20
Even as a child I was a dedicated reader. A fugitive from my grammar school, I spent my time in libraries reading everything within reach. Much of what I read was beyond my intellectual ability and much of it still is. But when later in life I went back to some of those books I found new pleasure. I enjoyed the work of those writers who were able to provide a gripping story for readers who enjoyed narrative above all. But I was able to see a complexity of interaction and meanings that I had not bothered with when I was younger. When I became a writer this complexity seemed to be something to aim for. How did characters change? Most importantly: how much does each character know at each stage of the story? How much, and how soon should the reader be told of the story? What should be revealed, and when? I liked the idea that, as well as being a story, every book should offer fresh and unexpected ideas, and ask provocative personal questions that the reader will enjoy answering.
So I planned the Bernard Samson books like a row of terraced houses. Each book is a house. Each book is complete, and can be visited without a visit to the other books. Walk through the rooms on the ground floor and enjoy the story-driven narrative. Walk through the ground floor rooms of all nine houses and find that they connect. But upstairs in each house there are rooms to search and, for those who want an extended tour, even attics to explore.
But Sinker is different to all the other houses. Sinker provides access to the roofs. Sinker tells the reader things that remain secret to some of the characters, even to Bernard Samson. For the first time the reader gets a chance to confirm suspicions or eliminate them. Events seen through Bernard’s eyes in other books are altered and rectified. Some readers tell me that it is best to read Sinker first because it provides a valuable structure for the other books. That may be true but my overall planning did not intend it as a preliminary key to the other books.
The decisive factor in writing a book is not the planning (although that is a vital second necessity) it is self criticism. The writer is the best person to decide when a typescript is complete and measure its success or failure. This is the worry a writer carries day and night while the keys are tapped, copy-printers operated and countless pages tossed into the waste bin. And when the book is published a writer sees why the result was not good enough. It never is. For that dissatisfaction, and only that, will provide the energy and determination that will make the next book better.
So what does the writer bring to the as-yet unwritten story? A pitiless examination of human nature? A vengeful wrath? I don’t think so. I feel a responsibility towards my fictional family and prefer to show a respect and a benevolent understanding towards every one of them. Perhaps you are saying that the characters in the Bernard Samson books are not immune from caustic comment and patronizing description and cite Dicky Cruyer as an example of such cruelty. Then I would have to remind you that the books are mostly written in the first person of Bernard. We share Bernard’s world.
The story starts again with Sinker. We go far back in time; Bernard is younger and physically and mentally strong. Although the basic style remains the same, Sinker is a book written in a different format; that of third-person narrative. It takes a longer, broader view. The other books take place inside Bernard’s head but Sinker provides an overall look at the story to be told. And Bernard’s sardonic view of the world is replaced by the more moderate voice of the author. His caustic observations have no outlet in this version of his life. Instead Bernard is scrutinized with the same Godlike and superior impartiality that he customarily judges others.
Sinker is Fiona’s book. Fiona’s life and work is cocooned by several layers of secrets. Sinker opens that cocoon and so she inevitably dominates the story. Here is a new Fiona, very human in some ways and yet coldly dispassionate in her work. By the time Sinker was published I was receiving quite a lot of reaction from readers. My memory is that while women readers were sympathetic to the multiple dilemmas – in love, family and work – faced by Fiona, men readers were harsher in their judgments and repeatedly told me how much they loved the vivacity of Gloria. Does Gloria upstage everyone? You are the only one who can say.
Another question in my mail was about the role of the secret agent in the modern world. In my non-fiction war history, Blood, Tears and Folly, I have written about the part played by the Enigma codes in the history of World War Two. Hasn’t Bernard been made redundant by technology? In fact: no. An old friend of mine, the late Constantine Fitzgibbon, who worked at Bletchley Park and handled Ultra traffic, made this comment about ‘human intelligence’:
‘With the existence of satellites, together with sophisticated cipher-breaking, deception has become almost impossible. Even strategic deception … Wisdom may be invoked, but it remains a minor element in a highly complex, essentially futile, equation.’ (Constantine Fitzgibbon, Secret Intelligence in the 20th Century, Hart Davis, MacGibbon, London 1965.)
As the Cold War grew violent, and Bernard Samson was working across the German divide, the emphasis had returned to ‘humint’. The sites of Russian military formations, the state of their equipment and the morale of their soldiers were what the men in London and Washington wanted to know. What was in the enemy’s mind had become more important than what was in the enemy’s signals traffic. This was what made the Berlin station, and men such as Bernard, so important to the careers of the desk-men and high-ups.
Len Deighton, 2010
England. September 1977.
‘Bret Rensselaer, you are a ruthless bastard.’ It was his wife’s voice. She spoke softly but with considerable force, as if it was a conclusion arrived at after long and difficult reasoning.
Bret half opened his eyes. He was in that hedonistic drowsy half sleep that makes awakening so irksome. But Bret Rensselaer was not a hedonist, he was a puritan; he saw himself as a direct descendant of those God-fearing, unyielding nonconformists who had colonized New England. He opened his eyes. ‘What was that?’ He looked at the bedside clock.
It was very early still. The room was flooded with sunlight coloured deep yellow by the holland blinds. He could see his wife sitting up in bed, one hand clutching her knee and the other holding a cigarette. She wasn’t looking at him. It was as if she didn’t know he was there beside her. Staring into the distance she puffed at the cigarette, not letting it go far from her mouth, holding it ready even as she exhaled. The curls of drifting smoke were yellow like the ceiling, and like his wife’s face.
‘You’re utterly cold-blooded,’ she