A Fragile Peace

by A Fragile Peace (retail) (epub)

  ‘But – it can’t be for nothing? I mean, you can’t be saying that the Republicans shouldn’t be fighting?’

  The tired eyes fluttered open. ‘Oh, of course not. I’m sorry, love. I’m tired. I don’t know what I am saying. I only know that I’ve seen a kind of insanity at work, and the insidious thing is that we accept such things because they’re there, because they have always been there, and we shake our heads and tut-tut and then go off and kill a few more. There are things being done – unspeakable things – and things being accepted by so-called civilized human beings that make me wonder if the world hasn’t gone mad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was faint.

  He made a small, defeated gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Tell me what you mean,’ she said, stubbornly.

  He hesitated for a second before speaking. ‘I met a young German. A captured pilot. One of the few we actually managed to shoot down. I was detailed to guard him for a few days. We talked. He might have been any one of those lads we met in Germany a few years ago. His name was Gunter. He was a nice boy. He had a mother he adored, a father he respected, two pretty sisters and a young brother still at school. He wasn’t much older than you. He had a dog he called Wolf. He carried a picture of it. He showed me: a boy and his dog, walking in the Black Forest.’ Richard fell silent, fingering his mouth in that newly acquired, nervous habit, his eyes distant. Allie waited. ‘He liked England, he told me. Used to spend his summer holidays here. We laughed, thinking of you and me in Germany, and him here. He was a good, upright, well-educated young German. He believed fervently and implicitly in God, in the Fatherland, in his Führer, in law and order and in the inferiority – no, the sub-humanity – of Jews, gypsies, Communists, Slavs – of anyone, in fact, not fortunate enough to be of his own race or convictions. He believed that they should be exterminated as one might exterminate rats or mice, or worked, as any other animal might be worked, beneath the whip and halter until their useful life was finished…’

  Allie shook her head in half-disbelief. ‘Oh, Richard—’

  He turned savagely on her. ‘He believed it! And he believed that we would join them. A war between Germany and England, he said, was simply not possible. His father had said so – how could he be wrong? We are the same, he said. The same roots, the same needs. We should combine to cleanse the world of the vermin that infest it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What do you think I said? And he laughed. Said that, whatever happened, we wouldn’t stop them. England, he said, would sit beyond her sheltering ditch and watch her cousin Germany take Europe by the throat and shake some order into it.’

  ‘And will we?’ Her voice was barely audible.

  ‘Who knows? We haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory so far, have we? What did we do about Abyssinia? The Rhineland? Why should anyone expect us to do anything about anything else?’

  ‘Well, now you’re saying we should fight? A moment ago I thought you were saying that we shouldn’t? You can’t say we’re wrong if we do and we’re wrong if we don’t!’

  He sighed, and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. In the garden outside a wren trilled suddenly, a lovely glissando of notes that rippled through the still June air, bright as sunshine.

  ‘What happened to him? The young German?’ asked Allie.

  ‘They took him out and shot him; we couldn’t cart prisoners around with us. They didn’t blindfold him. He cried for his mother.’

  Allie drew a sharp, flinching breath.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Pudding. I didn’t mean to talk about it. Not like that. Come on, why don’t you thrash me at tennis again? I’ll have to do something to improve my game. They won’t have me back at Cambridge if I can’t beat my baby sister at tennis…’

  Such outbursts were, in fact, rare. It was obvious that Richard wanted to put the past year behind him once and for all, and his family were more than ready to assist him. His disenchantment was clear; what was less clear was the reason for the haunting shadow that hovered behind it, the beginning of something, Allie was not the only one to think, more threatening than natural revulsion at the atrocities of war.

  * * *

  A month after Richard’s return, Allie, still at first under protest, started her job with Sir Brian Hinton. She began determined to hate it, obstinately prepared to make such a nuisance of herself that the end of her month’s probationary period would see the termination of her employment. To her own surprise, no such thing happened. Against her own inclinations, she enjoyed the work and found Sir Brian a charming and agreeable man.

  Her duties were not at first arduous – she answered the telephone, ushered Sir Brian’s visitors from the plush waiting room to his even plusher office, and made copious cups of tea. Her employer, however, was quick to discover that her pleasant personality and excellent command of the German language – an accomplishment that he himself had never been able to acquire – made her popular with the wine-growers and merchants that he entertained, and before long she found herself, to her own mild surprise and pleasure, sitting in on meetings and discussions as a translator. Her contact with Celia was minimal – a fact for which she was profoundly thankful – and, as she settled into the routine of working she discovered, too, that the morning and evening trips with her father in the car – for he dropped her off in New Bond Street, where Sir Brian’s office was situated, and picked her up in the evening on the way back – served, despite her initial resistance, to ease at least a little the strain between them. If they did not recapture the openly affectionate special relationship they had shared for years, their casual conversations as Robert manoeuvred the big Bentley through London’s traffic and out into the rolling green Kentish countryside were part of a kind of truce upon which, Robert for one hoped, they might build. He watched his daughter closely, still hurt and puzzled at the change in her, yet relieved to see that her initial rebellious opposition to the position with Sir Brian seemed to have died. Working, she did not see so much of Ray Cheshire and the others – did not have the time nor, apparently, the inclination – and for a while, with Richard home and recovering and Libby utterly absorbed in her Edward, life ran smoothly for the Jordans.

