Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  ‘That would depend on whether you’ve got anything to be vain about,’ she said, then kissed him passionately, forcing his lips to open with her tongue. Slowly she drew back. ‘And I think I’m most capable of judging that.’

  *

  Roland awoke just after seven the following morning, momentarily disoriented as he tried to identify the unfamiliar surroundings. At last he remembered: he was out of the army. Today was his first full day as a civilian, the beginning of a new life. On his last day as a civilian, he had been a fifteen-year-old boy burying his family; now he was a twenty-three-year-old man who had put the past firmly behind him.

  The sound of movement from the bathroom startled him until he remembered Sally Roberts as well. He turned his face into the pillow and breathed in a faint but tantalizing trace of her perfume. He buried his face in it and relived for an instant the previous night.

  ‘Are you getting up or are you going to stay in bed all day?’

  So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard Sally’s footsteps as she returned from the bathroom. He lifted his head and saw her standing by the bed, wearing his red silk dressing gown. His eyes wandered over the contours of her body where the flimsy gown clung to her, then up to her face. The green eyes no longer flowed with the passion of last night; now, as they regarded Roland lying in bed, they were serene.

  ‘Where are you off to so early?’ he asked.’

  ‘Some of us have jobs to go to. What about you?’

  ‘I’ll get up soon.’

  ‘Must be nice to be idle.’ She dressed, slipped on her coat and leaned over the bed to kiss him tenderly on the forehead. ‘Telephone me when you’ve got a place of your own, Roland Eagles. I’m afraid that having a night clerk look me up and down, no matter how tactfully he does it, makes me feel cheap.’

  Roland watched the door swing shut behind her, closed his eyes and went back to sleep. When he awoke forty minutes later, the first thing he noticed was that the portrait photograph was no longer on the chest of drawers. He felt flattered that Sally would want such a memento.

  *

  Roland found a place to live that day, a cheery, well furnished, two-bedroom flat close to Regent’s Park, just a few minutes from Baker Street. It afforded him the best of both worlds: a view of the park, enough to let him feel he was in the country, while at the same time he could be in the center of London in little more time than it took to hail a taxi. He paid the first month’s rent and arranged to move in at the end of the week. Feeling pleased with himself he went out for a leisurely dinner, then took a taxi back to the hotel. As he passed through the lobby the night clerk called him over.

  ‘Have you seen this, Captain Eagles?’ The man held out the late edition of that day’s Mercury, and Roland could see immediately why Sally had taken the army portrait. He cursed himself for being foolish and egotistical enough – vain enough – to believe that she had only wanted a souvenir.

  On the front page of the newspaper, under a two-line heading which read, ‘Army Hero Resigns Over Palestine,’ was the photograph and a six-paragraph story about Roland leaving the army because he disagreed with British policy in Palestine. Also included in the piece was biographical information about his decorations and how he had lied about his age to enlist. The article ended by mentioning the fact that an army spokesman had no comment to make. The byline of course, was that of Sally Roberts. Angrily, he flipped through the newspaper until he found the editorial columns. There he was again, used by the Mercury’s editorial writers as the focus for an attack on the government’s foreign policy. The editorial ended with, ‘When our own decorated military men perceive the error in British action, why does our government remain so blind?’

  ‘Let me use your telephone!’ Before the night clerk could respond, Roland grabbed the receiver and dialed the number of the Mercury. When told Sally had left he slammed down the receiver and dialed her Hampstead number.

  ‘You’ve got one hell of a damned nerve!’ he yelled into the phone when she answered, disregarding the night clerk standing next to him. ‘Do you realize I could press libel charges against you and your newspaper?’

  ‘Libel?’ Sally queried calmly. She had been expecting Roland’s call for a couple of hours, ever since the late edition of the Mercury had gone onto the streets. ‘I don’t think libel enters into it, Roland. Every word in that story is true, just as you related it to me.’

