Greybeard

by Brian Aldiss

  They were swallowing the vitamin pills down with the last of the beer when Pitt came in with another guard. On his shoulder tabs Pitt wore the insignia of a captain.

  “It looks as if we have to congratulate you on a good and swift promotion,” said Martha.

  “You needn’t be funny,” Pitt said sharply. “There happens to be a shortage of good men around these parts.”

  “I was not trying to be funny, Mr Pitt, and I can see from the number of stretchers busy outside that men are growing scarcer all the while.”

  “It doesn’t do to try and make jokes about the plague.”

  “My wife was attempting to be pleasant,” Timberlane said. “Just watch how you answer her, or there will be complaints in.”

  “If you have any complaints, address them to me,” Pitt said.

  The Timberlanes exchanged glances. The unassuming corporal of the night before had disappeared; this man’s voice was ragged and his whole manner highly strung. Martha went over to her mirror and sat down before it. How the hollows crept on in her cheeks! She felt stronger today, but the thought of the trials and heat that lay before them gave her no reassurance. She felt in the springs of her menstruation a dull pain, as if her infertile and unfertilizable ovaries protested their own sterility. Laboriously, from her pots and tubes, she endeavoured to conjure into her face a life and warmth she felt she would never again in actuality possess.

  As she worked, she studied Pitt in the glass. Was that nervous manner simply a result of sudden promotion, or was there another reason for it?

  “I am taking you and Mrs Timberlane out on a mission in ten minutes,” he told Timberlane. “Get yourself ready. We shall proceed to your old flat in Iffley Road. There we shall pick up your recording van, and go up to the Churchill Hospital.”

  “What for? I have an appointment with Commander Croucher. He said nothing to me about this yesterday.”

  “He told me he did tell you about it. You said you wanted documentary evidence of what has been going on up at the hospital. We are going up there to get it.”

  “I see. But my appointment — ”

  “Look, don’t argue with me, I’ve got my orders, see, and I’m going to carry them out. You don’t have appointments here, anyway — we just have orders. The commander is busy.”

  “But he told me — ”

  Captain Pitt tapped his newly acquired revolver for emphasis.

  “Ten minutes, and we are going out. I’ll be back for you. You are both coming with me to collect your vehicle.” He turned on his heel and marched noisily out. The other guard, a big slack-jawed fellow, moved ostentatiously to stand by the door.

  “What’s it mean?” Martha asked, going to her husband. He put his arms about her waist and gave her a worried frown.

  “Croucher must have changed his mind in some way. Yet it may be perfectly okay. I did ask to see the Churchill records, so perhaps he is trying to show he will co-operate with us.”

  “But Pitt is so different, too. Last night he was telling me about his wife, and how he had been forced to take part in this massacre in the centre of Oxford...”

  “Perhaps his promotion has gone to his head...”

  “Oh, it’s the uncertainty, Algy, everything’s so — nothing’s definite, nobody knows what’s going to happen from day to day... Perhaps they are just after the truck.”

  She stood with her head against his chest, he stood with his arms around her, neither saying more until Pitt returned. He beckoned to them and they went down into the square, the new captain leading and the slack-mouthed guard following.

  They climbed into a windrush. Under Pitt’s control, the motor faltered and caught, and they moved slowly across the parade ground and through the gates with a wave at the sentries.

  The new day had brought no improvement in Oxford’s appearance. Down Hollow Way, a row of semidetacheds burned in a devitalized fashion, as though a puff of wind might extinguish the blaze; smoke from the fire hung over the area. Near the old motor works there was military activity, much of it disorganized. They heard a shot fired. In the Cowley Road, the long straggling street of shops that pointed towards the ancient spires of Oxford, the façades were often boarded or broken. Refuse lay deep on the pavements. By one or two of the shops old women queued for goods, silent and apart, with scarves around their mouths despite the growing heat. Dust eddying from the underthrust of the windrush blew around their broken shoes. They ignored it, in the semblance of dignity that abjection brings.

