

‘By the way,’ he mentioned as an afterthought, ‘I put you down for a postal vote. Wasn’t quite sure where you’d be.’

‘Thank you, but . . .’

‘Did I do wrong?’

‘No, it’s simply that I don’t think I’ll bother to vote. What’s the point? It doesn’t make much difference who parks their car in Downing Street. We’ve gone beyond that. The rules aren’t made here in Westminster any more.’

‘You intrigue me,’ he said, turning to face her, staring inquisitively, ‘if it doesn’t make any difference, then why . . .’

‘Why have I been so unkind to poor Mr Usher?’ She threw her head back, the sun catching the highlights in her hair and sparkling from her eyes. Then she started laughing, as if he couldn’t have invented a more preposterous question. The sound was so intense it almost seemed masculine, and continued for many moments, almost uncontrollably. Then she looped her arm through his and began walking him on. ‘For fun, Felix. I do it for fun.’

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