by MARY HOCKING
‘Have you ever thought you might lose Doyle?’ she asked. She had seldom talked of personal affairs to Kate, and suddenly she felt guilty at her neglect. Kate was so young, so terribly vulnerable.
Kate was searching through her wardrobe.
‘Usually I don’t worry, but I have my bad moments, of course,’ she answered calmly. ‘Now, where did I put it?’
‘I find it difficult to imagine Doyle deeply in love,’ Helen went on tentatively, aware that she did not do this kind of thing very well.
‘Yes, I agree,’ Kate’s voice came solemnly from the interior of the wardrobe. ‘It’s as though something has still to be awakened.’ She gave an exclamation of triumph. ‘Ah! Here it is.’ She came across the room carrying a black dress over her arm. ‘I want your advice, have you time before you go out? I bought this from Miki Vereker—she said it didn’t suit her. It’s extremely sophisticated, but I think I can carry it off; I’ve matured a lot in the last eighteen months.’
As Helen stood examining the dress, Kate said:
‘There is something about Doyle that has been worrying me lately.’
Helen had the feeling that she had been leading up to this discussion for some time; it was unlike Kate to proceed so cautiously. Helen held the frock out in front of her.
‘You’ll never get into it.’
‘Oh yes, I shall. I’ve lost a lot of weight.’
‘Not that much.’
‘Well, it may have to be let out here and there.’
Kate began to haul the frock over her head. She was protesting vigorously about her weight, but by the time her head appeared again something else was occupying her mind.
‘He tells such pointless lies, Helen.’
Helen began to pull at the zip. ‘You’ll have to stop breathing,’ she said. After a moment, she went on: ‘Does it matter? About Doyle lying, I mean.’
Kate pushed her hair back from her face. ‘But there has to be a reason. The other night I read it all up in those psychology books I’ve been studying—about lies, I mean. But I couldn’t fit Doyle in anywhere.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘You see, apparently most people lie from a sense of insecurity, or because their life doesn’t satisfy them and so they create an illusory world, or . . . But none of it applies to Doyle. With him it seems to be a kind of rejection of accepted standards of behaviour.’ She squinted down at the dress. ‘What do you think?’
‘You can’t wear it like that.’
‘Why not? My figure looks quite luscious.’
‘Not from the rear. Your tail sticks out.’
Kate screwed her head round. ‘I see what you mean.’ She fidgeted with the zip. ‘It’s all so pointless, that’s the odd part of it.’
‘Are we back on Doyle?’
‘He tells such pointless lies that I sometimes wonder whether some part, at least, is true.’
‘Such as?’
‘He told me all sorts of mad things that were supposed to have happened to him during the war; about being dropped over France and Denmark and practically every country in Europe except Liechtenstein.’
‘Why don’t you ask Paul Daniels? They were in Intelligence together for a time, I believe.’
‘I did. And he just laughed when I asked him if it was all true and said: “Of course! You don’t think Doyle would lie, do you?” ’
‘Some of it is probably true. I know that they were dropped over France. Doyle embroiders quite a bit, though, I expect.’
Kate went across to the long mirror and walked up and down in front of it, smoothing the dress across her hips.
‘I think it would be all right if the seams were let out a little, don’t you?’
Helen turned up the hem of the dress. ‘We could try. But you haven’t a lot of material to play with.’
The electric light flickered and grew dim. They stared at the bulb anxiously. It was silent, as though thousands of people all over the city were watching the flickering lamp-lights and holding their breath. Then there was the rumble of a heavy lorry along the road outside; after a moment there was another, and then another. Helen went to the window and looked out. There was a line of army lorries, closed in, trundling towards the Avenue of the Republic. The light went on again, bright and strong. Kate was still standing by the mirror. She said abruptly:
‘Why did you ask if I was ever afraid that I might lose Doyle?’
Helen was looking down into the street. She answered quietly: ‘It was just that I believe that there are times in our lives when we knock on a door which will not be opened to ask for something which cannot be given.’
Kate stared, not really comprehending. ‘How does that affect Doyle?’
‘Have you ever wondered whether he is capable of giving the kind of love which would satisfy you?’
‘Why Helen, I just wouldn’t believe anything else!’ Kate was vehement, but a shadow touched her face. ‘All that wonder and sudden joy; and then to find that there could be no fulfilment. Why, that would be utter oblivion.’
‘Yes.’ Helen’s voice was a whisper. She turned and pulled the curtains across the window.
Kate shook her bright head. ‘No, no. That just doesn’t happen! You have to really believe and really fight hard and in the end you win. I’m very sure of that, Helen.’
Helen was silent. After a moment, Kate went on:
‘Just the same, there is something I wanted to tell you about Doyle.’
Helen glanced at her sharply, surprised by some alien quality which had come into her voice. It might have been fear.
‘The other week he had been drinking quite a bit, even for him, and you know what he’s like then. He told me some pretty implausible stories about Ireland and the Sinn Fein activities. I said he must find it tantalizing living behind the Iron Curtain and not being able to meddle in other people’s troubles. And he answered: “There’s plenty goes on here that you don’t know about” in an important way.’
