“You must have had Margaret’s daffodils.”
“No.”
“How very queer.”
“Very. I think it means one of them is coming here tomorrow. You know I’ve been expecting it. They’ve been getting increasingly worried about me.”
“Which do you think it’ll be?”
“It can’t be Henry, he’s spending the week-end in his constituency, and it won’t be Felicity of course; so it will be Jane or Margaret.”
“What’s the odds? I’ve dodged old Doe all this time, why should Jane or Margaret spot anything?”
Anna, had she understood Tony less, would have been annoyed with him. How like his father! Totally uninterested in how things happened for his comfort provided they happened; but Tony should not still be like that for of recent years he had been forced in the hardest school to fend for himself for his daily needs. Yet how quickly he had slipped back into his complacent, demanding self. From what he had told her he had not really worried much even when his position was at its most precarious; it seemed that when he had secured for himself cover of a kind, and sufficient food and warmth for even a few hours, he had relaxed immediately, and lost interest in his necessities until pushed by renewed need into further action. To the best of her ability she supplied everything he asked, and she noticed, with growing anxiety, that not only did he fail to appreciate the immense difficulties she overcame to obtain the things for him, but, as each day passed in comparative comfort and security, he grew increasingly careless.
“It is more difficult than dodging Miss Doe. That’s why I didn’t dare buy the guinea fowl though we could have done with it. I can’t have you keeping more food in the old nursery than can be helped; it’s not healthy with the windows shut. You can take up what’s over of the rabbit to eat during the day, and I have some extra eggs so you can have an omelette in the evening.”
“I like an omelette.”
That was Harry again, charming always, gracious about everything even when there was not much to be gracious about.
“It isn’t much. You’re always so hungry in the evening, but to-morrow it can’t be helped. You can have some of what Miss Doe’s left for my meals; she always leaves me too much to eat. She’s made me a fish pie, and when Perks sent the fish he sent a chicken; it’s my turn to have one; and there’s the meat ration but, of course, no more must be eaten than I usually eat or she might think it odd. The reason I didn’t dare buy the guinea fowl is because Jane believes I starve myself. If she comes to-morrow she is certain to look in the larder and if she sees a guinea fowl as well as all that food she would be most surprised.”
“Let her be. What has what is in your larder to do with Jane?”
“I am telling you about the guinea fowl I did not buy because my being afraid to buy it has a lot to do with you. I know household affairs bore you, but to-night you have got to try and understand. Food is still difficult and for an elderly woman to have such a supply for the week-end would be unusual, and in my case quite extraordinary, for even before the war when I could buy what I wished I had a small appetite, and all the family except you know it. If Jane saw so much food, or even Margaret, though she is not interested in food, they might mention it round the family, and there is a risk it would come to Miss Doe’s ears and that might mean danger for you. Miss Doe plans my week-end meals very carefully and would know she had not left a guinea fowl, and though I don’t think she’s a gossip in the ordinary way, for I hear very little about Mr. Cord, Mr. Clarence and Mrs. Tomkins whom she also looks after, she has a friend who is Matron of the Cottage Hospital to whom she confides everything. Through that connection we have to be very careful that there is nothing unusual in this house for her to talk about, in case by some ill-chance what she repeats to the Matron might reach the police station. We must never forget that the local police know about you and that I am your mother. As it is we have run great risks because I have altered my way of life, which I know has caused talk. I keep telling you how careful I have to be to travel considerable distances where nobody knows me to buy your food, and you know how particular I am to see that you bury all bones and things left over from your meals . . .”
Tony flicked his cigarette ash into the fireplace.
“I’m not arguing. What I said was if we’ve fooled old Doe all this time I shouldn’t have thought we need get into a flap if Jane or Margaret pop in for an hour or two.”
Anna looked at the cigarette ash lying in the hearth. Tony loved his cigarettes in the evening. It was hard on him not being able to smoke all day. She hated to spoil his pleasure by nagging, but if only he could himself realise the danger of carelessly scattered ash and the worse danger of the stub in the wrong place. If all ash and stubs were in an ash-tray it was so easy to tip the lot into the refuse of his meals to be buried in the garden. However often she reminded Tony he could not be careful. Even with glasses her eyesight was not perfect, and though daily she set her alarm clock for six in the morning and went round everything that Tony had touched or used for signs of him, and searched the carpet and hearth on her hands and knees and, no matter what the weather, opened every door and window to get rid of the smell of smoke, she never felt safe. Surely some day she would hear Doe say “Hallo, hallo, hallo, who’s had a gentleman to call?” or “What have you been cooking in the big saucepan?” Stupid little niggling fears, but based on real danger. It was so difficult to live a secret life.
“Use the ash-tray, darling.”
“Poor old Mother, you’re in a state. Why should Jane or Margaret find ash when old Doe, who does the fireplace every day, never has?”
Anna clasped her hands and, without taking her eyes off Tony, repeated to herself, “Doeth the thing which is right—speaketh the truth from his heart . . .”
“All you children in your different ways have looked after me.”
“Not me. I dote on you but I’ve always been a trouble.”
