School for Love

by Olivia Manning

  ‘This is not an Enquiry Counter,’ said the assistant, a young man with the hauteur that characterised junior members of the Administration.

  But Felix, holding to his place and refusing to be pushed on by the person behind, said urgently: ‘Haven’t you a book or something you could look up? It’s very important.’

  Fortunately the young man was a Christian Arab so knew where each rich and important Christian Arab family was to be found. He jerked his head to his right and replied: ‘She’s in the Greek Colony. Ask down there.’

  As Felix went, his relief and gratitude were so great he could scarcely control his tears. He hurried down through the olive groves to the German Colony. The day was already growing hot and a slight haze hung over the pink, stony hills with their patches of green-silver olives. In the main road of the German Colony he slackened his speed a little, to regain his breath. Here the houses, built by a German sect that like the ‘Ever-Readies’ had settled in Jerusalem to await the Second Coming, stood back behind trees. The road was heavily powdered with dust. Felix walked through the dust heaped at the verges silently as through sand. It rose in puffs over his shoes and coloured them fawn. The gardens were dry with summer but there was a delicate herbal fragrance in the air that came perhaps from the rosemary or the sticky, blue plumbago flowers that survived the early summer.

  There was no one about. There was no noise except the hum of insects, monotonous as silence, and the thump, thump from the ice factory over by the railway line. The windows of the houses, half-hidden by trees, had the watchful look of windows behind which people are asleep. Felix started to hurry again, fearful because he could see no one from whom to enquire about Madame Sarkis. He could hear in the distance a thud of tennis balls, but the players were out of sight. He began to fear he might have passed the house. He was uncertain where the German Colony ended and the Greek Colony began. At last he came on a small café where two tables stood out on the pavement beneath red umbrellas. No one was sitting at the tables. A fat man leaning at the counter moved his face enquiringly when Felix entered, but when asked about Madame Sarkis, he shrugged his shoulders indifferently and looked the other way.

  ‘What? What is it you are asking?’ A young woman came from the inside room, ‘Madame Sarkis? An Arab lady, no? Yes, you turn up the road there and on, on to the top.’

  At last, at the top of the road, Felix wakened an Arab sleeping against a wall. The man opened one eye and waved vaguely at the garden within the wall.

  ‘Aywah, Madame Sarkis, henna.’

  As Felix went up the path between the rockeries and flower-beds, he repeated to himself: ‘I love Faro; I love Faro; I love Faro better than anyone,’ and that got him safely to the front door of the large, ugly house.

  Felix knew and cared nothing about Madame Sarkis or her importance in the Arab social and political world. For him she was merely someone who had his Faro and, having her, might be induced to treat her well. He was let into the house by an Arab servant and left on a seat in the hall. The house was dark and very cool after the outer heat. Felix sat shivering slightly as he gazed up the mahogany staircase and at the panelled walls opposite him on which hung an enormous steel-engraving of a stag lifting its cry across a frozen waste. He felt concerned for Faro in this gloomy house. He stood up as Madame Sarkis, dressed in black and leaning on a silver-headed cane, came slowly down the stairs from the dark and cavernous heights. Without smiling, she came to a standstill opposite Felix and looked steadily at him, her head quivering all the time. She looked and spoke like an elderly English lady. Yes, she assured him, Faro was there. Would he like to see her?

  In silence they moved at her pace across the black-and-white marble chequer-board of the hall into a mahogany dining-room full of massive furniture. How could Faro be happy here? But they went out through french windows into the garden at the back and Madame Sarkis lifted her stick and pointed to the glitter of a conservatory: ‘I keep her in there,’ she said. ‘She likes the warmth and the plants.’

  Felix let out his breath with relief at this understanding of Faro’s tastes. When they reached the conservatory they could see the leaves of the plants pressing against the damp-pearled glass. Inside, the atmosphere, hot and steamy as a jungle, smelt of wet earth. Felix saw Faro at once. She was lying dozing along a bough shaded by ferns. Her fur, extremely soft and fitting like a loose glove, was pressed into folds along her legs and the line of her belly. Her summer coat had come in pale; there was a sheen over her whole body and a glisten of silver-white at her throat.

