Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  ‘Which is?’

  A middle-aged lady and three young girls settled themselves noisily into the chairs and sofas immediately behind Simon, and for a moment Werner did not answer. But there was a screen of thick-leaved foliage between the back of Simon’s head and the young women, and when they were busy with the waiter Werner leaned forward and said quietly: ‘I need to know about Sir Edward Carson.’

  Simon looked surprised. ‘What about him, exactly?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Werner hesitated. I’ll try and do this as a journalist first, he thought, but if it doesn’t work, there’s always the other. This is the time to use what I know, if I have to. It’s safer if he still thinks I’m a journalist, though. ‘Carson was over here in Ulster shortly before the gun-running, wasn’t he? I saw him making speeches. And your unit was guarding him.’

  ‘Some of the time, yes. So?’

  ‘Well, as you say, it’s quite possible the government could attack you at any time. Or even arrest Carson. You must have thought of that.’

  ‘Of course. That’s why we guard him.’

  ‘Quite. Well, my editor would like an article on that. The security aspect and so on. How exactly you organise it, how many men are involved at each stage, where he sleeps, what you think the major risks are, that sort of thing. It would be an interesting article to read; it would make clear to everyone what an important man Sir Edward Carson is, and how seriously you people take things.’

  Simon frowned, thinking. ‘Well, I suppose I could tell you in general terms . . .’

  Werner shook his head. ‘No, you don’t understand. In general terms I could write it myself, already. Any journalist could. To make it authentic I need to know the exact details of his next trip to Ulster — dates, times, the units involved, everything. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t publish it until the day after his trip was over, to safeguard you. But I need to have accurate details in the first place. That’s what would really give colour to the article, make all the difference. It would help my career. After all, it’s only going to be published in Switzerland. None of your colleagues are ever going to read it.’

  Simon hesitated. The girls behind him looked at the plate of cakes the waiter had brought, and one exclaimed: ‘Ooh, Mummy, you shouldn’t!’

  Simon said: ‘I don’t know. I think the best thing would be if I told you everything about how we guarded Carson last time he was here, before the gun-running. That would give you colour all right but there would be no risk to us.’

  ‘No.’ Werner stubbed his cigarette out decisively in the ashtray. ‘That’s no good at all. You don’t understand the newspaper business. If I tell my editor what happened last month it’s no use to him at all — it goes straight in the bin. It’s only today’s news, or better still, what’s going to happen tomorrow that he wants to know. It’s got to be Carson’s next trip or nothing.’ He took out a notebook. ‘I imagine there will be a round of speeches soon to celebrate the safe landing of the guns. When is he coming over from London?’

  ‘This Saturday, I think.’ Simon hesitated, watching Werner write it down.

  ‘Good. Where, what time?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d have to check. You know these things have to be secret.’

  ‘If it wasn’t secret, I wouldn’t have to ask you.’

  ‘I know.’ Simon sat very still for a moment, his soft hazel eyes fixed on Werner’s. There was a slight flush on his cheeks. Don’t try to pretend you’ve got principles now, boy, Werner thought. It’s too late.

  Simon said: ‘I don’t think I can tell you that. It’s too risky.’

  ‘Think of the money, Simon. I might even pay more than you ask.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. A tight, hard look came across the young man’s face, and Werner glimpsed for the first time the cruel little guttersnipe hiding behind the perfect features. And mixed with the cruelty, suspicion and cunning. It was a look he had seen on the faces of boys at Eton, long ago.

  ‘I don’t believe you want this for a newspaper article at all, do you? You’re in the police, aren’t you? Either that or a German spy.’

  So the journalist idea has failed, Werner thought. He said, coolly: ‘And if I am?’

  ‘It would have to be a lot more money.’

  ‘I can pay.’

  The two men stared at each other in silence, recognising the change in relationship. One of the girls behind Simon said: ‘You meet such interesting people here, don’t you, Muriel? That’s why I come.’

