I told Mr Eccles of James’s decision, and he affected surprise. I knew it wasn’t genuine. I had a feeling that he himself might have engineered James’s return. I had absolutely no grounds for this suspicion but, in my mind, Eccles’s pronouncements always carried a soupcon of doubt.
That Christmas term passed smoothly enough. I kept my eye on George Tilbury and I monitored his progress, of which there was little sign. But at least it wasn’t deteriorating. He kept to a steady pace of mediocrity. What did please me was an obvious renewal of friendship with David Solomon and that seemed to offset and outweigh the teas he still took in Eccles’s study, and the groupie walks across the school grounds. Our GCSE and A level results had placed our school at the top of the league tables and it gave me great pleasure to announce our standing to our first assembly. A great cheer went up in the hall and good old Fenby at the piano went straight into the introduction of the school song, which six hundred boys belted out with joy. It was a happy start to the Michaelmas term.
That Christmas vacation, we went to Kent en famille, with Matthew and Susan likewise, back to our childhood village. Our first invitation was to the engagement party of our poet, Richard, and one of the village girls, Veronica, daughter of the local smithy, and I was honoured as a match-maker. There followed the usual rounds of Christmas parties with our friends and their children, the visit to the graveyard, the flowers and the updated bulletins. The pain of the loss of my parents sat now with greater ease. It had proclaimed its permanence, and paradoxically enough, its comfort.
That was the last Christmas I was to spend in our village. I never, never entertained the thought that I would not return. I never said goodbye to my parents for I knew that I would call on them until I died.
Spring came early that year and the daffodils were already flowering in the school grounds at the beginning of the Lent term. My first sight was that of James Turncastle, bronzed and crew-cut, waiting outside my study door. I wanted to embrace him in welcome, and I suspect from his look of pleasure that he wished to do likewise. But we both held back and instead, we shook hands.
‘Welcome home,’ I said. I wondered whether I had used the right word.
‘It’s good to be back,’ he said.
I invited him into my study. Had it been later in the day I would have offered him a sherry. I had to remind myself that he was still only sixteen. I congratulated him on his exam results again and felt sure that he would be able to catch up on a lost term’s teaching.
‘Now tell me about Austria,’ I said. ‘And how’s your German?’
He rattled off a string of sentences in a German that sounded native.
‘It seemed to come naturally to me,’ he said. ‘Like a second mother tongue. Though,’ he added, ‘I don’t have much of a first mother to shout about.’
It was an intimacy he was sharing with me, and I felt slightly uncomfortable. At the same time, I was pleased that he felt so at ease with me. I spent half an hour with him, and I felt he kept nothing back, telling me in detail about the family he had stayed with and their attitudes towards the English and the Americans, and their awareness of the past. I didn’t encourage him to go into that. For some reason I didn’t want to hear about it.
‘I shall see them again soon,’ he said, ‘when we go skiing.’
The reminder did not please me. I thought again about George and I wondered whether he would be going. I asked James if he would like to lunch at my table that day. I wanted him to meet Lucy and eventually, Peter. I thought they might become friends. He was grateful all over again and he promised to put on a clean shirt.
Eccles was at my table that day. He seemed surprised that James had joined us, and I thought that surprise genuine, as was his pleasure. Lucy quite took to the prodigal son and invited him over to meet the children. I had told her what I knew of James’s background and she suggested that he use us as his surrogate family.
‘We should take him down to Kent one weekend with the children,’ she said.
I suppose by now my readers must wonder why I have been able to write about James Turncastle with such equanimity, with such affection, why my pen does not stumble on his name. In the light of what we all now know, I should have stuttered over his mention, or even totally denied him. Dear readers, I loved that boy like a son and hindsight and its wisdom did not enter into that loving. But suddenly it interferes. It’s that mention of his visit to our Kent cottage that invites the flashback. And now my pen does stutter for I wonder if I would be here today if Lucy, under my influence, had not offered her generous hospitality. I shall not mention his name again. Sometimes of course I shall have to, for the benefit of my narrative, but it will be only for that reason and for that reason alone.
So we all went down to the cottage, with James as our guest. Eccles once again organised the skiing trip, and once again they were thirteen. Under his housemaster’s guidance, George’s work had shown some improvement, and I hoped it would continue. I told him that I had noticed his good efforts and that seemed to please him. I saw them all off at the school gates, and wished them well.
I spent part of that half-term break in London with Matthew. I stayed in their flat and Matthew took time off from work to be with me. We walked around London like tourists. We sampled restaurants of foreign cuisine. And we talked. We talked all the time, recalling our childhoods together, remembering our parents, contemplating our futures. That was the very last time that Matthew and I spent serious time together. I’m glad we talked so much, and I’m glad I remember it all. For here in my cell, I hear it all again. And in his voice as well as my own.
I was sorry to leave him. He promised to come down at Easter, but for me, time was in the dark long before, and Easter never came.
