by MARY HOCKING
‘I’m not Doyle’s keeper,’ Paul replied irritably. But as he strode along the corridor he was conscious of a nagging uneasiness about Doyle. He forced the thought to the back of his mind and went in search of information again. The redhead was still in command.
‘Mr. Clare and Mr. Cunningham are out at lunch,’ she chanted as soon as he appeared. ‘They didn’t go until two o’clock and I don’t expect them back for at least an hour. And the conference is still going on. I’m sorry, but . . .’
‘Have you,’ he interrupted, leaning across the table, speaking slowly and very distinctly, ‘found out whether there is any substance in this rumour that Matthias is to be brought back?’
‘Mr. Daniels, I told you this morning . . .’
‘Or the rumour that an offer of armed intervention has been made to the Government in the event of action by so-called reactionary forces?’
‘Well, now, I was just about to ring Mr. Krushchev and ask him,’ she drawled, and then snapped: ‘The answer is the same as it was this morning—WE HAVE NO INFORMATION!’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth her defiance deserted her and she looked shocked and tearful. A telephone on her desk began to ring and she snatched up the receiver. Paul resisted a strong temptation to hit her and slammed out of the room. As he stood outside the door, he heard her saying: ‘I have no more information.’
Kate, when Paul left her, continued on her way to the lift. Just as she reached the foyer she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of a tall man in a heavy overcoat standing with his back to her. She put down the files in an untidy heap, pushed past one or two people, and called out to him:
‘Doyle! I thought it was about time you showed up here.’
He turned, and even before she saw his face, she knew her mistake. It was Jean Dulac. He laughed.
‘Come! It is not as bad as that. I am very nice, too, you know.’
But although she laughed, the incident had disturbed her, perhaps because it emphasized Doyle’s absence. For the rest of the afternoon she worried about him.
II
When Pickard came out of Sir Edward’s room, having rendered up the key to the safe, he crossed the foyer on his way to the lift. The straggle of beleaguered travellers had grown weary of their clamour; they sat on cases or leant against walls, gathering strength for the next encounter. Pickard looked at them. They were English mainly, his own people, and yet at this moment they looked like refugees. The thought came as a shock to him: hitherto, refugees had been other people. He went back to his room where a pile of memoranda and circulars awaited him. He sat down stiffly, placed his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his fists: he looked at the papers, frowning slightly. It was a rather conscious performance.
Time passed. From the next room came the rattle of crockery and presently the side door opened and a bright, bird-like little woman came in bearing a teacup. Pickard was staring rather vacantly at a memorandum, and she placed the cup on the edge of the desk and cleared her throat. He looked up, startled, and began to shuffle the papers on the desk.
‘Tea?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she twittered. ‘Everything stops for tea, Mr. Pickard. Even revolutions.’
She went out of the door, still twittering. Pickard picked up the spoon and chased a lump of sugar round the saucer. He knew the little woman quite well; she had, after all, worked for him for over a year now. Yet today, she seemed completely unreal. Nothing, in fact, seemed real any longer. He looked round the lofty room, of which he had once been so proud, and which now seemed to have been designed in order to make him seem small and insignificant: he looked at the filing cabinets on the far wall, full of papers which he had not read thoroughly; he looked at the long windows with the view onto the square which he had once coveted, but which now made him feel particularly vulnerable.
The memorandum which he had been studying was still lying on the table in front of him. He read two paragraphs without taking in one single idea. He sipped his tea and tried to concentrate again; but the intricate legal phrases refused to make any kind of sense. He reached out for a cigarette. Need a break, he told himself, working too hard, mind refuses to take in any more; better soon. His lips trembled as he lit the cigarette. God, how he wished he was still in the army! He closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair.