  Keep him here, whatever you do, Werner thought. If he gets up to go now you’ve lost him. He said, carefully: ‘I always wondered how a young man like you could fit in with the Orange movement.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Simon stared at him, his voice low and urgent with tension. ‘Are you a spy or not?’

  ‘Sssssh.’ Werner put his finger to his lips, nodding significantly in the direction of the young ladies a few feet away behind the potted plants. ‘Never mind who I am for the moment. I’ll tell you that in a minute when you’ve answered my question. Don’t worry, I’m not insulted.’

  Werner’s coolness, the odd menacing light of amusement which flickered in his eyes, disconcerted Simon. ‘Answered what question, exactly?’

  ‘How an intelligent young man like you can work and survive in a military organisation dominated by a fundamental religious movement, the Ulster Presbyterian Church.’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. I go to church like other people. Anyway, the Orangemen are just cannon fodder, rank and file. They provide the bodies and the organisation, and industrialists provide the money. But the UVF is actually run by professional soldiers, aristocracy. Men of the upper crust. Mostly Anglicans, actually.’

  ‘Like Charles Cavendish?’

  ‘Yes, if you like. I don’t see what the hell this has got to do with . . .’

  ‘One minute, and you will.’ Werner held up his crippled right hand, one finger extended like a warning. The finger seemed to fascinate Simon. Werner said: ‘So when you and the aristocratic Colonel Cavendish hear some of the fundamental Orange preachers holding forth about Old Testament values, how do you feel, Simon? When they talk about Sodom and Gomorrah, for instance? After all, Sir Edward Carson is a fine speaker, as I heard for myself the other day, but he is very morally correct, too, is he not? I believe it was he who prosecuted the poet, Oscar Wilde, for . . . what some people call unnatural vices, some twenty years ago. He does not seem to me a man who would look kindly on any . . . immorality . . . amongst his followers. I wonder if that is a strain, sometimes, for a young man such as you.’

  For a moment Simon sat quite still without speaking. He seemed very cool but a flush flared on his cheeks and then drained away. There was a vicious look in his eyes, like that of a weasel who has been cornered by a terrier and will bite if it comes any closer. One of the girls behind said: ‘Oh, Belinda, you really can’t have another! It’s sinful, that’s what it is.’

  Simon murmured: ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Let me make myself clearer then. If I wrote in my newspaper, or better still in a letter addressed to Sir Edward Carson, House of Commons, a paragraph to say that Simon Fletcher was a sodomite, committing sin and buggery with Colonel Charles Cavendish of the UVF, what would be his reaction, do you think? What would happen to you? It is a crime that carries a two-year prison sentence, I believe.’

  For the first time Simon appeared flustered by the proximity of the young ladies behind him. Werner had deliberately raised his voice a little louder than it needed to be and Simon glanced nervously over his shoulder to ensure the women had not heard. Then he turned his head this way and that, as though looking for a way to escape.

  ‘If you leave now I shall do exactly what I said. Sit still.’

  Simon shuddered, then took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the sofa firmly. He met Werner’s eyes with a look of hatred.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Tha
t is none of your business at the moment. Let us just say I am older than you, and . . . you are not quite so invisible as you seem to believe.’

  Let him sweat, Werner thought. He had no intention of revealing his schoolboy connections with Charles Cavendish. That would only give Simon a weapon to turn against him. After all, knowledge was power. If he had not known from his own body what Charles was like, he would not have watched him for weeks with the intense gaze of hatred. Would not have seen that he had a young, handsome aide-de-camp who was constantly with him. Would not have approached that aide-de-camp to test his loyalty, and found it wanting. Would not have tested it further with the inspired guess that he had made just now.

