‘Still, I’m not Hugo. When they see me, it will make things worse for them. They’ll realize they used to have two boys and now there’s only one. They make me feel responsible. Can’t you imagine what it will be like, going over it all again and again. I feel sorry for them but somehow, I don’t know, they’ve become strangers.’
‘It will be different once you get home. You’ll feel you’ve never been away.’
‘I don’t know that I want to feel like that. I can’t pretend nothing has changed. I’ve changed. I don’t feel I belong there any more.’ Simon’s mouth, that during the days of his dependence, had seemed tenderly young and defenceless, now closed itself firmly. He had been a sick, despondent boy; now he was a young man conscious of his strength and his individuality in the world. Guy did not feel altogether pleased by this developing self-reliance which hinted of selfishness and he said sternly: ‘Still, they are your parents. You will have to let them talk about Hugo; you owe it to them. It will be a comfort to them. And, remember, you’re all they’ve got now.’
Simon finished his beer and put down his glass: ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Of course I’ll go home and do what I can for them. I didn’t mean I wouldn’t, but I’m not staying in England. I feel now as though the whole world’s waiting for me.’
Driving back to the hospital, he said gleefully: ‘You know, I told myself if I did it, if I got to the top, I’d apply for a return to active service. They may stick me in an office at first but anything’s better than hanging round being treated like an invalid.’
‘I suppose you’ll be sent to Tunisia.’
‘Hope so. I wouldn’t want to be kicking my heels like those chaps we saw in the bar.’
Guy felt a drop in spirits, thinking that Simon, too, would be lost to him. But that had to happen sooner or later. Simon had reached the last stage of recovery and must return to normal life; or rather, to the killing, destruction and turbulent hatred that these days passed for normal life. As he considered the emotions of violence that must blot out all other emotions, Guy said: ‘War is an abomination yet I could almost envy you.’
Sixteen
The day after they were routed, the Beltados left the hotel and Angela and Harriet, returned to the ease of their old amity, began to talk of going elsewhere, but it was only talk. Angela was content at The Cedars and the days went on as before with the after-dinner whisky bottle and the drowsy retreat to bed. Then one day she said: ‘We’ll leave tomorrow. Where shall we go?’ She turned to Castlebar: ‘Where do you want to go, you great, domineering brute?’
Castlebar beamed on her: ‘Wherever you take me, my pet.’
‘We’ll go back to Palestine. We’ll make an early start and drive to Jerusalem. Bill, tell them to wake us at eight a.m.’
Castlebar nodded: ‘Right. Troops will parade at eight a.m.’ But when Harriet, having been wakened, went down to breakfast, there was no sign of Angela and Castlebar. They appeared, as usual, for luncheon and the party set out at three in the afternoon.
Angela’s car was an old Alvis and as she drove, she complained continually: ‘Wretched car. Steering all wrong. On the way here it nearly had us over a precipice.’ Yet it brought them safely up on the downlands of the frontier and Angela stopped for a rest beside a curious pair of rocks that rose like horns from the grass.
Castlebar said: ‘This was where the great battle was fought in 1187 when Saladin defeated the Crusaders and captured the true cross.’
Whether this was true or not, they stood and admired the innocent rocks because men had fought around them.
They were in Galilee. The new grass that Harriet had seen on her way through Palestine had now grown tall and the whole countryside had become a rich meadow choked with flowers. She exclaimed in wonder at a field of blue lupins and Angela, stopping the car, said they would walk for a while and see what was to be seen.
Hidden among the lupins were irises of a maroon shade so deep they looked black. Farther on there were other irises, purple and pink, and a buff colour veined with brown. The field ended in a downslope of grass starred like the Damascus Ghuta with red, white and purple anemones, and in the distance there was a lake of pure lapis blue.
‘Do you realize what that is?’ Angela said: ‘It’s the Sea of Galilee.’
Castlebar, who had been trailing after the women, stopped at the edge of the lupin field and said he needed a drink.
‘Yes, my poor lamb needs a drink and I feel I’ve driven far enough. That little town down there looks entrancing. It might do us for the night.’
