A Fragile Peace

  ‘Not to take the responsibility for other people?’ she hazarded.

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘You don’t like responsibility.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit…’ she shrugged, half-smiling ‘…irresponsible?’

  ‘Of course it is. My only saving grace is that I take full responsibility for my own actions. Which is more than you can say for most people.’

  ‘That’s not a very – friendly – philosophy.’

  ‘It’s not a very friendly world.’

  She watched him curiously. He opened one eye. ‘Is the catechism over?’

  She shook her head. He closed the eye again. His dark skin was smooth and clear, his long mouth twitched into a faint smile.

  ‘So – I think that what you are saying is that in fact you didn’t like us,’ Allie said, ‘and – you think that’s why I don’t like you?’

  ‘Complicated, but yes. Something like that.’

  ‘But still you used to come.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Silence fell. He opened his eyes. ‘The truth?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘It was – a sort of fascination. A love-hate thing. I needed you.’ It was said simply, with no apparent emotion. ‘Though I didn’t realize it myself then, and probably wouldn’t have admitted it if I had. In a strange way, through Richard, I was a part of you. Even though you didn’t want me.’ There was no self-pity in the words. ‘There were things that only you – the Jordans, I mean – could teach me. And you did teach me a lot.’

  ‘None of it good from the sound of it,’ she said, softly.

  He shrugged. ‘It was hardly your fault that I fell between two stools and finished up believing very little and belonging nowhere.’ He laughed at the expression on her face. ‘Don’t look so stricken. It isn’t painful. On the contrary.’

  ‘It seems so to me.’

  ‘Well, of course it does. You want to belong. Need to belong. I don’t. There’s nothing I want to belong to.’

  ‘Not to anything? Or – anyone?’

  His gaze was reflective. For some reason it made her uncomfortable. ‘I don’t understand what you mean about not believing in anything,’ she said hastily. ‘You certainly did once.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Well, of course you did. You went and fought in Spain.’

  ‘Ah.’ His eyes were half-closed, his face deadly serious. ‘And knowing myself as I know myself now – who knows why I did that? And dragged Richard with me to –’ a clear spasm of pain crossed his face ‘– to deathless glory.’ He sat up, leaned forward, rolling the almost empty glass between his hands. ‘I guess it was Spain that was the real end for me. In Spain I discovered something that I had suspected all along – that no ideal can survive the human failings of its followers. Religions, political ideologies – they’re all infinitely corruptible – all, in the end, prospective instruments of oppression.’

  ‘You’re preaching anarchy.’

  He made a brief gesture of irritation. ‘I’m not preaching anything. Preaching infers an attempt to convert. I’m not trying to convert you. I am – God knows why – attempting to answer your questions and in my own feeble way to explain myself. I would never try to convert anyone. I don’t care what others think or believe. I don’t expect them to care what I think or believe.’

  ‘And does that work?’

  ‘For me, yes.’

  She considered. ‘It wouldn’t for me.’

  ‘Well, of course it wouldn’t. Why should you expect it to?’ A slow, attractive smile lit the thin face. ‘Let’s have another drink.’

  She rested her chin on her hand and watched him pour the drinks, aware, suddenly, that she was enjoying herself. She laughed. ‘Do you remember the time you caught me at Daddy’s Madeira?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That was when I told you you weren’t a gentleman.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I was a pain.’

  ‘You were unhappy.’

  She lifted surprised eyes. ‘You knew that?’

  ‘Let me hazard a guess.’ He sat beside her, proffering her drink, smiling still, and she was struck, forcefully and unexpectedly, by the capricious attraction of the man. What did the old nursery rhyme say? ‘When he was good he was very very good, and when he was bad he was…’

  ‘I would guess that you’d discovered what was going on between your father and Celia.’

  She sat like a statue. ‘You knew?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But – how?’

  ‘You’d have to be blind and deaf not to.’

  ‘I don’t think Libby and Richard ever knew.’

  ‘I’m sure they didn’t. But in a way – they were blind and deaf.’

  ‘And – Mother?’ How often had she wondered that?

