by MARY HOCKING
‘You’re just like a woman. You make every conversation so personal.’
‘Everything is personal. You didn’t pluck all your ideas out of the air. They came to you because your father went down on the Lusitania, and your mother had to rear you on her own and made up her mind you weren’t going to suffer for it. Hasn’t everything you’ve been saying added up to that?’
He thought about this and then said, ‘You’ve left out the jungle.’
‘I don’t know about the jungle.’ She was suddenly tired and concerned only with herself and the past. After a few minutes, she said, ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I’ve had a bad life. Joseph was a good man. I could have done much worse.’
A thin wail rising to a rending howl indicated that one jumper had not been as sure on her feet as the red-headed boy. Ben went to bring in the wounded.
The weather was fine and he walked each day, pacing himself carefully, not overtaxing his strength. Sometimes the children came with him. He enjoyed their company, but was anxious when they roamed out of his sight or began to clamber over the rocks. When they went in different directions he worried at them like an old sheepdog whose powers are failing. After these outings he was close to tears when he returned, fearing he would never recover.
One evening, he told Ellen about the book which Austin’s firm was bringing out in the following spring.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I daresay you’ll feel glad when that’s behind you.’
It was not at all what he felt and his face showed it.
‘He sounds an interesting person, this friend of yours,’ she went on. ‘I can visualise him when you talk about him. I see him growing older, slow and thick-set, the sort who seems rather a dull fellow. Then one day when you look into his face and see that smile behind the eyes that you always thought so kindly, you realise there’s something quite wickedly amused in it. He’s laughing at all the people who are so self-important, rushing here and there at other people’s bidding, while he’s taking things easily, doing exactly what he wants with his life.’
‘It was doing what he wanted that killed him. Drinking when he was thirsty and the stream looked inviting.’
She watched as the tears came into his eyes. She was too old for tears. ‘You can’t die someone else’s death. And you can’t live their life, either. You’ve done what you had to do for him now, and that’s an end to it. He wouldn’t have done any more for you. So let him be.’
‘He was my friend.’
‘Don’t make a millstone of him, then.’ He turned his face away and she sighed. ‘I’m old. Once I knew so much about what the future held for people. Now, I can only see what they shouldn’t do. I’m not much help to you. You’ll have to find your own way.’
She could never leave well alone, though; and before he left, she said to him, ‘Look, I’ve been reading in the paper about this man who is in prison in South America. You took up arms against the Japanese, but all he has done is speak his mind! Why don’t you write to him? Who could do it better than someone who has been a prisoner himself?’
‘Do you imagine that the kind of people who imprisoned him would allow him to receive letters?’ he asked impatiently.
‘You could find out. You’re a barrister. You must know something about the law in other countries.’
‘It would be a waste of time.’
‘You said when you left prison camp, you knew that life was a gift. He’s still in prison.’
Ben did not think of this conversation for several weeks. Then, when he met Angus Drummond for a drink in Whitehall, he remembered it.
‘There’s something I’ve had on my mind,’ he said casually, after he had bought beer for himself and a double whisky for Angus. ‘And you’re probably just the person to give me the answer.’
‘Don’t rely on it.’ It was not in Angus’s nature to give answers readily and the nature of his work confirmed him in this reluctance.
Ben took the newspaper cutting which Ellen had given him out of his wallet. He passed it to Angus. ‘Someone I know thought of writing to him. Not a bad idea, I suppose. Letters mean a lot to prisoners. But is it feasible?’
Angus read the paragraph, fingers of one hand pressed lightly against his left temple, shielding the eyelid which had lately developed a slight twitch. His mouth turned down fastidiously. ‘I wonder why well-intentioned people get themselves so worked up over what is happening in places half-way across the world! I suppose it’s because distance simplifies issues, puts everything into neat black and white categories. I don’t imagine your friend has ever considered writing to Nunn May, for example.’
‘Nunn May!’ Ben looked at him in surprise. ‘He wasn’t put in prison for speaking his mind!’
‘No, only for handing over information to the Russians that should be used for the benefit of mankind as a whole, not just kept in the hands of one country which will undoubtedly use it for military purposes.’
‘Which the Russians wouldn’t? He was a traitor.’
‘No, a scientist.’
On this occasion, Ben was too concerned with his own objective to wonder at the inconsistencies in Angus’s behaviour. He said, ‘Nunn May had a fair trial. This man hasn’t been brought to trial. And I expect a lot of people write to Nunn May. You’re not telling me he’s not allowed to receive letters, I take it.’
Angus, quite pleasantly surprised by his own recklessness, decided he had gone far enough.
‘Can you conceive what it must be like for this man?’ Ben asked angrily. He had not given it much thought until Angus’s indifference, as he applied himself to his whisky, graphically illustrated the plight of the unknown man. ‘I was a prisoner with thousands of other men. Our government knew roughly where we were held. We had a chance. And, in any case, we were soldiers. If the war went against us, we would lose our lives. This is the fate of soldiers. But this man has just dropped out of sight. He has ceased to be. This piece of paper may represent the last thing that is ever heard of him.’
