by MARY HOCKING
The hut was mostly a store area, but at the far end there was a partition with a door in it. The words J. KLEINE were painted on the door. Wilson walked across to the door, knocked and went in. There was an old Jew, fat and coarse-looking, slouched behind a littered table in a room not much bigger than a solitary cell. He looked up as Wilson came in. He had protruding, veined eyes with a mournful expression. He looked familiar, Wilson thought; the kind of character that always cropped up at such a time.
‘I’m Wilson.’
The old Jew nodded. He looked as though he thought that Wilson was familiar, too. It seemed to sadden him.
‘I’ve nothing but rough work to offer you,’ he said in a nasal voice.
‘So I understand.’
The two men looked at one another. The old Jew spread his hands out, palms upwards.
‘That’s all there is to it, son. You’ll find my foreman across the yard.’
He watched, his grizzled head a little on one side, as the young man went to the door.
‘Just a minute, son.’ He waited while Wilson turned round, wary again, hating the form of address. ‘I don’t care what you did or why you did it. But the men won’t be the same. So I shouldn’t start telling them your life story.’
‘That’s the last thing I would do.’
‘And don’t get above yourself, or they’ll give you a rough time.’
‘Any more advice?’
The old Jew looked at him sadly, but he did not say any more.
II
Ralph drove into Acton to visit a patient at the General Hospital after he left the newspaper office. He came back, quite unnecessarily, via Western Avenue where he drove the car very fast for a time. There was a gentle, contented smile on his lips; he might have been composing the most benign of sermons, but in fact he was congratulating himself on having just jumped a red. He never explained his attitude to driving by saying that he was a different man behind the wheel of a car, because he was well aware that the Ralph Kimberley who liked to drive recklessly was the same Ralph Kimberley who would have liked to live, if not recklessly, at least a little more adventurously than his calling permitted. He slowed down, however, before he reached the roundabout at East Acton.
‘You want to go carefully, Vicar,’ Inspector Pym had warned him. ‘You’ve upset a good few people in the Force and from now on you can expect to be pulled in for any offence in the book.’ To be arrested for demonstrating against the bomb would be one thing: it would be quite another matter to be arrested for dangerous driving. Nevertheless, he had enjoyed his ride and as he turned the car into a side-street just beyond the Savoy Cinema he was still smiling to himself.
He intended to leave the car at a garage near by for an overhaul, but he had a call to make first. The road along which he was driving had once been part of a residential area, but now the buses ran along it and the ground floors of the terraced houses had been converted into shops, none of which looked very prosperous. Half-way along the road on the right-hand side there was a sports ground owned by an engineering firm which had a rather desolate appearance because it was never used, the employees preferring other forms of entertainment which the management could not be expected to provide. On the opposite side of the road to the sports ground there was a bookshop, sandwiched between a hairdresser’s and a launderette. The bookshop, in spite of a brave display of new covers in the window, also had the rather desolate appearance of the unwanted.
There was no one serving when Ralph went in, which added to the impression that trade was not flourishing. From somewhere at the back, however, there came the sound of a typewriter. Ralph listened; the keys were being struck hard and regularly, but there was no rhythm. ‘Two fingers,’ he decided. ‘It must be Frank.’ His attention was drawn to a display of periodicals, pamphlets and paper-backs set out on a table just inside the door. The literature was exclusively left-wing and pamphlets concerned with the nuclear disarmament campaign were given prominence. Ralph chuckled. Frank Godfrey, as always, showed his colours uncompromisingly. Not that Ralph entirely agreed with this form of display. In his opinion propaganda should be kept out of print as much as possible: it made very boring reading and probably put off far more people than it ever converted. Also, there was a certain dedicated earnestness about some of the disarmament literature which sometimes made him feel like a well-intentioned amateur. He strolled across to the shelf where the volumes of poetry and literary criticism were usually to be found. There was, as he had hoped, a new one on Yeats. He took it down and began reading at random. After a few minutes, he exploded:
‘What does it matter what he meant by “That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea”!’
The door at the back of the shop opened and a thin, frail man appeared holding a very large stapler.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
He withdrew momentarily and then reappeared with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses replacing the stapler in his hands.
