by MARY HOCKING
Chapter Fifteen
Ben had been right when he said that the police could not link Angus’s disappearance with himself and Alice, or with Daphne and Peter. But there was one person who had been overlooked. Alice, in her confusion, had quite forgotten Angus’s statement that he had called on Jacov who had turned him away. When, in late November, the story came out and Angus’s picture was published in the paper, the stage doorkeeper, who had little to do to while away the dull hours other than remember faces, went to the police.
Rain was pouring down the window; Jacov saw the world beyond his flat as though distorted by glycerine, cracks channelled in chimneys, gables zig-zagging drunkenly against the grey sheen of tiles. The street name looked as if it had been painted on a greasy surface, only a U and a T were clearly outlined. He could not remember the name of the street. A car passed, its wheels sizzling like frying fat.
He tried to remember what had happened when the two men came to the theatre, but that scene was distorted also. They had come after the matinée, apologising for the intrusion but saying they had been unable to contact him at his flat. They had explained that they had come as a result of information given by the stage doorkeeper. Up to that, he could recall the scene only too clearly.
After that, the men tended to recede. He was afraid he had behaved as if they were members of the audience. One should never catch the eye of a member of the audience, it breaks the illusion. But the same rule probably did not apply to members of the police force. He had an idea he had talked rather a lot.
He had told them he had sent Angus away. That was the right thing to do, surely.’ But it couldn’t have been entirely right, because one of them had asked whether he usually sent his friends away when they came to see him in his dressing-room. He had disclaimed friendship with Angus. An acquaintance, then? Something must have happened to make him shout at this acquaintance – the stage doorkeeper had heard him shouting.
He had protested about this. The stage doorkeeper’s cubby hole was nowhere near his dressing-room. Apparently, the stage doorkeeper had had second thoughts as to whether he should have admitted Angus. Jacov recalled rising to that, if he was disreputable enough to get Sidney off his backside, how do you think I felt about him?’ he had exclaimed, or words to that effect. ‘He looked like a tramp. Something had gone wrong with him. A breakdown, perhaps.’
He hadn’t felt he should help, fetch a doctor? Or at least advise Angus to go to a doctor, rather than ordering him out of the dressing-room?
This was the point at which he suspected he had taken off. ‘If I felt anything, it was that I should make my entrance. They had already called beginners for Act Two.’
‘Were you a beginner?’
‘No, but I didn’t have long enough to persuade someone who had had a breakdown to go to a doctor.’
‘What did he want you to do?’
‘I didn’t listen. He said he was in trouble. But there wasn’t time to listen. The second bell went just as he arrived and I knew the audience would be coming back. It shook me to see him like that. I could feel myself separating from the part. It is important that I am always in my part during the performance . . .’
This was arrant nonsense, but perhaps the police wouldn’t know any better. After all, a lot of actors talked that way nowadays. In fact, he never thought of his part until he was waiting in the wings. He usually arrived late and made up very quickly, not giving himself time to think about the part. If he thought about it, it took the edge off his performance. He wasn’t one of those actors who have to live each part – he was a performer, a bag of tricks. But he had had to listen endlessly to actors rumbling on about how they immersed themselves in their characters, so he had the language all there, ready to tongue. He used it. He worked himself up just as he did on a first night. And, just as on a first night, he was not sure afterwards whether he had gone right over the top.
He knew that at some time they had asked him if he was Russian.
Years ago, he had gone to the Foreign Office with Mr Fairley to make enquiries about Katia. He recalled Mr Fairley’s dismay when told that Katia was not a British subject. Mr Fairley, his friend, was dead. But the man at the Foreign Office, whom he looked upon as his enemy, was probably still working there. He would remember. He would think that, after such a lesson, Jacov Vaseyelin should have made sure his own affairs were in better order. Now, of course, it was too late. Even if they did not arrest him for collusion, they would tell him he could not stay in the country. What would he do? Where would he go? He was a stateless person. He would be sent into exile in that Siberia of the West, Switzerland – a terrain hostile to all save skiers and mountaineers. In his panic, he had told them he was a Russian Jew. He never thought of himself as a Jew – his father was Russian, and his mother had been only half Jewish; but he had hoped it might help to prove his innocence, since the Russians were not well-disposed to the Jews. It seemed from what followed that they already knew he had Jewish blood.
