by Julian Gloag
She nodded tightly. He was glad to see her go. Glad to get rid of her and return to the pain of his private surgery. For each memory now was a sharp tool, his only care the selection, the cutting away, the exposure of dead tissue. He did not have much time.
“Your name is Harold Grand?” asked Pollen portentously.
“Yes.” The new witness was a little man, perky.
“What is your occupation?”
“Waiter.” And the sort of waiter to whom Mr. Pollen would certainly give a very small tip.
“Where are you employed?”
“Blain’s—in the Strand.”
“And how long have you been employed there?”
“Two years plus.”
“Plus?”
“Plus a coupla months.” The edge of Mr. Grand’s lips moved into a grin.
Jordan watched closely, but he could not place the waiter.
“Were you, er, on duty at Blain’s on the night of January the fifth?”
“I was.”
“And do you recall that night?”
“Definitely.”
“Do you recall it very clearly?”
“Definitely.”
“How is it that you recall this night so clearly?”
“I remember every night, see? I got a memory like a razor.” Mr. Grand smiled.
“But was there a particular reason why you should recall this night of January the fifth?”
Mr. Grand was puzzled for a moment. “Well,” he said uncertainly. Then he brightened. “Oh yes. There was. It was a Monday, see? It was right after my holidays. My first day on. Me and my old—my wife just come back from a fortnight in Switzerland. I always like to take a winter holiday, it’s—”
“Yes. Thank you. Now, Mr. Grand, would you describe that night as a busy one?”
“Quiet, dead quiet. I only ‘ad nine.”
“Nine people?”
“Nine parties.”
“And do you recall all those parties?”
“Definitely.”
“Could you describe them?”
The judge clicked his teeth. “Mr. Pollen, is it really necessary for the witness to itemize his entire evening?”
“My Lord, I wish to establish this witness’s quite phenomenal memory.”
“Very well. Very well.”
“Mr. Grand, will you briefly describe to the court the nine people—parties on whom you waited that evening?”
“Well, five of them was regulars. There was old—I mean Mr. Turner and his wife; the Thrussels—they always take the beef; Mr. Vaughan, he was by himself, his daughter’d gone off abroad; Mr. Bann and a lady, he always has a different one; and Mrs. Cockshot—Mondays is her night out, you know. Then there was a bald party in a brown suit, on his own; two old girls—I mean two middle-aged ladies who come in early, and three Krauts—”
“Krauts?” Pollen reproved.
“German gentlemen. They had pork chops. Swine flesh.” Mr. Grand was pleased with the murmurs this piece of information caused.
Jordan remembered the Germans. He remembered mentioning them to June. Something amusing. Something about the way they ate? Napkins tucked under their chins. Concentration.
“… a man and a girl,” Mr. Grand was saying.
Jordan tried unsuccessfully to picture Mr. Grand’s face above a black tie.
“And did you know the man?”
“Oh yes. Mr. Maddox. Him there.” He raised his finger to point and said impressively, “The prisoner in the dock!”
“Did you know Maddox from previous occasions?”
“Yes. He used to come in for lunch sometimes. Not regular, but I’d served him six or seven times myself. He’d make a reservation, see?”
Six or seven times, and he’d never even noticed the waiter, whom he must have talked to, smiled at, tipped.
“And did you recognise the girl?”
“Never seen her before in my life.”
There was a shuffling, and then a photograph was handed to the witness.
“Do you recognise that photograph?”
“That’s her alright.”
“You are quite positive that this is the woman you saw dining with Maddox?”
“Definitely. Buck teeth.”
“You recall her buck teeth?”
“Well, not buck exactly. But they stuck out a bit in front. Like this, see?” He drew back his lower jaw and grinned. “Kinda sexy.”
A tittering murmur stirred the court, and the judge looked over his glasses at the witness.
“Now, Mr. Grand, was there anything unusual about the behaviour of Maddox and the young woman?”
