A Future Arrived

by Phillip Rock

  “God forbid.” He rummaged in the basket. “They even provided a corkscrew and two glasses. White or red?”

  “Red. It warms the blood better.”

  “Chilly?”

  “Not yet, but it’s time to get fortified. Those clouds blowing in will cover the sun in about an hour.”

  The clouds did more than that and in less time. They brought a misty rain swirling in on the wind. Albert struggled to put up the canvas top while Jennifer hurriedly repacked the basket and carried it to the car. There were no side curtains and they huddled in the seats with the picnic blanket drawn around them like a tent.

  “It’ll blow over in a few minutes,” Albert said.

  She shook her head. “I know this coast. It’ll get a good deal worse before it gets better. We could go to the caretakers’ cottage. They’ll have a fire going.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Not unless you do. I’m quite cozy here. Is there any claret left?”

  “Nearly half a bottle. I stuck it behind the seat.”

  He half turned to reach back for it, brushing against her as he did so. She placed her hands against his chest, moving her palms lightly across the softness of his sweater. She arched her back and strained against him as he put his arms around her and kissed her, her hands sliding to the small of his back, pressing him closer.

  “You’re very lovely,” he whispered against her mouth. “Beautiful.”

  She pulled her head back, eyes closed, lips parted. “I’ve never felt quite this way.”

  He smiled and kissed the hollow of her throat. “Deviled eggs and red wine.”

  She rested her head on the back of the seat and studied him with a grave, thoughtful expression. “I couldn’t get you off my mind yesterday. Found it hard to go to sleep last night. I kept thinking of you … that flat … the Russians and their sad songs. I’m really not myself today.”

  “Aren’t you? I rather like you this way. How are you usually?”

  “More … in control of myself.”

  “You seem calm enough to me.”

  “Not inside. I … I think I’m falling in love with you, Thax.”

  He drew away from her and watched the rain pelt against the windshield, driven almost horizontal by the wind. “I know I love you, Jenny. Knew it the moment I saw you that day at Abingdon Pryory. A reporter’s instinct.”

  “Have you ever been in love before?”

  “Every second Tuesday when I was in college.”

  “What were they like?”

  “I can’t remember one face. Just girls to go to the pictures with or the pubs, argue philosophy and the state of the world. Undergraduate romance. Intense but shallow.”

  “Yes. I felt the same way about a man in India once. A Lieutenant someone-or-other. He had a small mustache.”

  “Well, there you are. Can’t take a chap with a small mustache seriously, can you?”

  “I can take you seriously,” she said, the words barely audible over the rain.

  He tapped his fingers against the dash. “Not the wisest idea, perhaps. Journalists and sailors.”

  “What my sister would refer to as ‘no-strings.’ None at all.”

  He looked at her and she was staring at him. He could feel her intensity, her need. He reached for her hands and squeezed them between his own. “Shall we go back to London, Jenny?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly, leaning toward the starter button. “As quickly as possible.”

  HE LAY NAKED on the bed under a sheet and watched her come into the room in his bathrobe. The light had faded and the glow cast by the restaurant sign bathed the room in soft green and gold. She walked slowly to the bed and sat beside him, one hand holding the edges of the robe together. He smiled at her and said, in mellifluous tones: “And now Miss J. Wood-Lacy looking a vision in this season’s fabric rage … tattered terry by Prince Albertino of Milan.”

  She did not laugh as she curled her body beside him and rested her head on his chest. Her hair was still damp from the bath. “I feel … so odd all of a sudden, Thax.”

  “Do you?” He stroked her shoulder, the familiar cloth, threadbare and in need of a wash. “Nothing odd about feeling odd.”

  “I’ve never … made love before.”

  “Really? What a shocking surprise. And you ten times married and only twice divorced.” He sat up on one elbow and brushed his lips across her cheek. “No wonder you’re nervous. Nothing like rituals to take the starch out of anyone. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then get dressed. We’re going downstairs for dinner. Borscht with sour cream … shaslik or stroganoff … solianka, and pony glasses of ice-cold vodka. How does that sound to you?”

  She raised her head, smiling at him. “Lovely.”

  “And then, my darling, you can drive to your cozy flat in your cozy little car, or you can come back up here.” He teased her lips with his. “Either way … I love you.”

  HE STOOD IN front of the window at dawn and glanced out across Lower James Street. It was silent below except for the gentle gurgle of rain down the drainpipes. Beyond the shadowed buildings he could hear the steady, never ceasing hum of the city, constant as blood coursing through living veins. Walking back to the bed he looked down at Jennifer sleeping peacefully under the blankets. Her face was in profile on the pillow, mouth parted, a wisp of dark hair across her forehead. She held the pillow in her arms and this movement had pulled down the blankets below her bare shoulders to reveal one small, uptilted breast.

