by MARY HOCKING
‘Not a great deal.’
‘But something, surely? They aren’t exactly amateurs, after all.’ The sad man winced. Only recently Harper had made much the same comment. He said:
‘From the attic window they discovered a wire running up the outside of the house, almost hidden by the ivy. Presumably it connected with a transmitter in the cellar.’
‘Presumably?’
‘The cellar proved rather more difficult than they had anticipated. It seems to be used as a kind of store. It was crammed with couches, occasional tables, tallboys, bookcases, chairs and a formidable assortment of junk. In fact, an embarrassing profusion of suspects. Then, again, the furniture was arranged about as meaninglessly as a maze. There wasn’t a great deal of time. They started going round the walls; but they had to move a lot of the furniture to do it, and what with that and having to scramble over and under so much junk, they only managed to cover a small part of the room.’
‘So they found nothing to justify the police applying for a search warrant?’
‘Not at present.’
The sad man braced himself for one of the withering comments for which his companion was renowned. He would not have blamed him; he himself considered that his young men had given a very poor account of themselves. But the lash did not fall; and looking up he saw that the old man was staring into the garden again, musing:
‘I can imagine Vickers’s reaction. He would not be quite sure what was behind the burglary – after all, shops do get burgled often enough. But just the same, he would begin to plan, carefully and cleverly, a line of retreat. Yet all the while, one side of his mind would be saying: You have left so many countries now, soon there will be nowhere else to go, the last of the wine will have been drained . . .” ’
The sad man thought that he made it sound almost tragic, and he was shocked that this strange sympathy should go out to a man like Vickers.
‘And a good thing too,’ he snapped.
‘Perhaps it is not entirely his fault. Some essential ingredient of humanity was omitted when he was fashioned.’ There was no sympathy now, only a muted bitterness. ‘It is not easy for the crippled to become reconciled to their deformity. If a man has been denied one kind of fulfilment, perhaps there is a need to seek another kind.’
The old man looked across at his companion; he saw that the lines that scored the face were not those of anxiety alone, while the tired eyes had known some serenity. The sad man, unaware of the brand his features bore, shifted uneasily beneath the bleak scrutiny and muttered: ‘I don’t understand.’
‘How could you understand?’
The sad man felt that he had passed once more into the world of chaos.
He was glad when he left the house. It was a warm evening. The small square in which the house was situated was almost completely in shadow, but sunlight slanted between the tall buildings, catching the topmost branches of the plane trees. An old tramp was sitting on a bench feeding the birds and a couple of young girls in bright cotton frocks were lying on the grass. In the distance the noise of traffic in Oxford Street and Park Lane surged like a distant tide. But here there was an illusion of stillness. He had stood once before, long ago, in another square in London on a still evening in early summer and had been foolish enough to say to himself: this is indestructible. But he had been wrong.
He turned away from the square and walked slowly towards South Audley Street. He came to a café, an unpretentious place with tables on the pavement; he decided he would have coffee and a brandy. At the only other table that was occupied a man and a woman were arguing, their voices low, their faces tense, completely absorbed in one another: a lovers’ quarrel. How fortunate, he thought sententiously, as he watched them nursing their little pain untroubled by the darkness descending around them: how fortunate. He drank his coffee and the brandy and left the lovers to their quarrel.
II
As soon as the man had moved away from the café, Jessica said to Edward:
‘You have never even offered to show me over your shop.’
‘It didn’t occur to me.’
‘Why not?’
Edward sipped his coffee to give himself time to collect his wits.
‘But you have never asked me to read your books, or help with the proofs,’ he pointed out.
She frowned, and then said grudgingly:
‘You can if you want to.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a part of your life that is private and I don’t want to invade it.’
‘You think that we should keep our privacy and just go on sleeping together?’
Her face was flushed. She looked, he thought, as though he were behaving indecently.
‘But you’ve been quite contented in the past,’ he said despairingly.
‘Contented?’ She examined the word critically and rejected it. ‘No, not contented.’
He watched her as she wrestled to co-ordinate her thoughts like a person recovering from an anaesthetic, beginning to cope, painfully and gropingly, with the emerging outlines of the world around her. He understood something of what she felt because he, too, was becoming aware of a faint irritation, the uneasy prick of pain which heralds the return of feeling. This understanding did not bring him nearer to her, however; it made their relationship seem unrealistic, dreamlike, a thing which would dissolve in the light of day.
‘I don’t want you in the shop,’ he said, hoping that by sheer brutality he might avoid a conflict.
‘But I’m very interested in antiques.’
‘No!’
He shouted with such vehemence that the waiter came up. Edward ordered two more coffees. They watched the man saunter back to the café. Two men were walking along the road; Jessica waited until they had gone by, then she said:
‘Don’t you want me to share your life?’
He looked at her in the puzzled way that always dragged at her heart because it made him seem so lost, so unutterably forsaken.
‘My life?’
‘Yes! Your life.’ He seemed to be drifting away from her. She leant across the table and said desperately: ‘You have a life, haven’t you, Edward? You don’t exist in a vacuum.’
