The Looking Glass War (19 page)

While shopping she entered into an argument with the grocer’s wife about certain merchandise which did not meet with her approval; eggs that were not sound, the outrageous cost of butter. When the grocer himself attempted to mediate he was accused of favouritism; there was talk of points and ration cards, the extra allowance of sugar for jam-making; a hint of undisclosed treasures under the counter. The grocer’s voice was raised in anger but he stopped when the child intervened, talking about skittles. ‘Mummy, Mummy, I’ve knocked over the three green ones, but when I tried to put them up, seven black ones fell down; Mummy, why are there only eight black ones left?’

The scene shifted to a public house. It was the woman again. She was reciting armaments statistics; other voices joined in. Figures were disputed, new targets stated, old ones recalled; the performance of a weapon – a weapon unnamed, undescribed – was cynically questioned and heatedly defended.

Every few minutes a voice shouted ‘break!’ – it might have been a referee – and Haldane stopped the tape and made Leiser talk about football or the weather, or read aloud from a newspaper for five minutes by his watch (the clock on the mantelpiece was broken). The tape recorder was switched on again, and they heard a voice, vaguely familiar, trailing a little like a parson’s; a young voice, deprecating and unsure, like Avery’s: ‘Now here are the four questions. Discounting those eggs which were not sound, how many has she bought in the last three weeks? How many skittles are there altogether? What was the annual overall output of proved and calibrated gun barrels for the years 1937 and 1938? Finally, put in telegraph form any information from which the length of the barrels might be computed.’

Leiser rushed into the study – he seemed to know the game – to write down his answers. As soon as he had left the room Avery said accusingly, ‘That was you. That was your voice speaking at the end.’

‘Was it?’ Haldane replied. He might not have known.

There were other tapes too, and they had the smell of death; the running of feet on a wooden staircase, the slamming of a door, a click, and a girl’s voice asking – she might have been offering lemon or cream – ‘Catch of a door, cocking of a gun?’

Leiser hesitated. ‘A door,’ he said. ‘It was just the door.’

‘It was a gun,’ Haldane retorted. ‘A Browning nine-millimetre automatic. The magazine was being slid into the butt.’

In the afternoon they went for their first walk, the two of them, Leiser and Avery, through Port Meadow and into the country beyond. Haldane had sent them. They walked fast, striding over the whip grass, the wind catching at Leiser’s hair and throwing it wildly about his head. It was cold but there was no rain; a clear, sunless day when the sky above the flat fields was darker than the earth.

‘You know your way round here, don’t you?’ Leiser asked. ‘Were you at school here?’

‘I was an undergraduate here, yes.’

‘What did you study?’

‘I read languages. German principally.’

They climbed a stile and emerged in a narrow lane.

‘You married?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Kids?’

‘One.’

‘Tell me something, John. When the Captain turned up my card … what happened?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What does it look like, an index for so many? It must be a big thing in an outfit like ours.’

‘It’s in alphabetical order,’ Avery said helplessly. ‘Just cards. Why?’

‘He said they remembered me: the old hands. I was the best, he said. Well,
who
remembered?’

‘They all did. There’s a special index for the best people. Practically everyone in the Department knows Fred Leiser. Even the new ones. You can’t have a record like yours and get forgotten, you know.’ He smiled. ‘You’re part of the furniture, Fred.’

‘Tell me something else, John. I don’t want to rock the boat, see, but tell me this … Would I be any good on the inside?’

‘The inside?’

‘In the office, with you people. I suppose you’ve got to be born to it really, like the Captain.’

‘I’m afraid so, Fred.’

‘What cars do you use up there, John?’

‘Humbers.’

‘Hawk or Snipe?’

‘Hawk.’

‘Only four-cylinder? The Snipe’s a better job, you know.’

‘I’m talking about non-operational transport,’ Avery said. ‘We’ve a whole range of stuff for the special work.’

‘Like the van?’

‘That’s it.’

‘How long before … how long does it take to train you? You, for instance; you just did a run. How long before they let you go?’

‘Sorry, Fred. I’m not allowed … not even you.’

‘Not to worry.’

They passed a church set back on a rise above the road, skirted a field of plough and returned, tired and radiant, to the cheerful embrace of the Mayfly house and the gas fire playing on the golden roses.