  She was at her most beautiful, the languid leopard-curve of her body tapering off into the four seal-dark paws and seal-dark tail, and the delicate, small, dark mask. His heart leapt as he saw her there, safe after all his fears. Once, he thought, Mrs Ellis had had for him some of the beauty of Faro but now she had lost it. He did not believe any human being could be wholly as beautiful: he did not believe he could love anyone or anything as much. He called: ‘Faro,’ and she opened her eyes and gave a small, hoarse cry. She stretched her paws and then her whole body.

  ‘Darling little Faro,’ he said.

  She jumped down to a shelf below and walked towards him, her purring thudding through the air. He lifted her in his arms and felt her fur hot with sunlight, but almost at once her body stiffened, and she broke away and gave a violent peacock squawk of a cry that repeated itself and died away like a bell note. He tried to lift her again but she struggled against him and broke away again. She went off round the conservatory giving sharp, piercing cries.

  He looked with alarm at Madame Sarkis: ‘What is the matter with her? She must be ill.’

  A remote smile touched Madame Sarkis’s grey and withered face: ‘Oh, no, she is perfectly all right. It will only last a few days.’

  ‘But what is the matter with her?’

  ‘She wants to have some kittens.’

  ‘Oh!’ Felix had only the vaguest idea of what connection there was between Faro’s wish and her curious behaviour, but he felt hurt and jealous that he had suffered this defection of both his female friends over a question of babies and kittens. He stared sombrely after Faro.

  ‘Will she have some kittens?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps not the first time. Some day she will. Would you like to see my cat?’

  Faro had wandered off, seeming indifferent to him, so they closed her in alone, and went to see the large stud cat with his dark coat and eyes of so deep a colour they were nearer purple than blue. He lay on the rim of a fountain watching the occasional red twitch of a fish’s flank. He was not interested in Felix, who thought that compared with Faro, he was a heavy and dull creature.

  Walking back to Herod’s Gate, Felix began to feel a certain guilt towards Miss Bohun. Miss Bohun had, after all, been right about Faro. Perhaps he had misjudged her in other ways. He felt the more guilty because he himself had not treated Faro so well. No, he had neglected and forgotten her for Mrs Ellis’s sake, but it was Faro who loved him. He knew that Mrs Ellis cared nothing for him at all: she would forget him as soon as he was gone. He did not blame her for that, but blamed himself that he had put her first. Perhaps she had not been completely right about Miss Bohun. But, despite his deepest reflection on this point, he could feel no trust in Miss Bohun.

  When he got back to the house the luncheon was on the table. Miss Bohun was sitting there as though she had not moved from her seat since he walked out that morning. He was prepared for her anger, but instead she said in a friendly way:

  ‘I suppose you’ve been to see Madame Sarkis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you see Faro?’

  ‘Yes. Madame Sarkis says perhaps she’ll have kittens.’

  ‘Um!’ Miss Bohun agreed amiably and added: ‘If she does, they’ll be quite valuable. I’m told the Peppers paid three pounds for Faro.’

  After a long pause Felix asked: ‘Would you sell Faro for three pounds?’

  Miss Bohun looked less amiable: ‘What a strange qu
estion!’

  ‘But would you? Would you sell her to me?’

  Miss Bohun frowned, and with the old note of exasperation back in her voice, said: ‘I don’t know. I can’t possibly say. I should have to think about it.’

  ‘Would you sell her for six pounds?’

  ‘Really, my dear boy, what is the point of this vulgar bargaining? Faro is my cat, but I’ve never prevented you from having her in your room and treating her as a pet.’

  ‘But she doesn’t know she’s your cat. She thinks she’s my cat. How could I go and leave her?’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous, Felix. No one would think of taking a cat back to England, especially at this time. And as for asking me to sell her! What would people think?’ As Felix opened his mouth to say something, she interrupted with decision: ‘Faro is my cat. I have no intention of selling her, so please let the matter drop.’

