The Moment of Truth

by Storm Jameson

  “Are you all right, Elizabeth?”

  So that’s where she belongs, Kent thought. Opening her eyes, the woman smiled, a barely perceptible smile, but gay and reassuring: she was younger than, when he was helping her out of the truck, he had thought: not in the least beautiful—her mouth was very large and her eyes too narrow—but even in her exhaustion, and with long streaks of dust over her face, she had a lively charm. She sat up, with an effort.

  “Yes, of course I am.”

  Her voice struck Kent: it was strong, yet quick and light; there were flawed notes in it, profoundly disturbing, in the way a memory disturbs, sneaking in furtively. He stared at her, frankly surprised that a voice, any voice, could do so much. Turning to him, she asked,

  “Is there anywhere we can sleep?”

  “Oh, yes, rather,” he answered. “Uncomfortable, I’m afraid. We weren’t expecting a woman.”

  Cordelia spoke quickly.

  “If you’ll come with me … and the little boy—” she held her arms out to the child, but he turned his head away, hiding his face against the young soldier’s arm. His mother pulled herself to her feet and said,

  “Come, Nick. Time you were in bed.”

  The child did not speak, only clung more tightly to the soldier—who flushed a dark brick-red and mumbled,

  “I’ll carry him for you, ma’am.”

  “No,” Mrs. Heron said, “put him down, Hutton. … That’s enough,” she said gently to the child.

  Her marvellous voice had no power, it seemed, over her child. Set down, he leaned against Hutton, his eyes shut, embracing him with one small dirty arm. His mother frowned lightly. Before she could speak, Breuner moved quickly and was standing over Nick, not touching him, simply looking down at him, with an attentive smile.

  “If you don’t sleep,” he said, “you won’t be able to go in the aeroplane.”

  He spoke like a foreigner: it was less the accent than an un-English inflection of his low voice.

  Nick glanced round at him.

  “Shall I see it?”

  “Yes—you’ll see it coming. You’ll hear it, too. But until you hear it snoring you’ll think it’s a sea-gull.”

  The child’s smile altered his face instantly, to a lively mischief.

  “Sea-gulls don’t snore.”

  “Aeroplanes do,” Breuner said. “They fly in their sleep, and snore madly.”

  “Yes, I know, I’ve heard them,” said Nick.

  He let go of Hutton and went languidly to his mother. With a glance at Kent—it was the first time she had looked at him since he brought these people in—Cordelia took them away. At the same moment, the general started awake, muttering,

  “Damn it, I’ve been asleep. I hate that.”

  “Would you care to come along, sir?” Kent said to him. “We can give you all beds. Nothing much else, though.”

  “Yes, very well,” the general said heavily. “I should like a wash and I should like some food.” Struggling out of his chair, he lumbered over to the brigadier. “You, too, Will. … Help him up, George—and you—”

  Groaning, Kent on one side of him, and Heron somewhat uselessly on the other, Clarke stood up.

  “They ought to send me to the knacker’s,” he croaked. “Ugh. I’m broken—yes, broken.”

  “Nonsense,” the general said.

  For his size, the brigadier was heavy. Half coaxing, half dragging him, Kent got him out of the room. The others followed. Smith came in from the airfield, carrying a suitcase in one hand and an officer’s canvas bag in the other, and hurried through. He looked at Hutton, jerking his head backwards at the airfield: the young soldier went out.

  Left alone in the room, Marriot made the gesture of an impudent schoolboy, thumbing his nose after them. If Jock has the sense he was born with, he said to himself, he’ll shed the lot of them into the North Sea. … He turned and looked out. The evening was settling down into the brief northern night, as a lake settles when the sun leaves it; the light that has been doubling it runs away in the trees on its edge, it becomes smaller and dark. The gulls swooped lower. A confused sadness entered him—as soon as he knew it for what it was he jeered at himself. Indigestion, too much strong coffee—what else? I don’t tell myself lies, he thought, mocking himself.

