Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  Guy, giving an ear to each of them, inclined towards Dobson, having some interest in the uses of diplomacy and none in Tony Brody.

  It was Dobson’s belief that the British empire began to decay when the speed-up of communications gave the Colonial Office dominion over the colonial governors.

  ‘That will be my theme,’ he said.

  Guy considered it: ‘You mean, individuality became answerable to the machine?’

  ‘Excellently put,’ Dobson scribbled on an envelope: ‘We no longer have great men like Bentinck, the Wellesleys, Henry Laurence, James Kirk: men who developed their initiative by exercising it. Now the service is dependent on a pack of nonentities. You agree?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do. One can develop bad judgement as well as good.’

  ‘True, but now we have no judgement at all. We administer by statistics.’

  ‘That’s not necessarily harmful. Think of the mayhem that’s been caused by putting a Hitler in control.’

  ‘Well, yes. Strong measures don’t always work. Would you say that HE did any good when he drove a tank through the gates of Abdin Palace?’

  ‘You know more about that than I do.’

  Dobson consulted another envelope: ‘I’ve said the results weren’t up to much. HE thought he’d taught Farouk a lesson but Farouk has his own ideas. He’s no fool. The other day he said to HE: “When are you going to take the last of your damn troops out of my country.” HE gave him a lecture on Egypt being the front line of defence of the Gulf oil-fields. Farouk listened in sulky silence and at the end said: “Oh, stay if you must, but when the war’s over, for God’s sake put down the white man’s burden and go.’”

  When Guy laughed, Dobson added quickly: ‘But keep that under your hat. It’s my story. Those bloody journalists are a pack of thieves. If you’re fool enough to tell them anything, they’ll print it as their own next day. Your friend Jackman is the biggest crook.’

  ‘Jackman’s no longer here.’

  ‘Umm, I forgot. Now listen to this: King Farouk said to me: “Egypt, you know, is part of Europe.” “Indeed,” I replied: “Which part?” I wasn’t going to put it in but I think it’s too good to leave out.’

  Edwina, weary of this talk, broke in on it: ‘Oh, Dobbie, you’re becoming a bore. No wonder Harriet described you as a master of impersonal conversation.’

  ‘Did she?’ Dobson spoke in a high note of satisfaction and scribbled down: ‘Master of impersonal conversation.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve any real feeling for anyone. You know how worried I am. Here am I on the very eve of marrying Tony and I’m not sure I’ll go ahead with it.’

  ‘Then I’d better cancel the order for champagne.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you should do that,’ Edwina said.

  When Edwina had accused him of leaving Harriet too much on her own, Guy had been offended, yet the accusation was justified. Harriet must have spent many nights on her own and he had never asked her what she did with herself. Loneliness was something outside his experience. He had his work and his friends, and he had sacrificed Harriet to both. The truth was, the war had given his work too much importance. Work had condoned his civilian status. Its demands had left him no time for his wife and he had instigated her return on the doomed ship. But had the demands of his work been so intensive? Didn’t he inflate them to save his civilian face?

  Now, no longer challenged by the nearness of war, he could see the futility of his reserved occupation. Lecturing on English literature, teaching the English language, he had been peddling the idea of empire to a country that only wanted one thing; to be rid of the British for good and all. And, to add to the absurdity of the situation, he himself had no belief in empire.

  But if he did not have his work, what would be left to him? He thought it no wonder that people were giving themselves to such absurdities as Dobson’s memoirs and Edwina’s perfunctory marriage. The war had abandoned them, leaving them in a vacuum that had been filled by everyday worries. But everyday worries were not enough. They had to invent excitements to make life bearable. Now it seemed to him the only excitement left in life was work.

  He still had friends, of course. Almost everyone who knew him, claimed him as a friend. Simon was still on hand, glad of an outing now and then. And Aidan Pratt, though given little encouragement, came to Cairo with the sole purpose of seeing him.

  Aidan, taking two weeks’ leave, had spent the whole time at Shepherd’s, telephoning Guy every day and begging his company when Guy had time to spare.