  He put on the terry-cloth robe—that now and forever held the scent of her body—and went into the kitchen. He put water on the gas ring and then walked into the drawing room and turned on the lamp over the large table he used as a desk. All the papers that had been sent over by messenger on Sunday were stacked beside his typewriter along with a note from Jacob. He glanced at the note again while waiting for the kettle to begin singing …

  Thax: Just a few things for you to read while on holiday. These are the very latest figures on aircraft, ship, tank, weapons, etc., production in U.K. and the counterpart production figures from Germany. Cannot totally rely on the German figures as being completely accurate or up to date, but they do give a relationship between what they have and we have which is frightening in its implications. A sense of defeatism is endemic here, as you know, and is constantly being fed by statements from Col. Lindbergh and the American ambassador, both of whom see Germany …

  The kettle whistled for him and he made a small pot of tea which he took to his desk.

  … Thax, the widely accepted “fact” that six hundred thousand English men, women and children would die in the first Luftwaffe raid is utter nonsense. Such a figure would only be possible if we had not one fighter plane to oppose them and if the great mass of our population stood dumbly in the streets and allowed themselves to be massacred. Your articles must stress need for continued air-raid precaution drills and stress and stress again the deterrent factors of (1) Spitfire-equipped fighter squadrons and (2) the four-engine bombers still in desultory planning stage, planes capable of hitting any part of Germany with fourteen-thousand-pound bomb loads—six times the capacity of their Dorniers. You must also point out …

  He sipped his tea. A clock ticked on the mantel. He could hear the clop-clop of the milkman’s horse entering the street from Golden Square. Seven-ton bomb loads and Spitfire fighters! Death’s gray instruments.

  He set his cup of tea on the table, switched off the lamp, and went back into the bedroom. Jennifer was still deeply asleep, lying on her back now, arms flung behind her head. He took off the robe and slipped under the covers, pressing his body against the warm loveliness of her, fingers touching the smooth, rounded flesh where blood pulsed and life flowed.

  10

  SHE WAS DISCREET but knew it would be only a matter of time before it dawned on someone in her family that she was having an affair. She had lunch with her mother at the Savoy one afternoon in early Novem
ber.

  “I had a long talk with Vicky yesterday,” Winifred said, toying with the orange in her Manhattan. “She told me she doesn’t see much of you lately.”

  “I know, but I’ve been terribly busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh, a million things. Research mostly … organizing notes and material … typing and using a Dictaphone machine. Honing the skills I learned at Calthorpe’s.”

  She eyed her daughter closely. “I must say, the work seems to agree with you. I’ve never seen you look so … radiant.”

  “Thank you, Mama. I feel radiant, as a matter of fact.”

  “And who are you doing all this work for?”

  “A journalist on … one of the dailies.” She picked up the menu and studied it. “How does the coquilles St. Jacques sound to you?”

  “Does he pay you much?”

  “Not too much, but money’s not important, is it? I mean to say, if one is happy at a job …”

  “Do you work in Fleet Street?”

  “Fleet Street? Not exactly.”

  “Where then?”

  “Really, Mama, why this sudden curiosity?”

  “I hardly relish being an inquisitor, Jenny, and I know that it’s none of my business. You are free to do what you wish, but it’s not like you to be anything but forthright. You’ve pretty much moved in with him, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I spend a lot of time with him.”

  “Vicky put two and two together and came up with Albert Thaxton. Is that right?” She could see the answer in her daughter’s eyes. “He was a charming boy and I imagine he turned into a charming man. Why are you ashamed of him?”

  “Ashamed? He’s the most wonderful person in the world.”

  “Then why be so circumspect? Sharing a quiet love affair is hardly a hanging offense.”

  Jennifer stirred her martini with the speared olive. “I was going to tell everyone about him sooner or later. When I felt certain this would last.”

  “Last? Affairs either end or turn into something far more complex.”

  “I feel certain this one will turn into something grand. It’s not just sexual attraction.”

  “I hope so, although passion can be a powerful reason to stay together. But passion, to the degree you obviously feel it now, can’t last forever. What turns a love affair into something richer is love itself … the love of sharing … common goals and purposes … the unselfishness of blending two lives into one.”

  “I understand, Mama. I enjoy being with him, helping him with his job, being around him. I believe with all my heart that we can make a go of it.”

  “Well,” Winifred said, raising her glass, “you certainly have my blessing.”

  “Thank you. I hope Daddy is as understanding.”

  “Dear Jenny,” she laughed, “if he could cope with Vicky all these years he can certainly adjust to you.”

  They led a quiet life, rarely going out or having more than four friends in for dinner, but as the new year approached Jennifer decided they should throw a party.

  “How do the hors d’oeuvres sound to you?” she asked one night, coming into the drawing room with a notebook in her hand. “Caviar, smoked Scotch salmon with capers on toast squares, assorted canapés and pâtés.”

  Albert, hunched in front of his typewriter, glanced up in bemusement. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You didn’t hear one word I said.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking of something.”

  “What?”

  “The Churchill-Baldwin debates of 1935.”

  She put the notepad on the table and sat on his lap. “That’s what I love about you, Thax. I need help with the menu and you’re drifting in the past with Stanley Baldwin.”

  He slid a hand inside her silk pajamas. “I’ve always found something highly erotic about Baldwin and his thick wool suits.”

  She pushed his hand away. “Stop, please. You’re always trying to turn me into a wanton.”