  Throughout the journey Pitt’s face was like brittle leather. His nose, like the beak of a falcon, pointed only ahead. None of the company spoke. When they arrived at the flat, he settled the machine to a poor landing in the middle of the road. Martha was glad to climb out; their windrush was full of stale male odours.

  Within twenty-four hours their flat had become a strange place. She had forgotten how shabby and unpainted it looked from outside. They saw a soldier sitting at what had been their living-room window. He commanded a line of fire onto the garage door. At present, he was leaning out of the flat window shouting down to a ragged old man clad in a pair of shorts and a mackintosh. The old man stood in the gutter clutching a bundle of newspapers.

  “Oxford Mail!” the old man croaked. As Timberlane went to buy one, Pitt made as if to stop him, muttered “Why not?” and turned away. Martha was the only one to see the gesture.

  The paper was a single sheet peppered with literals. A prominently featured leader rejoiced in being able to resume publication now that law and order had been restored; elsewhere it announced that anyone trying to leave the city boundaries without permission would be shot; it announced that the Super

  Cinema would give a daily film show; it ordered all men under the age of sixty-five to report within forty-eight hours to one of fifteen schools converted into emergency military posts. Clearly, the newspaper had fallen under the commander’s control.

  “Let’s get moving. We haven’t got all day,” Captain Pitt said.

  Timberlane tucked the paper into his hip pocket and moved towards the garage. He unlocked it and went in. Pitt stood close by his side as he squeezed along the shuttered DOUCH(E) truck and fingered the combination lock on the driver’s door. Martha watched the captain’s face; over and over, he was moistening his dry lips.

  The two men climbed into the truck. Timberlane unlocked the steering column and backed slowly out into the road. Pitt called to the soldier in the window to lock up the flat and drive his windrush back to the barracks. Martha and the slack-mouthed guard were told to climb aboard the truck. They settled themselves in the seats immediately behind the driver. Both Pitt and his subordinate sat with revolvers in their hands, resting them on their knees.

  “Drive towards the Churchill,” Pitt said. “Take it very slowly. There’s no hurry at all.” He cleared his throat nervously. Sweat stood out on his forehead. He rubbed his left thumb up and down the barrel of his revolver without ceasing.

  Giving him a searching glance, Timberlane said, “You’re sick, man. You’d better get back to barracks and have a doctor examine you.”

  The revolver jerked. “Just get her rolling. Don’t talk to me.” He coughed, and ran a hand heavily over his face. One of his eyelids developed a nervous flutter and he glanced over his shoulder at Martha.

  “Really, don’t you think — ”

  “Shut up, woman!”

  With Timberlane hugging the wheel, they crawled down a little dead side street. Two Cowley Fathers in black habits were carrying a woman between them, moving with difficulty under her weight; her left hand trailed against the pavement. They stood absolutely still as the truck came level with them and did not move until it had gone past. The dead vacant face of the woman gaped at Martha as they growled by. Pitt swallowed spittle audibly.

  As if coming to a resolution, he raised his revolver. As the point swung towards Timberlane, Martha screamed. Her husband trod on the brake. They rocked back and forth, the engine died, they stopp
ed.

  Before Timberlane could heave himself around, Pitt dropped the gun and hid his face in his hands. He was weeping and raving, but what he said was indistinguishable.

  The slack-mouthed fellow said, “Keep still! Keep still! Don’t run away! We don’t none of us want to get shot.”

  Timberlane had the captain’s revolver in his hand. He knocked Pitt’s arms down from his face. Seeing how his weapon had changed owners sobered Pitt.

  “Shoot me if you must — think I’d care? Go on, better get it over with. I shall be shot anyhow when Croucher finds I let you escape. Shoot us all and be done with it!”

  “I never done no one any harm — I used to be a postman. Let me get out! Don’t shoot me,” the slack-mouthed guard said. He still nursed his revolver helplessly on his lap. The sight of his captain’s breakdown had completely disorganized him.

  “Why should I shoot either of you?” Timberlane asked curtly. “Equally, why should you shoot me? What were your orders, Pitt?”