  ‘I don’t know. I sometimes thought she must suspect something.’ He paused, added quietly, ‘It really knocked you for six, didn’t it?’

  She looked at the glass in her hand, nodded slightly.

  ‘Poor little Allie.’ His voice was very soft.

  ‘I – it was pretty awful for a while. Like – I don’t know – like not being me. I didn’t think I’d ever forgive them.’ She smiled, a little wanly. ‘What a cheek children have got. It’s funny, isn’t it – Celia finishing up with Richard? I wasn’t happy about it at first. But she’s been so very good for him. I think she really loves him.’

  ‘And you don’t hate her any more?’

  She shook her head.

  He had moved closer to her and was studying her face with a single-minded attention that suddenly brought blood to her cheeks. For a moment she had the absurd idea that he was going to kiss her – and, as the thought occurred, she knew that she wanted him to, very much indeed.

  ‘Allie?’ He reached for her hand. His touch shocked her, oddly. Her heart thumped irregularly. In heaven’s name, what was she doing? This was Tom Robinson. Exasperating, overbearing, by all accounts womanizing – her mind paused uncomfortably upon that thought – Tom Robinson –

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you…’ His voice was warm, a little uncertain.

  ‘What?’ Then, too late, she saw the graceless gleam in his eyes, the familiar, mocking line of his mouth.

  He grinned heartlessly, kissed lightly the hand he held. ‘You’ve managed a whole half-hour without metaphorically scratching my eyes out. You wouldn’t like to let me know what I’ve been doing right, would you – for future reference so to speak.’

  She snatched her hand away. ‘You!’

  The front door slammed. ‘Where is everybody?’ Libby’s voice.

  ‘In here.’ Allie stood up, her movements wooden, the fury of self-induced embarrassment in her face.

  Tom, the laughter gone, caught her hand. ‘Allie—’

  She pulled away from him. ‘You’ve had your fun. I hope you enjoyed it. I’m going to bed.’

  He opened his mouth, closed it without speaking, shrugged. ‘As you like.’

  ‘Hello there.’ Libby appeared in the doorway, Peter Wickham leaning on his stick behind her. ‘Tom, you naughty thing, where have you been hiding? We haven’t seen you in ages. Allie – be a darling and get us a drink?’

  Tom stood up easily. ‘I’ll do it. Allie was just about to go to bed.’

  She glared at him, seething, and received his most charming smile in return. Trapped, as he had known she would be, by her own stubbornness, with ill grace she said her goodnights.

  Peter kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘I hear you’re having trouble with MacKenzie again?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ She hoped that no one else recognized that there was rather more bravado than conviction in the words. She did not look at Tom.

  ‘You’re doing a marvellous job. Your father must be proud of you.’

  ‘We’re all proud of her.’ Libby kissed her lightly. ‘But she’s wearing h
erself out. You’re right, darling – off you go and get a good night’s sleep.’ Feeling like a child packed off to bed at an adults’ party, Allie caught sight, over Libby’s slim shoulder, of a derisive spark of laughter in a pair of pale eyes.

  It was later, lying in bed and staring into darkness in an infuriating state of sleeplessness, that an uncharitably satisfying thought occurred to her. Tom Robinson, for all his self-assurance, his apparent disdain for the world, its works and its opinions, had a chip on his shoulder a mile wide.

  But somehow, even the malicious gratification that she derived from the realization that he too was human, and vulnerable, no matter how he might try to hide it, in no way compensated for the disturbing discovery she had made about herself that evening.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘I’ll no’ be a part of a face-saving exercise to cover up management’s exploitation of the workers. Neither am I about to let George Jordan get away with cutting my members’ wages. That’s flat, Miss Jordan, an’ there’s no’ a damn thing you can do about it.’

  Allie, very, very carefully, placed the pencil she had been fingering down at right angles to her blotter. ‘Mr MacKenzie.’ Her voice – astoundingly – was perfectly calm. ‘In the first place, the Joint Production Committee is not a face-saving exercise, as you call it. I must say that I find it both disappointing and absurd that, after all these months, you still refuse to see the value of co-operation – co-operation, Mr MacKenzie,’ she emphasized the word, ‘between workers and management. It cannot have escaped you that in many engineering shops, it is, in fact, the management who have refused to set up a committee?’