‘Your sister was in Buchenwald, I believe?’ There had been more of accusation than sympathy in that statement.
‘Yes.’
‘Presumed dead?’
The man had studied him thoughtfully for signs of the instability one must expect in anyone unreliable enough to have a sister presumed dead in Buchenwald.
When he returned to his flat, Jacov looked through his drawers to see if there was anything among the few papers he had kept in connection with his family which might be regarded as incriminating. While he was doing this, he came across an envelope addressed to Claire and Terence Straker. He had promised to get complimentary tickets for the play and had forgotten about them. The Strakers wanted to treat their neighbours who had been very kind in baby¬sitting with the twins. He stood looking down at the tickets, thinking of the Fairleys and all they had meant to him. He could not go to Louise. It would be too complicated, with Guy in attendance. In his distress he would be unable to separate the appeal to friends from the demands of the lover. But Terence might be instrumental in acquainting the Fairleys of his plight. Claire had once shown him an article which Terence had had published in a left-wing weekly, warning about the way in which liberty had been eroded during the war. While it had lacked Mr Fairley’s moral rectitude, the article had shown an impressive mastery of invective. Jacov had reflected that this was a man he would not like to cross. So, perhaps a good man to have on one’s side?
Terence had given him the telephone number of the school where he taught. The secretary, he had said, was a good sort and would take a message if there was a problem about the tickets. Jacov persuaded the secretary that he must speak to Terence. Fortunately, it was the break period. When Terence came to the telephone, Jacov explained that he had the tickets, but could not get over to Kew, so he wondered whether Terence could meet him in London? He did not like to say any more. He had already convinced himself that his every movement was watched, and it was but a short step to assuming that his telephone had been interfered with. Certainly something had happened to it recently – it roared like a distant heavy sea. He had put this down to his having dropped a lighted cigarette end into the mouthpiece, but now he was not so sure. Terence, from somewhere across the Bering Sea, sounded rather nonplussed, but, no doubt feeling himself under an obligation, agreed to meet Jacov for a drink. As Terence was at school during the day, and Jacov at the theatre in the evenings, it was difficult to arrange a suitable time. Eventually, they agreed to have morning coffee at the Cumberland on the next Saturday.
Claire was annoyed. She had looked forward to shopping in peace while Terence stayed with the twins, I have them all day,’ she said.
‘I have them multiplied by twenty all day,’ he retorted.
‘Secondary school children are old enough to know how to behave.’
‘If you believe that, your motherhood is going to be a series of disillusions, culminating in . . .’
‘And don’t speak to me in that caustic tone, as if you were addressi
ng your class.’
At this point, Terence, tired after a day in school, flew into one of his rare rages and said that everything he said and did was wrong and he was sick of it. When they had made their peace, they agreed there was plenty of time for Jacov to post the tickets. But although Terence telephoned Jacov’s flat on several occasions, there was no reply.
So Terence met Jacov at the Cumberland on the Saturday morning. He had put on his one good suit in honour of the occasion. What with school during the day and domesticity in the evenings and weekends, every waking moment seemed to be ordered, and he was guiltily delighted to be travelling on the bus alone. His life was in danger of developing into one of those guided tours where you are never allowed a moment’s respite. As Hyde Park came into sight, he found himself expanding his chest to draw in deep breaths of freedom. There was a place at the back of his lungs which had not had the air changed for a long time. Before he returned, he would take a bus to the Aldwych and walk up Fleet Street – just to remind himself that he was going to work there one day. In the meantime, he looked forward to having coffee in luxurious surroundings of which he would disapprove.
