There is a loud banging from the chairman on stage, now armed with a gavel someone has rescued from a storeroom. John Quinn looks like the student he is, young and overwhelmed, yet it is his hand that holds the hammer, and the audience’s reaction is instinctively deferential. They begin returning to their seats.
Pierre says softly to Jessie, “Come outside with me.”
“What?”
“I need some air after the speech.”
Amid the general movement of people reminded of the decorum expected of them, Pierre pushes to the exit with Jessie following behind, and they emerge onto the dark street.
“It’s cold,” Jessie exclaims.
“Then have my overcoat.” He removes it before she can protest, and wraps it over her shoulders.
“You’re very gallant. And such a good speaker. Have you done much before?”
“Not really.”
“I can’t believe it, you were so confident. If I’d been in front of that many people I’d have fainted.”
“I know something about performance,” he says.
In the poor light she looks quizzically at him, but Pierre doesn’t elaborate, nor even notice her curiosity. It unsettles her. “We really oughtn’t stand here.”
“You’re still cold?”
“It might appear odd, the two of us.”
“Why odd?”
“As if we’re together.”
“Aren’t we?”
“That’s not what I mean.” She gives an embarrassed laugh, then adds seriously, “People might conclude we’re a couple.”
Pierre is unconcerned. “Does it matter what people conclude?”
“It would if they told my father. Not that he’d mind. But he’d want to know first.”
He takes her hands in his. “Your father has been so generous and welcoming, I almost feel as if you and John were my own brother and sister. I would never wish to do anything that might be misinterpreted.”
“I know.”
“If we were to walk together it would only be as friends, anyone can see that. So why don’t we? Better than standing here, surely.”
He adjusts the large and heavy coat that hangs around her shoulders, making sure she’s adequately protected, and they begin to stroll slowly as if it were an afternoon in summer, not a harsh January night. Jessie, previously so talkative, is made quieter by the new situation; instead it’s Pierre who leads the conversation in the same way that he guides his companion, with a gentle insistence pushing towards some unknown but predetermined goal.
“I don’t think those people really understood what I was talking about, but at least they learned something. Let’s go this way.”
“The river? It’s so dark.”
“But perfectly safe.”
“I might step in a puddle.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t.” He puts his arm round her waist. “Come, your eyes will soon adjust. Let’s imagine we’re in Paris and the air is warmer.”
She does as he says. They are in a place she knows from books and magazines, a place of dreams and romance, where it is permissible for her to lean against him until she can feel his breath on her hair. Soon they reach a bench and he suggests they sit; she expects the cold to seize her but is protected from it by his coat and his own body so close to hers, his arm around her as determined as a helmsman’s. The moon appears from behind a passing cloud and she sees the gently moving water glisten in front of them.
“Are you afraid?” he asks.
“Why should I be?”
“You were before.”
“I was only scared of getting wet. I know this path well enough in the daytime. That’s the memorial over there.” It’s like a shadowed finger against the indigo sky. “I played there with John when we were wee.”
“And now you’re grown.”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to kiss you.”
“No.” She’s said it so quickly, already she’s reconsidering. “It’s not right.”
“Have I offended you?”
“I like you very much, Pierre. But we don’t really know each other. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Do you mind my having my arm around you?”
“Just don’t squeeze.”
“Of course.”
“In Paris I suppose it’s different. Did you have a sweetheart there?”
“Yes.”
Her heart suddenly feels like stone. “Did you love her a great deal?”
“I wanted to marry her.”
Jessie edges away but feels his arm still restraining her, unwilling to let go.
“She was called Yvette,” he explains.
“Was she pretty?”
“Like a painting. I’ve no idea what happened to her. My life in France is over, I have a new one now.”
In Paris he adored a proud and fashionable beauty; here he is now with a plain little red-haired girl from a town no one has heard of, inviting her to join the story-book list of his conquests. She feels both elevated and crushed by Yvette’s spectre floating haughtily in her mind.
“Was it because of her you left?”
“You could say so. I wanted her to be my wife but knew my father would never approve.”
“You could have eloped.”
Pierre laughs. “Yes, we could have. To be with Yvette I was willing to give up everything. I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks but wrote and told her to meet me at a fair that was being held. I planned to propose to her as we rode together on the big wheel.”
“That’s so romantic.”
“We met and I saw her face again after what felt like such a long time… but something had changed. I had become a new person and so, I think, had she.”
“After only a few weeks of separation?”
“Much had happened. I’d begun to see that my life, in many ways, was empty and without purpose. I’d discovered a new mission, a goal, and I wanted Yvette to share it with me, but as soon as I saw her, I wondered if she was the right person.”
“What mission? A religious one? I haven’t noticed you in chapel…”
“I can’t explain it, Jessie. I wanted to tell Yvette but never had the chance. We went on the big wheel and were whirled up into the air, it was beautiful. I asked her to marry me. She said yes.”
