A Future Arrived

by Phillip Rock

  “Let’s settle for pink gins and a mixed grill at that chop house in Magpie Alley.”

  “Jolly good for you. Spoken like a true Fleet Streeter.”

  The interior was dark oak, smoky, and pungent with the smell of beer, whisky, and meat spluttering on red-hot grills. It had been the haunt of Fleet Street journalists and lawyers from the nearby Temple for over a century. They squeezed into a corner booth near the long, crowded bar.

  “To you,” she said, lifting her glass.

  “To us.”

  John Baker, a hefty, red-faced man of forty who looked like a rugby player and dressed like a Piccadilly dandy, leaned toward them from the bar, a whisky soda clenched in one beefy paw. “’Allo, Jennifer … Thax. Bloody good opener, what? The lion has teeth, indeed! Eye catcher.”

  “I hope so,” Albert said quietly.

  “And congrats to you, Thax. Your name’s on the list. Jacob the golden one passed me up, but that was to be expected, what?”

  Albert downed his drink and signaled a waiter for another. “Too useful where you are, Johnnie. No one could run the city desk like you. It purrs like a watch.”

  “Or ticks like a cat, old lad. Yes, I know what you mean. There is oft a penalty for being too bloody good at what one does. I shall no doubt get a hefty raise if I know Jacob. Compensation for the slight, which I will squander on pointless frivolities.”

  “God broke the mold when he made him,” Albert said after the editor had moved off down the bar.

  “What was he talking about? Congratulations for being on what list?”

  “Oh, nothing much to speak of. A guessing game going on at the paper.”

  “About what?”

  “It’s hardly worth mentioning. Let’s order. I’m starved.”

  “I really would like to know,” she persisted.

  The waiter brought his drink and he ordered two mixed grills. Sipping the gin, he looked at her and noticed the tautness of her expression, the anxiety in her eyes. “Very well. Jacob’s forming a new venture … Weekly Post. A news magazine, fairly condensed stories of the week’s happenings. On the order of the American weeklies. There will be an editor-in-chief and four sub-editors. At least ten people that I know of are in line for the jobs.”

  She let out her breath slowly. “And you’re one of them?” Her hand impulsively found his. “But … how wonderful. How completely and absolutely marvelous!” She sat back against the seat with a deep sigh, as though relieved of some terrible burden. “I’m certain Jacob will choose you. Foreign-affairs editor … that would be perfect for someone with your qualifications.”

  “There are many men with my qualifications.”

  “I’m sure there must be, but you could do the job as well as any of them. Didn’t Jacob say anything about it when you saw him yesterday?”

  “He dropped a hint or two … and I let him know my feelings. But let’s get off the subject. I was thinking that we could do with a week’s holiday. What would you say to this … fly to Paris in a few days and take a suite at the Crillon—the honeymoon suite, Jenny.”

  “Well,” she said softly, “not the most romantic atmosphere for a proposal. No moon or starlight, not even a violin.”

  “Lamp chops and sausages spluttering on a grill.”

  “Original. But then you’re different from most men in all ways. Yes, Thax. I rather like that idea.”

  “I realize that Vicky and Gerald will be having a stylish wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square … bridesmaids and rice. Sorry to make you settle for a registry office.”

  “I like registry offices, not that I’ve ever been in one, but they sound so solidly official. The awesome power of the British civil service behind our I dos.”

  The food came—chops, sausage, grilled kidney and tomato, crusty potatoes. Jennifer ate with gusto and exhilaration.

  “I was thinking,” she said. “We should redecorate the flat. To be practical, we shouldn’t rush a nursery for a year or two. Soho may not be as chic as Chelsea, but one couldn’t find a flat there of that size for love or money. And besides, Colonel-Cook Vassilievich would be desolated if we left. We could turn the spare bedroom into a proper office for you. Bookshelves on three walls, some good oak files. Replace all the furniture. We could take a run down to Lulworth Manor and loot what we wanted. There are so many lovely pieces enshrouded in dust cloths … Sheraton and Hepplewhite …”

  Albert picked at his food. “I think that’s a good idea. It will keep you occupied.”

