Shuttlecock

by Graham Swift

  I gulped at the wine. Though I had been starved for several days and my belly must have craved sustenance, I could not face the food.

  ‘Ces vêtements, madame. Ils sont à votre mari?’

  ‘Oui. Les Boches l’ont tué. Il y a un an.’

  She left the room and returned with some thick socks and a pair of the sturdy leather boots beloved by the Maquisards and almost impossible, at this stage of the war, to get hold of. I had always preferred to be lighter shod myself, but I did not complain.

  As I was pulling on these boots – like the clothes; they were a size too small and consequently, though they gave protection, they exacerbated the pain of my existing wounds – we heard the unmistakable noise of a German ‘arrival’. Cars, the squeal of tyres, commands – the dreaded barking of dogs. The sounds came from the centre of the village.

  We both stood up. Stabs of pain shot up my legs.

  ‘I must go,’ I said. I wanted to quash any attempt by this good woman to hide me. But she seemed already to have concluded for herself that I stood a better chance by flight.

  I laced my boots. ‘You must hide all this,’ I said, pointing to the stained towels and blanket, the tray of uneaten food.

  ‘Don’t worry. They will know nothing.’

  I believed her.

  The sounds from the centre of the village were beginning to spread out. She went to a back window.

  ‘Quickly.’

  She ushered me to the door through which I had entered and opened it. She must have taken in the significance of the dogs (what presence of mind!) for she pointed to the right (the opposite direction to the one in which I had arrived) and said: ‘Over there – there is a stream. Then after, the forest.’

  I had no time to say more than ‘Merci madame. Mille fois, merci.’ We embraced quickly, just as, in France, two men would have embraced in the same situation. Later, I reflected on this woman’s extraordinary coolness and bravery – all without asking me questions. I was quite sure she would cope with the searching Germans. I did not know who she was and she did not know me. I promised myself that whenever it was possible I would return to thank her properly. But I confess, to my shame, I was never able to trace her.

  I made off in the direction she had pointed out. I had ascertained from a clock in the house that the time was half past one. There were perhaps four hours of darkness left.

  I crossed the little stream, slipping, almost disastrously, on a boulder, and made for the trees. I was now back in the mad world of flicking branches and clawing brambles, with my pursuers, this time, definitely on my trail. I was soon experiencing the paradox that rest, in the middle of great effort, can produce exhaustion. For a good twenty minutes, in the farmhouse, I had regained my breath, quenched my thirst, had my aches and wounds nursed, and the result of all this was not renewed energy but redoubled fatigue. Every movement was now becoming a distinct labour. On top of this, the boots I had squeezed into were beginning to make the already painful condition of my feet intolerable. At some point along the way I did a seemingly senseless thing. I took them off and threw them away (only an hour before I had been craving shoes), retaining only the woollen socks. I even debated whether to remove my borrowed clothing; for though, like the boots, they offered protection against the spears and barbs of the forest, they seemed, after several days of nakedness, a weighty encumbrance.

  I was now, evidently, in a sorry state: making rash decisions based on my immediate physical sensations without any degree of forethought. How would my unshod feet help me when I had to emerge into daylit streets? As I threw off the tight-fitting jacket, it did not occur to me that I was laying a convenient trail of divested garments for my pursuers. Rather, it seemed that, quite deliberately and actually – not as some metaphorical gesture – I was trying to turn myself into an anonymous creature of the woods. In this irrational idea hope seemed to lie. Perhaps I was delirious. Through all the agonies of my flight, I did not lose the sense that the trees, the leaf-strewn ground I trod were my friends. In fact, it grew. Amongst the pines and chestnuts there were sometimes small rustlings and scurryings. Owls hooted. Even as I blundered on, I thought: nocturnal animals are fleeing from me, just as I am fleeing my hunters. If only I could follow their example, disappear into holes and roots. Merge with the forest.…

