Shuttlecock

  ‘My dear chap – ’

  ‘In the prison chapter, Dad is silent about what they did to him. He keeps saying: this can’t be described, this is blurred.’

  ‘Yes, but that would be quite understandable. He was tortured – that’s almost certain – probably severely tortured – you must have considered that. You can’t blame him for not dwelling on those things.’

  The garden glimmered in the evening light. A mirage.

  ‘Or,’ I said, ‘for quite naturally breaking down under them.’

  He looked at me. He seemed suddenly perturbed, daunted by the vehemence in my voice. I realized I was defending Dad – defending that dignified dummy on a hospital bench.

  Quinn said. ‘Consider the possibilities. The Americans were advancing. He must have known the chances of being freed very soon: an argument for “holding out” – an argument against betrayal – and for not undertaking, if we’re speaking now of the genuine article, a risky escape. On the other hand, the Germans were desperate. They were in retreat. They needed information, or they were simply extra-brutal’ – his eyes sharpened – ‘as desperate men are. Reasons for “breaking down” – or for effecting an escape even with liberation imminent.’

  ‘But if the Germans were desperate what would have been the advantage of a betrayal? They might have shot him anyway.’

  ‘True. But consider another possibility. He turns traitor – oh, scarcely with any object in mind, but simply because – like everyone – he has – a breaking point. Then he realizes the Germans will shoot him anyway – so he has to escape in earnest.’

  He sighed. ‘Will you have another drink?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked into his own glass and jogged the sliver of lemon at the bottom of it.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. You hate me because I’m imparting all this information. Because I have the information – the file – I’m responsible for the fact. That’s not logical. But I don’t blame you. It’s just the same at the office. Because you handle all that information, you feel to blame for it. You don’t mind if I have another one, do you?’

  He eased himself out of his seat, gripping his glass. ‘You see,’ he suddenly said, ‘this business of betrayal, and this business of breaking down – they aren’t the same thing at all, are they?’

  I watched him waddle to the kitchen through the conservatory. I had never seen him before out of his grey or dark-blue office suit. Like all professional men suddenly seen in casual clothes, he looked vaguely clownish and defenceless. The Siamese cats followed him at a distance. Shadows crept up the garden wall and up the branches of the apple trees.

  … to make the decision the hunted rabbit or the cornered mouse has to make …

  Quinn returned. ‘ “Betrayal” sounds like some deliberate, some conscious act. But “breaking down” ….’ He sipped his drink and smiled, gently, at me. ‘Are we putting your father on trial or aren’t we? Think of his predicament again. Alone in that cell, he has all those possibilities to weigh up. Nothing is certain, nothing is clear. If he doesn’t “speak”, the Germans will shoot him. If he does, will they shoot him anyway? Will the Americans arrive in time or not? Should he risk escape or risk waiting for liberation? If he speaks will it make any difference, at that stage, to the course of the war? Is a betrayal a betrayal if, in fact, it has no consequences? And then, on the other hand, if he doesn’t betray, that may make a very real difference – between his own life and death. He has all this mental anguish, on top of confinement and – torture. And against all this he can only oppose one feeble imperative – his duty. It’s a mystery; I don’t know what really happened. But you can be sure of one thing. If he did betray, he only did what any ordinary, natural human being would have done – he saved his own skin.’

  Quinn held his gaze on me and I looked away. The smile had melted from his face and I felt he was studying me as he often did in the office, searching for reactions.

  ‘Have I ever told you how I got my limp?’ he said.

  I looked at him, surprised.

  He bent down suddenly and rapped the front part of his right foot with his knuckle. It gave a hard, hollow sound.

  ‘You see, that part’s not me.’

  I looked, perplexed, and slightly repelled. I’d never known Quinn had an artificial foot.