  He went out.

  After a minute, Cordelia came back and stood looking about her, at the room: she was surprised to see the remains of their meal on the table—that had surely been long ago, days ago. When Kent came in, he saw her before she heard him. She turned round. He came up to her, and they looked at each other without speaking: it was one of their moments, when they were so sure of each other that touch would separate them.

  “How long have we been married?” Kent asked.

  “Fifty years.”

  “Yes, I thought so.”

  “Why them and not us?”

  “Very important persons.”

  “More important than we are?”

  “Obviously.”

  She frowned. “It’s not right.”

  He felt despair. He did not know what it was, except that it would help him if he could break things, or knock himself against the wall.

  “My darling, my little fool, surely you don’t expect D.8, or anyone else, to care what happens to us? But you must go. I must get you away somehow.”

  “Without you? … Don’t be unkind.”

  “Unkind, kind,” he exclaimed, “what do you mean? The only thing is to get you into safety.” She shook her head. There was nothing deliberate in her refusal, it was an obstinacy of her being, of more than her senses. She stood still, afraid if she moved of crying: it would weaken her hold on him.

  “Even if I could go,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t go alone.”

  “You must.”

  Standing stiffly, she closed her eyes, lifting her eyebrows in the effort not to cry, and said under her breath,

  “No. … Not without you. I can’t, Andy. Think of it. To be living over there, and you here. Never see you again. Never. Never.”

  She was trembling. He felt an agony of grief and love, and had no idea what he was saying.

  “Hush, my love, hush. …”

  “I will.” She drew herself gently away. “There … But it really isn’t possible, Andy.”

  “It’s not possible for you to stay here,” he said. “In any case—they can’t all go. Three of them will have to step down.”

  She looked at him with concern.

  “You haven’t told them that yet!”

  “Oh,” he said easily, “I thought they’d better have supper first. Steady them.”

  He began to move about the room, swinging his loose limbs. Without knowing it, he was relieved to be thinking about a normally awkward problem. Cordelia felt his relief.

  “One thing,” she murmured, “it’s out of our hands. You can’t send me off.”

  He stood still.

  “Don’t torment me,” he said involuntarily. He came back and stood looking down at her with helpless severity. “I must somehow. I’ll talk to Jock.” An impulse half despair, half some other, less kind emotion, made him add, “Supposing he made room for us both—I couldn’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “And leave Davy behind?”

  “You’d choose him rather than me?” Cordelia said.

  This was worse than he had meant it to be—but he had begun it, and he went on.

  “You know what I mean—don’t you? You understand all right.”

  She did not answer at once, then said,

  “Yes, I do. I do. And I don’t mind. That is, I mind frightfully, you ass. Yes, you are—and I know exactly what you mean.”

  “I love you so,” Kent said desperately.

  Someone was coming along the passage. Cordelia turned and walked quickly out, as the door opened, and Smith came in. His broad face, the derisive twinkle in his small eyes, were a comfort—like a familiar voice when you have been frightened. Kent grinned at him.
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  “Well, this is a nice do.”

  Smith grinned back.

  “It’s that all right, sir.”

  “Puts paid to us four, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s as you look at it, sir. I’ve no doubt we s’ll manage.” He checked briefly. “There’s just one thing—if you don’t mind my saying so. If we can, we ought to get Miss Brown away in the Anson.”

  “If we can—yes,” Kent said. “I agree.”

  He had no wish to talk about it, and went out on to the airfield, passing Hutton, bent under a heavy kit-bag, a suitcase in either hand, and bundles under his arms. He came into the room carrying them, and Smith looked at him, to see what he was made of. He appeared to be made of much the same hard-wearing bone as Smith himself. He was fair-haired, clumsy, with diffident blue eyes: he had very large hands, and large feet. Smith liked the look of him. It was a different liking than that he had for Kent and the others, easier and rougher—warmer.

  “Do you think you’re taking all that lot with you?” he jeered.

