Rest and Be Thankful

by Helen Macinnes

  “There’s a herd of steers in a pasture up there. We’ll be moving them down to a lower one,” Jim answered.

  “All the boys going?”

  “Except Chuck. He can’t take the altitude so well now.” Jim looked at Grubbock. “Like to come along?”

  “Sure.” Grubbock was pleased. He looked across the room at Koffing, now deep in a bitter argument with O’Farlan about the November elections.

  “Bring him too,” Jim Brent suggested. “If he wants to come.”

  “Fine,” Grubbock said, but a shadow of doubt crossed his face. He would have just as soon gone alone with the boys. However, Koffing had been asked in the Western way, and Earl would pass on the invitation. He changed the subject to the storm which was now breaking with full violence among the mountains. “Fireworks,” he remarked, watching the flashes through the window. “Lightning all shapes and sizes, sheet or forked. Have your choice.”

  “Fireworks in here too,” Mimi said quietly, glancing over at Koffing and O’Farlan, who had been joined by Prender Atherton Jones. He was now in the middle of an eloquent peroration. It seemed to Earl Grubbock that Atherton Jones always talked in paragraphs, never in sentences. And when they dealt with politics they all could be boiled down to one thing—an intellectual embroidery of the obvious. He should stick to literature, Grubbock thought; he knows something about that at least. Then he looked round, a little guiltily, for he had felt his remark so strongly that it might have been spoken. Perhaps Atherton Jones is a lesson to all of us, Grubbock went on thinking; perhaps we should all stick to our subjects. That’s our trouble: if we are good at one thing we think we must also be keen political minds. As if politics, in theory and practice, wasn’t a science as difficult to master as any other. He looked at Atherton Jones with sudden distaste, and sipped the coffee.

  “Too bitter?” Mimi asked. “Here’s the sugar to disguise my efforts at cooking.” She was smiling, and this time Earl knew she: had guessed his feelings. Perhaps she shared them. And only three months ago they had listened to Prender in New York as if he were the Oracle of Delphi.

  “You need a drink, Earl,” Mrs. Peel said suddenly. “We all do tonight. Prender, will you attend to that?”

  Perhaps she had asked Atherton Jones quite naturally— she had done it with her usual helpless flutter and charming smile—but it seemed to O’Farlan that it was as good a way as any to break up an argument which gave out more heat than light. And why hadn’t Grubbock joined in to help Koffing? Well, well, he thought, and moved over to the fireplace beside Grubbock and Brent.

  “I hope you don’t get colds,” Mrs. Peel said.

  Jim Brent exchanged a grin with Earl Grubbock.

  “Haven’t felt better in months,” Grubbock said. It was true. He looked at the drink which Carla brought him. I can take it or leave it, he thought. He put it down on the mantelpiece and drank the coffee.

  “I wish the doctor would come,” Carla said. She was still suffering from a sense of guilt: to think they had all worried over Drene’s running off with Dewey this evening, and had never given one thought to Sally, who had been lying on a lonely hillside.

  “Mrs. Gunn says she doesn’t think it’s very much,” Mrs. Peel said. “Perhaps a rib or two, bruises, and cuts. Otherwise, apart from some scrapes and scratches, Sally seems all right.”

  “Not very much!” Carla said, in horror. She looked at the others, who had now formed a wide half-circle in front of the fire. At that moment the lights went out.

  The men swore and the women exclaimed—all except Mrs. Peel, who said quietly, “Well, we have plenty of candles in every room.” And as she began to light those in the living-room she went on talking about Sally. “I do think a leg broken in two places is much worse, and Sally had that in 1941, when we were in Paris. And you’d never know, would you?”

  You’d never know a lot of things, Grubbock thought suddenly as he watched Mrs. Peel’s calm face. If he had wanted to know how she behaved in an emergency he was learning now; and it wasn’t as he expected. Thank God he hadn’t asked her any foolish questions this morning.

  Koffing leaned forward in his chair. “Were you in Paris in 1941?”

  “Yes. And not as collaborators, Karl.” Everyone laughed. Even Karl had to smile, for she had said it kindly, humorously.

  Jim Brent said quietly, “You were running a counter-propaganda paper, weren’t you?” This time everyone else stared.

