by MARY HOCKING
When at last they started, she closed her eyes in the hope that this would indicate inner appreciation, or at least conceal the lack of it. Hitherto, music had been a pleasant blur, a background noise which one vainly tried to assimilate while doing something else. Now that there was nothing else to do she listened attentively, just as she had listened to the records that Adam had lent her in sick bay. The music was rather pleasant, after all; tremendously disciplined and yet completely effortless, and it had a grace and purity which reminded her of very fine frilled lace, impeccably worked so that the effect, in spite of the intricacy, was not in the least fussy. Usually she preferred an appeal to the emotions, but this music seemed to strike at some central point where the mind and the emotions balanced. She stopped worrying about what she would say to Adam and after a while she stopped thinking consciously and allowed her senses to concentrate on the music. Now she became aware, not of the pattern of the music, but of each individual note. The effect was extraordinary. The notes fell like raindrops breaking the surface of her mind; the arpeggios rang up and down her spine, the chords vibrated in her arteries, the crochets and quavers danced with incredible vivacity just behind her eyes; and through it all those single, clear notes continued to drop like crystals into her mind. When at last it was over, she felt as though a whole new world had been revealed to her by a manipulation of the intricate mechanism of her own body.
Adam looked at her curiously as they left the hall.
`You enjoyed it, then?’
`Oh, it was wonderful, wonderful!’
She walked quietly beside him, letting him talk but not listening to what he said because she did not want her experience to be spoilt by his criticisms of the performance.
They had dinner at The Mermaid. He knew how to entertain a woman, she had always suspected that he did. Although there were moments when she was aware of being a little out of her depth with him, he was too experienced to make her feel naive. He encouraged her to talk and she told him about her childhood in Ireland.
`I’ve always thought of it as one vast melancholy green bog,’ he confessed.
`It’s the most beautiful country in the world!’ She felt exalted and she really believed it; and for a moment, looking at her, he seemed to believe it, too. Then he looked away. And quite suddenly she found herself thinking, if we didn’t know we were going back to camp tonight, if we were together in London, in peacetime, what would we do next? To this question, she had no answer. There was a side to Adam about which she knew nothing at all. He had seemed so familiar, in some ways more familiar than anyone she had ever known, but now she realized that she was only on the threshold of knowing him. The thought excited her, as everything excited her that evening.
When she got back to the cabin the others were already in their bunks because they had been unable to light the stove. She undressed quickly, scarcely conscious of the cold. For a while, as she lay in her bunk, she tried to remember the music, then she abandoned the attempt and simply marvelled at what had happened. She did not, at that time, give much credit to Mozart; it was the wonders of her own being with which she was concerned, the miraculous response of nerve and brain which had revealed to her this untapped source of joy. It had, indeed, been a joyful evening. It was only later, when the air began to seep through the ill-fitting window and she felt it cold on her cheek, that she thought of Peter. `Oh my darling!’ she whispered, `My darling!’ How could she have found such joy in an experience from which he was completely excluded? She cried for him that night as she had not cried since the news of his death.
Chapter Twenty Six
The war news was good. In Europe the allies seemed to be holding the German counter-offensive and the Red Army was advancing on the shores of the Baltic. This heartening news produced a mood of unrest at Guillemot. People began to think of home with varying reactions.
As Kerren cycled back to the cabin one wet, raw evening, she was thinking of Belfast. Around her she could hear the rain falling in the fields, the soft, gentle swishing of water on earth already wet and yielding. It was cold rain that numbed the flesh as it drove against her face. Winter rain had not seemed so unpleasant in Belfast, she had liked to see the wet umbrellas, the lights of shops and lamps reflected in damp pavements; she had liked coming home, too, knowing that there would be a warm fire behind the drawn curtains.
She got off her bicycle at the B camp entrance and put her foot into a muddy pool. The wheels of the bicycle moved sluggishly as she went past regulating office; her stockings were soaked and she could not feel her feet, it was like walking on lumps of wood. Ahead she could see the outline of the trees, the branches writhing beneath the lash of the wind; nothing else was visible, it was as though nature’s long patience had been exhausted and it had decided to blot out the cabins in the wood. For the first time she felt a longing for home.