  “I spared your life. You can spare mine. You’re a gentleman! Put the gun away. Let me have it again. Shut it in a locker.” He was recovering again, still confused, but cocky and casting his untrustworthy eye about. Timberlane kept the gun aimed at his chest.

  “Let’s have that explanation.”

  “It was Croucher’s orders. He had me in front of me — I mean in front of him — this morning. Said that this vehicle of yours should be in his hands. Said you were just an intellectual troublemaker, a spy maybe, from London. Once you’d got the truck moving, I was to shoot you and your lady wife. Then Studley here and me was to report back to him with the vehicle. But I couldn’t do it, honest, I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. I had a wife and family — I’ve had enough of all this killing — if my poor old Vi — ”

  “Cut out the ham acting, Mr Pitt, and let us think,” Martha said. She put an arm over her husband’s shoulder. “So we couldn’t trust friend Croucher after all.”

  “He couldn’t trust us. Men in his position may be fundamentally liberal, but they have to remove random elements.”

  “You got that phrase from my father. Okay, Algy, so we’re random elements again — now what do we do?”

  To her surprise, he twisted around and kissed her. There was a hard gaiety in him. He was the man in command. He removed the revolver from the unprotesting Studley, and slipped it into a locker.

  “In the circumstances we have no alternatives. We’re getting out of Oxford. We’ll head west towards Devon. That would seem to be the best bet. Pitt, will you and Studley join us?”

  “You’ll never get out of Oxford and Cowley. The barricades are up. They were put up during the night across all roads leading out of town.”

  “If you want to throw in your lot with us, you take orders from me. Are you going to join us? Yes or no?”

  “But I’m telling you, the barricades are up. You couldn’t get out of town, not if you were Croucher you couldn’t,” Pitt said.

  “You must have a pass or something to permit you to be driving around the streets. What was that thing you flashed at the guard as we left the barracks?”

  Pitt brought a pass sheet out of his tunic pocket, and handed it over.

  “I’ll have your tunic, too. From now on you are demoted to private. Sorry, Pitt, but you didn’t exactly earn your promotion, did you?”

  “I’m no murderer, if that’s what you mean.” His manner was steadier now. “Look, I tell you we’ll all get killed if you attempt to drive through the barricades. They’ve established these big concrete blocks everywhere. They stop traffic and tip up GEMs.”

  “Get that tunic off before we talk.”

  The Cowley Fathers came level with the truck. They stared in before labouring into a public house with their burden.

  As Timberlane passed his jacket over to Martha and slipped on Pitt’s tunic — it creaked at its rotten seams as he struggled into it — he said, “Food must be still coming into the town, mustn’t it? Food, stores, ammunition — God knows what. Don’t tell me Croucher isn’t intelligent enough to organize that. In fact he’s probably looting the counties all around for his supplies.”

  Unexpectedly, Studley leaned forward and tapped Timberlane on the shoulder. “That’s right, sir, and there’s a fish convoy coming up from Southampton due here this morning, ’cause I heard that Transport Sergeant Tucker say so when we signed for the windrush earlier on.”

  “Good man! The barriers will have to go down to let the convoy through. As the convoy enters, we go out. Which way will it be coming from?”

  As they trundled south through the devouring sunlight, the sound of an explosion came to them. Farther up the road, they saw by a pall of smoke to their right that Donnington Bridge had been blown up. A way out of the city had been cut off. Nobody spoke. Like the cholera, the desolation in the streets was contagious.

  At Rose Hill, the blocks of flats set back from the road were as blank as cliffs. The only alleviation to the stark nudity of the thoroughfare was an ambulance that crawled from a service road, its blue light revolving. All its windows were blanketed. It mounted the grass verge, crossed the main road only a few yards ahead of the DOUCH(E) vehicle, and stopped on the opposite verge with a final shudder. As they passed it, they caught sight of the driver sprawled across the wheel...

  Farther on, among private houses, it was less like death. In several front gardens old men and women were burning bonfires. And what superstition did that represent, Martha wondered.

