by John Wilcox
“So,” she spoke with a small voice, “what do I do with the baby?”
“Get rid of it. An abortion. I know someone in Hereford who can arrange it all…”
She interrupted. “How do you know someone, Fred?”
“What? Oh, one of the blokes in the Club told me about it. Good woman. Completely to be trusted and safe. Not too expensive, either – although I’ll look after the money side, of course. Your parents nor anybody else need never know anything about it. All tickety-boo, love. I promise you.”
Tears now came into Kathleen’s eyes. “But I don’t want to get rid of this baby, Fred. It’s ours. We made it together. It will keep us together…”
“Huh! Caitlin didn’t seem to keep you and Bill together, I must say.”
“That’s cruel, Fred. It’s cruel and unfair and you know it.”
He seized her hand again. “Now don’t go on, Kath. What I’m saying makes sense, you know it does. I just can’t be seen to be fathering an illegitimate baby, now can I? I’m a man with a position of some responsibility to consider. You wouldn’t want me to have to start from the gutter again, would you?”
“Inkerman Street isn’t the gutter.”
“No, no, no. I know that. But you know what I mean…”
“No, I don’t.”
“Look. Let me arrange this for you. From what I’m told, it doesn’t hurt much and you can be back at work the next day. Once it’s all done, we can start all over again – as long as you throw that damned cap away, that is.”
*
So it was that Kathleen found herself taking a day’s sickness leave and travelling to Hereford. It was clear that the price of Fred staying with her was the life of the unborn child. She sobbed onto her pillow far into the night as she grappled with her terrible choice. Fred had behaved with surprising cruelty, but she could not bear the thought of losing him, and there was no way she could bring up an illegitimate child on her own. And what if, what if, Bill was still alive…? Could she bear to face him with a child in her arms – a child who was not his? By the morning she had made up her mind. In the next morning’s tea break, she told Fred to arrange the abortion.
Appropriately, the address in Hereford turned out to be a back street. She wished – oh how she wished! – that Fred could have come with her. But he was too busy in the workshop to take time off, just when they were behind with orders for the Hercules. Kathleen, then, felt completely alone, physically and metaphorically, when she knocked on the door of the terraced house on Kitchener’s Hill, Hereford. It was opened with surprising alacrity by a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman wearing a clean apron.
“Hello dear,” she said. “By yourself?
Kathleen nodded, unable to speak.
“Ah well, better that way sometimes. Come on in and sit yourself down. You can call me Mrs Smith. Have you brought the… you know… the doings?”
Kathleen handed over the envelope given to her by Fred. She had no idea how many notes were inside it and she didn’t really care. Her attitude now was one of resignation – and fear. She was taken through to a back room where all the curtains were drawn and then Mrs Smith withdrew, presumably to put away the money. Kathleen sat on the edge of an armchair by the side of a fireplace where a coal fire burned although the day was not cold. Nevertheless, she was glad of it because she began to shiver. A narrow bed stood against the far wall with appeared to be a tin bucket set beneath it. Apart from the coal fire, the room smelled of something clinical – probably disinfectant. Kathleen shuddered again.
The woman bustled back in. “Not too cold, dear?”
“No, thank you.”
“Good. We’ve been lucky with the weather, so far, haven’t we?”
What happened next Kathleen experienced as though watching an old film. She took no careful notice of the ritual because she wanted to endure it but not remember it. She only realised that she was given a small glass of neat gin, at which she gagged, and the rest she committed to oblivion. At some stage she must have fainted because she was aware of ‘Mrs Smith’ slapping her hand and shouting into her ear.
“Come round, love. Come on. It’s not that bad. Yes, that’s right sit up. I’ll fetch you a nice cup of tea in a minute.” Her tone became a little harsher. “Sorry, but I can’t let you stay long. Got another customer at ‘alf past. Would like me to call a taxi to take you to the station? Do you ‘ave enough money to pay. It will probably cost about five bob?”