‘It’s one of the most magnificent lines ever written. Why can’t it be left at that?’
Frank Godfrey adjusted his glasses, took the book from Ralph’s hands and skimmed one or two lines. He held the book up rather high to read and tucked his chin in. This gave him the appearance, Ralph thought affectionately, of a very ancient tenor preparing for his entrance in one of the more demanding passages of the ‘Messiah’. But the voice which spoke was dry and decisive.
‘Personally, I do like to know what things mean. Otherwise I’m always afraid that they mean nothing.’
‘What does your son think of it?’ Ralph asked.
Frank’s son was going up to Oxford next year to read English. Frank usually welcomed an opportunity to talk about him, but today the enquiry seemed to displease him.
‘I haven’t asked him.’
He replaced the book on the shelf and gave it a rather disapproving poke on the spine. While he was doing this a young man in slacks and a torn pullover slouched in and enquired about a translation of Rilke. Frank Godfrey gave him all the information that he wanted, but the young man did not place an order.
‘You might pick up a copy at one of the second-hand bookshops if you’re lucky,’ Frank informed him.
When the young man had gone out, having noted the names of one or two likely second-hand bookshops, Ralph said:
‘You need an assistant, Frank.’
‘Oh, this is a bad day,’ Frank answered, imagining that he was being teased. Ralph, however, was quite serious.
‘You wouldn’t care to employ an ex-prisoner to help you out?’
Frank looked up sharply. He saw his friend watching him with the suppressed excitement of a person who has prepared a very special treat and is shortly to see it enjoyed by all concerned.
‘No!’ Frank said. ‘Most definitely not.’
Ralph’s face furrowed in dismay.
‘But I was so sure that you, of all people . . .’
‘I haven’t the time.’ Frank lowered his head and directed a reproving glance over the tops of his glasses. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’
‘But it doesn’t require time. He’d be helping you. I know that the last one went off with your takings, but this lad is different . . .’
‘Not only do I lack time, but I haven’t the emotion to spare.’ Frank regarded his friend even more severely. ‘The youngster who went off with my takings taught me that lesson.’
‘But you don’t need to be emotional about it.’
‘I said “emotion” not “emotional”.’
The correction was made gently enough, but there was a hint of genuine displeasure in the tone which Ralph chose to ignore.
‘I can’t see that emotion need come into it.’
‘It comes into it because an ex-prisoner is a tremendous responsibility, the most difficult, complex, unrewarding creature on this earth! Before becoming entangled with him you must decide whether you can go the whole way with him—and that’s a very long way, it may be a whole life’s journey. If
the answer is “no”, then you must leave him alone, otherwise you will only involve him in yet another unsuccessful relationship.’
Ralph, who felt that his own role was being usurped and that a certain amount of preaching was being directed at him, said impatiently:
‘I’m only asking you to let him work here.’
‘Could I take him in and leave it at that? Could I tell him that he must manage his problems as best he can and keep them in a separate compartment with which I am not to be troubled?’
‘Of course you could!’ Ralph was robustly determined. ‘What the boy needs is a job; he doesn’t need anyone to become involved with him—in fact, that’s probably the last thing he does need. And he’s quite a simple case.’
Frank Godfrey turned away. He picked up one of the pamphlets on the table and replaced it in a more commanding position.
‘I don’t see things that way, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘And I haven’t your manifold spiritual resources. My little effort must be directed into one channel, and one channel alone.’
He stood for a moment staring down at the table, aware that by moving the pamphlet he had destroyed the balance of the whole display. Perhaps it was this that gave an edge of irritation to his voice.
‘You undertake so much. How you manage to see everything through, I can’t imagine.’ The barest trace of envy had crept in. He seemed aware of this and turned away from the table, saying firmly: ‘You are so good, bless you! He’s very fortunate to be in your hands. And if he’s such a simple case, you won’t have much trouble getting him a job.’
