A TIME OF WAR

by MARY HOCKING

  Kerren wrote her name and address in the book and Naomi produced a small Polyphoto of herself

  `You can have that, because I’ve got the one of you in the met. office group.’

  Kerren found her own address book and Naomi turned to the F section and wrote Naomi Fletcher, 6 Normansfield Mansions, Vine Street, Bayswater, London, W.2. They waited for her to tell them once again what a good part of London it was although the property was going down a bit. But she did not say anything. Kerren, glancing over her shoulder, saw that she was looking at an entry on the opposite page – Beatie Flack. They stared at the clear writing with the gay, exaggerated capitals.

  `I’m going to fill my hottie again,’ Jessie said. `Anyone want theirs filled?’

  Naomi left the next day. They assured her that she would soon settle down at Machrihanish; but privately they doubted this. She was very set in the slovenly ways of Guillemot and she was rather old to change; they had recently decided that she must be nearly thirty. The cabin was never quite the same after she had gone, it was as though a cornerstone had been removed.

  There were two vacant bunks, Hazel’s and Naomi’s; these were soon occupied by two air mechanics straight from course. Guillemot was not what they had expected of the Royal Navy and at first they clung together, whispering in corners.

  Robin had applied for a sleeping-out pass to meet Clyde in London. She was subdued when she returned. After her first night watch she got into her bunk and tried to sleep. It was a Saturday and the two air mechanics were off duty; when they returned to the cabin after a trip to the village, they sat and talked about the other occupants of the cabin.

  `I don’t think I’m going to like it here, do you?’ the fluffy blonde sighed. `They’re so unfeminine.’

  `Their language is filthy and so are their fingernails.’

  They looked at their own hands and found them already stained with oil. `Do you think we’ll end up as tough as them?’ the blonde asked unhappily.

  `Perhaps we can get a transfer to A camp. Someone said that the Wrens there are a much better type.’

  `The Wrens at A camp,’ Robin said, heaving herself up in her bunk, `are all very refined, Mrs. Minivers every one. But even there you will have to learn that in every cabin there is nearly always a watchkeeper asleep – or trying to sleep.’

  That got them out of the way. She heard them giggling as they scampered down the cinder track, then it was quiet again. She lay still, grateful for solitude; but it did not last. The door crashed back and Jessie came in. She stood by her bunk, making a lot of unnecessary noise and breathing hard; it was evident that she wanted to talk and that she would hang around until she had said her piece. Robin listened. Jessie went on and on, she came nearer and her breath fanned Robin’s cheek, moist and sour. Robin’s hands clenched beneath the coverlet as she summoned all her forces to her defence. Soon she was alone again.

  Kerren met Jessie as she stumbled weeping down the cinder track.

  `Jess! Whatever is the matter?’

  She tried to pull Jessie back towards the cabin but Jessie cried, `I won’t go back while Robin’s there!’

  `Come down to the rec., then. There won’t be anyone there at this time in the morning.’

  It was cold in the recreation room. The fire had only just been lit and it was still touch and go whether it would survive. Kerren poked it and a thin spiral of smoke went up the chimney.

  `I think hell is a place where there are no flames!’ she said.

  Jessie was too absorbed in her woe to trouble about the fire. Kerren looked at her. She was sitting on the couch; her knees were apart and her skirt had twisted up her thighs so that Kerren could see the white gap between her thick woollen stockings and her knickers. She looked like a schoolgirl, the kind that is inevitably unhappy at school. Kerren went to her and put an arm round her shoulders.

  `Tell me about it, Jess.’

  `Why does Robin have to spoil everything? Why . . .?’ The words were lost in a fresh outburst of weeping. Kerren held her close and comforted her. When she was calmer, she said:

  `Now stop making noises like a soul shut out of Eden and tell me what happened!’

  There was a pause while Jessie laboured and finally produced more words.