Kathleen shook her head. “No. I’ll walk. Probably do me good.”
But it didn’t. Several times she had to stop to vomit and take deep breaths, and her stomach felt as though a fire was still burning inside it. Eventually she reached the station, not knowing whether she had missed her train or not but where she found she had twenty minutes in hand and where, blessedly, the station buffet was still open and she could drink another cup of much, much, more welcome tea.
When her train arrived she collapsed into a mercifully empty corner seat. Pressing her forehead against the cold glass of the window as the train picked up speed she groaned quietly and knew that she no longer loved Fred Lucas.
CHAPTER 13
In the little house next to the Abbe’s residence, Gladwin stripped, shook out his clothes carefully and then joyfully filled the bath and lay in it until it was tepid. Then he shaved and thankfully crept beneath the sheets. Sleep came to him swiftly.
He woke up to find that he had been perspiring and a feeling of frustration hung about him as his thoughts drifted to Marie. Outside, dusk was falling and he took advantage of the semi darkness to look out of the window. Street lamps were now beginning to shed a yellow light on the street. Bayonne, it seemed, arrogantly presumed that it was out of range of RAF and American bombers and eschewed blackout precautions – or was there nothing worth attacking in this old seaside town? His view commanded the entrance to the Abbe’s residence and he saw the old man walk down the street carrying a large parcel, and then enter his house. He cut a baroque figure in his wide-brimmed ecclesiastical hat and black cape and even his walk – tripping little steps matched by the gentle nodding of his head – seemed to radiate passive, almost effeminate, goodness. Gladwin remembered that the priest had promised to call, so he hurriedly dressed, deciding not to wake Proctor.
The Welshman heard Madame Robert arrive and she was followed shortly afterwards by the Abbe himself.
“Your colleague is still asleep?” he enquired.
“Yes, father. I think it best not to disturb him. He was very tired and rather distressed.”
“So I noticed. Let us adjourn to my house. Madam Robert will be cooking for me a little later and I trust that you and your friend will join me in the evening meal.” He smiled a little ruefully. “Although I must warn you that it will be frugal, because our rationing is now severe. Bread now costs two francs seventy five cents a kilo with our rationing coupons, although it costs thirty eight francs, they tell me, on the black market. The meat coupons are useless, because the shops never have meat, and Madam Robert and I are only allowed a weekly ration of one litre of red wine for the two of us.” Gladwin gained the impression that this last deprivation was the worst of all for the priest. “Ah,” he continued, shaking his head, “such times we live in now! But come, for we must talk. Your friend can join us later in time to eat.”
They crossed the little garden and entered the gloomy house. This time they sat in a slightly more comfortable room. The Abbe adjusted pince-nez spectacles and produced a large-scale map of the area.
“Now, we are here,” he said, pointing with a manicured finger to the town, at the head of the little inlet from the coast. “And we need to get you to here, at Saint-Jean-de-Luz, which is right next to the border. In the main street of Saint-Jean there is a sports shop – you know, it sells sports equipment for hunting and fishing as well as, in happier times, bathing things for the tourist?”
Gladwin nodded.
“The shop is kept by one of us. We call him Jacques. H
e will be expecting you and will take you to the little village of Ciboure, which is very near, to the home of a Basque guide, Florentino, who is a passeur.”
“Passeur?”
“Oui. It has a literal meaning – he will pass you, take you, over the mountains. Now young man,” the Abbe regarded Gladwin over the top of his pince-nez, “it is a difficult route. You have to cross the torrent of the Bidasoa river, which forms the frontier at Irun, and then climb over the mountain passes. It is tiring and dangerous, for the border is well guarded. But Florentino is loyal and well paid – he gets 1,400 pesetas for each passage – and, indeed, he once carried a man across the river on his shoulders. He is a good guide. Once across the mountains, he will take you to a farmhouse, where someone from the British embassy will meet you and take you to Madrid and then to Gibraltar, from which you will sail or fly back to England.”