  Taken aback by Sally’s composure, Roland calmed down slightly. ‘All right then, how about theft?’

  ‘Oh, Roland, do come on. I’m a journalist and I’ve got a living to make. You’re good human interest copy. Besides, it’s not theft. I’ll have the photograph returned to you. I only borrowed it to get a block made. I had no intention of keeping it.’

  ‘Was that why you spent the night with me?’ Roland shot a look at the clerk who, diplomatic man that he was, walked away. ‘Did you do it for your precious story? So you could borrow the photograph?’

  A long pause followed. For a moment Roland thought Sally had hung up. Finally she said, ‘You really are only twenty-three, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Precisely what it sounds like. You’re acting like a child.’

  ‘A child? I’ve commanded men in combat . . . who the hell do you think you’re calling a child?’

  ‘Roland, do you think we could discuss this on a more personal level, say over dinner, before you burn out the entire London telephone system?’ Sally’s voiced remained infuriatingly level.

  ‘I’ve already eaten, thank you. Besides, I’ve no idea what you’ll take next.’

  ‘I didn’t mean tonight.’

  ‘Well I did. Get that photograph back to me right now.’ It sounded like an order he might have given to recalcitrant recruits.

  ‘I’ve just run a bath, for God’s sake.’ Finally her voice showed animation.

  ‘Then I suggest you empty it.’ He hung up, not interested in her excuses.

  ‘Are you finished, captain?’ the night clerk asked, cautiously returning to his position.

  A wave of embarrassment swept over Roland as he realized what a spectacle he had made of himself. ‘Yes, thank you. This is for letting me use your telephone.’ He offered the clerk a ten shilling note.

  ‘Thank you very much, Captain Eagles.’ The note disappeared into the man’s pocket in a movement so swift Roland had difficulty following it.

  ‘Mr Eagles,’ Roland muttered gruffly as he walked toward the stairs. ‘Didn’t you read the story?’

  *

  Sally Roberts arrived at the hotel shortly before eleven, but she wasn’t alone. With her was a man in his late thirties with deep-set brown eyes, wavy black hair brushed back from his forehead and a well-trimmed Van Dyke. His tall, slender build was accentuated by the closely fitting beige cashmere coat he wore.

  ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ Sally greeted Roland as he opened the door to his room, ‘but I had to go to Fleet Street and turn the blasted blockmakers upside down to retrieve your stupid photograph.’ She thrust a large brown envelope at him with such force that he nearly dropped it. ‘Now you can stop all this ridiculous nonsense about having me charged with theft and libel and God only knows what!’

  ‘Were you so frightened to come by yourself, you had to bring a bodyguard?’ Disappointment shaded Roland’s taunt. He had hoped that when Sally arrived they could continue their lovemaking of the previous night and soothe their differences in bed.

  The man with the Van Dyke gave a faint smile before speaking with a slight accent that Roland had difficulty identifying. ‘I’m very flattered that I could be considered anyone’s bodyguard, Mr Eagles. I am just someone who wanted to meet you.’

  ‘Roland, this is Simon Aronson. He’s a member of a political group which is trying to persuade the British government to ease its restrictions on refugees being allowed into Palestine. Simon, this is Roland Eagles – in between making threatening phone calls h
e steals food from other people’s plates.’

  Simon Aronson offered a hand which Roland took. ‘We are very grateful for the stand you took, Mr Eagles. If the British public can see that even some of its military men are unhappy with the situation, perhaps the government will be forced to amend its rigid stance.’

  Roland suddenly realized that his two visitors were standing in the doorway and invited them inside. ‘What I did was not for public consumption, Mr Aronson. I did it because of my own moral convictions, not because I wished to become a pawn in some political chess game.’

  ‘In these instances, personal feelings matter very little. Once you decide to take a stand on a controversial issue you no longer have the choice of how public a figure you become.’ Simon looked around the room and sat down in an overstuffed armchair, carefully straightening the cashmere coat. ‘Might I ask what your moral convictions are based upon?’