He held up a hand, the old gesture of warding something off.
‘I don’t know what this is all about, and I don’t want to know. But you’re not coming poking around the shop, do you hear me? You have never wanted to before, and there is no reason why you should now.’
There was an awkward pause during which the waiter came up with the coffee. His face had the blank expression of someone who has overheard more than he should have done. They watched him walk back to the door; he stopped there, leaning against the wall, staring in front of him.
‘He’s going to listen now,’ Jessica whispered.
‘Then we must talk about something else,’ Edward suggested hopefully.
‘No.’ She was collecting her handbag and gloves, pulling a cardigan round her shoulders; she looked determined in the desperate way that people do who have decided to go through with a painful ordeal.
‘I’m not leaving this coffee,’ Edward protested in a panic. ‘It was very expensive. Over a shilling a cup and it isn’t even hot.’
Jessica said: ‘Please don’t make a scene, Edward.’
And yet any minute she would precipitate them both into an emotional crisis which would be much more terrifying than any scene with a waiter. How ruthless women were: and how unreliable. He had known her for years and she had always been so unquestioning, so reticent, and, at times, so wonderfully tender; now, with each day that passed, she seemed to be unfolding, becoming more disturbing, more demanding. He could feel her trying to reach out to him, to trap him. He resented her for trying to reach out to him, but most of all he resented her because she had sheltered him. Now, whenever he looked at her, he found himself wondering: would she have taken me in her arms if she had known? He gulped the coffee down and paid the
waiter without leaving a tip.
Park Lane was crowded and brightly lit. Edward saw Jessica glance across at the park, already a dark sea ringed by lights. A constable walked slowly along past the railings. Jessica drew in her breath.
‘Not there.’
There was a reception at the Dorchester, cars unloading expensively dressed men and women, newspaper reporters and photographers jostling forward, and still more policemen.
‘Bumbling around like great big bluebottles,’ Jessica said angrily. ‘How can they say the Force is undermanned?’
They crossed at Hyde Park Corner and turned towards Westminster. Edward did not like walking and it seemed to him that hours passed before they reached Bridge Street. The Commons were still sitting; the division bell rang as they walked towards the Embankment. There were a few lights in the windows of Scotland Yard, but the iron gates leading to the Embankment were closed. Jessica and Edward stared at them resentfully, feeling that whoever else might be locked out, they had special privileges. Edward thought: I could go in here and finish all this now; and Jessica thought: the answer to all this uneasiness lies in here, somewhere in a dingy room. They crossed to the river and began to walk slowly towards Hungerford bridge. The new, tall buildings loomed on the sky-line and between them the slim outline of a church spire thrust upwards, dwarfed, robbed of its serenity, A train went over the bridge as they crossed beneath it and Edward felt the old, childish fear that the whole massive structure must come tumbling down on top of him. Then they were out in the open again and Jessica had stopped under one of the lamps. There was a breeze and the lights along by the Festival Hall flickered and danced so that the water looked like crimped silver paper. A sign advertising a daily paper flashed at them. Edward looked at Jessica; the breeze ruffled her hair and he thought that she was almost beautiful, in an exalted, rather frightening way. He knew that he could never be her lover again, and it was a relief when she said in a low voice:
‘We don’t love one another.’
She was quiet for a long time after that, staring down at the water, and he hoped that she was going to leave it at that. But at last she went on:
‘You had left your wife behind, and I had lost my father. You wanted consolation and I wanted to be of use. I felt I had to give something to another person to keep me in the human race – something, but not much. And you didn’t demand much. So . . .’
Edward watched a launch moving down towards Westminster. He thought how pleasant it would be to embark on a journey, provided one never came to harbour. Jessica misunderstood his silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. But it is best to be honest.’
‘By all means be honest.’ He jerked away from her nervously. ‘But don’t make an emotional crisis of it. These things happen.’
‘But not to me!’ she said violently. ‘I feel so ashamed, it all seems so tawdry, so selfish. I have given you so little . . .’
The words touched a nerve.
‘Don’t you think I have enough to put up with?’ He began to shout. ‘All day I have questions, questions, questions; people needling me, probing, dissecting, analysing; and now you have to load me with your guilt, your selfishness, your shame!’ He was thinking that if she knew the truth about him she would be even more ashamed, her flesh would shrink at the very thought of his touch. This made him suddenly savage with her. ‘You say you have given me so little. Did I ask for more? It would be an impertinence to give where it is not wanted. I don’t want to share my life with you, or tell you my troubles, or . . .’
He pulled himself up. She was standing very still and straight and her face was like a stone; he felt suddenly close to her, knowing how much he had hurt her. He wanted to console her, but he was frightened by the guilt that she had stirred within him. He said quietly:
‘I have no love to give you, Jessica; and I have nothing to share with you.’
He could have given her reasons, but he realized that this would have meant making demands on her pity which would draw her back to him; so he remained silent. After a time, she said, without turning her head:
‘Will you go now? I should like to stay here for a while.’
