Something Wicked (19 page)

‘I will indeed. Have no fear of that,’ Edward answered, her hand in his. The look in his eyes seemed to convince her because she nodded as though satisfied and turned to say goodbye to Harry.

9

Verity had not seen as much of Kay Stammers as she would have liked because Kay was in training for Wimbledon. She believed she had a good chance of reaching the finals and even of winning. So it was a delight for Verity when her friend breezed in one morning and said she had Dr Bladon’s permission to take her on the river.

Kay said she despised motor launches and insisted on a rowing boat. Verity protested that she was not up to rowing but Kay said she would provide the muscle if Verity would steer. For fifteen minutes Kay rowed hard and Verity enjoyed watching her. Occasionally, Verity would forget what she was supposed to be doing and put them in the path of a motor launch or into the bank. The trouble was she found Kay fascinating and distracting. She was just the sort of woman she admired – independent, adventurous, intelligent and physically in her prime. The sweat began to pour off her forehead and she had to wipe her eyes almost every time she took a stroke so that Verity finally begged her to rest.

‘We’re not going anywhere.’

‘You’re right, we’re not. I’m sure you wish we were.’

‘You mean . . . I want to escape from the clinic?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Actually, I think I may be getting institutionalized. I’m not even sure I could cross a road by myself any longer, let alone a continent.’ Verity hesitated. ‘I expect you think it’s rather childish – my wanting to rush around the world when I should be tucked up with Edward in some baronial hall.’

‘No, of course not. I admire what you have achieved – Guernica, for example. Your report did more than anything to make people realize the tragedy that was taking place in Spain.’

‘Oh, gosh! It’s only by the wildest stroke of luck that a reporter is actually on hand to describe a convulsion – a significant moment in history – a landmark which stands out even in our horrible century.’

‘Like me being born left-handed. Most people think it’s a disadvantage being left-handed but it’s a real stroke of luck for a tennis player. Believe it or not, my teacher forced me to write with my right hand until my mother made a fuss. She thought I was crippled or something. Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on about me. I say’, Kay rested on her oars, ‘do you mind talking about it . . . about Spain, I mean?’

‘No, I feel like talking.’

‘Well, let’s tie up under that willow over there and rest awhile.’

When they were safely moored, Kay joined Verity in the back of the boat and they lay together like lovers enjoying the sound of the water and the wind rustling in the willow above them.

‘May I ask you something Verity, if it won’t make you cross?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Do you think your lot can really win?’

‘Last winter, I thought there was a chance. We . . . I mean the Republicans,’ she corrected herself with a wry smile, ‘won a great battle at Teruel.’

‘I read about that. It’s a city on the Guadalajara front, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. The battle was fought in the most terrible conditions. One thinks of Spain being so hot but you have no idea how cold it gets in winter. There was snow, frostbite, starvation and, as usual, not enough guns but the town was taken.’

‘And lost again.’

‘Yes. It was a great blow and now they are fighting on the Ebro river and we seem to be losing.’

‘Do you know one thing that surprises me?’

‘No, what?’

‘You’ll think me cynical but why has it taken Franco so long to win? I thought it would only be a matter of weeks before the Fascists took Madrid but the war still drags on. Is it just that the Republicans fight so fiercely?’

‘They do but that’s not the reason – at least so my friends there write to me. They say – and I’m inclined to believe them – that Franco doesn’t want to win too quickly. In fact he wants to go as slowly as possible, never giving up an inch of the territory he gains, like some sort of awful meat grinder. He wants to spread terror, squash any sign of dissent and annihilate as many Republicans as possible. It’s said that Franco told Mussolini, who asked the same question, that the military occupation would be useless if Spain wasn’t “pacified” at the same time. He knows that the roots of anarchism there are very deep. To put it another way, he wants to eradicate anything which will be an obstacle to the survival of his dictatorship. I think, beneath the cynicism, he really believes that he is God’s agent on earth.’

‘How chilling!’ Kay said. ‘What help is there when such monsters roam the world?’

‘We must face it down. That’s all there is to it,’ Verity replied gloomily.

‘You won’t believe this because I’m not brainy or anything like that but a friend took me to a reading by a poet called W.H. Auden in London last week. I thought I wouldn’t understand a word but he read a poem about Spain and it really moved me. It made me think of you, of course!’

