He called through the hatch, ‘Rawley! You got a minute?’ and Rawlinson’s red face appeared at the opening.
Their friendship was stronger than most wartime friendships for both, having served in the International Brigade, had special entries against their names in the green, confidential files of the unit. They were not exactly suspect but were what a regular officer might describe as ‘Men with strong Leftist sympathies’. The rankers had a much simpler way of putting it: they called them ‘Bolshies’ but now that Russia had joined the Allies the term had lost some of its opprobrium.
It was strange that a man like Simon Craddock, whose mother had been killed driving an ambulance in 1917, whose father, veteran of two wars, owned thirteen hundred English acres, and who himself was a 1939 volunteer, should be regarded so warily but there it was. This was Britain and this was the British way of assessing loyalty to the crown.
Both Simon and Sergeant Rawlinson knew about the entry on their documents but neither resented it. In the six years that had passed between now and the day they had sailed for Spain so much had happened that political confusion could be forgiven. The war had made them tolerant towards every sect and party in Europe except the Nazi Party. They had even lost much of their resentment for Italian Fascists after the mass surrenders in North Africa.
Rawlinson emerged from the kitchen carrying two pint mugs of tea and set them down on an empty table near the pot-bellied stove. Simon’s battledress began to steam. Without comment he handed the telegram to Rawlinson who read it, handed it back, and looked down at the stained table top.
‘Bastards!’ he said, and waited for endorsement.
Simon lifted his shoulders. He had inherited his mother’s political fanaticism and his father’s obstinacy but few of their physical characteristics. At thirty-eight he was spare and loose-jointed. He had narrow, thoughtful features and what his father would have called ‘an authentic Cassius look’ produced by dark hair, deepset eyes and prominent cheek-bones. He did not share his friend’s blanket assessment of the German nation.
‘It probably happens regularly over there, Rawley. If it hasn’t already it will as soon as Bomber Command steps up its offensive.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rawlinson said, ‘but they began it. Bastards! Every bloody one of them! You’ll be putting in for compassionate?’
‘I don’t know, I shall want to think about it.’
Rawlinson, once a Lancashire shoeshop clerk, whistled through teeth, shocked because the rich panoply of death had been built into his personality from earliest childhood. In the back streets of Burnley, with a father and two brothers on the dole, a good funeral was about all one ever got in the way of ceremony or spectacle.
‘You’ll have to go! You can’t let your wife be buried by strangers!’
‘There won’t be a stranger present,’ Simon told him. ‘The entire bloody Valley will be there. She was born on one of the farms and it will be the best-attended funeral in local history. My entry passes out on Friday and some of them need watching. It would take me all of three days to get there and back and I daresay the adj. would insist on me taking a week to sort things out. That’s the usual drill. What sense is there to it when I’m up to my neck in work here? They got Rachel. OK.’
Rawlinson regarded him warily. He admired Simon Craddock but he had never understood him, and that despite sharing bivouacs in Spain with other volunteers from what he still regarded as The Upper Crust.
‘I don’t get it,’ he muttered. ‘You implied it was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, didn’t you?’
‘No I didn’t, Rawley. It’s a question of time, don’t you see? If we don’t get this bloody war finished in a couple of years Europe will fall apart at the seams, win or lose. The dead can’t help one way or the other.’
Fanaticism of any kind impressed Rawlinson but he was still unconvinced. ‘If it was my missus I’d want to be there. OK, so it’s cant, all that cock they say over an open grave. But she’s your missus and she was one of us! You owe her that much! Just to be there!’ When Simon did not reply but quietly sipped his tea, he added, ‘How long you been married?’
‘More than ten years.’
‘You hit it off, didn’t you?’
‘At first, and even when we split over this business we still respected one another. I saw her point of view but I don’t think she ever saw mine, not after Spain anyhow. She thought we had all been marching up a wrong turning so she packed in. Just like that. She went right back to the Sermon on the Mount. Love conquers all! But she didn’t know the first damn thing about love as most women understand it. We haven’t even slept together since I got survivor’s leave after Dunkirk. No, Rawley, she wasn’t one of us. It was a different kind of love she meant. Leper-colonies, the Untouchables, prison and hospital visiting.’