  “Us, dear. The week may belong to Uncle Jacob, but your weekends belong to me—and I shall tell him so. No seven-day labors for you.”

  He pushed his plate aside, the meal barely touched. “I told Jacob yesterday that I wouldn’t join the magazine staff. I told him why and he agreed with my reasons. My name was on that list, Jenny, but it’s scratched off now.”

  She could only stare at him numbly for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not suited to be an editor of other men’s work. I’m a reporter, foreign correspondent—call it what you will. I find the story and write it. It’s what I do and I do it well. It’s what I want to do now.”

  “You want to do,” she said hollowly.

  He felt shaken, looking at her beautiful, stricken face. “I know you’d prefer me to work in London, but that’s not possible.”

  “Yes it is.” Her voice had an edge of anger to it.

  “Hitler’s on the verge of taking over Bohemia and Slovakia, Jenny, not Kent and Surrey. The story is in Prague, and if all the guesses are right, Warsaw in a few months’ time.”

  “Any number of reporters could go.”

  He attempted a smile but found it difficult. “I know how disappointed you must feel. It’s been wonderful being together the past few months, but I won’t be going away forever.”

  “How long were you in Spain?”

  “Thirteen, fourteen months, but …”

  She shook her head. “I won’t let you go without me.”

  “That’s just not possible. The situation there is too perilous, even if I could get you a travel permit. Look, Jenny, there are going to be many trips we can take together, but not to countries that are on the brink of war. I won’t be gone too long and when I get back—”

  “Stop it!” she said fiercely. “You sound like my father. My mother had to listen to that all her life. I won’t be an … army wife!”

  She slid out of the booth and stood up. He reached out and held her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I must get some air. Please don’t follow me. I want to think this out alone.”

  He reluctantly let go of her sleeve. “Will you be coming home later?”

  “Home?” A bitter little smile hardened her mouth. “We don’t have a home, Thax.”

  THE MARQUESS OF Dexford lay dying in his London house. He was eighty-two and had lived a good life. He was experiencing a slow but painless decline and there was nothing to be done that would reverse the inevitable. He lay sleeping in his bed, nurses in constant attendance watching over him.

  The doctor slipped the stethoscope from his ears and straightened up. “No change,” he said to Winifred. “I see no point in giving him any more digitalis.”

  “No,” she said, reaching down and touching her father’s cheek. “He looks so peaceful.”

  “He is—and thank God for it.”

  They left the room and walked down the winding stairs to the front hall.

  “I’ll call back this evening.”

  “It’s almost over now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Winifred. Just a matter of time. Could be days … or even hours. Do your brothers know?”

  “They’re flying up from Capetown. Should be here tomorrow.”

  “Not that he’d know. Still, it’s nice to have one’s family about you.” He caught sight of Jennifer standing in the open door of the library. “Hello, Jennifer … or is it Victoria?”

  “Jennifer, Dr. Powell.”

&n
bsp; “Brought the two of you into this world and still can’t tell you apart. You’re the oldest … by about five minutes.”

  “I wondered why I felt so ancient.”

  She poured two cups of tea while her mother was seeing the doctor out. “I took the liberty,” she said, handing a cup to her as she came into the library.

  “Thanks,” Winifred sighed. “I need it.”

  “How’s Grandfather?”

  “The same. Dying.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be an awful strain on you.”

  “He had a long, good life, Jenny, and he’s just drifting away in sleep. I’m grateful for that.”

  They sat side by side on a sofa, Jennifer stiffly, holding the cup between her hands. “You haven’t said a word about my going back to stay with Vicky.”

  “I assumed something happened between you and Albert and that if you wanted to tell me about it you would.”

  “He left for Prague yesterday. He wanted to marry me before he left. I said no.”

  “I see.” She took a sip of her tea. “Actually, I don’t see at all. I was under the impression you loved him.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why?”

