Shuttlecock (22 page)

I looked at the dead-still garden. Before me was the vision of a naked man fleeing through a dark forest.

‘Do you want another drink? Let me tell you, Prentis, I’ve read your father’s book – more than once. When it came out – before I met you. I’ve admired what’s in it. Oh yes, I know I’m not the patriotic type, not the type to look for heroes. But I was around at the same time, I had my own little part in the war. And I can appreciate – this is the whole nub of it, Prentis – how a son might feel about such a father.’

Something had collapsed around me; so I couldn’t help, in the middle of the ruins, this strange feeling of release.
I
had escaped; I was free.

‘Can I see the file?’

‘I’d wait a bit if I were you. Till we’ve talked it over. The letters put things rather more strongly than I do. They say your father was a coward and a traitor.…’

‘Were the letters sent?’

‘No evidence of it. The ones to the publishers and so forth, definitely not – but they were the back-up letters to the initial one to your father. Your father never came forward. Of course – forgive me – blackmail victims often don’t.’

‘Were they dated?’

‘No. The usual blackmailer’s precaution. But obviously they must date from before X’s death, and, as the back-up letters were never sent and as, to judge from the Y case, where Y was barely given time to make a pay-off before the allegations were made public (X tended to work fast, which supports the pure malice theory), they must date from a time shortly before X’s committal for trial. That’s to say, about two years ago.’

‘Two years ago was when Dad had his breakdown.’

‘Exactly. But don’t jump to conclusions. There’s no evidence for a connexion between the two things. And even supposing your father did receive the letter and his breakdown was a consequence, it may have been a reaction to a vicious, sudden, but still false allegation.’

‘No –’ Suddenly, I don’t know why, my voice became angry. ‘Dad wouldn’t have reacted like that. If it had been false, he would have faced it out, denied it, cleared himself.’

Why was I speaking like this? I thought: or, if he’d broken once, he would have broken twice.

‘But, in any case,’ – I faltered – ‘maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe that’s academic. There is still the fact of the allegation.’

‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s you who must bear the brunt of that. Your father may know nothing. At any rate – he’s silent on the matter.’

The perfect defence: impenetrable silence.

I peered into Quinn’s face – as if, now, he had become an easy target for me – for several seconds.

‘Do you think it was true?’

Quinn threw up his hands. ‘My dear chap, that’s a question I can’t answer.’ His face looked pained. I thought: he is regretting he ever spoke – didn’t keep silent too. ‘I don’t know if it can ever be answered. I’ve weighed up the known facts. You must do the same. X was a British agent in ’44 and was a prisoner in the Château Martine at a time coinciding with, or close to the period of your father’s imprisonment. All that is established fact.’

‘So X would have known.’

‘He would have been in a position to know. But he would also have been in a position, several years later, to
make a spiteful, unfounded attack which had an apparent historical basis. Come back for a moment to the present and the other cases in C9. Y and Z were cleared: that itself speaks in your father’s favour. All the evidence suggests that X was an embittered failure who wanted to get his own back on those who had fared better than himself. One of the charges he was up for before he died was
fraud
. Y and Z were successful civil servants on their way to the top. X’s own civil service career was a flop. X was a British agent like your father, but he didn’t come out of the war, like your father, a hero. The man felt neurotically inferior.’

Quinn turned in his chair and the little sharp gleam flashed in his eyes just for a second. I thought: if I had known what I know now, and the circumstances were different – I might have blackmailed Quinn.

‘But if Dad did betray the other agents, isn’t there evidence to corroborate that?’

Quinn bent forward in his chair and passed a hand over his face.

‘In mid-September ’44 three British agents were rounded up, almost simultaneously, by the Germans and shot, in Mulhouse. X mentions this in his letter – but it’s a genuine fact.’

‘So – ’

‘Wait. Don’t forget there are two ways of looking at it. X wants to incriminate your father. He searches round for facts, coincidences, that will apparently do this. His whole purpose is to suggest the wrong sort of deduction.’

‘But there are too many coincidences – X being at Château Martine, the shot spies, Dad’s breakdown at the time the letter might have been sent – ’

Quinn passed his hand over his face again. I thought:
he really believes Dad is guilty, but he is straining every nerve to protect me.

‘Was he a traitor?’ I blurted this out naïvely – as if Quinn were omniscient. The word ‘traitor’ sounded like something out of melodrama.

‘Perhaps that isn’t really the question. The question is, if he was, could you bear knowing it?’

I thought of the day when I refused to go any more with Dad to the golf course.

‘There’s one thing – that seems to go against all this. His book – ’

‘Ah – ’

‘The last pages, where he describes the Château, and his escape.’

