The Last Letter from Your Lover

But since then he had struggled with the nagging conviction that the real story, his life, even, was taking place somewhere far from where he was. Now Congo, teetering on the brink since Lumumba’s assassination, was threatening to implode, and its siren call, once a distant hum, was insistent.
    ‘It’s a different game out there now,’ Don said. ‘I don’t like it. I’m not sure we should have anyone in the country until it settles down a bit.’
    But Don knew as well as Anthony did that this was the curse of reporting conflict: it gave you clear-cut rights and wrongs; the adrenalin surged, and you were filled with humour, desperation and camaraderie. It might well burn you out, but anyone who had been there found it hard to relish the mundane slog of ‘normal’ life at home.
    Every morning Anthony made calls, searched the newspapers for the few lines that had made it out, interpreting what was happening. It was going to go big: he could feel it in his bones. He needed to be there, tasting it, bringing it back on paper. For four years he had been half dead. He needed it around him to feel alive again.
    Anthony leant over the desk. ‘Look, Philmore told me the editor asked specifically for me. You want to disappoint him?’
    Don lit another cigarette. ‘Of course not. But he wasn’t here when you were . . .’ He tapped the cigarette on the edge of the overflowing ashtray.
    ‘That’s it? You’re afraid I’m going to crack up again?.’
    Don’s embarrassed chuckle told him everything he needed to know. ‘I haven’t had a drink in years. I’ve kept my nose clean. I’ll get inoculated against yellow fever, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
    ‘I’m just thinking about you, Tony. It’s risky. Look. What about your son?’
    ‘He’s not a factor.’ Two letters a year, if he was lucky. Clarissa was only thinking of Phillip, of course: it was better for him not to have the disruption of too much face-to-face contact. ‘Let me go for three months. It’ll be over by the end of the year. They’re all saying as much.’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’
    ‘Have I ever missed a deadline? Haven’t I pulled in some good stories? For Christ’s sake, Don, you need me out there. The paper needs me out there. It’s got to be someone who knows their way around. Someone with contacts. Picture it.’ He ran his hand along an imaginary headline. ‘“Our man in Congo as the white hostages are rescued”. Look, do this for me, Don, and then we’ll talk.’
    ‘You’ve still got itchy feet, eh?’
    ‘I know where I should be.’
    Don blew out his cheeks, like a human hamster, then exhaled noisily. ‘Okay. I’ll talk to Him Upstairs. I can’t promise anything – but I’ll talk to him.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Anthony got up to leave.
    ‘Tony.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You look good.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I mean it. Fancy a drink tonight? You, me and some of the old crowd? Miller’s in town. We could grab a few beers – iced water, Coca-Cola, whatever.’
    ‘I said I’d go to some do with Douglas Gardiner.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘At the South African embassy. Got to keep up the contacts.’
    Don shook his head resignedly. ‘Gardiner, eh? Tell him I said he couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag.’
    Cheryl, the newsdesk secretary, was standing by the stationery cupboard and winked at him as he passed her on the way out. She actually winked at him. Anthony O’Hare wondered if more had changed while he was away than he had realised.
    ‘Winked at you? Tony, old son, you were lucky she didn’t pull you into the damned cupboard.’
    ‘I’ve only been gone a few years, Dougie. It’s still the same country.’
    ‘No.’ Douglas’s eyes darted round the room. ‘No, it’s not, old chap. London’s now at the centre of the universe. It’s all happening here, old chum. Equality between men and women is only the half of it.’
    There was, he had to acknowledge, truth in what Douglas, had said. Even the appearance of the city had changed: gone were many of the sober streets, the elegant, shabby façades and echoes of post-war penury. They had been replaced by illuminated signage, women’s boutiques with names like Party Girl and Jet Set, foreign restaurants and high-rise towers. Every time he returned to London he felt increasingly a stranger: familiar landmarks disappeared, and those that remained were overshadowed by the Post Office Tower or other examples of its architect’s futuristic craft.