by Brian Aldiss
‘Bloody good,’ said Palfrey, climbing from his place of concealment, shaking off leaves as he went to examine the body. You joined him. You stood looking down at the man. His mouth was open. His eyes were open, staring towards the sky.
‘Another grave,’ said Palfrey.
‘We should hang on to their uniforms.’
‘Okay, maybe we should – if you fancy stripping them.’
So you dragged the second body to where the first one lay. Gerard shooed his children away. You pulled the greatcoats and the tunics off the dead men.
Gerard was wringing his hands. ‘There can be dozens of them here tomorrow.’
You had been thinking. ‘But Marie said there were just these two in the village. It will take a while for news of their disappearance to travel. How will they know where to search?’
He stared at you as if he thought you mad, his pale eyes on you, his long face haggard.
‘Think, Stephen! Their vehicle must be parked at the bottom of the hill.’
‘Yes, that’s it! Bugger! We must move the car some distance away. A kilometre at least.’
Palfrey chimed in. ‘Yeah, get the vehicle out the way. Then there’ll be no evidence to point to this stretch of forest.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Never mind the buts, Gerard.’ You enjoyed contradicting him. ‘We’ve got to move the bloody car. I’ll go. I’ll drive it somewhere. I’ll walk back.’
‘Your leg –’
‘To hell with my leg. It’s urgent. We must shift that car.’
‘Good,’ said Palfrey. He threw you the officer’s cap and greatcoat. ‘Wear these, Steve, and you should be safe enough.’
You grinned at him as you fitted on the cap. ‘Just don’t shoot me when I come back.’
He came closer and pressed the German revolver into your hand. ‘Take this. It may help. For God’s sake come back, won’t you? I don’t fancy being stuck here alone with the Geldsteins.’
‘Don’t worry.’ You used his phrase.
He slapped you on the shoulder. A rough sign of friendliness.
The jeep was waiting in the lane at the bottom of the hill. After a couple of tries, you got the engine started. You set off at a careful pace, taking the first turning to the left in order to avoid the village.
You had driven no more than a quarter of a kilometre when you reached an old stone bridge across a shallow river. You had a clear picture of what you should do next. You would put your foot down, bump across the coarse grass and plunge the vehicle into the water.
The vehicle might not be completely submerged, since the river was rather shallow. So you would climb out and wade ashore, leaving the car door open. A cow in a field on the other side of the stream would amble over to see what was happening.
You would limp back into the concealment of the Forêt de la Bouche.
Yes, the picture was clear enough. Yet not entirely clear. Gerard was your friend, your ally, but also your captor. Still you sat at the wheel, in a state of hesitation.
At last you came to a decision. You felt for the Geldstein family, and for Marie Bourmard – and indeed for Palfrey, who had become so formidable; but loyalty to King and country came first. And freedom. So you quelled your conscience: an easy task.
You drove over the bridge and headed south, towards the French coast and St Nazaire, without looking back.
PART TWO
1
What a Wild Man
The Southampton street was dimly respectable. A line of plane trees marched along it at regulation distances from each other. To one side, the even more select Prescot Close led off; on the other side, an alleyway sloped down to a waste area where boys occasionally kicked footballs about. It was as if urban geography offered a paradigm of how citizens might move up or down an ill-defined social scale.
The front gate of ‘Grendon’, 19 Park Street, was not quite off its hinges. All it needed was a good push and you were through, shoes crunching on the gravel of the drive. The front door of the house had been painted mauve. It was fashionably shabby.
The time was four-thirty of the late December afternoon and dusk had already set in when you rapped with the iron knocker on the door. After a pause, a light showed in the fanlight over the door, which was then opened a few inches. A pale pixie face peeped out at you and asked what you wanted.
‘Does Mrs Wilberforce still live here?’ you asked.
‘Who is it?’
‘I’m Steve, Mrs Wilberforce’s nephew.’
‘Who?’ Asked with incredulity. You repeated your name.