Pickard had an enduring respect for the military type, with its unquestioning devotion to duty, its sense of tradition, its belief in discipline and order. During the war he had had an undistinguished but entirely creditable record, and he now saw himself as the personification of the soldier type in civil life. This vision of himself was important; it went deeper than mere vanity, it was the foundation of his self-respect and if it were to be destroyed he would be deprived of all human dignity. Since he came to this city his confidence had been gradually undermined. He hated the city and its people, and he was forced by the limitation of the social life to associate with men like Lawrence and Daniels who made it plain that they regarded him as something of a joke. Through the small breach in the wall of his self-assurance, doubts began to seep. The crisis had been gathering momentum for a long time, but Pickard had dismissed it. Now, when the danger could no longer be denied, it broke upon him with bewildering force and his balance was disturbed. He began to see the whole thing in a personal light, as a testing time in which he would be presented with a challenge which, he faintly recognized, he would be ill-equipped to meet.
Pickard’s Colonel during the war had said of him that he was one of the best aides a man could wish for, but that if he were ever to be left in charge of anything, it would be a bloody catastrophe. Unfortunately, there was now a strong possibility of Pickard being ‘left in charge.’ As Sir Edward’s principal assistant he had in the past done a considerable amount of empire building, often taking over work which should have been left to more senior officers; careful always to use the excuse that he was ‘acting for Sir Edward,’ he had made a powerful position for himself. Now, he was beginning to realize that he would be expected to undertake those tasks which, in an emergency. Sir Edward chose to delegate to him. Pickard had worked long enough with Sir Edward to suspect that he would try to dissociate himself from the physical aspects of the emergency; he would retire to his room with his documents, maps and files, and study the situation as far removed as possible from all emotional hysteria. It would fall to Pickard, acting for Sir Edward, to deal with a number of delicate matters which would require a sound knowledge of diplomatic convention and international law.
There were lamentable gaps in Pickard’s knowledge, and last-minute attempts to make good the deficiencies had only added to his confusion and sense of inadequacy. He had had one terrifying dream in which Matthias, hunted by police, had pounded on the door of the Embassy while Pickard searched frantically through a mountain of memoranda in an attempt to find guidance on requests for sanctuary. If he admitted Matthias, it might be regarded as a breach of neutrality; if he refused him entry, and someone plugged him full of bullets on the Embassy doorstep . . . Pickard had woken sweating, and had lain thinking of the repercussions which would echo round the free world.
But it was a waking nightmare which troubled him the most. There would be his own people to deal with. Pickard was not so worried about Daniels, who was a responsible man and would probably attempt to co-operate. But Lawrence. This situation was made for Lawrence. It would bring out the most extreme tendencies in the man. God alone knew what he might not do in a crisis. Lawrence was so unlike himself that Pickard could not conceive that the man might have his own kind of responsibility; he could not conceive that there was any code of behaviour to which he would conform, any belief or principle by which he would be guided. He represented, to Pickard, a monstrous and complete anarchy.
The side door opened again, and Pickard reached hastily for his teacup, imagining that the bird-like woman had come to collect it. His hand was unsteady and some of the tea slopped onto his desk. He looked up, f
eeling irritable and helpless, and found a sleek young man standing beside him with a file.
‘I wonder what you think about this, sir?’
He was a young man with a permanently disdainful expression whom Pickard had always regarded as a young puppy. Today, the supercilious gaze seemed to strip Pickard of the remnants of his confidence.
‘I’m extremely busy as you can see.’
Pickard swept his hand towards the pile of papers, and then wished that he had not drawn attention to them as the pale eyes rested, in faint surprise, on the top memorandum.
‘That has been superseded, I fancy, sir.’ While Pickard was fumbling for a suitable reply, the young man laid the file in front of him. ‘Paul Daniels has been asking for some information about Matthias; most of the background stuff he knows, of course, but there are one or two things which I am doubtful whether we should release. I’ve flagged the items concerned.’
Pickard plucked fretfully at the file. ‘Daniels is an infernal nuisance.’
‘Oh, absolutely. But it would hardly pay one to tell him so, do you think? That breed can be so damn savage when roused.’
‘I can be savage, too,’ Pickard said loudly. He thrust out his jaw as he studied the file; out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smile pass across the smooth face.
