The Fledgeling

by Frances Faviell

  But times now were nowhere like as hard as those which had followed the First World War in which Jim had been killed in France. There had been no work for her in the country which she loved. Jim’s brother who had been exempted to care for the farm, had married a young woman with whom she had not been able to get on. In fact there was not enough work for two women in the small farm-house and there was a surplus of women—widows and those who would never marry now. Unable to bring up Dorothy, Edward and Agnes on the tiny widow’s pension which the Army allowed her, she was obliged to accept the too small sum of money which her brother-in-law offered her in exchange for Jim’s share of the farm. With this she moved with the children to London.

  There was a scarcity of work there, too. The same surplus of women and scarcity of men—and yet those who had come back from France with their health ruined or minus a limb were walking the streets offering matches for sale; and outside the unemployment exchanges there were long queues of grey-faced, haunted-looking men waiting hopelessly for the dole which kept them alive but did not pay for sufficient food for a family. No, times were not so hard now . . . people, even foreigners, got not only unemployment money but often the rent of their flats or rooms as well when they were out of work.

  She had found work in a tall grey London house which was run as a private hotel. The hours were long and the stairs unending but she had earned enough somehow to keep the children decently fed and clothed. The money from Jim’s share of the farm she banked and husbanded carefully, adding to it every few shillings she could spare. She was determined that Edward, who showed signs of promise, should go to a Grammar school.

  She had only returned to the farm twice for brief summer visits. She had been shown plainly enough by her sister-in-law that she and the children were not welcome. Except for a few day-outings to the sea or country she had never left London again.

  At the hotel she had soon become indispensable, rising to be a head housekeeper; and when it was enlarged and brought up to date she had been offered the post of manageress. She had refused—and never told her reason, which was that she found that the staff, growing more and more difficult, invariably resented the manageress while respecting the housekeeper. She remained as housekeeper all through the Second World War when the hotel was commandeered as a sort of Army hostel for foreign visitors.

  All three of her children had been sent to Grammar schools. Dorothy had married well and gone to Australia; Agnes had died of some obscure disease during the Second World War. After Edward’s wife Connie had run away, she had taken his three children and made a home for them, sending them too to good schools. She had made great sacrifices for those six children—three of her own and three of her son’s. She had refused two offers of marriage because of them. Had it all been wasted?

  Sometimes she thought that it had. Dorothy was in a primitive part of Australia where her education was useless; Edward had used his only to cause strife among men. Agnes was dead—and Len, too. There remained only Neil and Nona now. And what of Neil? What future was there for him—even if he managed to get to Ireland? Her sister Liz was an old woman and a poor one. She would send her a sum of money somehow to help until the boy found work. Nona would go to Australia with Charlie. She might quarrel with him but she loved him. She would manage splendidly in Australia. Nona would manage anywhere. She had a man’s knack of dealing with machinery, with electricity, with all such things. But she hated domestic chores as so many young women did nowadays. Extraordinary, she thought, how the modern young woman hated having to do household chores. Worse, they even resented their husbands not doing them as well. The old woman could never get used to seeing the husbands with aprons tied round their waists standing at the sinks washing up for their wives.

  She hated to see Neil messing about in the kitchen. He loved it—and did many household jobs better than his twin. There was, in fact, decided the old woman, no longer any dividing line between a man’s and a woman’s work. They merged—and rightly: and she was angry with herself for her conservatism on the subject. Miss Rhodes now, had said that her young sister Janet hated doing anything in the house. A lot of the things she had told her about her sister Janet reminded Mrs. Collins of Nonie. Two determined young women—wanting their own way but not knowing how to make a man give it them.

