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On the day he was supposed to join the Navy, Ewen Montagu arrived armed with a tailored suit – the fee required at Savile Row for a suit this perfect, and discretion to go alongside it, was astronomical, but he had certainly been raised with the viewpoint that money ought not to be an issue, and really it was money well-spent – one of his brother Ivor’s old school ties, and a series of very complicated papers marked with very complicated stamps.
He had done the stamping himself. According to those papers, Ewen Montagu had been born on the 29th of March, 1901 – which was true – had gone to Westminster School – which was not – and had been called to the bar in 1924, which was so patently untrue it itched at him, worried that it would seem too unbelievable. Ivor had assured him that it sounded entirely credible, given the backstory the two of them had worked out perfectly, and that if anything, it would be unbelievable for a Montagu not to be smashingly spectacular in any chosen field.
Besides, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have a head for legalese. Or for arguing. Figuring out all of the papers and stamps he was going to need for his brilliant plan had quite possibly taken more wrangling of fine print than any real lawyer would have suffered through in their life, and if there was one thing that he was really, truly good at, it was convincing people that he was right – with only a few notable exceptions. For example:
“But I’m here to join the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve,” Ewen Montagu (newly christened) protested, waving the very complicated papers (adorned with their very complicated stamps) in the air. “I’m a yachtsman. It’s the – I’m here for – you know, the sea under your feet! The ropes around your…” (Here, he trailed off rather than finish his sentence – he had a sinking feeling he knew what the omission would imply, but then again, a strapping young man like himself would surely never shy away from innuendo.)
“I’m aware that’s what you’ve enlisted in,” replied the officer who had yet to provide their name, “however, you’re being reassigned to specialised study, Mr Montagu.”
He was too busy having paroxysms of joy over being called Mr Montagu to argue, a shortcoming which surely would never affect him again, and thus Ewen Montagu became – against his will – a Naval Intelligence officer.
It was in said Naval Intelligence that he found the precise reason for his reassignment. Being dedicated to his identity as a blithe, somewhat egotistical, classic young British man, it had managed to completely escape his notice that being reassigned based on his legal skill made very little sense, given that all his legal history was completely made up by him and Ivor, made true only through a series of very complicated stamps.
As such, it only truly occurred to Ewen Montagu that there could possibly be underlying reasons behind his transfer when there was a knock on his office door, and he was invited to speak to Col. John Bevan, bracketed by a stern-looking woman who held something as innocuous as a tea tray with all the lethal resolve of an assassin holding a Beretta. The meeting went like this:
“Johnny, my good man–”
“Mr Montagu,” Bevan began, and he immediately stopped listening, too busy having paroxysms of joy over being called Mr Montagu. Bevan kept on talking – blah blah attention to detail, blah blah bloody egotistical – and he kept on doing a little mental dance.
In all likelihood, the meeting could have gone on quite along those lines – Bevan talking, him paying no attention whatsoever – but the woman standing behind Bevan, who was still staring at him with those gimlet eyes, opened her mouth and called him by a name that nobody was supposed to know.
“Nobody is supposed to know that name,” he said instead of anything intelligent, feeling as though his heart had been hollowed out by fear. “My name is Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu, not–”
“Indeed,” the woman said hastily, something almost rueful in her gaze. “However, Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu – pay attention! – it wasn’t always, was it?”
The office was still, as if the building itself were holding its breath. Rather than reply, he sank into a chair, all the energy sapped from his limbs. He had a sudden need to breathe, and his hands flew to his collar, deft and slender fingers loosening the half-Windsor knot of Ivor’s least favourite Westminster tie.
Bevan and that damnable woman were still just staring.
“But –” he started, and tears nearly sprang to his eyes at how high his voice suddenly sounded. “I did everything right. I had the suit – and the tie – and the stamps – and I know all the mottos, I learnt them all, never trust the servants, and, and horses can’t inherit, I promise, I – a loud boy is a good boy –”
Bevan pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said simply, “a loud boy.”
He sprung to his feet in less than a second, diving halfway across the office to get to the door, and he had already started to turn the doorknob before his mind caught up with his body. As opaque as the feelings of others generally were to him, it was undeniable even to his mind that the truth would ruin everything – his reputation, his job, his life. He had done too much to let it all fall apart now. But – even if Bevan distributed the truth, surely not everyone would believe it?
Ewen Montagu had regaled his coworkers with stories of his time at Westminster School, anecdotes from his bar mitzvah, complaints about his wife and children who were conveniently overseas, the details of which were largely cribbed from Ivor’s experiences – the letters they used to share that were still kept collected in a shoebox under his bed, the occasions they’d experienced together, even the film scripts he had edited for Ivor, poring through endless manuscripts with a dripping red pen. Ewen Montagu was good. He was believable. There was no way that Bevan could – that he even would –
“I’m a genius,” he murmured under his breath as a reassurance, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped back into the middle of the office. “And I did do everything right. Who’s to say that anyone will believe you when you tell them, hm? What’s a more outlandish story, that poor, overworked Colonel Bevan suffered a psychotic break after inuring himself to too much deception, dragging his silly secretary sidekick along with him, or that Ewen Montagu is secretly a –”
“A woman?” the secretary asked, one eyebrow raised in an expression so perfectly flat it had to be practised. “Luckily for you, Mr Montagu – stop doing that, is it so difficult to pay attention – we have no plans to tell people.”