When she opened the door of Cabin 8 she saw them huddled round the stove. Cath had on Wellington boots, the overalls she wore on the flight, and an overcoat draped round her shoulders; a cigarette was stuck to her lower lip and her eyes were screwed up against the smoke. Robin was wearing a dressing-gown over her jacket and she had a rug round her knees; Marney was shapeless in a seaman’s sweater and Jessie was hugging a hot water bottle to her stomach. The hut smelt of burnt paper and coke dust: the smell of failure.
`Don’t say that bloody thing’s not alight!’ Kerren groaned.
No one took any notice. They were listening to Cath who had just returned from a week-end leave.
`What’ll we do?’ she was saying. I couldn’t work in an office, I just couldn’t. I saw some of the girls I used to know, but I didn’t seem to fit in with them any more. It’s as though I was older than them . . . or younger. . . . I don’t know which. They were talking about their offices. One of them had got into trouble for using pink copy paper when it should have been yellow. You would have thought it was a matter of life and death! When I think of the times I’ve sweated out on the runway, afraid a kite would crash because I hadn’t serviced it properly, I couldn’t ever care that much about copy paper!’ She lit another cigarette from the fag-end between her lips. `I’m going to hate Civvy Street.’
They nodded. Civvy Street seemed very strange, they had left it as school children and had no idea what it would demand of them as adults. Marney said that she would be desperate if she was not married soon; it was seldom she was as frank as this. Kerren peeled off her damp stockings, moaning as they came down over her raw calves; then she put on a jersey and joined the circle round the stove.
`You could take a course in something,’ she said to Cath.
`Suppose I didn’t pass? I’d be nearly twenty four and not worth a bean.’
`You could stay on in the W.R.N.S.,’ Jessie suggested.
But this was no solution. Guillemot was not what it had been; the courses got younger and duller and the blue braid had invaded the control tower. `We’ll be having a Wren met. officer next,’ P.O. had prophesied gloomily. At the rate that Hunter was deteriorating, it looked as though they could expect at least one change soon; he had always been odd, but there was something different about his oddness now. He had begun to say things that were quite unrelated to any subject under discussion. He had, for example, suddenly stopped in the middle of writing his forecast to ask Kerren how she was getting on with her aunt. When she had repeated in astonishment, `My aunt?’ he had blinked and looked confused as a man waking in an unfamiliar room. After a while he had retired to the duty met. officer’s room. Kerren and Boxer, who were the only people present on this occasion, had looked at each other and laughed, but they had not really been amused. Hunter did not reappear and Boxer had to finish the forecast. From that moment onwards, Hunter’s behaviour became more and more erratic. He did not even react to Robin’s discharge in the way that had been anticipated. He refused to discuss the matter with anyone, and when Adam made a determined attempt to talk to him, he brushed him aside with, `No one tells me anything, so now I sh
an’t discuss it. Do you understand? No one chooses to consult me. So that is that!’ It was useless to point out to him that an attempt was, in fact, being made to consult him.
Robin left in mid-January. Clyde would be getting leave in February and they were to be married in Cheltenham.
`How is your mother taking it?’ Kerren asked as she helped Robin to finish her packing.
`She is deeply ashamed, but very brave.’ Robin pulled down the lid of the case. `You’ll have to sit on it, Kerren.’
Kerren sat on the case and Robin locked it. Robin said, `The end of an era, or something.’ She looked at her watch: the station transport was not due to leave for over ten minutes. It was quiet in the cabin, most of the girls were on duty; Kerren and Robin felt awkward, not knowing what to say. Robin found cigarettes. After they had smoked in silence for a minute or two, she said:
`I won’t ask you to the wedding, Kerren. You would hate every minute of it.’
