“They could, but they mightn’t want to.”
“I’ll bet you’re a good mayor too. I’ll bet everything in that town runs
like clockwork.”
“Oh, not so bad. I’d match it against any other place in England for being
efficiently managed, if that’s what you mean.” George smiled to himself as he
thought of the matter, then saw the other’s quizzical, slightly sardonic
glance, and wondered if he were being baited. “Look here,” he continued, in
some embarrassment, “I’m showing off too much… Aye, and I’d have been down
that shelter too, but for showing off. Maybe that’s what kept us both here
like a couple of fools.”
Charles shook his head, so George added: “Or maybe not in your case.”
“No, George. Oh God, no. If you MUST have a reason, it’s simply that I
don’t give a damn what happens. To me personally, that is. I’m scared, and
yet I don’t care. When you’ve seen a lot of your friends killed you can’t
think you’ve survived by any special virtue of your own. Then why the hell
HAVE you survived? And the next step in argument is why the hell should you
go on surviving?”
George said quietly: “I don’t like to hear you talk like that.”
“It’s better than having you think it was bravery—or even bravado…
Well, let’s discuss something pleasanter. That town of yours, if you
like.”
“Provided it doesn’t bore you.”
“Not at all. I wouldn’t even mind seeing the place sometime.”
“Why don’t you then—sometime?”
It was half an hour before the all-clear sounded, and George was just in
time to catch his train.
Of course they began to correspond again, and within a
short time it
happened that George was called to London for another official conference.
This time it did not spread over a week-end, and he was far too conscientious
to pretend it did; but by routing his return journey, with much extra
discomfort, through Cambridge, he was able to spend a whole afternoon with
Charles. He was delighted to note an improvement in the boy’s physical
condition; he could use his legs more easily, and since he had been
recommended to do so for exercise, the two spent part of the time strolling
slowly about the Backs, which at that time of the year were at their
loveliest.
Less reassuring to George was Charles’s state of mind, which still seemed
listless and rather cynical, especially at the outset. He still questioned
the value of anything he was doing at Cambridge, and George was too tactful
to reply that even if it had no value at all, it was as good a way of passing
a difficult time as any other. “But you like it here, don’t you?” George
asked. “Or would you rather be at home?”
“I haven’t a home,” Charles answered, so sharply that George did not probe
the point. But then the boy smiled. “I’m sorry—you must think I’m very
hard to please. Of course Cambridge is all right, and I’ve really nothing to
complain of. Everybody’s perfectly charming to me. The dons don’t mind
whether I work or not—the whole atmosphere is timeless. It’s a bit
frightening at first. And that air of detachment people have here. One of the
St. Jude’s dons—a little wizened fellow who’s the greatest living
authority on something or other—began talking to me quite casually the
other day about the Channing case—took it for granted that I didn’t
mind everyone knowing that my grandfather served a long sentence in jail. And
of course I don’t mind—why should I? After all, my father didn’t
exactly distinguish himself either—ever heard of Kemalpan? Well, I
won’t go into that… and damn it all, I don’t care—why SHOULD I
care?”
“Aye, why should you?” George interrupted. “You haven’t done so badly
yourself—so far.”
“So far and no further, though—that’s what it looks like.”
George looked straight into the boy’s eyes. “You were talking about one of
the dons here.”
“Oh yes—the one who reminded me that my grandfather was a crook. But
he must have studied the trial pretty closely from the way he talked. He said
John Channing was quite a pioneer in his way, and that his scheme for
reorganizing the cotton industry was very similar to the one sponsored by the
Bank of England twenty years later. ‘Unfortunate that your grandfather was
tempted to borrow money by printing too many stock certificates. He should
have become Governor of the Bank, then he could have printed the money.’”
Charles imitated the high-pitched voice of the don. “So utterly detached
—it made things rather easy between us afterwards. And then there’s
another fellow—a very famous scientist—who remarked pleasantly to
a small crowd of us at a tea-party—‘The Germans really do have the most
God-awful luck—you almost feel sorry for them’ —but nobody turned
a hair or thought anything of it, because everyone knows he’s working day and
night on some poison-gas to kill the whole German nation if they start that
game themselves.”