  Miss Rhodes . . . Miss Rhodes . . . would she do anything about Neil? Had she done it? If she had gone to the police surely they would have been here by now? Somehow she did not think that Miss Rhodes would give Neil away for all her sense of righteous duty—but one never knew. The clock was striking three now, only an hour or so to go and he would be away. Was she doing something which she would later bitterly regret? She wouldn’t be able to go and receive Len’s medal. You couldn’t dress up in your best and go and receive one grandson’s medal for bravery when you had deliberately helped his brother to desert from military service for that same Sovereign. Edward might be able to reconcile the two anomalies—but she could not. Would they accuse her of having a hand in it? And Charlie? He and Nona—and later, Neil too, would be emigrating to Australia. Would it make any difference to that? What if this thing should mar their whole future?

  She was suddenly violently agitated at what she had agreed to, terribly perturbed at the stand she had taken. It was all very well to argue that she had already lost her husband and one grandson to the country, other people had done the same. Mrs. Elders down the street had lost three sons in the last war. Edward had never given anything to anyone. Edward was her great failure—was Neil to be, too?

  She could no longer keep still or lie in bed so great was her agitation. The anxiety had brought on the Monster again . . . and the pain was becoming too sharp for comfort or repose. She must get up. One thing was sticking out in her mind, that this was the first time in her life that she had deliberately gone against the strong voice of conscience. She was deliberately doing wrong. At my age, she thought grimly, I’m deliberately committing a crime. I ought not to have been persuaded. She had heard that the Emigration Authorities were very strict now about anyone who had been in trouble with the police . . . Nona hadn’t thought of it—but she should have. Why hadn’t she stuck to her guns and refused? Pain was becoming too acute now for clear thinking and she slowly edged herself out of bed, and softly, so as not to wake Neil in the room opening out of hers, padded her way into the kitchen. She would make herself a cup of tea. Perhaps she would take just one tablet—two was the maximum she was supposed to have. One deadened the pain while allowing her to keep awake. Two put her right out.

  Strange she thought, as she pottered about filling the kettle and waiting for it to boil, that the mind and the body seldom decayed together. Her own mind was still clear and sharp while her body was slowly rotting. Old Mr. Evans now, was as spry and pink-faced as ever, agile physically and capable of walking long distances still, but his mind rambled and wandered and his sense of time and even of generation was already faulty and he talked nonsense. There ought to be some means of making a bargain with Nature, thought the old woman, as she measured two tea-spoonfuls of tea into the small pot. Those with good minds should be able to exchange sick bodies with those whose minds had decayed. It was useless trying to live with only one of them healthy—the two were too intricately fused to be separated. Maybe there was a way of separating them in the hereafter—if it existed.

  She was sitting on the wooden kitchen chair watching the steam slowly grow from the kettle. She picked up a newspaper. Did the hereafter exist? Or did we live on only in our children? Then what of those who had none? That was what Josh had said to her. If that was so, he had said, then everyone without exception would surely want to reproduce themselves. Josh believed implicitly in the next world just as he believed in the resurrection of the body. Edward, who thought highly of Josh, and was usually so loquacious, had himself been strangely silent on the subject of the hereafter. Perhaps his pearl would change all that. . . .

  The pain was almost unbearable again. The tablet
s were in an aspirin bottle—they came in small white cardboard boxes and Nonie had put them in an aspirin bottle. Should she take a tablet with her tea? It would deaden the pain but she would risk feeling deadly sleepy when Neil had to be got away. Suppose Nonie failed to hear the alarm? They were depending on her. She would not take the tablet unless she could no longer stand the pain . . . and it was better now, just because she had decided to have a cup of tea. She took the little tray with the teapot and the two cups on it into the bedroom. She was very tired suddenly—she would have the tea in bed. A sudden fresh attack of the Monster made her rest on the edge of the bed. When the pain eased a little she put the tablets on the tray. They were there if she could not stand it. She poured out a cup of tea and then began the slow tortuous crawl back into the bed.