The town, when they drove down to it, was less entrancing than it had seemed from the heights. Like everywhere else in the Levant, it had been blighted by war. The hotels were boarded up. A notice said ‘Thermal baths’ but another notice said ‘Closed’. The whole place, with its white villas and waterside buildings, had the air of a resort but it was a rundown resort and most of the inhabitants had gone away. Castlebar was sent to enquire about accommodation in a shop and came back to say there was a pension somewhere in the long, lakeside main road. The pension was owned by a very old Jewish woman who talked with Angela in Arabic, explaining that people usually came there in summertime but nowadays hardly anyone came. Still, she agreed to put up the English visitors and she opened rooms where the blinds were drawn, the bedding folded away and the air smelled of dust. She smiled at them, friendly and encouraging, and said if they cared to walk round the town, all would be ready for them on their return.
Angela appealed to Castlebar: ‘What do you think, loved one?’
Castlebar did not think at all but shook his head and said: ‘Won’t it do, darling? We don’t want to drive all night.’
The old woman asked for their passports and required Castlebar to sign a register. His fountain-pen was dry and she said, ‘Wait, wait,’ and brought a small ink bottle. When the bottle was opened, there was nothing inside but a little black sediment. Resignedly spreading her hands, she said, ‘Never mind,’ and shut the register up.
The English visitors started down the main street but did not get very far. Coming to a stone quay where an Arab café owner had put his tables and chairs by the lake edge, Castlebar sat down and took out his cigarette pack.
The sun was low, the water placid. There was no noise except the click of the tric-trac counters from inside the café. A slight breeze blew cool across the lake and Castlebar, drinking arak and smoking his cigarettes, smiled contentedly and put his hand out to Angela. She slipped her hand into his, then he smiled at Harriet and she smiled back. She knew he did not want her to be excluded and she had begun not only to appreciate him but to feel affection for him. She could understand Angela’s love for him. He might not dazzle the outside world but he was Angela’s own man. He devoted himself to her and to her comfort. He was kind, and not only to Angela. He carried his kindness over to Harriet so she, an admirer of wit, intelligence and looks in a man, was beginning to realize that kindness, if you had the luck to find it, was an even more desirable quality.
They sat for some time with nothing to say then Castlebar, no doubt prompted by their being in the Holy Land, told the women a story he had not told before: ‘Y-y-you know that in the Far East every Jew is called Sassoon? Well, it’s the Jewish name there. Someone told me that one of the embassy chaps was coming back from safari on a Good Friday and saw the embassy flag at half-mast. He said to his bearer: “What d’you think’s the matter, Chang?” And Chang told him: “Two thousand years ago, Sassoon man kill white man’s joss. White man still velly solly.’”
Angela gave a shriek of appreciation: ‘Oh, Bill, you are wonderful!’ and leaning towards him, she kissed his ear.
How pleasant it would be, Harriet thought, if Guy were here with them, not talking his head off or looking around for additional company, but happy to be with her in the way Angela and Castlebar were happy.
As the sun sank lower, a remarkable thing happened. First, Mount Hermon appeared, its silver crest hanging in mid-air,
a disembodied ghost of a mountain, then the hills round the lake were emblazoned with colour, turning from an orange-pink to crimson then a crimson-purple so vivid it scarcely seemed a part of nature.
They had all seen the splendours of the Egyptian sunsets and Harriet had seen the famed violet light on the Athenian hills, but none of them had seen before this luscious, syrupy richness of light that suffused the hills, the town and the waters of the lake. Their faces were brilliant with it and Angela cried: ‘If this is Galilee, we will stay here for ever!’
They sat, amazed, until the colour faded and the wind blew cold, then they went to a restaurant where a card in the window said: ‘Steak sandwiches.’ Steak sandwiches, Castlebar said, were just what his inside had in mind. His inside was also thinking of a privy and while he was away, Harriet said: ‘I can understand why you are so fond of Bill. He’s kind. Perhaps the kindest man I’ve ever known.’
‘Wasn’t your Guy supposed to be the epitome of kindness?’
‘Supposed to be, yes.’