“You must both have been so happy.” Jessie feels stiff within his grip.
“We came off and toured the fair, I was jubilant but at the same time doubtful, fearful. I had a great decision to make, a terrible choice. There was not one life that lay before me but many, a junction of possibilities, a test. There was something I had to do. I told Yvette to wait for me. It was only a small piece of business I had arranged with a friend, a task of a few minutes.”
“Could she not have come with you?”
“No, that was the test I put her to. A moment alone, then a lifetime together.”
“Did you tell her where you were going?”
“I said I’d explain afterwards. You see what a simple thing I asked of her, this woman who not long before had agreed to love me forever! Yet she refused.”
“It’s not polite to make a lady wait,” Jessie says.
“But this was about trust and faith. I gave her the key to my writing desk, something very precious and important to me, and insisted she stay holding it while I attended to my business.”
In Paris, thinks Jessie, everything is so different; the people are like costumed actors on a stage, yet more real than anything here in Kenzie. She can see the drama of the key, can almost feel its metal as though it were she who was made to wait. Yes, she thinks, if I truly loved a man then I would wait for him not minutes, but years, an eternity.
“So I left her standing there, I remember the place so well, near a tent where an acrobat was performing. I went, and after only a short time the task was finished.”
“What exactly was this business of yours?”
“I told you, Jessie, it was a test, nothing more.”
“You mean you only wanted Yvette to wait? What about the mission you mentioned?”
“This was my mission, right there in the park. A new world, transformed and radiant, made pure by love and faith. I prayed, Jessie. I went to a place near the boating pond and prayed. I asked myself, what is this life? What is the future? What is our place in the universe? And it was like an earthquake in my heart. Out of so many paths, I chose the one I knew must already have been chosen for me, there could be no other, I had only to take it and see what it was like. I hurried back, ran so fast that people stared, wondering if I was mad, I expect a few thought I must be chasing a thief or was being pursued by one. I reached the spot – and she was gone. I couldn’t believe it, I called out for her, and then to the gods who’d tricked me, I dropped to my knees and clawed the grass, searching for what I knew I must eventually find. And there it was, gleaming in the sunshine, the little key.”
He falls silent and Jessie feels the grave-like stillness of the moonlit night, the desolation of solitude. Her dull and dirty town is reborn, crystalline, hard yet fragile as the ice in her blood. “If you wish, you may kiss me now.”
His lips burn against hers. This was what Yvette refused to wait for, this new life of faith he discovered in himself, this animal breath and bitter tang of tobacco, this rub of stubble and rising excitement – his fingers searching for her.
“Stop.” She pulls away.
“Forgive me.”
“It’s not your fault, only we don’t do that here.” There is a void of cold air between them. She wants him to hold her hand but is unable to reach for his. “Did you ever see her again?”
“Her message was clear. I never wrote or contacted her. My old life was finished and I had to begin a new one. So I came to Britain, then the war started.”
“John told me you were interned. How sad you must have felt in prison, how desperately lonely. I imagine you thought of her every day.”
“I decided not to.”
“Was it really so easy?”
“No, but it was possible. I knew that whatever I did must be right, somehow. Even if it didn’t appear that way at the time. Jessie, I want to kiss you again, properly.”
“Not now.”
“You make me so glad I lost Yvette.”
She can’t tell if it’s blushes or tears she feels rushing to her face. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“But it’s true. You’re a sweet and beautiful girl.” He reaches for her hand and she cradles his fingers on her lap.
“I would have waited.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“The way you told me about Yvette, and what you said at the meeting – you’re so honest and open. You truly believe in people, that’s what I feel. You believe in them because you believe in yourself. But you can get hurt that way, like with Yvette, aren’t you worried it might happen again? With the workers’ campaign, for instance. You could get into trouble for what you said.”
“I don’t care.”
“Even if you finished up back in gaol?”
“That can’t happen.”
“The man you mentioned in your speech, the rebel, he spent most of his life in prison. You surely don’t want that.”
“Blanqui never feared the consequences of adhering to his principles, I admire that.”
“He hardly saw his wife and son, how must it have been for them?”
“You’re right, it might have been kinder had he never married.” He looks back along the path as if expecting to see someone, but it remains quiet. “The meeting will soon be over.”
“We should return.”
“Or we could walk a little further. I could even take you home.”
“John will be wondering where we are. Let’s go as far as the monument, then turn back.”
They walk hand in hand, Jessie’s fingers immobile and stiffening. Soon they reach the granite obelisk that is like a polished tomb; Pierre tries to see its inscription in the weak light. “I’ve passed this before but I’ve never read what’s on it.”
Jessie knows and can decipher it for him. “On 31st December 1860, during severe flooding, James Deuchar, 20, a divinity student at Glasgow University, leapt into the river near this spot in an attempt to rescue George Laidlaw, 5, and Mary Laidlaw, 7, who had fallen in. Having saved the younger child, Mr Deuchar returned to search for the girl, who was washed up alive further downstream. Mr Deuchar, however, perished in his noble endeavour. This monument to his heroism was erected by public subscription, 3rd January 1863.”
