Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  Looking out, she found Percy Gibbon, naked, in an evident state of sexual excitement and beside himself with rage, beating his hands on Edwina’s door and shouting, ‘Open up, open up.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘She’s in there with that bally lord.’

  ‘What if she is? It’s none of your business.’

  Percy, his face distorted with indignation, pointed to the baize door that was held ajar by Hassan and Aziz who clutched at each other in mirth. Percy’s condition, which had been farce, became scandal as soon as Harriet appeared, and Hassan put up a long ‘Uh, uh, uh!’ of shocked enjoyment.

  ‘What do you think they think of it?’ Percy asked.

  ‘What do you think they think of you? Look at yourself. Can’t you see they’re laughing at you?’

  Percy observed himself and his anger crumbled at the sight. He began to whimper, ‘It’s her fault. It’s all her fault.’

  ‘Go back to your room.’

  Harriet spoke imperiously and when he obeyed, she turned on the safragis, ordering them away with such scorn, they fled together. She decided to put a stop to their insolence. She knew that they saw the inmates of the flat as immoral and ridiculous, and they were contemptuous of a way of life they could not understand. Recently she had realized that the safragis supposed Dobson’s tenants lived off Dobson’s charity. A Moslem household was always full of dependants and hangers-on and Edwina, Percy and the Pringles were despised for their supposed penury. Dobson, she suspected, was aware of this and did nothing to discourage it. He ruled that no money should be paid to him in front of the servants but Guy, who could never remember such trivial proscriptions, had recently thrown a bundle of bank notes across the table while Hassan was in the room. ‘Our share of the housekeeping,’ said Guy and Dobson whipped the notes out of sight, but Hassan had seen them and his eyes rolled in astonishment.

  Hassan now knew that the lodgers paid their way. He had seen money change hands and to him money was power. Harriet, wife of the man who had paid the money, had taken on stature and she decided that in future Hassan and Aziz would keep their contempt to themselves.

  It was Wednesday when the guest eventually turned up. She came at teatime when Harriet was setting out for the mid-summer reception at the Anglo-Egyptian Union. Guy had agreed to go with her but, as usual, some engagement detained him and he telephoned to say he would come later. The reception was a tea party merging into an early evening wine party. He said, ‘It’ll go on all night, I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

  Descending into the small front garden, where poinsettias grew like weeds, Harriet saw two gharries at the kerb. One, it seemed, had been hired to take an excess of luggage and Hassan, Aziz and the boab from the lower flat had been called out to unload it. The cases, mostly of pigskin or crocodile, were elegant and their owner, a tall woman in a suit of pink tussore, looked as elegant as the cases. She was paying off the drivers and her voice had a disturbing effect on Harriet who would have kept out of sight had there been any point in doing so. Knowing they had to meet sooner or later, she let the gate click and the woman turned.

  ‘Hello. I’m Angela Hooper. Do you live here?’

  ‘Yes. Can I help you with your things?’

  Angela Hooper said, ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Apparently recalling nothing more distressing than some past social occasion, she held out her hand. ‘How nice to see you again. I knew if I came to Dobbie’s, I’d find congenial company.’

  Neither Dobson nor Edwina were at home so Harriet went back to the flat and showed Angela to her room. ‘I’m afraid it’s very hot about this time of day.’

  ‘Oh, I’m conditioned to heat. I don’t mind what the place is like. I just want to be among friends.’

  Harriet showed her the bathroom then went to the sitting-room. Feeling it would be discourteous to leave a newcomer alone in the flat, she waited while the cases were brought up and stacked along the corridor.

  Angela Hooper, when she joined Harriet, was in no way discomposed by her unfamiliar surroundings, but gazing at Harriet, her eyes brilliant with vivacious inquiry, she said, ‘You were going out, weren’t you? Anywhere exciting?’

  ‘Not very. In fact, rather dull. There’s a reception at the Anglo-Egyptian Union. They serve wine later but the chief entertainment is the tea party because the Egyptian guests, who come early and go early, are more likely to be there. I don’t suppose you would care for it?’

