The Parrot Cage, page 11
Anna Kingsley’s apparently perfect life began to look less perfect as Gerry examined it more closely. Anna had buckets of money, of course, and a host of friends and acquaintances, but no family that Gerry was aware of; and the only real friend, as opposed to the people she dined with, seemed to be Jeremy Oldridge, at least twenty years her junior. It was all very well for Anna to explain to Gerry that she allowed no one to have any claims on her so that she could be free to give wherever she wanted, but might that not leave her a bit like the Miller of Dee? If Gerry had not come to live in London, who would Anna have been able to ask to stand in for her at the ARP post that night before Christmas?
Gerry knew that this horrible time was not a suitable moment to explore the conundrum Anna presented, but as they sat side by side, waiting for the unknown vicar to begin his funeral service, Gerry did find that thinking about it helped her to deal with the frightening abysses of her own feelings. Someone pushed into the pew beside her and she looked round to see Felicity, wearing her best black hat. They smiled sadly at each other and then stood up as they saw the vicar coming towards them.
Apart from the wonderful, sonorous words, the service was bleak, and it seemed to Gerry to be somehow absurd that the three of them should be trying to mourn her lively and forthright sister alone in that dusty, echoing church. Together with Anna and Flixe, Gerry stood and knelt in the appropriate places, murmured the correct responses, and tried not to look across the aisle at Annie’s plain, sad coffin.
When it was all over, there was not really anything to be said and the three of them stood oddly embarrassed in the ugly Victorian church as the busy vicar shook their hands and murmured consolatory phrases that seemed to have no meaning. When he had left them alone, Flixe announced that she had come to the cemetery in a small truck borrowed from her chief and offered them both a lift back into the middle of London. Anna Kingsley declined without giving any reason and walked quickly away, leaving the two sisters to look at each other in puzzlement. After a minute or two, Flixe said:
‘Gerry, you look pretty awful. What’s up?’
‘Besides Annie and poor Ming? Nothing in comparison. But I sometimes think that if only I weren’t so bloody tired, I’d be able to cope better.’
‘Yes,’ answered Flixe with unwonted seriousness, ‘the lack of sleep does make it hard to keep a sense of proportion about one’s difficulties and decisions.’
Gerry was surprised to hear that Flixe, who had always seemed to take life so lightly, should have any difficulties, but she said nothing as they settled themselves in the canvas bucket seats of Flixe’s small dark-green truck. A little later, when they were some way from the miserably depressing graveyard, Flixe broke the silence.
‘Isn’t it ironic? Both you and I are involved in this war and around London every night.’ She stopped and then qualified her words: ‘At least you are and I quite often am, and we’re OK, but two schoolgirls who come here for three nights have to cop it like that. People like Andrew and Father, regular soldiers, actually fighting at the moment, are all right; but Annie’s killed. Where’s the justice in that?’
‘God knows. It’s so unfair that she never had a chance – a few years at school and that’s all – never fell in love; never discovered what she was like; never tasted …’ Gerry found that she could not go on and turned her head away from Felicity. Then, in a choked voice, she said: ‘Look, Flixe, the pigs have got St James’s– that lovely church.’
Felicity did not even look.
‘I know. I went round it this morning with my new chief. The worst was standing beside the hole where the Rectory was; it’s still smoking, black and smelly, and then you lift your eyes and see that perfect gilded ceiling half smashed, all the windows blown out and the whole lovely thing ripped open to the filth and the rain and all the looters who care to pick their way over the wreckage.’
Gerry hardly listened; she was curious that the insouciant Felicity should mind about something so impersonal as the architecture of a London church, but even more to know about her new job.
‘You mean you’ve left the Fanys?’
‘Yes, I wasn’t getting anywhere – or helping the war. Anyone could have driven those generals … they could have driven themselves for that matter. Endless wasted time. I wanted to do something I could get my teeth into.’
‘Architecture,’ commented Gerry. There was no discernible expression in her voice, but Flixe knew her well enough to understand.
