Shuttlecock

There was a long pause – long enough for a challenge, or an explanation. And suddenly the mask – the face – was gone.

  ‘Right, that will be all, Prentis.’

  He picked up a pile of papers on his desk, shuffled them, put them to one side, picked up another pile and, with the air of some tireless robot, began working through them, as if I were no longer in the room.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for man?’

  I must act soon.

  [14]

  It is almost the end of May. The weather is getting hotter. In the Tube at rush-hours people are getting restless. I can tell by their quick eyes, by the way they barely tolerate each other’s sticky, jostling bodies, each other’s need to occupy space of their own. Something must happen soon. All this packing together of nature into unnatural circumstances must lead to something.

  Two or three times, when I’ve emerged at Clapham South onto the pavement, I’ve had this urge to take off my tie, my socks and shoes – to go no further – and simply to walk away; as if Clapham Common were some endless, enveloping savannah. But, of course, I don’t. I turn to my left, along Nightingale Lane, and shamble home, like any man returning from work, clad in his weariness, his perplexities, his frustrations. If you were to pass me by, it would not surprise me if you noticed my brows contract tightly every so often (I have inherited from Dad that intermittent little knot of lines above the nose and between the eyebrows, though in my case it makes me look simply harassed, not nobly thoughtful) and my lips move and mutter indistinct, garbled words. They say if you want to see a man as he really is, catch him unawares, when he isn’t thinking of being seen. Well, that’s the time to catch me. When I’m not under the eye of Quinn or of my family – and I’m free from the scrutiny of the Tube. That’s when I am what I am, I don’t deny it. But recently I’ve been keeping a check on myself, even during these permissive moments. I’ve been developing an eager, erect carriage as I step homeward, a brisk, confident pace (in this heat) and imitating the zeal of some of my fellow commuters. For not all of them drift home like zombies capable of walking under a bus without noticing it. Some of them launch themselves from the station with an energy unsapped by the rigours of the day, shirt collars seemingly undirtied, briefcases and papers jauntily gripped, and sail buoyantly along the pavement, eager to embrace wives, dandle children and nurture gardens; and whether they are acting or not I don’t know. But I’ve been induced to ape them in a quite fraudulent manner myself.

  That evening – after I’d seen Quinn about C9 – as I came up out of the Tube, I had the distinct sensation of being watched. I don’t know whose eyes I expected to see – suddenly averted when they met my own, peering maybe from a parked car or from behind some screening newspaper – or whether I felt less under the gaze of particular eyes than of some nebulous presence. I brushed the feeling aside. But it suddenly struck me later, when I was half way home and I had lapsed into my usual distracted manner: what if someone with an interest in me were really to see me, slouching home like this, my expression vexed and brooding, mumbling inanely to myself? That would hardly bear investigation. If someone had their spies … I had been thinking – so absorbedly that I was scarcely conscious of my route along the pavement – of that afternoon’s bizarre interview, of C9, of what Quinn would do next, what I should do; and then suddenly, as if, had I looked behind me, Quinn himself or Quinn’s agent would have been there, I automatically straightened my shoulders, smartened my pace and put on an alert, ebullient expression. I had to look normal, cheerful and undaunted, not to betray my confusion, my suspicion. Even when it least seemed I could be under inspection.

