Afraid to touch her, Heron said,
“You’re tired to death. If you weren’t—and if you weren’t distracted, you wouldn’t have had such an idea. Fantastic.”
Opening her eyes, she looked at him attentively.
“Is it so fantastic?”
“Surely you can see it is.” His resentment started up again. He was too worn-out, too anxious, to have to deal with this. “Why should we sacrifice ourselves? What use would it be?”
“No use, but …”
“But what?”
“Saving ourselves, at the expense,” she said in a low voice, “of two younger people. Until we came along it was their chance. We’re pushing them out of the aeroplane to get in ourselves—George, think—it’s intolerable.”
“What do you suggest we should do?” he said drily. “Add ourselves to the million odd people dying in the south of England? Stay here?”
She had recovered her calm.
“We could make our way to Harry’s house in Stock-bridge. Everyone knows us there, the whole village. Two people, working in it, can live off the garden—or nearly. It would be a hard life, but it’s easy to be poor where you’re known. We might even be safe. You know what Colonel Lackland says—they can’t invade the whole country at once—”
“That fool—” he began.
She interrupted him.
“In any case,” she smiled, “it’s better to die in one’s own place. There’s a verse in Isaiah, I’ve been remembering it, says: In returning and rest shall ye be saved.… I was never certain what it meant, but it means—surely?—when life has become too great a strain—when everything you can still drive yourself to do would be false, a lie—then the one truthful thing left to do is to go back where you started from, and live there simply. For some people it’s right to go—of course. Others … for us—danger—hunger—the defeat—may be our life itself. …”
He made the effort to talk to her in sensible judicial tones.
“My dear girl, you’re asking me to do something I could do easily if I were anything but—as I am—a writer. Nothing but a writer. What use should I be in a village? I can’t dig, I can’t even hold a spade. It’s too late for me to turn myself into a peasant. I much prefer exile.”
“You needn’t be a labourer,” she said, laughing at him. “I’ll do all that. You can go on writing.”
He looked at her with the rage he felt.
“Don’t be foolish. Or at any rate don’t tell lies to yourself. You know quite well. It would be impossible
—even if I were left alive—to write. How do you imagine I can write in a country occupied by savages—barbarians? It’s ridiculously impossible. I can only write in freedom. I might as well cut my throat now. For me, it simply isn’t a choice, it’s either exile or the end of everything. Even before I’m killed, it’s the end.”
Lifting her hands,
“What is this freedom you’re going to find over there?”
“Nothing easy,” he said. “The sort of freedom, I suppose, a monk has in his cell.”
“But a monk without a religion,” she said swiftly, “without faith.”
“You’re mad,” he shouted, “and driving me mad.” Hardly knowing what he was doing, he began to walk about the room. “You have no right to spring this mad scheme on me now, at the last minute.”
She stood up quickly.
“My love—my dear dear love—it’s only the last minute of one life. We can begin another at once.”
“Impossible,” he groaned, “you’re impossible.”
“If I were alone, I might be afraid,” she said, nearly inaudibly. “But not with you.”
“You can’t have thought I should agree. Or are you really mad?”
She was looking at him with what he thought a mocking tenderness.
“But is it madness? Are you sure it wasn’t more insane to think—at our age—of putting down roots in another country—an incredibly different country—which isn’t even young … sophisticated without ever having been simple? Aren’t we mad to believe we could do it? It will be easy for Nick—he’s a child, he’ll grow up there, he’ll become an American, his few memories of this country will grow into memories of his childhood over there—until he won’t know, when he looks at something far back in his mind, a field, or a shell, whether it was that field”—she turned her head to the light darkness of the airfield—” or the one he’ll play in in New England. But we—we should be torn in two, always, always homeless, always hearing some other voice under the voices round us. No, no—let’s stay here—as long as we live.”
Heron felt empty of everything except his weariness—and of something else—what was it?—a seed of panic.
“I can’t,” he said.
She ran to him.
“My darling. …”
“Perhaps I ought to stay,” he said with an effort. “I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t. I can’t.”
She laid her arms round him.
“Very well—we’ll go.”
“I must get away,” he said. “For every reason. To stay here—no, it’s impossible, I couldn’t face it.”
His forehead, under her fingers, was coldly damp. So this—this naked anxiety to be safe—had lain at the bottom of everything else in his mind. He won’t, she thought quietly, be able to live with it—nor with his fear nor his feeling of guilt. … He would turn from them at any cost. … And from me, unless I can help him now.
“You mean—we can’t send Nick away without us,” she said, very slowly.
He shook with relief.
“How could we? It would be wicked. Insane. An insane wish to hurt ourselves.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “yes.”
“And we can’t let him stay here—to die of hunger or typhus. They say it’s begun already in London. Or taken away from us and worked to death somewhere, like a little animal.” His mouth twitched. “Your emotions run away with you. They always did.”
“I know.”
“How angrily you would have blamed me if I’d let you act on a sentimental impulse. Wouldn’t you?”
