Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow Read online

  ‘Garn,’ scoffed Mrs Harris. ‘You’ve got rats in your loaf. ’Oo ’ave I ever given any trouble to or done anything worse than maybe cheat on a bus fare when the collector forgot to come around and served ’im right for not bein’ on the job. ’Oo do you fink in Moscow would ever ’ave ’eard of Mrs ’Arris, char?’

  Six o’clock in London was eight o’clock Moscow time. It might not have been at the exact moment when Mrs Harris asked her rhetorical question that her name actually did come up in that far off city, but appear it did in a file lying upon the desk of the conscientious servant of the KGB, or Secret Police, Vaslav Vornov. To Vornov his organization took the place of the Orthodox Church which he served with unending zeal as evidenced by the fact that though it was well after working hours he was still at his desk with a pile of cuttings clipped from the various issues of the capitalist press in key cities before him. Comrade Vornov’s job in the vast system of Russian espionage and internal and external security was to ferret out the movements of the enemies of the Soviet Union, ticket them and label them and, should they cross the boundaries of Holy Mother Russia, see to it that steps were taken to render them harmless.

  The clipping near the bottom of the pile which now commended itself to his study was the same one from the British newspaper which several weeks ago Mrs Butterfield had called to the attention of Mrs Harris, the one that dealt with the change of post of the Marquis Hypolite de Chassagne, France’s Ambassador to the United States, to a senior adviser upon foreign affairs at the Quai d’Orsay.

  Comrade Vornov read through the item, then pushed a button and commanded a junior officer to produce the file on the Marquis who was too big a fish to be buried merely in the innards of a computer. There would be a thorough dossier upon him in the section listing Enemies of the Soviet Union.

  The file produced, he read through it carefully and from the very beginning to follow the history of the Marquis, birth, education, politics, friends and acquaintances, his rise to diplomatic eminence and a long list of his actions inimical to the welfare of the Soviet Union and its hierarchy.

  The dossier was as thorough a compendium of a hostile subject as could only be amassed by the far-flung tentacles of the KGB and contained a list of names of practically anyone and everyone with whom the Marquis had ever come into contact.

  Now that the Marquis was again to become a power in the direction of French foreign policy it was certain that his voice would be raised once more in potent resistance to the swallowing of the Soviet master plan of a phoney détente designed to lull the West into a false sense of security. He read through the names carefully. Many of them were familiar to the Comrade Inspector, others far down the list he had never heard of and their position indicated that they were not considered of major importance but, in casting his eyes over them, they fell upon that of one Ada Harris of 5, Willis Gardens, Battersea, London, sw 11. There were no details as to the who, what, why or wherefore of her connection with the Marquis and so the Inspector read on making a note of the more familiar associates who from that time on were to be more closely watched.

  ‘Whoever has heard of Ada ’Arris in Moscow?’ Mrs Harris had asked. Comrade Inspector Vaslav Vornov of the KGB had. And one reason that Vornov had attained his position in the organization was that he possessed a memory such as might be encompassed by a whole herd of elephants, but of this Ada was blissfully ignorant. Not that at this stage it would particularly have worried her. She was too busy planning her counter-attack to weaken the defences of Mrs Butterfield.

  Mrs Harris’s opening skirmish in her campaign was to stop in at the Intourist Office in Upper Regent Street. Here she picked up a dozen or more highly coloured, handsomely and expensively printed brochures got out by the Soviet’s monolithic travel bureau extolling and reproducing the grandeurs of the cities and the landscapes of Russia as offered by a choice of package tours behind the Iron Curtain.

  When Mrs Butterfield produced drab, close-set paragraphs in smudgy type of newsprint detailing the variety of horrors and repressions suffered by the citizens of the USSR as well as anyone caught messing into their business, Ada spread her antidote out on to the tea table.