‘Hang on.’
The door closed. Belatedly it occurred to you that this pallid countenance belonged to your little cousin Joyce. You hardly remembered her.
The door reopened; there stood Aunt Violet. She was wearing spectacles; she had on a flimsy summer dress with a cardigan over it; she wore a pair of fluffy blue slippers on her feet.
‘Steve, my darling, oh!’ she exclaimed. She flung her arms round your neck; you clutched her round her slender waist and hugged and kissed her.
‘Auntie, darling.’
‘Come in, darling, come in. I didn’t expect … Golly, what a treat! Come on in! I must put the blackouts up or they’ll arrest me …’
In you went. You remembered the heavy hallstand, now draped with raincoats and hats. Violet led you through into the kitchen. A sewing machine stood on the table, together with some fabric and scissors and a large ginger cat. The cat sat watchful and monumental, surveying the visitor with narrowed eyes. A fire burned in the grate.
The room was dimly lit. Violet dragged heavy black curtains over the window.
‘I’m trying to make myself a frock.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry for the mess. It’s wonderful to see you again, my darling Stevie! You know we believed you were dead, don’t you – according to the War Office? But you’re not, are you? Have they kicked you out of the army?’
‘Worse luck, no. I’ve got a bit of leave over Christmas.’
Violet switched on a sidelight.
The kitchen was smaller than you remembered. You thought of the limitless reaches of the Forêt de la Bouche.
The pale young girl was standing by the coal fire. She wore a dressing gown over a blouse and a short cream skirt. She was picking nervously at the hem of her dressing gown.
‘You remember Joyce, don’t you? She’s away from school. Dougie has just broken up.’
‘Into lots of pieces,’ said Douglas. He gave a scream to show how painful it was. He had been standing quietly, summing up the visitor.
Violet nodded and smiled at him, otherwise ignoring the boy.
‘Joyce had measles, didn’t you, dear? Rather nasty for her … So where have you been, exactly, Steve? Are you starving? I’ve got some drink here, believe it or not.’
In no time, the dress fabric was pushed aside, two glasses and a bottle of gin, accompanied by a small bottle of Angostura, were on the table. The cat leapt off the chair and sat alertly on a corner of the table, as if hoping for a drink. Violet said gaily, as she poured two healthy jiggers of gin into two glasses, ‘Let’s celebrate your safe return!’
You brought out a packet of Players Navy Cut. You both lit up. Your auntie no longer used a cigarette holder as she had done in more stylish days. ‘It’s wonderful to see you – you’ve grown a bit. Life’s become so dreary.’
Douglas was fitting a penny into each eye socket. When the coins were securely lodged, he came blindly forward, hands extended in front of him. ‘Think how horrid your face would look without any eyes,’ he said.
‘Your face looks horrid enough already,’ his sister retorted.
‘You’d really bang into things. It might do you good, stop you being cheeky.’
‘P’raps you could grow buffers on your knees.’ As he spoke, he pushed one hand into Violet’s face.
‘Go away, you little scamp!’ she said, half-laughing. ‘Go upstairs and read your book and leave us in peace.’
Douglas let the coins drop from his eyes, saying in surprise, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? I didn’t know you were here.’ Nevertheless, he was retreating as ordered.
Violet exclaimed with some pride that anyone would think Dougie was half daft.
‘Why only half?’ asked Joyce. She took to stroking the cat rather hard.
You sipped your gin and asked Violet what she was planning to do for Christmas.
‘Not much, I can tell you. Might take the kids to the panto.’ She downed her gin. ‘Golly, it goes to your head at once! Have another.’
‘Where’s Uncle Bertie, Auntie?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s been away for a few days, the old blighter. He’s in a reserved occupation, like Claude – another scrounger in the family. Bertie says he’s designing a new prison for German and Italian prisoners of war – if they catch any. Still, the Belgian government in exile have just declared war on Italy, so things are looking up.’ She blew a plume of smoke into the air and raised her glass again. ‘Well, chin chin! Lovely to see you safe back.’
