INDIFFERENT HEROES

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Might I stay here a little while?’

  He looked at her dubiously. Even had he seen her when she came years ago, decked in all her hope, he would not have recognized her in this heavy-faced young woman. Of course, the light was bad and shadows smudged her face, but even so . . . He straightened his shoulders. One must not imagine every unhappy young woman to be in need of a midwife.

  ‘Of course you may stay.’ He wondered if help was required of him, and was unsure of his ability to give it, should he make the offer. He said again, ‘Is there anything . . .?’

  ‘I should like to be alone.’

  He touched her shoulder, and was gone.

  Sunlight danced on the wall at the side of the altar, shone on the lectern turning the brass to gold, shafted through the stained- glass window, green as sap rising up the stone pillar. Outside, birds twittered quarrelsomely.

  Louise knelt. She seemed no longer to be thinking. The decision, when at last it came, was presented to her in terms of flowers and music. Her marriage was a sacrament; she had pledged herself and, in return, she would find fulfilment. There was no other way for her. She had always known what she wanted and dismissed alternatives; so it did not seem unjust to her that she should find herself on a road with no side turnings. There was a rightness about it, impeccable as a Mozart sonata, not a note out of place.

  She managed to raise herself to her feet. She went slowly out into the sunshine. She did not question why she should have been drawn to this church, or go over in her mind the story of the flowers. It had happened; she accepted it. She could see her path ahead across the fields. It seemed a very long way; but there wasn’t anything for it, save to set out.

  She was so pale on her return that her mother wondered if she was pregnant, but decided this was unlikely. She did not look as if she was carrying new life within her.

  Alice wrote to Ben when she returned to Plymouth. She told him briefly about her stay with her mother and Louise, and mentioned the house which she had thought so attractive. Then she turned to matters of more particular concern to him.

  ‘I can see Cornwall from here. Sometimes we take the ferry and go to a village called Cawsands. There is an old Cornish woman there who does teas with crab sandwiches. Her man was in the Navy, and, however busy she is, she will never turn a sailor away. Later on, I am going to stay in Falmouth with Granny Tippet.

  ‘And there is one thing I must tell you. There are a lot of GIs in Plymouth – indeed, they swarm all over the south of England. Only swarm is rather an active word for such remarkably inert men! One gets awfully tired of them, mooching around, contemplating too much money and not enough to spend it on. People don’t respect the Americans because they think they can buy anything (and there is quite a lot they can buy!). The other day when I was walking on the Hoe, I realized something else about them. There was the usual crowd milling around, being knowledgeably inaccurate about the ships in the Sound. Near me was a child, crying bitterly; his mother was bored and took no notice. A GI came and squatted down, trying to comfort the child. From his expression, one would have thought nothing in the whole world so bad as an unhappy child. A few moments before he had given the impression of a seasoned old warrior who could look on carnage without batting an eyelid. Yet here he was, shocked almost to tears himself! As I was watching him, lost to everything but the needs of the child, I suddenly thought of your father. Your poor father, Ben! He only saw you as a tiny baby. You probably hardly ever think of him. But he must have been so thrilled to see his own baby. I expect he was thinking of you and planning for you when he went down on the Lusitania. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except that at the time, it seemed important. If life goes on, in some way, then the loving must go on, too, mustn’t it?’

  The railway had been finished in October; the last sections had joined on October 17th. But there was maintenance work to do, roads to re-make, even new camps to be built for those who would service the railway. Ben’s camp was to be dismantled. By February, many men had already left it. Now, in May, preparations for the final departure were underway. Soon, the jungle would reclaim this clearing where so many men had lived and died.

  A bad attack of fever had swept through the camp, and Ben was down with it. A doctor was operating on a man, cutting out ulcers; the man’s cries were terrible to hear. A dysentery case was staggering back into the tent, supported by a cholera case who had gone to help him.

  Tandy came in. He was getting over the fever and was doing light duties in the hospital. His idea of cheering those of the sick who were able to take in what he was saying, was to tell them a man had been beheaded for being in possession of a radio.