‘Can you remember any of it?’

‘Not that I can quote. I’m afraid I don’t have that sort of memory but I do recall one phrase. He talked about the deliberate increase in the chances of death and – this was the phrase I remember – “the conscious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder”. I wonder if that is how Franco sees it?’

‘Auden is a supporter of the Republic.’

‘Yes, but that is what’s so tragic. The other side seems to view the war in the same way you do. I mean, are ideals the most dangerous thing? Worse than greed or nationalism?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Kay. We have to believe in something otherwise we might as well be animals.’

Kay thought for a moment or two and decided to change the subject. ‘It must be wonderful to have your reputation. You know people trust you. When you describe some battle or whatever, people know that was how it was.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so but I don’t fool myself. Many people
don’t
trust me and they’re probably right. I don’t pretend to be omniscient. On the ground, it’s all such a muddle. I never know the whole truth and, if I did, no one would publish it. From the air – as it were – I could probably pick out some sort of pattern but I can never see more than a small part of what’s going on. We have to leave it to the historians to make sense of it all. I try not to generalize or make pronouncements. I have to stifle my doubts even about small things. Am I really seeing what I think I’m seeing?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, take Guernica. I thought I knew what happened, but did I? I saw an undefended town destroyed by German aircraft but was I being manipulated? Did I simply see what the Communist Party wanted me to see? I’m pretty sure now – though I have no proof – that the Communist leadership had notice of what was going to happen. Stalin has his spies in the enemy camp just as there are German spies inside Russia. They – my trusted leaders –’ Verity spoke with heavy irony – ‘allowed it to happen to alert the world to the plight of the Republican cause.’

‘And it did.’

‘Yes, but they could have saved many innocent lives if they had given the city some warning. Still,’ she added sheepishly, ‘I’d like to think that, even if what I write isn’t the whole truth and doesn’t lead directly to action, it at least has some effect on public opinion. I mean, I know whatever I say won’t change our government’s policy of non-interference. However, I hope that what I write – what I
wrote
, I should say – makes people a little more receptive . . . a little more aware of what is happening.’

‘It’s all such a muddle – Spain, I mean,’ Kay said, thumping her hand against the side of the boat. ‘Who is good? Who is bad? Both sides kill innocent civilians.’

‘The thing to remember – what I hold on to over and above the muddle and cynicism – is that the war in Spain is fundamentally a class war. It’s the people against the ruling class. Whatever else, that’s true.’

‘You aren’t fed up with journalism?’ Kay asked after a pause.

‘No, it’s good for me. I have only to go to another country with a different sky and a different language to feel that life’s worth living. There are things for my mind and eyes to feed on – actual sights rather than things I’ve read about. I’m one of those people who have to see something before they can imagine it. Doubting Thomas is my saint. And I meet people I would never have met otherwise. The boys I met in Spain – particularly from the International Brigade – were from all sorts of backgrounds but united by their hatred of Fascism.’

‘So you learnt something – in Spain, I mean?’

‘I learnt that you can be right and be defeated,’ Verity replied bitterly.

‘I suppose you must have had to sacrifice a lot?’

‘You mean husbands and babies and things? No, as a woman I count myself very lucky to be able to do what they call a man’s job. Most women can go nowhere and see nothing. They become tame rabbits and their husbands get bored with them. I like the long, cold train journeys listening to people talk. I like sharing the discomfort of the men at the front. I think it is not disgusting to look at the world and see it for what it is. I reported on the war in Spain and, if I am spared, will report on the war to come because there must be witnesses. I have trained myself to observe. I’ll never see enough but I will report what I see. Journalism is an honourable profession.’

‘You must be sick of war.’

‘It’s a solution to life,’ Verity said sadly.

‘Well, that’s one thing you haven’t seen before, I imagine.’ Kay lifted her head and pointed across the river. ‘Isn’t that Edward – the one in front? Or do I mean stroke?’

Two men were sculling up the river in a pair. They were going fast but both seemed relaxed, their long, level strokes taking them quickly past the little rowing boat. Neither man turned his head and the two women watched mesmerized as the slim, fragile craft disappeared upstream.

‘Very impressive,’ Kay commented but Verity merely bit her lip.