  ‘Aye. When they’ve discovered that the workers won’t stand for a gaffer’s committee. As we won’t, Miss Jordan.’

  She ignored the terse interjection. ‘Both the government and the unions are supporting the scheme. If you continue to refuse to co-operate, then I’m afraid I shall have no alternative but to ask your men to elect someone else who will. In the second place,’ she continued evenly, giving him no time to interrupt, ‘the new bonus scheme is not a cut in wages. It is simply a restructuring of the present, somewhat complicated system of—’

  ‘Hah!’ The exclamation was a compound of disbelief and contempt. ‘An’ do ye no’ think we’ve heard that before? Go back and do your homework, Miss Jordan. Ask your precious cousin why he’s pushing this new scheme so hard.’

  Allie looked at him in silence for a moment. Alistair MacKenzie was a young man of medium height and build, with a thatch of fine, sandy hair and a closed, clever face. The sharp blue eyes within their fringe of pale lashes seemed to Allie to be lit with a permanent hostility that she found both exasperating and wearying, and his readiness to take – or give – offence was in every quick movement, every lift of his head. It made matters considerably worse that she often found it difficult to follow his quick-fire speech with its strong Glaswegian accent – an accent that she had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince herself did not become more marked and difficult when he addressed her. She looked now into the bright, intolerant eyes and a little of her confidence deserted her as an uncomfortable suspicion wormed through her mind. Cousin George most certainly had been extremely eager to see the new bonus scheme put into effect, and despite good intentions, she had not had time since he had dropped the idea on her to give it anything but the most cursory attention. Discretion being the better part of valour, she changed the subject. ‘One more thing,’ she said and paused, marshalling careful words. She would not give him the satisfaction of detecting overt disagreement between herself and George. ‘Mr Jordan has asked me to mention the matter of the union meetings you hold in the new shelter each time there is an air raid. He finds it – inappropriate.’

  ‘Oh, aye. You’d rather the men played cards and lost their wages, would you?’

  ‘Mr MacKenzie, you aren’t listening to me. I said that Mr Jordan asked me to bring the matter up. And I have. For myself,’ she sat back in her chair, watching him thoughtfully, ‘I see no reason why you should not use the time for union business. On two conditions. One – that you don’t then take up unnecessary working hours as well. Two – that nobody is forced to attend a meeting against his will. Apart from that…’ She smiled, trying to soften the man, to bring out at least some faintly human response. He regarded her with stony suspicion. ‘Apart from that, I would simply ask you to be a little circumspect. Mr Jordan, as you know, has very strong convictions.’

  He stood up. ‘As have we all, Miss Jordan. I’ll bid you good day.’

  He was half-way to the door before she could bring her flaring anger under control. ‘Mr MacKenzie!’

  The man stopped, turned.

  ‘My name – as I believe you well know – is not Miss Jordan. It’s Webster. Mrs Webster. I would ask you please to accord me the courtesy of remembering that in future.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll do that, Miss – Mrs Webster.’ He shut the door behind him very quietly.

  She sat absolutely still, her hands fisted on the desk before her. Odious man. Pigheaded, unpleasant, odious man! But she had not liked the look in his eyes when he spoke of the bonus scheme. There was only one person to speak to about that…

  * * *

  She stared at her cousin’s handsome face – a face that at the moment was undeniably a little pinker than usual. George passed a suspiciously nervous hand over his slick hair.

  ‘Are you – trying to tell me –’ she could hardly keep from shrieking the words ‘– that MacKenzie’s right?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Allie, you’re making too much of this—’

  ‘Is he?’

  He hesitated. ‘It depends which way you look at it. For some men, yes, the new bonus scheme may not – work quite as well as for others.’

  She battled for composure. ‘You told me – assured me – that no one would be the worse off through the new scheme, that indeed most – most – workers would benefit. Are you now telling me that this isn’t the case?’

