The Flame of Life: A Novel (The William Posters Trilogy Book 3)

by Alan Sillitoe

  He said: ‘I still think you ought to give me that gun. It’ll be better for all of us, in the end.’

  He was aware of self-sacrifice in demanding it, for if she gave it to him no evil would be done, which was good, but then there’d be no smash of this godless and revolutionary community. He began to see the futility of calculating too many moves ahead, knowing that the immediate peril had to be dealt with because that was the only one for which you could take on responsibility.

  These speculations calmed him. He felt light of weight, and somehow wise, as if he’d grown older in the last hour and had decided to live up to it.

  ‘Come on, my love,’ he said, putting concern and tenderness into his voice. ‘Hand it over.’

  ‘I have something to do with it, first.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘You’re a child,’ she said. They were all children, she thought, these easy-going yet close-hearted islanders who only want to be left alone. They hadn’t had a civil war or a revolution for three hundred years. They had become rotten with safety.

  ‘I wouldn’t be sure,’ he said. ‘Not that I would mind being a child. A child can grow up, after all. A big advantage, if it can survive.’

  ‘The English are a nation of survivors, and you belong to it with all your heart!’

  ‘Shit!’ he cried angrily. ‘Don’t confuse me with the Englsih! I’m not a bloody Englishman. I’m me, and nobody else. I’m responsible to me and to God alone, not a bloody nation or a bloody king or a bloody queen, or even a bloody party or a bloody president.’

  He felt foolish whenever he ceased to be calm, yet he also enjoyed the swing of his own exclamations, as if he were more himself.

  ‘It’s an excuse for selfishness.’

  ‘I know I love you,’ he said. ‘And that’s something.’

  ‘I can’t feel it from you.’ She stood by the door, as far away from him as possible.

  ‘Leave Dawley alone. He’s innocent as far as Shelley is concerned. Nobody in my family blamed him for John’s death, though I suppose a case could be made out for it by someone like you. Blame fate. Blame God, if you like. Do you think Shelley would want you to blame Frank? Being a sincere revolutionary Shelley must have known that his death was the only possible one. I hate this damned revolution stuff, but even I can see that. After all, Shelley was the educated go-ahead member of the duet, so it’s feasible that he manipulated Dawley into the scrimmage of Algeria. Dawley’s more passive than you think – as malleable as hell.’

  ‘He hated Shelley,’ she said. But she didn’t sound convinced, and took the gun from her bag and offered it to him. It was the most beautiful picture he could wish to see. The handle was held towards him, harmlessly, and things were turning out all right at last.

  The door rattled, and whoever it was hadn’t the patience to fully turn the knob. Then he had, because the force of the opening door hit her in the back, and pushed her forward. She was so much in line with the door that Cuthbert couldn’t see who it was. Despite the unexpected blow she kept hold of the gun, then looked with dislike and annoyance at Cuthbert, as if, being in such a hurry to get the gun, it was all his fault.

  Ralph had evidently expected to find the place empty, and as he lurched crazily over the threshold, passing Maricarmen in his flight, a box of matches fell from his hand. Something had frightened him, and it wasn’t Maricarmen holding a gun, or Cuthbert standing angrily by the centre table. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  Ralph was gasping from his frantic leap up the steps to the studio. His face was blotched red at the cheeks, lank hair slipping over his forehead. ‘They found the notebooks.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Cuthbert said. ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘Where were they?’ she asked, as if barely interested.

  ‘In Dawley’s caravan. But they’re going to put them in the garage.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I saw everything.’ He had been utterly confused at witnessing the unmistakable bundles carried by Handley and his two sons. He was dropping into madness again. The world swam with maggots in the head and throat and mouth of the dying hedgehog. His brain ached, as if it were going rotten. But he saw it, and believed it, and out of the putrefaction realised that he must have burned the wrong papers, and that they had by some means turned up in Dawley’s caravan. Without thinking he’d snatched a large box of kitchen matches and ran to Handley’s studio with the intention of setting it on fire and thereby creating a diversion which might give him time to think.