  At some time after my departure from the village – a matter of hours or only moments, I do not know – I seemed to hear the noise of a stream behind me and of dogs crossing it and tracking along its banks. I had that sensation which sometimes comes in nightmares: that while you are straining every muscle to escape some pursuer, you are really making no ground at all; you remain helplessly in-motion-yet-stationary while your enemy closes. At another time I thought I heard, close behind me, German voices – the snapping voices familiar from the Château. I even thought I saw lights flashing at me through the trees. I don’t know, now, whether I really saw or heard these things or whether they were hallucinations. Once, gunfire seemed to rip the air. When I stumbled and fell it took an age to get up. Then a time came when I could no longer remain on my feet and had to make the decision that the hunted rabbit or the cornered mouse has to make as the dogs draw in or the cat prepares to leap: to crouch, to huddle, offering no token of defence, waiting either to be pounced on and destroyed or for some miraculous intervention of destiny.

  I made a hollow in the undergrowth, covering myself with leaves, and curled up in it. Some tall beech trees groaned in the wind above me. I was shivering, semi-delirious, hungry (I should have eaten when food was offered me), had lost my sense of direction and did not know where I was. I remember thinking, before drifting into merciful sleep, Yes, I am no better than some burrowing animal.

  And destiny was to intervene, miraculously, in the form of the American Seventh Army.…

  [32]

  On the way back from Quinn’s I stopped by at a pub – a little pub on the edge of Wimbledon Common I haven’t been to for some time. I got quite drunk, as if I were celebrating. But didn’t I have something to celebrate? Gain. Loss. Sometimes they’re the same thing. And whether it’s for better or worse, there’s something intoxicating, something exhilarating about those moments which make you realize life won’t ever be the same again. When I got back Marian said, ‘How’s Dad?’ and I looked at her in astonishment. And then I remembered that, of course, Marian thought I’d been to see Dad. ‘Haven’t you been to see Dad?’ she said. ‘Yes, yes. Dad’s fine,’ I said. ‘Fine, fine.’ And then I said, ‘I am going to be promoted. I am going to get Quinn’s job.’

  Quinn’s house – or Quinn’s ground-floor flat, for such it turned out to be – was somewhere in the leafy region between Richmond Park and Richmond proper. Perhaps you know this district of solid old villas set amidst their own miniature woodlands, and little urban cottages along narrow lanes which imitate the country. Through gates and bay-windows and the odd open front door, you catch glimpses of expensively and elegantly furnished interiors – decanters on sideboards, framed prints on the walls, gilt mirrors, that sort of thing. I don’t like neighbourhoods of this sort. They smack of privilege and importance (you see how I betray my envy; the truth of the matter is these houses make me think of Dad and Mum’s house in Wimbledon) and they smack, too, with their burglar-alarms and brick walls capped with broken glass, of distrust, of secrecy. And I don’t like the way these civilized, urbane, well-pampered dwellings appropriate for themselves an air of the countryside as if they alone have a right to it. Because the trees, the leaves, they aren’t really like that at all. They are there for everyone. But, again, perhaps this is envy speaking.

  It took me some while to find Quinn’s house – even though, in fact, it was not in one of the more secluded parts, but in a row not far from the main road. I admit, I was more than a little bit afraid. My heart was thumping, I was sweating. Were these the sort of surroundings, the sort of trappings that would be mine if I got Quinn’s job?

  But something helped to put me at ease alm
ost immediately. The house in which Quinn lived was a tall, three-storeyed building at one end of a smart terrace. Dark brick; white portico; brass letter-box. Railings separated the front area from the pavement, and to reach the front door (solid, glossy black) you had to climb four or five steps. I thought: what would you expect from a man who even at his place of work has to be approached by a flight of stairs? I was half prepared to see Quinn’s face at the front window, which was above street level, looking down at me as I got out of the car, just as he looked down at me, like a hawk, at the office. But all this was reversed as I passed through the front gate. For there, suddenly, was Quinn himself, standing not above me, but below me, in the little well around the basement window. He was wearing a loose, open-necked shirt, corduroy trousers and sandals, over socks, and was carrying a watering-can. One of his fingers was bandaged. I looked down at his sticky, bald forehead and the curls of grey hair visible where his shirt was open. He did not look like the boss of a police department but like some amiable, slightly dotty, retired professor.