In the evening, they had the projector for visual memory: they would be in a car, passing a marshalling yard; or in a train beside an airfield; they would be taken on a walk through a town, and suddenly they would become aware that a vehicle or a face had reappeared, and they had not remembered its features. Sometimes a series of disconnected objects were flashed in rapid succession on to the screen, and there would be voices in the background, like the voices on the tape, but the conversation was not related to the film, so that the student must consult both his senses and retain what was valuable from each.

Thus the first day ended, setting the pattern for those that followed: carefree, exciting days for them both, days of honest labour and cautious but deepening attachment as the skills of boyhood became once more the weapons of war.

For the unarmed combat they had rented a small gymnasium near Headington which they had used in the war. An instructor had come by train. They called him Sergeant.

‘Will he be carrying a knife at all? Not wanting to be curious,’ he asked respectfully. He had a Welsh accent.

Haldane shrugged. ‘It depends what he likes. We don’t want to clutter him up.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for a knife, sir.’ Leiser was still in the changing-room. ‘If he knows how to use it. And the Jerries don’t like them, not one bit.’ He had brought some knives in a handcase, and he unpacked them in a private way, like a traveller unpacking his samples. ‘They never could take cold steel,’ he explained. ‘Nothing too long, that’s the trick of it, sir. Something flat with the two cutting edges.’ He selected one and held it up. ‘You can’t do much better than this, as a matter of fact.’ It was wide and flat like a laurel leaf, the blade unpolished, the handle waisted like an hourglass, cross-hatched to prevent slip. Leiser was walking towards them, smoothing a comb through his hair.

‘Used one of these, have you?’

Leiser examined the knife and nodded. The sergeant looked at him carefully. ‘I know you, don’t I? My name’s Sandy Lowe. I’m a bloody Welshman.’

‘You taught me in the war.’

‘Christ,’ said Lowe softly, ‘so I did. You haven’t changed much, have you?’ They grinned shyly at one another, not knowing whether to shake hands. ‘Come on, then, see what you remember.’ They walked to the coconut matting in the centre of the floor. Lowe threw the knife at Leiser’s feet and he snatched it up, grunting as he bent.

Lowe wore a jacket of torn tweed, very old. He stepped quickly back, took it off and with a single movement wrapped it round his left forearm, like a man preparing to fight a dog. Drawing his own knife he moved slowly round Leiser, keeping his weight steady but riding a little from one foot to the other. He was stooping, his bound arm held loosely in front of his stomach, fingers outstretched, palm facing the ground. He had gathered his body behind the guard, letting the blade play restlessly in front of it while Leiser kept steady, his eyes fixed upon the sergeant. For a time they feinted back and forth; once Leiser lunged and Lowe sprang back, allowing the knife to cut the cloth of the jacket on his arm. Once Lowe dropped to his knees, as if to drive the knife upwards beneath Leiser’s guard, and it was Leiser’s turn to spring back, but too slowly, it seemed, for Lowe shook his head, shouted ‘Halt!’ and stood upright.

‘Remember that?’ He indicated his own belly and groin, pressing his arms and elbows in as if to reduce the width of his body. ‘Keep the target small.’ He made Leiser put his knife away and showed him holds, crooking his left arm round Leiser’s neck and pretending to stab him in the kidneys or the stomach. Then he asked Avery to stand as a dummy, and the two of them moved round him with detachment, Lowe indicating the places with his knife and Leiser nodding, smiling occasionally when a particular trick came back to him.

‘You didn’t weave with the blade enough. Remember thumb on top, blade parallel to the ground, forearm stiff, wrist loose. Don’t let his eye settle on it, not for a moment. And left hand in over your own target, whether you’ve got the knife or not. Never be generous about offering the body, that’s what I say to my daughter.’ They laughed dutifully, all but Haldane.

After that, Avery had a turn. Leiser seemed to want it. Removing his glasses, he held the knife as Lowe showed him, hesitant, alert, while Leiser trod crabwise, feinted and darted lightly back, the sweat running off his face, his small eyes alight with concentration. All the time Avery was conscious of the sharp grooves of the haft against the flesh of his palm, the aching in his calves and buttocks as he kept his weight forward on his toes, and Leiser’s angry eyes searching his own. Then Leiser’s foot had hooked round his ankle; as he lost his balance he felt the knife being wrenched from his hand; he fell back, Leiser’s full weight upon him, Leiser’s hand clawing at the collar of his shirt.