Bevan nodded, his granite expression eroding into something a little softer. “We just – well, Hester just – you see, we wouldn’t have noticed at all if it weren’t for the stamps.”
He bristled. “My stamping was perfect!”
The woman – Hester, he supposed – acknowledged this with a slight incline of her head. “So perfect, in fact, that it was noticeable,” she said in a clipped tone. “It was too perfect. Far be it from that being a bad thing, of course, in fact I’m quite sure that our society would function far smoother if everyone were as diligent in their papers as you were, why, the stories I could tell – “
“Hester,” from Bevan –
“ – although I won’t, of course – at any rate. It was – impressive.”
He raised an eyebrow. There was no chance whatsoever that the movement was as polished as Hester’s, but Ewen Montagu was very skilled at condescension. “So, you’ve pulled me into your office to tell me that you know about my – secret – but that you’re not going to do anything about it, and instead you’re complimenting me on my stamping skills.”
Bevan sighed. “I’m sure trying to find some understanding in our actions must be –”
“– like trying to get blood from a stone?” Hester offered, leaning forward enough that her glasses chain was almost brushing Bevan’s head.
“I was going to say, like trying to understand something you don’t really know anything about,” Bevan said, slowly but not with any recrimination. “Montagu, clearly this is something you’re – set on. We’re not here to chastise you, just to let you know, perhaps, that we know.”
“Oh, right,” he said.
“And you’re still a valued member of Naval Intelligence.”
“Oh, right!”
“And – could I, perhaps, have the details of your tailor?”
“Oh, right,” he said lasciviously, running his eyes to where Bevan’s shirt was straining against his shoulders. “I should warn you, his discretionary fees may be out of the range of the everyday intelligence officer. But you can see the results for yourself, I suppose,” he said, striking a pose against the edge of Bevan’s desk and leering at him.
Hester pinched the bridge of her nose. “Those proclivities, at least, he shares with bloody well half of MI5,” she added sotto voce, shifting further in front of Bevan, as if to shield him from view. “Thank you, Mr Montagu, that will be all – and we’ve lost him again.”
He was far too busy having paroxysms of joy over being called Mr Montagu to care about anything else the pair might have to say.
It never really occurred to him that his secret was anything that might be relevant or useful to his work in Naval Intelligence. Much like being Jewish, as the war crept on, it became more and more imperative to hide those secret facets of his identity, so that he would never be suspect, always be able to fit with the crowd. If there was one thing Ewen Montagu was good at, it was carrying a striking similarity to every other public school aristocrat in the country. He was bold as brass, believed he was born to lead, and absolutely brilliant. It was safest to be similar – safest to stand out because others were jealous of him, rather than suspicious – and he was good at that, good at being exactly what was expected of him.
What truly baffled him were the people who didn’t seem to carefully calculate every step to ensure it wouldn’t lead them astray – and so working with Charles Cholmondeley threw every part of his worldview out of the window. For example, when Charlie surprised him, he really surprised him:
“Charlie,” he said tentatively, arms crossed defensively across his chest, “you are aware that by parading around your lovely obsession with small animals and insects, you’re painting a target on your back?”
Charlie blinked back, his little beetle eyes looking tiny through his bottle-thick glasses. “But Monty, there’s no point in being liked if it’s not for who I actually am.”
He was frankly amazed by this, and nearly fell off the desk he was perched on, saving his dignity and his derrière by the skin of his teeth. “Charlie! You never told me you were a philosopher!”
The response was a very pleasing blush, painting Charlie’s pale face from high on his cheekbones to all the way beyond sight past his starched collar. “I’m really not, Monty,” Charlie squeaked back, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’d just rather spend my time – well – in here, for example, doing some good, than trying to be someone I’m not.”
And that rather put a damper on the whole proceedings, because what was Ewen Montagu, if not someone that he was not?
As soon as it was polite, Monty made his excuses, and returned home to his flat, which had never housed the wife and children that its lease claimed, and had always been as empty as it stood now. The fact was pale comfort in the eerie silence, and he walked to his bedroom, the carpet swallowing any noise from his footfalls.
In the silence and still air of his flat, Monty peeled off his armour, removing his perfectly shined Oxfords, his suit jacket, Ivor’s Cambridge tie, his braces, and finally his pressed shirt and trousers, before he was standing in front of his mirror in just his undershirt, underwear and socks. The Monty that stared back at him was fragile, tired; the bags under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. Operation Mincemeat was taking more out of him than he realised. His hair was greasy, and it was getting long – his fingers began to itch to take a pair of scissors and hack it off himself, but it wouldn’t do to give Bevan any more reasons to find him lacking.