‘Yes, you’re right of course, old thing,’ she said in a far more generous admission of her own inconsistency than Gerry could ever have made. ‘But even though it’s not helping the war effort, at least it’s going to help to make post-war England more … well, better anyway. And it uses my brains, which chauffeuring never did.’
‘So what do you actually do with the buildings?’ Not only was Gerry relieved to be able to think and talk about something other than their dead sister, but she was curious about this new side to Flixe, who had always seemed quite happy with the horses, clothes, young men and dances that had made up her life before the war.
‘We get them properly surveyed so that the committee can decide what immediate structural repairs to do: we organise the removal of things like special painted ceilings, carvings, stained glass and so on, to safe places so they don’t get even more damaged by the weather, vandals and looters, and generally keep proper records of what’s going on where and how much it’s going to cost to put right.’
‘None of that sounds like you, Flixe. You’re not pulling a fast one are you?’
‘Gerry! Your language is getting as sloppy as mine. I suppose it’s all those boys you work with.’
‘Yes, probably. But come on, Flixe, give.’
The blond head shook, but Gerry thought that there was a gleam of the old mischief in her sister’s deep-amethyst eyes. She was about to press further when it dawned on her that if Flixe was being so evasive then there must be a good, official reason, in which case it ill behoved Gerry of all people to push her into indiscretion.
‘I promised to get back to my office and it might be quicker to walk from here,’ she said instead.
Flixe took a quick look at her sister out of the corner of her eye and grinned.
‘You mean you’re not supposed to let me know where you work. Don’t worry, old thing. I’ll drop you somewhere discreet. Where would you like?’
‘Thanks, Flixe. The other side of St James’s would be marvellous.’
‘OK; then I’m going to see Mingie at St George’s.’
‘Oh, good. I say, Flixe, does your job ever take you into the country?’
‘No. We’re only concerned with London. Why?’
‘They’re going to let her out tomorrow, and Anna’s going to have her to stay for a bit, but I do think she ought to get home as soon as possible. Yet she’s hardly fit to tackle a train journey yet. She ought to get out of London, not least because it might happen again. She won’t be going back to school for a bit, of course, but I thought you might be able to drive her home.’
‘Not a chance, I’m afraid. But I’ll ask around in case anyone else is going.’
‘Thanks. If you’re based here now, I’ll see more of you. Good,’ said Gerry, thinking that if they had some time she might be able to talk to Flixe about her muddled mind and clear it a bit.
‘Here we are. Hop out. See you soon, old thing.’
Felicity waved cheerfully and drove off. Only then did it dawn on Gerry that her sister was no longer in uniform. More and more she wondered what Flixe was up to. When she reached the office she shared with Suvarov, he said:
‘How’s your sister?’
‘Rather perky … apart from missing Annie, I mean. She says she’s got a job with an architect or something.’
‘I mean Ming,’ he said drily and Gerry felt herself blushing.
‘Very weepy, as you’d expect, and dreadfully quiet. She really ought to get out of London, but can’t face the thought of the journey on her own. I thought Anna Kingsley might have offered to take her down to Gloucestershire, but she hasn’t and I can’t demand it when she’s done so much for all of us … and anyway she herself must be in a bad state about losing her house.’
‘I’ve got to go and see some people of Bob’s next weekend. Shall I take her in the official car?’ Gerry turned round from the coat rack where she was hanging her hat, her face alight with grateful eagerness.
‘Peter, would you? I can’t think of anything better. You were angelic to her that day in the hospital and I know she trusts you absolutely.’ For a moment he was silent, staring at Gerry with an expression she could not understand. She wondered if she had revolted him with her enthusiasm; but surely in a matter like this one did not have to pretend that one did not care? It wasn’t as though she had been gushing about something that did not matter. He carefully aligned the pencils that were ranged in front of whatever it was he was working on, and said in a distant voice:
‘That’s settled then. I’ll ring her up if you’ll give me the number sometime and fix it with her.’
‘Thank you, Peter,’ answered Gerry, trying to sound as subdued as he did. Then she wrote the number on a corner of scrap paper and gave it to him.
