A Future Arrived (34 page)

The kettle whistled for him and he made a small pot of tea which he took to his desk.

He sipped his tea. A clock ticked on the mantel. He could hear the
clop-clop
of the milkman's horse entering the street from Golden Square. Seven-ton bomb loads and Spitfire fighters! Death's gray instruments.

He set his cup of tea on the table, switched off the lamp, and went back into the bedroom. Jennifer was still deeply asleep, lying on her back now, arms flung behind her head. He took off the robe and slipped under the covers, pressing his body against the warm loveliness of her, fingers touching the smooth, rounded flesh where blood pulsed and life flowed.

S
HE WAS DISCREET
but knew it would be only a matter of time before it dawned on someone in her family that she was having an affair. She had lunch with her mother at the Savoy one afternoon in early November.

“I had a long talk with Vicky yesterday,” Winifred said, toying with the orange in her Manhattan. “She told me she doesn't see much of you lately.”

“I know, but I've been terribly busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Oh, a million things. Research mostly … organizing notes and material … typing and using a Dictaphone machine. Honing the skills I learned at Calthorpe's.”

She eyed her daughter closely. “I must say, the work seems to agree with you. I've never seen you look so … radiant.”

“Thank you, Mama. I feel radiant, as a matter of fact.”

“And who are you doing all this work for?”

“A journalist on … one of the dailies.” She picked up the menu and studied it. “How does the
coquilles St. Jacques
sound to you?”

“Does he pay you much?”

“Not too much, but money's not important, is it? I mean to say, if one is happy at a job …”

“Do you work in Fleet Street?”

“Fleet Street? Not exactly.”

“Where then?”

“Really, Mama, why this sudden curiosity?”

“I hardly relish being an inquisitor, Jenny, and I know that it's none of my business. You are free to do what you wish, but it's not like you to be anything but forthright. You've pretty much moved in with him, haven't you?”

“Yes. I spend a lot of time with him.”

“Vicky put two and two together and came up with Albert Thaxton. Is that right?” She could see the answer in her daughter's eyes. “He was a charming boy and I imagine he turned into a charming man. Why are you ashamed of him?”

“Ashamed? He's the most wonderful person in the world.”

“Then why be so circumspect? Sharing a quiet love affair is hardly a hanging offense.”

Jennifer stirred her martini with the speared olive. “I was going to tell everyone about him sooner or later. When I felt certain this would last.”

“Last? Affairs either end or turn into something far more complex.”

“I feel certain this one will turn into something grand. It's not just sexual attraction.”

“I hope so, although passion can be a powerful reason to stay together. But passion, to the degree you obviously feel it now, can't last forever. What turns a love affair into something richer is love itself … the love of sharing … common goals and purposes … the unselfishness of blending two lives into one.”

“I understand, Mama. I enjoy being with him, helping him with his job, being around him. I believe with all my heart that we can make a go of it.”

“Well,” Winifred said, raising her glass, “you certainly have my blessing.”

“Thank you. I hope Daddy is as understanding.”

“Dear Jenny,” she laughed, “if he could cope with Vicky all these years he can certainly adjust to you.”

They led a quiet life, rarely going out or having more than four friends in for dinner, but as the new year approached Jennifer decided they should throw a party.

“How do the hors d'oeuvres sound to you?” she asked one night, coming into the drawing room with a notebook in her hand. “Caviar, smoked Scotch salmon with capers on toast squares, assorted canapés and pâtés.”

Albert, hunched in front of his typewriter, glanced up in bemusement. “I beg your pardon?”

“You didn't hear one word I said.”

“Sorry. I was thinking of something.”

“What?”

“The Churchill-Baldwin debates of 1935.”

She put the notepad on the table and sat on his lap. “That's what I love about you, Thax. I need help with the menu and you're drifting in the past with Stanley Baldwin.”

He slid a hand inside her silk pajamas. “I've always found something highly erotic about Baldwin and his thick wool suits.”

She pushed his hand away. “Stop, please. You're always trying to turn me into a wanton.”

“I don't have to try very hard.”

“No. I'm easily aroused and you ruddy well know it.”

“Menu,” he said. “Fish and chips will do nicely.”

“Be serious.”

“I've already discussed the matter with Vassily. A dinner fit for a czar, he said. He just needs to know how many to cook for.”

“About thirty, I expect.”

He whistled softly. “Can we cram that many in?”

“With a little rearranging of furniture. A man with your vast circle of friends will need a larger place one day.”

“With room for a nursery?”

She got slowly from his lap and leaned back against the edge of the table facing him. “I promised no strings, Thax. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“Is this a proposal?”

“Let's say it's a proposal for a proposal. I wouldn't want to spring anything on you. Girls should be prepared for all sorts of surprises … clean undies in case of an accident. That sort of thing. We love one another. There has to be more to a marriage than that, but at least we've passed the first test with colors flying.”

“Three months. Still honeymoon fever.”

“In a manner of speaking.” He reached out and drew her to him gently. “And a delightful fever it is, too.”

“Yes,” she said, touching his face. “More satisfying than I ever thought possible.”