The information which the young man had marked did not seem to Pickard to be particularly confidential, but he did not dare to admit this in case there was some point of peculiar significance which had eluded him. He stroked his chin and tried to look judicious.
‘A delicate matter. You had better leave this file with me.’
When the young man had gone, Pickard read through the marked passages several times; finally he put the file in his drawer where he hoped that it might lie forgotten. From the outer office came the sound of the young man’s voice; one of the girls was sniggering. Pickard put his head in his hands. Two hours later, when the birdlike woman came in with post for him to sign, he was sitting in the dark, slumped forward in his chair.
‘I think I was asleep,’ he said when she snapped on the lights. And he looked so befuddled that she believed him.
In the early evening as Pickard splashed through the slush on his way back to the Hotel Kapitol, melted snow fell softly from the trees and cascaded down the awnings of the shops. The thaw was coming fast. Perhaps too fast. Pickard looked uneasily towards the mountains; already the higher slopes were smothered in dark, ragged clouds. Rain clouds. ‘That’s all we need now,’ Pickard muttered to himself as he turned into the Hotel Kapitol, ‘Floods, or an avalanche.’ He made straight for the bar.
Paul Daniels, Doyle Lawrence and Dr. Van Hals were there already, in a not very convivial group. Doyle was standing with his back against the bar, looking like a film producer’s idea of a foreign correspondent; he wore a light-coloured overcoat with a scarf slung carelessly round his neck; his face was flushed, his dark hair slightly dishevelled, and his eyes, bright and hard, raked the room, looking for trouble. He greeted Pickard loudly.
‘You look as though you had just rolled up the map of Europe by the light of the last lamp! In fact, mankind is on the march again; the curtain is about to go up on the most momentous epic since the French Revolution, and you, Pickard, have a seat in the stalls. You must try to get in the right mood. Read your Wordsworth.’ He finished his drink and banged it down on the counter; there was a glint of malice in his blue eyes. ‘Alternatively, read my good friend here . . .’ He laid a hand on Paul’s arm and upset his drink.
Paul took out his handkerchief and flicked it down the sleeve of his jacket without a word. Doyle watched him. Paul was angry; he was also tired, the lines around his mouth were harsh and the rims of his eyes were red. It infuriated Doyle to see his friend so weary and tormented, and he welcomed Pickard’s company because through Pickard he could bait Paul. Why he should want to do this, he scarcely knew, since he liked and respected Paul. Perhaps it was that there were times, and this was one of them, when Paul’s ideas seemed to represent a danger to his own, and he felt the need to undermine them.
‘There will be nothing but chaos and confusion,’ Pickard was saying.
‘And a great deal of suffering,’ the doctor added.
‘But you must take a detached view of suffering,’ Doyle said, ‘otherwise you become hopelessly entangled in it. Your life ceases to be your own.’
‘A solemn thought,’ Paul said sarcastically.
‘A very solemn thought! A great deal of nonsense is talked about dedication to service, to duty, to humanity in general; it has become the excuse for countless atrocities . . .’
‘You really are talking a lot of drivel in this attempt at self-justification.’
And Paul turned his head away, withdrawing himself, rather contemptuously, from the conversation. The little gesture, so arrogant, was typical of him; at another time it would have amused Doyle, who had an arrogance of his own, but at this moment he was so incredibly angry that if he had still had a drink in his hand he must have thrown it in Paul’s face. He realized that his temper was carrying him to the verge of violence, and while he would have enjoyed a fight he did not really want to fight with Paul. Also, he had to make a journey that evening. He got to his feet.
‘If you feel so strongly about things,’ he said to Pickard, but with an eye on Paul, ‘you should do something positive.’
Paul was no longer listening, but the words had a surprising effect on Pickard.
III
When Kate returned to the flat off the Avenue of the Republic that evening Helen was already there. She was sitting at the table turning the pages of a woman’s magazine; her head was inclined forward, her elbows rested on the table and one hand, the palm beneath the chin, was curved upwards with fingers pressing lightly beneath the cheekbone. The light from the reading lamp fell on her bowed head and amber lights glinted in her hair. She had on a soft, wine-coloured dress which Kate had always admired and which she seldom wore. There was the faintest hint of perfume. She looked like a woman in an old painting, tranquil, undisturbed by time, and Kate, who was tired and felt a mess, was unexpectedly irritated. The curtains were still pulled back and she saw that no attempt had been made to prepare for dinner. She stamped across to the window. Helen turned a page of the magazine.
