He heard a movement. Somebody knelt beside him, cutting off the draft of cool air.
“Are you all right?”
He forced himself to find words. “Yes, I think so.”
With the sound of his own voice came a clearer sense of his situation. Not a nightmare, not no-man’s-land, a real place, now. He was in Neville’s house. They’d been talking, shouting, Neville had shouted something, but he couldn’t remember what it was—or why they were in the kitchen.
“Can you move your feet?”
He tried again. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I think there’s a spade in the garden shed. We’re going to have to dig you out. I could go and get it, I suppose.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to go for help?”
“Oh. No rush.”
No rush?
And suddenly he was afraid. As if sensing his fear the voice went on: “Do you know, I could kill you now? Nobody would be any the wiser. I could pick up this brick—and why not? It’s a perfectly good brick—and bash your head in.”
He couldn’t breathe. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Why not?”
“There’s got to be a reason.”
“No-o, don’t think so. Because I can. How could anybody prove it hadn’t just landed on your head? Of course I’d have to do it in one blow. Can’t have the same brick landing twice.” He giggled.
More than the words, the giggle terrified Paul, because it was not a sound Neville could ever possibly make. Arching his back, he tried again to lift whatever was pinning him down. Neville made no move to help, but neither did he leave—he seemed to be indifferent to his own safety. And there was real danger—the building could come down on top of them at any minute.
The words “I could kill you now” hung over them.
“Well, your decision,” Paul said. “I suppose.”
Paul closed his eyes and lay still. There was nothing he could do—and anything he said, anything at all, would feed Neville’s rage just as everything fed the London fires. So he gazed sidelong across the floor at the scattered fragments of blue-and-white pottery, wondering where the real cockroaches were and thinking they’d probably survive. It wasn’t looking too good for him.
Not that it mattered. And yet the need to understand remained. “Is this so you can have Elinor?”
Neville had switched his torch on and the beam was shining on the brick in his right hand. Paul tried again to heave the weight off his chest, but pain forced him to stop. Another bomb exploded, not nearby, at the end of the next street, perhaps, but still close enough to shift the balance in the rubble hanging over them. A hissing had started, water spraying from a burst pipe—or gas. “Whole bloody thing’s coming down,” Neville said, but dispassionately.
Paul tried to say something in reply, but his mouth was full of dust and, anyway, what was there to say? He closed his eyes and listened to Neville’s labored breath.
A minute later, he became aware of a light moving across his face. Neville, shining the torch into his eyes, wanting him to respond, to plead. But when Paul opened his eyes the beam was moving haphazardly across the room, fluttering mothlike over collapsed walls and broken furniture. Footsteps clambering over bricks and rubble, and a voice: “Anybody in there?”
The neighborhood warden, his face a pale blur behind the torch. A long, still moment. Then Neville stood up. “Yes, there’s somebody trapped, but I don’t think you’ll need a rescue squad. I think we can get him out between us.”
He sounded brisk, ordinary. The torch shone full in Paul’s face again, and he closed his eyes, but not before he’d seen Neville glance down at the brick in his hand, as if surprised to find it there, and toss it casually away.
THIRTY-TWO
1 November 1940
A plane crashed here last week, on a hill about two miles outside the village. It’s still there, the wreckage, they haven’t started clearing it away. The fuselage is mottled black and gray, like one of those city moths, and there’s ribbon tape all round it. Children wait till dark then slip under the tape, scavenge whatever they can find to take into school and show around the playground. Mrs. Murchison, whom I met this morning in the post office—I think she’s quite lonely now with Rachel and the family away; she must be lonely if she stops and speaks to me—says one of the little horrors turned up at school with the pilot’s thumb in his gym bag. “That’s lads for you!” And then suddenly we were thinking of Kenny, and a silence fell.
A lowering sky today, scrawls of black cloud, wind rattling dry leaves around. I worked all morning and well into the afternoon. In London, the afternoons are always a dead time, but not here. Here—apart from walks and pauses to chop up vegetables for yet another nourishing stew—I work all day. Around about six, my eyes start burning with tiredness, and then it’s blackout time, nothing to do but light the fire and settle down with a book, only I can’t concentrate, I’m listening all the time for the nightly drone, for the window frames to start bumping, knowing all the time that any one of those bumps could be the end of somebody I love. I mean Paul, of course. Always Paul.
So why? That’s the question I keep tiptoeing round. Because he betrayed me. And it was a betrayal. That girl, so young, so unmarked by life. Oh, and the one before too, the art student. People told me about her, and I’d feel my mouth twist into a little, wry, sophisticated smile—a sort of oh-well-you-know smile—which seemed to get stuck on my face for hours, getting heavier all the time until my cheeks sagged. That’s why my periods went haywire. It was nothing to do with “the tears of a disappointed womb”—it was the strain of pretending, even to myself, that I didn’t mind. When, in reality, I minded so much I wanted to scream.
So, yes, that’s why.
