by MARY HOCKING
‘That man of yours is coming tonight.’
There was a pause and then Kerren said, ‘Which man of whose?’
‘The Jugoslav you introduced me to at The Taverner.’
Kerren said, awkwardly, ‘He’s not mine. He’s Cath’s.’
At least there would be a man. Robin turned and re-entered the room; she sat on the chair this time and was careful how she arranged her suit.
Kerren and Cath went into the kitchen to cut sandwiches. Apparently Dilys was not expected to do this herself. She sat on the floor, looking at Robin; she had a rather nervous way of looking at people, darting quick glances and then looking away again as though unable to bear for very long the impact of another personality. Robin assumed that this was an affectation, although she was prepared to concede that Dilys might need glasses. After some moments of studying Robin in this furtive fashion, Dilys said:
‘You and Kerren were together in the Wrens?’
‘Yes.’
Dilys traced a pattern on the carpet with her forefinger. Her face was hidden by the dark cloud of hair.
‘It must have been fun.’
‘Not all of it. Kerren lost her husband.’
‘But she has got over that now?’ Dilys’s nail cut a sharp furrow in the carpet.
‘I wouldn’t know. Perhaps she won’t know herself until she falls in love again.’
‘Can you love more than once?’
‘If you can love once, I suppose you can love again.’
Dilys’s finger stopped its exploration of the carpet; she drew it towards her and examined the cuticle thoughtfully. Robin could see the sharp tip of her nose. No other feature was visible.
‘Would you say that Kerren was attractive to a man?’ Robin felt a twinge of jealousy. She was willing to praise Kerren, but in her own way and at her own time. She said:
‘Not to all men.’
‘All men . . .’ Dilys looked up and Robin was vouchsafed a quick glimpse of a face sharpened by an emotion which might have been contempt. ‘Who cares about that?’ She slumped forward and the dark hair again obliterated her face. Robin said, ‘May I?’ and lit a cigarette. About ten minutes later Kerren and Cath came in with a plate of sandwiches and at the same time the door bell rang.
‘Prince Charming, right on cue!’ Robin said lightly. But as Dilys went to open the door, she found that she was shivering. Perhaps she had caught a chill out there on the balcony.
Afterwards she could never be sure whether she knew before he entered the room that it was the man outside The Frobisher. In retrospect it seemed that she did. One thing was certain, she had revived wonderfully and felt as elated as though she had been drinking champagne all the evening. The others had receded into the background; the stage belonged to her and to the Jugoslav. And how beautifully he played his part, looking up at her as he kissed her hand, his eyes imperiously insisting that they had shared an intimate adventure instead of a brief misunderstanding on a foggy evening! In some calculating chamber of her mind, she noted that he was still wearing the dark blue demob. suit and deduced from this that he was impecunious.
There was another man with him; somewhere in the wings introductions were taking place, then Robin found herself briefly confronted by a small, monkey-faced man who clicked his heels but did not kiss her hand. The monkey-faced man withdrew from the limelight and there was just Jan, saying:
‘You are long in London?’
‘For the week-end.’
‘It is not possible that you go so soon.’
‘My husband and three starving children await me at home.’ Cath came with a plate of sandwiches and a bruised look. Robin took a sandwich, murmuring delightedly over it as though it contained caviar instead of Spam. Cath retired to a corner to nurse her grievance. Jan was very handsome but rather overpowering; Robin was a little afraid of him. The fear added the necessary spice to the evening. Next week she would be back in Cheltenham so there was no need to worry about consequences.
In the background the others were having a mundane conversation about food supplies. It seemed that the monkey-faced man had a restaurant in Bayswater. Jan turned to say to Kerren, ‘I go into business with him. You will be our waitress, yes?’ He spoke affectionately, as though he had come to an understanding with Kerren. In that calculating chamber of her mind, Robin recorded the fact that men never spoke to her like that. Kerren retorted:
‘Irish waitresses are very good.’