  There was no doubt it was true. The fascinated horror in Simon Fletcher’s eyes, the fear and honesty that went into his response, put it beyond doubt.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Werner took his time. He extracted a fresh cigarette from the silver case in his pocket, lit it left-handed without offering one to his victim, and said: ‘No more than I have already told you. I want you to get me a full itinerary of Sir Edward Carson’s next visit to Ulster. Date of arrival, people he’ll meet, speeches he’ll make, houses he’ll stay in. I need a precise time and place for all those. Also, exact details of how he’ll be guarded – which unit, how well armed, how many men, how often the guards change, that sort of thing. It shouldn’t be too hard for you. A matter of detailed staffwork, that’s all – and that’s what your unit’s good at, isn’t it? Part of your job.’

  ‘I can’t find out all those things! They don’t write it all down on one sheet of paper, you know. They keep it secret and change their minds at the last minute, sometimes, for security.’

  ‘You’re part of that security, aren’t you? You and your lover boy?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Then make it your job to find it out! If it’s difficult, that’s too bad. You know what the alternative is.’

  As the shock of discovery sank in, Simon struggled to get control of himself. He felt as though he had stepped through a looking-glass, into the sort of situation which he recognised, but in which he had always previously been in control. He had to find out what the rules were, what were the limits to Werner’s blackmail.

  ‘Why do you need to know? You are a German spy, aren’t you?’

  This time it was his voice that was raised slightly higher. He noticed Werner’s eyes flicker momentarily past him, to check if they had been overheard. Two can play this game, he thought.

  But then we both lose . . .

  Werner said: ‘You can think that if you like, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve always regarded myself as a humble journalist.’

  ‘Liar!’

  Werner stared at him coldly, noticing a hint of courage return to the young man’s face. But it was the courage of desperation, the weasel trapped with nowhere to run. He exhaled smoke across the table.

  ‘You can insult me if you like, little pederast, I am impervious to that. But I give you two days, that’s all. You must come up with the bones of the information by then. I shall look it through and possibly ask for more details. If there is any backsliding or failure, then you and your Colonel will provide the biggest scandal the national press has seen this year. And for all I know Sir Edward Carson himself will lead the case in court for the prosecution. It will do the cause of Ulster Unionism no good at all. Rest assured, young man, I am a genuine journalist, and your story would further my career just as well as the other.’

  ‘Why don’t you just publish it then?’

  Werner smiled. He was aware that it was not a nice smile but he was enjoying the situation. His dislike for Simon and everything he stood for was intense — and he was also aware just how viciously the young man would fight back if he got the chance. It was not a chance Werner had any intention of giving him.

  ‘Let’s just say that I understand and sympathise with your perversion, shall I? And that it would pain me to think of a sensitive young man like you being beaten and buggered all day by strangers in prison. Or does that appeal to you, perhaps?’

  Simon’s face had gone quite white, and his hands shook as he stood up, quite involuntarily, quivering in front of his accuser. Werner thought he might have gone too far. But then they both saw a waiter, hovering uncertainly, and the moment when Simon might have attacked him was gone. He turned abruptly to leave.

  ‘Simon!’

  It was a pleasure to Werner to see how his voice brought the boy up short, like a dog on a leash.

  ‘Yes. What now?’

  ‘You forgot this.’

  He held out the faded straw boater. Simon reached for it but Werner held it back. As the boy bent towards him, Werner hissed: ‘At the Royal Ulster, on Monday at six, as before. And remember, I shall write the article beforehand and leave it in an envelope ready to be posted if I do not return. Don’t pretend to have principles, will you?’

  ‘Can I have my hat?’

  ‘Here.’

  As Simon snatched it and strode away through the jungle of potted plants, Werner leaned back in his armchair and took two deep, satisfied breaths. That young man will dream of killing me tonight, he thought. Slowly, he held his cigarette at arm’s length in front of him, watched the smoke curl lazily up towards the ceiling, and smiled.

  His fingers were not shaking at all.

  26

  SUMMER HAS come early, Charles Cavendish thought.

