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derwent_fTitle: Some Sort of Closure
Fandom: A Murder of Quality (George Smiley Series)
Pairing: Peter Guillam/George Smiley, though it's not the focus of the fic
Rating: G
Summary: More than a decade after the events in A Murder of Quality, Ailsa Brimley pays a visit to No 9 Bywater Street.
Notes: Heavily book-based, especially on A Murder of Quality. However, I've taken the liberty to make Peter younger, per the movie. This takes place after a few years after TTSS. The names of Peter's parents are entirely made up, since afaik they were not given in the books.
There was an unfamiliar coat on the rack. It bore the signs of long usage and well care, the kind of non-fashionable but sturdy type that one buys ten years ago and uses ever since.
Peter followed the muted sounds of conversation to George’s study. George was sitting in his armchair, and across him, on the sofa, sat a woman. Her face was sharp and lined with the passing of years. Peter put her around the same age as George. He’d never seen her before, which surprised him, because almost everyone in George’s social circle was connected in some way to the Circus, and thus was at the very least faintly familiar to Peter.
They turned to look at him when he came in. There was undisguised interest and appraisal in her eyes.
‘Ah, Brim, this is Peter – Guillam, Peter Guillam from the Scalphunters section. Peter, this is Ailsa Brimley. She used to work in the Service with me during the war.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Guillam, eh?’ she asked as she shook Peter’s hand. ‘The same Guillam from the war?’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ George answered. ‘He’s Andrew’s son – he married Suzanne after the War, remember? I think you were there at the wedding.’
Ailsa Brimley made a sound of pleasant surprise. ‘Runs in the family, I see. Though probably not a career I’d encouraged my own, if I had any.’
Peter smiled. He got it, really, and as a matter of fact shared the same feeling. He waved the beige folder in his hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ve still got some work to do, so I’ll just go to the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’
He left the old comrades and went to the kitchen to make himself tea before tackling his work, although deep down he was deeply curious of what tales those two were sharing.
*
Brimley hummed in approval and threw a meaningful look at Smiley. His face coloured, betraying himself, yet he still feebly tried to feign ignorance. ‘What, Brim?’
‘Just saying that you’ve got a good taste, and I’m glad you found someone else after the divorce. Someone who, if I may add, seems to rightly appreciate you.’
Smiley made a weak sound of protest, and was immediately cut off.
‘Oh, don’t be so coy. You know very well that I don’t mind. And besides, what harm can come from saying it out loud?’
Now it was Smiley’s turn to throw a reproachful look. ‘Just because something is no longer legally deemed a crime doesn’t mean that socially it is acceptable, my dear Brim.’
‘Well, you’ve got that right,’ she concurred. ‘Still, it’s progress. One that’s unfortunately comes too late for some.’ She took a long drag of her cigarette.
‘You know, for a time after the Act was passed, I kept thinking of the men I knew whose lives were wasted by a conviction, of the . . . utter pointlessness of it all.’ She sighed. ‘If I sound sentimental, I’m afraid the years of being Barbara Fellowship has gotten into me.’
‘Like Fielding,’ Smiley said, lost in recollection of the past. ‘Terence, I mean. Not his brother.’
‘Terence Fielding,’ Brimley nodded. They sat there in the study, mind wandering back to a certain event in their shared past.
‘You know, he sent me a letter once, before . . . before the execution,’ Brimley said slowly, almost reluctantly.
‘He did?’ The surprise was evident in Smiley’s voice.
‘You didn’t get one? Strange. I thought if he had had to write to anyone, it would’ve been you.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, the letter wasn’t very coherent. Ramblings, actually. He was under extreme duress – at least that’s the impression I got from his writing. Mostly he talked about how he hoped he hadn’t sully his brother’s name in my memory - about how his brother was a better man, and he was sorry he didn’t measure up to him. All in all, the whole thing was rather awkward and, well, embarrassing.’
‘Did you ever visit him in prison?’ Smiley asked. ‘I had the thought, but one or another thing kept turning up. Though maybe I was just making excuses.’
‘No, I never visited him either. He asked me not to in his letter.”
Smiley began, reluctantly, ‘Brim, I don’t wish to speak ill, but Fielding was . . . he was an accomplished liar. Remember the story he concocted about him and the boy, the one he murdered?’
Brimley nodded. ‘Of course I do. But what I’m trying to say is that, in the years of being Barbara Fellowship, occasionally I ran into letters from people like Fielding. The younger sibling, who feels that everyone judges them for not being their older, more accomplished sibling. And so maybe, it played a part in turning Fielding into the man he ended up being.’ She held his gaze primly.