“You’ve been a terrible anxiety, but as I have told you, I blame myself largely for that. In any case, as well as being a trouble, when you were a child you brought me great happiness. You reminded me of your father.”
“Felicity was your ewe lamb.”
“Felicity too. I spoilt you both, I know that now, especially you, or at least it did you more harm.”
“I like that. Felicity’s never done a thing she didn’t want to do in her life, and she neglects you, which I never did. When I was free I was always here, wasn’t I? Felicity never comes near you now.”
“There’s a reason for that, and though I spoilt Felicity and I admit it, it didn’t harm her as it did you. When she was faced with something quite appalling she was wonderfully courageous.”
“So you say. But what you won’t see is it’s easy for Felicity to be brave. Look at her as a kid. She hadn’t a nerve in her body; she’d ride any horse, however difficult to handle, over anything. I’m always trying to make you see that everybody isn’t alike. If you’re born highly-strung and nervous that’s how you are. In a decently run world that sort of thing would be taken into account.”
Anna knitted for a while before she answered. When she spoke it was with vigour.
“Let us say the fault was mine. You were born highly-strung and had a weak character and I made things worse. In these weeks since you have been hiding here, in our long evening talks and when I am alone I have thought a lot. Could I have made you a different person? I believe it would have been possible. I believe a disciplined way of thought can be so implanted that when the pull comes the discipline holds.”
“How would you have done it? You know how delicate I was, the least upset made me ill for days.”
“That is what I believed, but I should have sent you away to school just the same.”
“I’d have run away.”
“Not if you had gone at eight as Henry did.”
“My God, and look at He
nry!”
Anna was not to be turned from what she was trying to say by discussion of Henry.
“You would have gone to Eton.”
“I wasn’t the type. After all, you are only a kid once. Happiness counts for something. I was happy at Palton Hall.”
“I know, but you never played any games, and you chose your own subjects to work at.”
“Well, it was through Palton Hall I got my first stage job. I’d never have got that through going to Eton.”
“What good did that do? You didn’t remain an actor.”
Tony slid off his chair and put his arms round Anna’s waist and laid his face against her breast.
“What’s the matter with you to-night? We all know I’m Mrs. Caldwell’s wastrel son, no point in chatting about it. It’s too late to improve me now. Besides, whatever I am you love me and you can’t deny it, you old faggot, any more than I can deny that I love you.”
Anna looked down at Tony’s hair. She would have liked to stroke it but was afraid such tenderness would weaken her purpose.
“If Jane or Margaret come and see me to-morrow it’s the thin edge of the wedge. They’ll find some excuse to go on coming. They’re worried about me. Even if nobody comes to-morrow they will soon. The fear of their coming to-morrow is making me speak more frankly than I have ever spoken to you. To say what it’s been in my mind to say ever since you came to me for help.”
He looked up at her, laughing.
“Come off it. You’ve told me almost every day that I’m bringing your grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.”
“Go back to your chair, Tony dear, and have another cigarette. I can’t speak my thoughts easily with you holding me like this.”
Tony raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders and complied.
“Well? Is it going to be a long lesson because I’m hungry and that rabbit smells a bit of all right.”
“It won’t be ready yet.” Anna took her eyes off him and gazed into the fire. “If the others start coming down, sooner or later one of them will come for the night. That might mean they’ll want the garage.”
Tony was amused for he had steeled himself to hear something really serious.
“I don’t see we need worry about that until it happens.”
“You wouldn’t be safe in the old nursery if anybody used the garage. You know you can hear every sound from the nursery in the garage.”
“What of it? Nobody’s going to use the garage to-morrow. They can’t get in. You’ve got the key.”
“It will happen one day. You’ve been here nearly three months; each day is a danger; the smallest slip and you will be caught.”
“If I am I am. Why spoil a good fire, and a good rabbit to come, by worrying.”
“That is what I thought. I have not spoken clearly enough.”
“I wouldn’t say that, some days you’ve almost nagged, but you’re not in the picture. When it came to hanging about in Hampshire before D-Day I couldn’t take it, and I admit it. It wasn’t brave, but you’ve always known I wasn’t brave; some people aren’t. I was scared sick and I deserted. What you don’t see and somehow I can’t make you see—though I suppose it’s natural—is afterwards. Somebody like you who’s always had everything can’t imagine what it was like after I did that bunk, especially after the war finished. It’s not only me, there’s thousands of us. I could draw you a map of ruins, caves and what-nots that your youngest son has been proud to call home.”
“You’ve told me this, and I do try and understand.”
“And I’ve told you what it’s like to have no money, no papers and no clothes. I’m not telling you how, but I got hold of an identification card and I had several ration books from time to time, and through those Poles I knocked around with I didn’t manage so badly. If ever you find yourself on the run you look for a Pole, there’s nothing to touch those chaps when something’s needed. They’ll get it if half Scotland Yard’s sitting on it.”
“So you say, and I realise it was to help a friend who had helped you that you became a criminal.”
Tony moved impatiently.
