by Vicary, Tim
‘You don't think . . .’ Ruth hesitated. The man's candour had captured her. Despite her personal dislike of him she almost believed him now. He seemed truly to want to explain, and he was a doctor, after all. Nonetheless, in her life in the East End she had met too many liars to take everything she heard at face value. Since he had asked her here, she had one more question.
‘Come on, out with it, Miss Harkness. If you have any more questions let's hear them.’
‘Well . . .’ Ruth swallowed. ‘’Course it was crazy what Mrs Becket said about you corruptin' young girls an' orphans an' all — anyone could see that . . .’
‘I'm glad you think so.’
‘But what if not everything she said was true? If she's got 'old of the wrong end of the stick, like. If what she said does 'appen to some o' them young girls in the orphanage where you work, and you don't know nothing about it. If it was 'appening, as you say, it would be a pretty nasty business, like, and someone ought to look into it. Even if she is a few farthings short of a penny she might 'ave 'eard something from someone else.’
There was a silence. Maybe it lasted less than a minute, but to Ruth it seemed like ten. Somewhere far away in the prison a door clanged shut, and the wind rattled at the windows of the consulting room. Martin Armstrong tapped his pipe thoughtfully on an ashtray.
‘I suppose it's possible. But hardly likely. After all, I can hardly trouble the police about the ravings of a madwoman.’
‘I could 'elp, sir.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Behind the look of amusement and surprise there was definitely a sense of alarm, Ruth thought. Quickly hidden. She pressed on.
‘I could give you a bit of 'elp. Just to sort of check the story out, like.’
Another silence. The grey eyes watched her, thinking. If he refuses, then maybe he's got something to hide, she thought. But if he accepts and there is some truth in it — then what?
‘What help were you thinking of, Miss Harkness, exactly?’ The fat fingers toyed unconsciously with the pipe, reflecting the turmoil of the man's thoughts.
She swallowed again. Why had she said this? ‘To keep an eye on them girls and wardens in the 'omes, maybe. It would be easier for me to talk to 'em than for you. An' I know how girls like that think.’
‘Oh you do, do you?’
Up until then she had almost believed him, but those five words changed her mind. Not the words, but the way he said them. Being a big girl, powerfully built, Ruth had very seldom been looked at in quite that way by men, but she had seen it happen often enough to other girls, and been at once jealous and disgusted. Now, suddenly, there was an unmistakable knowing leer in Dr Armstrong's eyes, a cynical smile on those puffy lips that made her shiver. She felt as though her apron and thick serge dress were not there any more, and he, the Doctor, could see her standing in front of him as naked as when she washed herself alone in the morning. She watched his eyes and the hairy backs of his hands, carefully, ready to run or fight if he got up and came near her.
She heard her voice answer: ‘Oh yes, I think I understand girls like that. When you're poor an' come from a criminal background you could be tempted to do almost anythin’ for money. But it's a dreadful sin, o' course. Mrs Becket's dead right about that. That may be why she got so terrible upset, like.’
‘Quite the young philosopher, I see.’
‘You learn to think a bit, in this job.’
‘No doubt. Well, Miss — er — Harkness, you may have a point after all. I see I am dealing with an intelligent young woman, and I understand your concern. It does you credit. Though as far as I am aware the homes are run in a most proper and excellent fashion.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But maybe there is, as you say, a grain of truth in Mrs Becket's ravings. A very small grain, I hope. Nonetheless, I shall reflect upon your suggestions about how to investigate them. And also whether to take up your offer of help. Since you have shown such concern I shall let you know what I propose to do in a day or so. Is that fair?’
‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’
‘Good. In the meantime, I hope you will accept the truth of what I have told you about Mrs Becket's medical condition, and treat that knowledge in the strictest confidence. She is, I repeat, suffering from paranoid delusions, which is a form of insanity. And this condition will only worsen with shortage of food, so the forcible feeding must continue. I trust you have no objection to that?’