‘You’re looking nice and slender, Auntie.’ And indeed, now that she had become more frisky, and her eyes were gleaming, she looked more like her old youthful self.
She removed her glasses. ‘Rationing helps. Joyce, dear, why don’t you go up to your room and read your book? Sorry we’re just in the kitchen but the rest of the house – it’s a bit parky. I haven’t laid the fire in the sitting room. Have to economize! Parsimony is patriotic. Or so they say.’
Joyce did not move. Like the cat, she continued to stare into the distance. Nor did Violet press the point regarding her going upstairs.
‘How are your parents? Were they surprised to see you again? You’re a hero, aren’t you, Steve?’
‘I came to see you first, Auntie. I haven’t been home yet. I must ring them.’
She thought about this information, looking at you over the rim of her glass. In a more serious tone than hitherto, she said, ‘Well, I’m flattered. Your parents are a bit rum, darling. I can put you up for the night, if you like …’ Then, hastily, ‘So what’s been happening to you?’
‘I got stuck in France after it gave up.’ Joyce came to sit at the table with them, closely regarding you. ‘How old are you, Joyce?’
‘Six and five months,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’
‘Coming up for twenty-one.’
Violet took over the conversation, such as it was. ‘Well, come on, Steve, you got stuck in France. What happened? Tell us about it! Did someone pinch your tank, or what?’
‘We had an accident.’ You paused. ‘I’ve been living in some woods for several months.’
‘Golly, a Robin Hood life! What a wild man! What did you eat, and drink?’
As you began to tell her your story, you ran your finger absent-mindedly up and down a groove in the table. The wooden tabletop had been so well scrubbed its grain stood out so that it resembled the coat, you thought, of a wet polar bear. A red strand of the dress-making procedure had caught in the groove. You talked of your time in the Forêt de la Bouche, of the Geldsteins, of Palfrey and of Marie Bourmard, who had brought you food, and of the talks about Aristotle. You realized you had enjoyed that outlaw life. Or at least you enjoyed talking about it afterwards.
Violet listened intently. She clutched your hand, which lay on the table. A cigarette smouldered between her fingers.
‘You must feel bad about leaving these people in the lurch.’
You did feel bad. But, as so often, you told yourself that the Geldsteins were safe enough, and that you had a duty as an officer to return to the armed struggle. Violet listened to your excuses, saying nothing, tipping more gin into her glass.
‘So there was a woman with you.’ Throwing a hasty glance at her daughter, she asked, ‘Did you manage to seduce her?’
‘No. ’Fraid not.’
‘Why ever not? You must have been missing the girls.’
You gave a grin. ‘Marie said she was Catholic.’
Violet made no immediate comment. Withdrawing her hand, she sucked on the cigarette.
‘Can I have a fag, mum?’, her daughter asked.
‘No, you jolly well can’t. Wait till you’re sixteen.’ Turning her attention back to me, ‘Do you want a sip of my gin? Surely it was this woman’s patriotic duty …’ She caught something in your-expression and dropped the subject. ‘I’d better make us something for supper. There’s not much in the house. Or I can send Joyce out for some fish and chips.’
‘I’m not well yet, mum,’ Joyce said promptly.
Violet made a funny face in your direction, raising her eyebrows, but otherwise abandoning the subject. ‘So how many Jerries did you kill to escape from this wood?’
You told her how you had driven in the German army vehicle down to the south coast of Brittany, where a series of French fishermen had taken you round the peninsula in their smacks, from small harbour to small harbour. The last boat in the chain had crossed the Channel and landed you ashore near Brighton. From Brighton, you had been taken under escort to Aldershot. There, over the course of two weeks, you had undergone interrogation. Various intelligence officers had checked the details of your story. You were pleased to learn from them that Major Hilary Montagu had returned safely to England, following the fall of Paris.
At the end of the examinations, you had been given three weeks leave.
