She wanted to be close enough for them all to hear her. The sky around was deep twilight, a rim of violet on the horizon. The crowd on the beach fell still, filled with amazement. The sound of the tractor’s engine was lost in the deep roar of the sea.
Just where the rolling waves broke into spume Mary told Eamonn to stop, and cut the engine. Then she stood up on the tractor seat, bracing herself between her brother’s strong shoulder and the upright of the high roll bar. Now her slim figure was in silhouette against the last of the daylight.
‘This is Mary Brennan,’ she said.
Her voice rang clear over the water. They all heard her. A sound went up from the crowd like a sigh. The messenger of the Lord had come out of the sea.
‘I have a new message.’
Another gasp rose up. All across the beach the people were dropping to their knees.
‘The voice of God came to me over the water,’ she cried. ‘The Lord said to me, “The people’s faith pleases me. I will not let my people perish. There will be no great wind. Your faith has saved the world.”’
Hearing this, the pilgrims began to cry and call out.
‘Thank you, Lord! God be praised!’
‘Go to your homes. Tell everyone. The world will not end. The world will live. Now make it a beautiful world.’
They were crying like babies on the beach. Cries of joy.
‘God bless you, Mary Brennan! God love you! We’re saved!’
To Eamonn, in a low voice, she said, ‘Now drive us home.’
Eamonn started up the tractor and powered it through the shallow water and up the beach. The crowd parted to let it past. Mary remained standing, waving back at the crying faces below.
‘Pray for me!’ she called out. ‘Pray for me! My work here is over! It’s all over now!’
When they were past the crowds, and rumbling up the track to the cottage, Eamonn said to her, ‘That was a fine message, Mary.’
‘I said it to make them go home.’
Eamonn said nothing to that.
‘I’m a wicked woman, Eamonn. I just made it up, in my wickedness.’
‘So the world could still end tomorrow?’
‘It could.’
‘And they’re thinking they’re saved.’
That made him laugh. His rich deep laugh filled the night air. She hadn’t heard him laugh for a long time.
55
‘Who did this? On whose authority?’
Khrushchev was appalled by the news. Here, at this most delicate point of negotiation, some trigger-happy cowboy in Cuba had done the exact thing he had been so careful to avoid. He had fired the first shot.
‘General Pliyev claims to know nothing about it.’
It was Sunday morning. Marshal Malinowsky was briefing Khrushchev in his Kremlin office, where he had slept that night.
‘An American pilot is dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Cubans did this? With Soviet weapons?’
Khrushchev continued turning over the pages of the report that had been prepared for him overnight.
‘What’s this? What is Castro saying?’
‘He’s convinced the Americans are about to invade.’
‘What does he mean, I must not let the United States strike the first nuclear blow? Does he want me to start a nuclear war?’
‘He appears to be very agitated.’
‘He’s lost his reason. What’s happening, Rodion Yakovlevich? Has the whole world gone mad?’
By now Khrushchev was badly frightened. He summoned a meeting of the Presidium at his private residence at Novo-Ogaryovo on the Moscow river. As he prepared for the meeting he received a further report, of a letter from Kennedy containing an offer of a deal. It appeared to be in answer to Khrushchev’s first long letter. Kennedy proposed to trade a promise not to invade Cuba for the removal of the missiles.
‘What about my second letter? What about the missiles in Turkey?’
‘He says nothing about that,’ said Troyanovsky.
‘Why not? I don’t understand.’
‘I think this is what we call the Kuragin ploy,’ said Troyanovsky. ‘He pretends to have received from you the offer he wants.’
Khrushchev stared at him.
‘You’ll remember, Chairman, in War and Peace, how the father of the lovely Hélène Kuragin becomes frustrated by Pierre’s slowness in making a marriage proposal. In the end the father bursts into the room and congratulates the young couple, just as if the proposal has taken place. Pierre is too embarrassed to object.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Khrushchev had not read War and Peace. He knew only that Hélène Kuragin’s most famous attribute had been her magnificent bosom.