  ‘You’re wondering what this has got to do with it? Let me tell you the story. It’s not irrelevant. I was twenty-five when the war started, Prentis. Older than a lot of them. In ’44 I was thirty – nearer your age – a junior officer who’d spent the war in camps and depots and hadn’t heard an angry shot. I didn’t have any lust for battle, you understand, but the fact rather irked me. Our battalion went over to Normandy. Not one of the first wave. It was ironic. There were men under my command who’d been in Italy and North Africa and I was supposed to lead them into action – and it was all rather important to me. We didn’t see any fighting until we got to Caen – ’

  ‘Caen?’

  ‘Yes, I know, your father was in Caen. You see – he was preparing the way for the likes of me. Well, I saw my bit of action, and it was all over in about a minute. I had to take my platoon across open ground towards a wood which, in theory, should have been flattened by our artillery. The Germans were there; they opened up, and in ten seconds half my platoon was dead. That’s an astonishing thing when it happens, Prentis, believe me. I didn’t perform any of my much-rehearsed functions as a leader. I obeyed my instinct. I ran like bloody hell – like everybody else. I ran for my life. That’s no joke. I would have killed any English soldier who got in my way, let alone a German. Now I don’t remember any of this except one thing – it’s perfectly true, memories do get blurred. As I ran I had to jump over a bit of broken-down hedge. Lying face up in the ditch on the other side of it was a wounded man. I don’t know if I saw him beforehand or if I only realized he was there when I’d already jumped. All I know is that my right boot came down hard and firm on his face; and I had a good glimpse of his face because I was able to tell the poor fellow was still alive. I didn’t stop. A few seconds later something knocked me into the air and the next thing I knew I was in the dressing-station. I’d lost half a foot and, fortunately perhaps, I wouldn’t be called on to command any troops again; and the fact that I was wounded somehow obscured the possibility of my being charged for cowardice and dereliction of duty. You see if someone had accused me of cowardice, of betrayal, they’d have been perfectly right – but all that got lost in the confusion of battle. Now, I’m not necessarily superstitious, Prentis, but I can’t help believing my right foot was blown off because it was that foot that trod on that man’s face. Or is that just some guilty need of mine for punishment? But why punishment? Aren’t there certain situations when the pressure of events is so intense, so overpowering – that even the most wretched action can be forgiven?’

  I looked at him, puckering up my face.

  He nodded. ‘But that’s not all. There’s one thing I’ve never told anyone about that moment. When I brought my foot down – it was only a split second, but I remember this much – I thought: he’s had it, I can still save myself. I was glad.’

  I turned my eyes to the garden. As the shadows crept upwards, they made the remaining chequers of sunlight, on the walls, the roses, the apple trees, more intense and dazzling. A sweet smell came from the honeysuckle. I remembered our garden in Wimbledon. Mother’s kitchen garden. Her clump of lavender.

  The smell of apple wood is the smell of sanctuary.…

  I thought: I’d wanted Dad to come back to me. Perhaps now I had the words – the question – that would shock him out of his silence. I could say to him: Did you betray your comrades? And his eyes would start into life. But at what cost to him? Was that the price of having Dad back? That he must know that I knew he wasn’t a hero. And did I know that? If I found out myself – if I looked at the files and followed them up (how could I tell that Quinn wasn’t still holding back some clinching piece of evidence?)
– then I would know; but the world need never know. We could destroy the files. Was that what Quinn was offering me?

  And in that case Dad must remain a silent statue.

  I thought: if I knew that Dad hadn’t been strong and brave, then I wouldn’t hit Marian and shout at the kids and sulk around the house. But I didn’t want to know that Dad wasn’t strong and brave.

  Quinn said: ‘What are you thinking about?’

  I’d never have guessed Quinn had no foot. He was patched up with metal, like the Bionic Man.

  I said: ‘I was thinking about my hamster. Do you know, for the last couple of months I’ve kept thinking about my hamster?’

  He looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Will you have that other drink now?’

  ‘Please.’

  He got up. While he was indoors one of the cats drew near. I put my hand out to stroke it, but it backed away.

  When he returned I said: ‘You haven’t told me what was in the letter to Z.’