  ‘Is this another interview, a follow-up story?’

  ‘No.’ Simon shook his head. ‘Personal curiosity.’

  Roland lit a cigarette while he thought about an answer. ‘Seeing Bergen-Belsen, I suppose. Those poor devils were the responsibility of us all – not just the barbarians who put them there, but the rest of us who allowed such things to take place. And I guess the fact that I’m half-Jewish has a lot to do with it.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Sally said, obviously surprised.

  Roland swung around to face her, unable to keep from grinning slightly. ‘Are you upset that you didn’t wheedle everything out of me?’ She returned his question with a cold stare.

  ‘Before the war it was never something I gave much thought to,’ Roland said, turning back to Simon. ‘Since Bergen-Belsen, though, I keep noticing little things that remind me – this Palestine business, overhearing people talking.’

  ‘You’ve become sensitive to it. There is an old saying – and I hope Sally will forgive me for bringing it up – but a Jew should never worry if he forgets he is a Jew, because sooner or later a non-Jew will remind him.’

  ‘Very apt.’ Roland nodded in appreciation. ‘But it still doesn’t ease my resentment about having my life spread over the front page of some cheap tabloid.’

  ‘You can’t blame me because you’ve had the kind of life that makes interesting reading,’ Sally broke in, ignoring the remark about the Mercury. ‘For a twenty-three-year-old you’ve achieved a remarkable amount.’

  ‘Even if I did it in a remarkably childish manner?’

  Sally could feel her face turning crimson. That was twice he had made her blush . . . ‘I apologize for making that comment. Anyway,’ she added quickly, anxious to get over the incident, ‘the Mercury is a newspaper which believes the British government must act in a more humanitarian manner toward Jewish refugees who want to enter Palestine. Your action in resigning from the army was helpful to our case.’

  ‘Is that the connection between you two? Palestine?’

  Simon answered. ‘Not quite. We – my family, that is – own the Mercury. We bought it a few years before the war. For us it’s been a way to fight against the rise of fascism in this country.’

  Roland laughed, ‘I suppose I should feel somewhat flattered, the owner of the newspaper coming to see me as well as the suitably repentant reporter.’

  ‘Repentant!’ Sally exploded. ‘Does your vanity know no bounds? What I did was for the greater good.’

  ‘What else does your family do?’ Roland asked Simon, now more interested in Sally’s companion.

  ‘We’re in banking.’ Simon said it quietly. ‘Before the war we were solely in Paris—’

  ‘Your accent, I was trying to place it.’

  ‘French,’ Simon acknowledged. ‘Many Frenchmen believed that another war with Germany was impossible, even when Hitler came to power. My family didn’t share this optimistic view. In 1934 we moved to Britain and set up our base of operations here. We’re back in France now, but our main strength remains in London. What about yourself?’

  ‘I’m looking to invest a sum of money. I want to study the market first, though, get my bearings. Civilian life is different from the army. When I give an order here, no one listens.’

  Simon laughed. ‘It seems to have worked very well just now. Sally returned your photograph rather hastily.’

  Roland turned to Sally, wondering whether she was still angry with him. ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you over the phone, but seeing myself in the newspaper came as quite a shock.’

  ‘You’re right. I should have asked for the photograph, been more honest.’

  ‘It’s over with now, let’s forget about it.’

  Simon stood up and straightened his cashmere coat. ‘I hate to break this up but my family is waiting for me. When you’ve decided what you want to do, please give me a call. There might be some way I can help you. Perhaps I can recompense you for any inconvenience you believe the story might have caused.’ He handed Roland a business card with an address in the city. ‘We’re just off St Swithins’ Lane.’

  ‘Aronson Freres?’

  ‘My great-great-grandfather and his brother.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘Please do.’

  As his two visitors were leaving, Roland pulled Sally back. ‘I need to know something about last night – did you stay here just because you wanted a story?’