‘Nobody dazzles me with tits,’ he said. ‘This is all a catastrophe. We can’t have a war over Cuba. It’s out of the question. You know why?’
‘Cuba is not our homeland, Chairman.’
‘Because we’d lose.’
They drove together to Novo-Ogaryovo. As the big Zil limousine pulled up before the pillared porch of the house, Khrushchev said to Troyanovsky, ‘I need more Lenin. Tell me when Lenin retreated.’
‘Brest-Litovsk, March 1918. Lenin surrendered territory to the Germans to win a breathing space during the Civil War.’
‘Yes, of course. I remember.’
The members of the Presidium were seated on either side of the long polished oak table. Gromyko was there too, and Malinowsky, and Ilyichev. Khrushchev wanted to be sure that every one of the top leadership was implicated in what might be construed as a climb-down.
‘Comrades,’ he told them. ‘I believe we are face to face with nuclear war. I do not believe any of us wants to destroy the human race. At Brest-Litovsk in 1918 Lenin ordered a tactical retreat, to save the Soviet Union. Today we must order a tactical retreat, to save the world.’
He laid before his colleagues the hard facts of the crisis. An American pilot had been killed by a Soviet ground-to-air missile. There was mounting evidence that the Americans were preparing an invasion of Cuba within hours. Fidel Castro was behaving increasingly erratically.
‘The time has come to do a deal,’ said Khrushchev. ‘I propose that we respond positively to Kennedy’s latest offer. We agree to dismantle the missile sites, in exchange for a guarantee from the Americans that they will not invade Cuba.’
‘We trade weapons for words?’ said Mikoyan.
Only the great survivor could have dared speak aloud what they were all thinking. Khrushchev, who had feared just this reproach, responded with anger.
‘What are you saying? That I should go to war for the sake of Cuba? No, Anastas Ivanovich, much as I love Cuba, I love my country more. I have given my life for this great experiment, this dream of Marx, made real by Lenin. You keep Cuba if you wish. I choose to save the world!’
Mikoyan shrugged and said no more.
‘Moreover,’ said Khrushchev heatedly, ‘correctly understood, this is a real victory. Who would have predicted, nine months ago, that we could force the imperialists into a pledge never to attack Cuba? It was unthinkable! Why should they give such a promise? But because we have been bold, and resolute, we now stand on the brink of achieving that very pledge!’
At this point Troyanovsky entered, looking flushed.
‘Comrade Chairman,’ he said. ‘A cable has just come in from Ambassador Dobrynin. He has had a meeting with the brother of the president.’
Troyanovsky read out the cable. Dobrynin reported that Robert Kennedy had come to him in a state of great agitation. The president was facing unbearable pressure from his chiefs of staff to order an invasion of Cuba. He needed a response from Khrushchev without delay. He repeated his pledge not to attack Cuba if the Soviet missiles were removed. He added that the Jupiters would be taken out of Turkey in exchange, but not at once. This would take place within four months, but most importantly, this was to be a private part of the deal. The president could not be seen in public to be sacrificing NATO a
llies to American strategic needs.
The Presidium members asked Troyanovsky to read the cable out again in its entirety.
‘Why must the Jupiters remain secret?’ said Malinowsky. ‘That would be a trade the whole world would understand.’
At this point the Secretary of the Defence Council was handed a phone message. It was another intelligence report. President Kennedy was due to make a televised address to the American people in four hours’ time.
Every man in the room believed this to be the declaration of war.
‘Enough!’ cried Khrushchev, banging the table. ‘Bring in a stenographer! I will reply to the president.’
Before the entire leadership, Khrushchev poured out a third letter to Kennedy. He spoke of their joint responsibility to the world, of the honourable intentions with which the Soviet Union had set out to defend Cuba, of the hostility the United States had shown to that brave island, of the provocations the United States gave to world peace with its intrusive flights over neutral territories and its piratical actions on the high seas. And so at last he came to the point.
