The Fledgeling

by Frances Faviell

  She handed him a glass. ‘Here you are—as you like it. Gin, dry martini and ice.’

  He took the glass and placed it on the table. It was a charming room. Alison had taste and took trouble. There were always flowers—the latest books—and everything was perfectly arranged. She had several tight lines between her eyes, and her forehead showed parallel ones of the same tense kind. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You look upset.’

  ‘I am worried—and depressed this evening, Rodney.’

  ‘Take this then. I’ll mix myself another.’ He pushed the glass into her hand. ‘Go on, drink it. Do you good. What’s the matter?’

  She sat down on the divan and he sat beside her. ‘It’s partly everything—it all seems so futile,’ she said despairingly. ‘But in particular it’s a family I visit. When I got there today the old woman was alone—she hands me the keys out of the window. Later—half an hour later—there was a terrific crash from the wall behind her bed—I had no idea there was a door there; it’s papered over—and a boy dressed as a girl simply fell into the room.’

  ‘How d’you mean, a boy dressed as a girl?’

  ‘What I say. He wore jeans, a sweater, plimsolls and pink socks and as he fell a scarf slipped from his head and there was no doubt at all that he was a boy. I knew at once who he was—the twin brother of the granddaughter Nona. The boy there was all that fuss about last time he deserted from the Army.’

  ‘Well?’ said Rodney disinterestedly, running his hands through Alison’s hair. ‘What then?’

  ‘Well—the old woman was very quiet. She sent the boy out of the room and proceeded to talk to me rather unpleasantly. Said I’d seen something I’d no business to see—that if I didn’t go poking about into people’s homes it couldn’t have happened. She said I’d better forget that I’d seen him. He’s deserted again.’

  ‘So you had.’ Rodney swallowed his drink. ‘She’s perfectly right. Forget it.’ He put his hands on the sash of the kimono tentatively. She pulled herself away abruptly. ‘No. No. I’ll get dressed now.’

  ‘Alison.’ His voice was rough. ‘D’you know how long I’ve been hanging about waiting for you to feel the urge?’

  ‘No,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Well, however long it is—it’s too long. You’re about as exciting as cold potatoes. There’s no warmth—no response.’

  ‘I’d rather hoped,’ she said carefully, ‘that you might want to marry me. It’d be different then.’

  ‘Listen, my good girl. You’re all but thirty. I’m not unwilling to marry you—but it all depends on how we make out in bed. If that were all right I’d be willing to marry you. So far it hasn’t been any great shakes. You’re never willing—you merely oblige. I’ve had one unhappy marriage because my wife was a cold woman, I’m not anxious to make the same mistake again.’

  ‘You’re coarse,’ she said, disgustedly.

  ‘You should be used to the facts of life—you’ve chosen to wallow in them. Isn’t trying to patch up broken homes part of your work? How can you understand any of these sexual problems if you’ve had no experience yourself? It’s ludicrous.’

  ‘Not every broken marriage is due to sex.’

  ‘Come off it, Alison. Nine out of ten are.’

  ‘A great deal of my work is not concerned with marital problems at all. Many of the people I visit are old and friendless. Young homes are broken because of their aged relatives having nowhere to go . . . like the old woman I’ve just been visiting. The problem there is this grandson who keeps on deserting—he’s unsuited for army life. But it’s not fair on the old woman. It’s my duty to inform the police.’

  ‘What? Say that again.’

  ‘It’s my duty to inform the police about this boy.’

  ‘You’d do that? You’d actually contemplate that?’ Rodney stopped playing with her hair.

  ‘It’s anyone’s duty to inform on a deserter.’

  ‘Your duty to whom?’ shouted Rodney. ‘To your bloody little social workers’ world? What’s it got to do with you? It’s the old grandmother you’re concerned with—not the grandson. You saw him accidentally. Forget it. Good luck to the poor devil I say.’

  ‘If everyone shirked their duty to the State it would be a hopeless world.’

  Rodney stood up abruptly. ‘Alison, you make me vomit with this talk of duty. You talk like a Girl Guide—or a school-marm. Unless you’re very careful you’ll wake up one day to find you’ve grown into a sour old spinster with a straight-set mouth . . . always interfering with other people’s lives because you’ve none of your own. It’s not love that makes you help them—it’s curiosity.’

