He’d kept the secret well. He’d played the role with discretion. He’d done his duty. ‘Don’t let me down, Gerald, for the child’s sake,’ Jessica had begged him that autumn day back in 1961 just after her world fell apart.

Now Jessica’s husband, Sebastian, is dead. Comes to us all , he thinks, but to die in such an alien place without friends or family? He laughs a self-deprecating laugh. He’d no family or friends but, at least, he’s lived comfortably in a country he’s always served to the best of his ability. Over the last decade, dwelling on the past has filled his waking hours. His and Jessica’s secret expanded from the occasional thought, back in his professional days, into hours of daily musings since his retirement. Not healthy musings, he admits to himself, and sometimes, he questions his mental conjectures like a man questioning his own sanity.

Now on this warm and quiet afternoon, echoes from the outside world drift over the high fir hedge into his garden that has become a sanctuary. He’d cut himself off from his secretive past life. Declined many invitation to dinners and other social functions. No one knew or got the chance to know what he once did before he moved away from London down to countrified Herefordshire.

Gerald stirs from his thoughts. Gets up from his deckchair. Limps across the lawn, and through open patio doors into the kitchen. He looks at the clock. Simon, his godson, will be arriving soon. How well that lad has done despite lacking a father throughout his formative years.

He hears scrunching on gravel. He braces himself and whispers, ‘Forgive me Jessica,’ and he shivers as if his heart is being squeezed by her ghostly hand.

‘Gerald!’ Simon comes into the kitchen carrying his godfather’s favourite bottle of whiskey. They hug and Gerald makes a pot of tea. As he does so, Simon relates his latest success at the Old Bailey; a modest narration that understates his godson’s deft handling of a murder case involving a jealous wife, a male prostitute and an MP.

When they are sitting outside, Gerald says, ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Simon.’ Dread swamps him but he must continue. ‘Your late father, Sebastian Cole, died in Moscow, last month.’

Simon smiles an uncertain smile. Then frowns in puzzlement. ‘But my father died in a car crash when I was a year old,’ he states, now sounding like a frightened child Gerald had adored, and not the prosperous defence lawyer he has become.

‘That’s the official version,’ Gerald looks down at his gnarled fingers. ‘Your father, as you know, was an acclaimed nuclear scientist. Through her work as an intelligence officer your mother, Jessica, met and fell in love with Sebastian.’ He coughs a needless cough. ‘In 1960, we found out that Sebastian was passing on information to the Russians.’ Gerald doesn’t dare look at his godson. ‘During the fifties and early sixties, there’d been a few high profile traitors. We, the establishment, didn’t need another publicised spy in our ranks.’ Gerald sighs. ‘We allowed Sebastian to flee to Moscow. There he’s remained until his death on April the twentieth.’

Simon’s expression darkens into anger. ‘Why tell me now?’

‘Because, my dear boy, our intelligence agencies are about to release old documents to the public.’ Gerald reaches out a hand and clasps his godson’s arm. ‘Remember, Simon, it was especially hard on your mother.’ His placatory gesture was shrugged off and Gerald felt terrible and permanent rejection from the tall, distinguished man seated beside him. ‘Can you imagine learning that your husband was a traitor?’

‘Fuck you!’ The expletive surprises Gerald. Simon jumps to his feet.

Gerald shakes his head and as Simon strides away, ducking beneath the rose arbour, Gerald wants to call out, “I loved your mother. I love you, my son!” But this time, despite his desperate need to confess, he won’t break another promise he’d made to Jessica, forty nine years ago.