‘Oh no, sir. It's her own choice not to eat.’
‘Quite. I'm glad you see it so clearly. So, Miss Harkness, if that is all . . .’
He rose to his feet, pressing his hands on the top of his desk, and Ruth took an involuntary step backwards. But he had only got up to escort her to the door, like a valued patient. All the way across the room, Ruth wondered how she would disguise the shudder, if he were to be so polite and patronising as to put his arm across her shoulder.
17
‘IT'S VERY quiet, sir, isn't it?’ Simon Fletcher said.
Charles Cavendish glanced at his young ADC. As usual, the boy looked trim, smooth, unruffled. Simon was one of a minority of the UVF who had so far managed to procure an acceptable military uniform, and he wore it with style, the battledress blouse neatly pressed, the Sam Browne belt gleaming with polish, the cap, with its distinctive badge, tilted slightly to the side of his head. Charles smiled, reassured for the moment by his presence.
‘It's always quiet in Bangor, lad,’ he said. ‘Especially at eleven o'clock at night.’
But he knew what Simon meant. As they paced slowly along the promenade, the sound of their boots echoed eerily back at them from the silent boarding-houses on the other side of the road. There were hardly any lights on in the houses, and almost no other sound at all. Just the swish of the sea on the beach to their right, and the rattle of a broken gas lamp in the thin drizzling wind that blew in out of the darkness across Belfast Lough. And the occasional murmur of the other men as they waited, smoking and talking quietly, in small detachments where Charles had posted them around the quay.
‘Do you think anyone knows we're here?’ Simon asked.
Charles glanced at him sharply. It was a question that had begun to gnaw at his mind, now that all the arrangements had been made, and every picket posted. Certainly, no one from the outside world was supposed to know they were there. So far as Charles knew, the entire town of Bangor was sealed off, and had been for the past three hours. The telephone exchange had been occupied, and all the lines earthed; every road in and out of the town was blocked by a detachment of UVF soldiers; no boats could leave the harbour. The police and coastguard stations were surrounded, and such RIC policemen as continued to patrol the streets were accompanied everywhere by a superior force of Charles's men. Charles had planned meticulously, and he believed he had done everything necessary. And still no one, even in the force of nearly a thousand UVF men who occupied the little seaside town, knew for certain what the purpose of the exercise was.
No one, that is, except himself, his three company commanders — and Simon.
Simon, who a few days ago had threatened to betray everything to a foreign journalist, if Charles ever talked of ending their affair again.
Simon saw, by the look on Charles's face, that his casual remark had been misunderstood. It had been a nasty moment, that afternoon, when he had come into Charles's room to find his wife there. Since then, Deborah Cavendish had gone to London, but Charles had remained unusually cold, aloof. Simon regretted the threat he had made, and wanted to make amends.
He laughed lightly. ‘I was only wondering about the old ladies in the boarding houses,' he said, waving his hand casually at the darkened windows. 'I mean, do you think the old biddies turned their lights out so that they could stare at us out of their darkened windows, or do you think they are all tucked up with a hot water bottle and not a care in the world?’
‘The latter, I hope,’ Charles grunted. Despite the silence, he was not in the mood for idle chatter. He
had always found waiting the most arduous part of soldiering. It was the time when there was nothing to do but think, and hope, and worry about what you had forgotten. It was always bad, but tonight it was worse, because so much responsibility rested on him. If anything went wrong in Bangor, he would be blamed, and his position in the UVF, on which he had staked so much, would be lost.
But more than his personal reputation, that of the UVF itself was at stake tonight. So far, everything they had done to resist the extension of Home Rule to Ulster had been an enormous bluff. The rallies at Craigavon, with the dozens of speakers and the biggest Union Flag ever made; the thousands who had signed the Covenant, many in their own blood; the parades and drilling and military operations in which they had practised, over and over again, occupying towns like Bangor — all these had been, fundamentally, a bluff, simply because nine out of ten UVF soldiers had no arms to fight with. They drilled with pick-handles and wooden staves, not rifles.