‘I hope not.’ Ralph looked dejected. ‘He went to the Labour Exchange this morning. I meant to go with him, but one of the reporters from the Shepherd’s Bush Tribune wanted to see me about Saturday and it seemed an opportunity to get us some publicity . . . and as I was fairly sure I could get him settled with you . . .’
‘Is the Tribune sympathetic?’ Frank deftly diverted the conversation.
‘Definitely not!’
The glow on Ralph’s face indicated that the diversion was to his liking. He thrust the problems of the ex-prisoner into the background and settled himself on the edge of the table, scattering one or two pamphlets. A girl with a scarf tied round her head and the outlines of curlers showing through came in and made enquiries about the book of a film she had seen. She knew the names of the actors, but not the author or the publisher. Ralph waited impatiently, looking himself rather like an actor whose big scene has been spoilt by an intervention from the wings. The moment the girl had gone, he said:
‘This reporter laddie—I must say he put forward some rather interesting arguments. For one thing, he said that we are not really non-violent. Quite a refreshing approach! But he made one or two good points. He said that we have invented a kind of provocative violence. We break the law, thereby forcing the police to remove us which involves them in a controlled use of violence . . .’
‘An essential part of their job, anyway.’
‘Wait a bit. He said that when we get into police stations we become even more subtle, refusing to sit down, stand up, enter or leave a room, give names and addresses or answer questions. In the end, we succeed in goading some weary copper into lashing out at us and then we set up a howl about dedicated, non-violent individualists being beaten up by brutal officials.’
He paused and looked across at Frank Godfrey, as delighted as though he had just reported on the progress of a particularly promising pupil.
‘We are inviting violence, you see. And in that case, can we argue that we ourselves are really non-violent?’
Frank, who found no virtue in seeing two sides of an argument, regarded him blankly.
‘You know there is something in all this,’ Ralph insisted. ‘We really must examine our behaviour very carefully and make quite sure that we don’t appear to be mainly occupied in a tussle with authority. Personally, I have every intention when I’m arrested of co-operating with the authorities. Provided they send me to prison, of course—I shall be damned annoyed if they don’t! I said to this young man . . .’
What a tremendous zest for life he has! Frank thought as he watched Ralph. He found himself wondering as the deep voice went on painting the scene so vividly, whether this man might not glow just as brightly if he were leading a cause of a different character. One could imagine him as a fighter pilot, on the bridge of a destroyer . . . Before he could stop himself, he had asked the question: Is it the cause that matters to him, or the exhilaration of the campaign? Envy again, he rebuked himself; envy because he himself was old and worn and had never known joy in battle, only a dark fear which he tried to keep hidden. It was wrong to judge a man of so different a temperament, so much younger, so full of vigour and health and an abundant enthusiasm of spirit. The real trouble was that the climate of the age was against men like Kimberley; it was too cold and suspicious, with the result that instead of appreciating the few exceptional men one tried to scale them down to one’s own size. I lack generosity, Frank told himself wearily.
‘It sounds as though you found a worthy opponent,’ he said. But his voice was flat. Fortunately, once Kimberley was carried away he did not notice the reactions of others.’
‘It’s a pity you weren’t there.’ He smiled at Frank and there was no doubting his generosity. ‘You would probably have made points that I missed, and you have had a lifetime’s experience in this cause which I can’t possibly rival—including those years in prison as a conscientious objector. Never mind. There will be other opportunities.’ He stood up and scattered more pamphlets. ‘In fact, next Saturday might be one. You and your good lady must come to coffee. Rutledge, my warden, is coming round in the evening for a chat. He’s another worthy opponent—blunter metal, but durable. We shall have a wonderful argument.’
Frank, who was not interested in arguments because he thought that those who were opposed to him on this issue were insane, said:
‘I shall enjoy seeing you and Myra, anyway. But Edith will be visiting her mother.’
Ralph moved to the door.
‘And why not follow it up by coming to church the next day? I might convert you if you would only listen to me.’
Frank looked out of the window at the straight, grey monotony of the street; at the sparse playing field hemmed in by factories and warehouses. There were no clouds, but a film of dust and grit obscured the sun and the dun-coloured sky was smudged with smoke.
‘Are you going to preach to me about God in Shepherd’s Bush, Ralph?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then?’
