A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [36]
I have lunch for the second time at the National Gallery, and again buy a ham and cheese sandwich, finding something comforting in the routine of this. Then the greater part of the final afternoon is taken up with more cognitive tests: Logical Reasoning, Verbal Organization, two Numerical Facility papers. Again there is not enough time, and again the tests are rigorous and probing. Yet much of the nervousness and uncertainty of yesterday has disappeared. I know what’s required now. I can pace myself. It’s just a question of applying the mind.
At three thirty I find Elaine in the common room, alone and drinking coffee. She is sitting on a radiator below one of the windows, her right leg lifted up and resting on the arm of the sofa. Her skirt has ridden up to the mid-section of her thighs, but she makes no attempt to cover herself, or to lower her leg when I come in.
‘Nearly over,’ she says.
I must look exhausted. I settle into one of the armchairs and sigh heavily.
‘My brain is numb. Numb.’
Elaine nods in agreement. Bare-skinned thighs, no tights.
‘You finished?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘One more.’
Our conversation is slow monosyllables. It feels as if we are talking like old friends.
‘What is it?’
‘Interview with the Departmental Assessor.’
‘Rouse? He’s a straight-talker. You’ll like him.’
‘What about you? What do you have?’
‘Just the shrink. Four thirty.’
‘Nice way to finish off. Get to talk about yourself for half an hour.’
‘You’ve had her?’
‘Yesterday. Very cosy. Like one of those fireside chats on Songs of Praise.’ Elaine stands up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘We’re all going to the pub later. Sam’s idea.’
‘He’s a leader of men, isn’t he? Takes control.’
Elaine smiles at this. She agrees with me.
‘So meet you back here around five fifteen?’
I don’t feel like drinking with all of them. I’d rather just go home and be alone. So I ignore the question and say:
‘Sounds all right. Good luck with your interview.’
‘You too,’ she replies.
But in Dr Stevenson’s office I fall into a trap.
There are two soft armchairs in the corner of a hushed warm room. We face one another and I am looking into the eyes of a kindly grandmother. Stevenson’s face has such grace and warmth that there is nothing I can do but trust it. She calls me Alec - the first time that one of the examiners has referred to me by my first name - and speaks with such refinement that I am immediately lulled into a false sense of security. The lights are dim, the blinds drawn; there is a sensation of absolute privacy. We are in a place where confidences may be shared.
Everything starts out OK. Her early questions are unobtrusive, shallow even, and I give nothing away. We discuss the format of Sisby, what improvements, if any, I would make to it. There is a brief reference to school - an enquiry about my choice of A-levels - and an even shorter discussion about CEBDO. That these topics go largely unexplored is not due to any reticence on my part: Stevenson simply seems happy to skirt around the edges of a subject, never probing too deeply, never overstepping the mark. In doing so she brokers a trust which softens me up. And by the time the conversation has moved into a more sensitive area, my guard is down.
‘I would like to talk about Kate Allardyce, if that would be all right?’
My first instinct here should be defensive. Nobody ever asks Alec about Kate; it’s a taboo subject. And