A TIME OF WAR

by MARY HOCKING

  `I’m doing this because I think you are in danger of making yourself mentally ill. You may feel at the moment that you want to lock yourself away, but don’t forget that if you succeed you will be putting yourself out of reach of help.’

  She turned away. Her face was white and set. She picked up her cup and sipped the tea; her hand was trembling. He knew he must not go any further. He went out of the room soon afterwards. When he had gone Kerren moved about, tidying up, washing the crockery, doing the obs. Then she came back to the met. office and shut the door. There was no plotting to do yet. She turned out the lights, except for the light over the chart. This was the time when she usually sat unmoving, unthinking, drifting into darkness. She sat on the stool for some time, staring down at the chart. There was a little frown between her eyes; it would not ease away, she was conscious of it and it prevented her from relaxing. She became restless, fidgeting on the stool, glancing round the room into the shadows. When she could not stand it any more she reached for a piece of teleprinter paper and sat staring down at it; the action had been automatic, but what did she intend to do? After a time, she picked up her pen and wrote, `Dear Dorothy, I must talk to someone.’

  In the duty met. officer’s room, Adam had taken down the black-out and opened the window. He had taken off his jacket and stretched out on the bed without even bothering to take off his shoes. The room was getting very cold, but he did not close the window because he knew that he would be ill if he did not get some air. His face was grey, filmed with sweat. His breathing was laboured; apart from this he lay quite still, looking at the snow mounting on the window sill. He said, `I tried.’ Later he said it again, `I tried.’ His eyes closed. The snow went on falling, stealthily transforming the landscape; it stretched in front of him down a long avenue, when he tried to walk along it to the house he made no progress. There was a light in the house; there was always a light in the house when he had this dream, just the one light in the room that had been the children’s room. He could scarcely bear to look at it in case it went out. This time, as he went on struggling down the long avenue, the snow blotted out everything, the house, the light; his body was numb and feeling had abdicated. When he said `Alison’ his voice was emptied of hope and despair.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The snow smoothed out the furrows and wrinkles of the land, transformed Dincote Hill into a great iced cake and gave the illusion of blossom to the bare trees. Life, as Robin put it, was `very olde worlde’ for a while. There were carol parties, eagerly attended by the Wrens who grouped round lanterns in the village, the young faces flushed in the crisp air, the snow glistening on wisps of hair that escaped from provocatively tilted caps. The lantern was held aloft by one of the matelots. Frank, whose strong-boned face was particularly impressive in lantern light, was much in demand on these occasions. Beside him, Jessie sang beautifully, her expression so radiant that it seemed a blasphemy to recall some of the other numbers she had sung in the dark in Cabin 8.

  Others enjoyed more vigorous activities; a toboggan, made in the workshops, was soon hurtling down Dincote Hill. A few people, and Kerren was one of them, took their pleasures more leisurely, cycling along the country lanes, enjoying the air which had lost its bitter edge. The sky was blue and the sun sparkled on the snow. The pattern made up of contrasts of colour and texture had been obliterated; the whole landscape seemed to have been robbed of substance and Kerren liked it this way. It seemed to her that the snow had overlaid life itself and that there was no longer any need to grapple with its problems. She had written to Dorothy, `People ask me how I feel. I don’t know. I should like to know, but I can’t find out. I go round and round and round trying to find a way in to myself, but there is no way – or else there is no one there. It’s as though all this had happened to another person, and it’s that other person I’m trying to get in touch with and can’t.’ The snow seemed to absolve her from the need to struggle. She hoped it would never clear. She spent most of her time off duty cycling alone, looking across the glistening fields. Once she would have wanted to make the first footprints in the smooth surface, now she wanted the snow to remain undisturbed and was even irritated by the tiny tracks left by the birds. Several of the Wrens saved scraps of bread to put out for the birds – `From one Jenny to another,’ Jessie said. But Kerren did not care about the birds.