‘But of course! This is why I ask you.’ He laughed and turned back to Robin. ‘You will come and dine there?’ His tone changed; he was speaking to someone intimately known from whom he had been momentarily separated. Robin was restored. ‘It is not very grand, a cheap little place. But from these small beginnings . . .’ He spread his arms wide to indicate the empire that would be his; then reverted to his confidential tone. ‘We dine together when you come to London again, not in my restaurant, but in a very good place that I know in the Brompton Road.’
‘Perhaps.’
He smiled, perfectly satisfied that this was settled, and held out his hand. ‘May I get you another drink?’
‘That would be difficult.’
‘No drink?’ His eyebrows shot up. His reactions were comically over-played. Robin found herself miming rueful despair with equal exaggeration. ‘We will do something about that.’ He turned to Dilys who was lying on the floor reading poetry. ‘We have brought a contribution to the party. It is permitted?’
She looked up vaguely, trying to bring him into focus. Robin had the impression that this seeming withdrawal was a way of drawing attention to herself. All contributions, Dilys said, were gratefully received. The dark curtain descended over the book; she certainly knew how to use her hair to effect!
Jan produced a bottle and Kerren found some tumblers. Kerren was the first to drink. ‘How dull. It doesn’t taste of anything.’ The others sipped and agreed with her; it was the first time that any of the girls had tasted vodka. Dilys put her glass down after one sip, the others persevered and allowed their glasses to be refilled. An hour later Dilys announced that they would all go for a walk in the park. They protested that it was dark, but she brushed this aside. ‘It makes no difference. I often go there at night.’ She was determined to have her her own way; as she was the only one who was sober this gave her an advantage.
They soon came to the park. Some of the railings had been taken away for salvage, there was no difficulty about getting into it. One or two people standing at a bus stop watched them with the townsman’s dull detachment; no one said anything. Dilys took Kerren’s arm. ‘Quick, quick . . .’ They darted forward. Cold air stung their faces, they stumbled across the uneven grass; it was rather exhilarating, after all. ‘Now!’ Dilys said after several minutes. ‘Now!’ She turned Kerren round. Just as the port lights soon seem unconnected with the reality of the boat, so the lights of Knightsbridge had lost all relevance and were no more than a string of bright beads thrown against the night sky. A great barrier of darkness lay between them and the world of mortals. Dilys chanted:
‘Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tearr
The combination of Swinburne and vodka was depressing. Kerren felt tears running down her cheeks. Dilys said, ‘Ah! you feel it. You feel it, too.’
Robin and Jan passed them. He was speaking with a deep, Slavonic seriousness, pouring a profound melancholy into the night. Robin was saying very little because she had no idea what he was talking about.
Kerren said, ‘I’m not at all sure that I know what I feel.’
‘But you understand. I knew you would. That’s why I brought you here.’ Dilys spoke with an intensity that made Kerren feel rather uncomfortable. ‘Darkness is the great transformer. It hides our confusion and masks our inadequacy. One should explore the possibilities of darkness.’
> Ahead, Robin was saying, ‘Ah yes! I have felt that, too.’
‘But for you it is different.’ Jan was prepared to accept understanding but not to surrender his unique claim to suffering. ‘You have home here, a culture in which you are rooted. But I am a Slav and I must tell you that there are things in England I do not like. You are very complacent people, the war does not touch you. Oh yes, London is bombed and you are very brave and sing in the shelters. Then you hit back and bomb the Germans very hard. But you do not hate; you do not know how to hate.’
‘We don’t know how to love,’ Dilys drew Kerren back from the others. ‘My mother knew how to love.’
‘Really?’
‘I come into the park because I feel that I can become a part of her here. In the darkness all contours and outlines merge, shape and substance are obliterated. I sometimes feel that if one made a really enormous effort one could break out of this prison of bone.’ Kerren felt that Dilys was trying to say something of great significance. She wished that her mind was not so fuddled with vodka. Dilys looked up at the tiny pricks the stars made in the velvet darkness and quoted softly:
‘I shall remember while the light lives yet
And in the night-time I shall not forget
‘Your mother died?’ Kerren felt it was time that she contributed something.