‘I’ve read them.’

‘They’re too convincing not to be real. He couldn’t have written those things, if they never happened.’

‘He knew the Château, and the region – and perhaps he had – like you – a strong imagination. If he wanted to invent an escape story he could have done so. I’m just pointing this out, not disagreeing with you.’

‘No, I don’t mean just that. The last chapters are
more
convincing than the other parts of the book, even though the other parts are about things nobody disputes are true. It’s not just the authentic detail – it’s the tone.’ I felt my voice running away with me. ‘In the rest of the book you hardly sense Dad’s feelings, you don’t sense Dad himself. But in the last paragraphs you – ’

I looked at the pale, peppery hairs, visible on Quinn’s chest.

 … of all the humiliations … none was more demoralizing, more appalling …

‘If he didn’t actually escape, if it was all a deal with the
Germans – why should he write a false story anyway? Why should he have written his book at all and put himself at risk. Shouldn’t he have just kept quiet?’

‘Because he had to justify how he got out of the Château. He couldn’t just say, They let me go. His war record up till then had been pretty remarkable – the grand finale had to live up to it. Of course, I’m speaking hypothetically. But to continue the hypothesis. Suppose that this brilliant record really was blotted by a final act of betrayal; suppose that his hero’s reputation rested ultimately upon a lie. Imagine the pressure, the burden of this – the fear of the truth coming out. Have you ever wondered why it was so long after the war before your father’s book appeared? 1957. He was approached before then by more than one publisher. Why? Because he hesitated over the final act of committing the lie to print, of becoming an out-and-out impostor. At least, he hesitated up to a point. But then the mental pressure becomes too much. He starts to see the publication of his memoirs in a quite different light – as a means of rebutting once and for all the possibility of exposure, of presenting the hero-image in such a complete and thorough way that no one will dare challenge it. And think for a moment what happens when he actually does this. Why are the final chapters more convincing, more heartfelt than the rest? Because it’s here the real issue lies. The
true
exploits, all the brave and daring deeds, what do they matter? They can be treated almost like fiction, but the part of the book that’s really a lie – that’s where all the urgency is. It’s here that he’s trying to save himself. Why does it read like a real escape? Because it
is
an escape, a quite real escape, of a kind. Who knows if in writing it your father didn’t convince
himself
it was true? And why is it also the most thoughtful, the most sensitive, the most imaginative part
of the book? Am I seeing too much in it? Because in writing it he is actually torn between the desire to construct this saving lie and an instinct not to falsify himself completely – to be, somehow, honest. So behind all the “authentication” of his prison experiences and of the escape, he puts down little hints, little clues, meant perhaps only for those nearest to him – for his own son – ’ Quinn grew excited ‘ – clues which say, in case they should ever inquire beyond the surface: See, I was only human. I had my limits, my failings.’

Through the open door, that summer night, Dad’s sudden start – as if I’d caught him in some guilty act.

I thought: who has the lurid imagination now?

‘My dear fellow – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say all this. I got carried away. Please – ’

For a long time there was silence. I sensed Quinn’s apprehension. Then suddenly I said, ‘Did he break down?’ My voice was savage. ‘In the Château – did he break down?’

‘My dear chap – ’

‘In the prison chapter, Dad is silent about what they did to him. He keeps saying: this can’t be described, this is blurred.’

‘Yes, but that would be quite understandable. He was tortured – that’s almost certain – probably severely tortured – you must have considered that. You can’t blame him for not dwelling on those things.’

The garden glimmered in the evening light. A mirage.

‘Or,’ I said, ‘for quite naturally breaking down under them.’

He looked at me. He seemed suddenly perturbed, daunted by the vehemence in my voice. I realized I was defending Dad – defending that dignified dummy on a hospital bench.

Quinn said. ‘Consider the possibilities. The Americans were advancing. He must have known the chances of being freed very soon: an argument for “holding out” – an argument against betrayal – and for not undertaking, if we’re speaking now of the genuine article, a risky escape. On the other hand, the Germans were desperate. They were in retreat. They needed information, or they were simply extra-brutal’ – his eyes sharpened – ‘as desperate men are. Reasons for “breaking down” – or for effecting an escape even with liberation imminent.’

‘But if the Germans were desperate what would have been the advantage of a betrayal? They might have shot him anyway.’

‘True. But consider another possibility. He turns traitor – oh, scarcely with any object in mind, but simply because – like everyone – he has – a breaking point. Then he realizes the Germans will shoot him anyway – so he has to escape in earnest.’

He sighed. ‘Will you have another drink?’

‘No.’