  ‘I don’t know what they do with men who conceal diaries,’ Tandy said. ‘It probably depends whether they understand what a diary is. That mound of paper – they might think it was all military stuff, mightn’t they? They’d behead you then, I expect.’

  Ben tossed and turned on his bamboo bed, his mind going to and fro over what Tandy had said. He saw his life slipping away like sand running through an egg-timer, all running away and he hadn’t even begun to get a hold on it. Tandy was right about the diaries. It was too much of a risk. But the drawings were different. They represented a shared life: it was only the decision as to their retention which belonged to him alone. He would be bound to be searched when they moved camp; at the first kit inspection, the drawings would be found. The MO was the man to do it! He would have privileges denied to the ranks. Also, he would have equipment to be packed and the right to superintend its subsequent unpacking.

  The fever soared away with him. He was in a landscape of fire. He saw Tandy’s face, the teeth bared, snarling from the flames; in the flames, he also saw the MO. He was climbing a red-tongued mountain by a route that went round and round and up and up – the route always spiralled when he had fever. As he climbed, Tandy held the drawings in front of him, just out of reach. It came to him as he climbed that the north face of love is evil.

  He reached a plateau where, briefly, he was conscious. Even in his consciousness, he was on fire; but the figures around him were not yet touched by the flames. He realized that he must speak to the MO about the drawings. But when the opportunity presented itself, he got confused and asked the wrong question. ‘Did you ever ask yourself whether you wanted to be a doctor?’

  ‘I was supposed to be going into the Colonial Service. I stayed with my uncle, who was a District Commissioner, The people used to come to him with their problems, like children, and he sorted them out. He was a good man and he loved the people. But when they were sick, he didn’t have anything to give them. I thought I would be better at giving people something they needed than at telling them what to do. I was always stronger on the practical side.’

  Ben noticed that a change had come over the MO. His once florid face was hollow, the skin yellow; he seemed smaller, yet harder, more compact. There was a little stone there in the centre of him, like the stone of a fruit, and all his resources were gathered about it. Ben said, in a panic, ‘You should get that seen to! After all, you’re a doctor.’

  ‘What should I “get seen to”?’

  ‘That thing, that stone . . .’

  It was no use. He couldn’t make them understand. The plateau was only a brief resting place; he was spiralling again.

  Someone was laughing. His mother! His mother was young and laughing! His father stood beside his mother, cradling the baby. But the minister wasn’t christening the baby, he was shouting, ‘Baby too ill to work, then baby need no food. Speedo, speedo, speedo . . .’

  Daphne was ahead, naked, arms stretched wide. As he looked at her, he saw that her feet were growing from the ground; gradually, the outstretched arms branched and blossomed. The blossom opened to reveal faces, Tandy and the MO, his mother and father and the Japanese guard . . . so many faces, yet all held in the one form.

  When he was conscious of his immediate surroundings again, he saw the MO standing beside him. He raised
himself on one elbow and croaked urgently, ‘You should look after yourself.’

  The shrunken head swivelled, the mild eyes looked at him. ‘I have been more fortunate than most – because I have been able to carry on my profession here. You might say, even, that I have had unique opportunities. Sometimes, I have felt guilty about it; as though all these men had been sick to keep me occupied and healthy.’

  And so it wouldn’t be right to come out of here alive, was that it? Ben was moaning with weakness and anger. Now, when he most needed his help, the man was going to die! He watched the MO continuously during the next two days. It was the eyes that told the story. The eyes were patient as those of a sick animal, uncomplaining, looking at the men with a kind of adoration as he tended them. He reminded Ben of the dog he had sat beside one night when he was young. It had licked his hand, grateful, loving to the last, as though it owed him something; when the reality had been that it had given him most of the childhood joys he had experienced. Now, the MO looked at him with that same incredible gratitude.