‘Of course the whole affair would never have happened if he hadn’t been penalised for his relations with men. But maybe the lifelong pressure of his brother’s shadow made it harder for him to admit his failure and seek help – from the blackmail, you see, not from his sexual inclination.’
‘I imagine there’s probably a psychoanalysis term for that,’ Smiley observed, ‘but I’m afraid my subject is in 17th century German poets, not present-day German psychoanalysts,’ he added with a wry smile.
Brimley snorted.
‘I’m glad though, Brim, that you kept on being the agony aunt. You were rather shaken by Mr Rode’s admission; I wasn’t sure you’d go on working in the magazine.’
She sighed. ‘You thought you’d seen everything, working intelligence. That you’d be prepared for any human transgression. But the everyday cruelty of people is so much . . . wider, so much varied.’
Brimley stubbed her cigarette on the ashtray on the coffee table between them. ‘Well, that wasn’t exactly how I imagined our last meeting would go,’ she smiled.
‘Sorry for bringing up memories, Brim,’ Smiley said, getting up from the chair. ‘Will you write?’
‘Of course, though don’t expect it often. I’m rather tired of letters, can’t you see?’ They were in the hallway now. Smiley helped her into her coat and held the door. Outside, it was snowing lightly.
Goodbyes were said, and then George Smiley watched Ailsa Brimley walked away under the moonlight and streetlamps. He remained standing there, only giving the slightest acknowledgement when Peter came to stand beside him.
‘Has she gone?’
‘Oh, yes. Her aunt left her some money, you see. She’s going to travel abroad. Don’t think she’ll ever come back to dreary England.’
‘Wonder I never heard about her in the Circus.’
‘She was there only during the war. Adrian Fielding’s secretary. Afterwards she was offered a job as editor in a Christian magazine and stayed there until this year, when she retired.’
He could feel Peter’s gaze on him. He returned it with a smile. ‘I’ll tell you later about it,’ he said, and returned his gaze to the street, although it was now empty.
For a long time, they stood at the door in the dim glow of the streetlamps.
-*-
End Note: The Act refers to The Sexual Offences Act of 1967, which decriminalised homosexual acts in private between two men above the age of 21.
Fandom: A Murder of Quality (George Smiley Series)
Pairing: Peter Guillam/George Smiley, though it's not the focus of the fic
Rating: G
Summary: More than a decade after the events in A Murder of Quality, Ailsa Brimley pays a visit to No 9 Bywater Street.
Notes: Heavily book-based, especially on A Murder of Quality. However, I've taken the liberty to make Peter younger, per the movie. This takes place after a few years after TTSS. The names of Peter's parents are entirely made up, since afaik they were not given in the books.
There was an unfamiliar coat on the rack. It bore the signs of long usage and well care, the kind of non-fashionable but sturdy type that one buys ten years ago and uses ever since.
Peter followed the muted sounds of conversation to George’s study. George was sitting in his armchair, and across him, on the sofa, sat a woman. Her face was sharp and lined with the passing of years. Peter put her around the same age as George. He’d never seen her before, which surprised him, because almost everyone in George’s social circle was connected in some way to the Circus, and thus was at the very least faintly familiar to Peter.
They turned to look at him when he came in. There was undisguised interest and appraisal in her eyes.
‘Ah, Brim, this is Peter – Guillam, Peter Guillam from the Scalphunters section. Peter, this is Ailsa Brimley. She used to work in the Service with me during the war.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Guillam, eh?’ she asked as she shook Peter’s hand. ‘The same Guillam from the war?’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ George answered. ‘He’s Andrew’s son – he married Suzanne after the War, remember? I think you were there at the wedding.’
Ailsa Brimley made a sound of pleasant surprise. ‘Runs in the family, I see. Though probably not a career I’d encouraged my own, if I had any.’
Peter smiled. He got it, really, and as a matter of fact shared the same feeling. He waved the beige folder in his hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ve still got some work to do, so I’ll just go to the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’
He left the old comrades and went to the kitchen to make himself tea before tackling his work, although deep down he was deeply curious of what tales those two were sharing.
*
Brimley hummed in approval and threw a meaningful look at Smiley. His face coloured, betraying himself, yet he still feebly tried to feign ignorance. ‘What, Brim?’
‘Just saying that you’ve got a good taste, and I’m glad you found someone else after the divorce. Someone who, if I may add, seems to rightly appreciate you.’