Angus drained his glass. A defence mechanism in his brain had switched off the sound of Ben’s voice as soon as he began to talk about people dropping out of sight. He said, ‘The South American peoples are so volatile. It’s no use expecting them to behave like us.’
‘We may be the last people who will ever mention his name!’ Ben might not have reached Angus, but he had succeeded in disturbing himself.
Angus handed back the cutting. ‘I have no idea under what conditions this man is held.’
‘Well, I mean to find out.’
Even when he had calmed down, he still thought it a good idea. The exercise would see him through a difficult period, and would pass the time more profitably than concentrating on his own miseries.
Chapter Seven
It was in Louise’s home that the Fairleys gathered at Christmas. Judith and Austin came up for the day. It had not seemed practicable for Claire to travel to Sussex with the twins, and Aunt May, who always spent Christmas with them, had said she was too old to go far on Christmas Day, although she was only seven years older than Judith. The arrangement suited most of them; for various reasons, they had not wanted to spend Christmas in Sussex. Judith reconciled herself to their decision by reflecting that if she had had her children to stay, she must also have invited Austin’s daughter and family. Austin told himself it was only one day, and with any luck there would be plenty to drink and it would all pass in a haze of bonhomie. At this stage, he was blessedly unaware that charades and a sing-song were an inescapable part of a Fairley Christmas.
After chapel, Alice went to a pre-lunch party given by a Wren friend who was staying in London. She had too much to drink and had to lie down in the afternoon, well aware that she had disgraced herself in the eyes of her family, to say nothing of having spoilt her Christmas dinner. The sleep made her feel worse than ever, and when Louise brought her a cup of tea, she said, ‘You had better go to the bathroom before you are sick.’ Alice hurried to the bathroom and was very
sick; after which she had a quick wash and felt much better.
Claire was feeding one of the twins while Judith nursed the other. ‘Breast feeding is very important,’ she informed her mother.
Judith, who had found great pleasure in feeding her babies, thought Claire was too tense for the infant’s comfort. She wondered why Claire found it so important to establish the fact that she was a splendid mother. Was it just part of her anxious personality, or had the children come before she was ready for them? Certainly, sitting here, red hair bushed about thin shoulders, she looked like a young girl playing at families rather than the mother of two demanding babies.
‘You are getting as much rest as you can?’ she asked.
‘Rest! With these two!’
‘If you and Terence want to get away for a weekend at any time, I’d be happy to have them.’
‘Would Austin mind?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Judith modified this statement by adding, ‘The house is large enough for him to shut himself off if he needs to.’
Claire thought how different it would have been if her own dear father were still with them. She longed to say to her mother, ‘Isn’t it awful Daddy can’t see them?’ How deceived she had been in life! She had been given something that seemed eternally secure, a home, parents, unchanging love; then, suddenly, it was all whisked away as though it had been an illusion. She felt she had had two mothers; and the present mother could not be related to the mother who bent over her at night to kiss her, and was always on hand when she felt sick. She wanted a mother preserved in isolation from life, someone to whom she could return when she felt the need, but who barely existed when she had no need of her. She felt resentful and obscurely cheated. Her mother had adopted a role, played a part for a given time. She saw her father now as the one who was whole, complete, utterly sincere – also, dead, and so not answerable for any deviations from her idealised picture of him.
‘I was surprised at Alice,’ she said, still concerned with deception. ‘Do you think getting her book accepted has gone to her head?’
‘It was gin which went to her head.’ Judith had been surprised, too. ‘Goodness knows what she got up to when she was in the Wrens. I expect she will steady down now she’s home again.’
Jacov, Ben and Irene were joining the party in the evening. Alice prepared herself leisurely. She had a pretty, champagne-coloured dress which she had worn a lot when she was in Egypt, Here, it looked rather colourless, and she was delighted when she remembered the shawl which Jacov had given her so long ago. As she took it from her drawer, she recalled that moment when he had displayed it for their inspection. Something for the dressing-up trunk, he had told them, looking round for a suitable guardian. They had wondered to whom he would entrust this glistening thing – to Claire, so young and eager, to Louise, so beautiful? How surprised they had been when he had chosen Alice! And how strangely it had disturbed her. She must have been particularly full of self-dislike at that time, because when he put it round her shoulders it seemed like a brilliant butterfly alighting on a cabbage leaf. But now, feeling its soft silkiness against her skin, she was no longer the plump, pigtailed Alice, but the young woman waiting eagerly for Gordon to call for her at her quarters in Alexandria. The heat, the smell of drains and flowers carried on the first breeze of evening, the sky brilliant as the shawl, shot with sequin stars – all this splendour no longer seemed alien, but a part of herself. She wished Gordon could have been here, sharing this day with her. He had been so much more interesting than Terence! The stab of jealousy reminded her how ashamed she was of her single status. But the shawl was a promise that wonder is woven into the fabric of life; and as she took it up and spread it around her shoulders, it seemed to have magic properties and she felt she was gradually growing into it.