  Damn the man! Rage gave way to despair. They would leave the MO behind, another cross, hastily driven into the ground, before they went away. The bloody fool! If he had taken more care of himself he would have stood a better chance than most. He had the right physique; he was an officer – moreover one whom the Japanese listened to with respect. But the wrong attitude of mind. You didn’t mean to leave here, Ben fumed. You meant to die, make a martyr of yourself. When what I, Ben Sherman, had in mind for you was a different kind of martyrdom. If you had been caught carrying the drawings, they might have beheaded you. Wouldn’t that have assuaged your thirst for martyrdom?

  That night, the MO sat down on the ground beside Ben. Slowly, with infinite pain, he crossed his legs. His hands came to rest on his knees. The effort involved took his breath away and some minutes passed before he said softly, ‘Do you know what my vision of heaven is?’ His head bowed, meditating bliss. ‘A couch. A couch with a thousand cushions on it!’

  Ben said, ‘I would settle for just one cushion.’

  The MO did not answer. A few more minutes passed before Ben realized he was dead.

  The next day Ben was out of the hospital. The work of clearing the camp was under way. Only a few men were left in the hospital. Some of these were men who had feigned sickness so long they would now never recover their health – they were physically wrecked or mentally unbalanced.

  ‘A terrible thing they’ve done to themselves!’ Tandy said virtuously.

  Ben volunteered to help with packing the hospital equipment, hoping he might hide the drawings in one of the crates. But the MO’s orderly would not have him.

  ‘I don’t want you in here, dear. You were always so beastly to him.’

  ‘I respected him.’

  ‘Then you had a funny way of showing it, dear, that’s all I can say. He was a good, forgiving man. I wish I could be more like him; but since I can’t, you just get out of here.’

  Tandy it was who helped in the hospital. Ben was singled out to pack the Japanese CO’s equipment. It was an opportunity of a kind. He could not imagine what would be the consequence of discovery. He tried to convince himself that he had become obsessed with the drawings, that they had served their purpose and were now worthless, that Geoffrey would never have expected him to take such risks to preserve them. But, at the last, he found he was more afraid of leaving without them than of being caught with them. Either they had come to represent something more important than survival; or they contained the means of survival.

  He hid them away, and, since the risk had now been taken, put the diaries with them. He wondered what he would do if they were found and another man was blamed. He was not sure he could trust himself to step forward at such a time. It seemed wiser to make the position clear now, when the gesture would cost less. He said ingratiatingly to the Colonel, ‘I see to everything personally,’ and spread out his hands, drawing attention to his handiwork. He had indeed managed very neatly. The Colonel was impressed and said that Ben was to travel with the equipment. He had, at one instant, given himself the chance to retrieve the drawings, and cut his escape route should anything go wrong. During the long journey south he would have plenty of time to realize that he was not by nature a gambler; if he got away with this, he would never, never do anything so foolhardy again.

  The train carried them away. The jungle receded. Ben, looking from the window, saw the mountains, like hooded figures, turned away from them. He had come here, and he was leaving, one of the lucky ones. He very much wanted to live, but did not yet dare to give way to hope.

  Chapter Twelve

  Summer-Autumn 1944

  Claire and Terence Straker were married in June. They had long discussions about the wedding. ‘It will upset too many people if we marry in a registry office,’ Claire insisted. She also admitted that she would not feel married in such circumstances. ‘It would have upset Daddy so much,’ she said. ‘I’ve pushed myself a long way. I can’t go any further just now.’

  Terence thought he understood. He was afraid that he might undermine their marriage if he insisted on having his own way over this. He did not doubt for one moment that he could have had his way, but told himself that true strength often lies in forbearance. He loved Claire very much and wanted to see her happy on her wedding day. As far as principles were concerned, time was on his side.

  It was agreed that they should be married in chapel. The possibility that they should not marry at all was not discussed. This would have been as unacceptable to Terence’s parents as to the Fairleys, if for different reasons. Although his conversation might lead one to suppose that he came from a working-class background, the fact was that he had grown up in a mock Tudor estate in Isleworth, where his parents were pillars of the local country club. Mr Straker was a commercial traveller, something of which Terence was deeply ashamed. At first, Claire had put his revulsion down to inverted snobbery, but she had come to realize it had its origins in an unhappy childhood.