‘Years ago. We had to live apart – it doesn’t matter why. But she was devoted to me, quite selflessly devoted. I was taken ill at school and she heard about it and insisted on coming to me. I can see her bending over me even now whenever I close my eyes. She was ill herself and shouldn’t have travelled, but no one could stop her. She died of fever.’
‘How terribly sad!’
But the terrible thing was that although she was sorry about Dilys’s tragedy, she did not want to be drawn into it. Her mind was concerned with more mundane matters. Robin had an early train to catch, it would be much more sensible if she went back to her hotel now.
‘We must catch up with the others,’ she said to Dilys.
They ran between the trees. Dilys soon outstripped Kerren and disappeared in the darkness. In a moment or two, Kerren heard Robin’s voice.
‘Some of the things we do are irrevocable. There is no way back.’
She sounded sad in a brave, restrained way, but the authentic note of despair eluded her. Jan, who still had a lot to say himself, wasted no time on sympathy.
‘There is never a way back. Never! One cannot recapture the past, already I find this out. There is my family in Jugoslavia. But there is no way back for me. Our family life is over, it is possible we shall never meet again.’
Robin moved a little away from him, Kerren could see her head tilt back to examine the stars between the branches of the trees.
‘I can’t think where Dilys has got to.’ She continued to stare up at the trees as though she expected to find Dilys hanging from a branch. Kerren could tell by the studied casualness of her voice that she was piqued.
‘She is somewhere ahead,’ Jan said irritably. ‘Do not worry about her.’
‘I’m not going to mess around here all night listening . . .’ Robin said on a rising note. Perhaps if she had been able to finish the sentence her affair with Jan would have been stillborn. But at this moment the moon came out from behind a bank of cloud and they saw the Serpentine before them; Dilys was standing on the parapet of the bridge waving as though welcoming them to her inheritance. Cath came stumbling towards them.
‘Do make her come down. I can’t. I’m sick.’ She turned aside and demonstrated the fact.
‘Sheer exhibitionism!’ Robin said. ‘She’d drown herself for a little attention.’
Kerren protested uneasily, ‘She’s not really like that.’
Dilys called out, ‘You look as though you’ve been turned to stone, or pillars of respectability, or something.’ She did a handstand on the parapet. She had their full attention now.
Jan ran forward. ‘Come down. You will fall.’
Dilys resumed the vertical and asked nonchalantly, ‘Would you rescue me?’
‘I should be very annoyed with you.’
That is his only suit, Robin thought. It seemed to snuff the last vestige of romance out of the evening. She sat on the parapet with her back to Jan and Dilys and gazed down into the still, dark water. It was time to end this escapade.
Kerren thought so, too. She called out to Dilys, ‘Don’t be such a silly goose. If you don’t come down we shall go home and leave you.’
Dilys raised her arms above her head and looked up at the sky as though protesting against the littleness of life. ‘How cross you all are! Everyone becomes cross in the end.’ Slowly the top half of her body leant to one side, bowed by the world’s anger. Jan took another step forward, then stopped, afraid that he might make her lose her balance. For a moment she remained still, looking rather like a decorated croquet hoop inappropriately welded to the parapet; and then, as though a spring had been released, she executed a neat cartwheel. Leisurely, she repeated the process moving towards them along the parapet. She called gaily, ‘I’m going over next time.’
Kerren said to Jan, ‘The moment she’s upright, you grab her round the waist and I’ll get her ankles.’ They moved forward together. He got Dilys round the waist but her legs shot out and one foot caught Robin a resounding clout on the ear. Robin executed a graceful half-spin. For a moment, Kerren saw her friend’s face wearing an expression of suspended disbelief before it vanished over the side of the bridge. There was a painful thwack as the surface of the water broke.
