The Alien

by Josephine Bell

  “Quite,’’ the young man answered shortly. Colin’s unnecessary remarks and silly care for his furniture had flared his smouldering irritation. Another bloody delay, he told himself. God, would they ever get back into Higlett that night?

  He felt Ann’s hand slip into his.

  “Who is it? How did you find him?’’ she asked quickly.

  “Mrs. Ogden. Saw him looking in; just before he collapsed, poor chap.’’

  “Where is Mrs. Ogden?’’ Colin said, impatiently. He and Ogden had stretched the limp body on the row of chairs and moved the oil heater close.

  “Gone up with Margaret to get out some blankets to put over him,’’ Ann said. “Can’t we at least take off those boots? Before the ambulance—’’

  “What ambulance?’’ Colin asked coldly. “The telephone was disconnected a fortnight ago.’’

  “Oh, then—’’

  “It’s up to us,’’ Stephen said. “Got any brandy in the house, Colin? Gin? Anything?’’

  “No.’’

  “Right. I’ve got a tot in the car. I’ll get it.’’

  “I’ll warm up this hot water again,’’ Ann said. “Take too long to make fresh tea. The pot seems pretty good. Why did he have to come here, poor mutt, where we haven’t even got a hot-water bottle handy?’’

  “Yes – why?’’ said Colin, slowly.

  He was staring down at the man’s jersey, at the broad chest that began to rise and fall now with deep breaths and shuddering sighs. For across it in letters that had once been white and now were dirty yellow with age and oil was the word, JIHИH in Cyrillic letters. And this, he had made it his business to discover that morning in Higlett, was the name of the trawler that had taken shelter under St. Jude’s Head and was, Stephen had told him, just now putting out to sea.

  Chapter Two

  Stephen, hurrying back into the room with his flask, found his brother-in-law standing quite still, staring down at the rescued man. The latter, on the other hand, was moving his head from side to side, opening and shutting his hands. He seemed to be in some danger of falling off his narrow berth.

  “Hadn’t we better prop him up a bit?’’ Stephen said. “What are you looking at?’’

  “The name on his jersey. The name of his ship. Lenin.’’

  “Oh, that’s what it means, is it? I wondered when I saw it on the trawler’s stern as she moved off.’’

  “You saw—?’’

  “Through the – through your glasses,’’ Stephen explained. “Don’t know their alphabet, but of course I noticed his jersey was the same. Anyway, there isn’t any other ship in the bay. Look out, he’ll be off there in a second!’’

  Stephen’s embarrassment was relieved by their patient, who suddenly opened his eyes, lifted his head and began to struggle into a sitting position. The two men helped him up and while Colin steadied him Stephen poured a generous tot into one of the cups on the tray and Ann, who was back with the kettle, added some hot water.

  “Down the hatch,’’ Stephen said cheerfully, holding the cup to the man’s lips. The seaman took it from him and though his hands shook violently, managed to hold it as he drank. When he had emptied it he held it out to Stephen, saying a few unintelligible words in a hoarse voice.

  “Polish,’’ said Colin.

  “Polish for what?’’ Stephen demanded.

  “He said ‘God bless you’,’’ Colin answered, gruffly.

  “Poor devil. Lucky we were still here.’’

  “My fault, that, wasn’t it?’’ Colin said, with a bitter little smile.

  “More brandy?’’ Ann asked firmly, determined to stop this futile, unseemly bickering. “Or tea this time?’’

  “No – understand,’’ the man said slowly.

  She held up the flask, pointing to it first, then to the teapot. He shook his head at the latter, but turned his eyes to the flask and nodding his head vigorously, said “Da – da.’’

  “He says yes,’’ Colin translated. “Russian this time.’’

  “So I gathered,’’ Ann answered, laughing and pouring more brandy into the cup. A slow grin spread over the seaman’s face.

  Stephen turned to Colin, saying in a tone of exaggerated admiration, “I say, old boy, you don’t half know your Iron Curtain lingoes, do you?’’