  And it was just then, as I walked along the edge of the common that I really did discover someone watching me. It was not Quinn. It was Martin. He was standing some thirty or forty yards away, out on the common, and such was his attitude when I saw him that I somehow knew we hadn’t just spotted each other by accident: he had been following me at a distance, stalking me, perhaps all the way from the station. I stepped onto the grass, raised my hand, and was about to shout ‘Martin!’ when he turned abruptly and began walking off in another direction, as if pretending he hadn’t seen me or I had made some mistake. But I knew it was Martin. He was wearing Martin’s yellow T-shirt and jeans. I don’t believe in mirages on Clapham Common. What was he doing? I readily admit that I have this recurring hope (which is not such a far-fetched and fantastic hope, after all) that one day my sons will come to meet me at the station. That seems the sort of gesture that children who care for their fathers are glad to màke. And, believe me, I’d be chuffed to bits if they did. But Martin hadn’t come to meet me. If he had he would have been waiting by the newsagent’s or the florist’s. He had come to observe his father, as one observes some creature under glass, at just that time of day when I am most, so to speak, in my natural state. And it struck me – even as I stood with my hand half-raised and my mouth open as he walked away – that he must have witnessed enough to label me as a pretty sickly specimen; a shuffling, half-crazed figure; a figure who scarcely merited his esteem – if that had not already been established by the episode of Dad’s book. And not only this, but he must have seen, just before I spotted him, that sudden change come over me as if I were putting on a disguise and pretending to be a different man. Would he have interpreted this as the seal upon my patent hypocrisy – a little process I went through every evening in order to present myself to my family? Or as a guilty reaction (nearer the immediate truth) to the fear of being observed? Either way, a complete sham. I stood at the edge of the grass watching Martin’s yellow back slipping into the shadows of the chestnuts. I thought of calling him again, but I didn’t. And why had he walked away like that? As a deliberate display of spurning me? Or as some subtle indication of our relations? Shadowing me all the way from the station, like some Indian brave watching the pale-face pass along the trail, and then turning at the moment of being, perhaps quite calculatedly, glimpsed, as if it were for me to settle the question of our future hostility or friendship. I remembered the feeling I had had that morning Martin gave back Dad’s book, that I must make amends to him, not he to me; that I was the one to seek forgiveness, not he. I lost Martin’s yellow T-shirt. All around – I had scarcely noticed them up to now – people were relaxing in the evening sun, playing games or lounging on the grass, like inmates in some institution allowed time for recreation.

  Almost the first thing I said when I got in was: ‘Where’s Martin?’

  ‘He went out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He just said “out”.’

  Marian was washing lettuce for a salad and she said nothing more and scarcely looked up. I have noticed she is getting like this of late. Quieter, shrinking, far-off. More and more thrifty with her words, as she is becoming, in bed, more and more thrifty with her body.

  ‘You mean you just let him wander off and you haven’t a clue where he’s going?’

  Peter came down the stairs from his bedroom. I am still trying to work out whether he was in on the business of Dad’s book. He has a way now, when I get in from work, of coming dutifully to the front door and saying mechanically, ‘Hello, Dad.’ But there is this anxious, timid look in his face which, until very recently, both pleased me and puzzled me. I’ve arrived at the explanation now. It’s not that he’s in awe of me. Not at all. But he’s in awe of his brother. Whether he was an accomplice to it or not, he’s impressed by Martin’s daring, and for the first time in his little life he is feeling the onus of something to live up to. He wonders if he could do what Martin did, if he could be so bold. It’s a strange thing how your own kids suddenly start to reveal to you the implicit shape of their lives. If Martin will take after his grandfather, Peter will take after me. Poor mite. Already, in these few weeks, Martin’s face seems to have become firmly moulded; Peter’s is soft and elusive.

  ‘Hello, Peter. Know where Martin is?’

  His eyes sharpen. Of course, all my theories could be wrong.

&nb
sp; Then I said, to both of them: ‘Well, didn’t he say when he’d be back?’

  They looked at me without speaking, as if they had detected some tell-tale symptom in my behaviour.

  Then it almost seemed that a cloud passed over my eyes. Supposing they’re all in it, all together? Quinn and Martin and Marian and Peter?

  [15]

  There is nothing to stop me making inquiries of my own. In fact there is every facility to assist me. I have only to procure the standard forms and covering letters from the office and send them to the right addresses. Such requests for information, of course, should really be authorized and signed by Quinn, but it is ten-to-one in my favour that, given the obtuseness of bureaucracy, they will be taken in by the official documents and not query my own signature. I know where the forms are kept. How many times have I filled up at Quinn’s behest these formidable sheets of paper headed sternly ‘STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL’? In fact, only now does it strike me – perhaps I am a naïve and simple-minded creature, after all – what opportunities exist for such as I for delving into untold privacies, for obtaining almost unlimited access into the darker byways of other people’s lives. All I have to do is to pick out the forms, draft my request – ‘Details of the personal histories of X and Z prior to their employment in H.M. service’ – have it typed – not by Quinn’s secretary, I will ask Maureen, who won’t be aware of what she is doing – and have it franked and despatched. The only risk is if Quinn or any of my colleagues catches me at it. I will have to choose some time when the office is quiet. Not at night, after normal hours. Quinn will be working late too. That is the one time when I will look most suspicious. At lunch-time perhaps. Or, better still, early in the morning. Quinn himself rarely appears before half past nine, and I can invent some pretext for the office messengers to let me in before eight. I can have everything done by nine and then take it through to the typing pool with a batch of routine items later in the day.

