INDIFFERENT HEROES

by MARY HOCKING

  Just before lunchtime, Terence went out in search of more disinfectant. Claire was left alone. She had worked hard and she was hungry. She had a pain in the pit of her stomach. The room now bore less resemblance to a place where one might live than it had before they started. Little rivulets of dust and grit were trickling onto the floor. Apart from that, it was quiet. All activity seemed momentarily to have ceased, here, and in the road outside. She could not remember the last time she had known such stillness. So much had happened over the last months and years that there seemed to have been a constant roaring in her ears, as people, places, events flashed by, moving too fast to make much sense. Now she had the sensation of having come to herself in a strange place, after being absent for quite a long time, and with a nagging suspicion that she had done something irrevocable while she was not in possession of her faculties.

  She went to the window, standing sideways to peer down, as might a person suffering from vertigo. Opposite, there was a terrace of tall Victorian houses whose disrepair owed less to bomb damage than the changing patterns of life. The large families for whom they had been designed had dwindled, and the houses were let out, room by room, to migratory workers who had neither the means nor the inclination to look after them. In the Acton slum house, window boxes had proudly proclaimed that, whatever the dilapidation of masonry and the blistering of paintwork, this was a home. Here, the only flower to be seen was willow-herb on a bombed site. This apart, the contribution of war had been black-out curtains and chicken wire stretched across broken windows. Ragged children played amid rubble, taking no notice of a woman who shouted threats of punishment unlikely to induce them to come indoors. An old man sat on basement steps rolling a cigarette.

  There was a public house on the corner of the street, and Claire could see their landlady, a shopping bag over one arm, making her way towards it with something of the absorbed dedication of the chapel-goer who has already left the outside world behind.

  She had never before felt so lonely. To what had she committed herself in this period of her absence, during which her home had been destroyed and her beloved father killed? The answer, of course, was Terence. The past few weeks had given her no cause to regret this. In the teaching of school and chapel, sex had not been mentioned as a factor in the making of a marriage. Other sources, which she had come to later, were insistent that sexual satisfaction was the essential ingredient. On her wedding night, she had been surprised by her response to Terence’s clumsy fervour. Self-control, discipline, frugality were qualities with which she was familiar, as exemplars, even if she had failed in their performance. Here, in an area of life where abandonment was laudable, untutored and unprepared though she was, she had been immediately successful. Undoubtedly, sex was what she had been waiting for, and its lack explained that tension and anxiety which had characterized her adolescence. She had looked at herself in the mirror the next morning and wondered how, confronted daily by that vivid hair and pale, agitated face, she had failed to realize that she was simply avid for sex.

  Now, standing at the window of Number 9 Rosemount Street, it occurred to her that a vast amount of time had to be filled in while one was not actually making love. She could not, at this moment, imagine how this was to be done. She blew her nose and then, disgusted by the black mess on her handkerchief, began to cry.

  In the first chemist’s shop to which he came, Terence was unable to obtain the particular brand of disinfectant which he required. Although on principle he rejected parental example, in the matter of disinfectant he was his mother’s son. It had to be Milton. So desperate was the expression on his strained, owlish face that oncoming pedestrians automatically stepped to one side, imagining him on an errand of greater gravity than the purchase of a bottle of Milton. The taxi driver who was cruising down the Broadway when Terence emerged from the shop where he had secured his prize, did not even notice him. Weak eyesight and an inability to judge distances made Terence a hazard on the road at the best of times; in a hurry, he was a potential calamity. The taxi must get out of his way; he was not himself a driver and saw no difficulty in this. Terence leapt forward. Momentarily, his dim eyes recorded a picture of the taxi driver, gripping the wheel of his vehicle as though attempting to get it airborne. Terence gave an even more spectacular leap and fell, rolling to one side so that he contrived to land on his back in the gutter, his precious package cradled against his stomach. The special constable who helped him to his feet insisted on seeing what it was that he had in the bottle. He looked at Terence sternly; but, having satisfied himself that the chap was not mad enough to drink the stuff, let him go on his way. The taxi had already disappeared in a cloud of blasphemy.

  Terence limped on, moaning, not with pain but panic. Ever since he left the house, he had been haunted by the fear that Claire would not be there when he returned. She had looked so fragile, the beautiful red hair hidden beneath the scarf she had wound tightly round her head, as though preparing herself for the operating theatre. The eyes which watched him go had seemed wide with nameless foreboding. As he turned into Rosemount Street and saw the house, tears of humiliation stung his eyes. His first effort to provide for her, and he had led her to that dreadful room! How contemptuous she must be of his miserable failure! He must get her out of the place as soon as possible. Teaching was the answer; the country would be desperate for teachers when the war ended. He had dreamt of being a journalist on one of the more vituperative left-wing weeklies, where he would undoubtedly become a major influence on post-war thought. But dreams would have to wait; he loved Claire dearly and his first duty must be to provide for her. He did not see this as self-sacrifice, but as her due.