  Sally’s face tightened and Roland expected another onslaught. Then she smiled, ‘I could have written that piece from what you told me on the train, and I probably could have gotten a picture of you from the army information office. I spent the night with you because I wanted to. Can your suspicious mind believe that?’ Without waiting for a reply, she kissed him on the cheek and walked quickly after Simon Aronson, who was already halfway down the stairs.

  Roland remained in the doorway until he could no longer hear their footsteps. As he closed the door, he promised himself that in the future he would be very cautious if and when he ever had to deal with the press again . . .

  *

  Winter was vicious, the coldest Roland could remember with knee-high snow and icy winds, but it was of little concern to him. He was far too involved in learning how best to use his family inheritance to worry about the weather. He had no training in any particular profession, barring the accountancy basics he had learned from his father, and the military. No matter what he did he would have to start at the bottom. At twenty-three, Roland felt there wasn’t time for that. He wanted to begin with a company of his own; that was the first step to meeting his father’s family on equal terms.

  He spent the following two months cooped up in the spare bedroom of the flat near Regent’s Park, which he had turned into an office. He studied financial newspapers and magazines as he conducted his own crash course in business, researching those industries which seemed to have the most promising future in postwar Britain. In the beginning he ventured out only to eat, leaving the purchase of household necessities to the woman who came in twice a week to clean. Later, as his research progressed, he made appointments to see management people from the companies that interested him on the pretext that he had a considerable amount of money to invest. Little did they know that his sights were set much higher . . . he was going to buy one of them out.

  Once or twice a week he saw Sally Roberts for dinner. Occasionally she would spend the night at his flat, and when she had gone he would diligently return to his work. The only break he took was on Christmas Day, when he attended a party Sally was giving to celebrate both the season and her promotion at the Mercury to editor of the women’s page.

  At the beginning of February, Roland made an appointment to see Simon Aronson.

  Carrying a bulging briefcase, Roland followed a secretary through a maze of narrow paneled corridors to Simon’s office in the bank, a square, compact room with beige carpet, furnished with a walnut desk, a low coffee table, a deep brown leather divan and two easy chairs. On his desk was a framed picture of his wife and two daughters. Two paintings,
both of men with beards, hung from a picture rail. Roland spotted a family resemblance in the deeply set brown eyes and assumed from the clothes that they were Simon’s father and grandfather.

  ‘Mr Eagles, what a pleasure to see you again.’ Simon rose from behind the desk and shook Roland’s hand warmly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was thinking along slightly different lines.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering what I could do for you?’

  Simon chuckled delightedly. Since their first meeting he had been looking forward to seeing the former army captain again. Despite the initial awkwardness of their earlier encounter, Simon had taken to Roland. Not because of his views regarding British policy in Palestine, but because Simon had sensed a positiveness – an unusually confident strength about the man. He had achieved a great deal for someone his age, even if his momentum had been assisted by the war, and Simon was certain that it would carry through in civilian life. The mere fact that he’d taken Simon up on the offer he’d made was proof of that.

  ‘All right, what can you do for me?’

  The question was answered with another question. ‘What do you need doing?’

  ‘The same as every other bank. We need profitable projects to invest our funds in. Sally tells me you’ve been working day and night on one. It shows, if you’ll pardon my saying so. You have the coloring of a man who hasn’t seen fresh air for a year.’

  Although the remark was made lightly, Roland touched his face, suddenly aware of how pale he looked. The months spent in the flat poring over papers had taken their toll.

  ‘Once I get my business off the ground I’ll relax with a couple of weeks in the south of France.’

  ‘Good, the words of a confident man.’ Simon opened a desk drawer and reached inside. ‘Do you play?’ He asked, bringing out a backgammon board.

  ‘I prefer poker,’ Roland replied, holding back his surprise at the banker’s suggestion.

  ‘I don’t keep cards in the office. This is for relaxation.’ Simon set out the board on the coffee table and invited Roland to take one of the easy chairs.