  Here were pictures of neat white boats upon the blue Moscow River and palaces of glorious proportions. The red brick of the fascinating Kremlin dominated almost every scene, the skyscraping University of Moscow, monuments and fabulous buildings arose out of the greenery of parks. Buildings were modern, the monument to space conquerers soared into the sky. There were photographs galore of museums and exhibitions. These vied with multicolour reproductions of ballerinas, folk dancers, circus performers, fountains illuminated at night in every hue, boulevards, wide open spaces, the world’s most colourful churches all wearing twisted, turbanlike domes, with further reproductions of bursts of the most glorious fireworks. Here were pictures of Moscow in winter, Moscow in summer, spring and autumn. There were special folders devoted to Soviet art festivals showing scenes from operas, plays, ballets, folk choirs and Cossacks. Brochures showed pretty girls in national costume and happy school children. The aircraft looked exactly like those which flew daily overhead on their way to Heathrow. Their interiors appeared as comfortable as any drawing-room, and the airport was little less than fabulous. Hotel rooms seemed as luxurious as any that Ada had cleaned up at Claridge’s or the Savoy when she had done temporary stints there as chambermaid.

  But the most significant thing was the joy upon the faces of the citizens depicted; a lovely girl holding up a bunch of roses and showing perfect teeth in a dental smile, others diverting themselves with beachballs by the sea or lounging on the sand, dancing, singing, playing, smiling, happy, happy, happy. It must have been quite obvious to anyone looking in of an evening into Number 5, Willis Gardens during the duel between the two friends with their exhibits spread out that somewhere, someone wasn’t telling the exact truth. The two sides of the coin, however, produced no more than a stand-off in the struggle.

  4

  Mrs Butterfield had been right to worry that her assessment of a million pounds as the price for which she might be persuaded to make the trip was, in the case of Ada’s determination, not enough, for Ada’s forces of will and coercion were so redoubtable and well-known that the million pounds tended to dwindle in efficacy.

  Thus, one evening Ada counter-attacked from, of all bases, Violet Butterfield’s main citadel, the press. She looked up from her paper to remark casually, ‘I guess if ’er mum can let ’er daughter go ridin’ around over there it can’t be so turrible and there ain’t nuffink going to ’appen to a couple of old biddies like us as long as we keep off ’orses.’

  Mrs Butterfield bit. ‘Mum? What mum? ’Oo’s daughter? Keep off ’orses?’

  ‘The Queen,’ replied Mrs Harris. ‘ ’Ere, read it. It’s about Princess Anne going to Russia to ride on her ’orse wif her boyfriend and her dad’s going too. Now, what ’ave you got to say to that?’

  It was true. These events were taking place just shortly before the World Championship Horse Trials at Kiev and Mrs Butterfield was compelled to assimilate the news that Princess Anne, her father and her then fiancé were planning to journey thither to take part.

  It was a blow and Violet could offer only the feeblest of defences. ‘Them’s royalty,’ she countered. ‘ ’Oo’d dare do anything to them? There’d be a war. It’s the likes of us would be treated shameful. I’ve just been readin’ again abaht what it’s like. No ’ot water in the barf. When you pull the chain after you-know-what nuffink ’appens. Bullied about like a bunch of sheep. ’Oo wants five days of that?’

  At this point, probably because of the figure mentioned, something clicked in Mrs Butterfield’s brain and she opened up a surprise sally which almost destroyed Mrs Harris’s forces.

  ‘Look ’ere, Ada,’ she said, ‘it’s all very well for the like of Prince Philip and Princess Anne and them royals to go gallyvantin’ off to foreign parts. They ain’t got nuffink else to do. But what about me job?’ And
then, mounting her attack, she went on, ‘You! You can practically take a ’oliday when you like. You just tell your people you won’t be back for a week and they got to lump it if they know what’s good for ’em. The Paradise ain’t like that. If I’m fifteen minutes late they dock me pay and if I took a day off they’d give me the push quick as a wink. The job’s cushy and the tips are good and there’s a dozen that would be waitin’ to take me place. I’ll bet you ain’t thought of that, Ada ’Arris. And so let’s ’ave an end to all this palaver. And good luck to the Princess on ’er bloomin’ ’orse.’

  It was true. Mrs Harris had not thought of that and for once she was silenced. In these tough times a job was a job. Economics were in a parlous state, inflation was rampant and she certainly could not demand of her friend that she sacrifice what seemed to be a comfortable and well-paying position. And for three days the visit to Moscow was not mentioned and Mrs Harris even put away the brochures and schemed and wondered how she might get over or around that hurdle. Help arrived from a most unexpected quarter. For it seemed that the Great Manipulator who dwelt behind the stars had his own ideas on the subject and for some reason in His infinite wisdom and omnipotence wanted Mrs Harris in Moscow.

