The Ministry of Fear (2 page)

Under a little awning there was a cake on a stand surrounded by a small group of enthusiastic sightseers. A lady was explaining, ‘We clubbed our butter rations – and Mr Tatham was able to get hold of the currants.'

She turned to Arthur Rowe and said, ‘Won't you take a ticket and guess its weight?'

He lifted it and said at random, ‘Three pounds five ounces.'

‘A very good guess, I should say. Your wife must have been teaching you.'

He winced away from the group. ‘Oh no, I'm not married.'

War had made the stall-holders' task extraordinarily difficult: second-hand Penguins for the Forces filled most of one stall, while another was sprinkled rather than filled with the strangest second-hand clothes – the cast-offs of old age – long petticoats with pockets, high lacy collars with bone supports, routed out of Edwardian drawers and discarded at last for the sake of the free mothers, and corsets that clanked. Baby clothes played only a very small part now that wool was rationed and the second-hand was so much in demand among friends. The third stall was the traditional one – the white elephant – though black might have described it better since many Anglo-Indian families had surrendered their collections of ebony elephants. There were also brass ash-trays, embroidered match-cases which had not held matches now for a very long time, books too shabby for the bookstall, two post-card albums, a complete set of Dickens cigarette-cards, an electro-plated egg-boiler, a long pink cigarette-holder, several embossed boxes for pins from Benares, a signed post-card of Mrs Winston Churchill, and a plateful of mixed foreign copper coins . . . Arthur Rowe turned over the books and found with an ache of the heart a dingy copy of
The Little Duke
. He paid sixpence for it and walked on. There was something threatening, it seemed to him, in the very perfection of the day. Between the plane trees which shaded the treasure-ground he could see the ruined section of the square; it was as if Providence had led him to exactly this point to indicate the difference between then and now. These people might have been playing a part in an expensive morality for his sole benefit . . .

He couldn't, of course, not take part in the treasure-hunt, though it was a sad declension to know the nature of the prize, and afterwards there remained nothing of consequence but the fortune-teller – it was a fortune-teller's booth and not a lavatory. A curtain made of a cloth brought home by somebody from Algiers dangled at the entrance. A lady caught his arm and said, ‘You must. You really must. Mrs Bellairs is quite wonderful. She told my son . . .' and clutching another middle-aged lady as she went by, she went breathlessly on, ‘I was just telling this gentleman about wonderful Mrs Bellairs and my son.'

‘Your younger son?'

‘Yes. Jack.'

The interruption enabled Rowe to escape. The sun was going down: the square garden was emptying: it was nearly time to dig up the treasure and make tracks, before darkness and blackout and siren-time. So many fortunes one had listened to, behind a country hedge, over the cards in a liner's saloon, but the fascination remained even when the fortune was cast by an amateur at a garden fête. Always, for a little while, one could half-believe in the journey overseas, in the strange dark woman, and the letter with good news. Once somebody had refused to tell his fortune at all – it was just an act, of course, put on to impress him – and yet that silence had really come closer to the truth than anything else.

He lifted the curtain and felt his way in.

It was very dark inside the tent and he could hardly distinguish Mrs Bellairs, a bulky figure shrouded in what looked like cast-off widow's weeds – or perhaps it was some kind of peasant's costume. He was unprepared for Mrs Bellairs' deep powerful voice: a convincing voice. He had expected the wavering tones of a lady whose other hobby was water-colours.

‘Sit down, please, and cross my hand with silver.'

‘It's so dark.'

But now he could just manage to make her out: it was a peasant's costume with a big head-dress and a veil of some kind tucked back over her shoulder. He found a half-crown and sketched a cross upon her palm.

‘Your hand.'

He held it out and felt it gripped firmly as though she intended to convey: expect no mercy. A tiny electric nightlight was reflected down on the girdle of Venus, the little crosses which should have meant children, the long, long line of life . . .

He said, ‘You're up-to-date. The electric nightlight, I mean.'

She paid no attention to his flippancy. She said, ‘First the character, then the past: by law I am not allowed to tell the future. You're a man of determination and imagination and you are very sensitive – to pain, but you sometimes feel you have not been allowed a proper scope for your gifts. You want to do great deeds, not dream them all day long. Never mind. After all, you have made one woman happy.'