  And if my correspondents at the Home Office don’t fail me, if they don’t hesitate to give information they must already have imparted once, then I shall have it both ways. I shall know, a little at least, of what is in File E, without having to challenge Quinn for it. And if I discover something he is trying to hide – then, I shall be able to challenge him.

  [16]

  ‘Martin wants to know’ (it’s two days later, a Thursday: Marian and I are in bed) ‘why you went to work at a different time today.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that to him?’

  ‘You had breakfast by yourself and went in early, and then you were home about five.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Martin thinks you’re avoiding him.’

  So – he was waiting again for me on the common – but I was early.

  ‘Look, has Martin said anything about coming to meet me at the station?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. I thought I saw him a couple of times, coming home.’

  ‘You flatter yourself. Coming to meet you at the station.’

  Marian is lying with her back towards me. Her voice comes to me as if from behind a wall.

  ‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t from time to time.’

  ‘Come to think of it, why did you go into work early?’

  Marian turns to face me. As she turns, her small breasts turn with her, like another pair of fleshy eyes. We are naked – just for the heat. We haven’t made love for some time now. We seem to have put away our sexual play-kit.

  ‘I had some extra work to do. I’ve gone in early before, haven’t I?’

  ‘But you’ve always told me. I didn’t know you weren’t going to have breakfast.’

  Marian’s eyes suddenly become limpid and soulful (is that such a dreadful thing – missing breakfast?).

  ‘You don’t tell me anything these days.’

  I thought: Now is the time I could tell her. Marian, I am going to be promoted.

  ‘It was only for today. I’ll go in at the usual time tomorrow.’

  ‘You might have told me.’ She frowns. ‘What was this extra work anyway?’

  ‘Look – enough of all these questions.’ My voice goes up a pitch. For a moment there’s almost a danger of it cracking guiltily. Why should she ask that?

  ‘Sorry. I only thought –’

  She bites her lip. Her eyes are still wide and dreamily fixed on me, but as she looks it is as though she is drifting away. Some anaesthetic is clouding her vision and she can no longer recognize me. I think of Martin turning his back, on the common.

  I move towards her and put my hand over her navel. She sighs audibly and goes passive and limp, though, in a way, this is just the same as her body going hard and impenetrable. I run my hand over her as if over some unfamiliar object. Things will go no further; but then I’m not moved by desire so much as by some sense of dreadful loneliness. My wife is afraid of me, she does not know me. I draw closer and put my mouth to her breast (unresisting, unprotected) and very gently peck her nipples.

  ‘It was only for today. You can tell Martin that if you like … Marian?’

  And sure enough, I saw him, tonight (Friday), under the trees, the other side of the bowling green, as I passed. What does he want? All right, so he has seen me, that first time, for what I really am. And he knows that this figure who walks manfully by, for his benefit, and the benefit of who knows what other hidden observers, is no more than a puppet. And he knows that I know he knows that. What more does he want? All right, so he is nearly eleven years old and finding his strength, and I am three times his age and wondering where I mislaid mine; hoping to be propped up by some promotion. All right, I am the one to blame. Does he want me to confess as much to his face? To get down on my knees?