  She stretched out her hand to lift up the cup when she heard a sound. Neil? No . . . it was not from that direction. From the hall? It was a faint scratching sound . . . from where? She listened . . . there it was again . . . It was from the direction of the window. She raised herself up and peered at the dark panes. The window was open in spite of Nonie’s protests; the night was so close and airless that she had opened it. There was another sound and now she saw a hand come round the side of the window frame . . . in spite of her courage the old woman felt a stab of acute fear, and regretted her refusal to have netting across the window frame. The whole gap was filled now with the form of a man . . . he was coming in through the window. . . . She had not switched on the light . . . the light from a street lamp was sufficient for her needs unless she wanted to read or to see the clock. . . . Should she scream for help? Should she call to Neil?

  The figure in the window frame was now leaping lightly down . . . as she began struggling to get herself near enough to the window to shut it. But she was too late . . . the man was in, he had come in exactly as Neil had done. There was light enough for her to see that he wore khaki, that his hair was dark and glistening with rain and she knew without any doubt that this was the man who had been hiding over there on the waste ground. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand pushed her backwards so that she doubled up with excruciating pain, and while one hand remained clamped down on her mouth, the other one shut the window. The light from the street lamp showed up the face which bent over her. . . .

  ‘Going to be quiet?’ asked the intruder, keeping his hand firmly over her mouth. She was in such pain with her legs doubled up under her that she would have agreed to anything so that she could straighten up. She nodded . . . and he removed his hand. ‘Sorry . . . Mrs. Collins. . . .’ he said. ‘If you make a noise I’ll have to hurt you—and I wouldn’t like to do that to an old woman. Where’s Ninny?’

  She did not answer as she tried with difficulty to straighten her limbs. When she succeeded, she said quietly, ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘You must be Mrs. Collins, Ninny’s grandmother, aren’t you? Well, where’s your pretty grandson? Ninny we call him up there.’

  ‘Why do you think he’s here?’ she asked, trying to gain time to think.

  ‘I know damn well he’s here—and he’s expecting me.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ said the old woman quickly. ‘Why should he hang about here? He’s gone.’

  ‘The dirty little twister . . . wait until I catch up with him. We had a rendezvous here tonight . . . it was all arranged. Where’s he gone?’

  He was standing now between the window and the foot of the bed. She put out her hand to switch on the light but he forestalled her. . . . ‘No, you don’t. Not until the window is covered. Do you think I want the bleeding cop on patrol to look in?’

  ‘I can’t move easily—as you see. Do it yourself. There’s a piece of blue material on the table there.’

  He said threateningly. ‘You keep quiet then.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’m going to drink my tea. . . .’ she said, steadily.

  He hung up the material and swung round to her. ‘Tea? All ready too. I could do with a cup. I’ve got a bleeding headache—from lying about in that damp place. . . .’

  She poured out the tea.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Two lumps.’

  He noticed the aspirin bottle suddenly. . . . ‘I’ll have a couple of these—do my headache good. Just what I want—all waiting here for me. Tea and a couple of aspirins! . . . Here they go!’ And before the old woman’s fascinated eyes he took a drink of tea and washed down the two small white tablets which he had placed on his tongue.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said gulping the rest of the tea down quickly. . . . ‘Any more tea?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said, indifferently, and picking up her own cup she sipped it, trying in vain to steady the trembling of her hand and lips. Suppose he took more tablets thinking they were aspirins? He might die. She watched fascinated while he poured out more tea. Dark . . . with queer eyes and a straight thin mouth. It was the man Linda had described. She knew immediately who this was. . . . ‘You’re Mike Andersen,’ she said, accusingly.

  He nodded. ‘Where’s Ninny?’ he asked, looking closely at her. ‘I know he’s here—so don’t stall—where is he?’

  She retorted sharply. ‘Before I answer you anything, just you tell me something. How did you know that you could get in that window? How did you know that it would be open?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was going to get it open—I was struck dumb when I found it all open inviting me in. Ninny gave me all the details . . . I told you he’s expecting me. . . .’