He turned, his undershirt hanging in loose folds over the tight plane of his stomach, and frowned at the curve of his chest. His Savile Row suits could conceal a good deal, but stripped down to the bare essentials, it felt to Monty like it couldn’t be clearer that he was trying to be somebody he wasn’t.
It was hard enough getting Charlie and Jean to take him seriously, when all they saw was Ewen Montagu, who didn’t care for other people’s opinions, and always thought he knew best. Convincing Johnny Bevan – who didn’t think much of Ewen Montagu, not when he knew who lived inside his skin – that his plans were worth taking a gamble on, that he could be trusted to run things properly, was even harder. Days like this certainly did not help, when it was all Monty could do not to spend all his time with his suit jacket buttoned up firmly and arms crossed, or downing endless martinis at the Ritz in an attempt to quiet the girlish voice in his head.
Unfortunately for him, with the war (and therefore hundreds and thousands of lives) at stake, there was no way Monty could avoid going into work the next day. He made the bare minimum of effort, walked to work in the rain without summoning the energy to raise an umbrella, and ducked away from the piercing gazes of the typist pool, who were worse than vultures, with the exception – perhaps – of Jean. Certainly not Hester, who could track down any weakness and exploit it more fiercely than all of the Admiralty put together. Monty wasn’t sure he wasn’t half in love with her.
“Monty!” Charlie clapped his hands over his mouth, as though the shout had been completely involuntary. Given the height on his jump, Monty wasn’t sure it was an inaccurate assumption. “Sorry! But you look – strange.”
He could hardly bear to shore up his usual affectation, so he draped himself over the desk, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. “Father’s tired, Charlie.”
The answering snort was so bold, coming from Charlie, that Monty felt a fleeting smile cross his face. “I’m just a little worried that something's gone wrong,” Charlie carried on. Monty could picture his hands fluttering without needing to look up. “I mean, I suspect you would be Colonel Bevan’s first port of call if he’d received any news – but you would tell me, if something had gone wrong, I know you would – so maybe there’s something wrong with – you.” There was a pregnant pause, before Charlie squawked, something clearly occurring to him. It was a good thing they were in the basement, because the frequency and quality of Charlie’s jumping would have driven them through the ceiling of the floor below had it not been bedrock. “I can call Jean for you!”
“Certainly not,” Monty drawled. “Charlie, I really do not need a woman’s touch.”
As if summoned, the door to their musty office banged open. “Off the desk, Montagu,” came the breezy call from the doorway.
Monty slithered off, landing in a bony heap on the floor. “Always a pleasure to play victim to your tender passions, Hester.”
She sniffed, and Monty heard the unmistakable clink of a tea tray being set down on the desk. There was a brief whispered discussion – although it became evident that at some point, some instruction on what constituted a whisper may be required for poor Charlie, who didn’t seem to be able to make noises quiet enough to go unheard by the people on the floor above, let alone Monty, who was still in the room – and at length Hester began to sound less annoyed and more lovingly irritated. It was a subtle difference – a warmth from just below freezing to ice still wouldn’t melt – but one Monty had become frustratingly familiar with over the last few weeks.
“Mr Montagu,” Hester started, before making some kind of frustrated noise that Monty had never heard come from a human being before, let alone a woman as prim and proper as Hester. “I’m so terribly sorry, I forgot about your utter inability to pay attention to a word I say.”
“I was listening that time,” Monty sulked, because the novelty of being called Mr Montagu had somewhat worn off, and most especially when it was Hester doing the addressing, because while it meant a good deal more coming from someone who knew the secret, it was still Hester, who was four years younger than him and got passionate over – of all things – bridge, tea, and gardening advice. “I’m working on my attention to detail. Impossible not to, with Mr Does-A-Newt-Have-An-Anus over there.”
“Yes,” Charlie declared definitively, pride suffusing his voice.
“Quite,” Hester said. Monty could picture the way she was probably rubbing her temples, attempting to stave off the headache that she insisted wasn’t a result of chronic stress, merely of having to put up with him on a daily basis. “At any rate – you’re rather distressing your coworkers, Montagu. Would it absolutely murder you to act like a mature adult?”
“Would it absolutely murder you to act like a mature adult,” Monty sang nasally in an adopted falsetto, which was not only a terrible imitation of Hester, but also sent a pang of something hot and painful through his chest. He liked doing that to Charlie, because he just had to sound poncy and annoying. Imitating Hester was – making his voice go that high was just –
“I see,” Hester said flatly. “Charles, I shall leave you to deal with this… mess.”
Charlie protested – again, the flapping of the hands was practically audible – but there was no fighting dear Hester when she’d decided on something. The sound of the door slamming was something you could set your clock by, whether it was Charlie haring off on a lead, Bevan storming out in a fit of pique, Hester deciding she’d had far too much of their nonsense, or Jean off to make a sulky round of tea, which was still her job, despite everything else she also stuck her nose into.
“Monty,” Charlie said hesitantly, the shadow of his lovely lolloping body falling over Monty, “is there something I can do to help?”
