Shuttlecock (13 page)

And it is there on the penultimate page, before that awakening in the forest and the polite lieutenant from Connecticut:

 … I made a hollow in the undergrowth, covering myself with leaves, and curled up in it. Some tall beech trees groaned in the wind above me. I was shivering, semi-delirious, hungry, had lost my sense of direction and did not know where I was. I remember thinking, before drifting into merciful sleep, Yes, I am no better than some burrowing animal.…

Another Wednesday. The evenings are getting longer. Under the cedar tree, on the bench, in the hospital grounds, I had this feeling of calm, of refuge. I was safe here. As the sun sets, the red bricks of the hospital walls start to glow; the windows gleam like copper. You do not have to put yourself at risk at all or endanger anything if you never make a move.

For a long time I sat beside Dad, as silent and as still as he was, and I thought: this could go on for ever. Sometimes I wonder what I am more afraid of: of Dad never breaking his silence, or of his suddenly speaking.

I don’t know why this weight lay on my tongue, which only a while before, on my drive down, had been itching with questions. It is easy to frame questions when you know there will be no answers. I wanted to say to him: what does the name Debreuil mean to you? Tell me about Z. Tell me. Yet what I wanted to ask, even more than this, was: What happened, Dad, in the Château Martine? Did they torture you? But I didn’t. I sat in silence several minutes more. It seemed to me we were like two weights on a balance, a swaying see-saw, precariously poised. And then I said: ‘I have got some news, Dad. I am going to be promoted. Quinn told me. Have I told you about my boss Quinn?’

Sometimes Dad is so still and sits so rigidly, it seems that if I touched him with the tip of my finger and gave just a slight push, he would topple, slowly and ponderously, onto the grass.

When I left the hospital the calm feeling still hung around me, though it slowly wore off, so that as I drove through Sutton and Morden I started to look in the driving mirror to see if I was being followed (a new habit), and my tongue started to itch again to ask those questions I had meant to ask Dad. As I neared home it was itching even more, though not to ask questions – to shout at Marian and the kids.

You know those surprisingly long, light evenings in early summer, when lilacs bloom in gardens and even in such mundane and humdrum places as Sutton and Morden a breath of peace seems to hang in the air as if it were really hanging over some wide, virgin landscape. On the way home I took a detour towards Wimbledon. I drove up to the golf course and pulled up in the car-park by the club-house. It was the sort of lingering end to the day (long shadows, a faint breeze, a sweet scent to the turf)
which golfers must love. The light was beginning to fade but I could see several figures still, in coloured sweaters and flapping trousers, out on the fairways. The lights were on in the club-house and the doors open. I could hear a babble of voices. Someone was talking loudly about the price of property. The car-park had been enlarged and an extension added to the club-house since the days I remembered. Several members were already leaving to go home, jingling car-keys with a satisfied air and shouting sarcasms to friends across the gravel. It didn’t seem that their plummy, somewhat hollow voices were the equivalent of the voices I had heard when I was a boy, but perhaps they were.

I went into the club-house. There were men with reddened faces and cigars sitting at the bar. They looked at me suspiciously. The barman looked at me suspiciously too. Against one of the walls was a glass-fronted cabinet containing silver cups and plates and, fixed to the wall, polished wooden boards recording the winners of annual tournaments and competitions. The names went back over thirty years. Amongst them, appearing in one instance (’55–’57), three times in succession, was Dad’s name. But there was no name with the initials A. L. Not a winner, I thought. I could say to the men with cigars, like some hard-talking detective, Which ones of you knew Prentis? Did anyone here know Z? (Why is it that the questions fail you when you most think they will lead somewhere?) The barman was still looking at me curiously. I said: ‘It’s all right, I’m looking for someone – not here,’ and turned to the door.

I loitered a little while at the edge of the car-park. Golf courses, like commons, try to marry wildness with civility. Dusk was falling. The sweatered figures were trailing in across the grass, like returning hunters, with their
trolleys and bags. As the light faded the clumps of birches and hawthorns seemed to loom more definitely, and then only the little fluorescent marker-flags stood out, like sentinels, on the greens.