Helen shrugged her shoulders. ‘It sounds much the sort of reply Doyle would make.’
Kate pulled fretfully at the neck of the dress.
‘But that wasn’t all. I was tired of his bragging and I said: “What could you do here, anyway? You couldn’t help them even if you wanted to.” That really roused the brute male in him. He said that there were plenty of ways that he could help if he ever set his mind to it. For one thing, communication was essential if any resistance movement was to succeed. There must be an alternative to the Party propaganda; it wasn’t the propaganda itself that was so harmful, people were cynical about that; it was the suppression of news that was the danger, people were walled off from events outside their own immediate vicinity. The country was full of discontent, but the reaction was chaotic; there was a confusion of splinter groups with no co-ordination. People needed a reliable supply of information; a paper, or some kind of freedom radio should be established. “You’ve got to pump news into them until it flows like the blood in their veins.” ’
‘I should think that’s all very true,’ Helen said uneasily. ‘But where does Doyle come in?’ She was sorry that she had started this conversation.
‘He said that he and Paul did something similar during the war, only Paul was in charge then . . .’
‘Paul!’
‘Yes.’
‘But Paul isn’t concerned in this?’
‘Oh no, no! Why don’t you let me finish!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I tried to talk to Doyle about it again the other night, and he laughed it off. But I could tell he regretted having said so much and he was worried. I’ve never seen Doyle worried before, Helen.’
‘He must have known it was a silly way to talk, even in fun, in this country.’
Kate nodded, rather doubtfully. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
She pulled off her dress. Helen helped her. While they stood together examining the seams, Kate said:
‘What with all the excitement here, I guess my im
agination is over-stimulated. But sometimes I have this odd feeling that Doyle is a stranger.’
It took Helen longer than usual to get ready and she left the flat at the time when she should have been at the Hotel Kapitol. Even so, she walked slowly. Paul Daniels would be waiting, and from what she knew of him it was unlikely that he would be patient. But her troubled mind needed time; for once, her slowness was deliberate.
Kate was afraid: it was a shock to realize that, a crack in the foundations. It brought Helen’s own fear into the open. Kate was afraid that Doyle was involved in the crisis which threatened this city, and Helen felt that Paul, too, was involved, in a different way, but perhaps more deeply, more irrevocably. As she walked she prayed that God would save him; that whoever else in this city might suffer, he would be spared. She looked at the people that she passed with resentment and she steeled her heart against pity. Why should Paul Daniels share their tragedy? They were an alien people; let them bear their own burden of pain and grief.
At the corner of the street there were a few children trying to make snowballs from the slush; they stopped while she passed and one boy, bright-eyed and red in the face, took aim at her. She felt the soft impact of wet snow on the collar of her coat and a few damp flakes on her cheek; behind her she heard the suppressed laughter of the children. What, she wondered, would become of them and their laughter? And, in spite of herself, tears mingled with the snow on her cheeks.
IV
Paul Daniels, Marshall Pickard and Dr. Van Hals were still together, and by the time Helen came into the bar at the Hotel Kapitol, they had been joined by Jean Dulac. Helen was flustered because she was later than she had realized.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to Paul, scarcely noticing the others.
‘About what?’ He was genuinely surprised because it had never occurred to him that she would be on time.
‘I’m so late, nearly half-an-hour.’
‘Never mind,’ he said smiling. ‘God made a special clock for you, Helen.’
She was warmed by the unexpected sweetness of his smile. Pickard watched her, his face registering strong disapproval.
There was a crowd round the bar consisting almost entirely of West European ‘refugees’, as they were beginning to regard themselves. Occasional phrases could be heard above the general clamour.
‘. . . derailed and all the ammunition taken.’
‘Rumours!’
‘Only a matter of time before . . .’
‘When I get back my M.P. is going to hear about this!’
‘If you get back.’
‘Rumours and hysteria!’
But there were one or two nationals sprinkled among the foreigners. Near-by there was a man standing drinking on his own, a man with an enormous, leonine head. Pickard noticed him and began to steer his party to a table by the window, isolated from the rest of the room. He did this with a slightly conspiratorial air, as though he had things of great moment to impart which at all costs must not be overheard. He had resumed his pose of soldier-civilian; the mantle did not fit as well as it had done once, but it offered some shelter still.
‘There are too many listening ears,’ he said, as they sat down.
Dulac looked at the man with the big head. ‘If you mean Cheynik, he is no spy.’
‘He writes for one of their papers, doesn’t he?’
Dulac shrugged his shoulders. He might have replied that Cheynik wrote for other papers as well, but Dulac was not a great talker. Words drifted across to them and the name Matthias was repeated more than once. Pickard became angry.
‘Matthias, Matthias, Matthias!’ he stormed. ‘The name is everywhere, scribbled on walls, howled in the square, one would think he was a male Joan of Arc. In fact, his record is as bloodstained as anyone’s.’
Dr. Van Hals looked at him sharply, surprised by his lack of control. Paul said impatiently:
‘But you can’t judge these people by sober, democratic standards. Their whole history has been one of bloodshed.’