“Nearly sixty years ago,” Pierre calculates.
“He could still have been alive, an old man now.”
“Better that he died doing good. Think of all those men buried beneath the battlefields without even a wooden cross to mark them. History has become a factory, its heroes no longer have names.”
“Would you like your name to go down in history, Pierre?”
“That’s a foolish ambition and if Deuchar had thought that way he would never have jumped in. He cared only about saving life, even if it meant losing his own. As I said in my speech, Jessie, it’s what capitalism can never explain nor comprehend. The industrialists made no sacrifice in the war, only profit, through making others sacrifice themselves.”
Jessie is shivering. “Let’s return.”
They walk with hands pushed inside their pockets. He tells her, “After the Paris Commune fell, when Blanqui had been in solitary confinement so long he could barely speak, he wrote a remarkable book. It says the same arrangements of atoms must come up again and again throughout space, in every possible variation. There must be a planet with another you, another me.”
“He was a romantic after all,” says Jessie.
“On one of them right now I’m making the speech in the meeting hall. On another I’m…”
“With Yvette?”
“I suppose. Every moment is an eternity in space. Blanqui says it in his book.”
“Prison drove him mad.”
“It made him see circumstances differently.”
“Like your earthquake in the park?”
“There are worlds where Deuchar drowned and others where he survived.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“But don’t you understand, Jessie? There’s a world where he goes back and saves another child, and another. He walks into burning houses, collapsing buildings, and escapes without a scratch. There’s a world where Deuchar knows himself to be immortal.”
He seizes and kisses her.
“Stop it, Pierre.”
“Don’t you feel the eternity of the stars?”
It fills her body, she longs to surrender to it, but not now. She breaks away and they continue in silence to the hall, arriving there as the crowd are preparing to leave. A new world has been born inside her.
She doesn’t see Pierre again until the weekend. It’s Saturday afternoon and she’s at the piano, hasn’t played for months, the instrument’s in need of tuning but she’s been gripped by a renewed urge to touch those yellowed keys whose vibrations are like a secret acknowledgment of her thoughts. Father is reading, she hears the occasional turning of a page behind her, and in her mind the words of the song she plays. You have loved lots of girls in the sweet long ago and each one has meant heaven to you. She doesn’t notice the knock at the front door; father tells her to go and see who it is. She finds Pierre waiting on the step, straight from the end of his shift, and feels herself redden. But he hasn’t come for her; it’s John he’s looking for, there’s urgency in his voice.
“Is something wrong? Come inside and tell me.”
“I expected to see him at the factory. The strike’s going ahead.”
“At Russell?”
“Everywhere. All of Glasgow will be out on Monday.” Pierre brings in cold air with him and removes his cap. “Scobie, the shop steward, told us this morning, says the union still won’t back it though everyone I’ve spoken to is willing to walk out
. Where the blazes is that brother of yours?”
It’s as if none of it ever happened. She knows it has to be this way. “My father’s in there, go and say hello.”
Dr Quinn has heard Pierre’s raised voice though not his words. “Bonjour, Monsieur Klauer,” he says from his chair, pleasantly but with cool detachment, his professional bedside manner. “If you’re looking for John I don’t know where he is. You could always try again later.”
“Are you hungry?” Jessie asks from behind Pierre’s back.
He turns. “That’s very kind.”
“We’ve eaten already,” says her father. “I suppose Jessie could fetch you something.”
She goes to the kitchen, Pierre waits for an invitation to sit but none comes, so he perches on the piano stool, facing away from the instrument and towards Dr Quinn who looks at his book, unable to read, then eventually says, “I hear you made a fine speech the other night.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A forty-hour week. I wonder if I’ve ever done so few. You’re all finished for the day and I’m only starting, I’ll be making my rounds soon.”
“I’m sure everyone appreciates what you do.”
The doctor believes he detects some sarcasm. “You’re sure are you? I don’t think anyone appreciates the work I have to do. And this son of mine, ought to be studying but doesn’t know the meaning of work.” He looks penetratingly at Pierre, something on his mind he’s now prepared to raise. “I asked John if he knew you from prison. He said no.”
“I was at Stobs camp.”
“I know that, I checked with a policeman friend of mine.”
Pierre is acquainted with such frank suspicion, untroubled by it. “My name was my misfortune.”
The doctor appears almost sympathetic. “Must have been hard for you, locked up with Germans. Your enemy as much as ours.”
“They’d been living in this country for years.”
“What about bolshevists? Were there many of them in the camp?”
“Not really.”
Dr Quinn proceeds towards his chosen point with clinical precision. “My son’s no revolutionary, he’s an idealist. This newspaper of his is only a game.”
The Secret Knowledge Page 8