“Well, not unusual exactly. They was kind of lovey-dovey.”
“My Lord—” Bartlett was on his feet—”I must object to these expressions of purely personal opinion, which seem to be the only object of my learned friend’s questions.”
“Yes. Mr. Pollen, you must frame your questions more carefully.” The judge stared at the witness for a moment. “And Mr. Grand, please curb your witticisms. This is not a music hall.”
“Yessir.” Grand bobbed his head. He served up contrition as easily as lamb chops.
“But, my Lord,” Mr. Pollen said, “I am going to ask this witness to substantiate his observation. As a matter of fact.”
“Very well, Mr. Pollen, if you can do so. Proceed, proceed. But please use caution, Mr. Pollen, and—ah—celerity.”
“Thank you, my Lord. Now, Mr. Grand, will you please tell us what you saw or heard that led you to conclude that the accused and the young woman were—er—”
“Oh go on, Mr. Pollen,” said the judge. “Lovey-dovey.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“She drops her napkin, see?”
“Yes?”
“And then he picks it up for her.”
“She dropped her napkin and he picked it up for her. Is that all?”
“No—of course it isn’t. Before he picks it up he says—” Mr. Grand frowned and looked up at the arched skylight—”he says, ‘I’ll pick it up, love.’”
“Let’s be absolutely sure of this, Mr. Grand. Maddox said, ‘I’ll pick it up, love.’ Is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Very well. That concludes my examination, my Lord.”
Bartlett stood up. He looked down at the papers on his desk and stroked them gently with the fingers of one hand.
Poor Bartlett, thought Jordan; he wouldn’t know what to make of it. It had been “luv,” not “love.” His Geordie accent—the feeble hilarity hung over from a long-dead programme on the B.B.C. He couldn’t even recall the name of the show.
“Mr. Grand,” Bartlett began, dragging his words, “you have stated that, in your opinion, the accused and Singer were ‘lovey-dovey.’ As evidence of this, you relate, over a distance of several months, the words, ‘I’ll pick it up, love.’ What else do you remember of that conversation?”
“Well—not much.”
“Nothing?”
“I remember what they ordered, like.”
“But nothing more than that?”
“No. Not really.”
“And how much of the conversation that went on between your other patrons that night do you remember?”
“I remember Mr. Vaughan telling me ‘is daughter had gone off to Austria and—”
“That’s not my question. I am not referring to any conversation conducted by you or directed to you. I am asking you what, if anything, you overheard going on between your patrons.”
“Well, I …”
“Come, Mr. Grand, surely you overheard something?”
“I’m not an eavesdropper, if that’s what you mean.”
“Answer the question. Do you recall any portion of any conversation conducted by your patrons on that night—apart from the alleged words of the accused?”
“No—I can’t say I do.”
“And yet you expect us to believe that you are able to recall exactly the words supposedly
spoken by Maddox to Singer?”
“Oh yes. See, Mr. Maddox there didn’t look the type to come out with that sort of thing. So naturally it stuck in my—”
“Quite. Please confine yourself to answering the questions. Did you see the accused and Singer hold hands?”
“I can’t see under the table, can I?”
“Yes or no, Mr. Grand?”
“No.”
“Or kiss?”
“What—in Blain’s?”
“Yes or no?”
“That’ll be the day.”
“Yes or no?”
“No.”
“Did you observe anything else which might merit the description lovey-dovey’?”
“Not exactly.”
“Yes or no?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Yes or no?”
And there came upon Mr. Grand’s face that age-old look of servile obstinacy, that inch of integrity asserted in the glass of water requested, promised, but never produced.
“It’s hard to explain.”
Bartlett paused. “Well, try to explain then. Do your best.”
Mr. Grand frowned. “Well, most of the couples in Blain’s—they’re not exactly young. And they—well, a lot of them, the old parties, that is—they sort of carp at each other. You know what I mean?”
“They argue?”
