Neither Five Nor Three

  “But I think they take their guns out. Might get rusty or something.”

  “Oh!...” He thought over that. “Perspiration?” he asked. He handed over the gun to her.

  “I’ll put it under the pillow, but don’t touch it. Rust is very bad for a gun, you know.”

  He nodded, his eyes closed over the image of a white belt blazing with rubies and emeralds. “It’s tremendous,” he said sleepily. “Thanks, Aunt Rona.” He smiled and settled his head comfortably on the pillow.

  She bent and kissed him, and pushed the hair gently back from his forehead. She left the door only slightly ajar, and went quickly toward the kitchen.

  Peggy had buttered the slices of bread. She was now chopping up some hard-boiled eggs. She handed Rona an apron. “I’ve made the devilled eggs. You mash up the sardines and add some lemon juice. Are they really asleep at last? They were perfect little monsters this evening—one of those inciting-to-riot nights. It always seems to happen on a Friday. Jon’s getting the living-room cleared.”

  Rona smiled. When Peggy was busy, her sentences were always busy too. “How’s Jon’s book coming along?”

  “He’ll get it finished this summer, we hope. There isn’t much free time to do any writing during term, you know.”

  “Then Jon has decided not to teach in summer school this year?”

  Peggy nodded. No summer school meant they wouldn’t make eight hundred extra dollars. Still, the book had to be finished, and soon. Before anyone else published something new on Madison. “Jon’s at the War of 1812, now,” Peggy said, “but there’s still a long way to go.”

  “And are you going to exchange the apartment for that cottage in New Jersey?”

  “I think so. The people who own it seem civilised. He’s a schoolteacher and he wants to attend classes at Columbia this summer. So it could work out very well. It isn’t a very big cottage, but it would be easy to reach and it has a fine view and a garden. The children will love that. Bobby’s getting so wild. He chases around all day.”

  “He’s thinner. I suppose he’s growing.”

  “He’s shooting out of all his clothes. I don’t know why he is so thin, though. I keep pumping all my best cooking into him.” Peggy looked up, worried.

  Rona said quickly, “Barbara looks like a butterball. An angelic butterball.”

  “If you had seen her slinging the suds around the bathroom tonight when I was trying to wash some of her clothes in the hand basin, you wouldn’t think she was an angel.” That reminded Peggy to look at the socks and vests and sweaters drying on the wooden stand near the open window. She put down the bowl of chopped eggs, and went over to turn the clothes around and keep them from ridging as they dried.

  Rona shook her head. “How do you do it all?” she asked.

  Peggy gave a short laugh. “Most of us have to do it,” she said. “Six million new babies last year. One good thing—Jon says he and all the other teachers are never going to be out of work.”

  “I wasn’t pitying you, Peggy,” Rona said. “In fact, I was envying you.” Strange as it might seem to Mr. Burnett or Mr. Weidler, she did envy Peggy. “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

  Peggy stared at her. “Aren’t you?” she asked suddenly.

  “Of course!” Then Rona’s voice lost its defensiveness, and she said shyly, “Scott was awfully sorry he couldn’t come here tonight. Because we’ve decided on the date.”

  “Oh, Rona!” Peggy put down the salt shaker. “That’s wonderful news. When is it to be? Before we go to New Jersey for the summer, I hope.”

  Rona’s cheeks coloured. “September.”

  “Why wait until September?”

  “It will be early in September.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, Scott isn’t quite sure yet when he can get his vacation this year—sometime early in September.” Rona went on spreading the sardines carefully over the buttered bread, trying to make them stretch as far as possible. “We are starting to look for an apartment next week,” she said. “His studio is too small—there’s only one room and one closet for clothes, so it would be hopeless.”

  “What’s wrong with your apartment?”

  “Scott doesn’t like the idea of coming to live there, somehow.”

  “But he would be paying the rent,” Peggy said. “And he could add some of his furniture.” Then, as she saw that Rona was still more embarrassed, she said quickly, “Well, I hear it’s a little easier to find a place nowadays. Rents are high, of course. But I think you could get two or three rooms in this district for about eighty or ninety dollars a month.” Rona’s apartment was more than that, she remembered. So that was the reason Scott didn’t want to live there. What on earth did he do with his money? His salary wasn’t at all bad, and his prospects were good, but he never seemed to be able to save anything.