Rawlinson pondered on whether or not this put a different complexion on things but decided that it didn’t. ‘She was your missus,’ he repeated, obstinately, ‘and they’ll all expect you to go.’ A note of irritation entered Rawlinson’s voice. ‘Dammit, you don’t want to go, do you? You just don’t want to go! Now why not?’
It wasn’t an easy question. He felt about Rachel the way he felt about Rawlinson. They were partners in an expanding business that had gone through some very bad times in the ’twenties and ’thirties but was now on the mend. They thought of that business as progress, social justice, self-determination for minorities and equality of opportunity but now all the old battle-cries had been amalgamated into one and was on the lips of many former enemies, including Big Business, the Conservative Party, and that old whipping boy the Bourgeoisie. Rachel had dropped out and he was surprised, even a little ashamed, at his lack of reaction to news of her death. Just that one stab under the ribs and then nothing but a kind of nostalgia for the early years of their marriage when they had shared platforms at so many ill-attended meetings in so many hopeless campaigns, when they went calling on indifferent electors with their leaflets and torrents of words, and then home to bed to furnished rooms where the beds were lumpy, wardrobe drawers stuck half-way out, and the linoleum was cold to bare feet. Had there ever been any ecstasy? He couldn’t be sure after all this time. All he remembered was the clip clop of her sensible brogues on cobbles, rain streaming down her unpowdered cheeks and stray tendrils of hair hanging limply over the collar of a cheap, off-the-peg coat. In a way he was glad she was out of it. Her spirit, mortally injured by the assaults of the First War, had been too sickly to challenge its successor. She was worn out and used up, not physically perhaps but mentally. Too many doors had been slammed in her face. Too many of her leaflets had found their way to the lavatory and on September 3rd, 1939, she had turned her face to the wall.
He made his decision as he swallowed the rest of his tea. ‘I’m going to put a call through,’ he said briefly and Rawley watched him hunch his shoulders against the rain and recross the parade ground to the sergeants’ mess. ‘Queer bugger, Crad!’ he murmured aloud. ‘Queer, but Christ Almighty, tough! Tougher than anyone in this bloody outfit!’
II
The telephone rang in the hall an hour or so after they had returned to the Big House from the funeral. Claire Craddock, answering it, told herself that it was Simon ringing to ask who had been there, how many wreaths had been sent and from whom. She had been as shocked as Rawlinson by his refusal to ask for compassionate leave to attend but when she received his letter on the morning of the funeral, and had had time to think about it, she understood better than any of them. The relationship between them had always been easy and comfortable, perhaps because, in the days after his mother had abandoned him and Claire had taken her place at Shallowford, she had always made very certain that he wasn’t left out in the cold. Simon, a sensitive child, had recognised and appreciated her good intentions, and as he grew from a lonely child into a lonely young man it was Claire who had more of his confidence than his father, or hi
s noisy half-brothers. She had never taken his marriage to that Eveleigh girl very seriously, recognising it for what it was, an attempt on the part of a young war widow to find her way back into the mainstream of life, but she had always respected the woman they had just laid in the Eveleigh patch at Coombe Bay churchyard. If she had little capacity for love, as Claire had practised it all her life, she had plenty of loyalty and had helped Simon through some difficult times, particularly when he returned from Franco’s prison weighing six stones.