It kept ringing in my mind, as if, were I to turn round, they would all be standing there: ‘Arthur, Arthur.’

The figures drew near and I could hear their breathy, invigorated voices.

Wwwhack! Wwwhack!

Today Quinn said to me, ‘Hear you’ve been coming into work early, Prentis. That’s commendably diligent of you.’ A tiny, ironically indulgent smile. But his eyes gave a little rigid stare, as if to show he knew everything and was gloating in his knowledge; as if, even with one of those podgy, pink hands of his, he could pick me up, tie me in knots, crush me. He had come down for once from his eyrie, down his flight of steps, and was favouring us with a visit. He was going round, this little plump man, amongst his juniors, who are all bigger and stronger than he, and yet they were saying, as he handed out routine instructions, ‘Thank you sir. Yes sir.’

‘By the way, any more thoughts on C9?’

Today he wore a white carnation.

And tonight Marian said, ‘It’s not like you to bring home work from the office. What’s going on?’

All this week – in spite of what I promised Marian – I have been going in early to secure any mail addressed to me, and then at night, at home, staying up late, going over those details on Z, pondering and making notes, so that when I’ve at last gone to bed Marian has been asleep. We hardly exchange words. But tonight she was awake, her eyes peering at me over the covers. When I shrugged off her question and said, clambering into bed, ‘A special job I have to do,’ she looked hard and searchingly at me for a while, then twisted round and hunched up like something going into its shell. She lies with her knees drawn up, her body curled and her chin lowered into her throat so that, even though the weather is hot, she looks like someone huddling for warmth and protection.

Marian, I wish I knew.

Martin is still following me from the station. Despite the change in my time of returning from work. Every evening but one I have glimpsed his shock of fair hair amongst the trees on the common, and every evening when we sit together at supper, we pretend not to have seen each other. I don’t know what to do. It is his birthday in two weeks. He will be eleven. I am thinking of buying him a pet.

 … Subject: X, Ronald Francis. Home Office, 1950–73. Dismissed: gross misconduct and on medical grounds (alcoholism).

Born, Highgate, London, March 2nd, 1920. Son of William Rycroft.…

And, after a catalogue of unremarkable data concerning family background, upbringing and education:

 … Studied (Modern French Literature), Sorbonne, Paris, 1937–9. 1940–44, Officer, Royal Fusiliers. Served, North Africa, Sicily. Attached Special Operations, March 1944. Operating British agent, France (Franche-Comté), June-Oct. 1944. Prisoner of SS (Doubs), Sept. 1944. Liberated by Americans.…

Today I did it. I went to see Quinn. To have it out with him. I said: ‘Sir, I want to know what’s going on.’

Now it’s true I rarely go to see Quinn without his first summoning me. And yet today, when I had taken the initiative myself, when I had asked over the office intercom
(what daring!) for permission to see him as soon as possible – ‘about a special matter’ – and he had replied, ‘Very well, in ten minutes,’ he was not in the least taken aback. When he buzzed for me and I entered, the work on his desk was pushed to one side, he was sitting with his hands clasped neatly before him (carnation in buttonhole), as if in some way he had long prepared for this visit of mine (perhaps, after all, it really was
he
who summoned me). As if he knew this was a big moment.

‘Well, Prentis, what can I do for you?’

Naturally, all this readiness threw me off my guard. I sat down at his bidding. I had rehearsed my opening in advance. It spilled out like some self-conscious statement made in court:

‘Sir, I must speak to you about something that’s been on my mind – concerning the department – for some time. What I have to say, if you’ll permit me, is merely a considered observation – nothing more – which I feel obliged to make by my position here in the office. It’s quite possible that I may be intruding into matters which shouldn’t concern me and which have a perfectly satisfactory official explanation. In which case, sir, I’d be grateful – I’d quite understand – if you’ll tell me when I’m venturing too far.’

Even as I spoke I thought: What studied, what ingratiating servility. Out with it! Accuse him face to face: You’ve been stealing office files.

‘Good heavens, Prentis, what an introduction. You’d better go on.’

The eyes expressed curiosity, but not alarm.