  When they reached a roundabout, soldiers with slung rifles came out from a check point to meet them. Timberlane leaned out of the window and flashed the pass without stopping. The soldiers waved him on.

  “How much farther?” Timberlane asked.

  “We’re nearly there. The roadblock we want is at Littlemore Railway Bridge. Beyond that it’s just country,” Pitt said.

  “Croucher has a long boundary to defend.”

  “That’s why he wants more men. This blocking of roads was a bright idea of his. It helps keep strangers out as well as us in. He doesn’t want deserters getting away and setting up an opposition, does he? The road takes a right bend here towards the bridge, and there’s a road joins it from the right. Ah, there’s that pub, the Marlborough — that’s on the corner!”

  “Right, do what I told you. Take a tip from that ambulance we passed. All right, Martha, my sweet? Here we go!”

  As they rounded the bend, Timberlane slumped over the wheel, trailing his right hand out of the window. Pitt slumped beside him; the other two lolled back in their seats. Steering carefully, Timberlane negotiated their vehicle in a drunken line towards the public house Pitt had mentioned. He let it mount the pavement, then twisted the wheel and released the clutch while remaining in gear. The truck shuddered violently before stopping. They were facing Littlemore Bridge, a mere two hundred yards up the road.

  “Good, keep where you are,” Timberlane said. “Let’s hope the Southampton convoy is on time. How many vehicles is it likely to consist of, Studley?”

  “Four, five, six. Hard to tell. It varies.”

  “Then we ought to aim to get through after the second truck.”

  As Timberlane spoke, he was scanning ahead. The railway line lay hidden in its cutting. The road narrowed into two traffic lanes by the bridge. It was concealed beyond the bridge by the rise of the land, but fortunately the roadblock had been set up on this side of the bridge, and so was visible from where they waited. It consisted of a collection of concrete blocks, two old lorries, and wooden poles. A small wooden building nearby had been taken over by the military; it looked as if it might house a machine gun. Only one soldier could be seen, leaning by the door of the building and shading his eyes to look down the road at them.

  A builder’s lorry stood near the barrier. A man was standing in it, throwing bricks down to another man. They appeared to be strengthening the defences, and to judge by their clumsy movements, they were unused to the job.

  Mi
nutes passed. The whole scene was nondescript; this dull stretch of road was neither town nor country. Not only did the sunlight drain it of all its pretensions; it had perhaps never been surveyed as purposefully as Timberlane surveyed it now. The slothful movements of the men handling bricks took on a sort of dreamlike persistence. Flies entered the DOUCH(E) truck, droning their way fruitlessly about the interior. Their noise reminded Martha of the long summer days of her girlhood, when into her happiness, to become an inseparable part of it, had entered the realization that a wrong like a curse hung over her and over her parents and over her friends — and over everyone. She had seen the effects of the curse spread wider and wider, like the sand in a desert sandstorm that erodes the sky. Wide-eyed, she stared at the hunched back of her husband, indulging herself in a little horror fantasy that he was dead, really dead of the cholera. She succeeded in frightening herself.

  “Algy — ”

  “Here they come! Watch it now! Lie flat, Martha; they’re bound to shoot as we go through.”

  He sent them rolling forward, bumping back onto the road. A first lorry, a big furniture lorry plastered in dust, humped itself over the narrow bridge from the other side. One soldier came to attend to it; he drew back part of the wooden barricade to allow the lorry through. It growled forward through the narrow opening. As it moved down the road towards the DOUCH(E) vehicle, a second lorry — this one an army lorry with a torn canopy — appeared over the bridge.

  Their timing had to be good. Rolling steadily ahead, the DOUCH(E) truck had to pass that second lorry as close to the bridge as possible. Timberlane pressed his foot down harder. Elms by the roadside, tawdry from dust, scattered sunlight red and white across his vision. They passed the first lorry. The driver called something. They sped towards the army lorry. It was coming through the concrete blocks. The driver saw Timberlane, gestured, accelerated, swung his wheel to the near side. The sentry ran forward, swinging up his rifle. His mouth flapped. His words were lost in the sound of engines. Timberlane drove straight at him.