The call, however, was not a conventional enquiry from Simon but a terse request from Stephen, technically the senior of the twins (‘by ninety seconds’, as Claire always put it) and Stevie was ringing from Yorkshire asking for his sister-in-law’s last address. She knew at once he meant the address of his twin-brother’s wife, Margaret, and that his call had nothing to do with the funeral of his other sister-in-law, Rachel, or the wreath that had somehow gone astray. Her twin sons and their wives had always operated as a foursome, ever since their marriages in the early ’thirties and long before that Stevie and Andy had seldom been seen apart, having gone to school together, skylarked through the ’twenties together, and finally, to their father’s unspeakable disgust, gone back into the scrap business together. They had also prospered together and had made, she suspected, quite a pile of money before rushing into the R.A.F. at the outbreak of war. She had admired them for this, despite Paul’s rumblings to the contrary. They were both young men obsessed with flashy sports cars, golf, old-boy talk, jars of wallop and polkadot scarves, so that they seemed to her tailor-made for the R.A.F. and would have moped behind desks for the duration, despite their mastery of modern business techniques and their innumerable shady contacts in the world of scrap metal. Now, at last, they were separated. Stevie was on a conversion course to heavy aircraft in Yorkshire, and Andy, if anything the more dashing of the two, was in Egypt with his fighter squadron, whence he wrote illegible letters reminding her of the letters she had once had from him at school.
There was, she thought, a curious urgency in Stevie’s voice and also an unusual reluctance to enter into a chatty conversation. He was fit, he said, and unlikely to go on ops for months. He was also missing Andy whom he referred to as ‘the old clot’, but what he wanted right now was his sister-in-law Margaret’s London address. He didn’t say why and she didn’t ask him because it would have seemed an unnecessary question. She gave the telephone number and then Stevie asked how everybody was and whether they were going to rebuild Rumble Patrick’s farm ‘after old Jerry’s flying visit’. She had begun to tell him about the current family dispute concerning Rumble’s proposed enlistment but she didn’t get the chance to finish. The pips went and Stevie snapped, ‘No more change. Carry on regardless …’ and the line went dead.
She came away slightly puzzled. He hadn’t mentioned Rachel being killed but only the farm and although, taken all round, he had sounded his brash, breezy self, she had sensed a certain tension that disturbed her a little. She decided then that he had been lying about his prospects of going on operations and this comforted her, for somehow she never worried about the twins’ chances of survival. They had already survived half-a-dozen car crashes, two light aeroplane crashes and one drowning when their home-made boat overturned in the bay. It would, she reminded herself, take more than Hitler to bring stillness to The Pair.
In one respect Claire was right. In another she was as wrong as she could be. Stevie had told her the truth regarding his prospects of going on operations. His conversion course would confine him to base area flights for some weeks but Claire’s instinct had not been at fault. The tension, conveyed over the wire, had nothing to do with flying, or his enforced separation from Andy. It was the result of a profound shock administered by his wife who had just left him, threatening never to return.
The rift between them had been widening over a period of eighteen months. The first crack showed shortly after the twins had turned their backs on money-making and enlisted in a barrage balloon unit whence, by pulling a fistful of strings, they had transferred to a fighter-pilot course completed in time to enable them to harry the Luftwaffe through the final fortnight of the Battle of Britain. Their surrender of civilian status and the break-up of their small scrap-metal empire, had been no real sacrifice on their part. Money, as such, did not interest them and never had, not since their coming-of-age when old Franz Zorndorff, their cicerone, had lured them out of the Valley and trained them as his acolytes. What they found rewarding about life was its constant movement and the element of gambling inherent in the scrap market but when something even more boisterous presented itself they were happy to abandon scrap for the duration and whoop it up in the skies over south-eastern England.
Margaret, Andy’s Welsh wife, accepted the situation, making the best of what could not be altered, but Monica, Stevie’s partner, had never ceased to regard the war as an attempt on the part of all engaged in it to thwart her personal plans for the future. She had, in fact, argued strenuously against their enlistment and when she failed to carry her point she had sulked through the phoney war period and on into the Dunkirk summer and beyond. Now, after nearly two years of camp-following, she could contain her frustration no longer and the resistant flare-up promised to drive a wedge between man and wife that could never be withdrawn. It was the near-certainty of this that had put the note of urgency into Stevie’s voice when, in a frantic attempt to find a mediator, he had remembered his brother’s wife and asked for Margaret’s address.