  It was an unusually perfect day. The sun sparkled out of a cloudless blue sky, a cool crisp breeze blew in from the sea over the waving green corn, and all along the hedgerows the trees were in their first flush of new leaf. Charles lounged in the back seat of his open-topped chauffeur-driven Lancia as it bowled along the country roads towards Lough Neagh. They drove past fields full of sheep and young lambs, bouncing after each other like long-legged white rubber balls; woods with a sudden hazy, limitless carpet of bluebells under the trees; a deep swirling river where a single fisherman stood, up to his thighs in water, like a silent, watchful heron; a meadow where a hare stood up on its hind legs in alarm and then ran, zig-zagging left, right, and away, out of sight behind a herd of stolid munching cows.

  This is my country, Charles thought. In its way it is the most beautiful place on earth.

  The wind on his cheeks was cooler, softer than the breeze on the high veldt, or the harsh dusty blast of oven-heated air that came down the Khyber Pass in summer; but this was the place that mattered most to him. Those other places were for travel and adventure; this was home.

  They drove through a small village of a few dozen thatched and slate-roofed cottages with a large Catholic church with a spire like a small cathedral at the end of the street and he thought: it is their land too in a way. But they are not fit to govern it, no more than peasants in the Sudan or Zulus in South Africa or Muslims in Lahore can be expected to rule themselves. It is not their place in life, nor will it be for a hundred years. If the government gives way to them all the energy and prosperity of Ulster will be lost, we will sink in confusion and savagery.

  But it isn’t going to happen.

  The Lancia bounced and swayed down the long rutted track towards St Andrew’s Preparatory School, and Charles glimpsed an orderly pattern of young boys in white between the trees, with a little crowd of spectators clustered by the pavilion and the scoreboard. In the sudden silence as the chauffeur stopped the car and switched off the engine outside the front door of the school, Charles heard the sound of his own boots scrunching across the gravel, sparrows chirping in the ivy, the crack of bat on ball and young boys cheering in the distance.

  There was no one about. He made his way quietly through the garden to the cricket field. As he appeared near the pavilion the headmaster, Dr Duncan, rose from a deckchair to greet him enthusiastically.

  ‘Colonel Cavendish! What a marvellous surprise, sir, marvellous! Your timing couldn’t be bettered — your son is next in to bat, I believe. Yes, that’s right! Fifty-th
ree to get off eight overs with four wickets in hand! They have a wickedly good off-spinner but we’re still in with a chance, I think!’

  ‘Splendid!’ Charles glanced up the steps of the pavilion to where his son, in cricket whites and pads, sat with his bat clutched tensely across his knees, staring out across the field. At first he thought Tom had not seen him but then the boy turned his way, and his eyes widened with surprise and delight. Charles walked up the steps towards him and Tom got awkwardly to his feet.

  ‘Hello, Father.’

  ‘Hello, Tom. Thought I’d drop in, see how the old team was getting on.’

  ‘It’s a bit stiff. They were a hundred and thirty two all out and we’re eighty for five, and one of their bowlers is . . . oh crikey, look at that. He’s going to catch him!’

  Charles turned to see a young fielder running slowly backwards with his hands raised high, intent on the flight of a ball which came down to him, safe into the hands which clutched it to his chest. There were cries, groans, and applause from the crowd.

  ‘Help! I’m in! Where are my gloves?’

  ‘Here, I think.’ Charles picked them up from the floor and handed them to him. ‘Good luck. Play a straight bat, Tom.’

  ‘I will if I can.’

  And then his son was gone, out onto the field, still fumbling with the gloves, his bat held clumsily under one arm. The pads, Charles thought, were a little big for him — the straps flapped and clinked as he walked. There was polite applause as he passed the batsman on the way out, and then Tom was there at the crease, taking his guard at the umpire’s directions while the bowler waited impatiently.

  Charles was astonished at the sudden tug of emotion the sight wrought in him. The boy seemed so small suddenly, so vulnerable — only a foot or two taller than the stumps he was standing to guard. I hope he does well, he thought, in front of all these people — and me. I could have put him off by arriving just at that moment. That would be awful.