  On his last day, he invited Guy to dinner at the Hermitage. ‘Just to say “goodbye”,’ he said with unconvincing cheerfulness and Guy, feeling bound to him by his affection for Harriet, accepted the invitation but said he would probably arrive late.

  ‘However late you are, I’ll wait for you,’ Aidan replied and Guy, tired of his company, felt the relationship was being augmented by a sort of blackmail.

  Crossing the Midan to the restaurant door, Guy could see through the glass into the brightly-lit interior where Aidan was sitting on a sofa. He was, as he promised, waiting for his guest, looking for him but looking in the wrong direction, his dark, sombre eyes betraying a longing that brought Guy to a stop.

  Guy, reaching the pavement, paused in the darkness of the street, reluctant to enter, knowing he was the longed-for object. He had tolerated Aidan, feeling indebted to him for grief shared, but now he had had enough. As he stood, half inclined to make his escape, Aidan turned, saw him and at once played another role. He had been sitting in the sofa corner like a caged, unhappy bird, Now, rising with an actor’s grace, he lifted a hand as Guy joined him and said: ‘So there you are!’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘I’m quite used to your being late,’ Aidan spoke lightly, with a self-denigratory smile as though resigned to his unimportance in Guy’s scheme of things. The smile still lingered on his face as they went to the table he had booked and sat down.

  During dinner, he did not try to establish any sort of intimacy. He talked, as most people did, about the war. He had heard, he said, that plans were in hand for a combined British and American attack across the Mediterranean.

  Guy said: ‘I knew it was on the cards but if it’s imminent, surely it would be top secret?’

  ‘It is top secret. Naturally. But things get round. That fellow Lister who works at Sharq al Adna, you’ve only to give him a few drinks and he’ll tell you anything. He got a signal about the preparations for an attack across the Med, but there’s more to it than that. There’s a rumour that the Vichy government has started to evacuate children from the Channel ports. That could mean a concerted attack, north and south. If there were two sudden blows, the whole centre could disintegrate quite suddenly. It might mean a complete German collapse.’

  ‘You think so?’ Guy could not believe it. He did not even want to believe it. He was in no fit state to face peace at that time: ‘If by the centre, you mean the occupied countries, an area of that size doesn’t collapse in a hurry. Except for Switzerland and Sweden, it’s the whole of Europe.’

  ‘What about Spain?’

  ‘Spain’s part of the Axis.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. The Germans haven’t found Franco as docile as they’d hoped, and we should be grateful for it. If the government had won, Spain would have been occupied when war broke out. It would have been an important stronghold for the enemy. We would certainly have lost Gibraltar.’

  Guy, frowning, said: ‘That’s merely supposition.’

  Aware that he had annoyed Guy, Aidan left the question of Spain and said mildly: ‘I have a feeling the war could be over this year.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. The Germans will fight from town to town, from house to house, doorway to doorway. It could drag on for years. By the time we get back — if we ever do get back — there may be nothing left of Europe but rat-ridden, plague-stricken ruins, and, don’t forget, there are other war zones. I can’t imagine the Japanese eve
r giving in. It could be like the Hundred Years War. There may never be peace in our time.’

  Aidan gave a bleak laugh: ‘You’re very gloomy tonight. Why shouldn’t we pull out? — make a separate peace?’

  ‘Pull out? We’re allied to Russia and the United States. Do you imagine we could pull out and leave them to fight without us? Would you want such a thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’

  Guy could see that Aidan did want it, though he had little hope of it. The smile that had lingered on his face faded as he contemplated a lifetime of war and he said: ‘I believe a good many people want it but, of course, they won’t admit it. Look what the war has done to us all! You’ve lost Harriet. I’ve lost my future as an actor, everything that mattered to me. Do you remember that night in Alex when Harriet said she had seen me as Konstantin in The Seagull? How moved she had been! She said she was spellbound. On the first night, I said to myself, “Now it’s all beginning,” and less than three months later, it had ended. I declared myself a conscientious objector and I was directed on to that ship taking the children to Canada . . .’ Aidan’s voice failed and Guy, not unfeeling, said: ‘It’ll end sometime. We’ll begin again.’