  Felix said nothing more then, but the matter remained fixed in his mind. It took on new urgency when, a few days later, he received a note from the Transport Office telling him to stand by for a passage to England. If someone gave up a passage during the next four weeks Felix would be next on the list. In the sudden jolt of seeing his return to England as a reality, he thought only of Faro. He scarcely considered Mrs Ellis now; what did she care for him? and, besides, she could look after herself. But Faro – even if he did not love her as he did – would have to be saved. She was only a little cat. She could be sold to a stranger or starved or destroyed like the rats. Although he had no reason to suppose Miss Bohun would do those things – no reason except his distrust of her – Felix would take no risk. Anyway, his mind was made up. If Cook’s said he could not take her, then he would smuggle her on board. If he were discovered with her and she put ashore, then he would return ashore himself. His determination had an almost mystical quality: he was so transported by it, he was convinced he could overcome any obstacle. But there were not many obstacles to overcome. The official at Cook’s took his enquiries mildly. Some people were taking dogs back with them. They had to be quarantined in England. That cost money, of course, but if Felix was prepared to meet the expense and to be responsible for her, there seemed no reason why a cat should not go with him. The liners had been turned into troop transport and perhaps the pets’ quarters had been dismantled – if so, there would be nowhere where he could shut her up at night. As a male civilian he would have no cabin. The army officers would have cabins to themselves on ‘A’ deck; the women and children would sleep about nine a cabin on ‘B’ deck; the civilian men, of whatever age and rank, would be allotted hammocks with the troops on the lower deck. Felix said that as Faro always slept in his arms, he thought she would be safe enough. And food for her? He was pretty sure he could scrounge something from the galley.

  As he worked out his plans and at every step saw difficulties overcome, he began to be filled with a sense of achievement. He had no doubt that when the time came he’d get possession of Faro: he’d steal her if necessary.

  As time passed, England became more real in his mind. Jerusalem paled to a shadow. His present was temporary, unimportant and powerless. Miss Bohun and even Mrs Ellis, once great figures blocking his whole horizon, were dwindled now almost out of sight.

  He never gave them a thought, so he felt nothing when Miss Bohun broke into his reverie one evening at supper and mentioned a subject she seemed to think important to him:

  ‘I suppose Mrs Ellis is all wrapped up in Madame Babayannis’s concert.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She’s quite deserted you, anyway.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause then Miss Bohun commented: ‘An odd young woman! I hesitate to think what sort of mother she’ll make. I don’t know what’s going to happen to her at all. She’s so unstable, so, so . . . I don’t know. She doesn’t seem to have roots anywhere.’

  ‘Hasn’t she any relations in England?’ asked Felix.

  ‘I think not. Of course she’s got a father somewhere, but from what I’ve heard of him . . .’ Miss Bohun clicked her tongue. The conversation ceased, but, after a long silence, Felix suddenly said:

  ‘I have my uncle in England.’

  Miss Bohun, surprised, lifted her eyelashes an instant. ‘Your mother’s brother,’ she said; ‘are you attached to him?’

  ‘I can’t remember him very well, but he’s a vet. He lives in Bath.’

  ‘Are you looking forward to going back to England, Felix?’

  ‘Yes, I am now.’

  ‘Have you been happy here?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said without expression, but, after a moment, added, ‘thank you, Miss Bohun.’

  Later, when he was looking through the cinema advertisements in the Palestine Post, Miss Bohun went up to her room and returned with an olive-wood camel, roughly carved, and put it on the table.

  ‘There, that’s a present for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you might like to collect a few things like that to take home to England with you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he was embarrassed and not pleased. He picked up the camel and looked at it from politeness – he had seen hundreds like it in the shop. His mother, he knew, had despised things like this. ‘It’s very nice,’ he said, not wanting it, not wanting anything from her. Now he knew why Mrs Ellis would not take the gloves. Mrs Ellis had disliked Miss Bohun from the first. He looked up with the best smile he could and Miss Bohun, who had been watching him, looked away at once.