  Alison looked at him, horrified, then put her face in her hands. She thought of that little fold of flesh. The first. She shivered suddenly. The vision of all those old grey wrinkled faces lying lonely and neglected in their sordid rooms assailed her. They came crowding in on her. Soon . . . soon . . . they seemed to be grinning. Before you’ve time to think it’ll be too late . . . you’ll be like us . . . one of us.

  Rodney was remorseful. ‘Don’t take me literally, Alison, I’m only trying to make you see that you can’t go on with this stupid life—you must listen to sense.’

  Alison stared at him. Strange how she’d never noticed what a coarse face he had. ‘It’s a question of principles,’ she said, coldly—‘just as that boy’s desertion is. We feel differently about it.’

  ‘If you think it’s your duty to give the wretched youth away to the police then we certainly do. Keep out of it. There are always others to do that.’ His voice was bitter.

  ‘Rodney,’ she said. ‘Did you ever do your National Service?’

  ‘Not I,’ he grinned. ‘I got out of it. Once had a sort of hysterical fit as a kid. Got the family doctor to say I’d had epilepsy.’

  ‘But no doctor would do such a thing.’ Alison was shocked.

  ‘Well that one did,’ declared Rodney bluntly. ‘He was sweet on my mother and she’d have gone nuts if I’d had to go.’

  ‘And you—you were a party to such a deception?’

  ‘Yes. And I’d do it again. What right have they to force kids into the Army in peacetime?’

  Alison wrapped her kimono closely round her and held her chin high. ‘Now I know exactly what sort of a man you are,’ she said, contemptuously. ‘I’m glad I’ve found it out. Would you mind going now, please? I want to dress.’

  ‘Oh, go ahead and dress. Why the false modesty—as if I’d never seen you undressed before?’

  ‘You misunderstand me, Rodney. I asked you to go. I’m not coming out with you.’

  He stared at her uncertainly. Had he gone too far telling her she talked like a Girl Guide or a schoolmistress? She was older than he was—several years older—but she had money and brains, and he was fond of her.

  ‘Oh come, Alison. I meant nothing. I was only kidding you. I wanted you to leave that wretched youth alone—that’s all.’

  He came close and tried to take her in his arms. She withdrew herself coldly. ‘I never say things which I don’t mean, Rodney, and I meant it when I asked you to go.’

  ‘You’re all worked up about this boy. Come on out to dinner and forget it.’

  ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘Not tonight or any other night.’

  He picked up his hat angrily and took his raincoat from the hall. ‘As you like—you’ve got my telephone number when you climb down to earth.’

  She said nothing as he unlatched the door and buttoned his coat. Just as he was about to go he turned, and gripped her roughly by the shoulders. ‘You leave that boy alone. D’you hear? Leave him alone.’ He slammed the door. His face had been hard and ugly. He was gone—gone out of her life. And all because of that Collins boy. She picked up the telephone hesitantly—she knew the police number—then replacing it slowly, burst into a storm of tears.

  CHAPTER XIII

  AS Charlie came into their room Nona looked up apprehensively. She was cooking at the stove in the corner whic
h served them as kitchen. Not only Miss Rhodes was a danger, but that young Wilson, too. He had come ostensibly about the little girl, but who knew the real reason for his visit? Why hadn’t he waited until the child came out of the house? Why had he interviewed her in old Mrs. Collins’ room?

  And the child herself had told her grandmother some story about a young Serviceman hiding over there on the ground where she played. She said that the man wore a uniform exactly like Neil’s and was watching this house. What did Nonie make of that, the old woman had asked.