  ‘But too late for me. I’ll just be another out-of-work actor.’

  ‘You think you’ll be forgotten so soon?’

  ‘I’d scarcely done enough to be remembered as more than promising. And I’ll be edging into middle-age. Too late to be promising. In the theatre, if you don’t start young, you might as well not start at all.’

  Guy shook his head slowly, having no consolation to offer. As they walked to the station, Aidan broke their silence to ask: ‘Did you mean that about the Hundred Years War?’

  ‘Not really, no. But however long it lasts, what is lost, is lost. Things won’t be returned to us. I forgot to tell you: Harriet left something for you — one of those Egyptian votive figures. A cat. She said you’d asked her to keep it for you.’

  ‘Yes, I bought it for my mother.’

  ‘Well, it’s at the flat. I’ll send it to you.’

  They became silent again for some minutes then Guy said: ‘I’ve been reading Pater’s Imaginary Portraits. He says that the Greeks had a special word for the Fate that leads one to a violent end. It’s Kήρ — the extraordinary destiny. It comes out to the cradle and follows the doomed man all the way: “over the waves, through powder and shot, through the rose gardens . . .’”

  ‘The rose gardens!’ Aidan jerked out a laugh: ‘Aren’t we all being followed through the rose gardens? One way or another, we’re all due for a violent end. But do you think Harriet suffered an extraordinary destiny?’

  ‘Who knows what happened on that ship?’

  ‘Do you mean cannibalism? I assure you that in our boat, no one even thought of it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean cannibalism. She probably didn’t even get into the life-boat. Just think of them all fighting for their lives. She was thin and weak. She’d been ill. She wouldn’t’ve stood a chance.’

  Aidan did not answer. They had reached the station and when he had found his berth in the sleeping-car, he stood in the corridor to say goodbye. Guy, looking at him from the platform, said: ‘If you give me your address in Jerusalem, I’ll post the cat to you.’

  ‘Why don’t you bring it yourself? You must have some leave due to you. Come and spend a week in Palestine. Jerusalem is a lovely place, just like a Cotswold town. A holiday will do you good. Take your mind off things.’

  ‘No.’ Guy spoke firmly. He had seen enough of Aidan for the time being and the remarks about Spain still irked him. He had decided to see less of him in future. There would be no scope for personal fantasies about a relationship that could never exist. Stepping back from the carriage, he said: ‘I won’t wait any longer. I’ll be off.’

  Aidan could not let him go so easily. Putting his arm out through the open window, he leant forward to touch Guy, pleading with him: ‘Do come to Jerusalem . . .’ Before Aidan’s hand could touch him, Guy took another step back.

  Looking at Aidan’s eager, unhappy face, he shook his head: ‘It’s out of the question. I’m much too busy. What is your address?’

  ‘I’m at the YMCA. Are you sure you won’t come?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Perhaps later. In the summer. It’s an ideal summer climate.’

  ‘No, I haven’t time for holidays.’

  ‘Or for me?’

  Guy laughed, treating the question as a joke, and Aidan, his dark eyes pained, stared at him and gave a long sigh. Saying, ‘Then goodbye, Guy,’ he turned and shut himself in his berth.

  Guy sensed the finality in that ‘goodbye’ and approved it. He would prefer not to see Aidan again. He had no wish to hurt him but what was more hurtful than the pursuit of hopeless illusions? Outside the station, he realized he had not answered Aidan and he said to himself: ‘Goodbye, goodbye’.

  A clean break, a tidy break, he thought as he set out on the long walk through the town to Garden City.

  Nineteen

  The invitation to the Holy Fire completely changed Angela’s attitude towards Lister. Castlebar sometimes grumbled about him, saying: ‘Do we want that fat fool drinking our whisky every night?’ Angela now put a stop to these complaints. ‘I won’t hear a word against him. He’s my favourite man.’