He tried to take his hand away, but she held it too firmly: it would have been a tug of war. She said, ‘You have found the true contentment in a happy marriage. Try to be more patient, though. Now I will tell you your past.'

He said quickly, ‘Don't tell me the past. Tell me the future.'

It was as if he had pressed a button and stopped a machine. The silence was odd and unexpected. He hadn't hoped to silence her, though he dreaded what she might say, for even inaccuracies about things which are dead can be as painful as the truth. He pulled his hand again and it came away. He felt awkward sitting there with his hand his own again.

Mrs Bellairs said, ‘My instructions are these. What you want is the cake. You must give the weight as four pounds eight and a half ounces.'

‘Is that the right weight?'

‘That's immaterial.'

He was thinking hard and staring at Mrs Bellairs' left hand which the light caught: a square ugly palm with short blunt fingers prickly with big art-and-crafty rings of silver and lumps of stone. Who had given her instructions? Did she refer to her familiar spirits? And if so, why had she chosen him to win the cake? or was it really just a guess of her own? Perhaps she was backing a great number of weights, he thought, smiling in the dark, and expected at least a slice from the winner. Cake, good cake, was scarce nowadays.

‘You can go now,' Mrs Bellairs said.

‘Thank you very much.'

At any rate, Arthur Rowe thought, there was no harm in trying the tip – she might have stable information, and he returned to the cake-stall. Although the garden was nearly empty now except for the helpers, a little knot of people always surrounded the cake, and indeed it was a magnificent cake. He had always liked cakes, especially rich Dundees and dark brown home-made fruit-cakes tasting elusively of Guinness. He said to the lady at the stall, ‘You won't think me greedy if I have another sixpennyworth?'

‘No. Please.'

‘I should say, then, four pounds eight and a half ounces.'

He was conscious of an odd silence, as if all the afternoon they had been waiting for just this, but hadn't somehow expected it from him. Then a stout woman who hovered on the outskirts gave a warm and hearty laugh. ‘Lawks,' she said. ‘Anybody can tell you're a bachelor.'

‘As a matter of fact,' the lady behind the stall rebuked her sharply, ‘this gentleman has won. He is not more than a fraction of an ounce out. That counts,' she said, with nervous whimsicality, ‘as a direct hit.'

‘Four pounds eight ounces,' the stout woman said. ‘Well, you be careful, that's all. It'll be as heavy as lead.'

‘On the contrary, it's made with real eggs.'

The stout woman went away laughing ironically in the direction of the clothing stall.

Again he was aware of the odd silence as the cake was handed over: they all came round and watched – three middle-aged ladies, the clergyman who had deserted the chequer-board, and looking up Rowe saw the gypsy's curtain lifted and Mrs Bellairs peering out at him. He would have welcomed the laughter of the stout outsider as something normal and relaxed: there was such an intensity about these people as though they were attending the main ceremony of the afternoon. It was as if the experience of childhood renewed had taken a strange turn, away from innocence. There had never been anything quite like this in Cambridgeshire. It was dusk and the stall-holders were ready to pack up. The stout woman sailed towards the gates carrying a corset (no paper wrappings allowed). Arthur Rowe said, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.' He felt so conscious of being surrounded that he wondered whether anyone would step aside and let him out. Of course the clergyman did, laying a hand upon his upper arm and squeezing gently. ‘Good fellow,' he said, ‘good fellow.'

The treasure-hunt was being hastily concluded, but this time there was nothing for Arthur Rowe. He stood with his cake and
The Little Duke
and watched. ‘We've left it very late, very late,' the lady wailed beneath her floppy hat.

But late as it was, somebody had thought it worth while to pay for entrance at the gate. A taxi had driven up, and a man made hastily for the gypsy tent rather as a mortal sinner in fear of immediate death might dive towards a confessional-box. Was this another who had great faith in wonderful Mrs Bellairs, or was it perhaps Mrs Bellairs' husband come prosaically to fetch her home from her unholy rites?

The speculation interested Arthur Rowe, and he scarcely took in the fact that the last of the treasure-hunters was making for the garden gate and he was alone under the great planes with the stall-keepers. When he realized it he felt the embarrassment of the last guest in a restaurant who notices suddenly the focused look of the waiters lining the wall.

But before he could reach the gate the clergyman had intercepted him jocosely. ‘Not carrying that prize of yours away so soon?'

‘It seems quite time to go.'