They helped him up, all laughing, while Leiser brushed the dust from Avery’s clothes. The knives were put away while they did physical training; Avery took part.

When it was over Lowe said: ‘We’ll just have a spot of unarmed combat and that will do nicely.’

Haldane glanced at Leiser. ‘Have you had enough?’

‘I’m all right.’

Lowe took Avery by an arm and stood him in the centre of the gym mat. ‘You sit on the bench,’ he called to Leiser, ‘while I show you a couple of things.’

He put a hand on Avery’s shoulder. ‘We’re only concerned with five marks, whether we got a knife or not. What are they?’

‘Groin, kidneys, belly, heart and throat,’ Leiser replied wearily.

‘How do you break a man’s neck?’

‘You don’t. You smash his windpipe at the front.’

‘What about a blow on the back of the neck?’

‘Not with the bare hand. Not without a weapon.’ He had put his face in his hands.

‘Correct.’ Lowe moved his open palm in slow motion towards Avery’s throat. ‘Hand open, fingers straight, right?’

‘Right,’ Leiser said.

‘What else do you remember?’

A pause. ‘Tiger’s Claw. An attack on the eyes.’

‘Never use it,’ the sergeant replied shortly. ‘Not as an attacking blow. You leave yourself wide open. Now for the strangle holds. All from behind, remember? Bend the head back, so, hand on the throat, so, and
squeeze
.’ Lowe looked over his shoulder: ‘Look this way, please. I’m not doing this for my own benefit … come on, then, if you know it all, show us some throws!’

Leiser stood up, locking arms with Lowe, and for a while they struggled back and forth, each waiting for the other to offer an opening. Then Lowe gave way, Leiser toppled and Lowe’s hand slapped the back of his head, thrusting it down so that Leiser fell face forward heavily on to the mat.

‘You fall a treat,’ said Lowe with a grin, and then Leiser was upon him, twisting Lowe’s arm savagely back and throwing him very hard so that his little body hit the carpets like a bird hitting the windscreen of a car.

‘You play fair!’ Leiser demanded. ‘Or I’ll damn well hurt you.’

‘Never lean on your opponent,’ Lowe said shortly. ‘And don’t lose your temper in the gym.’

He called across to Avery. ‘You have a turn now, sir; give him some exercise.’

Avery stood up, took off his jacket and waited for Leiser to approach him. He felt the strong grasp upon his arms and was suddenly conscious of the frailty of his body when matched against this adult force. He tried to seize the forearms of the older man, but his hands could not encompass them; he tried to break free, but Leiser held him; Leiser’s head was against his own, filling his nostrils with the smell of hair oil. He felt the damp stubble of his cheek and the close, rank heat of his thin, straining body. Putting his hands on Leiser’s chest he forced himself back, throwing all his energy into one frantic effort to escape the suffocating constriction of the man’s embrace. As he drew away they caught sight of one another, it might have been for the first time, across the heaving cradle of their entangled arms; Leiser’s face, contorted with exertion, softened into a smile; the grip relaxed.

Lowe walked over to Haldane. ‘He’s foreign, isn’t he?’

‘A Pole. What’s he like?’

‘I’d say he was quite a fighter in his day. Nasty. He’s a good build. Fit too, considering.’

‘I see.’

‘How are you these days, sir, in yourself? All right, then?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘That’s right. Twenty years. Amazing really. Kiddies all grown up.’

‘I’m afraid I have none.’

‘Mine, I mean.’

‘Ah.’

‘See any of the old crowd, then, sir? How about Mr Smiley?’

‘I’m afraid I have not kept in touch. I am not a gregarious kind of person. Shall we settle up?’

Lowe stood lightly to attention while Haldane prepared to pay him; travelling money, salary and thirty-seven and six for the knife, plus twenty-two shillings for the sheath, a flat metal one with a spring to facilitate extraction. Lowe wrote him a receipt, signing it S.L. for reasons of security. ‘I got the knife at cost,’ he explained. ‘It’s a fiddle we work through the sports club.’ He seemed proud of that.

Haldane gave Leiser a trenchcoat and wellingtons and Avery took him for a walk. They went by bus as far as Headington, sitting on the top deck.

‘What happened this morning?’ Avery asked.

‘I thought we were fooling about, that’s all. Then he threw me.’