  “Yes. That’s how Sally broke her leg in two places. You see, we had hidden our little printing-press in a cellar. We had the help of four very good workmen—good in every sense.” She paused, and then went on. “They helped us to get it into the cellar, piece by piece. They set it up, and helped us run it. That was in June 1940. A friend of ours also helped us—he is the novelist André Mercier.”

  “Ah, of course. Charming man. Good writer,” Prender Atherton Jones said. “At least, he used to be. He’s fallen off badly. That last book of his—”

  “Did you read it?” Mrs. Peel asked, suddenly very alert. Atherton Jones looked annoyed. “Frankly the reviews I saw didn’t encourage me to waste any time on it.”

  “What reviews did you read?” Mrs. Peel asked, almost bitterly. He stared at her. They had been in the literary magazines, published in Paris, which he had always admired so much: the French did these things so much better than we could somehow. “I rely on my own judgment for—”

  “And I’m still left in that cellar,” Grubbock said to Mrs. Peel. If Prender A. Jones got started on his judgment her story would be still-born.

  “Yes,” Mimi said quickly, and won a smile from Grubbock, “I want to hear about the leg broken in two places.”

  “In that case we are back in the cellar,” Mrs. Peel said. “It was a small one, lying behind a much larger cellar filled with crates of aspirin. So we were fairly safe.”

  Carla laughed, and then looked apologetic. “Do go on. I’m sorry.”

  Mimi smiled too. “It’s so exactly like a Hitchcock movie,” she explained.

  “Except,” Mrs. Peel said gently, “there was no background music, and the hero didn’t always win, and the heroine was often old and ugly. And the cast would disappear, often unexplainedly. Forever.”

  No one spoke now.

  “We were fairly safe,” Mrs. Peel went on, “because aspirin was one thing that didn’t attract the Germans. In fact, they were unloading it all over Europe as payment for value received. We never went near that large cellar, of course, once we got the printing-press into the smaller one. We blocked up all traces of the connecting door with crates of aspirin. To reach our cellar we had to come down a ladder from a trap-door in the floor of a small room overhead. The caretaker and his wife lived there, and they covered the trap-door with a scrap of rug and a heavy table. We worked out a very practical routine. The owner of the building was a friend of ours; he had been a dealer in antique furniture, but he hadn’t much left after two months of Occupation except some worthless marks and many crates of aspirin. Everything was going better than we had expected; and then one night Sally missed her step on the ladder. That put her out of circulation for some weeks. But the leg mended nicely; and by the time we had to escape from France she was perfectly all right. Fortunately.”

  There was a short but deep silence. A look of surprise passed from one face to another. Jim Brent was watching Mrs. Peel thoughtfully.

  “What then?” Earl Grubbock asked hopefully.

  “Oh, that was just the usual story—alarms and fears and good friends and risks and much kindness. By that time the Underground movements were beginning to be well organised. We really had a very safe journey, considering how extremely unsafe everything was.” She had made her voice light, casual. And that, it told them, was the end of the story.

  “Were many of your friends left in Paris, once you got back again after the War?” Robert O’Farlan asked.

  “Not so many, actually.” Her voice was now cold, almost hard. “And among those who su
rvived there are some who would willingly condemn their former comrades to death. They would, too, if they got into full power.”

  “What?” cried Carla. The others too were just as startled. What, they wanted to know, did Mrs. Peel mean?

  So she told them the story of André Mercier, of Marie and Charles, of the literary magazine which still pretended to be literary but was now a political machine. When she finished she noticed the faces around her: they were looking either uncomfortable or incredulous. Karl was the only one whose expression she couldn’t judge.

  “It doesn’t sound possible,” Prender Atherton Jones said. “Why, I knew them all, and they were all close friends. Marie is a very charming and intelligent woman.” He looked at Mrs. Peel disbelievingly.

  “What I say is true,” she said sadly. “And this is not an isolated case. Since the Liberation many magazines and papers in France have fallen into Communist control. In fact, France has the biggest Communist Press in Western Europe. So, you see, André Mercier and all the other writers like him haven’t much chance, have they? Anything that he writes from now on is secretly blacklisted. And, unless people like us realise what is happening, he is going to be abandoned to people like Marie and Charles.”