Angela laughed, saying quietly: “‘If he be not kind to me, what care I how kind he be?” To tell you the truth, I thought he was the most selfish man I’ve ever known. I often wondered why you didn’t box his ears.’
Harriet smiled. She knew if Guy were to hear Angela’s opinion of him, it would merely confirm his belief that she was mad.
‘It’s not exactly selfishness. It’s . . . well, he doesn’t stop to think.’
‘You should pull him up short: make him think. The trouble is that with his charm, he has had things too easy.’
‘That’s true; but at the same time he feels deprived. He feels he should have fought in Spain. He venerates the men who did go there, especially the ones who died. I don’t know why it should have been more heroic to fight in Spain than, say, the western desert, but apparently it was.’
‘Is that why some of them bolted to the States when the war started?’
‘Probably. They didn’t want to be involved in anything so trivial as a Second World War.’
Angela, laughing, put her hands on Harriet’s shoulder: ‘Dear Harriet, I’m so glad you’re with us. You really do add to the gaiety of nations.’
The restaurant was a long room with a row of tables against each wall. There was a bar at one end with a surprising variety of bottles. Small though the place was, it appeared to be the centre of life in Tiberias. Local boys were gathered there, drinking beer and mead. Angela was able to buy her bottle of whisky and Harriet was served with white Cyprus wine. The steak sandwiches were very good and Castlebar was able to buy a new pack of Camels. He and the two women imagined themselves comfortably settled in for the evening when there was a commotion in the street. Dozens of Australian soldiers were making an unsteady way down the centre of the road. The restaurant door crashed open and a bunched crowd of men elbowed each other into the narrow path between the tables. After staring about, befuddled and belligerent, they settled down at the few unoccupied tables and the arguments began.
The men wanted whisky. The young waitress, a refugee Jewess with little English, tried to tell them there was no whisky but they pointed to Angela’s bottle and the other bottles behind the bar.
The girl appealed to Castlebar: ‘What to do? Officers say no whisky for troops. Troops have beer but troops say: “Give whisky.” What to do?’
Castlebar, feeling himself in a weak position, grinned uneasily at the angry men but had no suggestion to make. More Australians were crowding in but there was nowhere for them to sit. They lurched about, vaguely threatening, before wandering out again. One, as he left, scooped up a heap of small change from a table by the door. The rightful owner, finding it gone, began to shout that no change had been given to him. The waitress argued and wept while more arrivals pushed her this way and that.
Getting no help from her, the Australians took over the bar and began to serve themselves. They filled tumblers with spirits and started to sing. The girl brought out an older woman who demanded: ‘You pay, you hear? You drink our drink and now you pay,’ while the men, ignoring her, quarrelled, shouted and sang in hard, throaty voices.
In the midst of this uproar, Angela said: ‘Let’s go.’ Castlebar hid the half-empty whisky bottle under his coat and they tried to push out between the tables but the way was blocked by a solitary Australian who had taken the empty fourth chair, which was beside Harriet. As she rose, he pushed her back into her seat and said: ‘You’re not going.’
Finding themselves trapped, Angela and Castlebar sat down again. The Australian, having looked Harriet over, said: ‘Like to dance?’
‘There’s not much room for dancing.’
‘Y’could be right.’ He brought out a wallet and offered Harriet pictures of his parents. When she had admired them, she asked, ‘What are you all doing here?’
‘Three-day tour,’ he said but could not tell her where they had been or where they were going. The men, it seemed, had arrived drunk the night before and having spent the day asleep, were intent on getting drunk again.
‘So you haven’t seen much?’
The Australian shook his head and again brought out his wallet: ‘Wan’ to see m’old mum and dad?’
‘I’ve seen them. How long will you be here?’
‘Don’t know. Three-day tour.’
At that moment, a local boy at the next table, over-stimulated by events, gave a scream and fell to the floor. Shuddering, snorting, chattering, foaming at the mouth, he lay near Harriet’s feet, a piteous and horrible sight. When she tried to move out of his way, the Australian pushed her down again.