  Nona had immediately questioned her twin. He had insisted that he didn’t know who it was, but she knew that he was lying—that he had a very good idea of who the man was. She was terribly uneasy, and, like her grandmother, felt that there was something which Neil was keeping from them. Something which had to do with the reason for his deserting again. How could she force him to tell her the truth of the matter? She and Neil had never quarrelled, but they had come dangerously near to it this evening. ‘Why should Gran and I help you if you won’t tell us the truth?’ she had demanded. Nona had had to smother down her qualms about her grandmother being involved in Neil’s escape at all. She had left her twin in a terrible restless state pacing up and down his grandmother’s room imploring her to make Charlie help him. The old woman had become impatient with him. ‘If you’re in such a tearing hurry to get off what’s to stop you going off now?’ she had demanded; and Nonie had felt an aching pity for his obvious terror of going alone. He wanted someone to accompany him out of London, someone to see him safely out of danger. He simply couldn’t face a journey alone knowing that the alert for him was probably already out.

  She had left him, after imploring him to stop panicking. She would do what she could with Charlie when he came home—but Charlie was late.

  And here was Charlie coming in now. He was tired and his face dark and uncompromising. He flung his jacket over a chair and went over to the sink to wash his hands. While he did this he did not look across at Nona. He had been away on a long-distance run for three days and was furious at being greeted on his return with the news of Neil’s dilemma. He did not kiss his wife, although he had not seen her for three days. When he had dried his hands he ran a comb through his thick strong hair and flung himself on to the divan. Nona winced—his boots were dusty and he would crumple the divan cover, but his face was so withdrawn that she said nothing after her first greeting had been received with no more than a casual grunt. He took out a cigarette and began smoking. She hoped he wouldn’t flick the ash on the divan cover; there were already two holes burned in it from his carelessness. Nona wasn’t house-proud in the least, in fact she cared little about domestic chores, but she was fastidious, and she was practical. She hoped to sell the divan, which had been a wedding purchase, before they went to Australia. She knew a young couple who were waiting for it—cover and cushions too. Why should the price be lessened by Charlie’s carelessness?

  She waited while he smoked in silence, until she could stand it no longer. Swinging round from the stove she asked, ‘Have you arranged for the lorry to take Neil?’

  He went on smoking deliberately before he said flatly, ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I told you. I won’t help the rotten little quitter.’

  She turned on him furiously. ‘Don’t talk of my brother in that way. You’ll regret it.’

  ‘How else can one refer to a coward who keeps running back to sister?’

  ‘You beast, Charlie. You’re cruel. Just because you’re strong physically you despise any form of weakness in those who haven’t your strength.’

  ‘I do. Especially when they run whining back to an old sick woman and a young married sister.’

  He accentuated the word ‘married’ in a peculiar way so that she stared at him. What was he going to do now? Start one of his jealous tirades just when she wanted him to help Neil. She felt suddenly furious that some people should be able to look down on others not as strong as themselves, but she controlled her temper. Charlie had got to be made to help. Quarrelling would not further her plans for Neil. She turned back to the cooking.

  ‘Why aren’t you cooking over the other side tonight?’

  ‘Because I wanted to talk to you—alone.’

  ‘About your clinging ivy of a brother?’

  She didn’t answer and he contemplated her back at the stove. She was small and slender and her back had a grace which never failed to move him. He felt sorry suddenly for his surliness. . . . ‘Come here,’ he said, gently.

  She looked at him lying on the divan. In the one room in which they ate and slept most of the space was taken up by this divan bed. Nonie had insisted that it should be a divan bed—but it was a bed and Charlie never lost sight of the fact. Nonie had wanted to push it into the recess which they used as a storage space for assembling their things for Australia, but Charlie had been stubborn. He was not going to be pushed away into a cupboard even if it were large enough to take the divan. ‘How d’you think we’re going to get in and out squeezed in like that? Leap over the end like divers every night? No thanks. Put it in the middle of the room with plenty of space round it.’ Nonie, he said, had middle-class notions about it being common to have a bed in the living-room. One had divan-rooms not bedrooms, she said. Her conventional ideas about such things came from the school she had attended where the girls were uppish and genteel. Charlie was proud of her having gained her School Certificate of Education as long as it didn’t interfere with his standard of living. He had stuck to his opinion about the divan as a matter of principle. In the end they had compromised and the large divan was in a corner by day and pulled out into the centre of the room at night. Even so, Nona had insisted on putting the pillows into covers of the same material as the divan cover, so that they looked like cushions.