  He went about the matter in his usual roundabout but effective way by sending an inspector from the Fire Department to look over the layout of the Paradise Club.

  For two days Mrs Butterfield had Mrs Harris fooled by arising from their tea-time conference at her usual hour and saying, ‘Well love, I suppose I’d better be gettin’ on,’ and taking her departure as usual. But the third day the game was up.

  Ada was still in the pages of her Evening News when Violet went through her formula and without looking up from the sheet said quietly, ‘Must be off, must you? Where to, the flicks?’

  Stopped at the door, Mrs Butterfield swung her huge bulk about and looked across the room at her friend with some alarm. ‘Flicks?’ she said, ‘What flicks? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Ada said, ‘Come back and sit down and I’ll tell you. ’Ere, listen to this.’

  And as one almost under a hypnotic spell Violet did as she was bidden. Mrs Harris read:

  FIRE PREVENTION OFFICER CLOSES DOWN

  FAMOUS NIGHT SPOT.

  Paradise Club infringes Safety Regulations.

  Fire Prevention Officer John Reach announced the closure of the Paradise Night-Club in Upper Mount Street for failing to comply with certain fire prevention and safety regulations. Club Manager Silk Mathieson immediately agreed to carry out the necessary modifications. Mr Mathieson said that the changes ordered would take over a month to complete during which period the club would remain closed. Mr Mathieson added that the staff was being given a month’s holiday with pay during the period of reconstruction.

  Hypnosis would no longer serve to describe Mrs Butterfield’s condition. Paralysis was the word now as she sat quivering in a position usually described as rooted to the spot, staring guiltily in the direction of her friend who now lowered her newspaper and said, ‘Violet Butterfield, ’ow could you do this to me? Carn’t go wif me on account of your job eh? A month’s ’oliday wif pay it says ’ere and you pretending to be orf to work. ’Ow about a little ’oliday trip wif me to Moscow now, old girl?’

  Caught as it were with her knickers down Mrs Butterfield reacted with a burst of anger which was unusual for her but under the circumstances understandable. ‘Look ’ere, Ada ’Arris,’ she cried, emerging from her state of frightened immobility, ‘don’t you bully me. You and me’s been friends for a long time but I ain’t going to be told where to go and where not to go and when it comes to one of the plyces I ain’t goin’, Roosha’s it. You can ’ave all your pictures of palaces and churches and bally girls but they don’t show you no photers of them poor people locked away in looney bins or freezing to death in Siberia. I ain’t goin’ to Roosha and that’s final!’ And having said this she fell to trembling again as she waited for her friend’s counter-explosion, for Ada Harris did not have the reputation for taking a slanging from anybody. However, to her surprise it didn’t come.

  Instead Mrs Harris quietly folded up her newspaper, laid it down and said, ‘I understand, Violet, you needn’t say any more.’ For she was hurt not because Mrs Butterfield was frightened of going behind the Iron Curtain but because she had tried to conceal the fact that she was not required in her job for a month or more. She went over to the mantelpiece and removed the two vouchers from the china dish where any papers of importance were kept and one of them she pushed across the table in Violet’s direction saying ‘There you are now. It was you invited me to the party and paid for me ticket to get in so anything I got there we ort to split. That’s yours. You do with it what you like.’ She picked up her own voucher saying, ‘As for me I’m going,’ and she opened her purse, inserted the slip of paper and then closed it with a snap of unmistakable determination, but which to Mrs Butterfield sounded like the clang of a jail door closing for she immediately fell apart, all anger drained from her. She emitted a scream of alarm and then cried, ‘Ada, you’re not finking of going alone all by yourself?’

  Very much on her dignity Mrs Harris replied, ‘If me best friend can’t accept an invitation to go wif me all expenses paid which I was going to offer as a treat I suppose I’ll ’ave to.’

  When Mrs Butterfield wept she did not dissolve into tears, she flooded the premises with them. ‘Oh Ada, Ada,’ she wailed, ‘don’t talk like that. You are me best friend, the only one I’ve got in the world. I don’t care what ’appens to me, I’ll come wif you. Someone’s got to look arfter you.’