He sat up so quickly that he nearly slammed his head into Charlie’s, and that would have been a disaster for MI5, losing two of the brightest brains in Britain to a workplace accident. “How are you with scissors, Cholmondeley?”
As it turned out – middling.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit in front of a mirror so I can make sure I’m doing it right?”
Monty frowned. “Absolutely not, Charlie. If I wanted to sit in front of a mirror I could just do it myself. Come on, don’t you trust me?”
Charlie muttered something under his breath, still holding the office scissors tremulously in his hand. It was nice to know that he was capable of being quiet on occasion, but immensely frustrating that it apparently only happened when Monty did actually want to be able to hear what he was saying.
“Come on, speak up, my boy, if you’re confessing that you once murdered someone with a pair of scissors I’ll… be grudgingly impressed, but I might change my mind about having you cut my hair.”
That gained a burgeoning smile from Charlie, whose hands had mostly stopped twitching. “I just… I don’t want you to be disappointed, is all.”
Monty rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that it! Charlie, if I wanted perfection, I would spend some of my lovely well-earned – inherited fortune – on a barber. As it is, I’ve asked you, now would you please get on with it before Bevan walks in and asks why on Earth we’re wasting time with haircuts instead of getting on with the plan!”
“Oh, alright,” he said, and started snipping.
It was through the grace of a higher power that none of the clippings ended up in Bill’s briefcase or with any of their receipts, but all in all, it turned out to be a pleasant way to spend a rainy morning. Monty learned more about the biology of termites than he’d ever thought he would need to know, but it wasn’t horrible, listening to Charlie talk, even when it was about something he hardly cared about. Hester even deigned to help them sweep up afterwards, citing self-interest, though Monty didn’t fail to notice her keeping an eye on both of them.
Monty excused himself to the bathroom – ostensibly to get out of having to sweep, which wasn’t exactly a motive that anyone would feel the need to examine too closely – and smiled to see himself in the mirror. Charlie’s own shaggy curls seemed to grow wild without any outside influence, but Monty felt much more himself with his hair neatly trimmed, unmistakably short.
Thus working with Charlie tended to involve a somewhat stormy sea of emotions. Taking him out for a night on the town the first time was either one of Monty’s better ideas, or one of his worst – despite it being clear to all and sundry that Charlie wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation at hand, Monty was set on going out for a bar crawl, and Charlie was set on following Monty.
They both managed to get quite staggeringly drunk, to the point where Monty wasn’t entirely sure if the recollection he had of tangoing with Charlie was true or just a vodka martini induced hallucination. They had absolutely drained the very last bar of its stores of sangria, and had been summarily removed from the premises, left in the mist and drizzle of London at the witching hour.
“I think…” Monty managed to say, shoving his shirt sleeves past his elbows, “you need… a cab, my boy.”
Charlie was swaying on his feet, blinking slowly at the world around him. Evidently finding some problem with his vision, he cleaned his glasses on the fabric of Monty’s double-breasted suit jacket, which was draped around his shoulders, and frowned when putting them back on his face seemingly didn’t make anything any clearer. “Monty, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of how to find one.”
Indeed, the streets were silent but for the gentle patter of rain on rooftops. No car disturbed the quiet; there was no-one else in sight. Monty sighed, twirling around in place as he tried to get a fix on where exactly the pair of them were.
“Aha!” he cried, grabbing onto Charlie’s shoulders so as not to topple into a puddle. “I have – using some top-secret Navy techniques – triangulated our position, and I believe that we are in London!”
“I know, Monty.”
“Better than that – we are fairly close to a good deal of pubs, bars, and clubs!”
“I know, Monty!”
“And therefore – ” he raised a finger, certain that he was making a perfect impression of a Greek philosopher, and hopefully not suggesting any resemblance to an enthusiastic schoolmarm, “ – we are, in fact, within walking distance of my flat!”
“Thank the Lord,” Charlie said, slumping enough that Monty was able to seize the opportunity and ruffle the top of his head. “Please, I could kill for a glass of water.”
Monty stood a little taller, rolling back his shoulders. “Well, all the hospitality of the house of Montagu awaits you, my good man. Come along, chop chop, we’ve got a lot to do before you can pass out on me, Charlie boy. That’s it, keep those brogues a-walking – ”
“Do you ever shut up?” Charlie asked blearily, holding himself up with an arm around Monty’s shoulders. “I have – a scientific inquiry, I am studying the species – Montagus Montagus – and I have observed, using close application of the scientific process, that this specimen in particular is physically incapable of closing its mouth – ”
Monty cut him off with a cuff to the back of his head. “Bold words from the man relying on my eminent charity and generosity,” he groused good-naturedly. It wasn’t exactly a shock that poor Charlie, who had the look of a particularly startled rabbit, or indeed someone who had never experienced the joys of anything stronger than a G&T before, would have difficulties holding his alcohol and would of course say things he didn’t mean. “It’s not far now – ah, here we go, an utterly unremarkable door – of course, one day there’ll be a blue plaque here, declaring it the home of Ewen Montagu, recipient of the highest military commendations due to his fantabulous work on Operation – ”
“Shh!” Charlie squeaked, slapping a hand over Monty’s mouth. “Loose lips sink ships, Monty!”