“Not argue, no. Carp—not in a real nasty way or anything, but there it is. I mean like, she’ll ask him what he recommends, not nasty, exactly, but as if she knows it’s not going to be no good whatever it is.”
“And what bearing does this have upon the behaviour of Maddox and Singer?”
“They weren’t like that.”
“They were not like that.” Bartlett, slow, sarcastic.
“Oh no,” said Mr. Grand, unperturbed. “They was happy. You could tell.”
Geoffrey Bartlett hoisted his gown to settle it more firmly. “Now, Mr. Grand,” he began.
But although Jordan remained aware of what was going on—of the barrister’s patient dissection of the waiter—the voices and the movements, like the streamlined rush of images seen from a railway carriage, filled him with a gentle, mesmeric calm. They was happy—the words had the comfort of wheels and the promise of destination. He smiled.
28
“That was lovely, Mr. Maddox.”
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” He meant it. He took a gulp of his martini. He hadn’t drunk a martini since … Cambridge? It was warm and good inside after the chill and the rain. His socks were damp, but the thought that he could not, even if he had wanted, rush to change into dry ones added to his pleasure. Socks and scarves and gloves and umbrellas—the paraphernalia of dread.
“I do like historical things,” June said.
“Yes. I do too. Of course, it wasn’t strictly accurate, you know. Take Henry, for example: it’s extremely doubtful if he ever …” As he talked, he thought back to the last time he had taken anyone to the theatre. Not ballet—he had sat unstirred and stoic through innumberable vapid hours of ballet for Willy’s sake—theatre. It must have been that vacation when Annie came up and they had gone together to the Old Vic. Othello? No. Hadn’t Annie, too, said something about history? It would have been like her.
“Do go on,” she said.
“Oh no, I’m being a bore. How’s your drink?”
“It’s very nice. But please, you’re not being boring.”
He smiled at her. “You’re very good company, June. I haven’t chattered so much for ages.”
She was embarrassed, but it pleased him to see it. “Look at those chaps over there,” he said.
“They’re enjoying themselves, aren’t they?”
“I suppose they are, but they don’t look very happy, do they? That air of concentration—I think they must be Germans.”
“They are a bit piggish.”
“Piggish?” He was surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“They are pigs, really, aren’t they, Mr. Maddox? I mean they don’t, don’t …”
Jordan was silent. And then he remembered. “Your father was killed in a raid, wasn’t he?”
June nodded. “I don’t even remember him. But I can’t help hating them, all the same.”
“I don’t know. It seems to me that if one hates the Germans for what they did—well, we caused some pretty wanton destruction, too. Dresden, Hamburg. On the other hand, if you hate them for what they are—what led them perhaps to do what they did—then you have to begin with an historical examination. How did this or that character trait come into being, what were the causes and motives, et cetera. And, well, I don’t think one can work off one’s prejudices and passions on history. I mean, I don’t think one should do that.”
“I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way. I’m sure you’re right. But I just can’t be calm about it like you.”
“I’m probably calm because it never happened to me.” He smiled. “But I do believe that you have to step away from these things a bit, if you’re going to keep your judgement intact. In a way, that’s what civilization is all about.”
June frowned. “But isn’t that—not running away, exactly. I mean, if something happens, you’ve got to face up to it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Yet when you think what man was, say, ten thousand years ago, things don’t seem quite such a matter of life or death. And I tend to think that history, and a vast acreage of our private life too—much more so than most people will credit—is very closely predetermined.”
“Do you really think that?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s—frightening.”
“Oh no, on the contrary, I think it’s comforting.”
“But surely …”
It reminded him of high and mighty conversations long ago. Like an old lesson, the soaring generalities would come glibly out from an attic which he had forgotten all about. He could repeat them by rote, like The Death of Sir John Moore. He was quite fond of them. Moore at Corunna had been Uncle John’s last puzzle.