How near am I to losing him? she asked herself. Should I burden him with a sick wife who cannot even do the job she was trained for? Silently, she spoke to him: My life is not long enough to love you properly. Shall I ever sleep in your arms as your wife, Edward? Oh God – if I believed in your existence – give me courage.

Kay, sensing her dejection, kissed her quickly on the forehead, sat up and took hold of the oars. ‘Come on, Verity. Get a grip on the tiller or whatever they call it. It’s time we went back.’

It had been at breakfast that Harry said to his guest, ‘You know, Corinth, you look jaded, pooped, not to say tuckered out. It’s time I took you out on the river. I can fit you up with a rigger or . . . I know . . . much better – a pair. There’s one in the boathouse. It’s not in the first flush of youth but it’s perfectly sound.’

‘Oh, no!’ Edward said weakly. ‘I don’t think I’m up to it. It’s been a lifetime since I did any serious rowing.’

‘Nonsense! Have you finished breakfast? Right then – meet me at the boathouse in twenty minutes in kit suitable for messing about on the river.’

It pained Edward to have to admit it but he
was
jaded and desperately in need of exercise. As soon as they were on the river, he felt better. He had been worried that he would be an embarrassment and catch a crab or worse, but it was like riding a bicycle – something which, once learned, your body never forgot. His hands were soft, of course, and his breath not as good as it had once been but he was one of those lucky people who remained reasonably fit without taking regular exercise.

‘Where shall we go?’ Harry had asked as they slipped the oars through the rowlocks.

‘Do we have to go anywhere in particular?’ Edward responded. Then an idea occurred to him. ‘I tell you what. We might go up to Amery’s house if we can identify it and it isn’t too far.’

Verity’s report on the picnic with Mary Black’s father had interested him. He had decided he might do a spot of espionage and this seemed as good a time as any.

‘It’s quite a distance,’ Harry demurred. ‘It’ll take us three hours – more probably. We’ll have to go through at least three locks but I’m game if you are. You’re sure you’re up to it?’

‘I think so,’ Edward said bravely. He felt he couldn’t back out now without losing face.

‘What happens when we get there?’

‘I don’t know. If the Amerys are there, we can beg a drink of water.’

‘And if they’re not?’

‘Roam about a bit. You know the house, don’t you?’

‘I’ve been there a few times for a drink before going on somewhere.’

‘But you know the lie of the land?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Harry looked dubious. ‘You’re not suggesting a spot of housebreaking, are you?’

‘Why, does that bother you? I seem to remember you doing some pretty similar stuff in Kenya.’

‘But that was Kenya and I wasn’t planning to steal anything,’ he said defensively.

‘Only a woman’s virtue,’ Edward replied sententiously. ‘Anyway, we’re not going to steal anything.’

‘And if we’re caught?’

‘I don’t know, Harry,’ Edward retorted with some irritation. ‘Pretend it’s a joke or something. I hope you haven’t lost that dash or whatever-you-call-it that got you thrown out of so many places in the Nairobi neighbourhood.’

Stung, Harry said, ‘Come on, then. I thought you were the one who had become so law-abiding.’

Edward laughed. For some reason, he was feeling reckless. What did a bit of burglary matter when the whole world was about to go up in flames? Hitler had been thwarted in his attempt to swallow Czechoslovakia in May by a rare moment of spine-stiffening on the part of the French and British governments. They had threatened – though not promised – to stand by the Czechs if they were attacked. The Czechs, for their part, had gallantly declared that they would resist a German invasion and mobilized their armed forces. Hitler had very publicly ordered a huge increase in Germany’s armed forces and announced his intention of humiliating the Czechs even if this meant going to war before his military chiefs were ready.

It was clear to Edward, as it was to everyone who could read a newspaper, that war was imminent and Britain needed to redouble its efforts to strengthen the Royal Air Force. Gas masks had been manufactured and distributed. Trenches were dug in Hyde Park and sandbags heaped against Whitehall ministries. But it turned out to be another false alarm. Neville Chamberlain – ‘a man of peace to the depths of his soul’, as he put it – had retreated and, in a speech to the House of Commons, almost apologized to Hitler for standing up to him. The French, too, had retreated, saying in effect that they would not go to war if Hitler decided to absorb into the Reich the Sudetenland, the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia. Hitler bared his teeth but whether it was a smile or a snarl no one could say.