  “It’s not mine,” Hutton said.

  “Nay, I didn’t think it was.”

  Dropping the suitcases, and lowering kitbag and bundles on to a chair, Hutton asked shyly,

  “D’y’mind if I eat a bite?” He looked at the table. “We haven’t had much.”

  “You’re welcome,” Smith said. “Plenty more where it came from, as we say at home.” This stuck in him. He cleared his throat and muttered, “Used to say.”

  Hutton looked at him and said placidly,

  “Ay, it’s a bouger, but we’ll do it yet—” he dug a knife into one of the half-empty tins—“I heard th’ King say that on th’ wireless before he flew off.”

  “Ha, he did, did he?”

  “Something o’ that.”

  Chapter Two

  Three hours later: the sun had fallen into the sea, but it was light still, with an unreal meditative light; a bird flaunting across it startled the surface. George Heron, who had gone out immediately after supper, bored by his companions, came back and found the room empty and tidied, and unfriendly, like any other waiting-room. As, loathing it with all his exasperated nerves, he stepped inside, the other door opened: his wife came in from upstairs. She walked towards him with her light step, as though anxiety were a dance she was practising.

  He looked gratefully at her. She had made up, with her ordinary care, had found in her luggage a fresh blouse, brushed her grey skirt and jacket—she might have been coming to meet him across the field below their garden at home. For less than a moment he saw, behind her, the long plain old house, the stream, the dawdling Essex country, the chestnuts and lilac. The glass door of his library, with its wide book-shelves from ceiling to floor, stood open to the rough lawn. There was no telephone in the house, no wireless: perhaps, if the previous owner had not troubled to put in electricity, Heron would have kept the candle-brackets and lamps, he was so charmed to be living in what he thought of as our last civilised years before the worm of democracy began eating into manners and government, bringing on us the meanest of tyrannies—of the stupid many against the élite—bringing on democratic wars, naturally the coarsest and most frightful, and, he felt it coming, it drove him to live and write in the past, the death from loss of freedom and blood of our country’s self. For the sake of tradition, he, the Platonist, faithfully went to church; a born snob, he would have thrown away all his exalted friendships if that would have helped him to write a great book: he was very careful, spending an hour before breakfast on his investments, and fell in love with a girl who was the daughter of a village doctor, with no money at all, and married her. And was very soon unfaithful to her, but with great reserve. They had been married now for eight years.

  “Is the boy asleep?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Elizabeth said. She smiled. “He’s gone past himself—my mother used to say that. But he’s lying down.”

  “You look tired,” Heron said. “And I—I’m exhausted.” He noticed that she was not wearing her wedding-ring. “Where are your rings?”

  She lifted her hands in a quick gesture.

  “It’s absurd, but I’ve got thinner in the last week. They kept slipping off my finger, and I was afraid of losing them. They’re in my pocket.”

  “I’m not much help to you, am I?” Heron grumbled. “What a pest I’ve been to you yesterday and to-day. I couldn’t live without you. It’s shameful.”

  His wife looked at him as if she were amused and liked him.

  “Shameful? What nonsense. If we didn’t need each other, why are we married?”

  “I give you more trouble than Nick. Far more.”

  “He can be quite devilish enough.”

  Heron frowned. He loved his son, and was proud of his intelligence and his looks, but to spend any time with a child bored him terribly; he did not know what to talk about with children.

  “He’s too self-possessed for his age. … I don’t even know whether he likes me.”

  “He adores you,” she said lightly: she was a little, a very little, amused by the thought that neither father nor son would know that the other liked him if she were not at hand to tell them. “If anything’s shameful, my dear, it is that we’re safe.”

  “For God’s sake,” Heron cried, “don’t tempt providence.”

  He was, she saw, really alarmed. It gave her a feeling of confidence and gaiety, as if she were protecting him.