Though it still leaves another question: Why Kit? Why him, of all people? Because he’s the person who’d hurt Paul most? But that only makes sense if I tell Paul. Because Kit loved me when I was young and I want those years back? Sweep two world wars away? Oh, yes, why not? Easy: just jump into bed with your childhood sweetheart. We-ell, not childhood exactly, though we were very young. And not sweethearts either, not really, though he certainly wanted us to be. His head lying in my lap on that country lane all those years ago. The weight of it, the warmth. The way when he tried to get up he deliberately brushed the back of his head against my breasts and I wanted to laugh. I still do. Smile, anyway.
When he looks at me, Kit sees me. Or he sees that girl—and perhaps that’s the same thing, or I want it to be. Paul doesn’t. I don’t think Paul’s seen me for years.
2 November 1940
Today I walked miles along the riverbank. The painting, the one of the little girl on the pavement, is finished. At least, I think it’s finished. I need to get right away, then go back and look at it with fresh eyes.
A blustery day, sunny spells, but mixed in with frequent heavy showers, one or two real downpours. Rooks whirling about above the bare elms like the scraps of burnt paper that drift down from London’s incinerated offices.
I was trudging along, looking at my feet, thinking about the painting, my fingers still feeling the imprint of the brush, smelling of paint, probably daubed with it as well, but it hardly matters; I meet nobody on these walks. And then I glanced up and noticed a curious seething movement in the grass on the other side of a long field. I couldn’t make out what it was: some reflection of the clouds, I thought at first, but then I realized the river was coming to meet me. It had burst its banks and flooded the low ground. I don’t know what I felt—a kind of exhilaration, I suppose. It was so beautiful: fractured reflections of clouds dissolving and re-forming as the water advanced. And all at once a great spray-burst of seagulls wheeling about and settling on the water.
Now it’s evening—every joint aches—but the painting is finished. And it’s good—I’m almost sure it’s good. Kenneth Clark’s probably going to hate it. Bad for morale. Though, actually, if one of his aims is to persuade people to send their chi
ldren to safety—or leave them there—you could hardly imagine a painting better calculated to get the message across. No message, though. I don’t do messages. Anyway, it’s done—and I’m not going to spend the rest of the evening double-guessing what Clark might say.
It’s blowing a gale outside. The windows thump and for once it’s not a raid; the glass streams. I’m going to make carrot soup and light a fire.
3 November 1940
As I expected, I’m paying for that walk. I sat on the side of the bed this morning feeling like an old woman, bracing myself for the trip across the landing to the bathroom. I’m so stiff I can hardly move. Actually, though, it’s quite a relief to have physical pain to contend with. Takes your mind off the other sort.
Because last night, too tired to read, I got Paul’s envelopes out, intending to spend a pleasant, nostalgic hour sorting through old photographs. I thought I’d buy an album and stick them in. Oh, quite a cosy little evening I had planned! What I didn’t know was that the envelopes contain letters as well as snaps. And the first letter to fall out was the one Toby wrote to me a day or two before he was killed.
It was a shock, seeing that familiar handwriting again after so many years. Neat, regular, forward-slanting…You looked at Toby’s handwriting and your first thought was: how easy it would be to read. Only when you looked more closely did you realize it was virtually indecipherable. A bit like Toby himself.
I started reading automatically, before I had time to prepare myself. And there he was, instantly, his voice, as clear and strong as if he’d been standing beside me in the room.
Elinor—I’ve had two goes at this already, so this is it, has to be, because we’re moving forward soon and there’ll be no time for writing after that. There’s no way of saying this without sounding melodramatic, and I really don’t think I am. In fact, I feel rather down-to-earth and matter-of-fact about it all. I don’t think I would even mind very much, except I know it’s going to be a shock to you—and I can’t think of any way of softening the blow.
I won’t be coming back this time. This isn’t a premonition or anything like that. I can’t even explain why. I used to think officers’ letters weren’t censored, but they are sometimes, not by the people here, but back at base. They do random checks or something, and I can’t afford to risk that. I hate not being able to tell you. If you ever want to know more, I suggest you ask your friend Kit Neville—assuming he survives, and I’m sure he will. He’s been no friend to me. I know you’ll take care of Mother as best you can. Father’ll be all right, I think—he’s got his work. And Rachel’s got Tim and the boys. I don’t know what to say to you. Remember
How easy it is to feel superior to the dead: we know so much more than they did. I didn’t look after Mother. Father wasn’t all right—he died of a heart attack in the back of a taxi on his way to work less than two years after Toby’s death. He never even looked like “getting over it”—whatever that means.
Toby’s last letter. Unfinished, not signed. Never sent. It survived only by accident because there was a hole in his tunic pocket and it had slipped through into the lining. And the sentence about Kit had been crossed out. As Paul said at the time: a crossed-out sentence in a letter never finished, never signed, never sent. What possible significance can you attach to that? But I did attach significance to it. And I was right.
But there’s no point going over all that now. Now, the only word that matters is: “Remember.”
But I didn’t remember. If I’d remembered, I could never have gone to bed with Kit. I talk about Paul betraying me and use it to justify a far worse betrayal. Because it wasn’t Paul I betrayed—I don’t owe Paul any more loyalty than he’s shown me, and God knows, that’s been little enough—no, it was Toby I betrayed.