She nodded.
“You would have had every right. My dear child—we must be sensible, we must—you’ve said so often enough these last few days—we must keep calm and very quiet. America won’t be easy, for you or me. I know that. It will need a great deal of courage. But you have courage enough.”
She moved slightly away from him.
“I have very little,” she smiled. “Strangers, especially the people we shall meet—rich, successful, imposing—frighten me horribly. You must be imposing for both of us.”
“What nonsense,” he said indulgently; he reached out and stroked her arm. “You’ll meet only kindness, the greatest kindness.”
“It will be for your wife,” she mocked.
An expression half amused half gratified crossed his face. … She felt horror at the completeness of her success.
“Silly girl,” he said fondly, “you know I love you. Don’t you?”
“I … oh, what am I doing?” she cried.
“Recovering from a fit of nerves. Was it nerves? Or were you being jealous? Little idiot. … What was it you said about American women? You needn’t be afraid, I shan’t make a fool of myself again. I promise.”
She suffered from his fatuity more than she would have done if she had not loved him.
“Don’t promise anything, my dear. Except to take no notice when I have a fit of nerves.”
“You’re satisfied now? You know I’m right about it, don’t you?”
She moved her head.
“Yes. Of course.”
“And you approve of me?”
“My darling—yes.”
He looked at her with the smile that lifted one corner only of his mouth. When they first married, it had amused her: she caught herself wondering now if he had always been too self-regarding to smile frankly.
“I need approval. I don’t, you know, always appr
ove of myself.”
“If you did, you would be a monster—”
Caressing her, tired out, he said,
“Everything’s all right. We’ll live simply, I’ll work very hard. We’ll begin again and it will be like the first year—you’ll be happy.”
“It’s the only thing I do well,” she said: “happiness. …”
Between his exhaustion and a sudden pity for her, he felt that he could very easily cry.
“What should I do without you—my dear dear Elizabeth?”
“Marry a well-brought-up young woman with rich parents. … Listen.” She lifted her head. “Nicholas is running about the room. Don’t you hear him? He’s scarcely slept at all.”
“I’ll go up and read to him,” Heron said.
He hurried off. She was following him: a light sound caught her ear; turning her head, she saw Cordelia standing in the doorway, against the night. For a long minute, they looked at each other in silence. She took a swift step towards the girl.
“Forgive me,” she said.
Cordelia did not answer. She looked steadily at Elizabeth, with an indifference the older woman took for contempt or an implacable dislike. Forcing herself to smile a little she went quickly out of the room.
Alone, Cordelia moved slowly, very slowly, to an armchair near Kent’s desk and sat down. With an absent gesture, she pushed back her hair and rubbed her eyes. Following her in, Kent thought: She ought to be asleep. Poor child. … Marriot was with him: he came in leaving the door wide open on the airfield.
“A minute or two without our dear guests,” he said, grinning.
Cordelia sat up; she yawned, stretching her thin arms.
“Why don’t they go to bed? It’s after midnight.”
“Afraid they’ll miss the trip.”
Kent seated himself on the edge of the desk.
“I can’t stand that fellow Heron,” he said irritably. “I’m certain he’s bogus, and if he’s rude to me again I shall hit him.”
Cordelia looked at him with a smile.
“I wouldn’t.”
You should be in bed, my love, you should be in bed, Kent thought, and said curtly,
“No, you wouldn’t, but I would.”
Sprawling in his chair, his useless arm laid across his knee, Marriot said,
“God, how different this room is without them.”
“They think it’s theirs,” Cordelia said.
“The type I should like to hit is Lackland,” he went on, with energy. “I loathe his sort of clever professional soldier, far far more than I hate a simple brute—who is probably a brute because he hates himself worse than he hates his victims. Lackland only kills for good reasons, he’s a disciplinarian, he dislikes men who don’t know their place in the ranks, they offend him. He wrote something once—did you know?—every boy from the age of five to be taught to kill—defend himself, was what he said—the girls trained for motherhood—”
Kent interrupted.
“I don’t mind him,” he said easily. “In fact, I rather like him.”
Marriot’s eyes sparkled with derision and fury.
“Because you don’t think, because you weren’t born in the ranks, you haven’t had to fight for your chance to live—and you haven’t a son of five who is going to be brought up without a rebellious idea in his head——”
“Davy.”
Cordelia’s voice checked him. It was full of grief and excitement, and barely audible. He looked at her in surprise, was going to speak, but held his tongue. Something—what?—had happened to her. With a clash of impatience and liking he thought that she was after all a young woman—perhaps a frightened young woman.
“What’s the matter, Browny?”
“You can help me.” She looked at him directly. He was reminded of a handsome little dog he had once had, which used to watch him with just this intelligence, honesty, trust. “If Jock will risk it, I’ll go with him. Because—you might as well know—I’m having a child—or did you know?” She broke off, still calmly watching him.
I should have guessed it, he thought. He avoided looking at Kent, partly because she would notice it and think he was asking for help. Gently, he tried to comfort her.