  `Frank and me are going to be married when the war’s over. We got engaged on leave and we’re going to get the ring today. I was so happy. I had to tell someone. And she seemed to be listening so I just went on, telling how at first he hadn’t been sure as it was right, in war-time, because it meant waiting so long. And then she said in that voice of hers that’s got spikes on it, what did we have to wait for? I shouldn’t have said any more, I ought to have known.’ She began to cry again, and Kerren waited. `But I tried to explain that Frank doesn’t think it’s right to . . . well . . . I can’t say it now, Kerren, not after . . .’

  `I know what you mean.’

  `And she began to say things, as though he wasn’t a proper man.’

  She hunched forward and thrust her hands against her face. Kerren said:

  `Frank respects you, Jess. Men have different ways of showing respect.’

  `I know that.’

  `Then does it matter what Robin thinks? She only lashed out at you because you have something she hasn’t got.’

  `Then it’s the first thing I’ve ever had. And I’ve had to do a lot of listening to other folk talking about their dates and all the men that go after them. No one’s ever expected me to mind, or cared whether I did. And now that I’m so happy, it’s as though I didn’t have a right.’

  Kerren was silent. Jessie sniffed and pummelled her nose with a dirty handkerchief

  `Don’t worry about Robin, Jess,’ Kerren said eventually. `Don’t let anyone spoil it for you. You and Frank will be happy. I know that; I have the Gaelic gift, remember.’

  Although she made a joke of it, she did know. It wasn’t just that Frank and Jessie were sturdy and enduring; it was something about the tempo of the affair, patient, inexorable, the gradual coming together of two people who know in their innermost beings that there is time ahead of them.

  Jessie was saying that they would buy a farm and have at least six children.

  `Will you come and stay with us, Kerren?’

  `If I don’t get an invitation in the first year you’ll find me on your doorstep. In the meantime, I’ll stand you and Frank a drink this evening.’

  She was glad when she could get away from Jessie. As she walked along the cinder track she was frightened. She had lost so much that it had not occurred to her that there was anything else to lose. Now, she suddenly realized the value of her friendship with Robin. The thought that it might end was beyond bearing; yet lately Robin had changed so much that she hardly knew her. Anything might happen between them.

  When she opened the door of the cabin Robin was sitting on a chair; she had dressed and seemed to be waiting. She looked up, but did not say anything. Kerren said:

  `Why couldn’t you let Jessie be happy?’

  Robin answered in a toneless voice, `I don’t know what I said to her. She came in here and started talking about herself and Frank. She kept on saying how pure they both were. I couldn’t bear it.’

  `But, Robin . . .’

  `I’m going to have a baby, Kerren.’

  They looked at one another down the length of the cabin. As she saw Kerren’s face change, Robin’s own face softened; she stretched out her hands as Kerren came to her.

  `Oh, Robin, why didn’t I guess?’

  `You don’t. Not when it’s someone near you . . . least of all when it’s yourself. You have a suspension of belief.’

  `But can’t you . . .?’

  `No. I’ve tried and it’s no use. Perhaps I didn’t have the courage to try hard enough.’

  Kerren said violently, `You must tell Con, you must . . .’

  `No,’ Robin looked away. `This is going to sound rather silly . . . but the one thing I loved so much about him was – how did you put it? – t
hat he was “brother to the wild goose”.’

  `A nice poetic phrase! I come up with that kind of nonsense every now and again. But this is different.’ Kerren’s voice crescendoed angrily. `Con isn’t a person who has some special dispensation from responsibility, he isn’t . . .’

  `Oh, Kerren, Con would agree with you!’ Robin interrupted wearily. `He would marry me if he knew and he would provide for the child. Can you see his pride letting him do anything else? But can you imagine what it would be like to live with him in those circumstances? I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, every second of every minute of every hour for the past week. All that high-sounding talk about wanting him to be free – it’s not true. The truth is that I don’t want him as a husband; the very thought terrifies me.’

  `But, Robin, you love him.’

  `In one year love would have turned sour. And so should I.’