  ‘A pillow’s a pillow,’ Charlie had grumbled. ‘What’s the use of hiding the fact? What’s wrong with a pillow? Or for that matter a bed? I’ve got precious little time to sit—except on the driving seat of the lorry. When I lie I like to lie in comfort.’

  ‘Come here, Nonie,’ he repeated now. He was stubbing out the cigarette and looking at her in a certain way.

  ‘No, Charlie. I’m late with the meal already.’

  ‘Late for whom? For your grandmother and your cissy-boy brother? You’re not late for me—and I’m the one you should be cooking for.’

  ‘I’m hungry myself,’ she said quietly. ‘I was worried today and gave my lunch to the swans.’

  ‘You’re worried over him . . . I tell you, Nonie, it makes me savage when I see you worried like this. You’re only a girl—the same age, the same height and of less weight than him—why should he rely on you to help him out of his scrapes?’

  ‘They are not scrapes,’ she said defiantly. ‘Neil’s not a criminal—it’s the Army making him like this.’

  ‘Oh stop talking about him, and come over here and be nice to me.’

  ‘I’m late with the meal, I can’t leave it now. Wait a minute until I’ve dished up.’

  ‘Oh you’ve always an excuse. You haven’t seen me for two nights and you haven’t even kissed me.’

  ‘Charlie . . . that’s not fair. I was ready to kiss you tonight when you came in but you scarcely said a word to me.’ She went swiftly over to him and kissed him. He pulled her roughly down on to the divan laughing at her protests that the potatoes would burn. . . . ‘Charlie . . . won’t you help Neil just to please me? Won’t you?’ she begged, stroking his strong thick hair. He did not answer . . . but began caressing her, and in spite of her struggles he would not desist. She dragged herself away from him and, sitting up, said pleadingly, ‘Will you do what I want? Charlie, will you?’

  ‘Don’t bargain with me—kiss me,’ he said angrily, holding her down with the weight of his body, and he began laughing softly as presently under his caresses her struggles became feebler and feebler until they ceased altogether. Outside it was raining in a sudden relentless downpour. On th
e stove the potatoes boiled dry and the pan began to bum.

  Across the passage, Mrs. Collins, sniffing the aroma said, sighing, ‘Charlie’s home; the potatoes are burning again. You’ll have to do some more, Neil.’

  Neil, still in his sister’s jeans and sweater, was collecting plates and cutlery for the meal, when a rapping at the door was followed by a deep mellow voice, ‘Mother. How’s my little mother? Can her son come in?’

  Mrs. Collins sat up abruptly, startled and alert. Of all the people whom she did not want tonight her son Edward came first on the list. With the predicament they were in she felt that the last thing she wanted was her son’s flow of smooth vote-catching talk. Last week, his visit had thoroughly upset Charlie who had no use for his father-in-law. Sometimes they did not see him for months at a time. Why did he want to come now? As the rapping continued she said resignedly to Neil, ‘Let your father in.’

  ‘Must I? I’ll never get away if he gets started. . . .’

  ‘Let him in. It’ll cause less trouble in the end.’ And with a shrug, Neil went to unlock the door for his father.

  ‘Well, well, this is a nice surprise, Nonie. You’re not usually home so early.’

  ‘Look again. It’s not Nonie,’ said his mother.

  Not Nonie? I thought she’d cut her hair short like all these girls are doing now. Well, bless me, if it isn’t Neil? What in heaven’s name are you doing masquerading in your sister’s clothes?’

  ‘Ssh! Not so loud. . . .’ said his mother warningly.

  A look of understanding came over the father’s face.

  ‘Quit?’

  Neil swallowed hard and turned away. His father kissed his grandmother and laid a brown paper parcel on the table by her bed. She peeped in the opening, then said sharply. ‘What are these prickly things? Horse-chestnuts?’

  ‘Those, my dear mother, are lichees now available fresh from the countries of their origin. Under that prickly exterior is a milk-white fruit with a stone—the flavour resembles the grape somewhat.’

  ‘I’d rather have grapes, you know how fond I am of them,’ said his mother, shortly. ‘I expect you paid a lot for these, didn’t you, Edward?’