  “Love isn’t enough. I want more out of a marriage.”

  “It would suffice for most people.”

  “Was it always enough for you, Mama? Weren’t there times … when it was not nearly enough?”

  “We … had some difficult periods, yes.”

  “The plight of the army wife.”

  “My early years with your father were more difficult than most. We were separated often, and for such long stretches of time. That was before Kate was born. He was always a stormy petrel and the War Office wanted to be rid of him. So they gave him the worst possible tours of duty in an attempt to force him out. God knows I was on their side and tried my best to make him resign. Nothing would have made me happier than to have seen him with a job in a civvy street. Father had lined up a position for him with an insurance company.” She laughed. “Can you imagine your father going off to work every morning in a dark suit and a bowler?”

  “You didn’t laugh at the idea then, did you?”

  “No. Not then.” She looked away to the tall windows. An oblong of pale, March sky. The trees of Cadogan Square. “I shall be candid, Jenny. There were moments when I hated him for the type of life he forced me to live. He hung on to his commission through stubbornness and pride and we both suffered for it. There was even a time when I thought I could leave him.”

  “Jacob Golden,” Jennifer said in a flat tone.

  Winifred stiffened. “Why do you say that?”

  “A child’s perceptions. A way you would glance at one another. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. We had an affair. Brief. Intense. I wished with all my heart that I didn’t love your father as much as I did. I felt that I could be happy with Jacob. He sensed my turmoil and confusion and used his political power to force the army into recalling Fenton from Iraq and appointing him to the staff college. It was Jacob’s ultimate gift of love.”

  Jennifer set down her teacup and put her arms around her mother, resting her head against her shoulder. “I’m glad you told me. What do you think would have happened if Papa had left the army when you wanted him to?”

  “It would have destroyed the very qualities I loved. I had married a soldier—for better for worse.”

  “Oh, Mama, I don’t know what to do. I feel so torn. I always swore that my children would never live my sort of life—no proper home, always moving or being separated. Those officers’ wives in India used to haunt me. Frittering away their days at the club while their husbands were off on the frontier for months at a time. Playing too much bridge. Drinking too much sherry. Having their sordid little affairs like Major Bill’s Dora. I would think, God, don’t let that happen to me. I used to envy Cynthia Morrison with a passion because her father was in civil service and came home every night.”

  Winifred smiled, turned her head, and kissed her on the cheek. “Dear Jenny. You’re just angry because Albert didn’t fit your perfect dream. He had the temerity to want to live his own kind of life. But you knew what he did. He doesn’t work in an office. A foreign correspondent, and according to Martin and Jacob one of the best. I can’t tell you what to do now. I can only tell you what I would do.”

  “And that is?”

  “Follow my heart.”

  TELETYPES

  IT IS MARCH 15, 1939—the ides of March—and the assassins strut through the streets of Prague. German motorcycle troops and panzers roar across the Charles Bridge above the icy blue Moldau. Adolf Hitler gazes down on the city from the ancient castle of the Bohemian kings. It is snowing and cold but he is as elated as a child with a new toy. He has swept another country into the Reich without firing a shot. He has liberated the Czech people from the clutches of Jews, Bolsheviks, and democracy.

  BRITISH NEWSMAN JACKBOOTED OUT

  Prague (UP) March 18, 1939. A. E. Thaxton, veteran war correspondent for London’s Daily Post, was ordered to leave Prague today by order of the German Gestapo. No reason was given for …

  There is apathy in France. A shrug of the shoulder. A gesture with the hands. Hitler will take what he wants. There is no point in treaties. The Maginot line stands sullen and powerful from the Ardennes to the Swiss border. There is no danger to the west. Hitler would never bloody his legions against French cannon.