I thought: It’s not too late to change tack; to avoid wrecking my promotion prospects; to avoid Quinn’s wrath. I could hastily invent some other story which wouldn’t launch me into trouble.

He looked at me as I paused. But, strangely enough, it wasn’t fear of Quinn which made me hesitate at this point. Somehow I knew I could bear his worst retribution. It was a recurrence of the opposite thing, the thing I had experienced before. What if in the face of my veiled accusations this inscrutable, imperious man should crumble? What if the consequence of my words should be to expose him, to jeopardize his own long and almost completed career, and that I should sit in power over him. Would I be able to bear that?

‘Sir, I can’t help having noticed – for some months now – that certain files in this office have been missing from their normal places. Not having had the use of these files has hampered work on a number of cases I’ve handled – which, if I may say so, have at the same time, even in terms of the available data, been disjointed and confusing. I know that documents and whole files can, in the normal course of things, be removed for reference – er – at a level higher than my own. But such items are usually returned after a short period and, in any case, a proper record is kept of their use. The files I am speaking of, sir – I believe’ (don’t cringe!) ‘I have alluded to them in conversations with you before – have never returned. If you wish, sir – I had made a list – ’

Nothing ruffled the plump face. A mistake! A catastrophic error of judgement! The eyes looked straight at me. He put a hand to one cheek, propping his elbow on the armrest of his leather chair, and gently rubbed his mouth with the knuckle of his little finger.

‘Let me get this clear, Prentis. What you are saying now isn’t just some passing misunderstanding. Is that right? What you are voicing is a strong, long-harboured suspicion?’

‘I –’

‘Well, is it?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I see. And what would you say if I were to say to you that this suspicion of yours is none of your business?’

‘I – er – would have to accept your word on the matter, sir.’

‘Yes, yes. But would it stop your suspicion?’

‘No sir.’

‘Would it in fact prevent you from taking steps of your own to follow up your suspicion?’

‘I – er – No sir.’

‘In other words, you think that something in this office demands investigation and if necessary you yourself, on your own initiative, would carry out that investigation?’

But now he didn’t allow me time to answer.

‘Ironic, Prentis, isn’t it? We are the ones who investigate others. That we should have to investigate ourselves.’

He smiled sourly. It was the first hint of some possible confession. I felt afraid.

‘Tell me, Prentis. Missing files, mixed-up files … Been going on for some months you say. So what’s kept you quiet up to now? Is there something else, perhaps, you haven’t yet mentioned?’

The eyes sharpened, as if my thoughts were on view.

‘Perhaps, sir … But I’d rather clear up the general issue first.’

‘You’d rather clear up the general issue first. Hmmh. You see, if I were a suspicious man – like you, Prentis – and if, let’s suppose for the sake of argument, something really is “going on” – I might be saying to myself now
that what you call this “considered observation” isn’t really a considered observation at all but some sort of disguised allegation. And I’d be saying to myself that a man like Prentis wouldn’t just come out with an allegation by itself like that. He’d back it up with a little bit of homework of his own. I’ve been watching you, Prentis. You’re suspicious, all right, and crafty – and’ (his face seemed to draw suddenly closer) ‘just a little bit desperate. So – I’d better find out what information he’s got up his sleeve before either I make some stupid denial or incriminate myself. It’s lucky for you, Prentis, I’m not a suspicious man.’

‘Sir, I – ’

‘No, no, it’s all right. You’re a responsible junior, acting according to his conscience.’

He took off his glasses and began to rub them diligently with a handkerchief. When people take off their glasses it gives them a vulnerable appearance; but at this moment it was as though Quinn was indicating he was prepared to fight without artificial protection.

‘You know I’ll be leaving this job in three and a half months.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘It won’t be me who’s sitting here then. Three and a half months.’

He held up his glasses to the light, squinted at them, huffed, and began rubbing again.

‘Tell me something else, Prentis. Allow me to ask some questions just for the moment. You’ll have your turn for yours to be answered, but let me clear up mine first. The others – Fletcher, Clarke, O’Brien – have they noticed any of these things you’ve mentioned?’

‘I don’t know, sir. They may have done, but never spoken about it.’