  ‘That’s true.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been saving it. Go back for a moment to what I said at the beginning. If you want to call a halt to this little discussion, just say so, whenever you like. Are you sure you want to know what was in the letter to Z?’

  ‘Yes. I want to know everything.’

  ‘All right. X’s letter to Z was not, strictly speaking, a blackmail letter, since there was no accompanying demand. Though I suppose it might have been turned to that end later. It supports, again, the theory that X’s allegations were purely malicious. The substance of the allegation was that your father had been having an affair with Z’s wife. At the time of the letter this had been going on – so the claim was – for nearly a year.’

  ‘But that can’t be true.’

  Quinn eyed me abruptly. I had not denied the other charges against Dad so hotly. All the strength of my denial was based on my memory of Dad and Mum.

  ‘It needn’t be true. Once again we’re dealing with something that, quite possibly, was wholly trumped up. But let me – since you want to know everything – put the opposite case. Z committed suicide at a time soon after he may have come into possession of this letter. No other motive for the suicide was revealed other than his wife’s statements about their ruined marriage. That presumably had been a source of distress for some time, so it doesn’t necessarily explain why Z took his life when he did. But supposing he suddenly gets knowledge of his wife’s infidelity. That might have been the last straw, that might have brought him – why do we keep using this phrase? – to the breaking point. And not just his wife’s infidelity. Z was a friend of your father – your own researches turned that up – a long-standing, close friend. He admired your father, respected him enormously. Compare their war records – doubtless you tracked this down too. Your father was all the things Z never quite became himself. You see, though Z became professionally successful, we’re dealing with another man who was perhaps dissatisfied with his achievements, who perhaps had a nagging sense of inadequacy. What was intolerable about X’s letter – if we assume he took it seriously – was not just his wife’s behaviour but the fact that a friend he looked up to – even idolized, who knows? – had cheated him, and probably knew, what’s more, via his wife, all his own pathetic circumstances – assuming those to be true – as a husband. A stronger man might have had it out with your father. What’s a strong man? Z just collapsed. All this doesn’t conflict with the wife’s evidence. If her marriage to Z was really as she described it, she would have been ripe for an affair with another man. And, of course, she would have pushed the evidence she did give for all its worth – so as to hide the fact of her infidelity. Then there’s Z’s son. Remember, I told you that he turned against his mother after the inquiry. Might that not have been because he knew all about his mother’s affair? He hated her both for her original unfaithfulness and then for dragging his father’s name cold-bloodedly through the dirt.’

  I thought: whose side is Quinn on? What does he want?

  ‘And one other thing corroborates X’s letter. To do with the dates. Nearly a year – ’

  ‘You mean – I know what you are going to say – it dates everything from shortly after my mother died.’

  I thought of Dad’s coldness to Marian.

  ‘Yes. It would be another factor to support X’s allegation. But, also – if we suppose that allegation wasn’t false – something to mitigate your father’s action. A man who loses his wife, quite without warning, still in his middle years. Grief; loneliness. He turns to another woman for some kind of solace. Oh, he’s not absolved, by any means. But isn’t he doing, again, what any ordinary man, with only so much strength, might do?’

  I’d never wanted any other woman than Marian; only to be closer to Marian.

  I turned my face again from Quinn because my eyes were smarting.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve put everything in the most unfavourable light. You wanted me to tell you. If you wanted me to tell you, there seemed no point in softening the implications. You must think I’m a bit of a bastard. But, remember, all this can just as well be explained as an invention of X’s spite. As a matter of fact, X’s own marital history isn’t irrelevant. Yes, he was married. Children. He was divorced about five years ago and about a year before his dismissal from the Home Office. His wife brought the petition. The grounds were cruelty.’

  ‘Cruelty? Was the business of Z’s wife mentioned, too, in X’s letter to Dad?’

  ‘Yes. X threatened to make it public.’

  I thought: the subject of all this is sitting in a chair on a hospital terrace. I would be with him, normally, on a Wednesday. Is he waiting for me, missing me? Or is he none the wiser?

  I looked at the lit-up garden walls.