  Colin flushed angrily, but already Stephen’s attention had moved back to the recovering victim, whose colour had changed remarkably for the better, whose eyes had brightened and who was smiling with open pleasure at Ann’s half-anxious, half-pleased face close above his own.

  It was the expression in his eyes, Stephen said afterwards, that brought recognition. The light flashed in his mind when the eyes widened and brightened as they used to do, as he had seen them do so many times at Margaret’s approach when he himself, a boy at home on holiday from school, had found his sister was engaged to a friendly, exciting, inspiring foreigner, who apparently adored her. Her arrival on the scene had always heralded his own easy dismissal.

  “You’re Boris!’’ he cried. “You must be. Boris – Sudenic.’’

  He remembered the surname with difficulty. After all these years he wondered at himself for remembering it at all. He had so seldom used it.

  The man turned, reluctantly, it seemed; puzzled too and uncertain of himself.

  “You know him?’’ Colin said, an incredulous note in his voice. “You can’t know him! What makes you think—?’’

  But Stephen had gone closer, taking Ann’s place, bending down towards the stranger to show him his own face.

  “You’re Boris. I know you’re Boris. Your voice, the way you look, everything. You needn’t be afraid of us. You must recognize me. Have another look. Who am I?’’

  “Stepan,’’ the man said, getting to his feet. “Stev-en, Steven Len – Leng—’’

  “Stephen Lang.’’

  They were clutching one another, laughing, patting one another’s backs, swaying as the big Pole’s uncertain balance pulled Stephen from side to side. Then Boris collapsed sitting on one of the chairs he had left and Ann saw that tears were falling from his eyes to mingle with the other brine still dripping from his hair and beard.

  “Who is he?’’ she cried. A reunion seemed utterly fantastic, impossible.

  Stephen laughed. He was feeling almost hysterical. The surprise, the flood of old memories sweeping through him was too much, added to the day’s frustration and discomfort.

  “Ann,’’ he said, loudly, “allow me to present to you the ci-devant Lieutenant Boris Sudenic, former aide to the Polish military attaché in London. Boris, this is my fiancée, Ann Phillimore.’’

  Once more Boris staggered to his feet, took Ann’s hand and bent automatically to kiss it, but stopped short, took back his own hand, looked at it with disgust, touched his beard and muttered in French, “Mille pardons, Mademoiselle.’’ He shook his head, struggling on in English, “I – sorry. So – wet – so—’’

  He turned to Stephen, clasped him once more in a great bear hug and said earnestly, “The little Stephen! Wonderbar! To be – married – and to one so – beautiful.’’

  He made another little bow in Ann’s direction and once more Stephen saw the steady blue eyes light up with pleasure and boyish admiration.

  All this time Colin had stood a little way off, not moving, not speaking, but watching intently every move the stranger made, noting every word he spoke. Ogden, too, when the recognition stopped him as he was leaving the room, stayed frozen by the open door, too astonished to move.

  Colin now took a step forward, but before he could speak Mrs. Ogden and Margaret appeared, the former carrying blankets, the latter an old tweed coat, a shirt, a pullover and grey flannels she had found in one of the drawers upstairs. She was speaking as she came in.

  “Has he come round? Oh, good. Wrap the blankets round him, Martha, and Ogden, you take these clothes and get him to change into them in the kitchen.’’

  She stopped short when Stephen wheeled round
to her.

  “Don’t you see who it is?’’ he shouted. “Look at him. Look at him!’’

  Margaret’s face whitened but she held her head up, seeing Colin’s face, beyond the stranger’s, harden into a new despair. “Is it – It can’t be—Boris Sudenic?’’

  Stephen gave a great laugh and clapped his friend again on the shoulder.

  “Right first shot. Aren’t you going to say how d’you do to her, Boris?’’

  The Pole took an uncertain step in Margaret’s direction, looking back at Stephen as he did so.

  “I – should know – this lady?’’ he asked, apologetically.

  “You’re damned right you should. Tell him, Margaret.’’

  “Margaret! Oh!’’

  It was a long-drawn whispered sigh, followed by an uncomfortable silence.