‘Thanks. Gerry, this report here about the trade links with Vichy. I know you rewrote it, but did you add anything?’
Searching her conscience, Gerry at last shook her head.
‘No, I’m sure that all the facts and inferences were Mike’s. I just put it in that order and straightened out some of the sentences. But I suppose it’s possible that I’ve misinterpreted something he’d written. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s these anti-Gaullist businessmen over here.’
‘Yes, they did sound sinister, didn’t they? But there’s not much they can do to the Free French. I mean, it seemed from Mike’s report that they’re only writing and saying bitchy things about de Gaulle’s people; they haven’t any power to do anything to them.’
‘No,’ he said, drawing out the long vowel. ‘But didn’t you notice that the English people they’ve latched on to are already on our books, so to speak? Don’t blush – you’ve had your own problems to deal with and you’re not expected to be an analyst. Look, get Mike up here, would you? In about fifteen minutes.’
‘Of course, Peter. I’m sorry.’
‘Off with you.’
Gerry was quite glad to have an excuse to escape downstairs. She found it quite exhausting to be worrying all the time about what Suvarov was feeling and thinking. It had been bad enough in the days when she was just desperately anxious to get through the work in time and not annoy him by sloppiness or misunderstanding an order. But now, when she searched his dark eyes for signs of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, anger, or boredom, and worried about the mornings when his face looked as though all the colour had been washed out of it, she felt as though her every word or expression mattered and might be wrong. And she was ashamed of herself for feeling so.
The analysts greeted her with less than their usual ribaldry and she relaxed into their unspoken sympathy. They had none of them said much to her about what had happened to her sisters, but all of them had found ways to make it clear that they sympathised with her. Like Gerry, all of them had left the office every night since the Blitz began with the thought somewhere in their minds that they might arrive the next morning to find one of their friends or colleagues dead or injured.
Eynsham touched her shoulder when she walked past him as he was standing by Sandy’s desk.
‘All right, Gerry?’ he said kindly.
She smiled and nodded. ‘Well enough, thanks, Tony.’ Then she turned to Mike. She was relieved to see that he was looking quite peaceful and healthy for once and thought that she might escape the effects of his ill-temper when she passed on Suvarov’s request.
‘Mike, the Chief wants to see you in about quarter of an hour.’
‘Aha, Mike, how’ave you overstepped the boundaries this time?’ called one of the two French boys who sat together between the long windows.
‘Shut up, Philippe, there’s a good chap,’ said Mike easily enough. ‘Gerry, what’s up? Have I transgressed?’
‘No,’ she began and was interrupted by the Scot.
‘What is it about us all that we skirt round the Chief like a bunch of schoolgirls?’
‘It’s all right for you, Sandy. You’re a phlegmatic Scot But he’s a damn frightening fellow – comes of being a foreigner, I suppose. All that storming the Winter Palace in 1917 or whatever it was he did when he was eighteen.’
‘But, Mike, you don’t mean that he’s a Communist, do you?’ asked Gerry, genuinely horrified at the prospect, but remembering for the first time how Peter had hinted at Communist sympathies the afternoon when he had said that he was too busy to explain it all to her. They all laughed at her, but for once the laughter had a kindly sound to it. Sandy produced the answer for them all.
‘D’you really think that the various governments of this island would have employed him for the past twenty years or so if he had been? He was a Bolshevik, we understand, in the dark days of the revolution, but once he got here he saw the error of his ways, we believe. It’s all been kept rather dark, but somehow he must have persuaded the interested parties that he could be useful to them.’
‘And perhaps he bought his way in with information,’ suggested Mike. ‘I don’t know anyone who admits to having the whole story, but I have heard suggestions that Suvarov was pretty close to a lot of the top chaps in 1917. If it’s true, he could have been pretty valuable to the FO.’
Gerry, finding it hard to come to terms with the idea that Suvarov, idealised and admired as he was, could have been something that she had been brought up to loathe and fear, thought that she had better change the subject.
‘I see. Look, you lot, will someone explain to me what’s really happening in France at the moment? I don’t think I’ve grasped it properly yet.’
‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Michel, his thin, white face hardening.
‘Just because when I translate your reports into the kind of English that Suvarov and the Chiefs of Staff can understand, I may be making ghastly mistakes simply because I don’t know enough of the background to make sense of some of the points you make.’
‘That’s fair enough, Michel,’ said Sandy. ‘You’d better start.’
‘OK, Gerry,’ he began, but stopped as soon as he saw the door opening. Madge came in rattling the tea trolley and handed slopped cups to all the British. When she had gone, he started again: ‘How you can all drink that filthy stuff I can’t imagine.’
‘Never mind, Michel. Start the lesson in International Relations and the Fall of France.’
‘Well, Gerry, you know that after the British had evacuated their army from Dunkirk …’
‘And a hell of a lot of yours,’ chipped in Mike, his voice sounding bitter as aloes once more. ‘And there’d have been even more if your government had not stopped us taking your people off earlier. Churchill said that it was to be equal numbers. If you’re planning to lighten the Stygian darkness of poor Gerry’s abysmal ignorance, you might at least be accurate.’
Even though she had had plenty of time to become accustomed to Mike’s attitude to her, Gerry still could not absorb remarks like that without hurt. Silently, she turned to go, knowing from experience that it was better to ignore Mike than try to explain herself. Before she reached the door, she heard Eynsham’s gentle voice.
‘Gerry, have you a minute? I’ve a paper in my office I need to redraft.’
‘Oh, certainly, Tony,’ she said, keeping her back to them all. ‘Now?’
‘If you can manage it,’ he said, catching up with her. He opened the door and ushered her out into the passage. When they reached his little room, he made her sit down and gave her a cigarette.
‘You mustn’t take old Mike too seriously, you know,’ he said gently.
‘Oh, I know it’s silly of me,’ she answered. ‘But it just gets on top of me when day after day he goes on about how ignorant I am, and stupid, and useless.’
‘I’d begun to think he was hurting you, Gerry, so I’m going to break one of Suvarov’s most stringent rules. You need to know about Mike. He’s very unhappy.’
‘Aren’t we all in one way or another? I don’t see why that should excuse the sort of treatment he hands out,’ Gerry said, thinking of Annie lying dead in the wreckage of Eaton Gate and of Andrew so far away from her.
‘No need to be waspish, Gerry. Mike was blown up at Dunkirk and quite apart from the fact that I think he’s often in considerable physical pain, there’s desperate anxiety – and guilt, too.’
Gerry had been about to make some conventional and meaningless comment of sympathy, but something in Eynsham’s soft brown eyes stopped her.
‘Why guilt?’
‘Because he was rescued from the wreck of the ship he’d served on, he saw the men who had to be left on the beaches.’ Gerry opened her mouth, but Eynsham forestalled her. ‘One of them was his brother, Gerry; his younger brother. The boy seemed to have been wounded; he was crying; and he screamed for Mike to come and get him. The men who had rescued Mike had to hold him down on the deck to stop him jumping back into the sea.’
‘Oh, dear God.’
‘Yes, I imagine Mike hears those screams rather often.’
With her own feelings of responsibility for Annie churning through the grief in her mind, Gerry felt that she could really understand what Mike Endlesham must have been going through.
‘Poor man,’ she said with real compassion. ‘How ghastly. Do they know where the boy is now?’
‘Yes. One of the Oflags. The wound was not particularly severe, and he’s thought to be fine now …’
‘But over there. No wonder Mike gets so upset when Michel goes on and on about Dunkirk. Why hasn’t he been told? I know he’s French, but surely he wouldn’t tease Mike if he knew.’
‘Being French hasn’t much to do with it,’ said Eynsham with a smile. When he saw that Gerry was not laughing, he went on quickly: ‘No, I know that’s not what you meant. I agree with you, but Suvarov believes in every man’s inalienable right to keep his private miseries to himself. He also believes that Mike’s quite capable of telling Michel if he wants him to know. The last thing Suvarov would ever do would be to deny to his subordinates something he guards so jealously for himself.’