George answered: “You put your finger on a point, though, when you said ‘a
very famous scientist’. Anyone not so famous could get into trouble if he
talked like that at the Marble Arch to a crowd.”
“Oh, I don’t know. He might be booted out of the Park by a few bus-
drivers. Probably nothing more… Because the English, after all, are a race
of eccentrics. They don’t think it’s odd that people should be odd. And they
always bear in mind the possibility that the lunatic view might, after all,
be right. That’s what makes them tolerant of their enemies.”
George nodded. “Which is rather wise, because often it’s only from amongst
your enemies that you can pick your friends.”
“Has that been your experience, George?”
“Aye—as a minority member on a Town Council where I’ve had more of
my own way, I reckon, than most of the chaps on the other side with all their
voting majority. But it’s taken time—and patience.”
“But what happens to the battle, George, if you win over all your enemies
to help you fight it?”
“Why, I’ll tell you what happens—the battle’s over, and that’s what
everybody’s after, isn’t it?”
“No, not exactly. What everybody wants is victory.”
“And everybody can’t get it. But you can make a lot of folks THINK they’ve
got it. Remember Philip Snowden back in 1929—no, you’d be too young
—anyhow, we all cheered like mad because he made France pay an extra
million pounds of war debt! Think of it—one whole extra million pounds!
The Fighting Yorkshireman! Wouldn’t have been easy to forecast how we’d all
feel about the Fighting Frenchman a bit later!”
“Does it prove we shouldn’t have cheered?”
“Maybe not. Perhaps it proves that though it’s hard to get the victory you
want, it’s even harder to want the victory you got ten years back.”
“Which is the devil of a way to look at things in the middle of a
war.”
“Aye, I can see it might be.”
Charles walked on for a little way, then said thoughtfully: “You know,
George, you have a rather Machiavellian mind.”
George laughed. “Twisty, you mean, eh? That’s what my opponents say. But
I’ll give you one good tip in politics—Keep straight from year to year,
and you can twist as much as you find convenient from day to day. And as for
the really big fellows—the great men of the world—if THEY keep
straight from century to century, they can do THEIR twisting on a yearly
basis. Does that make any sense?”
Charles laughed. “What DOESN’T make sense to me is that you didn’t try for
Parliament. Or did you—ever?”
“Aye, a few times.”
“And no luck? How was that?”
George answered after a pause: “Hard to say. Perhaps just what you said
—no luck.”
But the recollection was now without a pang, or at any rate the pang was
smothered in much greater pleasure; for George had made a discovery—
that he could talk to Charles as he had never been able to talk to anyone
—even Wendover, with whom there had always been the prickly territory
of dogma. But the boy, less schooled in dialectic than the priest,
nevertheless had a clear, intricate mind—almost too intricate, almost
ice-clear; and George argued with him joyfully every foot of the way from St.
Jude’s to Queens’ and then back again, on that lovely May afternoon. All the
time a curious happiness was growing in him—something he did not
diagnose at first, but when he did, it came in the guise of a guess—
that this must be what it felt like to have a grown-up son. During the last
half-mile they increased pace, because Charles was in a hurry to get to his
rooms.
“That’s what your arguments do, George—make me forget the time…
And I don’t want to keep Julie waiting.”
“Julie?”
“The… er… the nurse you met. Miss Petersham.”
George didn’t think it could matter much if she did wait for a few
minutes, but he said merely: “And a very nice girl, too.”
“You thought so?”
“Aye.” George smiled and added: “We had quite a conversation on the way to
her bus. She told me one thing you didn’t let out.”
To George’s immense astonishment Charles flushed deeply and began to
stammer: “You mean—about—our—engagement?”
George swallowed hard. “Well, no—as a matter of fact, it was your
Distinguished Flying Cross.”
“Oh, THAT…”
George could see that Charles regretted having given himself away. He held
the youth’s arm as they began to climb the staircase. He said: “I’m sorry if
they were both things you didn’t want me to know, but now I DO know I’d like
to offer my congratulations… and double ones.”