“Of course you must go.”
“I’ve been telling her that,” Kent said, too harshly.
The girl did not look at him. Her mind was fastened on its purpose; she would not risk being weakened and turned from it by their love.
“You’ll think it mad to have a child now,” she said gravely to Marriot. “Perhaps it is. He could be unhappy—or die like all the others who are dying. … I felt it would be cowardly not to. One oughtn’t to give up.” Her lips quivered briefly in a smile. “You see why I want to go away—but I want Andrew to come with me.”
Kent interrupted her, with bitterness.
“Why talk about it, Cordelia? You know it’s impossible.”
Before she could answer—She’ll very likely say the wrong thing, he thought, pitying her—Marriot said,
“Let’s think this out. There’s possibly one place. But, if the famous writer grabs it—mind you, I think he will—that means … you can see for yourself what it means. Jock might take one extra body. You. But two bodies … you know the answer to that one, Browny.”
She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Yes.”
“Why go on about it, pup?” Kent said. Only from his fixed stare at her, Marriot knew that he had had as much as he could stand. “It’s no use.”
Cordelia’s fingers, rough and covered with faint scars like a child’s, held on to the edge of the desk near her.
“And if Major Heron doesn’t go?”
“It’s still no use.”
Turning to Marriot again, with the same steadiness, she said,
“That’s because of you, Davy. If it weren’t for leaving you behind, he’d go.”
Raging with compassion, Marriot lifted his burned claw and waved it ridiculously, like a rag.
“Good God, what an ass!”
“Except that it isn’t true,” Kent said coolly.
“You told me so,” the girl said.
Kent’s grief caught up a feeling of shame: during these few minutes she had stepped, without knowing it, perhaps, outside the familiar narrow life they had lived together—the three of them. She was no longer with them. He felt humiliated—by what? Her stubbornness in dragging at things best left alone? Of course—but there was more. He was ashamed, bitterly, because he was against her. He said carefully,
“You shouldn’t say these things, they’re no good, and it’s not the reason.”
“Then what is?”
Baffled,
“Never mind about that, it’s not the point, the point is—there’s damn little chance of room in Jock’s aircraft for any of us. But if he says he can take you—you must go.”
She shook her head, slowly, weakly: in a thin voice she repeated,
“I can’t. It’s not worth it. I don’t need to be separated from you by hundreds of miles to know that being separated is the only utterly unbearable thing in the world. Nothing else that could happen to us, being short of food or killed—nothing—would be so hideous. It’s the worst that could happen. The one thing there’s no comfort for.” Lifting her head, she looked him clearly in the face, for the first time. He saw that she was saying: Don’t torture me, my darling. “At any rate for me,” she finished with the same calmness.
He looked back at her.
“For me, too.”
“Then why talk nonsense?” she said with an attempt at a smile. “It’s so simple. If we can’t both go, we’ll both stay. All I want is …” she turned her poor little smile from one young man to the other. “It’s no good,” she said, “you’re both against me.”
“What’s the only thing you want, Browny?” Marriot asked gently.
She waited a moment, drawing on a strength and a stubbornness of will she had not known she had.
“I don’t wan
t to be sent off alone—that is, told to go. I’m not going, of course. If two can go, I want Andy to come with me. After all, we were all going; he doesn’t stop being a pilot if he goes, they’ll use him, he’ll still be risking his life.” She looked at him again. “If that’s what you want.”
“It isn’t,” he said curtly. He made a confused gesture. “There are ways and ways of doing the same thing. Hanging on here, with everyone else who can’t get away, may be what the old boy said—” he grinned—“my one moment.”
“I could argue about that,” Marriot said.
Kent turned on him with rage.
“Well, don’t.”
“Why not? You can’t. …”
“What about your hand? Who needs to go more, you or me?”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Marriot said, smiling.
“Then don’t irritate me.”
“Yes, but Andy,” Cordelia said, “none of it makes sense. If this Colonel Lackland hadn’t come—”
Kent interrupted her.
“I know, pup. And if he hadn’t come, I should never have heard there was a choice.”
She persisted.
“You’ll be needed over there—to drop supplies, and I suppose to bomb things. And when it’s all over and we come back—”
Marriot lifted his sound hand.
“If,” he murmured.
She turned on him, trying to control her anger.
“He said we should come back.”
Kent glanced curiously at Marriot.
“What’s on your mind?”
His friend smiled very briefly.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, yes, there is.”
A slight hostility, the shadow thrown by their friendship itself, sharpened Marriot’s voice.
“Mind-reader, are you?”
“I can read yours.”
Marriot glanced at him with a lively kindness, and shook his head.
Before Kent could speak again, Cordelia had got up and was standing in front of him. Now he saw too clearly how tired she was, pale, a shadow like a faint bruise under her eyes, her thin shoulders rounded. In the same instant he saw that she was forcing herself, with the last of her courage, to go on dragging at him. She spoke to him as if they were alone.
The Moment of Truth Page 10