Tonight, they were here to get those rifles.
While Charles paced along the silent promenade at Bangor, other elements of Operation Lion, the most important task the UVF had ever undertaken, were falling into place along the coast of North Down, Belfast, and South Antrim.
In Larne, about now, Charles hoped, the steamer Clydevalley, with 20,000 of the most modern Austrian Mauser and Mannlicher rifles, and 3 million rounds of ammunition, was about to arrive. A convoy of cars and motor lorries from the UVF motor division — the first such convoy ever organised in military history — should be there, waiting to take them off. Most of the rifles were to be loaded into the cars, but smaller consignments were to be loaded into the smaller ships Roma and Inismurray. They were to be taken by the Roma into Belfast, and by the Inismurray south to Donaghadee, on the North Down coast, where a detachment of men similar to Charles's was waiting to take them off. The last consignment was to be left on board the Clydevalley, so that it could bring them across the mouth of the Belfast Lough to Bangor, where Charles and his men were waiting.
At the same time, in the centre of Belfast itself, a decoy steamer, the Balmarino, was arriving, carrying a perfectly legal cargo of coal. A large UVF detachment was ostentatiously on parade in the centre of Belfast Docks to welcome the Balmarino, and ensure her arrival did not go unnoticed. Both the UVF men and the steamer's crew had orders to be as uncooperative as possible towards the police and Customs officials. On no account were they to be allowed to inspect the Balmarino's hold until late tomorrow morning, by which time the real guns should be speeding away far inland, in hundreds of cars taking them to their future owners.
In theory, then, everything had been thought of. But then, in theory, only twelve men in the entire UVF had these details clear in their minds. And Charles knew that was not true.
What if Simon had told someone?
In the silence, a sound began to bother him. Beyond the swish of the sea and the click of their boots, there was the roar of a motor-cycle engine, somewhere near the edge of the town. Charles glanced past the peak of Simon's cap, and saw a single headlight, and then another, flash into sight at the end of the promenade, and rush towards him.
As they drew nearer, the shattering roar of the motorbike engines re-echoed from the walls of the boarding houses, and Charles felt a twinge of pity for the old ladies asleep inside. Then the first rider spotted him and drew up in a swirl of gravel.
As he killed the engine and saluted, the words came rushing out. ‘Sir, a detachment of troops left Holywood Barracks, sir, half an hour gone, maybe. We didn't see them on the road but we had to run to fetch our bikes first, sorry sir but we hid them in a wood while keeping watch, or we'd have been here sooner.’
‘Wait! Control yourself, man! Start again!’ In the roar of the second bike's arrival Charles had missed half of what the man was saying, but in a couple of minutes he had the picture clear. The two motor-cyclists had been set to watch the army barracks at Holywood, five miles towards Belfast along the coast road. At 10.40 they had seen a detachment of British Army troops march out.
‘Were they armed, man?’
‘Yes, sir, fully equipped in marching order.’
‘How many?’
‘About company strength, sir.’
‘But you didn't pass them on your way here?’
‘No, sir.’
Charles considered the man. Young, but short, square, confident. Cullen, he thought his name was; had served in India as a sergeant before leaving to join the UVF. He would know what he was talking about.
‘All right, I want to have a look at this. Come back with me. Simon, get the car!’
As they followed Cullen's motor-bike along the promenade and up, out of the town, there was a strained silence in the car. Simon drove, his goggles masking his face against the stream of cold air that blew in over the Lancia's low windshield. Charles sat beside him, sunk in thought, gazing out over the dark waters of Belfast Lough, searching the road ahead for the first sign of troops.
‘What will you do if they come?’ Simon asked.
‘God knows.’ Once Charles had encouraged the boy's familiarity; it had been a comfort to him. Now it had begun to grate horribly. The question was too near the bone. He couldn't resist armed, determined soldiers — Simon knew that. If tonight went wrong, the whole bloody cause would probably be lost, forever. Sir Edward Carson would be arrested and imprisoned, and the rest of the UVF High Command would look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. Perhaps because of him.