`Then I shall come without being asked. I shall fix my leave so that I can stop on the way over to Ireland.’
`But it won’t be like your wedding,’ Robin protested. `It will be horribly social and there will be no real feeling.’
`Aren’t we going to keep in touch, then?’
`Keep in touch? My goodness, yes! But that’s the whole point. I don’t want you to see me against that background.’
`That background is your future life, isn’t it? If our friendship is going to mean anything, I’ve got to share it to some extent. So I want to be there at the beginning. For one thing . . .’ She put the cigarette down on the edge of the stove; she was short enough of breath without the cigarette making matters worse. `. . . I want to meet Clyde. And I’m going to try very hard to like him.’ She had been rehearsing this speech for some time; it didn’t sound as impressive as she had hoped it would.
Robin said, `Oh well, I daresay it would be a good idea.’ She flicked ash at the stove, then she went on carefully, as though she, too, had prepared her speech, `I mean to try to be a good wife and mother and all that sort of thing. And I was going to ask you – only I meant to leave it until later – whether you would be godmother. But if the idea doesn’t appeal, don’t hesitate to say so.’
Kerren said formally, `It would make me very happy.’
Robin’s chin quivered and she turned her head away. `I don’t like babies. When I get on a bus and find one in front, lolling over its mother’s shoulder, bald head rolling round on top of me, I think how ghastly motherhood must be! I suppose it’s different when it’s your own.’
`Of course it is!’
Neither of them spoke for a while, thinking of the child which for them would be a link with the past, Kerren felt sorry for it growing up with the weight of their memories on its shoulders, bearing the burden of their hopes. It was Robin who broke the silence. She said in the casual tone that she always adopted when speaking of something really important:
`I didn’t tell you about Con, did I?’
`You’ve heard from him?’ Kerren exclaimed.
`Not exactly.’ Robin lit another cigarette. `I’m not a madly strong character, as you know by now, and all my noble intentions broke down the other night. So while I was on duty I rang his outfit. His friend Wally is in the signals office and I’ve often sent messages to Con through him. As luck would have it, he was on duty. He told me that Con had gone.’
`Gone? You mean he’d been drafted?’
`No.’ Robin’s voice was a little too high-pitched. `He had just walked out. Deserted, I suppose. Only I can’t think of him as a deserter, there’s something rather pitiful about a deserter and Con was never that.’
`But why? Did he have a row or something?’
`No. Nothing spectacular had happened. They think they’re due for a spot of action, but this has been in the air a long time. Besides, action would suit Con, don’t you think?’
`Individual action, perhaps, something where he was his own master. I’m not sure otherwise.’
`It’s all beyond me. When I heard about it I felt, this is the end, really the end; if I start thinking about it and trying to work out what is behind it, I shall go crazy. So I just put him out of my mind.’ But she was looking at Kerren as though she hoped that even now something might happen that would miraculously restore Con to her. `If anyone understands, I think it would be you.’
Kerren said quickly, before she could decide whether it was true or not, `Well, I don’t understand this. And I think you’re wise not to try.’ She looked at her watch. `My goodness, we shall have to make tracks!’
Robin clutched at her arm, her face was white and it seemed to have shrunk; in contrast the eyes were bigger and dark as deep water which knows nothing of light.
`Oh, Kerren, I keep thinking of Con. Why has he done this? Has he gone to some woman that I didn’t know about? Do you think it can be that?’
`Can you imagine Con doing that for any woman?’
`Has he gone on a secret mission, then? That’s the sort of idiocy that would appeal to him.’
Kerren agreed with this; but the look in Robin’s eyes frightened her and she decided that it was best to stop talking about Con. She picked up Robin’s cap and gas-mask.
`It’s no use trying to explain Con to yourself, Robin. Just put him out of your mind . . .’
`But there has to be some reason. Was he unhappy or scared or just restless? It seems so terrible that all this was going on inside him and I hadn’t a clue. It makes me feel I didn’t know him at all.’
`You always said he was enigmatic, you said that was a part of his charm.’