  ‘I wonder,’ she asked, ‘have you ever thought you might like to stay out here?’

  ‘No,’ Felix replied without hesitation. ‘Besides, Mr Jewel doesn’t think anyone will be able to stay out here much longer. There’ll be trouble.’

  Her glance shot back at him and he realised how much he had alarmed her. ‘But that won’t affect us,’ she said, ‘I’m an Englishwoman. I’m not mixed up in these squabbles. I was here in 1939 when there was a lot of shooting and bombs going off, but we weren’t perturbed. With the “Ever-Readies” it was a case of “business as usual”.’

  She gave a laugh at her own humour and Felix could see Miss Bohun, unlike Mr Jewel, had never given a thought to the problem of the future. He said, in case she should now start worrying: ‘Mr Jewel thinks Cyprus a nice place. It’s not far and it’s warm and cheap. He thinks he’ll go there.’

  ‘Cyprus!’ said Miss Bohun as though it were as remote as Bermuda, but after a long pause she added less disapprovingly: ‘There is a branch of the “Ever-Readies” in Cyprus – in Kyrenia; a charming place I’m told, full of English gentlewomen. The Presiding Brother kept a room there for a while, just in case. There’s never any knowing what’s going to happen here in war-time. Armageddon, you know. I’m told they nearly had it last time. But I’m sure Mr Jewel is panicking unnecessarily, and, besides, I could never consider leaving my house. It’s my home. One becomes very attached to a place that belongs to one.’

  Felix thought of her promise to let Mrs Ellis rent the house in the autumn: as he wondered how he could remind Miss Bohun of it, his thought must have passed into her mind. She sighed, then clicked her tongue: ‘And there’s Mrs Ellis. I really don’t know what’s to be done about that young woman. I feel a sense of responsibility, though dear knows why I should. And there’s her baby! That’s another thing. It will be arriving in two or three months. Just one worry after another.’

  Felix went several times to see Faro. Madame Sarkis told him he need not ask for permission at the house, but he could walk round and enter the conservatory when he wished. The gardener, having seen him with Madame Sarkis, took no notice of him. Faro had suddenly lost interest in the idea of kittens and had not been mated after all. Felix was pleased about that. It seemed to him that circumstances were all on his side. He took so many trips to Madame Sarkis’s house that for a week he forgot all about Mr Jewel. When he went to the hospital again, he saw Miss Bohun, her hands full of pamphlets, hurrying away from it.

&
nbsp; As Felix reached the verandah where Mr Jewel sat when it was too hot to go into the garden, he heard the policemen laughing and one of them said with a strong Ulster accent: ‘I don’t mind an Arab with a gun, but I can’t stand a woman with a tract.’

  Mr Jewel’s eyes were pink and wet with laughter. As soon as he saw Felix, he croaked out joyfully: ‘She’s been to see me.’

  ‘Miss Bohun?’ asked Felix in wonder. ‘Really? To see you! Was she friendly?’

  ‘Friendly?’ broke in one of the policemen, ‘why, I thought she must be his old woman.’

  Mr Jewel joined in the laughter, but at the same time he was a little apart; there was a slight self-importance, a slight self-satisfaction in his manner. He pulled Felix towards him and said confidentially: ‘She said: “Isn’t it about time we saw you home again?” “What,” I said, “have you kept my attic for me all this long time?” “Attic?” she said, “that’s no place for old bones. I thought of putting you in my room.”’

  A tremendous roar of laughter followed this and Mr Jewel took out his handkerchief and wiped the gummy corners of his eyes.

  ‘Did she really say that?’ asked Felix, uncertain whether this was a joke or not.

  ‘And he said,’ broke in one of the policemen: ‘“Wot, in your room with you?”’

  When the laughter died down again, Mr Jewel gasped and said: ‘And she wasn’t annoyed. Believe it or not, we had a bit of a laugh together, and then she said: “Seriously now, Mr Jewel, I’m thinking of letting you have my room and going up to the attic myself.” Now, what do you think of that?’