  Her surrender would have melted the proverbial heart of stone. Mrs Harris was made of softer material. She rose with her arms outstretched, tears likewise beginning to furrow her cheeks. She cried, ‘Oh, Vi, I knew you would,’ while Vi said, ‘Ada, I wasn’t meaning to tell a lie about me job. We can use me ’oliday pay for spending money also.’ And the two women melted together in a damp embrace, the tiny Mrs Harris practically vanishing within Mrs Butterfield’s bosom.

  After they had dried off and resumed their places at the table over a fresh pot Ada said brightly, ‘And you know what, Vi? You could get your fur coat.’

  ‘I could?’

  ‘Russia. That’s where they come from. Cheap. Look ’ere, in these pitchers. Everybody’s wearing fur ’ats. ’Ere, see, even the poor people. Anybody can buy furs in Russia. You’ll ’ave yer coat yet.’

  New life infused and blew Mrs Butterfield back to her normal proportions as she cried, ‘Would I really?’

  Mrs Harris said, ‘We’ll go tomorrow morning and get our tickets.’

  5

  Having been to the Intourist office once before to collect the brochures and found there nothing more menacing or unusual than the normal confusion that appears to obtain in any thriving travel bureau and where apparently all transactions were conducted in understandable English, Mrs Harris took Mrs Butterfield along with her the next day hoping that the normality of it would help to allay her fears.

  The gambit worked since the bureau was situated amongst such comforting British establishments as a tobacconist, a sweetshop, the Regent Street Typewriter Company, Raine’s Bag Emporium and the National Westminster Bank. This location did much to calm Mrs Butterfield.

  Violet was further soothed by the atmosphere within the office with its huge blown-up colour photographs of Moscow in spring as well as under its winter mantle of snow and lovely scenes from the Russian countryside, and when they stepped up to a counter and the girl behind it said, ‘Can I ’elp yer? Where would yer like to go? ’Ave you seen our list of tours already?’ Mrs Butterfield whispered to Ada, ‘Blimey, why them Rooshans speak just like the rest of us,’ and was shooshed by Mrs Harris. ‘Don’t be stupid, Vi, she’s as English as you and me.’

  Mrs Harris thought how clever it was of the Russians to staff their office mainly with British assistants, and the fact that she did think this and was listening and looking w
ith a calculating ear and a sharp eye was a measure of what was always present now at the back of her head. If she was going to succeed in getting Lockwood’s girl out of the country she would want to know everything there was to know about these people. Her observations, however, were confined to their side of the long counter behind which the clerks attended to would-be customers.

  Yet now that she was actually on the threshold of putting her self-imposed mission into action Ada found herself entertaining a qualm or two in that her timorous friend, having given in and consented to accompany her, had no idea of what she, Ada Harris, proposed to do when she got there. She did not wish to tell her since she was certain it would cause Mrs Butterfield to go up in flames. Nevertheless, she was prepared to gamble and give her the chance for an out. Therefore, with generous heart she turned to her friend and said, ‘What do you fink, Vi? Shall we? I wouldn’t like to see you unhappy. I suppose we could go somewhere else for a bit of a ’oliday. We could call it off if you say so.’

  But Mrs Butterfield was really captivated by the beauty of the posters. No bewhiskered characters bearing round bombs from which burning fuses extended about nor was there anything in the slightest way sinister to be observed and furthermore the cockney girl behind the counter was a touch of home.

  Looking up at the huge coloured panels she said, ‘Ain’t it pretty. If it’s all like that I wouldn’t mind ’avin’ a look.’

  Ada gave Vi’s soft fleshy arm a squeeze and said, ‘Ducks, you’re a friend after me own ’eart.’ She presented her vouchers to the cockney girl who turned them over to a handsome young assistant with dark glowing eyes who might have been Russian but who spoke perfect English.

  The visible part of Intourist was efficient, of which the same could not be said of some of the Russian bureaucratic staff connected with it. But the two women had no way of penetrating into that area. Otherwise not only Mrs Butterfield but Mrs Harris as well might have fled back to the security of Willis Gardens.