  About this time she received a letter from Con. He had finished his course and was now stationed just outside Salisbury. He wrote to say that he had been shocked to hear of Peter’s death and to ask her to meet him one afternoon the following week. The letter was short and rather formal, nevertheless Kerren found it disturbing. She had not told Robin that she and Peter had met Con on leave; the evasion had not seemed important – she had merely wanted to avoid discussion about the leave – but it was an evasion that it would be hard to explain now. Robin had made no mention of it after her weekend with Con, so this must mean that he, too, had evaded the subject. It was not out of character: he was the kind who would resent having to give an account of himself. But these reasons, which were sensible and undramatic, did not seem to have the same ring of assurance after she received his letter. She carried it about with her for several days before she answered. Yet there was never really any doubt in her mind. She intended to see him.

  They met at a village near Shaftesbury. There was a cottage in the village where one could have scones and jam and, occasionally, butter instead of margarine. Because of the weather most service folk went to the big towns in search of entertainment and Con and Kerren were alone in the cottage. The woman set their tea on a low table by the log fire and left them. The fire had burnt low and only one log straddled the grate; but the smell of charred wood and the occasional fizzing of resin in the one remaining log were homely. The snowbound landscape beyond the window made the room seem safe and secure and the atmosphere was intimate. Kerren expected Con to be embarrassed; but he never did the expected thing and he looked very much at home, sitting back in his chair while she poured tea. She was aware of him studying her face.

  `You look about ten years older,’ he told her.

  It was a relief for someone to say this outright and she laughed.

  `I’m not grey yet.’

  `But your eyes are grave, even when you laugh. And they are quite still. They were never still before.’

  She handed him his cup and said in surprise, `How much you notice!’

  `You can read a lot in a person’s face.’ He looked down at the fire, remembering. `Your husband’s face was very expressive.’

  `Oh, Con, I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you speak of Peter like that, so naturally!’ She began to talk excitedly. `Most people adopt a special kind of voice, as though they were in church; or they give you advice. But no one understands. My mother least of all. She wrote, “You’re just on the threshold of love, my darling; there is so much more. . . .” But I wasn’t on the threshold; I was inside, deeper than she has ever been. She wasn’t in love with Daddy when she married him; she just felt that it was time she got married. Now she worries in case I don’t marry again. And it tears me apart. The very thought that I could ever turn from him tears me apart. He was so alive. Con, so wonderfully alive! Now no one remembers him, no one will talk about him. I can see people avoiding mentioning his name in front of me. I suppose they think they are being kind; but they are making it seem as though he had never been. I want to talk about him, I want to talk about him all the time, it keeps him alive for me.’

  Con said, `Tell me about him.’ He did not say it sympathetically, but as though it was something he wanted to hear. She began to talk about the things that seemed important to her and Con watched her, his eyes thoughtful but without compassion. She told him how much Peter had needed her, how unsure he was in spite of the mask of arrogance. Con interrupted:

  `Unsure of what?’

  `Of life and how to cope with it, I suppose.’

  `Life is a gift. You don’t “cope” with it, you acc
ept it.’

  `It’s different for you,’ she said defensively. `You’ve grown up easily and naturally. Peter had to grow up too quickly. Life may not seem so acceptable to you when you’ve been in action.’

  He had destroyed her mood and for a moment they were silent. Frost was forming at the corners of the window-panes; through the circle of clear glass, they could see that shadows were beginning to fall across the snow transforming the world into a composition in blue. Inside the room it was colder. Con stirred the log with his foot and it fell apart; it was all ash. Kerren poured more tea and Con took up the thread of the conversation.

  `Was he disillusioned? Is that what you mean?’

  `No. I don’t think he’d had time to have illusions.’

  `You’ve got to have some reason for fighting, surely? It’s a big thing to do without a reason.’

  `What are your reasons.’

  `It’s a challenge. Something a man can’t afford to miss.’

  `Peter never talked like that.’

  `But flying – that was a challenge, surely? And when you had mastered it, there must have been a wonderful reward. A feeling that you had escaped the ties of earth. A pilot must feel that even more than a mountaineer.’