  In August Tom Robinson came to Ashdown to stay, a reluctant invalid who accepted Myra’s cool ministrations with the kind of malicious grace that, Robert was amused to note, she more often used herself on others. Both he and Richard had been accepted back at Cambridge – news that came on the same day that Libby and Edward finally announced the date of their wedding, in the summer of the following year. At the end of September Myra decided to hold a small celebration dinner in honour of her daughter’s official engagement. It was Libby’s idea that Celia should be invited.

  ‘...after all, it was through her that I met Edward. And I do feel rather badly that I haven’t seen much of her lately. Besides,’ she flashed a smile in Tom’s direction, ‘it’ll even up the numbers.’

  ‘Don’t worry on my account.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. But Mother does like things nice and tidy.’

  It was unseasonably cold and a fire was burning in the hearth. Robert was stacking a log carefully upon it, his back to the room. He straightened slowly. ‘That’s a good idea, Libby. Of course Celia must come.’

  Without a word, Allie turned to the window. A drift of fine rain misted the countryside beneath low, oppressive clouds. In the sombre light the drenched woodlands and fields looked desolate. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ she said abruptly and caught, as she turned, Tom’s eyes upon her, pale and unreadable.

  He was in the hall when she returned an hour or so later, leaning casually against the newel post, his damaged shoulder resting against the banisters. Had it been anyone else she might have suspected that he was waiting for her.

  ‘Did you have a good walk?’ he asked, pleasantly.

  ‘Yes – thank you,’ she added as an ungracious afterthought as she
squeezed past him into the small lobby behind the stairs where the outdoor clothes were hung. Bending, she tugged off her Wellington boots and threw them into the cupboard. She could feel his light speculative gaze upon her and it irritated her unreasonably. Apart from the contact that good manners required, she had hardly spoken to Tom Robinson during the time he had been recuperating at Ashdown. Nothing that Richard could say would change her opinion of him, nor temper her deep-felt hostility. She could not forgive him for what she still saw as his part in Richard’s going to Spain, and was haunted by the conviction that, though Tom himself had been physically wounded, the damage that, through him, had been inflicted upon her brother was far greater, if less obvious. With her back still turned to him, in pointed silence she hung her dripping mackintosh and hat in the cupboard, hoping fervently that he would take the hint and leave her alone. When she turned, however, he had not moved and she was still trapped in the confined space between the cupboard and the stairs.

  ‘Funny sort of a day for a walk?’ His smile was uncharacteristically tentative.

  ‘I like walking in the rain.’

  ‘Just you and the ducks.’

  As an attempt at jocularity it did not impress her. She did not laugh. ‘Yes.’ There was no way to push past him without being obviously rude. She waited in unhelpful silence for him to step aside.

  He did not seem in the least put out. ‘Whatever happened,’ he asked gently, ‘to the girl I left behind me?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The words were barely polite.

  ‘I’m sure that I remember being righteously lectured on the unromantic necessity of fighting Fascism in my own backyard?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, quietly. ‘Where did all that fervour go?’

  ‘Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.’ She found his probing intolerable. Faint colour rose in her face.

  ‘Well, something’s changed,’ he said, mildly.

  ‘Yes. I have.’ She snapped the words. ‘I’ve grown up. There’s no law against that, is there?’

  ‘I guess not. It happens to most of us, sooner or later.’ He could not keep the note of irony from his voice. His straight mouth twitched in a way that Allie misinterpreted entirely; the colour in her cheeks burned stronger. ‘Are you telling me,’ he continued before she could speak, still not moving, a faint furrow between his dark brows, ‘that your concern for…’ he paused, and this time the faint smile was unmistakably sardonic ‘…the downtrodden workers was just a schoolgirl enthusiasm?’

  Mind your own bloody business. The words were on her tongue; years of well-mannered restraint curbed them. She spoke coolly: ‘Something like that, yes.’

  His expression was totally unreadable. ‘Well, well. There’s a pity. Another illusion shattered.’

  That, she felt, called for no reply at all. Somewhere in the house, upstairs, a gramophone was playing – a bright, syncopated dance tune that was absolutely at odds with the dreary darkness of the afternoon. Libby’s happy voice, singing, floated down the stairwell to them.

  ‘Excuse me, I—’ She made to brush past him at the very moment that he pushed himself away from the post. As she cannoned awkwardly into him, she could not miss the flash of pain in his face.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her face flamed again. Embarrassment and irritation made her temper rise.

  ‘It’s all right. It was my fault.’

  Forced to civility, she asked, ‘How is it? Your shoulder?’