  ‘Ah, Prentis. Excuse me receiving you like this. But the flowers, you know, they have to be looked after.’ There were pots of geraniums on the ledge of the basement window. ‘No, don’t go up to the front door – I seldom use it. This way.’ He gestured to the steps down, then ushered me along the little path around the side of the basement. ‘You look hot. Let me get you a drink.’

  At the back of the building was a walled garden, with a lawn, roses, honeysuckle, two stunted apple trees and some rather rampant borders. Immediately to the rear of the basement, which was now on the level of the garden, was a small conservatory, opening onto a paved area on which there stood two wicker chairs and a fold-up table. I somehow expected all this. The conservatory was full of foliage. So Quinn was a lover of plants, too, a devotee of the flower-pot; like Marian. Through the conservatory was a large, sprawling kitchen, the result of more than one room knocked together – the sort of kitchen in which you can not only cook but eat, with several guests, and even lounge in like a living-room. From the cluttered, casual appearance of this room I got the impression that Quinn spent most of his time here. And, in fact, I never got to see the other rooms. I wanted to see all I could. For all the time, you see, I was looking for clues, for spy-holes into Quinn’s elusive private life. I wanted to know, for example, whether there had been – still was – a Mrs Quinn; whether Quinn – somewhere – had sons or daughters. I never discovered these things. But I discovered enough.

  Round the kitchen and conservatory roamed two (later I saw a third) Siamese cats.

  ‘I’m going to have a gin with a big slosh of tonic and bags of ice. Will you join me?’

  He beckoned me to sit down on one of the wicker chairs. While he busied himself inside at the fridge and the sink I noticed that in the conservatory, amongst a collection of various outdoor garments and implements – shoes, an old coat, a birch broom, walking-sticks – was a bag of golf-clubs.

  He returned with two large, fizzing, clinking glasses. ‘There’s no need to behave as though we’re at the office. Please, don’t swelter in that jacket. Take your tie off.’

  You see, I had dressed myself up smartly, like some boy applying for a job.

  I took my glass. There were long bars of sunlight across the lawn; the fragrance of honeysuckle. I thought: where is the catch? As he gave me my drink I studied the bandage on the finger of his right hand.

  We dipped our noses into our glasses and looked at the garden. Then Quinn spoke.

  ‘So you came, my dear chap. You know, I had my doubts whether you would. No, not really, I was sure you would.’ He took a hurried sip of gin – as if he had begun badly – then smacked his lips, and wiped his glasses which had become speckled with bubbles.

  ‘Now. You have some questions you want answered. And I have some explaining to do. That’s the position, isn’t it?’

  He gave me a penetrating but shifting look. It was as though he had said, ‘You still want to go through with this?’

  ‘Excuse me for using a cliché, but I don’t know if this is going to be harder for me or for you. For me, it’s a confession – of a kind. For you – well, you must make up your own mind. I’m saying this just as a way of telling you that if you find yourself wanting to cut the whole thing short, to forget the whole thing – though somehow I don’t think you will – please, don’t hesitate.’

  As he spoke, one of the Siamese cats came and rubbed itself sinuously against his leg. Quinn put out his hand and fondled the scruff of its neck. He did this, not in a gentle, stroking way, but almost roughly, as if, at any moment, his hand might close round the animal’s throat. Siamese cats, they say, are different from other cats. They don’t ooze affection. There’s something unpredictable, even sinister about them.

  I shrugged awkwardly, as Quinn, still stroking the cat, seemed to wait for me to give some signal.

  ‘You want to know what is going on at the office. But it doesn’t stop with the office. That’s the whole point. Our office isn’t just an office, it spreads everywhere. Do stop me, Prentis, won’t you, when I waffle? Well, shall I begin?’