‘Shepherd’s Bush is only an infinitesimal part of the universe: a very drab part, I must admit. One needs to look beyond it.’
A bus rumbled by, ignoring the frantic signals of a straggle of women shoppers at a request stop. Frank began to collect the scattered pamphlets, his lips pursed, though whether in annoyance at Ralph’s untidiness or the large austerity of his faith it was difficult to tell.
‘I see you are not to be convinced,’ Ralph laughed as he went out.
It was no wonder that Frank was not to be convinced, he thought as he drove away; particularly if he never looked beyond his drab windowscape. He left the car at the garage and walked in the direction of the vicarage. By means of meandering backstreets he threaded his way into the quieter residential area that formed the larger part of his parish. He walked more slowly now, and some of his zest was evaporating. The property in the area was still quite good, he thought, surveying it moodily; a few of the larger houses were divided into flats but they had not yet deteriorated into one-room tenements. Yet no one could have called the atmosphere reassuring. The solid, double-fronted Victorian houses seemed to have an air of resignation; precariously, they survived, but they did not hope for better days.
And the church? Ralph could see it now on the far side of the green; a plain, red-brick building which lacked dignity in architecture or the mellowing influence of age, a poor house in which to honour a god. As
he looked at it he experienced again the irrational feeling of guilt which had troubled him ever since he came to St. Gabriel’s. He ought not to dislike it so much; after all, It was a part of his job that he should go wherever he was called. But then it was not God who had called him to St. Gabriel’s, but a singularly unimaginative bishop. He cheered himself with the memory that he had been sent here because he had been spectacularly popular at his previous church in Cambridge where his views on disarmament had been much applauded. The hard grind of work in a decaying parish would drain his ardour—so the bishop had reckoned. As it happened, the bishop had been wrong. The nuclear disarmament campaign had intensified and Ralph, in London, had found himself well-placed to take an active part.
So much for the bishop! The feeling of guilt, however, remained. In fact, with every step that he took it grew stronger. Something other than the usual depression at the sight of his church was troubling him. He looked at his watch. It was ten to one. Lunch would not be ready until after one and he had no desire to arrive early at a time when Myra would have the vegetables on the boil and a few minutes to spare for angry reproaches because he had not accompanied Wilson to the Labour Exchange.
As he crossed the green he found his footsteps leading him towards the church rather than the vicarage. The gate squeaked and lurched to one side under the pressure of his hand. He shut it behind him with some difficulty and walked along the gravel path which divided the church garden from the graveyard. Or perhaps garden was hardly the word? He looked at the long grass and the bedraggled flower borders. Mr. Maynard, the church treasurer, walking briskly home to lunch, saw him and called put:
‘No day for gardening, Vicar.’
Ralph supposed that Maynard would be shocked if he told him that he was not gardening, but simply delaying an encounter with his wife. He kicked at the gravel, trying to smooth out a deep rut made by bicycle tyres; he had told the youth club youngsters that they must not ride their bicycles along this path. If only he could help Myra. He walked across the wet grass to get the gravel off his shoes and stood looking down at the flower border that ran along the south side of the church. But what could he say to her? That love passes at some stage beyond the personal, becomes diffuse, disinterested, infinitely more pure? She would never accept that. He bent down to pull at a weed, one of many growing in the border. Myra wanted things to remain always as they were in the early days of their marriage; she wanted to enclose him for ever in the tight world of the family. He studied the pale green stalks in his hand; he was not at all sure now that it was not a plant that he had uprooted. He looked round guiltily and then stuffed it back in the ground. It was a pity that he and Myra had had no children; it would have given her an outlet, and it would have prevented them from feasting so much on their own private joys in the early days of their marriage. He had seen the danger of their ingrowing love, she had not. As he crouched there, trying to restore the torn plant to the earth, he thought how hard the change in their relationship must have been for her. It came to him sometimes, in unguarded moments like this, that she had suffered greatly and that he had been the cause. The thought was agony to him and at such times he doubted everything. His knees were trembling and even when he had risen, and was dusting the earth from his hands, he could not stop himself trembling.