  ‘Why not? I’m ready for anything. Let’s see if we can stop the gharries.’ She ran to the balcony and shouted down to the gharry drivers who had lingered in hope of a fare back to the centre of town. Catching Harriet’s arm, she said. ‘Come on. I’ve had the most boring journey. Let’s go out and see life.’

  It was now too late for the tea party but as Guy had said, the drinking would go on all night. On Bulaq Bridge the gharry steps were boarded by two small boys who had made necklaces by stringing jasmin florets on to cotton. Clinging to the gharry with dirty hands and feet, their galabiahs blown by the river wind, they shouted, ‘Buy, buy, buy,’ and swung the necklaces like censers in front of the women. Their arms were hung with necklaces and the scent overpowered even the smell of the gharry. Angla bargained with the boys who were glad of any reward for their day’s work. Taking the money, they sprang down, leaving a heap of jasmin in her lap. Twilight was gathering and Angela, looking up into the glowing turquoise of the sky, said, ‘Oh, what fun to be back in Cairo!’

  So she was back in Cairo! But where, Harriet wondered, had she come from? And why had she taken one of Dobson’s small rooms when she had her own splendid house in the Fayoum?

  She said, ‘I’ve been out here a long time. I love Egypt. I don’t really want to leave.’

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it There’s talk of sending some of the English women and children home by sea. That would mean round the Cape. It could be an interesting trip, or it could be the most excruciating bore. So . . . to tell you the truth, I’m rather bouleversé. I don’t know what to do.’

  The Egyptian guests had left the Union and the English had settled down to an evening that would be like every other evening except that the committee had provided a carafe of wine for each table.

  The lights had come on in the club house. Inside, men could be seen moving round the snooker table while outside people were sitting beneath the darkening foliage of the trees. The club house lights shone out on to the grass and the beds of bamboo and the plants that climbed up between the windows. Jasmin scented the air.

  Harriet and Angela found a vacant table at the edge of the lawn and as soon as they sat down a safragi brought over a carafe and four glasses. Angela picked up the carafe, which held little more than a pint of red Latrun wine, and laughed at the man. ‘This is expected to go far, isn’t it?’ Looking round to disseminate her laughter, she said, ‘And that’s all the party fare? Dear me! Let’s have something more festive,’ and ordered a bottle of whisky.

  Those sitting near by were displeased by her ebullience until they realized who she was, then they gave her smiling attention. She was known to be a rich woman and the rich did not come often to the Union. And she was not only rich but had been the centre of the extraordinary story of the Hooper boy’s death. Clifford, two tables away, rose to get a better view of her and Harriet feared he might come over to join them. He thought better of it but when he sat down again, he bent towards his companions and talked eagerly, probably describing, all over again, his visit to the Fayoum house.

  The Union shared its lawn with the Egyptian Officers’ Club but the lawn went far beyond both clubs, stretching eastwards into a belt of heavy, ancient trees. Behind the trees some players were performing an Arabic version of Romeo and Juliet and voices, though remote, reverberated on the night air. There was a frenzied shout of ‘Julietta’ and, in response, a flat, sonorous and solemn ‘Nam’.

  ‘Oh dear, deathless pass
ion!’ Angela was shaken with laughter and Harriet, observing her, reflected, as others were certainly reflecting, on the dead boy. Angela knew she had met Harriet somewhere but did she realize where and when? If so, what was the nature of her cheerfulness? Was it defensive, or hysterical, or had she already recovered from that tragic afternoon?

  The moon was rising from behind the trees. It was only a sliver of moon, no bigger than a nail paring, but so brilliant that it cast an ashen light over the grass. The Officers’ Club had its own light, green like verdigris, which fell from the awning and shone on the men who sat, still and contemplative, like wax figures. Most of them were growing stout but a few, still in early youth, looked lean and virile. One of these, who sat alone, was very handsome and his figure was enhanced by a uniform and riding boots of immaculate cut.