  My universe … depended on that piece of rusty metal.…

  Quinn sipped his drink. ‘I know what you are thinking. You are wondering what happens now. I can show you the file, the actual letters. You can follow up the threads – as you have done already. You can find out if X was really telling the truth. Real police-work. Is that what you want? Perhaps you want’ – he paused and narrowed his eyes – ‘to destroy your father. But why should you want to do that? Isn’t he – I shouldn’t say this – destroyed already?’

  ‘Which proves everything!’ I said in sudden rage. ‘His breakdown – at the time when it happened – is the one thing that clinches it all.’

  ‘No, no, no. It doesn’t clinch the truth of anything. Remember what I said. A breakdown can be triggered by a false accusation, by the threat of blackmail, as well as by the real thing. And in any case, supposing the letter did contain the truth and it did cause the breakdown – hasn’t he effectively put the seal on the matter? Hasn’t he rendered himself immune? And isn’t he giving us a signal? I want silence on this business. I don’t want to be approached. I want to be left alone with my knowledge. You see, it’s the knowledge that matters, it’s the knowledge that makes the difference. Only that. But let’s get back to my point. You can follow the matter up – face it out with your Dad. Perhaps that matters to you. Or perhaps what matters to you is to preserve your father, to preserve the father who is in that book of his Is that the case? Well, there is no reason why it shouldn’t be. All of this perhaps can make no difference, externally; it can matter to no one except you. If nothing happens, the secret – the mystery, if you like – remains only with you, and me. Perhaps uncertainty is always better than either certainty or ignorance. Do you know what I propose? I propose destroying File E. Yes, our job is the preserving of information. Well, you’ll have to shoulder that one when I leave the office – a small burden, perhaps, in the circumstances. The file’s here, in the flat. Yes, another rule broken. It’s up to you whether we destroy it, now. And it’s up to you whether you want to look at it before it’s destroyed.’

  I met Quinn’s eyes. I felt like a criminal.

  ‘What about other people? People still alive – ’

  ‘There’s always that risk of course. But then all this has slept f
or thirty years. Why shouldn’t it go on sleeping? Your only real danger is Z’s wife and Z’s son. But Z’s wife is hardly likely to want to publicize matters further, and Z’s son – well, Z’s son’s primary concern was his father’s reputation. Now his father has been cleared of any professional slur, he is hardly likely to want to make known – that’s if my theory about Z’s son is correct – that his father committed suicide because he had found out his best friend was carrying on with his wife. All these skeletons, Prentis, hidden away in cupboards. As a matter of fact, your position and Z’s son’s are peculiarly alike. You both want to protect your fathers. You are both under your father’s shadows. Am I right? You never know, perhaps one day you should meet.’

  Z’s son. So, somewhere else in the world, there was someone like me.

  ‘Shall I get the file?’

  ‘All right.’

  He went in once more. I sat with my drink, looking at Quinn’s trim, new-mown lawn. I thought: this is just another terrace where you sit and play games with the truth.

  He emerged with the file in his hand. It was a standard, pale-blue office file with the letters C9/E on it and ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ stamped in purple ink on one corner. He placed it on the table in front of me. I felt like a witness in the dock confronted with some incriminating exhibit.

  ‘Now – first question. Down at the end of the garden is a little incinerator I use for burning garden rubbish. I suggest we have a bonfire. Do you agree?’

  I looked at the file. For a while I didn’t think of Dad at all; only of the implications of destroying official information.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Good. If we don’t decide now we might dither for ever. Second question: do you want to look at it first, before you even answer question one?’

  I stared again at the file. I thought of the number of times I’d opened the cover of Shuttlecock hoping Dad would come out; hoping to hear his voice. Was I afraid that the allegations might be true – or that they might be false? And supposing, in some extraordinary way, that everything Quinn told me was concocted, was an elaborate hoax – if I never looked in the file, I would never know. I read the code letters over and over again. C9/E … And then suddenly I knew I wanted to be uncertain, I wanted to be in the dark.