This remark was answerable only with an eye-roll as Monty tugged Charlie up the stairs and into his flat. “Not the way you’d pictured being dragged to someone’s bedroom, I imagine,” he commented with a saucy wink and a tap under Charlie’s chin, enjoying being able to see his blush stretch down his chest, his top few buttons having come undone at some point in the night. “Come on, I need a lie-down, even if you don’t.”
There was something strangely personable about just existing in companionable silence with Charlie. Monty sprawled out as usual on his bed, chucking his tie somewhere into the depths of his wardrobe, and Charlie lay flat across the foot of the bed, tolerating Monty’s pointy toes being buried under his back. “You have such cold feet,” Charlie marvelled, resting one hand on Monty’s ankles where his trouser cuffs had ridden up. “Do you not have better socks?”
“Not exactly polite to comment on the state of a man’s socks, my boy,” Monty said stiffly. He’d always run colder than Ivor – it made for a nice complement when the two of them got shoved into the same room on family holidays, but now with the vodka pounding through Monty’s veins and clouding his thoughts, it doesn’t seem innocuous at all. “Charles, I – ”
“Oh!” Charlie’s head popped up from where it had been hanging off the bed, a light in his eyes. “Monty, what’s this?”
One of his stupidly long arms disappeared under the bed, and withdrew a battered old shoebox. Monty launched himself at it, toppling off the bed and crashing hard onto the floor – and it was for nothing anyway, as the old box split, letters scattering everywhere like it was snowing secrets. Monty lay winded on the floor for a moment, his left hip and knee screaming at him, and waited to catch his breath.
“They’re – nothing,” he tried weakly. “Charlie, don’t you know it’s – rude – to go through a man’s private affairs? Next thing you’ll be climbing into bed with my – ” Monty realised too late that that was a rather superfluous statement, given Charlie was practically in bed with him.
It didn’t seem as though Charlie was listening – something Monty found terribly annoying, the irony of which was completely lost on him – instead, he was cradling a sheet of yellowed paper, marked up with a young Monty’s clumsy first attempts at using fountain pen.
“It’s not peeping if you’re here too,” Charlie said defensively, and boldly ploughed onward. “Good mind – stronger than iron,” he started, reading aloud from the childish list. “Strong body – then in brackets, it says wrestling, with about a hundred question marks.”
“Well, I was younger then,” Monty said, staring intently at the ceiling and blinking back what were absolutely not tears.
“Witty remarks – that one has a superfluity of exclamation marks – and then it’s just a list of adjectives, mostly. Dreamy – marvellous – dependable – oh, and then…”
Monty knew exactly what Charlie’s looking at. It was a word in ink that was faded nearly to nothing, the paper thin and stretched, from all the times he had rubbed a thumb over it, trying to be the person he’d dreamed about becoming.
“Hero,” Charlie finished. Monty dared to sit up, trying to catch Charlie’s eye, to gauge in some way what the other man could be thinking. Charlie had never seemed unreadable to him before, but now there was something inscrutable about his gaze. “Monty, what is this? It’s far too old to be about – Bill, but I don’t…”
He sighed, propping an arm up on the side of the bed and resting his cheek on the crook of his elbow. “I was – you see, I was thirteen, and… deeply afraid of puberty. I didn’t want to be – I wanted to make something of myself. Become a good man. A man of great renown, a – a hero.”
He closed his eyes, ashamed to be seen by Charlie. Even the most oblivious man in the world could surely infer – if not from the content of the list, then from the insipid hearts over the Is, from the lack of understanding of what truly made a man –
“Oh, Monty,” Charlie giggled. “That’s quite sweet, really.”
“That’s – what?” Monty popped back up, righteously indignant. “It is not sweet! I’ll have you know, it was a very serious checklist! For a very long time! Sweet, my goodness me, if my thirteen year old self could see you now, sh– I’d absolutely rip you to shreds. Ewen Montagu, sweet – what is the world coming to…”
Curiosity over the list evidently sated, Charlie let it flutter back down to the floor, and picked up a different sheet of paper. The spike in heart rate from Monty was genuinely medically concerning, but he ignored it in favour of diving up onto the bed to read over Charlie’s shoulder.
Dearest Ewen… the Cheese Eater’s League was a fantastic idea, brother… It was one of Ivor’s many letters, sent from him at Cambridge to Monty, stuck at home with their parents. This one had Russian vocabulary scribbled messily in the margins, which was suspicious enough – dear Ivor, he was always making Monty’s life far more difficult than it needed to be – but at least this was a university letter, addressed to Ewen, and hopefully free of more incriminating details.
“Are these mostly letters from your brother?” Charlie asked. The drink meant that his words were starting to slur, but he sounded as if he were otherwise in proper control of his faculties – evidently walking while drunk could not be numbered among his many skills, but deduction was still firmly within Charlie’s capabilities. Monty nodded silently, eyes darting over the heaps of paper scattered over his beige carpet. “It’s – sweet – sorry, I’ll stop saying it – it’s nice that you two are so close. You should introduce us some day!”