  ‘I must say,’ said Angela, ‘I rather fancy him. Do you think we could get him over here.’

  Harriet thought it unlikely. The officers had never been known to cross the dividing width of lawn and no one had ever thought of inviting them to do so. Though they were dressed like the cavalry officers of most European countries, they wore the fez and that set them apart. They were Orientals. They were Moslems. Though they were polite to each other if they happened to meet, the English and Egyptians could not converse together for long. Angela, however, was in no way inhibited by the lack of common ground. She kept her eyes on the young officer, trying to will him to respond, but he remained impassive, looking in another direction, apparently at nothing at all.

  Harriet said, ‘I think they’re waiting to see the last of us.’

  ‘They may not have to wait long.’

  ‘You think we’re finished here? Is that why you’re thinking of leaving?’

  ‘No.’ Angela forgot the officer and, looking at Harriet, her merriment died. ‘You think I’ve forgotten where and when we met?’

  ‘I was hoping you didn’t remember.’

  ‘I remember it all, and in exact detail. I remember everyone who was in that room. I remember that fellow over there. What is he called?’

  ‘Clifford.’

  ‘And a British officer?’

  ‘Simon Boulderstone.’

  ‘I brought in my boy and the room was full of people. He was a beautiful boy, wasn’t he? His body was untouched — there was only that wound in his head. A piece of metal had gone into the brain and killed him. He was almost perfect, a small, perfect body, yet he was dead. We couldn’t believe it, but next day, of course . . . We had to bury him.’

  Wishing this would end, Harriet said, ‘We were upset and wondered if there was something we could do, but all we could do was go away. We knew we ought not to be there.’

  ‘I went away, too, not long after. I couldn’t stay in that house. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Bertie agreed that I needed a change so I went to Cyprus. I didn’t tell him, but even before I went, I’d decided never to go back. Everything ended that afternoon: child, marriage, that ridiculous life of dinner parties, gaming parties, shooting parties. It was never my life. I’d been an art student in Paris so I’d known a quite different sort of world. Do you know the English here go duck shooting on Lake Mariotis and kill the birds in thousands. Quite literally, thousands. And when they’ve killed them, they don’t know what to do with them. The whole set-up made me sick. I tried to escape by painting but I stopped painting after that happened. I didn’t do anything. I just moped and wouldn’t go out. I knew people were talking. Even Bertie thought it was better for me to go.’

  ‘But what about him? He must have suffered terribly . . .’

  ‘Yes, but he is much older than I am. He’s an old man while I’m young enough to marry again.’

  ‘You are getting a divorce?’

  ‘I’ve asked for one. Bertie will have to divorce me. It would be cruel to refuse.’

  Looking into Angela’s face with its delicate features and mild expression, Harriet wondered where cruelty began and ended in this painful story. And Angela could marry again. Her fine sallow skin had aged only slightly found the eyes. She might be in the mid-thirties, young enough to replace the lost child and let the new one take on the identity of the dead. For her there could be some sort of restitution but for the elderly father the loss would be with him till the end of his days.

  Harriet was silent and Angela said, ‘You think me ruthless, don’t you? But what could I do? I blamed myself for what happened. At times I felt I’d be better dead. If I’d stayed, I might have killed myself. And Bertie was part of the trouble. He did not accuse me. In fact, he was kindness itself, but I felt his very kindness was a reproach. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand how you felt — but abandoning your husband, leaving him to bear it alone! Wasn’t that rather hard?’

  ‘No, because there was nothing to leave. The marriage had been over a long time. Only the boy kept us together. It is a mistake to marry an older man however charming he is. It can’t last.’

  While Angela was talking, Castlebar came from the club house. He glanced towards Harriet, noted her companion and crossed to them. Stopping a few feet from the table, he stood there till Angela turned to look at him.

  Instantly reverting to gaiety, she laughed at the sight of him as he swayed about, a sleepy smile on his face. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked Harriet.