  “But, really, Margaret,” Atherton Jones said, “literary magazines don’t carry much weight in the political world. Aren’t the Communists wasting their energies?” He smiled, shaking his head. “We mustn’t exaggerate their danger, you know. That only leads to witch-hunts.”

  “Communists aren’t stupid. They don’t underestimate the power that they can get from controlling words and ideas and opinions. And they’ve succeeded very well with you, Prender: you didn’t even read André’s last book, and yet you were ready to damn it. Don’t tell me you’ve started to believe the lies about his private life that they are spreading?”

  He looked a little uncomfortable. “Really, Margaret,” he protested again, “this is all very hard to swallow.”

  “And impossible to digest, we found,” Mrs. Peel said sharply.

  Grubbock asked, “But why doesn’t André Mercier complain out loud?”

  “Probably he isn’t as good as he thinks,” Koffing said, with a smile. “Even if his friends don’t like it he may have got the book reviews that he deserved.”

  Mrs. Peel looked at Karl. “I think,” she said slowly, “you gave Earl his answer. If André were to complain few would believe him—until it happened to them. The Communists would just say he was suffering from wounded pride, and the pro-Communists would help to damn him by repeating all kinds of false gossip about him. They are very clever at rumours, you know.”

  There was another silence. Jim Brent watched the disbelieving faces. Only Robert O’Farlan was thoughtful, as if he at least was weighing Mrs. Peel’s words. Jim listened to the wind, trying to hear the approach of the doctor’s car. The thunder had died away, but the rain still lashed the windows mercilessly. He waited for someone to speak, but no one did.

  “Well, I believe you,” Jim Brent said. “For the simple reason that I don’t believe you’d make up a story like this, Mrs. Peel. I don’t know much about book reviews or writers or any of that world. But I’ve known you this summer, and you’ve never said an unjust thing about anyone.” He looked angrily now at the others.

  “I believe you too,” Mimi said unexpectedly, and gave Jim Brent a smile. “And I’m just thankful that I live in a country where the Communists aren’t in any positions of power. Thank heavens, that couldn’t happen here!”

  There was a dead silence.

  “Not a particularly happy phrase,” Prender Atherton Jones said, with a grimace, and raised a small laugh. “Ah, there are the lights again!” They all blinked at each other, smiling determinedly if a little uneasily, as the room was flooded with bright lamps once more.

  “Thanks to Jackson,” Mrs. Peel murmured, rising to blow out the candles.

  O’Farlan said, “It seems to me that if we’d all face the fact that there are hidden Communists in this country, then we’d make quite sure it can’t happen here. The trouble is, whenever I say that aloud, there’s always some clever guy ready to yell ‘reactionary’ or ‘witch-hunt.’”

  Grubbock looked over at Koffing. Nothing that had been said had moved him, either to worry or pity or anger. It was almost as if Koffing had closed his ears for the last ten minutes. Grubbock stared at his friend. Was he or wasn’t he? Well, if he was a secret Communist, what did it matter? Grubbock frowned and looked at the others. They were all a little upset by the story, even if they didn’t quite believe it. Didn’t want to believe it? Hell...was he seeing his own reflection? Only Jim Brent and O’Farlan seemed to accept it as possible. Mimi? She was just out to win a smile from Brent. She was watching Brent now, trying not to let any of the others see she was watching him.

  Grubbock smiled wryly. This is one party, he thought, where you didn’t make much of an impression on the pretty girls; you’re losing your grip, Grubbock. But the Drenes and the Mimis would always somehow choose—however much they’d protest money wasn’t everything and love was—someone with money. Brent must be rich, even if he dressed like a cowboy and worked as hard as any of them. For a moment Grubbock felt the old bitterness returning: it was a hell of a life if you had neither money nor prestige.

  Norah said suddenly, “There’s the doctor’s car.” She was right. It was pulling up in the yard. She gave Grubbock a smile as she ran out of the room. No, Grubbock decided, it didn’t have to be such a bad life, either. There were girls unlike Drene or Mimi. And you could try for money or prestige, and if you didn’t go desperately grasping after them you might have a good time trying for them. And if you didn’t get them you’d have found other things, perhaps richer and fuller than money or prestige ever were. You might have a good time finding that out too.