Monty snorted. His brother Ivor, the communist, meeting his… Charlie, the bug boy? “No, it’ll never work,” he said under his breath. “We’ve both grown into – rather different people. You see, he’s a film-maker – ”
“Oh, no, that’s enough information for me,” Charlie said hastily, waving his hands to stop Monty from continuing. “I’ve never really understood those creative types, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Monty sighed. “Come on, Charlie, let me just put these away – ”
Charlie snatched one of the incriminating letters out of his hands, nose scrunched up. “No, wait – Monty, this doesn’t make sense. If these are your brother’s letters to you, then who is – ”
“Don’t – ” Monty snapped, grabbing the letter back. He’d torn it a little, in the struggle, but that was alright, a few of the letters bore the hallmarks of violence from his outbursts over the years, all it took was some Scotch tape and everything would be alright again, “ – say that name,” he finished rather lamely. “You do trust me, don’t you, Charles?”
There was a horrible look of something on Charlie’s face. Monty didn’t want to inspect it, find out whether it was understanding or realisation – or pity –
“Of course,” Charlie said mildly. “I’ll give you a hand tidying those away, shall I?”
Monty had to look away, eyes stinging. “I’m rather afraid I broke the box, my good man.”
Charlie’s hand on his shoulder was – warm. That was where the similarities to Ivor ended. There was very little that felt brotherly about the close press of Charlie’s body against his. “That’s quite alright,” Charlie said, cheerful as anything. He certainly didn’t sound very drunk now. “We can make sure things are tidy, at least. Although heaven knows you’re never very tidy at the office.”
The gentle teasing was almost too much for Monty, and they sorted the papers in silence – Monty with held and bated breath, Charlie with those dark soulful eyes. At some point, he’d taken his glasses off, and his eyes looked almost preternaturally huge when they weren’t being minimised by his glasses. At some point, Monty looked down and found that his floor was clear again, all his secrets tucked away in tidy piles underneath his bed. Charlie pulled him back onto the bed, and they lay side by side, shirts and trousers rumpled.
“I think that you really have ticked off quite a few of those list items,” Charlie murmured, the moonlight turning to stars in his eyes.
Monty flinched. “Yes, but Charlie… you don’t see things clearly.”
There was something that was almost a smile on Charlie’s face. “I’m so terribly sorry,” he said without any remorse, “but I think in this, at least, I do.”
The less said about the other bar crawl the pair participated in, the better, only that it ended with them barely making the agreed-upon time for their drive back down from Scotland, and both of their suits a good deal more creased than a simple night on the town might have suggested. Ivor had made an appearance and had just as promptly removed himself, Monty had vague recollections of a casino, and he was almost certain that more tangoing had been involved. It had been a very confusing night, although Monty suspected that the submarine crew who had to deal with a human thermos (also known as a corpse canteen) perhaps might have had a more confusing night than the pair of them, who merely had to put up with the regular confusions brought about by the excessive imbibing of alcohol.
Despite the newfound understanding he had struck with Charlie, Monty still couldn’t quite relax in the office. Bill was on his way – every time he saw Bevan there was more bad news – and to top it all off, the one day he really needed her, Hester was missing in action.
“Where the hell is Hester?” Monty was in a foul mood, for a variety of very justified reasons, and Charlie was the only one to be found in their gloomy basement.
“Sorry,” Charlie said, almost involuntarily, “no clue, although, if one were prone to making deductions, it could be said, that is, there was perhaps a suggestion – ”
“Charlie, I am not in the mood,” Monty snapped, “you clearly know where she is, so please just spit it out!”
Charlie wrung his hands. “She’s going to see her dead-ex-fiancé’s younger sister’s concert,” he admitted, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before thinking better of it and starting to manically polish them.
Monty sighed. “Thank you, Charlie, it’s not that bloody difficult.” He raised an eyebrow at Charlie, whose hands were still twitching. “Why don’t you go and make a cup of tea?”
“But Jean’s already – ” he evidently saw something in Monty’s dark glare, because he nodded, and scurried out of the room.
And then it was just Monty, standing alone in the office, having a situation.
This was the kind of thing he usually relied on Hester for, because Hester would rather die than spill anyone’s secrets, and she was eminently sensible, and she understood the value of a proper British stiff upper lip and never made Monty talk, in fact she liked it best when the pair of them didn’t have to say anything at all –
Jean’s handbag was sitting, abandoned, on the desk.
“Going through a man’s briefcase is – not right,” Monty whispered to himself, eyes transfixed by the tiny bag. “But I’m sure – it’s only her purse, after all – and I – ”
There was no more deliberating to be done. He lunged forward, and began to rifle through the bag. There was… so much inside, so many useful and useless things, and Monty couldn’t possibly fathom why Jean would need to stuff lipstick, tissues, keys, two different kinds of hat, gloves, pens, paper, a compact mirror, and three tea bags in her handbag (did the girl not have pockets?), and why she would have all of that and not –
“Monty!”