  `I didn’t know him when he first began to fly,’ she said, disturbed at the thought that he should have wanted to escape the ties of earth. `And when we were together we didn’t waste time talking about flying.’

  `But it was his life! Day after day, flying was his life!’

  `I hate flying!’ she said angrily. `And so did Peter in the end.’

  `But that’s what is so terrible.’ Con, too, sounded angry, as though Peter had done something which affected him personally. `To have had an experience that was so sublime and to have grown to hate it! What happened?’

  `Fatigue. Most pilots crack after a time.’

  `Then he shouldn’t have gone on flying. It was a stupid waste of life.’

  `He didn’t have any choice.’

  `What do you mean, no choice? He could have reported sick.’

  `He would never do that.’

  In spite of herself there was pride in her voice. He took her up sharply:

  `You think that’s good? Well, I don’t. I’ve thought about this. I’ve thought about it a lot lately. There are some things you don’t do for your country or for any cause; you don’t allow yourself to be destroyed.’

  `But war is destructive. That’s what it’s all about. You saw Beatie destroyed, didn’t you?’

  `No. Beatie was herself, laughing and full of zest. The next moment she was dead. That can happen to any of us; a rope breaks on a mountain and it’s all over. But to allow yourself to be destroyed is different.’

  `Where’ve you been these last years. Con?’ She was shouting at him now, her voice vibrated, rapidly getting out of control. `Laughing and full of zest! Do you think you’ll get away with that? Your course must have been intended to prepare you for something! Before you know where you are they’ll have you running up one of those wide, unsheltered beaches; you’ll be part of a moving brown river and as long as the main stream keeps flowing it won’t matter one little bit if Con Hilliard doesn’t make it. At least Peter had the chance to make a fight of it.’

  She began to cry, wildly, as though she was breaking apart. The woman came in, shocked, and Con, equally shocked, paid for the teas. Kerren was not aware of any of this. It seemed in another world that she was out in the cold, walking down the lane with Con into the blue dusk. Their feet made no sound in the snow. It was very peaceful. He had his arm round her and he was telling her how sorry he was as though he really meant it. In the twilight his face looked older, the shadows emphasizing the strong bones; it seemed to her at this moment that his face had an almost mediaeval quality, intensely austere. Yet his arm, exploring her shoulder, sought some contact. For a moment, she thought how good it was to have a man’s arm round her. Then she jerked away.

  `I must go now.’

  `I’ll see you back. You can’t go alone.’

  `Yes, I can. I prefer riding alone. And anyway, Robin may be down at The Sycamore Tree.’

  He turned his head away.

  `I’ll be seeing her, of course. But I didn’t tell her . . .’ His voice trailed away, he would never be able to explain himself.

  `I didn’t either,’ Kerren said. `I didn’t think it was important.’

  As she turned to mount her bicycle, he put his arm on her shoulder.

  `I really am sorry about you and Peter,’ he said. `On your wedding day you were so radiantly in love with love.’

  `I was in love with Peter.’

  `Were you?’

  She got on her bicycle and rode away. Once, before she came to the turn in the lane, she looked back. He was watching her, a tall, straight outline against the blue desert, an unredeemably lonely figure. She rode on.

  Later she wrote a letter to Dorothy which she did not post. In it, she said:

  `I saw Con the other day. He is a strange person, quite beyond me. Yet in a sense I feel I understand him as well as anyone ever will. Perhaps this is because he has a peculiarly Irish kind of solitariness which I can respect, even though I don’t like it. He asked me a lot of questions about Peter. And the dreadful thing is that I didn’t know the answers, I have gone over them in my mind since, and I still don’t know the answers. It is terrifying to realize that I knew so little about him. It is as though our love blinded us to each other.’

  Chapter Twenty Three

  `You will be wanting to take Christmas leave, I suppose?’ Lieutenant Commander Hunter asked Kerren.

  `No.’ She was very emphatic about this.

  `But surely you want to be with your family at Christmas?’ Hunter looked at her craftily, as though he had given her a cue that was obscurely important.