  ‘Coming along. The doc says it’ll be some time before I’m one hundred per cent fit, though. I’ll have to give up playing soldiers for a while.’

  This time, shaken for a moment from her own preoccupation, Allie did not miss the faint, self-deprecating sarcasm in the words.

  ‘Will you be well enough to go up with Richard when the term starts?’

  ‘Of course.’ At last the cool dislike in her voice seemed to have piqued him a little. The dark head tilted. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be rid of me soon.’

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t mean—’ She stopped. He had understood exactly what she had meant, and they both knew it. ‘You’ll be a hero, I expect,’ she found herself saying, in tart defiance of rising discomfiture. ‘Will you enjoy that, do you think?’

  His good shoulder lifted in a caustically impatient shrug. He was watching her intently, his head on one side, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘My old mum,’ he said at last, softly, ‘is a great believer in platitudes. You know the sort of thing – “A trouble shared is a trouble halved” – that sort of rubbish. Pretty stupid, eh?’

  ‘I – can’t say I’ve ever thought about it.’ She started up the stairs, not looking at him, determinedly hearing the acid tone of the words rather than the possible meaning behind them. What could Tom Robinson possibly know of her troubles? And why should he care?

  ‘By the way…’

  She looked down at him. ‘What?’ The word made no pretence at grace.

  His smile was tranquil. ‘That friend of Libby’s – Celia? – she won’t be coming on Saturday. She’s – otherwise engaged. Libby rang her.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ Her voice was expressionless.

  ‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’ Still smiling, he turned and left her, poised upon the stairs, an uncertain frown upon her face as she watched him go.

  * * *

  ‘Celia, please, don’t do this to me. To us. We all want you to come. Libby’s really terribly disappointed. And we haven’t seen each other for so long…’

  Celia’s grip on the telephone tightened until her fingers ached.

  ‘Celia?’ Robert’s voice, faint upon a bad line, was pleading. ‘Please come.’

  ‘I told you. Told Libby. I’m busy on Saturday.’ The sound of his voice, even distorted as it was, wrought havoc upon her hard-fought-for resolution. She must not give in. ‘Robert, you know we have to stop. It can’t go on. It isn’t fair – to us or to anyone. Seeing each other like that can only make things worse…’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Celia…’ said Robert at last, gently.

  She knew she had lost.

  ‘All right. I’ll come.’

  * * *

  Celia’s conviction that her capitulation had been a mistake was reinforced the moment she rolled her small car to a halt in front of Ashdown and saw him standing in the open doorway beside Myra, his handsome face alight at the sight of her. For weeks she had battled with herself, fought to acquire strength enough for both of them since he, so strong in most things, seemed unable or unwilling to muster the fortitude to do what she knew for all their sakes must be done. Now, in the moment that it took for their hands to touch and for his warm mouth fleetingly to brush her cheek, she was lost again, and did not know, in her anguished confusion, if she loved or hated him for it.

  Throughout the evening she found herself playing her part in the celebrations – toasting the happy couple, kissing Libby, agreeing with apparent pleasure to attend her friend as maid of honour. But as the wine flowed and the talk and the laughter grew louder she found herself – her real self – withdrawing into a shell behind emptily smiling eyes, lips that laughed and mouthed clever, irrelevant words, a body that moved perfectly naturally but which might have belonged to someone else. The small, vulnerable being that was Celia Hinton huddled alone, watching them all with an awareness of guilt and a hateful, urgent envy that poisoned happiness and made life seem a miserable charade. Yet the sound of Robert’s voice, the sight of him across the table kept her captive as surely as a pin through the body of a butterfly, and she knew as she watched him that her battle, for the moment at least, was lost. If he had asked for her blood she would have opened her veins, there and then.

  Richard was speaking to her. She smiled vaguely and nodded at what she hoped was an appropriate time. She was genuinely glad to see that the strain had gone from Richard’s face in the weeks since his sudden homecoming. Her eyes flicked from him to his injured friend, who w
as sitting in silence next to him. Now there, she considered, was a strange and disconcerting young man. He was watching her with an interest she found faintly discomfiting.

  ‘Are you looking forward to going back to Cambridge?’ she asked, across Richard.

  Tom nodded, smiling a little.

  ‘Won’t you find it a little tame after…’ she paused, aware of possible tactlessness ‘…the past year?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ His attractive voice always surprised her. ‘Let’s just say it’s a chance to get my breath back before the next lot starts.’

  It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. ‘The next? You mean – you think there’s going to be a war? In Europe?’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain of it.’ Quiet had fallen around the table, and his clear voice fell into the silence like a blade. Richard began to fidget with his knife, his eyes downcast.

  Libby jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, fiddle to that, Tom Robinson! Of course there isn’t going to be a war! Now, come on everyone, into the drawing room. We’re going to play charades. Bring your glasses with you. Isn’t there some more wine, Daddy?’

  Celia held up her hand. ‘Not for me, truly. I’m driving, remember. In fact, I really should think about starting back soon—’