He did not have much hope that Margaret’s intervention would cause his wife to change her mind. The two had never been close friends although, in the whirl of foreign business trips, shopping sprees, the buying and selling of homes, and the cut-and-thrust of business life, they had half-convinced both men that their relationship was cordial. The truth was, of course, neither Stephen, nor Andrew, nor even Margaret had ever been privy to Monica’s long-term plans for herself, her husband and, if they had to come along, for the other pair.
The spoiled daughter of the most pontifical-looking cleric in Devon Monica Dearden had never, or not until now, repented her pursuit and capture of the harebrained son of a small country squire. She told herself, the first night they met at an Assembly Room dance, that, given the chance, she could make something of Stephen Craddock, and in a way she had, dragging Andy and his Welsh wife along in her wake. Under her tutelage they had ceased to roar about the countryside in sports cars that looked like angry red beetles and had bought more dignified forms of transport. She had also redressed all three of them, persuading the boys to discard their loud sports clothes and the yard of knitted scarf that trailed behind them wherever they went. As to their social life, she had made shift to sort that out to a degree, encouraging them to devote only business hours to men who could hardly read or write, who kept no banking accounts, but who, at a moment’s notice, could produce half a battleship or ten miles of disused railway line. Together as a quartette they assembled round them a group of pseudo-sophisticated people and had begun to cultivate an acquaintance with what, in the middle ’thirties, passed for art. They attended a play or two by unarrived dramatists, discussed the work of a few fashionable novelists and patronised a succession of artists whose canvases, usually covered with clocks, fishbones, detached limbs, assorted triangles and solitary eyes puzzled Stevie very much but were loudly acclaimed by Monica’s friends.
It was not Stevie’s philistinism, however, that enlarged his wife’s exasperation with him into frantic resentment and neither was their quarrel connected with her refusal to encumber herself with children. Stevie conceded that she might well be right when she declared him unfitted to be anybody’s father. The flaw in their marriage was exposed by the same pressures as those brought to bear on Simon and Rachel. Neither could view the present war from a common standpoint. Stevie saw it as a kind of nonstop rugby football match between a sporting team and opponents inclined to foul. Monica saw it as the most unm
itigated bore ever contrived to try the patience of the human family. It was bad enough, she thought, to have to break off her social contacts, pretend to be rationed as regards food, clothes and petrol, and stumble about small market towns where the street lighting had never been adequate and was now non-existent. What was worse, in her eyes, was an obligation to support the role of a twentieth-century vivandière in one dreary camp after another, in order to be on hand to embrace one of the beefiest threequarters in the British team. For Monica Craddock did not see her husband and his messmates as heroes but as a mob of hairy school-prefects. To her they were not the defenders of democracy but extroverts who had opted out of the serious business of life to enjoy an unlooked-for holiday. When introduced to the twins’ group-captain on one of the Battle of Britain airfields she thought of him as a bemedalled Doctor Arnold of Rugby, impossibly stupid, impossibly priggish and self-deprecating into the bargain and as time passed she grew to hate everything about the R.A.F. She hated its silly slang and its obsession with gadgets. She hated its juvenile enthusiasms and its affected insouciance in matters of dress and deportment. Born and bred in the precincts of a Cathedral Close, her life regulated by the clamour of bells and the proprieties expected of an Archdeacon’s daughter, she had once yearned for adventure, for the bizarre and the unpredictable. In the years between marriage and the outbreak of war she had found all three in the company of Stephen and his brother. Then, against all probability, they entered the Fellowship of the Dedicated and overnight had become more catholic than the Pope, reverting to schoolboys, crumpling their caps, leaving their top tunic button undone to prove that they were numbered among the élite, growing fair, droopy moustaches and, above all, prattling endlessly of ‘prangs’ and ‘popsies’ and ‘wizard shows’. This was not the kind of adventure Monica had envisaged and the façade of these people did not deceive her for a moment. They claimed to despise those who, in their own idiom, ‘shot a line’, but to Monica the lines shot by the men (and their women) of Bomber and Fighter Commands criss-crossed the entire country so that there was no way of escaping the tangle.
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