  `At Christmas least of all,’ she replied firmly. `We shall be on top of each other all the time, and I couldn’t bear that. Besides, my friend Dorothy will be away at Drogheda at Christmas. I’d rather wait until the spring.’

  Hunter looked down at the map table. His hands were clenched together and he kept cracking the knuckles in a way that made Kerren feel sick.

  `If that’s what you want,’ he said. `But I think Christmas leave should always go to people with families.’ He looked at her again, that same crafty, sideways glance: he seldom looked anyone in the face nowadays.

  The door opened and Adam Grieve came in.

  `It’s very slippery, I fell off my bike twice.’ He hung up his greatcoat and looked hopefully at Kerren. `They say that hot sweet tea is good for shock.’

  She picked up the kettle and went to the door. `It won’t be sweet. Not unless you’ve brought some sugar from the wardroom.’

  When the door closed behind her the two men were silent. Hunter had walked across to the window and was staring irritably at the snow as though wondering who had put it there. All his silences were irritable lately and might be broken by outbursts of temper quite unconnected with anything that had gone before. Adam looked at the chart, humming to himself He was pleased with life just now. He was planning to spend Christmas in London and had obtained tickets for a performance of Bach’s Christmas Oratorio; the news about the tickets had delighted him in a way that Hunter thought was out of all proportion. As he glared at the snow, Hunter was wondering how to break it to Grieve that he had no intention of allowing him to take leave at Christmas. Grieve had been due for leave for some time; it had been put off once before because Hunter had found it necessary to go home to deal with business affairs. It would be difficult to convince Grieve that he had any business to attend to over Christmas. Also, he had had Christmas leave last year. He turned to look at Grieve. Grieve’s face was quite impassive as he studied the chart. In a battle of wills, Hunter knew that he was unlikely to win. Fortunately, he had the advantage of rank.

  Kerren came back with the kettle.

  `All the ablutions at B camp are frozen,’ she said to Grieve.


  `How very awkward. Do you have to take to the woods?’

  `No. We use the marines’.’

  `And what do they do?’

  `I’ve no idea; but they look rather resentful.’ She sat on the stool and went on talking. Hunter did not like to stop her chatter because he realized that this represented a small improvement in her condition. `First Officer insists that there is a sentry outside each door. Anyone would think that the marines had never seen a white woman before the way she behaves.’

  They went on talking in a nonsensical way that maddened Hunter. They did this a lot now; they had always been easy in each other’s company, but now there was an indefinable difference, as though a barrier had been removed. Hunter felt the blood hammering in his head. Soon it would get to a point where, in order to relieve the pressure, he had to shout at them. He did not want to shout at Shaw, whom he pitied, or at Grieve, whom he feared. He picked up his cap and struggled into his greatcoat. He knew by the fact that they avoided looking at him that they thought his behaviour was odd. He hurried out of the control tower, his head down as though he hoped that by not seeing other people he would himself become invisible. He got on his bicycle and cycled back to his quarters. He should have remained on duty; but they would cover up for him, they were loyal to that extent.

  He lay down on his bed and thought about his leave. It was only fair that he should have Christmas leave; Grieve had no loved ones, there was no reason, other than this Bach nonsense, why he should have Christmas leave. Hunter thought about his wife who would banish the horror from his mind; she would not understand, of course, but her robust common sense would dispel the nightmares.

  But it had been a mistake to lie down. He tried hard to concentrate on his wife, but it was no use, the nightmare images were too strong. He pressed his fists against his eyes, but this was the worst thing he could have done. Immediately burning oil rippled, red and orange, kingfisher, turquoise, deepest crimson; and on this rainbow water, men floated, the flesh slowly peeling from their bones, while a senile old whore of a moon ogled down at them. One of the bodies floated near the rowing boat, his oar touched it. Agony seared his brain as though the layers of sanity were being shredded away. He began to scream. A Wren P.O. came hurrying in, a buxom, middle-aged woman. She fetched him a glass of water and said sternly, `You should see a doctor, sir. This sort of thing is upsetting for my Wrens.’ She made it sound as though he had done something indecent. His eyes filled with tears.