  “I recognized you at once,’’ Margaret said, in a hard social voice. “Have I changed so very much?’’

  “We’ve all changed,’’ Stephen said, awkwardly.

  Boris took Margaret’s hand between both of his.

  “Forgive me,’’ he said. “My head – it is not – it does not work—I was going to die I think on the—’’ He took his hands away and made a gesture of using a paddle. “A – wood – flat – with—’’

  He paddled again in the air and laughed suddenly.

  “You came ashore on a life-raft?’’ Stephen suggested.

  “O.K. O.K. Raft. That is the word. I – sorry – I speak so badly – your English.’’

  “Have I changed so very much,’’ Margaret repeated, “that you didn’t recognize me? I knew you, even with your beard.’’

  Boris took her hand again.

  “When I leave England – so long ago – I have – in my heart – a girl – a pretty – a gentille – young girl. Like Ann here.’’ He turned quickly to give her a brilliant smile, then turned back to Margaret and continued earnestly, “I find – a beautiful and gracious lady – with her little brother – a man – in a house that is – to leave – to empty—It is a dream perhaps? I die in the sea or the snow – in a strange dream?’’

  Margaret drew away her hand, turning to Colin, who came forward slowly.

  “We are all quite real,’’ she said, in the slow, rather loud voice the English use for speaking to foreigners. “We saw you outside and brought you in. This is not our house, but I won’t go into long explanations now. This is my husband, Colin Brentwood.’’

  “Mr. Sudenic already knows that,’’ said Colin, icily.

  There was a heavy silence. Stephen and Ann were too surprised to move. Margaret looked at Colin with tired contempt. Boris waited, too polite to answer, or perhaps unable to command sufficient of the English language to sustain an argument.

  The uncomfortable silence was relieved by Mrs. Ogden, who took the clothes from Margaret’s arm and thrust them at her husband, who still waited near the door in a state of frozen astonishment.

  “Old friend or not,’’ she said, briskly, “the poor man needs to get those wet things off him or he’ll be in for pneumonia, and then where’ll we all be for neglecting him? Mr. Stephen, put this blanket round him and take him into the kitchen. You and Ogden between you can get him to strip and put on the things we looked out for him. Not that they’ll be much of a fit, but you’ll have to do your best. The sooner we’re all out of here now, the better, I’m thinking.

  I’m sorry if I seem a bit blunt, Mrs. Colin, but there’s things to be done now and Mr. Colin’ll have to do them, I reckon.’’

  She stopped speaking, out of breath, but as firm as ever. The people in the room obeyed her without question. Boris, giving Ann another smile and glance, meekly submitted to being draped in a blanket and led away. Ann went upstairs to restore order where Margaret and Mrs. Ogden had disarranged the drawers in their search for clothing. Colin and Margaret were left to themselves.

  As soon as the room was free of the others Colin went to the window and stood there with his back to his wife, staring at the empty sea. Margaret dropped into the nearest chair. Her face was suddenly cold, she felt sick, the room was spinning round her.

  “I think I’m going to faint,’’ she managed to say in a small clear voice, trying to get her head down between her knees.

  Colin was in time to prevent her slipping to the floor, though her recovery might have been quicker if she had indeed lain there. However, her collapse was brief and Colin was both helpful and quick in ministering to her. He found a few drops of brandy left in Stephen’s flask. The much-neglected tea, still surprisingly hot, he also forced down Margaret’s unwilling throat, in spite of her protest that she really would be sick if she drank it. She was not sick and presently was able to transfer herself with Colin’s help to one of the arm-chairs, where she lay back thankfully and shut her eyes.

  Colin watched her for a few minutes. His raging jealousy, suppressed, controlled, fought with futile argument, had, in the brief minutes of his learning Boris’s identity, exploded into rage and hate. For fifteen years he had fought a memory, a dream, an illusion, that had stood between him and his love. He had despaired of ever laying this ghost, who continued to possess his wife’s heart, to whom she always returned, who relentlessly, it seemed, defeated all his efforts and hopes to win her back into the real world of the living. For years now he had accepted defeat. It was impossible to fight a wraith, an idealized paragon, a romantic martyred hero. But the defeat, the humiliation, the plain natural jealousy had festered. To what extent, he was, just now, in the fury of release, incapable of understanding. He only knew that he had a real, a living, adversary at last and perhaps the power to destroy him.