Gladwin smiled. “Father, I can’t tell you how good that sounds.”
The smile was returned. “It is easier to say it, my son, than do it. But you are determined, I can see that. Now, those old clothes that you are wearing from the north will not do here. So…” he rose and walked to a large brown paper parcel on a chair and began untying the string. “These are, I think, more suitable. They will make you look like Basque farm workers. See…” he opened the parcel. “Larger berets, black coats, sheepskin leggings – and you must leave those boots and wear these espadrilles, cross gartered so, over the leggings. I have had to estimate your sizes but I think they will do.”
Gladwin spread the garments out. “These are wonderful,” he said. “They are much cleaner than what we’re wearing, and they look much more comfortable. We shall manage fine with them.”
The priest smiled and even looked a little abashed. “I have had a little experience with all this over the last two years,” he said. “When my service to the church is ended, perhaps I can set up as… what do you call it in England? A gentlemen’s outfitter, is it?”
They both laughed at his joke. “Now,” continued the old man, “it is too dangerous for you to take the train to Saint-Jean. You must take the bus, which is at the end of this street here. Do you have money?”
“About four thousand francs between us.”
“That is more than enough. I shall come with you on the bus myself to make sure that you reach Jacques safely. I do not think it fair, in this present climate here, to ask someone else to undertake that task.”
The two men held each other’s gaze for a moment. The old man’s last sentence, whose words, until now, could have been describing the plans for the parish outing, had taken on a delicate chill which brought home to Gladwin the fact that the priest lived in constant danger. Their pursuers seemed to be getting closer every day, snapping up so many who had helped or tried to help them – Bertrand, the doctor and his wife, Yvonne, Dominique – would this good man fall, too? All this killing. Gladwin felt a sudden urge to confide in this priest.
“Father,” he began, “I fear that I have killed many men, in this life and…” he paused – better not to go down that route – “so far. Is this a sin?”
“You mean killing the enemy during the war?”
“Well, yes.”
“Well, the scriptures themselves, of course, talk of justifiable violence, but that is violence by the Lord of Hosts Himself. I believe it is the Book of Malachi which warns that the day will come ‘when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble’ and that true believers will tread down the wicked. You could say that would be a just war…”
“But isn’t this a just war?”
“If a war started by man can be so described, then yes, for Nazism is clearly evil.”
Gladwin frowned. “So, if you had to, would you kill a man?”
The priest raised his eyebrows. “Oh no. Of course not. You see, in addition to being a man of God, I am a resolute pacifist.”
“But you are resisting. You said so yourself.”
“Ah yes. I am resisting this evil occupation by helping people such as yourself to escape it. But I am not fighting and I am not killing. You see,” he leaned forward, the better to share his opinion, “apart from other ethical considerations, I believe that all conflicts are inherently wasteful. I cannot remember how many people were killed in the Great War, but it was certainly many millions. Now, if we adopt the simplistic view of the war as being caused by the imperialistic ambition of the Kaiser and his advisers, then I believe that it would have been better not to have opposed them, but to let them have their way.”
“What – to let them dominate Europe?”
“What does it matter? To take just one sequence of events: we would not have had the Treaty of Versailles; therefore the conditions which created the birth of National Socialism would not have occurred and, ergo, we would not be in the middle of this terrible war now.”
“But would you let Hitler have his way?”
“I think on balance, yes. Violence is never the answer because it begets further violence. History proves this. If the aggressor will not change his actions as the result of rational debate, then let him have his way, for it is better to sacrifice some innocents now then to have larger slayings later. Hitler will almost certainly lose this war, but it will only be after the deaths of millions. But he would have gone the way of all flesh, anyway, and Europe would have recovered from him and rejected Fascism in the end because it is endemically evil, and the passage of time would have proved it so. The sanctity of human life is the most important thing in the world.”
“More important than principles?”
“In the end, yes, because principles are subjective. Life and death are not.”