  Rona’s cheeks had coloured again. (Scott wouldn’t live in this district. “Too far away,” he had said, “no one ever comes to see you, and you can’t get anywhere quickly.”) But the doorbell rang, and Peggy was looking in alarm at the clock—it was exactly eight—and then at the half-finished sandwiches. She took off her apron and left the kitchen, and Rona didn’t have to give any evasive answers. From the hall, she heard Jon’s voice and then Paul Haydn’s. She was staring at the closed kitchen door when Peggy returned.

  “Yes, it’s Paul!” Peggy said, her voice a mixture of consternation and amusement. “He’s just gone into the living-room with Jon. My fault, honey: I told Paul that Friday was always a good night to find us at home. He came early to talk to Jon before the others arrive.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t he come to see Jon? Before the war, they went around a good deal together.” Rona was smiling, now that the first surprise was over. “Look, darling, I’m quite inoculated against Paul’s famous charm. He’s just another nice guy, that’s all.”

  Peggy began to trim the sandwiches. “Why did you break your engagement to him? You never gave me any real reason, you know. And I’ve tried to keep off the subject ever since. Of course, you were really too young at the time.” She looked questioningly at her sister. “Paul felt that, too, didn’t he? He thought he was cradle-snatching. And then he was much older than you were—almost seven years.”

  “Yes. I was too young. And too rigid in my ideas. And I had far too much pride.” Rona tried to laugh. “I was an awful little prig, you know. I took everything so seriously. When I think of the high tone I adopted in my last letter to Paul—he was over in London, then—I could really scream with laughter. No wonder he got mad and took me at my word. Probably congratulated himself on escaping the neatest little man-trap he had ever got caught in.”

  “Now, Rona! You were just so sure that your ideas about life were the only possible ones.”

  Rona smiled. “That makes me sound worse than ever.”

  Peggy said quickly, “You were only very inexperienced, that’s all.”

  Rona began to laugh.

  Peggy said more quickly, “Besides, he was much too experienced if you ask me. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like Paul. But—”

  “A lot of the stories that went around were just gossip. I know that, now. He’s the kind of man who finds himself in—well, situations.”

  “Such as Mary Fyne at your party?” Peggy asked teasingly.

  “Such as Mary Fyne,” Rona said seriously. “And we pushed him into that.”

  “We did what?”

  “We stood looking at him in horror—just a couple of outraged females. He saw me saying to myself, ‘That’s Paul, trust Paul to pick the prettiest redhead in sight.’ So he left. With Mary Fyne.”

  “That’s what Jon said. Yes, he defended Paul. We argued practically all evening over it.”

  “You argued?” Rona was amazed.

  “Almost a quarrel,” Peggy said cheerfully. “But you know what Martinis are! I expect there are more married squabbles after cocktail parties than you’d normally get in a month of Sundays. You see, Jon began telling me t
he kind of girl Mary Fyne was—and just to prove his point, he repeated what she had been saying to him. He meant to reassure me, I suppose, but I nearly slept on the living-room couch that night. She did concentrate on him for almost half an hour, you know. My fault, too. I rescued Jon from the harridan in the Pinot Noir hat and told him to go and enjoy himself for a change.” Peggy began to laugh.

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t sleep on the living-room couch because of my party,” Rona said slowly.

  Peggy was watching her with amusement. Still the little romantic, she thought affectionately. Does she imagine that Jon and I never have some moments of disagreement? “Jon wasn’t going to stand for that,” Peggy said. “He yanked me into bed with him. He was furious—his old quarter-deck manner. And after all you can’t stay mad at someone in a double bed, can you?”

  “I suppose not.” Rona was smiling now. “Then it ought to be easy to lower the divorce rate. Just enforce double beds and abolish all Martinis.”

  “One thing I do ask you, Rona. Next time you give a party, don’t have Mary Fyne along.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Rona said.