Pickard banged the table. ‘What is Matthias to these people that the other leaders are not? Tell me that!’
Dulac said slowly: ‘He had the reputation of being a patriot first, and a Communist second . . .’
‘But he was a Communist,’ retorted Pickard, ‘and a most unimpressive creature as I remember him, with that wizened monkey-face. I tell you, they just want a name to shout.’ He sipped his drink, frowning heavily. ‘I’m afraid things are moving to a point of no-return. It’s going to be hell.’ He looked out of the window into the dim darkness beyond and squared his shoulders. ‘And I know what HELL can be, I’ve been there.’
Paul flicked ash into the tray. ‘Nice place?’ he enquired.
Dr. Van Hals turned the conversation quickly.
‘What is your friend Doyle up to, Paul?’
Helen, who had been absorbed in her own thoughts during the previous conversation, now looked up. Dr. Van Hals went on:
‘I saw him the other night at that little village on the Senka road—I never can remember its name. He was talking with Karel Vanek. An odd friendship; I wouldn’t have thought that they had much in common.’
Pickard said testily: ‘It’s not wise to have friendships with these people.’
Dulac laughed: ‘But Doyle is not a wise man.’
Pickard went on: ‘And Karel Vanek, in particular, is a man to be avoided. Excitable and unstable. He’ll end up in trouble.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Dulac said easily. ‘Vanek is a farmer. It’s a long time since he wrote anything.’ He turned to Paul. ‘You know the Vaneks, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t seen Karel recently,’ Paul said shortly. ‘I didn’t know that Doyle still saw him.’
‘Kate is afraid that Doyle has got himself mixed up with some sort of resistance group.’
When she spoke, Helen had hoped that they would laugh, making her fears seem groundless; she had hoped that perhaps Doyle had been telling this story to a lot of people, that it would turn out to be a universal joke. But the moment the words were spoken she knew that she had made a mistake. She saw their faces, so different, yet wearing the same expression—incredulity mixed with apprehension. They were thinking that it was fantastic, but that Doyle was a fantastic person. The muscles of her stomach tightened. She thought: Kate has told me, and now I have told four other people, and they in their turn . . . What have I done? She began to speak rapidly:
‘But it’s too silly, of course! We all know how Doyle loves to brag . . .’
‘What did he say?’ Pickard demanded.
She told them as little as possible and tried to make it sound trivial, but she was a poor actress and over-anxious. The impression she created was not a reassuring one.
‘It’s the most preposterous, foolish thing!’ Pickard exclaimed angrily. ‘The days of the disinterested adventurer are dead.’
For once, no one seemed inclined to argue with him. The lights flickered and grew dim.
‘Power trouble,’ Dulac said unnecessarily. ‘If the current fails, we shall have to live by candlelight.’
Dr. Van Hals glanced over his shoulder at the crowd round the bar; they were still making a great deal of noise and there were no stragglers near their table. He leant forward and said quietly:
‘But is there a resistance group in this country? Surely they would organize things better than to allow Doyle to behave in such an irresponsible manner.’
Dulac shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t believe for one second that this country is developing a highly organized underground movement such as we had in France during the last war. It is probably a case of a few dissatisfied people being drawn together. And these people aren’t organizers.’ He turned to Paul. ‘What do you think?’
‘You are probably right. I would trust my life to Karel’s courage, but if I had to trust his organizing ability, I should be terrified.’
Dulac said: ‘Then surely Doyle . . .’
‘Oh, Doyle!’ Paul d
rummed his fingers on the table. ‘You don’t understand Doyle. If there was an organization, he would fit into it—he’s quite adaptable. If there wasn’t one, if it was some desperate hit-or-miss enterprise, it would be all one to him.’
‘Suppose he were to be found out?’ Dr. Van Hals said. ‘Would he give them away?’
Paul’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘How do I know, when I don’t know what I would do myself? It isn’t even a question of courage. In the end you probably don’t know what you are saying. On the other hand, Doyle cares very greatly about his independence; it makes him unexpectedly strong in some ways. And you can’t be independent of people you have betrayed; that is a kind of intimacy which I think Doyle would go to great lengths to avoid.’
‘But how could he be so irresponsible?’ There was contempt in Dr. Van Hals’s voice. ‘Amusing himself with matters which are so agonizingly important to other people.’
‘He is not greatly interested in people, or personal relationships; I doubt whether he would ever see things from another person’s angle.’ Paul could sense that they were ranging themselves against Doyle; he had shared the incomparable comradeship of the war years with Doyle and he felt a need to defend him. ‘He is entitled to his own creed, and he stands by it; he would never ask another person to consider him.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Dr. Van Hals said coolly, ‘he sounds as though he would be a rather unsatisfactory ally.’
Pickard nodded eagerly. ‘The man is dangerous. A thoroughly unprincipled adventurer!’
Paul moved restlessly. ‘Don’t judge him before the event. This is all surmise.’
‘But it could mean serious trouble for us,’ Pickard burst out. ‘For anyone who is associated with him, it could mean . . .’