S
HE SANK INTO
sleep, his body curved against her back, an arm around her in comforting possession. But in her dreams there was only an immense hollowness … shadows of emptiness. She was standing in a room, windows flung wide to face an empty sea. The room seemed endless, vast walls and floors stretching away forever. All empty. And there was such sadness, a longing for something irretrievably lost. She sat up with a strangled sob, hands pressed to her mouth. Perhaps the cry had only been in the dream. He had not stirred. His breathing as gentle as the snow drifting against the windowpanes.

“Is that the last article?” she asked at breakfast.

He glanced from the typewritten sheets propped against the sugar bowl. “Of this series. I have to go to the office this morning for a conference with John, Farnsworth, and Jacob. Map out what's needed for the next group.”

“Any ideas?”

“A few. Along the lines Jacob discussed. Resurgent, vital Britain. Rising employment and humming factories; a commitment to defend our shores and our skies; an assurance to foreign investors and customers that we will never be added to Hitler's list of enslaved people.”

She clapped her hands. “Bravo! When are you standing for Parliament?”

“Very amusing. Anyway, you get the idea. It will mean a few trips to Coventry, Birmingham, Sheffield, and etcetera. You're more than welcome to come along.”

“All the garden spots of the realm.”

“Sorry. I'll try to do my next research on the Riviera.”

She poured them both coffee. “How long will this take?”

“I'm not sure. A month or two.”

“And then?”

He shrugged, reaching for the cream. “Journalists and sailors, remember? Always prepared to sail where the wind blows.”

“Not all journalists. Take John Baker … or Farnsworth.”

“Editors, my pet. A different breed of cat.”

“I think you'd make a marvelous editor.”

“Thank you. Perhaps in twenty years … when my old backside yearns for a padded swivel chair.” He caught sight of the wall clock. “Cripes, getting late.”

She watched from the drawing-room window as he hurried toward a taxi, fending off the sleet with his umbrella. A man going to work—as thousands of others were doing on this cold London morning.

T
HE GREAT BELLS
rang the hour—the final midnight of the year. From St. Paul's and St. Clement Danes and on across the city, peal by jubilant peal. In Soho, people took to the streets with rattles and paper horns. From the Café Moskva came the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” played on balalaika and violin. The sound drifted to the upstairs flat.

A correspondent from Reuters, who had been with Albert in Spain, raised his glass and expressed the sentiments of just about everyone in the room. “Farewell nineteen thirty-eight. Jolly glad to see you go!”

“I will always cherish nineteen thirty-eight,” Jennifer whispered as she gave Albert a kiss.

He smiled and kissed her back. “I shall cherish the year as well.”

S
HE DID THE
driving on the wintry roads while Albert huddled beside her, working on his notes or coaxing the heater to give a little more warmth. Coventry and Birmingham, Sheffield and Manchester—a similarity of bleakness. Factories, foundries … aircraft assembly plants, rolling mills. Nights in provincial hotels, correlating the day's notes, typing the rough drafts. A hard but exciting trip for Jennifer, seeing a Britain she had never seen before. Oldham and Merseyside, Newcastle and Jarrow. Albert collected the background material he needed in three weeks and they returned to London.

Her sense of unease began to grow the closer he came to finishing the articles. The clatter of his typewriter in the small hours of the morning seemed almost ominous to her as she lay sleepless in bed. When she did fall asleep, she would often have the dream … the empty rooms and deserted landscapes … the aching feeling of loneliness.

He took her down to the paper as the edition carrying the first article in the series started through the giant presses. He handed her a copy, still smelling of ink. There was gaudy artwork … the British lion baring its fangs …

THE LION HAS TEETH

A. E. Thaxton

“You can keep it as a souvenir,” he shouted in her ear.

She yelled back: “I will. A lot of my own sweat went into it.”

He put an arm around her and led her out of the cavernous room, the presses thundering like the machinery of some gargantuan ship.

“You need a suitable reward,” he said as they took a lift up to the ground floor. “Let's say … champagne and dinner at the Ritz.”

“Let's settle for pink gins and a mixed grill at that chop house in Magpie Alley.”

“Jolly good for you. Spoken like a true Fleet Streeter.”

The interior was dark oak, smoky, and pungent with the smell of beer, whisky, and meat spluttering on red-hot grills. It had been the haunt of Fleet Street journalists and lawyers from the nearby Temple for over a century. They squeezed into a corner booth near the long, crowded bar.

“To you,” she said, lifting her glass.

“To us.”

John Baker, a hefty, red-faced man of forty who looked like a rugby player and dressed like a Piccadilly dandy, leaned toward them from the bar, a whisky soda clenched in one beefy paw. “'Allo, Jennifer … Thax. Bloody good opener, what? The lion has teeth, indeed! Eye catcher.”

“I hope so,” Albert said quietly.

“And congrats to you, Thax. Your name's on the list. Jacob the golden one passed
me
up, but that was to be expected, what?”

Albert downed his drink and signaled a waiter for another. “Too useful where you are, Johnnie. No one could run the city desk like you. It purrs like a watch.”

“Or ticks like a cat, old lad. Yes, I know what you mean. There is oft a penalty for being too bloody good at what one does. I shall no doubt get a hefty raise if I know Jacob. Compensation for the slight, which I will squander on pointless frivolities.”