Smiley made a weak sound of protest, and was immediately cut off.
‘Oh, don’t be so coy. You know very well that I don’t mind. And besides, what harm can come from saying it out loud?’
Now it was Smiley’s turn to throw a reproachful look. ‘Just because something is no longer legally deemed a crime doesn’t mean that socially it is acceptable, my dear Brim.’
‘Well, you’ve got that right,’ she concurred. ‘Still, it’s progress. One that’s unfortunately comes too late for some.’ She took a long drag of her cigarette.
‘You know, for a time after the Act was passed, I kept thinking of the men I knew whose lives were wasted by a conviction, of the . . . utter pointlessness of it all.’ She sighed. ‘If I sound sentimental, I’m afraid the years of being Barbara Fellowship has gotten into me.’
‘Like Fielding,’ Smiley said, lost in recollection of the past. ‘Terence, I mean. Not his brother.’
‘Terence Fielding,’ Brimley nodded. They sat there in the study, mind wandering back to a certain event in their shared past.
‘You know, he sent me a letter once, before . . . before the execution,’ Brimley said slowly, almost reluctantly.
‘He did?’ The surprise was evident in Smiley’s voice.
‘You didn’t get one? Strange. I thought if he had had to write to anyone, it would’ve been you.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, the letter wasn’t very coherent. Ramblings, actually. He was under extreme duress – at least that’s the impression I got from his writing. Mostly he talked about how he hoped he hadn’t sully his brother’s name in my memory - about how his brother was a better man, and he was sorry he didn’t measure up to him. All in all, the whole thing was rather awkward and, well, embarrassing.’
‘Did you ever visit him in prison?’ Smiley asked. ‘I had the thought, but one or another thing kept turning up. Though maybe I was just making excuses.’
‘No, I never visited him either. He asked me not to in his letter.”
Smiley began, reluctantly, ‘Brim, I don’t wish to speak ill, but Fielding was . . . he was an accomplished liar. Remember the story he concocted about him and the boy, the one he murdered?’
Brimley nodded. ‘Of course I do. But what I’m trying to say is that, in the years of being Barbara Fellowship, occasionally I ran into letters from people like Fielding. The younger sibling, who feels that everyone judges them for not being their older, more accomplished sibling. And so maybe, it played a part in turning Fielding into the man he ended up being.’ She held his gaze primly.
‘Of course the whole affair would never have happened if he hadn’t been penalised for his relations with men. But maybe the lifelong pressure of his brother’s shadow made it harder for him to admit his failure and seek help – from the blackmail, you see, not from his sexual inclination.’
‘I imagine there’s probably a psychoanalysis term for that,’ Smiley observed, ‘but I’m afraid my subject is in 17th century German poets, not present-day German psychoanalysts,’ he added with a wry smile.
Brimley snorted.
‘I’m glad though, Brim, that you kept on being the agony aunt. You were rather shaken by Mr Rode’s admission; I wasn’t sure you’d go on working in the magazine.’
She sighed. ‘You thought you’d seen everything, working intelligence. That you’d be prepared for any human transgression. But the everyday cruelty of people is so much . . . wider, so much varied.’
Brimley stubbed her cigarette on the ashtray on the coffee table between them. ‘Well, that wasn’t exactly how I imagined our last meeting would go,’ she smiled.
‘Sorry for bringing up memories, Brim,’ Smiley said, getting up from the chair. ‘Will you write?’
‘Of course, though don’t expect it often. I’m rather tired of letters, can’t you see?’ They were in the hallway now. Smiley helped her into her coat and held the door. Outside, it was snowing lightly.
Goodbyes were said, and then George Smiley watched Ailsa Brimley walked away under the moonlight and streetlamps. He remained standing there, only giving the slightest acknowledgement when Peter came to stand beside him.
‘Has she gone?’
‘Oh, yes. Her aunt left her some money, you see. She’s going to travel abroad. Don’t think she’ll ever come back to dreary England.’
‘Wonder I never heard about her in the Circus.’
‘She was there only during the war. Adrian Fielding’s secretary. Afterwards she was offered a job as editor in a Christian magazine and stayed there until this year, when she retired.’
He could feel Peter’s gaze on him. He returned it with a smile. ‘I’ll tell you later about it,’ he said, and returned his gaze to the street, although it was now empty.
For a long time, they stood at the door in the dim glow of the streetlamps.
-*-
End Note: The Act refers to The Sexual Offences Act of 1967, which decriminalised homosexual acts in private between two men above the age of 21.