‘The Soviet government, wanting nothing but peace, has issued a new order to dismantle the weapons which are described as offensive, and to crate and return them to the Soviet Union.’
Gromyko then cabled Dobrynin in Washington to alert the Kennedys. A favourable response to their message would be read out over Moscow Radio shortly.
Two copies of the chairman’s letter then left Novo-Ogaryovo. One, carried by Mikhail Smirnovsky, head of the Foreign Office’s American desk, sped off to the American embassy. On arrival, Smirnovsky found his limousine blocked by demonstrators placed there by his own orders, shouting ‘Hands off Cuba!’
The other copy of the letter was carried by Leonid Ilyichev, Secretary in Charge of Ideology, to Moscow Radio. Ilyichev’s black Chaika made record time into the city, but once inside the building, his elevator got stuck between floors. Unable to get out, he passed the letter page by page through the bars of the cage’s grille.
At 5 p.m. Moscow time the letter was read out live, without rehearsal, by Moscow Radio’s best-known diktor, Yuri Levitan. His was the voice that had announced to the Soviet people the start of the war against Nazi Germany in 1941, and its victorious end in 1945; the death of Stalin in 1953; and the triumphant space flight of Yuri Gagarin in 1961.
‘This is Moscow speaking,’ he began. ‘I am now going to read to you a letter written by Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, First Secretary of the Presidium of the Communist Party and Chairman of the Council of Ministers, to John Fitzgerald Kennedy, president of the United States.’
56
In London, three hours behind Moscow, Pamela was sleeping late that Sunday morning. When at last she came down for breakfast it was well after eleven o’clock, and she found only Emily in the kitchen. Emily and Harriet had returned from Dorset the previous evening.
‘Do you know when Mary’s coming back?’ said Emily.
‘No,’ said Pamela. ‘I’ve got no idea.’
‘She said she’d be gone a few days. It’s already eight days. That’s not a few.’
Pamela made herself a cup of Nescafé. Emily wandered off. As she drank her coffee and smoked her first cigarette of the day, Pamela found herself thinking about Susie and Logan and his proposal. The champagne, the ring. ‘How about it, old girl?’ Then she thought about André, and how he had wanted his party to be ‘joyful’. Then she thought about Bobby, who said, ‘It’s fun or it’s nothing.’
What was wrong with men? What was wrong with the world?
She had forgotten that there was going to be a nuclear war. Instead she was wondering whether or not to call Stephen, who had invited her to lunch at Cliveden. She didn’t much want to go to Cliveden, but nor did she want to stay here, now that Harriet was back.
Then Harriet herself appeared.
‘Oh, Pamela, you’re up. I wonder whether you could come into Hugo’s study. We’d like a word.’
No one ever went into Hugo’s study, least of all Hugo. Pamela did as she was asked.
Hugo was in there, standing by the mantelpiece, an abstracted look on his face. Outside the tall window there was sunshine on the railings, and on the grass between the trees. Hugo glanced at her as she entered, and gave her a slight shrug.
Harriet closed the door behind them, and went over to stand by Hugo’s side. She had a strange bright smile on her face. She took hold of Hugo’s hand.
‘Hugo and I are very lucky,’ she said. ‘It’s not just that we have a strong, committed marriage. We’re also each other’s best friend. I think that’s rare, don’t you? I can always tell what Hugo’s thinking. And you see, because I know him and love him, I trust him.’
She nodded her small elegant head as if to say that all this was as it should be. Then she turned to Hugo with the look of a fond teacher addressing a naughty but favoured child.
‘Of course, he’s not perfect. He’s as human as the rest of us. But then, neither am I perfect. I can’t begin to imagine how tedious it must be to have to put up with all my little troubles. But dear Hugo forgives me, as I forgive him.’
She turned back to Pamela.
‘You’re still so young, Pamela. I hope that one day you’ll have a marriage of your own that’s as close and forgiving as ours. Then you’ll understand that nothing can break it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pamela. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Harriet. ‘I know it’s just a game to you. You have no idea what damage you could do with your light-hearted games. But fortunately Hugo and I have no secrets from each other.’