You also repeated that you felt guilty about leaving the Geldsteins.
‘You mustn’t worry about them, dear. It’s their war.’
‘Not exactly. It’s our war, too. I’d hate them to get killed. They’re splendid people.’
She asked you if you had been afraid of getting killed.
You said that no one wanted their life to end. To which she made no reply, beyond pulling a face.
‘I’m so happy to see you again, Auntie.’
She turned and put a small shovel-full of coal on the fire.
Then she gazed at you thoughtfully, as if deciding what she would say next. She sat forward in her chair, glanced sideways at her daughter with something of concern in her look, before turning the great beam of her attention on you.
She said, ‘You know I don’t get on with your parents. I rather missed the bus with your mother. I will tell you why. There is a reason. It was a long time ago, when you were a small boy.’
‘That is a long time ago. It doesn’t matter now, Auntie, whatever it was. You think I don’t know my parents are difficult to get on with?’
Her mouth set in a thin line. ‘I couldn’t tell you last time we met. You were at university, and a bit stuffy. You’re not so bad now, I can see. This still matters – at least it does to me. You remember Walcot, of course?’
You tried to subdue a mounting sense of anxiety at what was to come. You lit another cigarette, slightly to delay matters.
Yes, you remembered the magical solitudes of that beach, the ripple of the waves – the very sound of summer – your contentment. And you remembered something else. Violet had come for a weekend in Omega and had brought you a glider. The weekend she coaxed you into her bed.
She was looking at you intensely across the table, her generous bosom resting on the table edge.
‘You were such a sweet little boy – only three, or maybe four at the time. You were beautiful, with your frank open face. You had freckles then! I was worried because your mother left you to play alone, unsupervised, for hours on the beach, with the sea and its uncertain tides. But I have always had a dislike of the sea. A fear of its power, I suppose. There never seemed to be anyone else on all that stretch of beach. Not a soul to see if you were all right –’
‘But I was fine, Auntie –’
‘No, you weren’t fine.’ She shook her curly head. ‘It wasn’t fine at all. It was all wrong.’
She sniffed a little, running her open palm over her nose. You were both getting slightly tipsy.
Feeling uncomfortable now, you tipped more gin into your glass and drank, while th
e ginger cat looked calmly on.
You remembered Mrs North, who lived in the Walcot railway carriages. She would come occasionally to the edge of the dunes to see that you were safe. The memory of the gaunt woman silhouetted against the sky was accompanied by a sorrow you had never felt when you were a child.
‘One evening in the bungalow – I remember it so clearly, it still sends chills through me – your mother was phoning your father. I happened to overhear her. And what Mary said …’ Violet dropped her gaze, then looked you steadily in the eye. ‘I was convinced by what she said that she hoped you would drown in the incoming tide. That the sea would carry you away.’
Violet began seriously to cry. She jumped up from her chair, hiding her face, running to a corner next to the oven, pulling a handkerchief from her cardigan pocket.
‘Oh, Auntie, dearest!’ You went to her, held her, kissed the nape of her neck, where fine hairs grew. As she subsided into sobbing, Joyce spoke contemptuously from her position at the table. ‘She often goes on like this nowadays. It’s the bloody war.’
Her mother said fiercely, ‘Go up to bed, will you! I won’t tell you again.’
Joyce slunk off without another word. The cat rose and followed, stretching as it went.
Violet used her scrap of handkerchief and, turning towards you in your arms, mopped her eyes. You felt her warmth and smelt her perfume.
‘Steve, sweetie, do you believe me? It’s been my guilty secret for so long. It was a plan between your parents to dispose of you. I’m convinced of it. Oh golly, I should have done something about it ages ago.’
‘But why –’
‘I didn’t know what to do. Why? I’ve often asked myself; why? They did not want a boy, but –’
All of your troubled past seemed to return to you – the long years, the sorrowful years, all mixed with memories of Sad Sid, who had died from his parents’ indifference.
‘Mother’s phantom child – Valerie …’