  “Who is this man?’’ he said, at last, wishing to have it formally acknowledged.

  Margaret turned her tired, astonished eyes on him.

  “Who? Boris, of course. As you’ve heard. As you must have guessed. The Boris.’’ She closed her eyes. “The only Boris I’ve ever met,’’ she went on, enjoying the sound of the name she had so seldom spoken aloud for twenty long years.

  “The man you were engaged to before the war?’’

  “Yes. Of course.’’

  “You told me he was dead.’’

  She opened her eyes again, wide with indignation. “I thought he was dead. I never heard definitely. Was that surprising? Knowing what happened in Poland?’’

  He had to acknowledge it was not. He was still shaking with rage, forcing himself to control his voice and his impulse to attack.

  “You aren’t suggesting that I knew he was alive, are you?’’

  “I’m not suggesting anything.’’

  “Oh, but I think you are. You always do. If I had known, I wouldn’t have been – I wouldn’t have—’’

  She stopped as the chill thought came to her that Boris, alive, had made no effort to find her. She had tried, through the Red Cross, to find him, but he had not tried to find her. Or perhaps he could not. That must be it. After all, he had come to them from a Russian ship. A prisoner. All these years. While she—

  “The Russians must have caught him and kept him,’’ she said. “That’s why I could never find out what had become of him. He went back to fight, but you know that. I’ve told you often enough. He was recalled months before war was declared. They knew in Poland, of course. He must have been caught between the Germans and the Russians. That’s what I’ve always thought. Haven’t I?’’

  “It’s certainly possible.’’

  Margaret was sunk too deeply in her own confusion to notice the bitter tone in Colin’s voice. The dangerous myth on which she had sustained and balanced her surviving girlhood, a frail bridge over which she had refused to pass, which she had been unable to leave, was now giving way beneath her, fatally cracked, irreversibly falling. She was too shocked, too frightened to rush forward to firm ground, to safety. Instead she clutched the insubstantial fabric of her myth. Boris had come back to her at last.

  “He hasn’t changed much,’’ she said, smiling faintly.
<
br />   Colin looked at her with contempt, remembering, because he had never forgotten, a photograph of the man she had once shown him and which he was sure she still treasured.

  “Would you have recognized him if Stephen hadn’t?’’

  “Of course.’’

  “He didn’t recognize you.’’

  It was true. She still felt the pain of that cruel blow. But Colin must not know this.

  “Poor man! After getting ashore in that icy water—He must have nearly died. No wonder he passed out when he’d struggled up from the beach. Would you recognize friends you hadn’t seen for over twenty years if you’d just done what he did?’’

  She was talking too fast and too excitedly, she knew, but she couldn’t stop.

  “I think it’s a miracle he made it at all. But he was always enormously strong. He swims like a fish. He can do anything in boats. I remember going sailing with him once—’’

  She forced herself to stop. Colin’s face, which she had only just noticed, frightened her.

  “He ought to be changed by now,’’ she said, more calmly. “I want to know why he came here. It’s so extraordinary. An almost unbelievable coincidence.’’

  “Exactly,’’ said Colin dryly, turning towards the door as he heard footsteps. “The coincidence is unbelievable, isn’t it?’’

  Chapter Three

  The footsteps were not those of the fugitive, but belonged to Stephen and Ann. The pair of them were in high spirits, with flushed faces and bright eyes. They showed every sign of pleasure at the afternoon’s developments.

  “Only half an hour ago,’’ Stephen said, directly he and Ann were inside the room, “I was in a filthy mood, binding about the weather, and the general upheaval here and—’’

  He stopped, careful now not to upset Colin again.

  “And now,’’ Ann said, skilfully side-stepping, “he’s on top of the world because his schoolboy hero’s turned up again. And I must say, he does seem to be very good value.’’