“You keep calling me a criminal, darling, but that’s where you aren’t in the picture. You were sitting over a nice hot fire in March ’47. You try sitting in what was once the basement of a demolished pub. Even if you had a bit of wood you couldn’t light a fire because the smoke would show. Cold—and you remember how blasted cold it was—does something to you. We’d stopped up every blinking chink we could and still the wind and snow came in. The food was running out and we’d got to a point—you do when it’s as cold as that—when you stop caring about anything.”
“Then your friend got ill.”
“Not my friend particularly, just one of the chaps. He looked awful. Pneumonia was my guess. But just saying, like you said then, ‘Your friend got ill’ doesn’t mean a damn thing. You try watching a man you’ve been around with, dying on a stone floor—snow drifting on him—you feel like hell. One of the Poles couldn’t take it. Binkie—that’s what we called the chap who was sick—was worse and this Pole got up and shot off his mouth. He was going to do this, that and the other; he would get money to put Binkie somewhere safe and warm even if he hung for it, and it so happened he said where we were. That’s another thing you can’t imagine. You go places in a train or car and, of course, you know where you are but people like me, we don’t know. Somebody says they’ve heard of a good place to go to—it’s got water—or they know somebody who’ll help—well you don’t ask questions, you just go. This chap let out we were in or near Bermondsey. That struck a note and before I had time to think I said, ‘Good God. I’ve got a sister somewhere in these parts. She’s a doctor.’”
“So you’ve told me, and you are probably correct when you say I can’t understand, for I’ve never been really cold, and I certainly have never watched a friend dying for lack of attention. I can see you did the right thing in going to try and find Margaret, and it was brave of you, but how ever often you tell me I’ll never understand why you took that revolver. Do try and explain to me, and at the same time think back over everything for yourself. It’s so important you should understand your reasons.”
“You’re always saying that and I have tried, but I can’t work it out. I’ve told you that cold does something to you. You know how it is when you’ve been out on a really cold day, when you come in you can’t think clearly. Well, you try and imagine just how clearly you’d think when you’d been stuck for days in an unheated cellar in the middle of a damn great space which had been flattened by a land mine; nothing to stop the wind, and the snow piling up in drifts.” Tony’s face seemed to grow pinched as the memory affected him. “There were five of us, including Binkie. I forget what they all said, but they didn’t ask me what I thought. I was to wait until it was dark and then I was to make for the river and, by following it, get to Margaret. When you live outside things like we did, you get to know who you can trust and who you can’t and what they’ll be good for. I was never much at getting food or anything like that, but they knew if I said a thing was O.K. it was O.K.”
“That’s what I can’t understand. Why did they know if you said a thing was O.K., as you call it, that it would be O.K.? In all you’ve told me I can never see what these friends of yours valued in you.”
“I made them laugh, by things that don’t sound funny. I had a jam pot I’d picked up somewhere. I used to liberate a few flowers—there was an old picture paper I found once with a photograph in it of Rita Hayworth, I framed it. Somehow I got hold of some crockery, broken of course, and even a knife and fork—I didn’t care if I used them or not but it made a joke: ‘Have you cleaned the silver to-day, James?’ James, the butler, was my nickname. ‘Clean up the place, we’re expecting visitors to-day, James.’”
Anna could imagine in a wild, lawless, ruthless world that someone who had amusement value might hav
e his place, but not trust, and trust was implied by Tony’s statement.
“I quite understand they were fond of you, but you’ve never told me why they believed you at once when you told them that Margaret would come back with you. From what you’ve told me, at that time you were the only one of the party who was wanted simply as a deserter. The others had committed crimes, hadn’t they? You could, I suppose, have fetched the police.”
“And got taken myself.”
“Only as a deserter. A period of detention and back into the army I suppose, nothing very terrible as the war was over.”
“If I’d wanted to give them away I’d have done it years ago. Besides, they knew I wouldn’t get picked up if I could help it. Once you start on the run something gets into you—you believe anything is better than being caught.”
“That isn’t the answer. What I want to know is what those desperate men saw in you that made them trust you. One of them even trusted you enough to lend you his revolver. Those men found some quality in you that your mother never found.”
“Come on, you old faggot! You’d trust me with anything.”
Anna gripped her knitting. “The truth—the truth—speaketh the truth from his heart.”
“No, Tony. That story of you on that dreadful cold night moves me more than I can say. Ever since you deserted from the army I’ve searched my heart. I’ve tried to be absolutely honest. I know you to have great charm, and that you could, because you love me, put yourself out to any degree to please me. But I know you to be lazy and thriftless, and though you have a lot of talent you have done nothing because it meant disciplining yourself. I found, to my horror, I was not really surprised you had deserted from the army; you had deserted from every career you took up so perhaps I was expecting it. I love you, I shall always love you whatever you do, but I know of nothing in your life of which I am proud. In fact, until you crept here that night and tapped on my window, I had accepted that you were entirely worthless. Then you told me your story, not all at once but little by little. Each time one fact has emerged. Those rough, common men trusted you. They found what I have missed, something worth while in you. What was it?”
Mothering Sunday Page 14