  “Oh, nothing dramatic ever happens to me. You know, George, there are people who insist on being unlucky, and others—all the others—like me, are born with a sign on them—Road diversion, go round. Don’t you remember the plague of wasps the day Nick was born? Everyone in the house was stung except him—and except me, of course. … And how many narrow escapes have we had in the last month?”

  “We’re not out of danger yet,” Heron said drily.

  “No. But we’re still together.”

  He felt remorse, and a love for her that startled him almost to tears.

  “My dear dear Elizabeth—if we can begin again—over there—I’ll never hurt you again. I promise.”

  Half sadly, half laughing,

  “Oh, yes, you will,” she retorted. “You won’t change because we’re living among strangers. And American women are hideously attractive. You have a snob value, too.”

  “Elizabeth!” he protested, shocked and amused.

  “I didn’t say you were a snob! I said that, in America, a successful writer counts twice—for himself and as a figure. It’s annoying that I have more to lose than the wife of a dentist or a banker.”

  “Nonsense,” said Heron. His head ached. “My God, how tired I am.”

  “Why not go to bed?”

  “That would be idiotic,” he said irritably. “We might still, I suppose, get away this evening.”

  “But if the plane comes, it can’t leave again in five minutes.”

  “Don’t nag at me,” he said. “I can’t possibly sleep.”

  The door opened, and the girl, the young ferry pilot—he had forgotten her name—poked her head round it.

  “Mrs. Heron,” she said, “Nick wants you.”

  “I’ll come. Thanks,” Elizabeth said quickly.

  She hurried off, and he followed her, dragging himself with an effort. Extraordinary, he thought, the energy of women—at this moment it offended him.

  Cordelia stood aside to let them pass her in the doorway. She was about to come into the room when she saw the two old generals approaching it across the airfield, and fled back. They were both—the impressive lumbering Thorburn, with his big head and stained shabby uniform, and the other, the jockey, Andy called him, lively in spite of his lumbago, like a terrier hopping on three legs—ridiculous. But she could not face them. How on earth—supposing he notices you at all—do you talk to a general? As she closed the door softly, she heard Clarke—they were almost in the room now—saying, “At my time of life, old boy …”

  At his time of life, she th
ought—what?

  “…this running away in aeroplanes,” Clarke said, “is nothing short of absurd. Madness.”

  Half pushing, half helping him towards one of the leather armchairs, Thorburn said brusquely,

  “Nothing wrong with your time of life. You’re younger than I am. You shouldn’t have lumbago—it’s a vulgar disease.”

  “I’m a vulgar fellow,” retorted Clarke. “Can’t help it. I was born vulgar. I tell you it’s ridiculous.” In a cracked voice, he sang—he had a prodigious memory for songs he had heard perhaps only once, when he was a child—“Fancy me in the altogether, Posing as Venus among the heather, At my time of life.”

  “Venus my foot,” growled Thorburn. You’re an old fool.” He laughed, showing his strong blackened teeth through a moustache he let grow much too long—it looked as if the mice had been at it.

  Kent walked in at this moment from the airfield. Turning, Thorburn asked,

  “Well? Any signs of your plane?”

  “No, sir,” said Kent. “I should think to-morrow.”

  “I’m not worried,” Thorburn said sharply; he was vexed by the comforting tone of Kent’s voice. “Too old to worry. … May I ask what you’re doing here, on this preposterous airfield?”

  “Oh,” Kent said, “I think you would call it a convalescent job, sir. I was expecting to be fetched back to my squadron—and Sergeant Marriot would have been sent for for treatment—but then the roof fell on us. I mean the evacuation. We’ve been fairly busy.”

  “H’m. And Miss Hugh-Brown? What’s she here for?”

  Less casually,

  “Communication pilot, sir. If you look about under a blade of grass out there, you’ll see her aircraft.”

  A pretty slack goings-on, the general reflected. It was not his business; he liked the look of the young man standing in front of him, but he did not approve—on principle, he did not approve.

  “Convalescent, eh?” he muttered. “You and your sergeant?”