  `That’s rubbish!’

  Robin shook her head. She sat quietly, her lips pleated together, her eyes closed; she looked drawn and spent, but not desperate. The battle had been fought and now it was over. Kerren said warmly:

  `Robin, I admire you so much. I don’t know if I would have the courage to keep silent.’

  Robin said drily, `Don’t misunderstand me, Kerren. I’m not going to struggle on alone.’

  Kerren was very still. When she spoke it was softly, as though she scarcely dared to form the words.

  `You’re not thinking of marrying Clyde or anything like that?’

  `There’s no “anything like that” about it; there’s only one Clyde. No one else would do that much for me.’

  `You mean he knows?’

  `He knows and he has asked me to marry him. I told him about it when I saw him last week-end. It seemed a good opportunity to stage a rehearsal; I thought his reactions would prepare me for what I should have to face at home. But it wasn’t like that. He said that he had always wanted to marry me and that now he wanted it more than ever. He was terribly humble; he said that he only wanted to look after me, that just doing that would make him happy. I should have thought it was quite hysterically funny at one time; but just then I was so grateful. I can’t tell you how dreadful I had been feeling before.’

  `But I can understand,’ Kerren said eagerly. `Oh, Robin, I can understand! You must have felt so cornered, so desperately frightened and alone. Of course it must have seemed like a miracle when he offered you a way out. Only give yourself time to think. You know how much you’ve always wanted to escape from Cheltenham. Although it’s not what you planned, this may turn out to be the escape route. You can turn your back on your family and the kind of life you hate. We’ll take a flat together and . . .’

  Robin shook her head. `No, Kerren. I’m not made that way. I must get married.’

  `Then think about Con! You haven’t the right to keep this from him.’

  Robin got up and crossed to the chest of drawers. Kerren went on talking while Robin found a brush and drew it across her hair, slow, heavy strokes from the brow to the nape of the neck. As always, the sensation was pleasant and helped her to relax. While Kerren was talking, Robin studied her face in the mirror propped up against the wall. She had done this often during the last few days, visualizing it as it would be when the years had done their work. There would be a hint of the shrew about the mouth, the lips would curl and the eyes would be hard; she would grow gaunt and querulous and her red hair would grey early, red hair always did. There would only be Con and the knowledge that she had had one brief moment in the golden land to keep some grain of sweetness in her. `I’ve done the right thing,’ she thought. Con would go free. He would wander through her dreams and she would possess him as she could never possess him if she tried to hold him with her child. Kerren would call this madness, but she called it wisdom. Besides, it would be less demanding to live with Clyde. She said:

  `It’s no use, Kerren. But thanks for caring so much.’

  Kerren decided to tell Adam about it. He was so much older and more experienced, he would know what to do. She was off duty the next day and she was going out with him. He had been planning for some time to go to a Mozart recital in Yeovil Town Hall. She had hinted that she would like to go, too, but he had taken no notice. For some reason he grudged sharing his interests with her. `Anyone would think he’d be compromised if he took me to this recital!’ she had written to Dorothy. `Not that I’m madly keen, but it would be a change.’ Also, she was curious. Their outings had so far been confined to tea at Templedene and she wondered what sort of evening he gave a woman when he really put himself out to entertain her. In the end she had tackled him directly about the recital.

  `You can come if you like,’ he said ungraciously. `But I want to listen to the music.’

  `You don’t think I should talk all the time!’

  `No. But you make everything so personal.’

  He suspected, not without reason, that she was primarily interested in discovering more about him through his response to the music. Her reply had done nothing to reassure him.

  `I’m a woman. Women are always concerned with the personal.’

  He was only too aware of this; it was the fact that he was beginning to see her as a woman that most disturbed him, it awakened feelings that he had thought had withered away. Nevertheless, he agreed to take her to the recital. They went into Yeovil on the local bus. It was almost empty and she took the opportunity to tell him about Robin.

  `The Wandering American, I presume,’ he said grimly. `Does he know about it?’