  Claire heard his feet on the stairs, stepping carefully because he was no happier than she about the stability of the house. How were they going to live here if they couldn’t even come up the stairs without fearing they would bring the whole structure crashing down?

  ‘I’ve got it!’ He held the bottle aloft. ‘It took a bit of tracking down, but . . .’ He saw that she had been crying and put his arms round her.

  When she was calmer, they decided to eat their sandwiches in the open air. After she had washed her hands and face and put a comb through her hair, the elfin charm was restored; and he thought perhaps he would not have to teach. The sun had come out and it was a pleasant day. They walked hand in hand in search of a little park they had once seen on their way to the house. Terence looked about him, eager to find evidence of decent working-class people with whom he could identify – not himself being working- class, he had a clear picture of what he expected to find. Soon, however, they were in an area which had ceased to be residential. They passed a small factory where cheerful music competed with the whirr of machinery. A placard outside warned that careless talk costs lives. Further on, there was a row of lock-up garages where three men dressed in black suits were unloading a hearse. There was no one else about and one of the men came towards them saying, ‘Lost your way?’ He spoke pleasantly, while conveying the message that he owned the neighbourhood and they were trespassing.

  ‘We were looking for a park,’ Terence said. ‘To eat our sandwiches . . .’

  Claire felt impelled to hold out the sandwiches for inspection. The man was very sallow with dark, liverish eyes. The sight of the sandwiches affected him with such intense melancholy that Claire thought he might be sick; no doubt anxious to rid himself of nausea, he pointed, ‘You see that alley down the side of the furniture store? You go down there, past Mr Jakes’s Emporium; and beyond that, you’ll see the park.’

  Terence thanked him rather more warmly than was necessary, and they hurried towards the alley.

  ‘What was it they . . .?’ Claire whispered. She had been afraid to look too closely.

  ‘Meat.’

  ‘Don’t be so beastly, Terence!’

  ‘Not human. Pork, by the look of it.’

  ‘How could you possibly tell, with your eyesight?’

  ‘It wasn’t a cut of meat
, it was a whole pig.’

  Mr Jakes was standing outside his Emporium, as affable as the undertaker had been melancholy. ‘I’ve got just the thing for you, my dear, with that lovely hair.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any coupons,’ Claire said primly.

  ‘I expect we could come to an arrangement.’

  Claire laughed as though this was a splendid joke, and she and Terence hurried on. The few flower beds in the park had been dug up to accommodate an air raid shelter; squeals of laughter indicated that it was at present inhabited. They walked on to where there was a small patch of grass beneath a resolute oak. Here, they sat, using the tree for a backrest.

  ‘We’ll go back another way,’ Terence said.

  They thought of what they were going back to, then he said, ‘Everything will be all right once we’ve got the furniture in.’

  ‘It will never make a home.’

  ‘Yes, it will. One or two bits and pieces will make all the difference, you’ll see.’

  But they had not been together long enough to accumulate bits and pieces which had any mutual significance. In spite of his nearness, Claire felt more alone than ever. I must have a baby, she thought; I must have a baby as soon as possible. That will make a home.

  The sun was warm and they rested for a time and then walked slowly towards Rosemount Street, two frightened children strayed from some Arcadian world into a fairground, clinging to each other as they made their way between the bizarre attractions which jostled for claims on their attention, searching for a way out.

  On August 9th, the inexplicable talk of heavy water installations resolved itself into something more explicit. An atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The next day, while the shock waves were still felt, another bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. On August 14th, the Japanese officially surrendered and the war was over.

  It was scarcely credible. As the realization of what had happened began to dawn on people, reactions were sharply divided. Services of thanksgiving were held. At least one West London vicar refused to conduct a civil service because of the enormity of the Allies’ crime. Instead, he opened his church for a day of prayer. Claire and Terence, lacking any other means of demonstrating their feelings, were among the few people who attended.

  ‘If I had been on leave, I would have gone, too,’ Alice said to Louise.

  ‘You don’t give a second’s thought to people like Ben,’ Louise told her angrily.

  It was true that Alice had not made this connection in her mind. Had the dilemma been hers to resolve, she would scarcely have known how to answer. She had, after all, thought the war against Hitler justified, and never more so than when the information of the conditions in Belsen was released. She realized her inconsistency; but she was not, and never would be, able to reconcile herself to the fact that the Allies should have been the first to use this worst of all weapons.

  The dropping of the bomb cast its shadow over other events. It seemed to many of the men who had worked on the Burma railway that, from first to last, they were members of a forgotten army.

  ‘Some of these men find it difficult to talk about their experiences, indeed cannot bear to do so,’ wrote one of the doctors who interviewed the prisoners of the Japanese. ‘They don’t seem to have any idea how many of their comrades died – it is almost impossible to get reliable information out of them. I only pressed them because I knew that if I didn’t produce records of a kind, they might suffer more determined interrogation by the Army’s officers investigating war crimes. I am afraid it is going to be a long time before these men are ready to face ordinary life again. Indeed, some may never do so.