Bitterly, his voice deliberately hard and cold and clear above the noise of the engine, he said: ‘If they come, I shall ask them exactly how they knew.’
But, for all his anger, as soon as the words were out he wished them unsaid.
Simon drove on for a while, unspeaking. He clashed the gears horribly as he changed them at the foot of a hill. As the car strained slowly upwards, he said: ‘I mean what I say, you know. I've kept my word to you so far. You had no call to say that.’
‘I'll say what I bloody well like! Stop here.’
As the car reached the top of the hill, Charles got out and walked a few paces away down the road, taking his binoculars from their case. It was the highest point on the route; they could see down into Holywood one way, with the distant gas lights of Belfast twinkling beyond; and behind, back into Bangor. In the Lough were the navigation lights of a few ships, moving mysteriously over the coal-black sea. Charles ignored them. He stood beside Cullen and his motorbike, peering down the empty road towards Holywood, listening for the slightest sound of advancing troops. As the sound of the engines died, it became very quiet. Only a damp, insistent breeze gusted around them.
Simon sat very still in the car, his gloved hands clenched tight around the steering wheel. He had never felt hate for Charles so far, but he was coming very close to it now. This had happened to him several times before. It was the pattern of his life . . . His first lover, when he was eight, had been his father. They had made love when his mother was out at work, and Simon had thought, for a while, that this was how he would get all the love he needed in life. It brought him presents, a secret companionship, a father who no longer scowled but sighed and looked relaxed and happy because of what Simon could do for him. What Simon was happy to do for him.
Then one day Simon's father left home, without warning, for another woman! Simon's life had fallen apart. His father returned, occasionally, but after a few months Simon refused to have anything to do with him. Then, one day, he found out where the woman lived. He locked the doors and set fire to the house when she and his father were in it. To his astonishment no one suspected him. Indeed, so far from being found out and punished for what he had done, he was actually rewarded, in a way. For it turned out his father had more money than anyone suspected — enough money to enable Simon's mother to send him to a minor public school, and for him to qualify as an officer in the merchant navy.
As he travelled the world he met other lovers, and a pattern began to repeat itself.
An a
ffair began with the thrill of discovery, the chase, the secret beddings. Always with the adrenalin-surging fear of detection, the excitement of the utterly illegal. Then, sometimes, there was affection, companionship, something that might be called love, on one side or the other. At first on Simon's side but increasingly, as he grew harder, on the other. Never, in his experience, on both. And then always, sooner or later, the relationship was corroded by fear, guilt, and the desire of one or other party to escape.
And when that happened, particularly to mature, established men, they began to realise how seriously, and absolutely, they had put themselves in Simon's power. And how great was his desire for revenge.
With Charles Cavendish, this process had only just begun. Part of Simon's mind still thought of him as a kind, generous man, a father like the one he would always have liked to have. A considerate, if not particularly exciting, lover. A man who had trusted Simon and given him a position of respect in the eyes of society.
But he was about to take it all away, as they all did in the end. Because of a woman — Deborah, Charles's wife. Simon gazed out over the dark waters of Belfast Lough, and realised suddenly that one of the ships — the one far out in the middle, with passenger lights all down its sides — was probably the returning ferry that Deborah Cavendish had taken to England yesterday. Simon gazed down at it with venom, wishing it had sunk or caught fire. With her on it.
But it hadn't, of course. Things like that could be made to happen, but you have to do more than just wish it. Simon thought about that for a while. Then he turned his eyes away from the ship, and gazed instead at the tall man in the long Ulster raincoat and military cap, who was still peering anxiously down the road towards Holywood. It was a man he had loved more than many before. Now that love was stained at the edges, with a growing mould of hatred and distrust. Soon it would be disfigured beyond recall.
