There are many very normal and average appearing people who actually are spies. Think of Smiley. There are of course those who do indeed perpetuate the stereotype. My mother fell into neither category and yet was viewed with deep suspicion for three or four years by the Indian
as a spy. Our phones were tapped and she was shadowed all over Calcutta.
As far as those of us at home were concerned: Mum had gone shopping and Des was at work. It was only at two o'clock when Mum's driver, George turned up almost in tears, "It is Maaam and Desmond, they have been taken to the thana. I have only just been allowed to come - tell Sahib I think it is bad" The phone lines went into meltdown between Lord Sinha Road, father's office, Minto Park, Desmond's flat, and Ho Chi Minh Sarani (the Yanks had their consulate there too - a municipal joke) to the British
High Commission.
After a really terrifying few hours they came home both had a huge whisky and tried to explain or understand what they had done. Dad was livid with Mum, as much with worry and fear. Desmond, who had angina, looked grey. The laughs and jokes of the trip to Sikkim a few short weeks before seemed to have a heavy echo. For all any of us knew we could have been on the next flight out leaving Mum and Desmond in gaol awaiting trial. It was real and scary.
Anyone less like
Mata Hari, (on the right here) would be hard to find, whilst thinking that she superbly discreet and able to extract anything form anyone with a flick of her eye and puff on her cigarette holder; the truth was she was charming, could be devastatingly attractive, was wonderful company and a great conversationalist. Major assets for any women but a femme fatale she was not.
But, and here's the thing, certain events in the 60s that she and Desmond were involved in could be viewed by those with suspicious minds as deeply murky.
Now this part of the story involves a little discretion from me. One of the characters if not still alive has children who know nothing of this so the of the remainder of this he will be simply known as the General. Also the American and English diplomats will only be known as their nicknames, microphone for the American and Mr. G for the Brit. The French don't come into this but you know their names already. And the Russians, they had their own spies and paranoia. Although an upside of all of this for my father was that he became the
Eastern Bloc doctor for a couple of years. Completely of the subject, that was how I saw the Bolshoi from the front row of the stalls - twice.
Why were they thought to be spies? In Desmond's case it was not strictly true but he certainly was the go to man for information on the peoples and politics of the mountain kingdoms. Every new 'Cultural Attache' would invite him to dinner, cocktail parties etc etc with the aim of making sure their communication lines were open. The microphone went out of his way to woo Desla, even the magic US passport was dangled at one stage. The British expected rather more for considerably less, a couple of scotches and some 'papers' that he could us to travel with to see his family in the UK. MY theory, and it will never be proved one way or another was that his emotional loyalty was to the hill people and anything that could go some way to righting the terrible wrongs of the
Chinese invasion of Tibet should be done. And if that meant being jolly with two of the biggest bores ever to walk the planet, then he would be and did so. In so many ways they should have listened to him rather than simply using his connections to set up whatever it was they were. i know, not from Desmond or my mother, that the
American army were still training young
Tibetans in guerrilla tactics as late as 1972.
This next part is hard because I am revealing the clay feet of my idol. I am sure that as you have read this you have been aware that my father appears rarely and when he does so normally in a fury. Much of what you are reading is written as I understood things then. I knew that theirs was not a happy marriage and I knew my mother adored Desmond. Because Desmond's sexual inclinations were very clear and normal to me at an early age I knew there was never any physical relationship between them and I assume my father did too. I know that from the time I was about eight they had separate rooms but as a child this does not seem odd.
When we started going to Kalimpong it was for holidays, to escape the heat and laugh with the aunties and we would all go, Mum, Dad, Janie and me. Latterly though my father would excuse himself too much work, sick patients that needed him. And then KalimpongNathu La,
This otherworldly break in the mountain chain was one of the ways it was felt most likely the Chinese would come sweeping down into
India. A high ranking General had been put in charge to oversee troop deployment and prepare should the worst happen. This is not some panicked thinking by a government seeing reds under the beds. This was at the height of Vietnam, Laus, Cambodia. The whole of the near and far East could fall like dominoes to a Communist super power that made Stalinism look cosy, still does. So the General has a very important, very top secret job.
Enter my mother, Joyla, just about to become forty, unhappily married, in love with one of the queens of the East and must have felt unwanted and undesirable. She met the General, of course he knew the aunties, and that was as they say that. For a year they had a glorious physical full on affair. She acted as hostess at mess dinners. He drove all over the mountainsides in his jeep and they would return with her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling like black jet beads. Auntie Vicky explained. "You see dear, you have your little friend Tenzing and you go out to play. Your mother needs someone to play with too sometimes, let her have her fun. You will understand one day. " Because Auntie Vickie was wise and
my auntie I accepted it. Mum had a friend.
Desla didn't. He arrived full of icy anger. They fought bitterly. Doors were slammed and it seemed all was past repair. She was going to dinner at the Mess that night and came and me kissed goodnight, always smelling of Madame Rochas or Chanel No.5. I can't remember what she was wearing but her eyes were very bright, as if she had been crying. "I think we might go home tomorrow," she said and gave me hug like always. And, like always, "Night night Dumsy, I love you." and the reply,"Not as much as I love you." And then her high heeled shoes clicking down the stairs. As I lay in the firelit bedroom I heard Desmond's door open. And I crept out of bed to listen.
There was some mumbling, and laughing and then I heard clearly, "Enjoy it now Joyla but it can't be forever. But darling I do understand." Then there was noise and I scuttled back into bed.
I suppose rationally, between them, they had managed to make themselves look suspicious. Not long after this was the interrogation day and the verdict passed along from the secret police - no more visa for sensitive areas for either of them, ever again. No Kalimpong, no Sikkim, no Bhutan. Exile from the mountains that hurt far, far more than the loss of a lover.
It was July and very, very hot. Desmond phoned and asked if we would like to go on a picnic. Lovely, we would be at Minto Park in about an hour. Should we bring anything? No, just but be prepared for a lot of walking.
We went up in the lift to the eighth floor where we were greeted by a sign asking us to dress in the appropriate garments and shoes, these where mountaineering jackets and boots. Above us flew hundreds of prayers flags and in front of us, on the eighth floor of Minto Park, overlooking Bowanipur Cemetery) was a base camp! Two tents, a rubber ground mat, sleeping bags to sit on and a camping gas stove in the middle boiling water merrily away. Also spread around handily were a couple of bear skins in case we got cold. It was 102 outside.
He cane and gave us those wonderful bear hugs. "So Joy, if we can't go to the mountains: then they come here to us."
And on that they did. And we never once felt anything but high in the thin cold air.