Chapter 17
In the course of Rebecca’s investigations and her regular reports to Matthew the two of them had become lovers. But their affair was clandestine. It had to be. Matthew had told nobody. His sudden happiness was so acute that it had straightened his back. He strutted like a peacock now, but without the pride. Lucy could not fail to notice the change and arrived at the obvious conclusion, but she said nothing. Sam too, had cottoned on to the new development in Matthew’s life, and he was glad for him. Unknown to Matthew, he had traced the whereabouts of Susan. He would not seek to talk to her, as Matthew had forbidden any contact. But her new flat lay only a few streets away from Sam’s own apartment, and he had to pass it each day on his way home from work. One day, he crept up to the front door, and on the column of bells, he noted the name ‘Smith’, crisp and clear. He felt sick. He wanted to tear out the label, and replace it with its true and honourable name, but he satisfied himself by simply deleting it. For him, that flat was empty. Susan was a nothing, a hollowness in an empty space. He turned from the door, disconsolate. Some evenings later, he noted that the ‘Smith’ had returned, and had fastened itself inside a frame. Immovable. Permanent. And with all his heart, Sam wished Susan Smith ill.
He was due to meet with Matthew the following day so that he could be updated on Rebecca’s findings. Sam had attended such meetings before and the lawyer’s ‘findings’ had amounted to very little. He had no doubt that she was doing her best and possibly her love for Matthew spurred her on to greater effort, but Sam had little faith in the discovery of new evidence. When he himself had attended part of the trial on those days that he could gain admittance, for there was always a long queue of salivating spectators who had already found Dreyfus guilty, all the testimonies against his friend had seemed foolproof, and the witnesses did not falter under grilling cross-examination. It had all sounded thoroughly rehearsed. The defence, on the other hand, such as it was, was far from convincing. On the basis of the judge’s summing-up, and the cold efficiency of the prosecution, Sam thought that even Dreyfus would have pronounced himself guilty.
But Matthew did have news, and when they met at their usual café on the river he seemed excited. He no longer looked about him for eavesdroppers, and if
he was recognised, he was pleased to acknowledge it. He looked like a potential winner with a few cards up his sleeve.
‘She’s been tracing the witnesses,’ Matthew started right away. He paused when the waiter approached and he quickly gave their order. ‘Most of them are at university,’ he said, ‘though two of them are in the army. The interesting one is James Turncastle.’
‘Here’s our coffee,’ Sam said. ‘Hold it.’
The waiter laid their coffees on the table. Sam lit a cigarette.
He was ready to listen. ‘What about Turncastle?’ he said. He could hardly utter the name for it was Turncastle’s testimony that had been the most damning.
‘He’s in a psychiatric clinic. He’s had a breakdown.’
‘Interesting,’ Sam said. ‘Is there anything more on him?’ Where is this clinic? And what kind of breakdown?’
‘He’s somewhere in Devon. That’s all we know. Rebecca’s tracking him down.’
‘We must not be too optimistic,’ Sam said. ‘The breakdown need not have anything to do with the trial. But it’s worth investigating.’
‘There’s something more,’ Matthew said. ‘Eccles.’
‘What about Eccles?’
‘You remember you thought he was an enemy? Or at least Alfred thought so. And I told you that his testimony was exemplary? Rebecca wondered why you were doubtful. And Alfred too. So she did a bit of investigation on Eccles. No findings so far. But there are certain questions.’
‘Like what?’
‘Eccles’s holiday resorts. Regular ones. Austria, West Virginia, Marseilles. He said he had friends in those places. What kind of friends? Rebecca smells a clue and she’s ferreting.’
‘I see no connection. Do you?’
‘I’m willing to believe there is a link and I’m sure Rebecca will find it,’ Matthew said.
They finished their coffee.
‘I’m seeing Alfred later today,’ Sam said. ‘Any messages?’
‘Just love and loyalty. But no mention of Rebecca. Not yet anyway. Though I suppose it will be known soon enough. We bumped into Susan the other day. Quite by chance. We were in the supermarket, Rebecca and I, and we met over the frozen peas. We didn’t speak, but she looked none too pleased. I hope she’ll have the sense not to seek for divorce. She can be a very jealous woman.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to talk to her?’ Sam asked.
‘No. I don’t want to make a production of it unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Thanks anyway.’
They parted, Matthew to Rebecca’s office and Sam to the prison.
There he found his friend deeply depressed and from his mood, he gathered that he had begun to write the story of his fall. He felt sad for him. He had no news to cheer him. The substantial American offer would, in any case, leave him indifferent, and Rebecca’s probings were not to be spoken about in fear of raising his hopes.
‘What about a game of chess?’ Sam suggested. As he said it, he heard its silliness. It was like offering a sweetie to a crying child.
‘I can’t concentrate,’ Dreyfus said.
‘Is it the book?’ Sam asked.
‘It’s so damned unfair. Here I am, saddled with a life-sentence for something I didn’t do.’ He started to shout. ‘I’m innocent. D’you hear me?’ He grabbed Sam by the collar. ‘D’you hear me?’ he said again.
‘I hear,’ Sam said sadly. ‘But don’t you give up hope. Matthew has found a new lawyer.’ That much he was not forbidden to tell. ‘She’s looking for new evidence.’