The room fell silent, as though both protagonists were recovering their energy for a further bout. Then the priest spoke again, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me, my son,” he said, “are you of our faith?”
Gladwin shifted uncomfortably, wishing – oh, so much – that he could give the priest the comfort of answering in the affirmative. “I’m afraid not, father,” he said. “I am Welsh, so it was almost inevitable that I should be brought up as Methodist, you see.”
“Ah!” Surprisingly, the Abbe’s blue eyes positively twinkled. “Methodism. John Wesley. I have read his sermons. It is not the true way, of course, but he was a magnificent preacher. I only wish I could preach as well as he. Well, well. I wish we had more time to talk about Methodism. It intrigues me.”
“I am sorry, father, but I can’t even say that I am follower. It was the faith of my childhood, but I am afraid that I do not believe now.”
“That is, indeed, a pity. But I shall pray for you.”
“Well, I’ll be grateful for that.” A sudden thought struck Gladwin. “Tell me, sir, what does the Catholic Church have to say about… er… reincarnation? I presume that your teachings would have no sympathy for this sort of… ah… eastern mysticism?” Gladwin lapsed into an embarrassed silence. His question must seem banal to a man of the Abbe’s learning and conviction.
Yet the priest seemed intrigued at the question. “Now, I wonder why you ask that? Indeed, I have a kind of… what shall I say… vicarious interest in the subject, as I do in Methodism.” He smiled, as though sharing a secret. “I am, perhaps, regarded as a little unorthodox by my lord bishop – but then we Basques are rather strange, you know.”
He clasped his hands in his lap, as though to help him concentrate. “But, to answer your question. Of course, our Church does not embrace those convictions, not necessarily because they are heretical, but because there is absolutely no evidence in the scriptures and teachings that we have previous existences. Of afterlife, of course, we have a certainty. But there is no reference in the Bible to reincarnation or regression, nor do our Early Fathers refer to it in their teachings. You must remember,” and he smiled as though reminding a naughty child of its duty, “that the teachings of Buddha are inimical to us.”
“Of course.” Gladwin shifted uneasily again, but something urged him on. “I pr
esumed that that would be the Church’s stance, but I could not help wondering if you, in your wisdom and with your long experience of life, had met or perhaps could harbour…” he realised that what he was about to say bordered on impertinence, and his words died in embarrassment.
But the Abbe showed no sign having taken offence. He spread out his hands and shrugged. “Let us just say, in the words of your wonderful Shakespeare, that there are more things in heaven and earth…” He was interrupted by a diffident tap on the door and the entrance of Madame Robert. She exchanged a sentence or two with the Abbe and then retired.
“My housekeeper tells me that supper will not be long now,” said the priest. “May I suggest that you go next door – Madame Robert will give you the key – and see if your companion is ready to join us? We will eat in fifteen minutes, if that is convenient to you.”
Gladwin smiled and nodded compliance.
The Abbe held up his hand. “One more thing. Let me have your papers. They are important if we are stopped, of course, and they may not still be suitable for this part of France.”
“Of course.” He gave the priest his documentation. “And thank you father, for your thoughts and opinions and, of course, for all that you are doing for us.”
The old man inclined his head in acknowledgement.
*
In the apartment he found that Proctor was still asleep and waited for a moment before waking him, thinking about the conversation he had just had. Gladwin realised that, until he had parachuted down onto the field near Tramecourt, the thought of the men he had killed had never concerned him. It was war, and war meant killing. Was it Marie’s certainty that he had lived and fought before that had planted the seed of doubt about the morality of it all? Then he shook his head. Despite the intellectual logic of the Abbe’s words, pacifism was not the answer; the mental picture of those Jewish children being herded into those cattle trucks saw to that. The Abbe’s words about reincarnation had impressed him. He had expected that the Roman Catholic Church would disapprove of the concept, but if a theologian so steeped in the strictly-defined ways of his own faith could hint at some possible acceptance of it, then perhaps Marie could be right?