  “She isn’t a friend of yours, is she?” Peggy was now very much the elder sister.

  “Not particularly,” Rona said, which was a miracle of understatement. “Scott says she’s a product of her environment,” she added.

  “Strange how we never use that phrase when we are describing pleasant people,” Peggy said, with a shrewd eye for Rona’s face. So it was Scott who thought la belle Fyne ought to be at the party... “Does Scott ask people because he dislikes them?” she asked with a smile. “How original of him.” Then her amusement left her, and she listened intently. “That sounds to me like your little angel Barbara. I bet it’s a drink of water, this time. Why, that’s impossible! She was almost awash before she went to sleep.”

  “I’ll go. You finish the sandwiches.”

  “If it’s another drink she wants, remind her that there’s a water shortage, will you?” Peggy called after Rona. Then she wrapped the sandwiches carefully in waxed paper and a dampened towel to keep them moist. Egg and sardine sandwiches would do very nicely; pity she hadn’t bought some ham, too. But not at a dollar sixty-five a pound, she reminded herself hastily. She cleared the kitchen table and washed the bowls and knives.

  Rona returned. “Another drink,” she reported. And she had slipped off the white cow-boy belt from Bobby’s waist and left it hanging over the head of his bed while he slept.

  “Not too much?” Peggy asked.

  “Only a sip,” Rona assured her.

  “Good. I do get tired racing to Barbara’s cot at five in the morning. Now,” Peggy looked round the neat kitchen with the children’s clothes drying nicely, “that’s all, I think. Jon will look after the drinks.” She straightened Barbara’s high chair, painted a bright red to disguise the scratches Bobby had made on it in his day. “I’ll have to make new curtains,” she said, shaking her head at the window. “I’ve been pricing that plastic stuff. It’s quite cheap by the yard.”

  Now it was Rona who was amused.

  “And what’s so funny?” Peggy asked.

  “You. No one would ever guess that a few years ago all you knew was how to write a PhD thesis on Marcel Proust.”

  “And how I racked my brain to try and find the answer to him,” Peggy said, “while all he really wanted was to climb back into Mama’s arms, poor little man. Oh, well—that thesis did teach me how not to bring up a son.”

  They went along the narrow hall to the bedroom to comb their hair and wash their hands. Peggy was silent, partly because the children were in the room next door, partly because she was seeing something in a new perspective. It’s odd, she was thinking—Rona feels guilty because she can afford to buy more than I can. And I have guilt because I got a college education before father died, and Rona couldn’t get a degree except by working in an office through the day and taking classes at night. But perhaps that is why we are such good friends, each of us with our little sense of respect for the other. Now, if only Rona finds as wonderful a husband in Scott as I’ve found in Jon, everything will be all right. Everything, as Bobby says, will be tremendous.

  She laughed softly and began to tell Rona of Bobby’s new additions to his language.

  Paul Haydn and Jon Tyson had got back to normal with each other very quickly. But all the time they were talking, joking or being serious, Paul was watching Jon. And Jon, in his own quiet way, was conscious of it.

  “Have I changed such a lot?” he asked suddenly.

  Paul said, “I don’t think so.” He ruffled his hair as he used to do when he was worried. I hope not, he was saying to himself.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  Paul decided to risk it. “Look, I need your advice. Besides, this concerns Rona. Remotely. But still, it concerns her enough so that I think you ought to know.”

  At the mention of Rona, Jon’s face changed.

  “This has to do with Trend,” said Paul hurriedly.

  Jon relaxed. “Oh, with Trend,” he said.

  “Rona said she had told you about the Blackworth incident.”

  “Yes.” Jon was surprised, a little puzzled. “I must say I thought it was harsh of Weidler to fire Blackworth because he had slipped up on some contributor’s idea of modern housing. That isn’t like Weidler.”

  “That is all Rona knows?”

  Jon nodded. “Is there more to the story?”

  “Yes. I saw Weidler this morning.”

  “You did? Getting squared away quickly, aren’t you?”