  ‘I – didn’t have all the figures when we spoke before.’

  ‘Good God, George, you’re supposed to be running this bloody place! And you’re trying to tell me that you didn’t know it would work to the disadvantage of the men?’

  He did not reply.

  ‘You’ve put me – us – in an impossible position. You’re a fool, George, you know that? A bloody fool!’

  He sat up at that. ‘Oh, I say, that’s a bit thick. There’s no need to be offensive, surely? I’m just trying to do my best for the company. This scheme would have worked – the men would have accepted it if that meddling good-for-nothing hadn’t—’

  ‘—seen right through you. As he always does.’ Allie let out a slow breath. ‘When are you going to wake up, George? When are you going to realize that times are changing – have to change? You aren’t dealing with a bunch of illiterate, unquestioning, desperate men who are dependent on your bounty for their living.’

  ‘And I suppose that pleases you.’ His voice was waspish.

  ‘Indeed it does. I see nothing ennobling in humiliation. Nor yet in –’ she paused ‘ – financial sleight-of-hand. The new bonus scheme is out, George. O-U-T. Out.’ She stood up, reached for her bag.

  ‘I think that’s for me to decide,’ he said, stiffly. ‘As you so rightly pointed out, it is I who run this works.’

  She stabbed a finger, her patience exhausted. ‘Try it. Just try it. I’ll go over your head. I’ll go under it. I’ll explain to our working committee how you tried to diddle them.’

  He flushed. ‘Honestly, Allie, I don’t know what’s got into you. I don’t think sometimes you know yourself which side you’re on.’

  She was at the door. Opened it. ‘I’m on the side of reason, George.’ Her smile held very little humour. ‘The losing side.’ She shut the door a lot harder than MacKenzie had shut hers.

  A couple of hours later, as she sat on a dirty and crowded station platform, she was still seething. No doubt by the time she
got to London, George – pompously outraged – would have been on the telephone to her father to complain of her handling of the affair of the bonus scheme. She sighed. She supposed that, in a way, she really had not done very well. She shouldn’t have lost her temper…

  Pale April sunshine gleamed through a hole in the dirty, bomb-damaged roof. At least spring had arrived at last. She had hardly noticed it in the city – had been surprised the previous weekend on a visit to the Jessups in Kent, by the carpets of bluebells, the pleasant warmth of the sun. The countryside had looked lovely, the green fields and flowered woodlands seeming even more beautiful in contrast to the sadness of the occasion. Charlie Jessup was dying. Several operations had sapped the old man’s strength and failed to arrest the cancerous growth that was killing him. Allie and Sue had gone together to visit him, knowing from Rose that it would be the last time they would see their old friend. He’d been weak but still in full command of his senses. He’d grinned wickedly to hear of Allie’s problems. ‘That’s what you get, my girl, for meddling in a man’s world.’

  ‘Charlie Jessup!’ Rose had been scandalized.

  Allie had laughed. ‘A man’s world? Maybe. But not for much longer, Charlie. Things are changing…’

  ‘Not fast enough for you, though, eh?’ He had laughed, lost his breath, coughed agonizingly. ‘Just remember, girl,’ he’d wheezed at last, lying against the pillow, grey with pain, still smiling, his eyes twinkling, ‘one swallow don’t make a summer…’

  She sighed now a little dispiritedly. Change. She had told George that times were changing. But were they, really? Or was it simply the exigencies of war that gave the appearance of change? Would the world just slip back into its bad old ways when peace came again? Would anyone care? And what could anyone – least of all Allie Webster – do about it?

  A train whistle shrieked and an engine, trailing its snaking tail of crowded coaches, shunted into a platform. She glanced at her watch. The connection to London was late. Again. Her mind wandered back to the weekend. It had been good to see Sue again. There was someone who had not changed – laughing, restless, reckless, seemingly irresponsible. Yet even she had allowed Allie a glimpse of a more sober side to her character. She had been light-heartedly recounting her latest adventure with one of her apparent army of admirers: ‘…and, damn me, there was poor Johnny still waiting on the blessed corner! I’d forgotten all about him!’