  He gave the cat a shove and it slunk broodily away.

  ‘C9. And especially File E of C9. That is the particular point at issue, isn’t it? But it’s only an example of something general. You don’t have to tell me, Prentis. You’ve been making private inquiries into C9, haven’t you? I’ve half been egging you on to do that very thing. I know why you’ve been coming into work early and about – what shall I say? – your private correspondence with the Home Office. No, I’m not accusing you of anything – I should talk. I’ve been terribly undecided about all this. We’ll get round to C9 in a moment – I’ll put all the pieces together for you. But I can tell you now that I’ve had File E all along, and I nearly destroyed it. And it’s not the only one. But shall we deal with the general matter first? That’s what you said – you remember, when we spoke last – that you’d rather clear up the general issue first. Very well. I’m not going to say to you, Prentis, as I might, that I hope what I’m about to tell you will go no further and you’ll keep quiet about it. Because, for one thing, it doesn’t work like that. I’m not trying to defend myself. If you liked, you could put me through the mill. Don’t look alarmed. And for another thing, I can trust you to make your own judgement. Yes, I’m asking you to judge me – because I, in my way, have been judging you. You’ve been aware of that, haven’t you? And what I’m going to tell you is only an example of just the kind of judgement – am I being clear? – I’m asking you to make. I mean, how much you should tell, and how much you should keep silent, and how much you should know.’

  The glow on the garden wall and the flowerbeds seemed to deepen almost perceptibly.

  ‘Do you think there’s enough trouble, enough misery in the world without causing any more?’

  This came like a sudden challenge.

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t condemn the action of someone who tried to eliminate extra misery where it could be avoided?’

  ‘No – not on the face of it.’

  ‘Thank you, Prentis. I’ve alluded to all this before, haven’t I? That great heap of secrets at the office. A cupboard full of skeletons – I think that was the phrase I used. I wonder if I really have to spell it out to you. You must have worked out for yourself by now what I’ve been up to.’

  I looked into my glass of gin.

  ‘Well?’

  I swallowed. ‘You’ve been withholding – or destroying – information so as to spare people – needless painful knowledge.’

  It was as though I had voiced something that had been pressing on my conscience for years.

  ‘Precisely. I knew you would arrive at it. Do you know, I wanted you to arrive at it. To help me. And – what a benevolent construction you put upon it!’

  I was looking at my hands. Somehow I didn’t want to look at Quinn’s face.

  ‘You see, there are two type
s of power madness. No, no – don’t dispute it – it’s power we’re talking about, and power mishandled. There’s plain and simple corruption. We all know about that. Think of the harm, think of the sheer destruction you could wreak if you wanted to, if you were in my position.’ I looked up at this point, and there was something sharp, almost like a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he said, catching my gaze, ‘in my position’. ‘We’d all agree that that’s wrong, wouldn’t we? But what about the opposite of that? What if you just as surely pervert your power and overstep the bounds of your responsibility under the notion that you are doing good? Is that wrong too?’

  ‘I – I would –’ I looked away from Quinn again. I was experiencing the capsizing feeling that the very thing I sought most – Quinn’s job – was the thing I wanted least. The old suspicion that Quinn was mad – and, in his shoes, I would be mad too. For a moment, I really wanted to be ignorant, an irresponsible underling.

  ‘That’s all right. What should I expect you to say? “Yes”? Or even “No”? I’m not here to ask questions anyway.’

  ‘And what is the alternative,’ he went on, ‘the straight course, I mean? The straight course is to curb the imagination. To sit with all that knowledge and just to sort through it as if it had nothing to do with you. And that’s why – if you have any imagination at all’ (as he said this I faced him again and there was the same gleam in his eye, but no longer mischievous, almost sad) ‘– the best, the securest position to be in is not to know. But once you do know, you can’t do anything about it. You can’t get rid of knowledge.’