  Suddenly Mrs. Collins understood. Neil’s terror, his insistence on the time, his continual panic as the clocks advanced . . . she had been puzzled by it, because if, as he said, this other lad had covered for him and Nona had disguised him in her clothes there had been no cause for such desperate haste. Looking at this Andersen’s tight-lipped, hard look which made even young faces appear old, and his eyes—horrible eyes, gay and smiling but with something like a reptile peeping from them—she began to get a glimpse of Neil’s fear of this man. He was tall and strongly built, and he moved easily and quickly.

  ‘Why have you come here? Have you deserted?’ she demanded, harshly . . . and all the time she was thinking . . . twenty minutes for the average person . . . thirty minutes or more for me because I’m addicted. I’ve got twenty minutes before he flops. For that the tablets could not fail to have their effect she knew. They were dependable—inevitable in their action.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, impatiently, ‘Ninny and I had a rendezvous. It’s all planned out. We’re going to Ireland. . . .’

  ‘Did you persuade my grandson to desert?’

  He nodded. ‘Didn’t take much persuading although he was unwilling. People have a habit of doing what I want them to . . . just my charm I suppose. . . .’ And he grinned at her . . . and suddenly he was young, for the first time, so that she thought, He really is only a kid—like Neil. . . . How is it that he appears years older?

  ‘Poor old Ninny’s always in the soup. . . .’ he continued. ‘Can’t seem to do anything right. They’ve got it in for him up there.’

  ‘And you don’t help him—of that I’m convinced. My grandson is not going anywhere with you. You’d better get that clear. If you want money I’ll find you some. Just take yourself off. If you don’t I’ll ring this bell here and my granddaughter’s husband will come in. You’re big—but he could pick you up as easy as a sack of coal.’

  ‘I wouldn’t touch that bell if I were you . . . in fact I think I’d better take care of it.’ He put his hand over the little bronze bell with which she summoned Nona, and took it from the bedside. ‘That’s the gorilla who was out calling for some kid this evening. I’m not scared of him.’

  ‘How d’you know he was calling for a child?’

  ‘Saw him. Came over there in the rain calling out. He never saw that snooping skirt in the foundations over there. . . .’

  ‘In the foundations? Not the child?’ she said quickly.

  ‘No. Not the kid. I told you . . . some in
quisitive woman dressed classy. I took her handbag so they couldn’t identify her. Might make trouble for Ninny and me. . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’ He whipped round at a slight noise behind the bed, and she thought as she saw him furtive, alert, on the defensive, that he would be a nasty customer if cornered. The door had opened and Neil stood there. He had been asleep and his face was as pink and childish as his sister’s was when awakened. When his grandmother saw his expression at the sight of Mike Andersen she knew. Here was the real trouble—the real danger to the lad—the real reason for the desertion. This Mike had a hold over Neil as she had suspected.

  ‘Well, Ninny! Here I am—like I said I’d be. . . .’

  Neil’s sleep-dazed face had lost its pink tinge. ‘I thought you promised to wait until I’d been gone twenty-four hours before you followed me. You promised to cover up for me. . . .’ he stammered.

  ‘Things happened up there. I had to get out sooner than I expected. There was a blasted inspection . . . bleeding bad luck. Now, with that snooping woman over there we’ll have to get away at once. . . .’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘I was just telling your grandmother. . . . The bleeding woman came snooping about over there where I was hiding. She never saw me . . . it was dark and wet . . . she slipped and fell backwards on the concrete.’

  ‘And,’ said Mrs. Collins, ‘do you mean to tell me that she’s lying there in the rain? Is she hurt?’

  ‘She’s dead—that’s why I took her handbag. I’m no bloody thief . . . I didn’t want her cash . . . although it will be useful to Ninny and me. . . .’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said roughly as the old woman stared at him in horrified incredulity. . . . ‘I didn’t mean to do her in. I just gave her a little slog—how the hell was I to know that she’d overbalance like that? I only wanted to keep her quiet for a while. . . .’

  ‘Keep her quiet for a while. . . .’ the old woman glanced furtively at the clock . . . eight minutes since he’d taken the tablets. Another twelve or fifteen before he began to feel their effects.