by Simon Raven
Since that evening I have not seen Peter. Our correspondence, a mere matter of form, trickled, dwindled and then, years ago, ceased. And now tomorrow he will be here on this island. Despite the meagre and long discontinued letters, despite what passed in the Church Army canteen, I am ridiculously, childishly excited. How much will he have changed in ten years? Will time have confirmed his natural gift of sympathy, or will this have yielded, now that he is prominent and even powerful, to self-righteousness and pride?
The visit is over. The Members of Parliament, having expressed themselves interested and gratified by all they have seen, have climbed into their helicopters and departed for Malta.
And Peter Morrison? He was round-faced and solemn as ever; he had always, as I remembered. looked and behaved as though he were shouldering a heavy burden, and the cares of his position have therefore done little to alter his appearance. Nor has time done much. There was still, this afternoon, a bloom in his cheek, a tenderness in his eye which took me back to that summer day when Tiberius died of a broken heart. The years have been kind to Peter Morrison.
When he first saw me, he looked away slightly and waited for our Colonel, who accompanied the delegation from Malta, to make a formal introduction. Then,
'Fielding,' he said heartily. 'You'll excuse us, for a minute or two, colonel? We're old friends.'
The colonel took the hint and pottered off to join another group.
'You've not changed ... not all that much,' Peter said.
'I try not to let it show.'
'Don't be bitter. Do you like it here? What do you do?'
'I command a Sabre Squadron on detachment. We are responsible for good order on this island.'
'I must say,' Peter said, 'it always surprised me that you chose the Regular Army.'
'What else was there? Cambridge, as you may recall, was out. And I never intended to go to India.'
'I liked it.'
'So you said - in your one letter.'
'Don't be bitter,' said Peter again. 'Why did you choose the Army?'
'Because it offered something rather the same as Lancaster. A closed, comfortable and privileged society. Without the intellectual interest, of course; but that, as you know, was never really important to me. I simply wanted to shine in agreeable surroundings. I hardly do that here, but at least I am obeyed.'
'Did your mother not mind? She seemed, I remember, so determined on India for you.'
'My mother died.'
'She was always delicate. When?'
'I wrote and told you.'
'I'm sorry. It's been such a long time. When?'
'About two years too late. Two years after she'd done all the damage.'
'And... the money? '
'She'd invested a lot of it in that Indian plantation she wanted me to go to. First of all one of the partners - a friend of hers called Tuck - tried to embezzle a lot of the capital. They rumbled him just in time, but he gave them the slip and disappeared ... They hushed it all up to save themselves looking damned silly.'
'But the investment was still safe?'
'At first, yes. But oddly enough Tuck had been a very good manager, the only one of them who really understood anything. Soon after he'd gone the place just ran downhill and packed up altogether at Independence in '47.'
'But there was other money?'
'It was mostly in a merchant bank recommended by Japhet, the family lawyer. That went bust too, just before my mother died. I think it was what finally killed her.'
'So there was nothing left?'
'Just a little. Enough to reassure the Colonel-in-Chief when I applied to have my commission made permanent. But that's gone as well now.'
'How?'
'We won't discuss it, if you don't mind. Tell me about yourself, Peter. Your parents? I always liked your father.'
'Both dead like yours. The land's all mine now.'
'And your land is fertile?'
He smiled. For the first time I had said something which pleased him.
'You remember? ' he said.
'I remember.'
'That evening on the cricket ground with Somerset... I see him a lot, you know. We have political circles in common. You read his magazine?'
'With admiration. Has Somerset,' I inquired, 'got political ambitions?'
'I shouldn't wonder.'
'Then let me give you back your own advice. Watch him.' Peter gestured amiably.
'I've no objection to furthering Somerset's ambitions,' he said.
'He'll make a very good politician.'
'A better politician than friend.'
'There you wrong him. Somerset values good order, and always did. He never harmed anyone unless his sense of order was offended first.'
'The only trouble was that his sense of order required that Somerset should do all the ordering.'
'Why are you being so tough with me?' Peter said. 'Aren't you pleased to see me?'
'I've looked forward to it for weeks.'
'Then why this hostility?'
A political trick, I thought. He wants to spare himself embarrassment by getting me to say it first. Then the truth will be out, but he can pretend to deny it for the sake of politeness. The important point will have been made without his having committed himself to a single harsh word. He wants it both ways; very well, he's the guest; let him have it so, and then we can part with the appearance of decorum, with a mutual saving of face.
'You've shown me, now you're here at last,' I said, 'that to you I've become alien, totally alien. I realized, of course, that I was no longer the person you once knew. But I had hoped that there might still be ... something which remained, something to which you could respond. It seems that there isn't. Or rather, there might be, but it's no longer in me, in myself as I am here and now, but only in memories of the past.'
I waited for the expected denial, for the formal protest of continued affection. But Peter nodded briskly.
'That's it,' he said. 'To me you're now alien, as you say. You have been since that night in Ranby Camp. To me, Fielding Gray is the beautiful and brilliant hero of the first summer of the new peace: an illusion, as it turned out, but a bright and memorable one. After that - nothing.'
He turned and walked away towards the Land Rovers which would carry the delegation back to their helicopters down on the beach.
This evening, for once, there is no wind on the island, so that I can hear the bell from the village up on the hill. Since it is tolling very slowly, I assume that it rings for a death. To me it rings for all the alien dead: for my parents and for Peter's; for Christopher and for the brave Tiberius; and for Fielding Gray.