  `She won’t tell him. She says she doesn’t want to marry him, that they couldn’t live together or some such nonsense.’

  `I’m not sure that it is nonsense.’

  `But there’s worse to come. She’s told that tedious army officer who’s so devoted to her, and he wants to marry her.’

  Adam did not respond with the utterances of dismay that she had expected, he merely muttered, `I suppose he knows what he’s doing.’

  `But she can’t marry him! She would have to live the kind of life she hates, it would stifle her . . .’

  `You mean it would stifle you.’

  She stared at him in surprise. `I don’t understand . . .’

  `Aren’t you seeing this from the point of view of your own personality? I’m not at all sure that I can visualize Robin eking out an existence in one room in a seedy quarter of a big city, going out to work to support herself and the child, always worried as to whether she would have a roof over her head and enough to eat. I have a feeling that would be the kind of life which would really stifle her.’

  She turned her head away, looking out of the window at the rain-drenched fields. How treacherous life was! Robin had always seemed so gay and adventurous, so splendidly anarchical. It was terrible to think of her being broken on the wheel of convention; even more terrible to think that she might not be broken. And Cath, who talked of goodness and who looked like a plump Flemish saint, now utterly besotted with a man who made coarse jokes about her in the wardroom, referring to her as his nymph! Even Adam failed in understanding and was now offering comfort of a mundane kind.

  `I’ll have a word with Coxon.’ Coxon was the Surgeon Commander, a civilized, sophisticated man adored by the Wrens. `He may be able to smooth things over as far as her discharge is concerned; First Officer will do anything he suggests.’

  `But it’s such an abominable waste!’ Kerren protested. `She’s throwing her life away.’

  `It isn’t necessarily a tragedy to accept second best,’ he said gently. `A lot of people manage to lead reasonably happy lives in similar circumstances. She’ll need your friendship more than ever now, and it won’t help if you behave as though you are prepared to travel through some long dark night with her.’

  `But don’t you think she ought to tell Con?’

  `No.’ He was vehement about this. `She’s well rid of him.’

  `It would be an adventure to be married to Con.’

  `Marriage isn’t an advent
ure, it’s a long process of adjustment. And Hilliard is temperamentally incapable of thinking of anyone’s needs but his own.’

  `You don’t like him, do you?’

  `He makes me sick in the stomach.’

  He sounded quite angry and she was intrigued, but by this time they had reached Yeovil. The bus was late and they had to hurry to the Town Hall, so there was no time to probe Adam’s reactions to Con. As they entered the hall Kerren thought how uncomfortable it looked, rows of hard seats occupied by drab people. There was none of the excitement of a theatre where the footlights would go on, promising a magic release, and where the darkening of the auditorium would bring that moment of ecstatic expectancy which would never quite be realized once the curtain had gone up. Here, the curtain had already been raised to reveal a piano and several chairs with music stands in front of them; this purely functional furniture was placed against a grey backcloth and the side curtains were also grey. There was no pretence here: illusion was not a part of today’s proceedings. Kerren decided that she was not the type to sit on a hard chair all the afternoon in the interests of culture: it had been a great mistake to come. Nevertheless, it would be as well to conceal this from Adam. She studied the programme in the hope that it might contain some notes that would enable her to make intelligent conversation about the music, but as usual with wartime programmes it was very brief, listing only the performers and the pieces to be played. She would have to let Adam do the talking, this arrangement was acceptable to most men and he was no exception. The seat on which she was sitting was too small and the back-rest seemed designed to do her a spinal injury; she fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position, and he asked her, in a rather exasperated tone, if she would like to change places with him. At this moment the musicians entered, greeted by tepid applause. They seated themselves, fussily concerned over their instruments, and began an interminable tuning process. Kerren wondered why this could not be done before they left their dressing-room; no doubt there was some very good reason, but what would one think of a Macbeth who insisted on sounding out `Is this a dagger that I see before me?’ before he began in earnest?