  Lister, flattered by her, seemed to melt into self-satisfaction and was constantly lifting her hand to his wet moustache. Everything he did seemed to amuse her. She made him repeat his limericks that were less witty and more scatalogical than Castlebar’s. Harriet thought them abject but to Angela they were wildly funny and she demanded more and more. Lister’s pride rose to such a point, he decided to give a party.

  ‘Small party. Nothing grand. Hope to see you in my room at 18.00 hours. Eh?’

  Lister’s room could not have held a larger party. He had invited a Wren officer on leave from Alexandria and the guests were somehow packed in with the bed, wardrobe, small table and single chair. The Wren, as newcomer, was given the chair and Castlebar stood, hanging over her. A strip of carpet ran from chair to table and on the table there was a bottle of gin.

  Harriet and Angela were to sit beside Lister on the bed. Before sitting down, Angela examined the ornamental label on the gin bottle and read:

  IN MEMORIAM GIN

  Bottled by H M King George VI at Balmoral, England and Shipped by Messrs Ramatoola, New Delhi, India.

  She asked: ‘Where on earth did you get that?’

  In a lofty tone, Lister said: ‘I have my contacts.’

  Angela told Castlebar: ‘Gin doesn’t agree with you,’ but Castlebar was not listening. Standing very close to the pretty Wren, he said that as she was a sailor, she ought to know some sea shanties. Cheerful and obliging, the girl sang ‘Roll out the Barrel’ while Castlebar kept time with his forefinger. Though he seemed absorbed by the singing, he slipped away every few minutes and tip-toed along the carpet to top up his glass. Returning with the same tip-tippity step, he kept his finger waving to cover his excursions to the bottle.

  Angela watched anxiously as the line of his steps was impressed on the carpet and whispered to Harriet: ‘That stuff will kill him.’

  It was also having an effect upon Lister who was beginning to hark back to ancient wrongs. He told the room that there had been a ‘super tart’ staying at the King David the previous Christmas. He had decided to give himself a Christmas present of a session with the lady but — here his voice started to break: ‘She wanted so much money, I couldn’t afford it. I said: “Season of good-will. Come on, do a chap a good turn,” but she wouldn’t drop her . . .’ Lister ended on a sob.

  ‘Wouldn’t drop her what?’ Angela asked crossly.

  ‘Price,’ Lister gulped.

  Angela shouted to Castlebar: ‘Time to go, Bill.’

  He was led out of the YMCA in a dazed state and half-way across the road he sank down on to his knees. Pulling him to his feet, Angela demanded: ‘What was
that stuff you were drinking? Some sort of bootleg poison, from the look of it.’

  ‘Very strong,’ Castlebar mumbled: ‘Only needed a sip to knock a fellow out.’

  Angela ordered him to bed. When he was not well enough to appear for supper, she confided to Harriet: ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Bill.’

  The next day was the day of the ceremony. Before Harriet had finished her breakfast, Lister arrived, eager to be off. In his impatience, he left the hotel and walked up and down in the early sunlight while Harriet telephoned through to Angela, urging her to come down.

  Lister was wearing his cap at a jaunty angle, the peak over one eye, but beneath it, his face was strained and he paused every now and then to look down at the desert boot which held his gouty toe.

  It was nearly nine before the party set out. When they reached the Jaffa Gate, crowds were passing through it on their way to the Holy Sepulchre — or so Lister said. He had forgotten that the Ceremony had been organized by the police and kept saying there would be no room for them in the church.

  Just inside the gate, where meat stalls imbued the air with a smell like a rotting corpse, Angela stopped to laugh at a single piece of black meat which hung in a mist of flies. The owner, supposing her to be a customer, hurried out with his flit gun and sprayed the meat. Angela started to chaff him in Arabic and Lister, beside himself with anxiety, gripped her upper arm and urged her on, saying: ‘It’ll be your fault if we miss the show.’

  Elbowed by all the races of Palestine, they pushed a way through the main alley that ran deeply between buildings that almost touched in the upper air. Lister, hurrying his party on, realized he did not know the way to the basilica. He began to force them wildly this way and that, first through the fruit market, then the spice market, then into the bazaar of the metal workers where the air rasped with the smell of white hot steel.