“I don’t know, June,” he said. “One gets rather tangled up in these things. It’s like a game. Whatever we think—predestination, say—doesn’t really make any difference to what we do. There was a time when an idea, a faith, could move men to action. But today we just hobble along, trying to avoid the grossest errors—keep our heads above water, as it were. All things grandiose are in the past, almost by definition.”
“Yes, but it does make a difference to how you feel, doesn’t it? And that’s important. If you really thought life was predetermined, then you wouldn’t feel such a sense of responsibility.”
“Responsibility?” Jordan saw her eagerness. She was waiting for a word from him of some sort. He shuffled quickly round the old attic, but the worn phrase books contained nothing suitable. All for each, each for all. Members together in the body of Christ. Involved in mankind. “Responsibility,” he repeated. “Well, one tries to do one’s best. There’s no use flagellating oneself.”
“But that’s just it. If you are responsible, then if you fail, you can’t help feeling … well, guilty—it’s your fault.”
He smiled at her. “Now what have you got to feel guilty about June?”
She was silent, and he realised how stupid the question was. He was aware of the sticky dampness of his socks. Damn.
“My mother,” she said, not looking at him.
“Now, June, my dear, you can’t, I mean, you mustn’t—”
“She committed suicide, you know.”
“Yes, I know. I—I’m sorry. But you mustn’t blame yourself. I remember you telling me that your mother, well, suffered. And …” The inanities bubbled from his mouth, and his shame at them only made him talk the more.
“Do you mind if I tell you about it?”
Under the table he clutched his knee, pressing the damp cloth against the flesh. “No, no of course not. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to embarras
s you, Mr. Maddox.”
“No no. No. These things—” five hard points dug into his leg—“are better once you get them off your chest.”
“Well, she—I don’t know how to begin, really. She—she was always in pain. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t. But it got worse all the time. And she couldn’t hardly do anything for herself towards the end. I mean, that got worse too. The arthritis just stiffened her until… She could just put her hand to her mouth. I had to cut up all her food. But she never said anything even when it was at its worst. The doctor gave her some pills for the pain, pain-killers, but I don’t think they did much good really. And when she came home from the hospital last time, last summer that was, he gave her some sleeping pills too. One for every night. Like small orange lozenges they were. I used to keep them right at the top of the kitchen cupboard. I knew she couldn’t reach there and … well, you see even then I thought perhaps—it did cross my mind I suppose that she might not be able to stand it one day. The doctor, he must have thought the same because he said, joking like, ‘You want to keep those locked up safe, June; don’t want some kid thinking they’re sweets, do we?’ Of course he knew there weren’t any kids in the flat. I didn’t have any place to lock them—but I did put them out of reach. And every night I’d give Mum one of the pills and a glass of water and help her to swallow it down. But sometimes she did it on her own; she could just manage that. And I’d see the pill was gone and some water and I thought, well, she’s taken it. If she didn’t take one, she’d never sleep, I knew that.
“I didn’t think, I never dreamt she’d save them up. But she did. The doctor said she must have taken fifteen or twenty pills when she … I worked it out afterwards how she did it. Some nights before she went to sleep she’d ask me to bring her jewelry box. She liked to look at it, because it reminded her of when Dad was alive and they used to go out dancing. She knew I’d never look in that box unless she let me, and that’s where she must have kept the sleeping pills because that evening when I came back and found her I noticed the box open on the table beside her.
“And all the time that’s what she was planning, Mr. Maddox. And I never dreamt. I never thought to watch Mum that close. But she knew. And she must have laid there all those nights, not sleeping, not being able to sleep with the pain. And never a whisper. She never complained. And every morning I’d ask her how she slept and she’d always say the same thing, ‘Oh I had a lovely night, Junie.’ And every day she’d say, ‘And what’s on the menu for today?’ As if it wasn’t always going to be the same. And the last day, the day she did it, she didn’t say anything different. She didn’t want to let me know. She never asked for any pity. She never asked for anything.”