  Tonight I stepped off the pavement and walked towards him over the grass. He had already turned and moved off as he saw me change course. He quickened his pace, intuitively, without looking back, as I quickened mine. This was like one of those dreams in which you try to reach the ones you love but you can’t. They’d cut the grass on that part of the common, and hanging in the air was the sweet, sappy smell that makes you know it’s summer. ‘Martin!’ I called. And I wanted to add: ‘Don’t go. Please. I’m sorry.’ Then, when my longer stride began to tell on him, he broke into a run. He ran towards the zebra-crossing on the South Circular Road. The South Circular Road divides one part of the common from the other; on the far side is the duck pond. I remembered the time when the boys were younger but just old enough to go out by themselves, and we lived in dread of their little bodies being smashed by cars. I started to run too but stopped almost at once, suddenly aware of appearing foolish. I wasn’t going to go chasing after my own son.

  [17]

  Subject: Z, Arthur Leonard.

  Born, June 12th, 1921; Hemfield, Nr East Grinstead, Sussex. Only son of Hon. Sir Geoffrey Robert, D.S.O., M.B.E., formerly Captain, Royal Hampshire Regt (born, Jan. 25th, 1894) and Katherine Elizabeth (née Phillips, born, Oct. 2nd, 1897).

  Educ.: Oakwood Preparatory School, East Grinstead; Tonbridge School; Wadham College, Oxford (Law: 1937/8).

  University career curtailed by outbreak of war. Joined R.A.F., 1940. Trained as fighter-pilot. Sqdns 80, 225; N. Africa, 1941–2. Grounded after accident in training exercise in which one flying officer killed and subject injured. R.A.F. Intelligence, London, 1942–5. 2 applications for retraining as pilot refused. Air Ministry, 1945–6.

  Left R.A.F., 1946. Did not resume law studies (apparent cause of family dissension). Applied unsuccessfully, Foreign Office (subject spoke good French), 1947. Entered Home Office, 1947. Subsequent career of distinction. Married Yvette Simone (née Debreuil, born, May 10th, 1922; family from Chambéry, France) July, 1947. Resident at 19, Clifford Terrace, Kensington till 1950, then at 8, Peele Gardens, Putney (till suicide of subject).

  Sir Geoffrey appointed K.C. 1938. Assisted at Nuremberg War Trials, 1945–6. Judge of the High Court of Justice, 1948. Chaired/Adv. Cttees. of Inquiry (Legal Rights of Prisoners; Aspects of
International Law) 1959, 1960–61, 1962–3. Retired, 1964. Published: Sword and Pen (memoirs of military and legal career), 1965; Reasonable Doubt (critique of English jurisprudence), 1967.

  Katherine Elizabeth victim of long and complicated illness from 1964. Operations for cancer. Died 1967.

  Sir Geoffrey died 1968.

  Richard Geoffrey, son of subject, born, July 22nd, 1949. Educ.: Westminster School, London School of Economics. Present occupation, journalist.

  Elaine Elizabeth, daughter of subject, born, March 14th, 1951. Educ.: The Lodge High School, Putney; Camberwell School of Art. Formed liaison with Karl Lageröf, Swedish commercial artist, 1970. At present resident in Stockholm.

  Only the details on Z so far. The information on X ‘in preparation and to follow’. Impossible, therefore, to look for connexions. So why do I linger over these potted facts? Is it because I have obtained them by my own initiative and ingenuity, proved how easy it is for one person, with neither the right nor the authority, to secure for himself the private history of another? Or is it that there is really something arresting, something appealing about these bare bones of a life (how many such skeletons have I cursorily pieced together at the department?) when it is you yourself who have scooped them up with your net? Those little tokens of dignity and esteem. The father’s military and civil honours. ‘Sword and Pen’. ‘Career of distinction’. Z cursed by an accident. The daughter running off with a Swede. ‘Family dissension’. Those place-names of imperturbable gentility: East Grinstead, Tonbridge, Peele Gardens, Putney. Suicide; war-crimes; ‘long and complicated illness’.

  Or does something particular strike a chord? Debreuil? Wasn’t that the name of the firm of engineers with which Dad worked before the war, building embankments on the Rhône and road tunnels in the Savoy Alps – and where he learnt the fluent French he would put to use in the years to come? And Z’s Christian name: Arthur, Arthur … Why does that suddenly have an echo?