`But I always felt that he knew where he was going, even if no one else did.’
Kerren draped the straps of the gas-mask round Robin’s shoulders. `It doesn’t matter now.’
`But it does, it does! I’ll never get him out of my mind, never!’
`You’ll have so much to do in the next few weeks you won’t have time to think about him.’ She clapped Robin’s cap on her head. `Come on, Wren Egan, for the last time – get fell in!’
`If you hear anything . . .’
`I’ll let you know.’
She pushed Robin to the door. Cath and Marney were coming up the cinder track as they went out. Cath said, `We’ll keep in touch, won’t we?’ and Robin replied, `Yes, of course!’ Marney said, `Oh, Robin, dear, I do wish you happiness.’
`Like hell she does!’ Robin said with a touch of her old asperity.
The truck was waiting outside Wrens’ regulating office. Kerren picked up Robin’s case and heaved it in the back. Robin said, `I’ve made a mistake, a terrible mistake.’ She looked around her wildly. The marine driver came round to the back. `Are you going or not?’ For a moment Kerren wondered whether Robin would make a grand gesture of rebellion, but in fact she looked rather relieved to be hustled out of making a decision. He lifted her up and hooked the flap at the back. Kerren said, `I hope all goes well, Robin.’ Robin answered, `I’m sure it will.’ She seemed brighter now that she was on her way. `I’m so glad you’re coming to the wedding, it will make all the difference.’ The truck started. Kerren stood waving while Robin leant out, making meaningless gestures and mouthing remarks that could not possibly be interpreted. Then the truck turned into the lane and she was gone.
Kerren walked slowly up the cinder track thinking about Con. She could visualize him somewhere wild and lonely, Dartmoor perhaps, a solitary figure striding towards the horizon. There was something rather splendid about the image. She was sorry for Robin, but deep down inside her, she was glad that Con was free.
Chapter Twenty Seven
February in the country was like death, Kerren thought, so cold and stark and still. No time to be a deserter. She no longer saw Con as a splendid figure, striding into the unknown. England was a small country and it was well-mapped, he would not be free for long. And just supposing he had gone on a special mission? This, too, would be a kind of desertion, his way of trying to escape. You can live outside your
century if you don’t like it, he had said: but you couldn’t, you couldn’t. One way or the other, whenever she thought of him, she saw him in prison. She lay in her bunk at night and looked through the window, wondering whether he had a view or whether he was hemmed in by relentless stone walls. It was so wrong, so terribly wrong that this should happen to a man like Con; he was the kind of person who had somewhere to go, a road to travel that was his road, lit by his star. It was wantonly, unreasonably wrong that such a man should be imprisoned. But with the coming of war, reason had abdicated; the stars were blacked-out and all roads ended in chaos. She turned away from the window, hating the dark, predatory trees and the movement in the long grass as the night creatures stirred and flexed their claws.
She began to long for kinder things, for the green coast of Larne, for the unkempt countryside and the low stone cottages hunching into the earth; for Belfast in the rain, the windows of Sherry’s milk bar misted over; for the sitting-room in her own home, firelight leaping on the wall as her parents sat dozing. Safety and security no longer seemed so dull as she had once thought them. She put in for leave and wrote to inform her parents that she would be arriving in Belfast at the end of the month, after she had been to Robin’s wedding.
`They’ll have a shock when they see you,’ Cath said.
`A surprise, perhaps,’ Kerren protested.
`I said shock and I meant it. You looked like something out of Barrie when you came here, now you’re grave and gaunt and better suited to “Riders to the Sea”. The years have taken their toll. Not that you’re alone in that. I’ve lost my virgin freshness, and, God, does it show! I’ve tried a mud pack on the hues under my eyes, but it’s no damn good.’
It was really herself that Cath was worried about. She dreaded being with her parents because she felt that their love was based on an image of her that was no longer true. There seemed to be nothing she could share with them; even when they talked together of art and poetry she felt a corroding falseness in every exchange.