‘What am I supposed to have done?’
‘Let’s just say that you are a very pretty girl, and Hugo’s a normal red-blooded man, and he’s very sorry if he forgot himself for a moment or two. Men have their games, too. You’ll understand better when you’re older.’
She smiled up at Hugo. Hugo stared down at the fender. Pamela found herself drawn helplessly into Harriet’s world, where they were the combatants, and Hugo the neutral ground.
‘Why doesn’t he speak for himself?’
‘Well, I think he’s just a tiny bit ashamed, don’t you?’
‘But he’s done nothing to be ashamed of.’
Harriet wrinkled her brow.
‘I think I’m being rather unusually understanding here, Pamela. I’ve talked it over with Hugo, and I’m willing to forget all about it. As far as you’re concerned, I should have thought some sort of apology was in order.’
‘Then you’d better tell me what Hugo says I’ve done.’
‘Hugo has said nothing. A gentleman never lays the blame on a lady. But of course, I knew at once.’
Hugo cleared his throat and spoke at last. He spoke without lifting his gaze from the fender.
‘She smelled you on the sheets.’
‘Smelled me!’
Pamela broke into a short laugh.
‘I have a very sensitive sense of smell,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m glad it amuses you.’
‘But nothing happened,’ said Pamela. ‘Didn’t he tell you that?’
‘You may call it nothing if you wish,’ said Harriet.
‘I was frightened, because of the missiles in Cuba. You do know what’s happening? There’s probably going to be a nuclear war. You do know that?’
Suddenly it seemed to Pamela that the coming war was more important than anything. That in its light Harriet’s accusations were rendered petty and ridiculous.
‘I do follow the news.’
‘We could all be dead tomorrow.’
‘Well, that’s as may be,’ said Harriet.
‘Don’t you believe me? It’s true. Tell her, Hugo.’
‘The international situation is very serious,’ said Hugo, still not looking up.
‘Oh, Hugo, don’t be so silly,’ said Harriet. And to Pamela, ‘I think it might be more comfortable for all of us if you found somewhere else to
stay while you’re in London, don’t you? I expect one of your new friends could help you out.’
Still the sweet reasonable tone. Pamela struggled with mounting anger.
‘Is there anything else you want to say to me, Pamela?’
‘May I use the phone?’
For a moment she caught a look of cold hatred in Harriet’s pale-blue eyes. Then the smile returned.
‘Yes, of course.’
Pamela went out of the study, leaving the door ajar. She picked up the phone in the hall and rang Stephen.
‘It’s Pamela,’ she said. ‘Come and get me as soon as you can. Please.’
Then she stayed in the hall, one hand on the telephone table, breathing rapidly. She could hear Harriet in the study.
‘So insolent. So selfish. You saw how she looked at me? There’s something wrong with that girl. Do you think it’s because of her father?’
Then Hugo’s voice, murmuring low.
‘She’s just young, that’s all.’
Pamela went slowly up the stairs to her room. There she changed into smart day clothes and made up her face and brushed her hair. Then she sat and gazed into the dressing-table mirror until she no longer recognised herself.
I am nothing. I don’t exist.
Nothing happened. Nobody needs to know.
In time she heard a car pull up outside. She ran down the stairs and opened the front door before the bell rang.
‘Just take me away,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Stephen asked no questions until they were on the road west.
‘Bad day?’
She nodded.
‘Could be a bad day for the world,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Pamela.
‘Like that, is it?’
‘Oh, Stephen.’ Her anger dissolved into self-pity. ‘I’m making such a mess of everything.’
‘Don’t we all,’ he said. ‘Being human.’
‘Is there a cure?’
‘There’s a sort of a cure. It’s called not minding too much. You’d be surprised how much fun there is to be had once you stop minding about things.’
‘I’ve tried fun. It wasn’t much fun.’
‘Is this André?’