  ‘It was me who stole the notebooks and put them in the caravan.’ But for all his calm speech Cuthbert knew he couldn’t say anything she’d believe. And he wanted to convince her at last.

  ‘You’re lying,’ she said, ‘as usual’ – and ran out of the studio with the gun.

  She can’t kill Dawley, he told himself, because through his death Death will live. But he thought it still too early to get down on his knees and pray.

  ‘They’ve had time to take the place apart brick by brick,’ Mandy grumbled, as she lifted the lid of the Aga and set the kettle on. ‘If it was money I could understand it. If I saw a thousand quid lying about I’d grab it, but not some dead bloke’s notebooks.’ She opened a biscuit tin and took out a handful. ‘I could do with a lump sum to get a car with. I feel like a burn-up on the M1.’

  ‘Take mine,’ Myra suggested, knowing she couldn’t go fast in it. Mandy seemed helpless and vulnerable – the sort of young person she read about in the newspapers who was ‘in need of care and protection’. She was outspoken, kind, and pretty. She had a faintly split nose, but so subtle that you might not properly notice it for some time. It came down from the short bridge and gave an amiable charm to the rest of her face. Handley always referred to it as a ‘saucy little coal-tip nose’.

  She smiled at Myra’s attempt to turn her from thoughts of a new car. ‘That old banger would split in two after ten miles.’

  ‘The Rambler, then.’

  ‘Dad would have a fit. I’d never hear the last of it. The trouble about artists is they’re dead men.’

  ‘What do you call being generous?’

  ‘Somebody who gives all he’s got, and doesn’t bat an eyelid, even when he goes broke over it.’

  Myra poured her tea. ‘You always say “he” – why?’

  ‘Men are the ones with money. I don’t think it’s right, though. That’s what’s wrong with this set-up. Men run the place, even though we do let them play at keeping house. We voted for ’em to do it, but it only makes ’em think they’re more top-dog than ever. They’ll be thinking they’re as good as we are soon. Why the hell did we help to search for those crumby notebooks? Whatever’s in ’em’s bound to make things worse for us.’

  ‘I thought they ought to be found: Maricarmen was upset.’

  ‘Yes, she’s a fine-freedom-loving revolutionary, she is. I expect she can’t live unless she’s under somebody’s thumb. I know all about that, living in this house. I suppose her boyfriend Shelley kept her under his thumb right enough. And now that he’s kicked the bucket she’s missing it, and wants us to get under the influence of his papers – whatever’s in ’em.’

  She was like a young mare knocking down the hurdles as she went over them. She lit a cigarette. ‘She gets upset about anything. I’ve never seen such a bloody neurotic. No wonder she’s a revolutionary.’

  ‘She’s spent time in prison.’

  ‘She’s not the only one. Some mope, some don’t.’

  ‘That’s not a very nice remark,’ Myra said.

  ‘I suppose not. You’re the only generous person in this roundabout. It’s your house, and you chip in plenty of money, as well as do a lot of work. It beats me why you do it, it does.’

  Myra thought for a moment. ‘Maybe I’m an idealist – which is a way of saying I’ve found an outlet for my neuroses. I joined this experiment because I wondered if it were possible for a group of people to live together and kill the dead weight of the family.’
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  ‘Is it, though?’ asked Mandy.

  ‘It’s too early to say.’

  ‘What if it got smashed?’

  ‘Why should it?’ She spoke guardedly, knowing Mandy was close to the truth. ‘We’ve done well so far. If it gets difficult it’s only because we haven’t made a bigger community out of it. It’s too small. We need more people, and another house. If we could get planning permission we’d build two more dwelling-places on the paddock. We’d have a real kibbutz.’

  ‘They’ll never give us planning permission,’ Mandy said. ‘They hate our guts at the council. Anyway, we’d have to get land as well, and farm it.’ She was fired with enthusiasm: ‘We ought to get lots of animals, have a real farm to live off. We’re too idle, really. What’s it like being Jewish?’