Jean sounded – betrayed. There was no other word for it. She whirled in, slammed the tea tray onto the desk so hard that tea splashed all over the delicate china saucers, and slapped Monty across the face. “I can’t believe – you know, I didn’t believe it! When Hester said that you were – ”
“Hester?” Monty flinched away – that hurt more than the slap, that Hester had – “I can’t believe she would – Hester told you?”
“Yes! Well – she implied, she said that someone on the team had been stealing files – and that you were acting suspicious – and something about your brother – ”
Monty sunk onto a chair, rubbing his sternum with the heel of his hand. “Don’t scare me like that, Jean! I thought – oh well never mind about that, dear old Hester’s got the wrong end of the stick – ”
“You can’t say that!” Jean insisted shrilly, gesturing at the contents of her handbag, scattered across the desk. “You were going through my handbag, Monty – if that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is – ”
“Yes, alright,” Monty said, raising his hands in an attempt to placate her. “You’re right, I’m sorry – it did raise some serious questions though, I really do have to ask – where on Earth do you keep your supplies?”
Jean stopped short, tilting her head. “What do you mean, my supplies?”
Monty shrugged awkwardly. This was the benefit of having Hester around, she never made him actually use the words – “Your Southalls, Kotex, whatever, your – health sponges – ”
“Stop talking right now,” Jean cried, burying her head in her hands. “Monty – just why? Actually no, I don’t think I want to know – but just so that you know if this is about any of the girls from the typing pool, they do all think you’re fit but this is an exercise in humiliation – ”
“Oh Lord,” Monty said, because he had not been listening to anything Jean was saying, and a horrible thought had just occurred to him, “please tell me you’re not one of those cup people, I don’t think I’d ever be able to look you in the eye again – ”
Jean groaned, reaching out again to punch Monty lightly on the arm. “No, I have – in my pockets, actually, but – Monty, is this for you?”
He determinedly looked away, willing himself not to blush. “It’s not that bloody complex, Jean, can I just – can I please just have one of your – ”
“Because if it is for you,” Jean said, warming to her theme, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before! I mean, how many times have I complained to you about how no-one takes me seriously around here, I’d never… considered a solution like this before, but this is so brilliant, Monty! You know, Hester just doesn’t get it, she thinks life is like bridge – I have to admit I’ve never quite understood that metaphor, my favourite card game is Snap, actually forget I said that – but d’you mean to say I could have been going around all this time, saying to my friends it’s okay, I’m not alone in that horrible office, because I’ve got Monty, and she’s – ”
He flinched – reacted viscerally – because it had been so long since anyone said anything about Monty, she’s such a tomboy, she’s this that and the other, and he couldn’t bloody stand it – and worst of all coming from Jean –
“Oh,” Jean said, all the energy falling out of her. She was beginning to flush an ugly red, her eyes softening. “I’ve really put my foot in it, haven’t it. God, Monty, I’m sorry. Um – what can I – ”
Monty bit his lip. “Jean, these trousers are dry-clean only, so if you could maybe just – hand it over?”
She nodded quickly, reaching into her pocket. “Sorry.”
He gave her one sharp nod, and walked out of the office with as much dignity as he could muster. There was something uniquely humiliating about the whole affair, made worse by the fact that he was going to have to talk about it, because Jean wasn’t like Hester, she wouldn’t just… compliment his stamping and ignore it. The girl was like a dog with a bone, didn’t know how to leave some things well enough alone – and there was no chance of her dropping this, not when it was her, not when it was him.
Monty spent as long washing his hands as he could justify, staring at himself in the mirror of MI5’s ground floor men’s bathroom. He couldn’t help but feel as though he didn’t belong there – now that evidently everyone on his team knew his secret, Monty felt like it was only a matter of time before they all let him know that he wasn’t – good enough, that he wouldn’t be needed there anymore.
The trip back to the office had never felt so long.
Jean was fixated on the tea tray when he arrived, paper towels spilling all over the desk in a clear attempt to mop up the tea she’d spilled. Monty took hold of the mug with Charlie’s face on it, desperate for one last vestige of normalcy in the face of the awkward conversation that he knew couldn’t be put off. “Go on then, Jean, I know you’re dying to ask.”
She flushed again. Some stray hair had escaped her neat little bun, and she tucked it behind her ear as she thought hard about what to say. “So you’re… still Monty,” she started, immediately looking frustrated.
“I was not born as Ewen Montagu,” he said, in an attempt to spare her clumsy attempts at an interrogation. He was staring fixedly at a point on the wall about an inch above her head. “But I have always been Ewen Montagu. If you understand where I’m coming from with this. It was – fine, for a while – my brother Ivor and I are very close, he would always, well we worked on the plan together, you see – but I did really want to join the Navy, and so we… well, I’ll just say, Hester isn’t the only one who knows how to use a lot of very complicated stamps. Major William Martin is exactly as real as I am – except, perhaps, for the fact that his body was actually a man.”