That last look of Robin’s was irresistibly funny, Kerren thought that she would remember it to her dying day. This, however, was the kind of challenge to which Jan must rise; in a moment he was poised on the parapet, dramatically silhouetted against the night sky. Kerren applauded, ‘Magnificent! But hurry, she’ll race you otherwise. She’s a good swimmer.’ As he dived, the monkey-faced man, who had been running up and down the bank like an agitated retriever, came dashing on to the bridge. For an exquisite moment, Kerren thought that he, too, was going to fling himself from the parapet, but instead he rushed up to Dilys and began to shake her violently. Kerren laid her head against the parapet and laughed until the tears came. When Cath appeared at her side, she gasped:
‘It’s so funny! Why can’t anyone see how excruciatingly funny it is?’
Cath said stolidly, ‘It’s vodka.’ She was feeling much better now that she had been sick. She went down to the side of the lake and began issuing instructions to everyone, like a games mistress taking a backward class. Jan emerged from the lake carrying Robin, her hair streaming on either side of her face like the bedraggled ears of a spaniel. She clung to her rescuer, but the first words that she spoke when she had spat out water and weeds were, ‘My beautiful suit!’
They went back to Cath’s. Her parents were away for the week-end and Robin could have their bedroom; it was better that the staff of The Frobisher should know nothing of this escapade. Dilys remained behind, sitting cross-legged on the parapet like a small buddha remote from the affairs of mortals. Robin said afterwards that she was annoyed at being upstaged.
Jan and the monkey-faced man left them at Holland Park tube station. Jan’s suit seemed to be shrinking visibly. He said that he hoped Robin would suffer no ill-effects; he sounded stilted and Kerren could see that he was furiously angry at being made to look ridiculous. Perhaps it was better for it to end like that.
But as it turned out it was only the beginning. The next day Robin had a temperature of 104° and the doctor, hastily summoned by Cath, said that she would have to remain in bed for at least a week.
‘What are we to say?’ she whispered when Kerren called to see her during the lunch break. ‘I’ve been waiting for you so that you can ‘phone Clyde.’
‘Why not Cath?’ Kerren was reluctant to lie to Clyde.
‘He doesn’t know her.’
‘I’ll tell him you fell in the lake.’
‘This is s
erious, Kerren!’
‘Well, you obviously fell in something. That suit will need a dramatic explanation.’
In the end they decided to say that Robin had fallen in the lake while she was feeding the ducks. Kerren telephoned to Clyde from the library. She painted a glowing picture of Cath’s parents and managed to persuade him that there was no need for him to come to London. As he had an important case on his hands, he reluctantly accepted her advice. Afterwards she wondered whether she had been wise. Jan visited Robin every evening; she had redeemed the situation by her illness and had become interesting to him again.
Chapter Six
March was savage. There were fears of famine in Europe; an appeal for help was made by Hungary. The Russians were making trouble about the presence of British troops in Greece. There was unrest in Cairo. And through all this chaos ran the dark thread of the Nuremburg Trials. Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald . . . The mind could not assimilate much of what was said, only now and again some small incident – the senseless battering to death of a child by a guard who subsequently munched the apple the child had been eating – provided a brief moment of horrified understanding, as though a dark curtain had been momentarily twitched aside.
Violence seemed to have permeated everyday life. Kerren was more aware of it than she had been during the war. Grey clouds clamped over the roofs of the houses and a shrill wind whined continuously. She was bitterly cold in her room. The warped window frames rattled and the front door was left open at night by other tenants so that an icy shaft of air blew into the basement. The room had a squalor which was quite different from the squalor of service camps where one had something of the feeling of the pioneer; this was the squalor of a neighbourhood that is going downhill, the crumbling away of values and traditions, the rotting of the foundations of an ordered existence. The people who occupied the terraced houses were shiftless, hopeless, sometimes vicious. It was the nearest Kerren had come to the fringes where humanity begins to rot. One night in the house opposite she heard a man threatening to kill another man. It was not the words, but something in the timbre of the voice, something beyond control that terrified her so much that she put her fingers to her ears and her head under the bedclothes. Afterwards she was appalled at her attitude. She had always imagined that on such occasions she would do something useful, even if it was only calling a policeman. She had never before experienced this paralysis in the face of naked violence.