  Paul said, “It begins to look as if there isn’t much time to waste.” He hesitated. Then he said. “I can’t tell you the full story, yet. Weidler’s all for secrecy, the blasted fool. But I’d like to tip you off—you can smell a dead rat under the floor as quickly as anyone. I’ll give you a general direction and let you follow it yourself. Because you and Peggy are the only relatives that Rona has.”

  “This is a serious business, then?” Jon was alert.

  Paul nodded. He stared at the faded roses on the rug at his feet, wondering how to begin. “You’re in education, Jon. Do you think propaganda is a powerful force? Could it be dangerous? Supposing an enemy of this country had its sympathisers carefully planted here? Supposing these propagandists were trying to infiltrate such businesses and professions as radio, the Press, films, schools and colleges, the theatre, publishing?”

  “That’s a damned silly question,” Jon said almost angrily. “You ask how dangerous it might be?” He looked at Paul unbelievingly, but Paul kept silent. “This is the twentieth century, with communication easier and more powerful than it’s ever been. The trouble with those who see no danger, who think we are perfectly safe if only we invent more hideous bombs, is that they are still living with a nineteenth-century idea of peace. Wars haven’t changed much except in bigger and better holocausts. But peace, as we are going to see it in this century, is something quite altered. A lot of new dangers are going to stay with us permanently just because we’ve invented a lot of peacetime conveniences that make life so interesting. It isn’t only armies we have to fear today: it’s words, words abused and corrupted and twisted.”

  Still Paul said nothing.

  “You see,” Jon went on patiently, “a hundred years ago, fewer people could read, fewer people were educated, and fewer people thought they could argue about international conditions. Also, in those days, propaganda spread more slowly and less widely. But now we’ve got a vast public who read their papers, discuss books and articles, go to the movies and the theatre, listen to their radio, watch television, and send their children to schools and colleges.”

  “And a public,” Paul interposed, “who have enough to do with arranging their own lives without analysing all the things they read or hear. They’ve got to trust the honesty of those men who deal with the written or spoken word. Just as the journalist, or the movie director, or the teacher, has got to trust the honesty o
f the business-man and workers whenever he buys a refrigerator or a car or a shirt. Isn’t that right?”

  Jon looked at him, and then he smiled. “And I thought I had to convince you—you with all your experience in Germany.”

  “Well, you never can tell who needs convincing, these days,” Paul said gloomily.

  There was a short silence. Jon, who had been studying his hands spread out on his knees, suddenly looked up. “I think I begin to smell that rat under the floor,” he said. “Blackworth is one of the men whom workers and business-men have got to trust. And he’s betrayed that trust?”

  Paul said, “I can’t tell you the story yet, Jon.”

  Jon rose and went to a bookshelf heaped with old numbers of magazines. “Rona always sends us a copy of Trend each month. Peggy’s been reading them—I’ve been too busy lately. But let me see...” He consulted an index of contents with the expertness of the trained scholar. “What has Blackworth been putting out, recently?”

  Paul crossed the room and looked over Jon’s shoulder. “Try this issue,” he suggested, and pointed to the name of William Slade. “Know William Slade?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Ever heard of a man called Nicholas Orpen?”

  “Why,” Jon said slowly, “yes... Didn’t he cause an uproar in the university world before the war? He is, or was, a Communist. He admitted that, at the time.”

  “William Slade is Nicholas Orpen. And if you read that article, you’ll see Orpen is still a Communist.”

  Jon stared blankly at Paul. Then he looked down at Trend incredulously.

  “Don’t blame Trend,” Paul reminded him.

  “So that was why Blackworth got heaved out... And Rona started it all.” He looked worried. “I’ll keep this to myself until you give me clearance. But—well, thanks for tipping me off.”

  “I heard the first rumour against Rona today,” Paul said. “After I left Weidler this morning, I dropped into the Plaza for a drink. I met a man there I used to know well. We lunched together. Then, talking casually, he brought up Rona’s name. He had heard at a party, just the night before, a silly story. He thought I ought to suppress it before it got any bigger. Rona, it seems, made a pass at Blackworth. When he turned her down, she cooked up a story to get him fired—just in time for my return.”