He looked into his own glass and jogged the sliver of lemon at the bottom of it.

‘I know what you’re thinking. You hate me because I’m imparting all this information. Because I have the information – the file – I’m responsible for the fact. That’s not logical. But I don’t blame you. It’s just the same at the office. Because you handle all that information, you feel to blame for it. You don’t mind if I have another one, do you?’

He eased himself out of his seat, gripping his glass. ‘You see,’ he suddenly said, ‘this business of betrayal, and this business of breaking down – they aren’t the same thing at all, are they?’

I watched him waddle to the kitchen through the conservatory. I had never seen him before out of his grey or dark-blue office suit. Like all professional men suddenly seen in casual clothes, he looked vaguely clownish and defenceless. The Siamese cats followed him at a distance. Shadows crept up the garden wall and up the branches of the apple trees.

 … to make the decision the hunted rabbit or the cornered mouse has to make …

Quinn returned. ‘ “Betrayal” sounds like some deliberate, some conscious act. But “breaking down” ….’ He sipped his drink and smiled, gently, at me. ‘Are we putting your father on trial or aren’t we? Think of his predicament again. Alone in that cell, he has all those possibilities to weigh up. Nothing is certain, nothing is clear. If he doesn’t “speak”, the Germans will shoot him. If he does, will they shoot him anyway? Will the Americans arrive in time or not? Should he risk escape or risk waiting for liberation? If he speaks will it make any difference, at that stage, to the course of the war? Is a betrayal a betrayal if, in fact, it has no consequences? And then, on the other hand, if he
doesn’t
betray, that may make a very real difference – between his own life and death. He has all this mental anguish, on top of confinement and – torture. And against all this he can only oppose one feeble imperative – his duty. It’s a mystery; I don’t know what really happened. But you can be sure of one thing. If he did betray, he only did what any ordinary, natural human being would have done – he saved his own skin.’

Quinn held his gaze on me and I looked away. The smile had melted from his face and I felt he was studying me as he often did in the office, searching for reactions.

‘Have I ever told you how I got my limp?’ he said.

I looked at him, surprised.

He bent down suddenly and rapped the front part of his right foot with his knuckle. It gave a hard, hollow sound.

‘You see, that part’s not me.’

I looked, perplexed, and slightly repelled. I’d never known Quinn had an artificial foot.

‘You’re wondering what this has got to do with it? Let me tell you the story. It’s not irrelevant. I was twenty-five when the war started, Prentis. Older than a lot of them. In ’44 I was thirty – nearer your age – a junior officer who’d spent the war in camps and depots and hadn’t heard an angry shot. I didn’t have any lust for battle, you understand, but the fact rather irked me. Our battalion went over to Normandy. Not one of the first wave. It was ironic. There were men under my command who’d been in Italy and North Africa and I was supposed to lead them into action – and it was all rather important to me. We didn’t see any fighting until we got to Caen – ’

‘Caen?’

‘Yes, I know, your father was in Caen. You see – he was preparing the way for the likes of me. Well, I saw my bit of action, and it was all over in about a minute. I had to take my platoon across open ground towards a wood which, in theory, should have been flattened by our artillery. The Germans were there; they opened up, and in ten seconds half my platoon was dead. That’s an astonishing thing when it happens, Prentis, believe me. I didn’t perform any of my much-rehearsed functions as a leader. I obeyed my instinct. I ran like bloody hell – like everybody else. I ran
for my life
. That’s no joke. I would have killed any English soldier who got in my way, let alone a German. Now I don’t remember any of this
except one thing – it’s perfectly true, memories
do
get blurred. As I ran I had to jump over a bit of broken-down hedge. Lying face up in the ditch on the other side of it was a wounded man. I don’t know if I saw him beforehand or if I only realized he was there when I’d already jumped. All I know is that my right boot came down hard and firm on his face; and I had a good glimpse of his face because I was able to tell the poor fellow was still alive. I didn’t stop. A few seconds later something knocked me into the air and the next thing I knew I was in the dressing-station. I’d lost half a foot and, fortunately perhaps, I wouldn’t be called on to command any troops again; and the fact that I was wounded somehow obscured the possibility of my being charged for cowardice and dereliction of duty. You see if someone had accused
me
of cowardice, of betrayal, they’d have been perfectly right – but all that got lost in the confusion of battle. Now, I’m not necessarily superstitious, Prentis, but I can’t help believing my right foot was blown off because it was that foot that trod on that man’s face. Or is that just some guilty need of mine for punishment? But why punishment? Aren’t there certain situations when the pressure of events is so intense, so overpowering – that even the most wretched action can be forgiven?’