As soon as they met Jacov said, ‘You don’t want coffee, do you? It’s such a beautiful morning. I thought we would walk in the park.’
Terence expostulated, ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind . . .’ and Jacov said, ‘Yes, I knew you would prefer that,’ and walked away.
Although Terence was a resolute hiker, he had difficulty in keeping up with Jacov who was considerably more nimble when it came to dodging fast-moving traffic in the vicinity of Marble Arch. Terence was relieved when they reached the park unscathed.
It was indeed a beautiful day, cold and crisp, with pale sun and fragile eggshell sky. Children romped on silvered grass and one toddler, slipping, let out a howl of frosted breath.
‘Like a Christmas card,’ Jacov said.
Terence said, ‘Breughel, but it wouldn’t be wise to skate on that ice.’
‘No, no. Not Breughel. England!’
Terence peered myopically and said, ‘I suppose so,’ though he could not see what it was he had missed that was so particularly English.
Jacov gabbled, ‘The trees aren’t lopped. Flowers come up through the grass in spring. One isn’t made aware of the pattern. There is a sense of space, freedom . . .’ He clutched Terence’s shoulder. ‘I want to stay here. Oh God, God!’
Terence, startled, said hastily, ‘Yes, all right. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t. I don’t mind about coffee.’
‘I want to stay in England!’ Jacov sank down on a seat, head on knees, arms all-embracing. He did this neatly, in one movement, like an insect which folds itself up into a protective ball when touched.
Terence stood beside him, fists thrust in the pockets of his jacket, wishing he had worn an overcoat and wondering what to do. When, after a few moments Jacov had not moved, he said, ‘Are you supposed to tour abroad? Is that the problem?’
Jacov spoke so softly that Terence had to bend down to catch his words. ‘The police have been to see me.’
Terence said, ‘I see!’ and sat beside him, prepared to give his undivided attention; but Jacov sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and looked wildly round him.
Terence said, ‘No one is taking any notice of us. But if you want to attract attention that is the way to do it.’
Jacov sat down again. In black sweater and tight trousers, he was no more suitably dressed for the cold than Terence and looked as if he might have come out for a breath of fresh air during a rehearsal of Hamlet. There were purple pouches beneath eyes which seemed to burn holes in the pinched, white face. Terence felt anger beginning to warm him. He studied Jacov expectantly. A one-time refugee, probably not a nationalised British subject, Russian, and with Jewish blood. The classic victim. Well, he had found his defender. Terence produced cigarettes.
A small, feather-tailed black dog with fiendish red eyes and sharp teeth bounded up and sniffed appreciatively at Terence’s trouser legs. Aware of the owners hovering lovingly near by, Terence nudged the animal which promptly bit his ankle. Its master came and hauled it away. Terence examined his ankle to see if the skin was broken. It wasn’t.
He said to Jacov, ‘Now, what’s the trouble? Passport, identity card? Tell me all about it.’ He sat back, the sun glinting on his pebbled glasses. Already he was preparing a searing indictment of the lack of humanity displayed by police and officials. ‘Only a few years have passed since the horrors of Belsen, yet we have learnt no lessons . . .’
The dog attacked in the crotch this time. ‘He’s taken a fancy to you. I’ll get my hubby. He’s too strong for me.’ The husband arrived and lugged the dog away; it careered across the grass, scattering children and ducks.
Jacov began to speak. Ten minutes later, the situation had lost much of its classic simplicity. Claire had said only the other day how relieved she was that the police had shown no further interest in Alice. Terence could see now the wistful smile that was uncertain as the sun after rain. His throat constricted. After a few moments, he was ashamed to hear himself substituting cravenly cautious advice for withering condemnation. ‘You mustn’t take this too personally. The police interviewed Alice. And Irene and her parents. I expect they have seen Daphne as well . . .’ He stopped short of being jolly about Uncle Tom Cobley, and said, ‘It was probably just a routine enquiry.’