‘She?’ Dreyfus asked.
‘Yes. A woman. But a very experienced one,’ he lied. ‘And one who doggedly believes in your innocence.’
Dreyfus sat on his cot and put his head in his hands. ‘I despair,’ he said.
Sam went to sit by his side. He put his arm about his shoulder but he could think of nothing to say. He recalled sitting at his own mother’s bedside after the doctor had told her that there was no hope for a recovery. He had sat silent then. Any words of solace would have been an obscene mockery.
‘I’m finding the writing difficult,’ Dreyfus said after a while. ‘I’m coming close to the trial and I find the story absolutely unbelievable. When I write it as fiction, and sometimes I see it that way, it passes for a novel. But then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, I realise that it’s not fiction at all and I look around me and I see this cell and the bars on my window and I know that it is all real. And the fiction is reality. Incredible. I have a wife I cannot hold, and children who are growing up out of my sight. I am forbidden family and freedom. And I have done nothing wrong. Nothing.’
He shouted his despair. ‘Nothing. Nothing.’
Sam let him cry himself out, and found it pitiful to view. He felt as helpless as Dreyfus himself. He wanted very much to read what Dreyfus had written to date, but suddenly the book seemed totally irrelevant. All that mattered was a monumental miscarriage of justice.
Slowly Dreyfus composed himself. Sam dared a suggestion.
‘Would you like to read your latest chapter to me?’ he asked. He thought that in the presence of a listener, his friend could distance himself from his narrative and thus feel the urge to tell his tale to the end. It was worth a try. And Dreyfus was willing. He crossed to his desk and gathered together some papers. Then, without looking up, he started to read.
Sam listened, less to the matter of the work than to the manner of its reading. For Dreyfus had assumed a totally detached air, as if the story he told had happened to somebody else. His tone was uninvolved, almost to the point of indifference. Sam felt that the reading was remedial, and satisfied, he concentrated on the matter. And that pleased him.
When the telling was over, Dreyfus said, ‘I must get on with it.’
Sam rose. It was a good time to leave. ‘I won’t disturb you,’ he said. ‘It’s good. Very good, and it has to be finished. I like being read to. Can we do it again on my next visit?’
‘Come soon,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’ll have a new chapter to read to you.’
On his way back to his office, Sam resolved to visit his friend on a regular basis, simply to be read to. He wouldn’t ask for the manuscript. He would listen to it on site. He knew that the life of any writer was an isolated one, but it was at least occasionally punctuated by contacts with society. Poor Alfred was doubly isolated, dwelling in a relentless loneliness, compounded by the injustice of it all.
Once in his office, Sam made a phone call to his wife. And when she answered he didn’t know what to say. He had phoned simply to hear her voice, to affirm that he had a listener, to acknowledge that he had two children, and a life outside his work.
‘Just phoning to say hello,’ he said helplessly. ‘I’ll be back early. We can all have dinner together.’ How many blessings could Dreyfus count, he wondered. But he could think of none at all.
Chapter 18
During the half-term break I spent time preparing for the visit of the Headmaster of an American public school whom I had met briefly on one of my lecture tours while I was still at Hammersmith. Dr Smithson was a sound Anglophile, steeped in English history and cultural heritage. He had heard of my appointment and had written to ask if he could come and see the workings of what he had heard was England’s finest school. I was happy to invite him and his wife to be our guests. I arranged an inspection of the school in the hands of sundry masters, as well as a buffet supper for them to meet other members of staff, while Lucy set up a tour of the surrounding countryside, pock-marked with history. I looked forward to the return to school-work and especially to a report of the skiing holiday.
According to Eccles, the boys had made great improvements with their skiing, and had thoroughly enjoyed themselves and were loath to leave. He laboured the success and pleasure of the holiday and I thought he protested too much. The boys looked well enough, and when I had the chance, I casually asked each one of them how they had enjoyed themselves. Their answers were uniform and, I suspected, rehearsed.
The Smithsons arrived the following week, and kept to the itinerary that I had planned for them. I spent much of my time guiding them, and clarifying the workings of the English public school system. Dr Smithson’s enthusiasm was infectious, and for the duration of his visit I shelved my concern regarding George and the skiing party. But it jogged me once more on the morning after the Smithsons had left. I was returning to my study after a staff meeting, and I saw George loitering near my door. I asked him what he wanted. He stared at me like an animal caught in a trap.
‘Nothing, sir,’ he said quickly. Then he slithered past me down the corridor. I had a very heavy programme to fulfil that day to make up for the time I had lost during the Smithson’s visit, and I thought no more of it.
Over the next few weeks, my work became routine. I attended chapel from time to time and paid my weekly visit to the Jewish assembly. We were approaching Passover, which that year fell very close to Easter. The minister was telling the story of the festival of the unleavened bread and the hurried exodus out of Egypt. And I thought to myself how, in its essence, that story has been repeated throughout our calamity-lurching history, and how Egypt dwells in many lands, how Pharoah has many names and speaks in sundry tongues.
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