‘Wouldn't you feel inclined – it's usually the custom at a fête like this – to put the cake up again – for the Good Cause?'

Something in his manner – an elusive patronage as though he were a kindly prefect teaching to a new boy the sacred customs of the school – offended Rowe. ‘Well, you haven't any visitors left surely?'

‘I meant to auction – among the rest of us.' He squeezed Rowe's arm again gently. ‘Let me introduce myself. My name's Sinclair. I'm supposed, you know, to have a touch – for touching.' He gave a small giggle. ‘You see that lady over there – that's Mrs Fraser –
the
Mrs Fraser. A little friendly auction like this gives her the opportunity of presenting a note to the cause – unobtrusively.'

‘It sounds quite obtrusive to me.'

‘They're an awfully nice set of people. I'd like you to know them, Mr . . .'

Rowe said obstinately, ‘It's not the way to run a fête – to prevent people taking their prizes.'

‘Well, you don't exactly come to these affairs to make a profit, do you?' There were possibilities of nastiness in Mr Sinclair that had not shown on the surface.

‘I don't want to make a profit. Here's a pound note, but I fancy the cake.'

Mr Sinclair made a gesture of despair towards the others openly and rudely.

Rowe said, ‘Would you like
The Little Duke
back? Mrs Fraser might give a note for that just as unobtrusively.'

‘There's really no need to take that tone.'

The afternoon had certainly been spoiled: brass bands lost their associations in the ugly little fracas. ‘Good afternoon,' Rowe said.

But he wasn't to be allowed to go yet; a kind of deputation advanced to Mr Sinclair's support – the treasure-hunt lady flapped along in the van. She said, smiling coyly, ‘I'm afraid I am the bearer of ill tidings.'

‘You want the cake too,' Rowe said.

She smiled with a sort of elderly impetuosity. ‘I must
have
the cake. You see – there's been a mistake. About the weight. It wasn't – what you said.' She consulted a slip of paper. ‘That rude woman was right. The real weight was three pounds seven ounces. And that gentleman,' she pointed towards the stall, ‘won it.'

It was the man who had arrived late in the taxi and made for Mrs Bellairs' booth. He kept in the dusky background by the cake-stall and let the ladies fight for him. Had Mrs Bellairs given him a better tip?

Rowe said, ‘That's very odd. He got the exact weight?'

There was a little hesitation in her reply – as if she had been cornered in a witness-box undrilled for that question. ‘Well, not exact. But he was within three ounces.' She seemed to gain confidence. ‘He guessed three pounds ten ounces.'

‘In that case,' Rowe said, ‘I keep the cake because you see I guessed three pounds five the first time. Here is a pound for the cause. Good evening.'

He'd really taken them by surprise this time; they were wordless, they didn't even thank him for the note. He looked back from the pavement and saw the group from the cake-stall surge forward to join the rest, and he waved his hand. A poster on the railings said: ‘The Comforts for Mothers of the Free Nations Fund. A fête will be held . . . under the patronage of royalty . . .'

2

Arthur Rowe lived in Guilford Street. A bomb early in the blitz had fallen in the middle of the street and blasted both sides, but Rowe stayed on. Houses went overnight, but he stayed. There were boards instead of glass in every room, and the doors no longer quite fitted and had to be propped at night. He had a sitting-room and a bedroom on the first floor, and he was done for by Mrs Purvis, who also stayed – because it was her house. He had taken the rooms furnished and simply hadn't bothered to make any alterations. He was like a man camping in a desert. Any books there were came from the two-penny or the public library except for
The Old Curiosity Shop
and
David Copperfield
, which he read, as people used to read the Bible, over and over again till he could have quoted chapter and verse, not so much because he liked them as because he had read them as a child, and they carried no adult memories. The pictures were Mrs Purvis's – a wild water-colour of the Bay of Naples at sunset and several steel engravings and a photograph of the former Mr Purvis in the odd dated uniform of 1914. The ugly arm-chair, the table covered with a thick woollen cloth, the fern in the window – all were Mrs Purvis's, and the radio was hired. Only the packet of cigarettes on the mantelpiece belonged to Rowe, and the tooth-brush and shaving tackle in the bedroom (the soap was Mrs Purvis's), and inside a cardboard box his sleeping pills. In the sitting-room there was not even a bottle of ink or a packet of stationery: Rowe didn't write letters, and he paid his income tax at the post office.