I look at his photograph, the one of him in uniform when he first joined up. It’s the one Featherstone used to do that awful portrait. He’s young, so much younger than I am now, but it’s not an unformed face, not by any means. There’s great strength there, great determination, but no trust. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more guarded expression. I miss him.
Kit. I can’t say, as Paul said about that girl—Sandra, whatever her name was—that it wasn’t important. That it didn’t matter. It was important. It does matter. But it can’t go on. And I’ve no idea what I’m going to say to him. I do know one thing: I don’t want to rake over the past, or try to explain why it’s impossible. We’d only start arguing about things that can’t be helped.
No. I think by far the easiest thing—well, easiest for me, and I hope for him—is just to let it slide. Not get in touch and—Well, I’d like to say: not see him again; but of course there’s no hope of that. There’ll be times when we’re working the same shift, however hard I try to avoid it. I’ll just have to be—cool, I suppose. And after all I might be imagining a problem where there isn’t one. I mean, for all I know, he’s regretting it every bit as much as me.
London again, tomorrow. So I suppose I’ll soon know.
THIRTY-THREE
This was supposed to be a job interview, but it didn’t feel like one. Half an hour into the meeting, wreaths of cigarette smoke hung stagnant on the air, swirling a little when a secretary came in with tea and biscuits, before settling into new patterns, rather like the marbled endpapers of books. A lot of people had been “interviewed for jobs” here: Neville could smell them. Essence of anxiety lingered on the air.
The questions focused mainly on his knowledge of German. The time he’d spent in Germany between the wars. His German wife. All the way back to his father’s allegedly pro-Boer sympathies in the Boer War.
“He wasn’t pro-Boer,” Neville said. “He was anti–concentration camp, which at the time we were running. I think you can safely assume his sympathies with Hitler would have been zero.”
His answers became increasingly acerbic as the questioning went on, though they produced no response beyond a brisk nod and occasionally a smile. And then the next question. “Why do you speak German so fluently?”
He’d have liked to say: Because of the brilliant foreign-language teaching at Charterhouse, but decided not to. “I had a German nursemaid when I was a child.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Why?”
“How should I know? My mother didn’t consult me about the domestic arrangements.”
“So you were fluent before you met your wife?”
God, this was exasperating. “Look, I can translate German, I can do everything I’m required to do here. And yes, I can hold a conversation fairly easily. Parachute me into Berlin? No, I wouldn’t last five minutes. But that isn’t what this is about, is it?”
Dodsworth was tapping the papers in front of him into a neat pile. He looked up. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”
But Neville felt accused. On the way back to his office, he became increasingly angry. What right did Dodsworth, who’d been too young for the last war and seemed to be driving a desk in this one, have to question his loyalty? Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Bollocks. It was an investigation, couldn’t be anything else, and he found it insulting. He’d returned to England voluntarily and he’d volunteered to work in the fucking, bloody ministry. He wasn’t one of the people who queued up for jobs here to get out of joining the army. No, he’d been entirely motivated by…insanity. Only insanity could account for somebody volunteering to work here.
But then, look at it from Dodsworth’s point of view. If Neville was a German spy, what would he do? Get back to England as fast as possible and use his knowledge of German to secure a job at the Ministry of Information, where he’d have constant access to classified files. Perhaps he should just clear out. Go and live at the back of beyond somewhere and paint pretty little pictures of lakes and things. Get Dodsworth off his back, if nothing else.
He was passing Kenneth Clark’s office. Never an easy moment. Still no letter, no invitation to tea and biscuits in the great man’s offi
ce, though God knows that bloody little exhibition of his could have done with an infusion of talent. He’d almost made it to the other side of the landing when the door opened and Clark came out, accompanied by—oh my God—Nigel Featherstone. Now that really was scraping the barrel. Featherstone’s “paintings”—and that was stretching the term till it sagged like a whore’s knicker elastic—hung in every major public building in the country. You noticed them, if you noticed them at all, only to remark on how completely they blended into their surroundings—like frightfully well-chosen sofa cushions. Neville turned to face the wall, giving them plenty of time to get past because this was more than a brisk handshake and nice-to-see-you. As they walked towards the lift, Clark’s hand rested momentarily between Featherstone’s shoulder blades.
Neville found himself looking at Ullswater again. Was it one of Tarrant’s? It had to be by somebody distinguished because it was positioned directly opposite Clark’s door, though, looking at it again, Neville was inclined to acquit Tarrant. It pained him to admit it, but Tarrant was better than this. At the moment, any thought of Tarrant was painful. He was out of hospital—five or six cracked ribs, but apparently there’s not a lot you can do about them, other than bind up the chest and wait for them to heal. Neville hadn’t been to see him in hospital. It would have been awkward. His memories of that night were chaotic, but he remembered enough to know his behavior had been a bit odd. But of course he’d been in shock, and people in shock do and say the most extraordinary things.
Behind his back, he heard Clark and Featherstone laughing, then the lift doors rattled open. They exchanged a few more words—he was too far away to hear—and then, thank God, they were gone. He was free to move again.