  ‘Bill Castlebar; one of my husband’s time-wasting cronies. Describes himself as a poet.’

  Angela gave a high yelp of laughter and Castlebar, become alert and expectant, crossed to them and asked about Guy, ‘Is the old thing c-coming?’

  ‘Yes, later.’

  Castlebar, having excused himself with this question, turned to Angela and gave a little bow. Nervousness increased his stammer. ‘M-may I join you?’ He spoke to Angela, taking it for granted that he was free to join Harriet if he wished.

  ‘By all means!’ When he sat down, she pushed the whisky towards him.

  ‘Oh, I s-say! Not on the house, is it? I thought not. Oh, how kind!’ Castlebar’s gratitude gurgled down his throat as, having filled his glass, he gulped the whisky neat. When he had drunk half the glass, he paused to set up his cigarette packet in the usual way, one cigarette half out in readiness to take the place of the one in his hand.

  Harriet asked, ‘Where’s Jake Jackman?’ because the two men were seldom apart.

  ‘Oh, h-he’s inside, phoning his stuff to Switzerland.’

  ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘No more than usual. He’s got hold of some story.’

  This was the first time Harriet had Castlebar’s company without Guy or Jackman being present, and she took the opportunity to ask about Jackman’s career in Spain. ‘Tell me, Bill, you’ve known Jake for some time. Did he really fight in the International Brigade?’

  ‘F-f-f-fight?’ Castlebar, taken off guard, was too surprised by the question to do more than tell the truth. ‘Jake’s never fought anywhere. He’s never held a gun in his life.’

  ‘But he was in Spain, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but not to fight. Some left-wing paper sent him out, rather late in the day. Too late, as it turned out. The government front collapsed soon after and Jake jumped a car and made it over the frontier. A timely get-away. He didn’t even wait to pick up his clothes. His wife wasn’t so lucky.’

  ‘So he has a wife?’

  ‘He had a wife. No one knows what became of her. She was running a camp for war orphans and Jake says he couldn’t persuade her to leave them.’

  ‘I see. He didn’t wait to pick up his clothes but he did wait to try and persuade his wife to go with him.’

  Castlebar dropped his head, snuffling at Harriet’s disbelief, and said, ‘Well, wives are expendable.’

  Jake Jackman coming out of the club house, looked about and seeing Castlebar with Angela Hooper, his keen eyes became keener. Moving rapidly to the table, he was about to sit down when it occurred to him that Angela’s presence called for unwonted courtesy. Muttering, ‘OK?’ he threw hi
mself down before receiving a reply and pulled a glass towards him. ‘Mind if I help myself?’

  Angela pushed the bottle over. It was half-empty. She had drunk one glass, Castlebar had taken the rest.

  Harriet had no love for Jackman and she feared that Angela, used to Sporting Club circles, would find both men unacceptable, but Angela was observing them with the intent amusement of one who could afford to indulge the world. Harriet thought of a story that Guy was fond of telling. Fitzgerald was supposed to have said to Hemingway, ‘The rich, they’re different from us,’ to which Hemingway replied, ‘Yes, they’ve got more money.’ Guy saw this as a debunking of Fitzgerald but Harriet felt that Fitzgerald showed more perception than Hemingway. A person who grew up in the security of wealth was different. It seemed to her she saw this difference in the tolerant, even admiring, amusement with which Angela watched the men lowering her whisky.

  Castlebar said to Jackman, ‘Get your stuff away all right?’

  ‘Yep.’ Jackman, pulling at his nose, sitting on the edge of his chair, looked directly at Angela. ‘Quite a story. The Vatican’s come out in the open at last. The Pope’s given Hitler his blessing. Said the victims of Nazism asked for all they got. I knew this would happen as soon as Russia came into the war.’

  Harriet said, ‘It’s over a year since Russia came into the war.’

  ‘These things take time to leak through.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘You can’t believe it? That’s how the crooks get away with it. People are too simple-minded to credit what’s going on. I can tell you this: the whole bloody dogfight is financed by the Vatican.’