“Even if we know nothing else about his body,” Jean said sharply, never one to miss an opportunity for a jibe at Monty. “But you’re not… I mean, I never want to get married, or have children, but I still don’t think I would – ”
Monty sighed. “This isn’t about that, Jean.” It was true he didn’t really consider getting married or having children – that was what the fake family, ostensibly overseas, were for – but he didn’t go through a harrying process of organising fake papers and documents for himself just to avoid being seen as a spinster. “You’re still Jean, even if you never want to marry a man. I would – consider – marrying a man – ” he took a pointed sip from his mug – “but I’m not… the girl I was. I really, truly am Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu.”
Jean nodded, mercifully seeming to understand, at least a little. “I can’t believe I never knew,” she said quietly, pacing around the office. Monty didn’t miss her shooting glances, and pulled his suit jacket back on, desperate for the protection it afforded. Jean turned her head away, chastised. “Sorry. I mean… it’s not obvious. Not at all. But I still feel as though I should have known! Should have – oh, rather than jumping to the conclusion that Hester was right about you passing on information – ”
He jumped onto the topic with alacrity. “Yes, what was all that? Someone’s been stealing files? Just because my brother is a bit of a free spirit – ” a raging communist more like, but surely nobody else knew that – “doesn’t mean I’m to blame if there’s a bit of a leak, Jean. Frankly, I don’t think anyone on the team could possibly be playing double agent – are we sure Hester’s not just had a little too much gin?”
“Nonsense, Monty,” Jean sighed, “Hester’s not wrong that some files are missing, you know. I don’t want to believe that there would be anyone doing anything wrong on our team, but it’s undeniable that there have been some papers that have been misplaced.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Monty declared, kicking his briefcase filled with some of the missing office files under the desk. “I’m sure they’ll turn up, and they probably weren’t anything important anyway. Listen, I should be off, I was a little short with Charlie earlier and you know how he gets, the man’s got enough nerves to keep all of Britain in a state of constant terror. Do hold the fort while I’m gone, will you?”
Jean smiled enigmatically, and snapped out a salute. “I have my orders, sir.”
Monty nearly tripped going up the stairs, heart aflame to be called sir.
Charlie was easily found in the kitchenette off to the side of the typing pool, staring in abject anguish at a cup of over-steeped tea, so Monty removed the offending liquid, washed out the cup, and presented Charlie instead with the mug with his face on, still mostly full of good, Jean-Leslie-approved tea. “I’ve never been more glad for that good old British habit of repressing, you know, Charles.”
“That’s good, Monty,” Charlie said absent-mindedly. “Did you know that anaphylaxis can lead to death within fifteen minutes?”
“Charlie, please don’t tell me this is about – ”
“I’m just saying, Monty, you have no idea how many people are allergic to bee stings!”
After that debacle, the atmosphere in the office seemed to relax slightly – it wasn’t as if there was anything more they could do except hope and pray that Bill’s papers made it to Adolf and that the German troops abandoned their positions. In all truthfulness, Monty was even a little relieved that his other little secret came out – for once, there were no lies between the team, no-one working on a secret agenda or hiding something important. Although, the reveal left quite a lot to be desired:
“Colonel Bevan, sir,” Hester said, “there’s no need for any further worry about – ”
“No need to worry about Monty, sir,” Jean piped up enthusiastically, “I figured out why he was acting suspicious, and it was absolutely not concerning at all!”
Bevan frowned. “You’ve discovered Montagu’s secret?”
Monty nodded, expression deliberately hangdog. “Yes, sir. They all know. They all managed to find out. It no longer has to be a secret that I’m… Jewish.”
Charlie hit him, hard, on the shoulder, rolling his eyes. “Monty, are you incapable of taking things seriously?”
Bevan was not laughing, but Monty was almost certain he could see marks of mirth around his eyes. “Montagu, for goodness’ sake, what are you really on about?”
“They also all found out that I wasn’t born Ewen Montagu,” he said blithely, pressing his lips together tightly in order to not start laughing at Hester’s exasperated sigh.
“Sir, the truth is that Montagu has been the one stealing files, but only because he has delusions of grandeur, and fancies himself an amateur film-maker,” Hester finished, unable to bear jerking Bevan around for too long. “Every other secret in this basement has also come to light, so I suspect it might be wise for us to make our escape before you’re beset by the well-wishing of Miss Leslie.”
“Well-wishing for what?” Bevan asked, befuddled, not complaining as Hester took him by the elbow to steer him out. “And – good Lord, Montagu, an amateur film-maker? You’re an embarrassment to MI5, man.”
Monty could see him trying to hold back his laughter, so he just smiled, and leaned into Charlie’s side. “Have fun at dinner, old man!”
Bevan flicked him the V as he passed, and Hester shot him a poisonous glare, and Monty just laughed, content to be surrounded by the most marvellous men and dependable ladies MI5 had to offer. And when they found out about the results of their deception – that Major Bill Martin, or rather Glyndwr Michael, had clinched the success of their invasion into Sicily – the CBE went to Ewen Montagu, the man who always was.