‘A week ago I would have said that any change in the weather had to be for the better, but I reckon I was wrong,’ Kate said as she jerked at the curtains. ‘It looks like the end of the world rolling up out there.’
‘I think a thaw may be setting in.’ Helen looked up, blinking in the light of the lamp, and smiled, the slow smile which illuminated her face.
‘Did you remember the peppers?’
The smile died, and Kate watched grimly as Helen’s features arranged themselves in a familiar expression of contrition. Kate loved and hated her at that moment. She threw her coat and gloves onto a chair and flung herself down on the couch.
‘I shouldn’t think we’re ever going to use that recipe, would you?’
‘Oh Kate, my dear! I am so sorry. It’s no use my going out now, is it?’ She made a vague, ineffectual movement and then sat down again. ‘No, of course it isn’t, because the shop won’t be . . .’
Kate put up her feet and closed her eyes.
‘I’m going to have twenty minutes complete relaxation,’ she said. ‘Today has aged me considerably.’
Helen stared unhappily at the magazine. After a few moments Kate stretched out her hand and fumbled on the occasional table for cigarettes.
‘Did David get mad with you when you forgot things?’
Helen winced, but she answered: ‘Yes, he did,’ quite casually and began to talk about a recipe for paella. It was time, Kate thought impatiently, that she stopped being so sentimental about David and started taking some notice of a live man. She lit her cigarette and thought again how rich the wine-coloured dress looked. Suddenly, she sat up.
‘Are you dining out, Helen?’
Helen looked
guilty. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am. I quite forgot about our dinner . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Kate resumed an attitude of complete relaxation. ‘In any case, I have to be back by ten. We’re working a wonderful watch system devised by Marshall Pickard. Binkie says it took him hours to work it out, anyone would have thought he was planning the ‘D’ day landings!’
‘I have to be back, too.’
It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to ask more questions, but she decided against it; she never knew how far she could go with Helen and, in any case, she had a fairly good idea who it was that Helen was seeing. And very nice, too, she thought. Of course, he was a rather rackety type, being a journalist, and that would not suit Helen; but perhaps Helen would change him. Kate was a firm believer in the transforming power of love and she was convinced that there was a lot of good in Paul Daniels. For one thing, he was a man you could rely on, the sort of man you could make a fool of yourself with and it wouldn’t be all over town the next day, which was more than you could say of most of the men here. She drew on her cigarette and watched the smoke circle upwards as she exhaled. An unpleasant association stirred in her mind.
‘Do you know,’ she said, sitting up again. ‘I met that bloody bitch Lady Hilton coming back from lunch and we had a quick drink together. I wondered why she had so suddenly become mortal and I soon found out. Would you believe it? She actually tried to warn me about Doyle. It was all very subtle and refined, of course, but basically it was the gypsy’s warning.’
Helen laughed. ‘I hope you crossed her palm with silver.’
‘I made rather a mess of it. She always makes me feel so crude and “colonial”.’ Kate got up and wandered towards her bedroom. ‘It’s pathetic, don’t you think? Her affair with Doyle ended so long ago and yet she always tries to behave as though I have him on loan from her. But she has never got round to talking about it before. I can’t think what came over her.’
It was obvious that Kate had no qualms where Rosamund was concerned. Her self-confidence astonished Helen. Or perhaps, she thought, putting down the magazine, self-confidence was too personal a term; Kate had an ability to see things in strong outlines, without shadow or a blurred merging of contours, which was a part of her new-world heritage. Helen could see her moving about in her bedroom. She was wearing a slip, and she looked plump and brown, like an overgrown puppy. Helen felt afraid for her. She got up and walked across to the door of the bedroom.