  Neville Chamberlain is stunned and humiliated. The press, even his own cabinet, has rebelled against his infuriatingly conciliatory attitudes toward Hitler’s move. His umbrella of peace has become as much a caricature as Colonel Blimp in his bath towel. Babes in the Wood plays at London’s Unity Theatre. The witty satire on the bumbling politics of appeasement has theatergoers rolling in the aisles. It’s all in fun, but no one at Number 10 Downing Street feels any inclination to laugh. It is finally too much for the prime minister. He is an honorable gentleman with a deep, passionate hatred of war. But he has been played the confidence trick, cheated and lied to. In a speech in Birmingham he turns no cheek.

  What has become of Herr Hitler’s assurance, “We don’t want Czechs in the Reich”? Is this the last attack upon a small state, or is it to be followed by others? Is this, in fact, a step in the direction of an attempt to dominate the world by force?

  Winston Churchill could not say it any better.

  HITLER DEMANDS POLES RETURN DANZIG

  AND PERMIT HIGHWAY TO EAST PRUSSIA

  Warsaw—March 30, 1939 A. E. Thaxton, in an exclusive interview with Polish ambassador to Germany Jozef Lipski, reports …

  Neville Chamberlain, the man who more than any other handed Czechoslovakia to the German Reich, thus ensuring Poland’s indefensibility against German attack, stuns the House of Commons and the world by proclaiming that Great Britain will come to Poland’s aid in case of such an attack. He even persuades a reluctant France to join him in a bilateral agreement.

  “I’ve ’eard that one before,” says the man on the street. More words on paper. More exchanging of ceremonial pens.

  “All very well,” says Major General Fenton Wood-Lacy, “but I’d like to know what we’re supposed to go to war with.”

  He is saying this to Martin Rilke as they watch an exercise of the general’s armored division on Salisbury Plain. The light tanks with their two-man crews and single machine gun look eminently stoppable. Bren gun carriers dash back and forth with the zeal of terriers. “Oh, they look dashing enough—and they’ll do the job if we can persuade Jerry not to shoot at the little darlings.”

  The Mark II tanks, the Matildas, look more impressive, but there are so few of them—and so many teething problems. The treads break down after a hundred miles, and the radio, in those that have one, is erratic.

  “I’m not overly impressed,” says Martin. “Thank God you have a navy.”

  Home defense is of more importance to the prime minister—the need for the right little, tight little island. Ant
iaircraft guns ring the cities. Sluggish barrage balloons, which provide so many jokes for the music-hall comics, float serenely over London. The projected number of RAF fighter squadrons has been greatly increased—to the annoyance of the air marshals who firmly believe that only bombers win wars. Women work extra shifts stitching fabric to the frames of Hawker Hurricanes. The all-metal-skinned Spitfires crawl with agonizing slowness along the production lines. Young men to fly these planes are being trained through the university air squadrons, the Auxiliary, and the Volunteer Reserve.

  The euphoria of Munich is not even a remembered dream. In the offices of Calthorpe & Crofts, Arnold Calthorpe sees the orders for pacifist books dwindle to nothing. His vision of universal peace shattered, his business on the brink of ruin, he publishes a novel sent to him by a middle-aged spinster in Yorkshire. It’s an absurd tale of wanton women and lusty men in eighteenth-century England. The pure escapism of it strikes a chord in a nervous, if committed race, and the book shatters all records for sales in the history of the British publishing industry.

  The French troops sit in the Maginot line and gaze toward the Rhine. The Paris press dub it the “Shield of France.” The men in the line call it le trou—the hole. They wait deep underground in air-conditioned comfort. Well fed, lying naked under sun lamps once a day. They are bored, indifferent. Je m’en fous is the current saying—to hell with it. None of them want war. The cold shadow of Verdun touches them all.

  “There is something disturbing about the Maginot line,” says Martin in a broadcast from London to the United States in August:

  It is not so much a line of fortifications as it is a state of mind. A philosophy for survival. A talisman against disaster. Walt Disney’s little pigs in their straw house. It covers the least likely route of invasion should France be attacked. A route ignored utterly by the German general staff in nineteen fourteen. It is vast, awe inspiring, deadly, impregnable to assault. Observing it, I could not help but think of a huge battleship—embedded in concrete, incapable of shifting its firepower where it might be needed most.