“Thanks… Of course there’s no secret about a D.F.C… The other thing IS
more or less—has to be—because—well, it depends on what
sort of a recovery I make. I wouldn’t have her tie herself to an old crock.
Or even a young one.”
He had left his room unlocked, and the girl was already there when they
entered it. She greeted them both and immediately set about preparing the
equipment for massage treatment.
Charles said abruptly: “He knows all about us, Julie.”
She looked up, startled—to Charles, then to George, then to Charles
again. “Did you tell him?”
“No… it sort of slipped out. But I don’t really mind.”
Then Charles laughed and George shook hands with the girl and said how
pleased he was. “I was praising you to him even before I knew,” he said. It
was a happy moment. “And now I’d better leave if I’m going to catch my
train… I’ll see you both again before long, I’m sure.”
He shook hands again, but the girl followed him to the door. “My turn to
see you to the bus this time.”
“All right.”
Crossing the court towards the College entrance she said: “I’m glad you
know. Charles thinks such a lot of you.”
“He DOES?”
Something in his voice made her laugh and ask: “Why, are you
surprised?”
And George, who was so used to being liked yet could never somehow get
over the surprise of having it happen to him again, replied truthfully: “In a
way, I am, because it’s hard for a lad of his age to get along with an old
chap like me. Yet we do get along.”
“I know. And you’re not old.”
“Older, then.”
“You can be a great help to him anyhow.”
“You too, lass. And far more than I can.”
“Well… he needs all the help we can both give him.”
“He’s getting better, though?”
“Oh yes—physically. It’s in other ways we can help him most.”
“I understand. There’s something he hasn’t got—yet. It’s a sort of
reason to be alive. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t killed like so many others
—he’s said that to me more than once. Does he talk like that to
you?”
“Sometimes,” she answered.
They walked a little way in silence; then, as they reached the kerb, she
said: “Mr Boswell, I’m going to be very frank and ask you something— as
a friend of his…”
“Yes?”
“Will you… would you help him… EVEN AGAINST HIS MOTHER?”
A bus to the station came along. “The next one will do,” George muttered.
And then, as they stepped back from the commotion of passengers getting on
and off, he went on muttering: “Help him—against his mother— eh?
Why, what’s wrong about his mother?”
She answered: “I only saw her once, when she came to visit him, and of
course to her I was only a nurse. And I WAS only a nurse—THEN. But I
could see that she wasn’t good for Charles. She got on his nerves. She wants
to POSSESS him—her whole attitude was like that—and I don’t think
she’s the right person, and even if she were, I don’t think he’s the sort of
person who OUGHT to be possessed—by anyone. He should be free.” She
continued after a pause: “Maybe you’re wondering about my motives in all
this. Well, so far as I’m concerned he IS free. I love him, that’s true, but
I only agreed to the engagement because I thought it would help him
—which it did, and still does. But when he’s better he may feel
differently. I shan’t try to hold him. He’s too young, anyhow, to decide
about a wife… I want him to be FREE. I don’t want him to be possessed.”
“And you think… his mother…?”
“That’s what SHE wants. I know it. I think he knows it too, but he can’t
easily resist, for the time being—that is, till he’s recovered. She’s
so strong.”
“Strong?”
“Yes, but there are two kinds of strong people. There’s the kind that make
you feel strong yourself, and there’s the other kind that make you feel
weak… She’s that kind. And he’s so sorry for her—naturally, on
account of what’s happened. Everybody is—she’s a tragic figure… Which
makes another reason. He’s had enough tragedy.”
George could sense the girl’s emotion from the way she suddenly stopped at
the word ‘tragedy’ and laughed, as if that were the only thing left to do.
She said, after the laugh: “Well, I’ve told you now. I don’t know what you
can do, but you’re a friend of Charles’s and I took advantage of it. Don’t do
anything at all if you’d rather not. I really haven’t any right to ask.”
Another bus was approaching along King’s Parade. George answered: “Nay,
Julie, we’ve all a right to ask anything when it’s a matter of helping
somebody.”