‘Take no notice of him; he’s showing off. Wants to get ya to notice him. ’Ave another look at me old mum and dad.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Angela shouted to Castlebar, ‘make them let us out.’
Rising, holding the table before her like a battering ram, Angela thrust it into the aisle, pushing Harriet and the Australian in front of her. The Australian tried to force her back, but with the strength of anger, she gave him a violent blow across the mouth and he burst into tears. Castlebar, taking Harriet by the hand, pulled her after him while the Australian wailed: ‘Nobody loves poor Aussies. Nobody loves poor Aussies.’
Somehow or other, the three English reached the street.
Harriet said: ‘They’ll be gone tomorrow.’
‘So will we,’ Angela spoke with furious decision and Harriet began to feel resentful of Angela’s directives. The lakeside town attracted her and she wanted to stay there a few days. At the pension, finding her room cleaned and the bed made, she thought of saying to Angela: ‘You go. I will stay. I’m used to making my own decisions and I’m tired of being told where I shall go and when.’ But supposing she did stay, how would she live? If she could not find work in Damascus, she certainly would not find it here.
During the night a storm broke and, wakened by the thunder, she went to the window and looked out on a small garden that ran down to the lake. She could see the water in tumult and a palm tree, lashed by the wind, bending from side to side, pliable as rubber, its fronds touching the ground this way and that. Serpents of lightning zig-zagged across the sky and flashed in sheets, illuming the scene with unnatural brilliance. The grass had been flattened by rain and, as she imagined the lupin field laid low by the torrent, she ceased to think of staying on in Galilee.
Next morning, the air glittered and the palm tree stood upright in the sun. No sound came from the room occupied by Angela and Castlebar. The next door was marked ‘Bad’ but when Harriet tried to open it, the old woman ran from her kitchen, holding up ten fingers to indicate the cost of a bath. Inside there was no bath but an old, rusted shower that creaked and gasped and gave out irregular bursts of cold, brown water.
The restaurant was shut till mid-day. Walking in the opposite direction, Harriet found beside the lake an open area planted with pepper trees. Beneath the trees were some iron tables and chairs, wet from the storm and as they dried, a mist rose into the delicate, la
cy foliage of the trees. The lake water was flat and clear as glass and the surrounding trees motionless in the early morning air. A few people were sitting at the tables drinking coffee and as Harriet waited, a waitress came with a towel and mopped the rain from a chair and offered it to her.
Sitting happily alone beneath the shifting sun and shade of the trees, Harriet was diverted by a flying-boat that circled the lake and settled on the surface some fifty yards away from her. A rowing-boat went out to pick up the passengers. They were brought to the café, a collection of civilians with one army officer. The civilians, government officials or journalists, passed quickly between the tables and were gone while the officer, trudging up over the sandy floor, was left behind. He stopped in front of Harriet.
‘Well, I never, I know the Middle East is a small world but surely the hand of fate is bringing us together.’
Wheezing and coughing through his big, fluffy moustache, Lister dropped on to a chair and tried to seize Harriet’s hand. She slid it away from him, asking: ‘What are you doing, arriving by sea-plane? Who were the other men?’
‘Box-wallahs,’ Lister panted, exhausted by the walk through the heavy sand: ‘Secret mission. Trying to solve the food situation. Very hush-hush. Everyone knows about it, of course. Everyone knows everything here.’ He coughed and spluttered before finding his voice again: ‘The other day I got into a taxi and said to the driver: “Take me to the broadcasting station.” “What you want, sah?” he asked. “You want PBS or you want Secret Broadcasting Station?” I said: “How d’you know there’s a secret broadcasting station?” and the fellow roared with laughter: “Oh, sah, everyone know secret broadcasting station.’” Lister, too, roared with laughter, his big, soft body straining against his washed-out khaki shirt and faded corduroy trousers. His eyes streamed and as he began coughing again, he took out a hip flask and drank from it: ‘That’s better. Have to go. There’s a bus picking us up at 10.00 hours. See you in the Holy City, I expect. Oh, by the way, that actor fellow Pratt is there. Did I tell you?’
Fortunes of War Page 55