He hesitated, as he would always hesitate at such moments because he hated decisive action. Then she heard him walking away. He walked slowly, but after a while his steps seemed to grow quicker and, she fancied, lighter. She realized sadly that she, too, felt a sense of release.
But there was fear in the release, fear of the deep water that lay beyond the shallows.
III
It was late when Jessica returned. The yellow sodium lamps burned in Park Road East, but the street lamps were out in Cedar Crescent. She could see the rows of tall, terraced houses, white, dusty in the moonlight; it was like a street in a film set, cardboard houses without depth or substance. Her footsteps invaded the stillness, emphasizing her loneliness. If I were a policeman on a beat like this, she thought, I should have to break a window, force an entry, just to find out whether people really lived here at all. And then, almost as though she had summoned up a spirit of violence, a figure rose in front of her as she opened the gate of Number 10. The face was in shadow, but she saw the eyes glittering in the darkness, and she heard him laugh.
‘It’s only me,’ George Vickers said, and the words were quite without comfort. ‘Could I have a word with you?’
She looked back along the empty road as she fumbled for her keys; she was suddenly afraid, and afraid to show her fear.
‘Yes, of course.’ She managed not to sound jaunty. ‘Come up and have a drink. I could do with one myself. I ought to have taken a coat with me. It’s chilly now.’
She poured out two whiskies while he sat in an armchair watching her; she was glad that her hand was steady as she gave him the glass.
‘It must be something very important for you to wait until this hour of the night,’ she said.
He looked at her, alert for the scent of fear. She sipped her whisky and hoped that it would pump a little courage into her veins. Unexpectedly, however, it was Vickers himself who did that.
‘I hope you aren’t going to turn Edward out,’ he said.
Anger replaced fear. He saw his mistake and he changed his tactics with an agility that was formidable. The blatant air of challenge switched at a flicker to diffidence; there was even a fain flush on his cheeks which, although probably due to temper, gave him a disarmingly embarrassed appearance.
‘I do apologize for interfering in something so very private.’ He stuttered a little, searching for words. ‘And I assure you that Edward hasn’t told me anything . . . anything about your personal affairs. But I came round here this evening to see whether I could move one or two things from my flat into his rooms for the time being – it seems safer now that the shop has been burgled – and he said that he would be looking for . . . other accommodation.’
‘Well?’
‘It would be wiser, I feel, for him not to appear to hustle out now.’
She stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘The police.’ There was an edge to his laugh, as though he must lash out at something. ‘You know how rhythmically our coppers’ minds tick over. Ask a few questions, shake people up a little, and then sit back and wait for developments. Find someone trying to scarper and there’s your man. It’s absurd, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘But police brains are pretty much in a groove.’
‘Does it matter what the police think? We aren’t criminals.’
‘Dear God, no! It doesn’t matter what they think, they don’t buy antique furniture. It’s the clients I’m worried about. Police enquiries have a depressing effect on business; people get the idea they might be buying stolen goods and that kind of thing.’
‘I see. Well, I had no intention of delivering an ultimatum to Edward. He can stay as long as he chooses.’
Vickers had achieved his purpose, and yet he made no move to leave. The window was open
and the night breeze stirred in the room, bringing freshness after the stagnant heat of the day. Jessica was exhausted, there were dark shadows beneath the eyes and the mouth was too rigidly set. Yet it seemed to him that there was an excitement about her, the uneasy excitement of the traveller at the moment of departure. He said:
‘Why did you ever become involved with Edward?’
She was surprised, looking at him, to realize that he had not intended to be insolent. For a moment, he was innocent and therefore defenceless. He remained passive while she observed him, as though he were making her a gift. He was not without beauty, she thought; the thin face had a tormented sensitivity that might have appealed to a sculptor. Only the eyes condemned him: it was not warmth that sparked their brilliance. Suddenly she saw to the very centre of his affliction, and she answered:
‘We all need to love. Otherwise we are not whole.’
The sparkle died in the eyes, leaving them as cold as the north sea in winter. She knew that he would never forgive her for that deliberate cruelty. She herself was shaken by it; but, overcome by the nausea which sickness can arouse, she persisted. As he got to his feet, she followed him to the door, driving him relentlessly from whatever intimacy he might have sought. He had moved so far beyond the reach of human sympathy, what did it matter if she pushed him a little further?
‘I don’t think I would move any of your furniture in here,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
There was a lift of hope in his voice, as though he thought she might force some revelation from him and thereby ensnare herself. But she laughed, mocking his intensity.
‘I don’t think I could be responsible for it. Inspector MacLeish informs me that the locks and bolts in this house are anything but adequate.’
They stared at one another. A nerve jerked in his cheek and she was terrified that he might revenge himself upon her. But at last he said savagely:
‘We mustn’t do anything that would upset Inspector MacLeish, must we?’
Then he was gone and a few moments later the front door slammed behind him, sending a shudder through the house. Jessica sat down in the armchair; the whisky had not done her much good after all, she felt sick and fear clawed at her stomach. She was sorry that she had discovered this flaw in Vickers; it made him seem more unpredictable, and therefore more dangerous as an enemy.