  Mrs. Peel had followed Norah to welcome Dr. Clark. Jim Brent had gone as far as the door. Then he paused and came back into the room. “Glad he got here,” he said. “I was beginning to think we’d have to send for Ned. He made a good job of Bert’s foot when a horse stepped on it. The only time I’ve known Ned to fail was when he set Chuck’s arm last summer. When it mended it wouldn’t bend. So they had to break it again and reset it. At least, that’s Chuck’s version of the story. I was down in Montana buying horses at the time.”

  “Good heavens!” Carla said. “Does that sort of thing happen often?”

  “Not if you’re careful. There’s always a time when you begin to take a horse for granted. That’s when the accidents happen.”

  Prender Atherton Jones said, “I wondered what you did here when you had an accident. After all, the doctor is twenty-five miles away, and the hospital at Three Springs is another ten.” Personally, he thought, I just concentrate hard on not having appendicitis.

  “Oh, if it isn’t too bad, we can patch it up. Ned’s good. He got some medic work in the Army before he was picked out for officer’s training.”

  “Was Ned in the Army?” Carla asked. All the women became interested.

  “Sure. That’s where I met him. He became my lieutenant. I offered him a job here as soon as he got his discharge. He’s a good wrangler and cowhand, one of the best I’ve had.” When his mind isn’t set on a woman, Jim thought.

  “What were you?” Mimi asked. “Captain or major?” Or it might have been a colonel: he would look wonderful as a colonel.

  Jim Brent began to laugh. “I was a P.F.C.” He gave Grubbock a mock salute. “Sergeant! Thank you, sir!” he said.

  “Same to you!” Then Grubbock was laughing too, and the women looked bewildered. O’Farlan smiled. Atherton Jones poured himself another drink. Koffing became interested in a magazine.

  “Were all the boys in the War?” Carla asked.

  “All except Chuck. He went down to the recruiting-station in Sweetwater, said he could always be a cook. But he had to come back here. He took charge of this outfit, he and his old buddy Cheesit Bridger, who came out of retirement to hel
p us. Of course, the Government requisitioned the horses, so there wasn’t too much to do—just a matter of holding the place together until the rest of us got back.”

  “Did you get wounded?” Esther Park asked. She had been silent for so long that everyone was surprised she was still there.

  “You can’t be lucky all the time. But, I must say, you can get just as much cracked up if a horse starts really working on you.”

  “Once a horse trampled my foot,” Esther Park said. “And I had an arm broken when I was in Switzerland.” The others looked at her politely.

  Mimi said, “When I was a child, I remember...” and that began a whole chapter of amusing little accidents from Carla and Atherton Jones too.

  Esther Park looked round angrily. All that fuss over Sally, over Drene. All that fuss over Ned, and Chuck’s arm, and Bert’s foot. And no one even worried about her. I had a broken arm, she thought bitterly, and looked at Mimi and Carla, now discussing vaccination marks. I had. She went out of the room.

  She hesitated at the stairs, looking up towards Sally’s room. Its door was opening. She ran up the stairs, quietly, surprisingly lightly. She reached the landing as Mrs. Gunn came out.

  “How is Sally? Is she bad? Does it hurt?” Esther Park asked. “Can I nurse her? I’d love to nurse her. I’m a very good nurse.”

  “That’s nice of you to offer, but I think we’ll manage, Miss Park. The doctor says she’ll be up in no time.” Mrs. Gunn bustled downstairs to make a sandwich for Dr. Clark and some fresh coffee: he had to get back to Sweetwater tonight.

  Esther waited. Then the doctor came out of Sally’s room, with Mrs. Peel saying goodbye to him at the door. Again Esther was full of anxious inquiries. They were embarrassed—as Mrs. Gunn had been—by her overemphatic anxiety. But Mrs. Peel was going to sleep in Sally’s room, and it was all arranged, and Esther wasn’t to worry. Mrs. Peel said good night, and closed the bedroom door firmly.

  The doctor, as he went downstairs, glanced back at the lonely figure on the landing. Wonder if she could nurse? Looked like a neurotic to him—eyes, gestures, tone of voice. Probably just trying to get into the act. Give her a floor to scrub each day and she’d be a happier woman. Occupational therapy, they called it nowadays.