  She coloured slightly as she asked her question. Having lived for a long time in such an un-Jewish atmosphere it was difficult for Myra to clear her thoughts for the serious answer that Mandy deserved. ‘If you’re Jewish you can never forget that you are Jewish – no matter where you live, or what you might become. It’s with you all the time.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Mandy said sadly. ‘You being the only Jewish person here.’

  ‘One can’t forget that the Germans killed six million of us just because we were Jewish. Several hundred thousand were children, just like Mark and the other children at this house.’

  Mandy bent her head, and tears fell on to her knees. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Dad told us years ago. But don’t tell Ralph, will you? He couldn’t stand it.’ Misery was a dragon, a great monster that fixed its teeth into her heart till the pain became unbearable. If Ralph went mad because a small animal of the field had died, what would happen if he heard about the Germans murdering so many children – not to mention all the others who’d done nothing to nobody either? ‘I expect he already knows about it though, and that’s why he can’t bear to see a hedgehog die.’

  Myra smiled, sorry now to have upset her. ‘None of it’s your fault.’

  ‘It is,’ she sobbed, ‘or I wouldn’t be crying, would I?’

  She comforted her, but one couldn’t cut it off in midstream: ‘Mark’s Jewish, because of the son of a Jewish mother is always Jewish, no matter what so-called race or religion the father is. So I’m not alone! Anyway, I feel that we’re all the same sort in this house.’

  ‘But don’t you ever want to go to synagogue?’

  ‘Sometimes. On the Day of Atonement. That’s when all good Jews fast for twenty-four hours – and hope their sins will be forgiven.’

  ‘That’s a fine idea,’ said Mandy, drying her eyes with the Kleenex Myra gave her. ‘But I don’t think I could go even for four hours without food. Still, it must be good to be Jewish if it makes you feel different.’

  ‘You think that’s good?’

  ‘I reckon so. It’s not dull, is it?’

  ‘I suppose it’s not when you come across people who are anti-Jewish,’ Myra said, hoping to change the topic.

  ‘If somebody got at me because I was Jewish,’ Mandy said, ‘I’d scratch their eyes out. They’d never do it again to anybody. And if I was a Catholic and somebody called me for it I’d kill them as well. That’s the way Dad brought us up. We used to go to school in rags, and when the kids mocked us we slaughtered ’em. Mam’s the same way.’

  ‘That’s why I call your parents generous,’ said Myra.

  ‘Dad’s not. He’s a mean old swine.’

  Myra laughed.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you,’ Mandy held her hand, ‘this community would never have got off the ground.’

  Myra stood and put more water in the kettle. Any minute she expected the others to converge on the kitchen. Food was the one unalterable law of life, which she perfectly understood. Maybe they’d found the notebooks. Handley would avoid blaming anyone if it were possible, unless Cuthbert had had a hand in it. In that case there’d be a bit of a row, before calm wrapped them up once more.

  As boiling water steamed into the pot, a clear brick-splitting crack of a noise sounded from somewhere outside, its echoes whipping along the belly of the clouds and throwing a final stab back at the windows. Eric Bloodaxe whined with fear, a chilling heart-cry that went on and on.

  ‘Sounds like a firework,’ Mandy said casually.

  Myra finished with the tea, but breath pounded in her veins. Handley shouted words which she couldn’t quite make out. A scream of rage or pain came from someone.

  ‘Was it a firework?’ said Mandy, sensing it was far worse.

  ‘It was a gun,’ Myra cried, rushing to the window. She looked out, then turned and ran upstairs to Mark when she heard him waking up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  He’d had enough of John’s room. There was nothing more to think about, and not much else to say, and no one in any case to say it to. John was dead, and Handley had lost an elder brother, but the spirit of the world had not come to an end because of that. Life was renewable, even when the angels died. It had to be.