  “I don’t have to try very hard.”

  “No. I’m easily aroused and you ruddy well know it.”

  “Menu,” he said. “Fish and chips will do nicely.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I’ve already discussed the matter with Vassily. A dinner fit for a czar, he said. He just needs to know how many to cook for.”

  “About thirty, I expect.”

  He whistled softly. “Can we cram that many in?”

  “With a little rearranging of furniture. A man with your vast circle of friends will need a larger place one day.”

  “With room for a nursery?”

  She got slowly from his lap and leaned back against the edge of the table facing him. “I promised no strings, Thax. Remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this a proposal?”

  “Let’s say it’s a proposal for a proposal. I wouldn’t want to spring anything on you. Girls should be prepared for all sorts of surprises … clean undies in case of an accident. That sort of thing. We love one another. There has to be more to a marriage than that, but at least we’ve passed the first test with colors flying.”

  “Three months. Still honeymoon fever.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He reached out and drew her to him gently. “And a delightful fever it is, too.”

  “Yes,” she said, touching his face. “More satisfying than I ever thought possible.”

  SHE SANK INTO sleep, his body curved against her back, an arm around her in comforting possession. But in her dreams there was only an immense hollowness … shadows of emptiness. She was standing in a room, windows flung wide to face an empty sea. The room seemed endless, vast walls and floors stretching away forever. All empty. And there was such sadness, a longing for something irretrievably lost. She sat up with a strangled sob, hands pressed to her mouth. Perhaps the cry had only been in the dream. He had not stirred. His breathing as gentle as the snow drifting against the windowpanes.

  “Is that the last article?” she asked at breakfast.

  He glanced from the typewritten sheets propped against the sugar bowl. “Of this series. I have to go to the office this morning for a conference with John, Farnsworth, and Jacob. Map out what’s needed for the next group.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “A few. Along the lines Jacob discussed. Resurgent, vital Britain. Rising employment and humming factories; a commitment to defend our shores and our skies; an assurance to foreign investors and customers that we will never be added to Hitler’s list of enslaved people.”

  She clapped her hands. “Bravo! When are you standing for Parliament?”

  “Very amusing. Anyway, you get the idea. It will mean a few trips to Coventry, Birmingham, Sheffield, and etcetera. You’re more than welcome to come along.”

  “All the garden spots of the realm.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try to do my next research on the Riviera.”

  She poured them both coffee. “How long will this take?”

  “I’m not sure. A month or two.”

  “And then?”

  He shrugged, reaching for the cream. “Journalists and sailors, remember? Always prepared to sail where the wind blows.”

  “Not all journalists. Take John Baker … or Farnsworth.”

  “Editors, my pet. A different breed of cat.”

  “I think you’d make a marvelous editor.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps in twenty years … when my old backside yearns for a padded swivel chair.” He caught sight of the wall clock. “Cripes, getting late.”

  She watched from the drawing-room window as he hurried toward a taxi, fending off the sleet with his umbrella. A man going to work—as thousands of others were doing on this cold London morning.

  THE GREAT BELLS rang the hour—the final midnight of the year. From St. Paul’s and St. Clement Danes and on across the city, peal by jubilant peal. In Soho, people took to the streets with rattles and paper horns. From the Café Moskva came the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” played on balal
aika and violin. The sound drifted to the upstairs flat.

  A correspondent from Reuters, who had been with Albert in Spain, raised his glass and expressed the sentiments of just about everyone in the room. “Farewell nineteen thirty-eight. Jolly glad to see you go!”

  “I will always cherish nineteen thirty-eight,” Jennifer whispered as she gave Albert a kiss.

  He smiled and kissed her back. “I shall cherish the year as well.”

  SHE DID THE driving on the wintry roads while Albert huddled beside her, working on his notes or coaxing the heater to give a little more warmth. Coventry and Birmingham, Sheffield and Manchester—a similarity of bleakness. Factories, foundries … aircraft assembly plants, rolling mills. Nights in provincial hotels, correlating the day’s notes, typing the rough drafts. A hard but exciting trip for Jennifer, seeing a Britain she had never seen before. Oldham and Merseyside, Newcastle and Jarrow. Albert collected the background material he needed in three weeks and they returned to London.

  Her sense of unease began to grow the closer he came to finishing the articles. The clatter of his typewriter in the small hours of the morning seemed almost ominous to her as she lay sleepless in bed. When she did fall asleep, she would often have the dream … the empty rooms and deserted landscapes … the aching feeling of loneliness.

  He took her down to the paper as the edition carrying the first article in the series started through the giant presses. He handed her a copy, still smelling of ink. There was gaudy artwork … the British lion baring its fangs …

  THE LION HAS TEETH

  A. E. Thaxton

  “You can keep it as a souvenir,” he shouted in her ear.

  She yelled back: “I will. A lot of my own sweat went into it.”

  He put an arm around her and led her out of the cavernous room, the presses thundering like the machinery of some gargantuan ship.

  “You need a suitable reward,” he said as they took a lift up to the ground floor. “Let’s say … champagne and dinner at the Ritz.”