Irene was preparing to leave home. She would be the best-dressed among the women, in a close-fitting wine gown with a gold brooch at the throat. She would be noticed, as a well-composed picture stands out among those in which the artists have been unable to resist the temptation to fill in all the spaces. A man, looking at her, might see she had no need of other adornment than the simple brooch; but he might also feel that she was complete in herself. She was twenty-five and already gave the impression that marriage was of no interest to her. She would not be the subject of pity.
She went to the door of the drawing-room, and seeing her parents sitting comfortably reading, she wondered if she really wanted to go out. What security in the depths of the familiar armchair and the steadiness of their undemanding love! ‘Don’t wait up for me,’ she said. ‘One of the men will be sure to walk home with me.’
Her mother said, as though it was a matter which must be decided among them before Irene left, ‘What do you think Sir Stafford Cripps will have in store for us now that he is President of the Board of Trade?’
Her husband, a senior civil servant, said, ‘Naught for our comfort, you may be sure.’
‘I think he has integrity,’ Irene said. ‘He won’t ask anything of other people he isn’t prepared to sacrifice himself.’
‘I’m sure he sleeps on a bed of nails every night,’ her father agreed.
Her mother said, ‘You had better make the most of this evening, my dear.’ Their own Christmas fare had been rather stringent, not with the intention of self-sacrifice, but because Mrs Kimberley did not like cooking.
As she left, Irene could hear them discussing Sir Stafford Cripps, whom her father thought would have been much happier as a medieval monk. Her mother thought he might not have liked being indistinguishable from his companions of the cloister. Irene, who loved her home, thought the noisy Fairley party would be a poor exchange. As she walked along Holland Park Avenue she enjoyed briefly that moment of being between two worlds. But when, ten minutes later, she came in sight of Louise’s home, saw lights glowing and heard laughter, she experienced a dread so intense it took all her will-power to keep her on course. She did not understand parties, with their fragmented conversation, spontaneous bursts of unprovoked laughter and equally bewildering displays of ill temper, children’s hysterical excitement, and, worst of all, the sudden silences. She, who at home with her parents would sit for hours without speaking, found these moments of silence at a party full of menace. It seemed to her that family gatherings one could be made more aware of the dangers of human intercourse than on any other occasion. And it was all so haphazard, she thought unhappily, like a mystery coach outing without a driver.
When the front door was opened by Guy, there was no hint of uneasiness in Irene’s manner. She was perfectly enable of dealing with social occasions, provided they did not get out of hand. The presence of Austin and Judith, to say nothing of Aunt May, would ensure a degree of sobriety and good sense. She went to pay her respects to Judith and Austin. Austin seemed to her the most presentable of all the men in the room. She had a liking for older men because they had learnt so much about life; Austin certainly gave this impression. He responded to her sparkle, but could have wished for greater warmth. He was a man who valued warmth above all things.
Guy sat talking quietly to Aunt May, who might otherwise have been neglected. Alice, Louise and Jacov were discussing Asmodée which was in rehearsal again. Jacov, who would not have hesitated to produce it had he had the chance when he was with the St Bartholomew’s Players, now maintained that it was too difficult for amateurs to attempt. Terence was playing a card game with James, both intent on winning. Catherine, Ben and Claire were playing a guessing game which frequently involved them in laughter which seemed to be at the expense of other people in the room. The dog was asleep on the hearth. This Irene correctly judged to be the early evening lull before the storm.
Soon it was announced that James had devised a variation of the murder game in which a detective would question each guest and must then name the murderer. Austin was voted detective and was asked to leave the room while a murderer was elected. He departed with alacrity to the dining-room, where he stretched out
in the one armchair and closed his eyes. James wanted Ben to be the murderer, but Judith said, ‘Austin will expect you to choose a man. Why don’t you have Aunt May? He won’t think of her. And Jacov can be a red herring.’
Well, really, I don’t know . . .’ Aunt May was not sure what was going on.
‘You just have to answer questions and mislead him,’ James told her, adding to her confusion.
She need not have worried. Austin rather fancied himself in his role, and there were several suspects who took the opportunity to give a solo turn. Long before Aunt May was due to be questioned, Louise said, ‘We can’t do this all the evening. Catherine wants to play charades.’
‘Who was it who did it, dear?’ Aunt May whispered to James.
‘It was you. Auntie. Didn’t you bear?’
‘I thought I had been murdered.’
‘No, that was Aunt Alice. You can’t have missed that awful death scene.’
‘Alice hasn’t been herself today, I’m afraid.’
He plumped down beside her on the rug and stroked the dog’s ear. ‘I don’t want to play charades. It’s silly.’
Claire said she must look at the twins and took Irene with her to pay her dues of admiration. Guy poured drinks. Catherine and Alice went to find clothes for dressing up. Louise said to James, ‘Catherine played your game, so you must play hers.’
‘We didn’t finish my game.’
‘You should have worked it out more carefully beforehand.’
‘How was I to know people were going to be so silly? Aunt Alice took so long dying we were late starting with the detection.’
‘You should have known what would happen, they are your relatives.’ She was in her element, glowing with good humour. If she had had her way, the house would have been full of people every day.