  He came downstairs, and went out of the front door to get some fresh air. Pink, white and lemon-coloured roses were in full smooth bloom, scenting the heavy afternoon. Their sweetness cloyed at his nostrils.

  On such a day the house and compound seemed to have drawn itself into an imperishable cocoon. The air surrounding it was electrified and brittle, as if one flint-spark only was needed to touch it off like a shell-burst. Maybe he was afraid. His lack of energy made him fear the end. His yen to ward off the rest of the world and protect only himself, Myra and Mark, was bad breath to him. It was a poor wish. He’d had it all along yet not been familiar with what it meant. To get rid of such an idea would mean setting off alone to some other country, thereby confirming that his native energy was not so snuffed out as he had felt it to be for a long time. But weren’t those days over for everyone?

  He wanted to stay alive, but not by allowing any false desires to get the upper hand. You have to be practical, and think of others who depend on you, even when it seems that your spirit has reached the end. Walking into the yard, he noticed someone in the garage.

  Richard saw him from the doorway. ‘Dawley’s coming. He’s spotted us.’

  Handley was in the repair pit. ‘All right,’ he said to Adam, who was passing the last pack of notebooks, ‘We’ve just found ’em, and we’re getting ’em out.’

  ‘Understood,’ Adam said, taking the bundle back.

  It was a useless and farcial run-around, and Handley was tired of it. The notebooks had turned up, had been seen to be worthless, and here they were caught in a whirlpool of subterfuge just to save somebody’s feelings. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his painting and forget the whole thing.

  Dawley came in. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘If you can call it that,’ Handley said. ‘Adam and Richard stumbled on ’em down here. They’ve had time to read a couple.’

  Dawley smiled. He too wanted to get back to work, though he was interested to know how they’d landed in the garage.

  ‘That’ll remain a mystery,’ said Handley. ‘Might as well forget it. No names, no pack drill.’

  ‘They’re not worth much,’ said Adam, when the last one came out of the pit. ‘Shelley may have practised revolution, but he didn’t write it. They’re only feeble attempts to write dirty stories.’ He pulled one from under the string and threw it to Frank, who took it to the entrance where a mirror on the open door reflected a better light.

  ‘Not that I’m against anybody writing pornography,’ Handley said, ‘as long as it’s good. I’ve done a bit myself, though I didn’t call it that. I turned out an album of Goyaesque drawings last year – one of them showed a man’s head up a woman’s cunt, I remember – cartoons of bodies and faces from all angles. Then this potty little Church of England windbag in Cheshire gets hold of one and writes me a whining letter about corrupting youth, though I suppose he wasn’t slow in letting his choirboys see them.’

  Frank stopped listening. They were
right. It was twisted, fly blown trash – a part of Shelley he’d never known about. Shelley’s socialism was fired in action, and presumably ended there. The revolutionary government would have shot him as he walked away from the victory parade. What he wrote in his private notebooks had been for amusement, or to resolve sexual problems which were his alone. He’d delved into a world of dreams and fantasies which weren’t latched in any way to valid ideas of human decency. Shelley was a practical man, and not an intellectual, otherwise his writings would have theorised about his realities and not dealt with such putrid stuff.

  ‘Satisfied?’ said Handley.

  He handed the book back. Before looking into the garage, where Handley stood, he glanced at the mirror, which reflected enough of the yard for Maricarmen to be seen on the other side of it, standing calm and still, and pointing a gun straight at him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cuthbert laughed so long that Ralph, thinking he was going off his head, came close to regaining his own sanity. It seemed to Cuthbert that the worst was about to happen now that Maricarmen had gone off with the gun, and when he stopped laughing Ralph was shocked at the acid smile on his face.

  ‘Don’t go after her,’ Cuthbert said. ‘Stay with me, and escape the slaughter that’s about to start. You’ll never hear the last of it, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘I will,’ said Ralph grimly. ‘Slaughter won’t worry me. When my hedgehog died it was eaten to death by the sort of gnawing life that this community specialises in. If I don’t get away it’ll eat me as well.’