  ‘One group I was particularly sorry for. They were the tubercular prisoners who were sent to South Africa to recuperate before returning to England. It was thought to be in their own best interests, but they were heartbroken when they discovered they would not be going home immediately. It was one of the saddest sights I saw there – watching them sail away. I can’t help feeling it was a mistake.’

  Ben went straight back to England. He was one of the lucky ones who had not returned to the jungle after the railway was finished. But it was not luck which kept him in Singapore. There had been a moment when the Japanese CO’s equipment was being unpacked, when it seemed the drawings must be found. Ben had created a diversion by breaking the CO’s radio. He had made a thorough job of it, first dropping it, then stumbling and trampling on it in his fall; he did not weigh much, but enough. He was severely beaten. It was Tandy who recovered the drawings. A terrified spectator, he had realized that if they were discovered, he himself, by his mere presence, would be implicated. While Ben was being reduced to something like the condition of the smashed radio, Tandy took the opportunity to hide the drawings in a discarded packing case. Subsequently, having had no opportunity to burn them – which would have been his preference – he brought them to the hospital, where a surprised doctor congratulated him on his loyalty and initiative.

  Ben recovered slowly. Conditions in Singapore were much better than in the jungle, and by the time the war ended he was fit enough to return to England. Like many others, he embarked drunk with the prospect of liberty; but his jubilation had long worn off by the time he landed in England. He had left behind in the jungle, not only friends, but a part of himself.

  His friendship with Geoffrey had given him a glimpse of a kind of life quite different from the one ambition had planned for him, a life in which companionship played an important part. Instead of the great courtroom victories, more homely scenes began to occupy his mind. A particular image had been the return from the winter walk, frost forming on the fallen leaves, making them crisp beneath one’s feet; cottage windows with lights burning, giving an assurance of the comfort that lay ahead. Inevitably, food had formed an important part of the picture – the table heaped with ham and pickle, a crusted loaf, thickly buttered toast and jam, and a pot of tea in the hearth. But it was the sharing at the fireside which mattered most. He had lost his taste for solitude.

  It seemed, however, that it was solitude which awaited him now. He had been a prisoner for the best part of four years; and he was returning to a place where his absence would scarcely have been noticed. He had always had to fight hard for attention. Now it was attention of a gentler kind that he needed, and he had no idea how to set about attracting it. In his worst moments, it seemed to him that he would never again be able to summon either the will or the energy to make himself noticeable.

  When they came into harbour, all the ships saluted them. There were crowds of people on shore; relatives, friends, and members of associations who would look after those prisoners who had no family to go to. Everyone was anxious to make it seem that they had not been forgotten and never would be. But shame was to be their portion: to their fellows, a defeated army; to future generations, men implicated, however innocently, in the horror of Hiroshima. Back in Chungkai, the inscription on a memorial read, ‘Their name liveth for evermore’. The jungle, already reclaiming the ground it had lost, was wiser.

  Not long after he had returned to England, Ben and Alice met by chance in Piccadilly Circus. He would have walked quickly by, his head averted, had she not recognized him.

  They had tea together in a café. Both were now demobilized and in search of employment. Alice, after a number of unsuccessful interviews, was aware of how little she had to offer a would-be employer. Before she was demobilized, she had made a lot of stipulations about what she would and would not do; the question of what she could do had not exercised her mind. The Navy, after all, had accepted her readily: it had taken one look and decided she was the right kind of person for the senior service. Civilian employers, with different standards, seemed less impressed by an education at the Winifred Clough Day School for Girls which had failed to include shorthand and typewriting in the syllabus.

  ‘How long have you been home?’ she asked Ben. ‘We have been trying to get news of you.’

  ‘Just over a month.’

  �
��And you haven’t been in touch!’

  ‘I had to find somewhere to live.’ He spoke bitterly, as though this was her fault.

  ‘I’m living with Louise. She had a policeman for lodger, but he left, and I’ve got the room at the top of the house where I can see all the roof tops! Aunt May would give you a room, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ve found somewhere now.’ He dismissed offers of help made too late with contempt.

  ‘Are you back at your chambers?’ Alice asked, after a pause during which he had nothing to say.

  ‘No, I’m not going back.’ He shut his mouth tight. He was better qualified than Alice to find employment, but had problems of emotional instability. He knew it would not be possible for him to return to the Bar. This was not something he wanted to talk about. The café was noisy, and the bustle of people and crash of crockery irritated and disturbed him. He had looked forward to seeing Alice and the other members of the Fairley family; but was not able to cope with encounters for which he had not prepared himself in advance.

  ‘Claire is married,’ Alice told him, filling one of the gaps in their conversation. ‘And she’s expecting a baby. Daphne is married to someone who did quite a bit in the Resistance. I haven’t met him yet. They are looking for somewhere to live in Norfolk.’