  He had described to her how his parents would go out several evenings a week to the country club. He and his sister had wondered what went on there, imagining exotic, not to say erotic, rites into which they would be initiated when they grew up. Then, one evening, there had been an urgent business call for his father, and eleven-year-old Terence had gone to fetch him. He had pushed open the door of the club and had seen the room, wreathed in smoke, full of people all of whom seemed to be wearing grinning masks. His mother and father were standing in a group near the door. His mother had a painful, ingratiating smile fixed to her lips; her face was rouged and diamante ear-rings and necklace flashed as she tilted her head archly, but her eyes were as anxious as ever. In spite of the glitter, his mother would never be a social success. His father was reduced to his effects – drink in the one hand, cigarette in the other, ruby ring on the little finger, smart grey suit encasing the rotund body. The fond smile which Claire might have seen break over her father’s face, had she interrupted him at some adult gathering, had not greeted Terence. His father had looked at him with glazed indifference. His mother, when someone had said, ‘This is your boy, is it?’ had given a squirming smile while her frightened eyes implored Terence to be civil.

  ‘Why do you and Mummy go to that place?’ he had asked wretchedly on their way home. He had seen, with the merciless clarity of the child’s eye, that his parents were trying to be acceptable and were not succeeding. It was how he had felt when he went into the transition class: he had imagined this kind of ordeal to be peculiar to childhood.

  ‘You’ve got to be seen around.’ His father had made no pretence that pleasure was involved.

  It was not entirely for business, however, that he went so often to the country club. Subsequently, Terence realized that to his father, bored by his mother, the club was an escape. When Terence was older, his father said to him, ‘I married a silly woman. Be sure you don’t do the same. If a girl giggles a lot, ask yourself if you want to listen to
it for the rest of your life.’

  His mother giggled because she was nervous; it was her response to any situation which she could not handle. His father, by his contempt, had turned her into a compulsive giggler. Terence saw this clearly, and knew that there was no remedy for it.

  His parents were lower-middle-class people hoping to raise themselves. Gradually, Terence had constructed an alternative family which he much preferred, based largely on the activities of paternal grandparents who had died when he was young. His grandfather, he told Claire, was one of Nature’s scholars, and a sturdy agnostic. If he could imagine him worshipping anywhere, however, it was in a Methodist chapel, where so many working-class men had had their first experience of debate on social issues. It was of this he thought on his way to his wedding, and not of his mother’s: ‘Chapels never look right, somehow, with no central aisle for the bride to walk up.’

  The Allies had landed in France, Rome had fallen, and there was jubilation in the air as Terence and Claire planned their wedding. Although both were confirmed pacifists, it was impossible not to be affected by the renewal of hope. Claire’s only sadness was that her dear father would not be there to support her. She had written to Harry, asking him to give her away, but had received a letter regretting that he was unable to leave the farm. ‘Unable to leave Aunt Meg, more like!’ she had said angrily. So, it was on the arm of one of her Cornish cousins, fortuitously stationed at Uxbridge at this time, that she entered the chapel.

  June was to be remembered not only for the invasion of France, but for the advent of Hitler’s ‘secret weapon’. The wedding ceremony coincided with the first flying bomb incident in Acton. The ominous drone could be heard while the couple made their vows. The engine cut off as the congregation rose to sing ‘Love Divine, all loves excelling’. Most of those present prostrated themselves in a style not normally acceptable to Methodism. Several seconds passed and then the floor seemed to shift slightly. A pile of hymn books stacked on the back pew fell down and someone screamed. Outside, whistles were blown and there was the sound of running feet. Terence’s father said crossly to his wife, ‘Why get hysterical now? It’s all over.’ Jacov began to pick up the hymnbooks. The congregation resumed the vertical and sang with fervour: