The Fledgeling Page 3

  ‘She does her best,’ his grandmother said indifferently. She felt somehow that it was wrong that what the boy said should be true. He did sweep better than his sister.

  ‘When’ll Nonie be here?’

  Nonie. Nonie, always Nonie. And so it had been ever since they had been toddlers, thought the old woman. One never thought of them as separate personalities somehow. The twins liked this, liked that. The twins did this, did that. Until they had been torn apart by Neil’s military service. Why did twins have to be born as two opposite sexes if they were so amazingly alike and apparently shared only one mind? ‘Soon. I heard her getting up some time ago. She’ll be here any minute now. Stand over there; I want to look at you.’

  The boy, with an impatient deprecatory movement stood away from the bed so that he was in the direct light from the small window. His grandmother looked long and hard at him—at the delicate sensitive face, the light, almost white hair, the big black-ringed hazel eyes. Yes, nature had made one of her double jokes this time. The skin of his face and neck were even more transparent and hid even less than did his sister’s the blue veins and the sudden rush of blood at each and every emotion. Nonie, fragile as she looked, was made of fine tempered steel; this boy, her twin, of brittle plastic.

  ‘Why have you come back?’ She demanded determinedly. ‘You haven’t told me that.’

  ‘Because of Len.’ He gulped nervously and a rush of bright colour flooded his face so that she knew he was lying. ‘I asked for compassionate leave when I heard. The C.O. said I couldn’t have it because of that last time.’

  ‘You lied then,’ said his grandmother accusingly, ‘Why should he believe you this time? That’s what comes of lying. It’s a case of “wolf”. When a thing really is true no one believes you.’

  ‘I showed him the bits in the newspapers. He knew it all, but he said he couldn’t give me leave. They’re paid not to be human, those chaps are. I think he was willing to give it me, but he quoted a lot of regulations. They treat a chap as a machine in the Army.’

  ‘What d’you expect when you keep quitting like this?’

  ‘This was different,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘What could you have done if you had been given leave?’ she asked dispassionately, ‘There was no funeral here; he was buried in Cyprus.’

  ‘I could have been with you and Nonie.’

  ‘But it’s all over. Len’s been buried a month. What good can you do now? You can only do yourself harm by this running away.’

  ‘I can’t go back. I’d rather die—I’d rather be dead.’

  ‘Lots of us would, but you can’t have death just for the asking.’

  ‘Len got it.’ said Neil, resentfully.

  ‘He didn’t want it. It’s always those who get it. Len loved life. I heard you promise him that you’d stick out your service to the end. I can see him now—standing here in this room on his last leave. You’d spoiled it for him by quitting again. He was terribly cut up. I can see him now and you over there by the door between two policemen who’d been sent to fetch you to await a military escort. Nonie was clinging to your legs and crying her eyes out. A nice leave for Len that was! I don’t mind so much your breaking your word to me . . . but with Len dead . . . how could you break your word to him?’

  ‘Don’t keep on about Len’s death. It wasn’t my fault he was killed.’ His nerves broke through his control and he almost screamed at his grandmother. ‘Be quiet,’ she admonished him sharply. ‘Someone’ll hear you. There are others in the house.’

  Supposing I told her what was really the matter, thought the boy desperately. Supposing I shouted what the truth is. She’d be horrified at even the words I’d have to use to tell her. One doesn’t talk about such things—they mustn’t be mentioned. She’d tell me to soap out my mouth as they told her in one of her blasted Homes. But he knew even as he considered it that he was too afraid to tell anyone. The old woman was sharp though. She knew when he was lying he’d not taken her in about his reason for deserting again. He tried again. ‘I was worried about you now that Len’s gone,’ he muttered. ‘I thought you wouldn’t be able to manage without his bit. The C.O. asked if my father was alive. He must have known he was. What was the use of telling him that Dad’s about as much use to you as a sick headache? In the Regulations you have a father or you haven’t—just as you have a son or you haven’t. What’s the use of telling them that your son doesn’t support you? According to the Army the fact that you’ve got a son is enough to assume that he supports you.’

  ‘What’s the use of talking like that, Neil? I get my bit and your pound helps me. If I don’t grumble why should you do it for me? You’ll grow bitter and go round like your father achieving nothing. You’ve got to accept certain things. You’re just knocking your head against unbreakable stone, boy. You can’t break life; it breaks you, if you let it. Len, now, he took life between his teeth like a dog does a piece of rag, and just shook it to his shape.’

  ‘That’s what killed him. He shook it once too often.’

  ‘Ssh! lower your voice. I can hear that old busybody from upstairs coming down for her milk . . . listen.’

  The flopping, shuffling sound of someone heavy in soft shoes was coming down the stairs. After each flop there was a loud creak of the step and finally the quicker padding of the slippers along the passage outside the room. Neil, standing listening with a look of acute fear on his face, dived suddenly under the bed. The steps had stopped right outside the door.

  ‘Mrs. Collins . . . how are you, dearie?’ And almost immediately the handle of the door was tried.

  ‘It’s still locked. Nonie’s not come yet. I’m not feeling up to letting anyone in this morning, Mrs. Danvers.’

  ‘Oh, I made sure Nonie was sleeping in with you last night. I thought I heard her talking to you just now.’

  ‘No, she slept in her own room last night. She’ll be here soon. I’ll wait for her to unlock the door. . . .’

  ‘Oh . . . just as you like. I thought maybe you’d like a cup of tea; just making some and came down for the milk—yesterday’s is sour. Doesn’t keep in this weather, does it?’

  ‘Thank you, I’m sure, Mrs. Danvers. Nonie’ll be here any minute now. I don’t feel up to getting to the door.’

  They heard her shuffle off and open the front door to take the milk bottle from the step; they listened to the ponderous ascent of the stairs. The ceiling creaked ominously as she moved across the room above. Neil came out from under the bed again. His agitation had increased.

  ‘You can’t stay in this room,’ his grandmother said again. ‘I told you. She hears every sound. I got the milkman to leave my bottle outside the window because she would bring it in and chatter when it was left on the step. She heard us talking. She misses nothing.

  ‘Is my room let?’

  ‘How can it be let when it opens off here? It’s just as you left it. All your things are there. Nonie sleeps there sometimes when I’m bad. She’s been sleeping there a lot lately—she’s on bad terms with Charlie.’

  ‘Bad terms with Charlie?’ There was such dismay in Neil’s question that his grandmother was surprised. There was no love lost between her grandson and Charlie.

  ‘It’ll blow over,’ she said. Married couples always quarrel these days.’

  ‘And Mary? Do you ever see her?’

  ‘Mary’s gone away—you know that.’

  ‘I thought she might have come back now.’

  ‘Well, she hasn’t.’

  ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘She went away with a man . . . I wrote you.’ Then, as she saw his disconcerted face, she said consolingly, ‘She’s not a bad girl. Don’t be hard on her. She was older than you in experience, if not in years. She took what was offered her. Who could blame her? I wouldn’t.’

  But he had turned his face away and she could see the pulse in his thin neck moving as it did when he was upset.

  ‘She wrote me at first,’ he said, ‘but she didn’t
answer my last letters.’

  ‘Mary got fed up with you always quitting. She said you’d never finish your service at this rate. You didn’t write her you were going to do this?’

  ‘No! I thought she’d have written when Len was killed’.

  ‘She left just after that. She came to say goodbye. I liked Mary.’

  ‘What sort of chap did she go with?’

  ‘How should I know? I never leave this room except to cross the hall. She said he was kind and could look after her. Nonie said he was fat and no beauty. That’s all I know. She wanted to get out of here. She took her chance.’

  There was the sound of a door opening across the hall, light quick footsteps, and a key was inserted in the lock . . . ‘Gran . . . Gran. . . .’

  Neil crouched down at the back of the bed as the door opened and his twin sister came in. When she had shut the door he stood up. She gave a quick little gasp, then ran to him crying, ‘Neil . . . oh, Neil . . . is it really you? I dreamed about you last night—a terrible dream—and here you are. Were you thinking of me last night?’ She flung her arms round his shoulders and asked fondly, ‘Why didn’t you let us know? Did Gran let you in?’ She was searching his face with a love in hers which was maternal and yet not maternal. The old woman did not like it.

  ‘Ssh! Not so loud,’ she said.

  At her grandmother’s tone the girl looked in alarm at her brother. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hang something up over the window,’ said the old woman harshly. ‘Anyone can see through it.’

  Nonie looked from her twin’s white strained face to his dusty travel-stained uniform and then back at her grandmother.

  ‘Yes,’ said her grandmother. ‘Again; it’s the same again.’ The girl gave Neil a look of commiseration as she went quickly to a drawer and took from it a piece of blue material. ‘No! Not that. That’d arouse suspicion at once. Everyone knows I have no curtain so that I can see out a bit.’

  The girl found a piece of thick net curtaining. This she hooked on to two nails at each side of the window frame. Filtered thus the light was even more drab and dead. Nonie turned from it to Neil again. ‘Why have you done it? Why?’ She wound her arms protectively round his narrow shoulders gazing into his face with an anxiety which was demanding and at the same time hopeless.

  ‘I couldn’t stick it,’ he said tonelessly, defeat in his eyes. ‘I thought of Len dead out there. We’re due for a draft to Malaya soon. Suppose I get killed too. Why should I go as well as Len? And what’ll Gran do with you and Charlie off to Australia?’

  ‘I’m not going until you’ve finished your service, you know that.’

  ‘I’m not going to finish it.’

  ‘You’re doubling it with all these sentences, Neil.’

  ‘I’ve finished it now. I’m never going back.’

  ‘If you’ve come home with the idea of helping me you’re doing it the wrong way. How can you help me when you’re on the run?’ said his grandmother sharply.

  ‘There’s no need for you to help,’ said Nona, ‘there’s me—and Dad.’

  ‘Him,’ said Neil, contemptuously.

  ‘He came,’ said his sister defensively, ‘he came when he heard about Len.’

  ‘And how long did he stay?’

  ‘Only one evening. But he came.’

  ‘Well, I’ve come now—and I’m staying.’

  ‘Neil, you can’t stay here. They’ll be here after you. When did you leave?’

  ‘Yesterday—midday.’

  ‘You’ve taken so long getting here they’ll have telephoned the police by now. Did anyone there know you were going to do this?’

  ‘Only Mike Andersen. He’s covering for me. They won’t have missed me yet the way we fixed it.’

  ‘This Mike Andersen,’ said Nonie slowly, ‘can you trust him? Mary said she didn’t like the sound of him in your letters.’

  ‘Mike’s all right. He’s all for quitting himself. Nonie! The person who can really help on this is Charlie. His lorry.’ Neil’s eyes were frightened again; his face had the pinched look Nonie knew so well. He had the whole apprehension of the fugitive. ‘I must get away tonight. Will Charlie help me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nonie worriedly, ‘Charlie’s difficult these days. Get through to that little room there, Neil, and take off your uniform. I’m going to get some breakfast. Are you hungry?’

  She went through the small door, papered over, behind her grandmother’s bed and called, ‘Here, Neil.’

  She handed him some jeans, a jersey, a pair of plimsolls, some pink socks and a gay head scarf. ‘Put these on,’ she said roughly, ‘it’ll give us a little time to think. I’ll come in and fix the head scarf.’

  ‘No! No! I can’t.’ He looked in dismay at the garments she was holding out to him.

  ‘You’ve no choice,’ she said bluntly, ‘if you want to stay here. Either you wait until they come for you—or you become me, until we can get you away. Don’t you see, Neil? You can stay here as me. No one but Gran need know. It gives us time to think out something and get you away.’

  ‘It’s no good—won’t work.’

  ‘But why not? What did you plan to do? You must have had some plan. Why did you come back here at all then?’

  ‘I thought you and Charlie would help me.’

  ‘Neil,’ his sister’s distress was obvious, ‘you know what Charlie’s like. It’s never been right between us since that last time you came home. He’s so jealous; he doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Nonie, let’s go away together . . . now. Charlie’s not good enough for you. I can’t think why you married him. Let’s get away. We could go to Ireland to Great-aunt Liz. . . .’

  ‘And what about Gran? What are you thinking of, Neil? You know I can’t leave her or Charlie.’

  ‘Then you must make Charlie help me. You must. I must get away tonight. I must.’

  ‘Listen, Neil. Put the clothes on—just for now, anyhow. It’s safer. Anyone can come in with Gran so helpless now. Put them on, do. I’ll go and work on Gran. She’s got to help you, too. She’s sure to start on her usual duty talk—you know—how you mustn’t turn out like Father. How we owe a duty to the State and all that. It won’t be easy, but I’m going to try. Cheer up! . . . we’ll fix something. I’m going in to get her breakfast now . . . put on the clothes and wait until I call you.’

  She went to the old woman, and as she tidied her up and busied herself about the room while the kettle was boiling, she said violently, ‘He’s not going back this time. Neil’s not going back. It’ll mean a year in a civil jail! A year! Think of it—and it isn’t as if he were a criminal. What’s he done? Nothing . . . nothing. Just because he isn’t cut out for a soldier. It’s vile, horrible! Oh, how cruel it all is! There’s all these toughs who make this district a menace to us girls, just hanging about doing nothing. Why can’t they be put into uniform and be given the guns which Neil loathes? Why not? They want to hurt and kill and have weapons. Neil only wants to be at home with you and me—to do things about the place—just to live as he wants. Why should I be able to live as I like, and Neil, just because he’s born a male, have to be ordered about and sent to prison as if he were a criminal, when he can’t stand it?’

  ‘Nonie . . . Nonie . . . Quiet now!’

  ‘I won’t be quiet. I can talk if I want to, and I don’t care who hears me. He shan’t go back, he shan’t! I’ll make Charlie help him. And you, Gran, you’ve got to help him too.’

  ‘No,’ said the old woman flatly. ‘No. I know my duty. He goes back. He can have some food and a rest—and back he goes.’

  The girl came over to the bed and stood menacingly over her grandmother. ‘He’s not going back. If he goes, I leave this house too. You and Charlie can keep each other company, for I shall go with Neil if neither of you will help him. He can go to Ireland to Great-aunt Liz—you know he can. I begged you last time—I went on my knees to you and you wouldn’t. This time I’m not begging you; I’m telling you. You’
ve got to help.’

  ‘Nonie,’ said the old woman sternly, ‘what’s come over you? Stop being hysterical like that. It won’t help your brother.’

  ‘You’re hard—hard and heartless. Len’s dead—killed because they sent him to Cyprus—and now you want Neil to be killed, too. His draft is due for Malaya, you know that.’

  ‘If he’s deserted again he won’t go with the draft anyway. Use your head, girl!’

  ‘You’re hard! You’re hard! Now Len’s gone you’re taking it out on Neil . . . that’s what you’re doing . . . taking out on your grandson the disappointment you’ve had over Father. You didn’t succeed in making Father fight in the war, did you? No, he got himself a nice cushy job and you were ashamed of him and you’re determined that Neil shall be different. That’s why you sent him back last time and the first time. D’you think I’ve forgotten that? It tore me to bits when they came and took him. I wanted to change places with him and suffer some of his agony myself . . . Neil’s all right. If they’d only leave him alone. It’s when he’s badgered and chivvied and bullied that he gets bewildered and they think he’s a clot. I know him . . . I know my twin . . . he’s a lovely person if they leave him alone.’ She burst into angry tears.

  Her grandmother looked steadily at her, ‘So that’s what you think! You really think that of me?’

  ‘I do . . . you think about what I’ve said—it’s true.’

  She rushed into the kitchenette, furious tears streaming down her face. She felt so passionately for her twin that beside his peril nothing else mattered to her. She made the tea blinded by tears. ‘Nonie . . . Nonie . . .’ the old woman was calling, ‘Nonie, if you insist on this, Charlie and you will be further apart than you are now. You are apart, aren’t you?’ She was ravaged by the girl’s distress. ‘Things aren’t going right with you two are they?’

  ‘It’s Neil. He hates Neil. I’m always worried about him. Charlie can’t understand. I must help Neil . . . he’s part of me. When he first went in the Army it was as if I died.’

  ‘If you go against Charlie in this it’ll only make things worse—you realise that, don’t you?’