‘They felt I had been withholding evidence.’
‘It doesn’t matter what they feel so long as they can’t prove it.’ He was shrinking with every bland assurance.
Jacov said bleakly, ‘They won’t bother with proof when it comes to me,’ and Terence uttered the ultimate in platitudes, ‘This is England.’ He made haste to temper this by adding, ‘Whatever our shortcomings – of the which no one is more aware than I – we still believe in the liberty of the individual . . .’
‘Liberty is always bad news for someone. In France they guillotined people in the name of liberty. In Salem, they burned witches.’
‘But you are not a witch nor a French aristocrat.’
‘My father is a Russian aristocrat and my grandfather was a German Jew.’
So now we have the answer to all this, Terence thought – the persecution mania of the Jews! And they had reason. Nevertheless . . . ‘The Jewish connection is quite distant, isn’t it? Not that there is anything wrong with being a Jew, of course; but in your case there seems no need to emphasise it. You don’t want to make an emotive issue of it. Oh God, I’m sorry, I must have a pee.’
He was distressed at making such a cock-up of this test of his beliefs. Added to which, the cold had had its usual effect on his bladder.
Jacov seemed so much more relaxed as he sat looking towards the lake, his body uncoiled, legs stretched out across the path, that one might have supposed his conversation with Terence to have eased his mind. In fact, he had realised that there was nothing to be gained from this discussion. Their points of view were irreconcilable. Terence, for all his anger, saw injustice as an infection, a sucker sent up from a healthy plant, something to be cut out at the root; whereas Jacov saw it as a condition of life. Mercy, being more random, would have been easier for him to accept than the concept of justice.
Terence had gone behind a tree. The wretched dog, regarding this as a gamesome move, rushed up and began circling him, threatening further assault. Terence kicked out and caught the animal a glancing blow on its rump, whereupon it set up a hysterical yelping which brought its owners running to the rescue while Terence’s flies were undone. The woman, as distraught as her dog, said she had never seen such a thing in her life; and Terence, with a nasty look at the husband, replied, ‘My commiserations, madam.’ They parted amid mutual threats of police action.
Terence polished his glasses while he composed himself, and wondered why he, who had such incisive dreams, should so often be a figure of fun. Jacov, he noted, when he returned to the seat, seemed to endow the part of the clown with a melancholy grace. He l
ooked up, smiling at Terence, and said, ‘Been importuning the dog, have you?’ One must remember the man is an actor, Terence told himself; he is probably not as desperate as might be imagined from his talk. He couldn’t recover so quickly otherwise.
As they walked across the park, Terence said, ‘If they do take this any further, you must let us know. We’ll stand behind you.’ After a pause, he rephrased, ‘We’ll stand by you, never fear.’
Jacov accepted this with a face so bland it might have been moulded in plasticene. It was quite a surprise to see that the eyes were not of the same substance.
Terence did not take a bus to the Aldwych, but went instead to Holland Park. He was uneasy and felt the need to talk things over with another man. As he hurried towards the Imminghams’ house, he met James who was taking the dog for a walk. ‘They’re all in,’ James informed him. Which was not what Terence had hoped for. Louise had just returned from shopping and Catherine was playing the gramophone in her room. Guy was raking dead leaves in the back garden, and thin bluish smoke rose from a mound of dead branches and uprooted annuals. ‘Is it important?’ Louise asked. ‘I’ve been on at him to do that for weeks.’ Terence said it was important, so she made tea and they all went into the sitting-room, Guy blowing on his hands and making much of his labours. To Terence’s relief, Louise was unexpectedly quiet while they talked.
‘I think you were perfectly right,’ Guy assured Terence. This was not a comfort, since Terence, viewing the performance objectively, could see that Guy’s main concern was to ensure that the Fairleys should not be involved in this affair any more than was necessary. But he also, Terence noted, was not entirely at ease. ‘Of course, if I really thought that this was serious . . .’