The Fledgeling Page 4

  ‘Of course I do. Charlie’s tough—he doesn’t need me like Neil does. Charlie needs no one—he’s self-sufficient and satisfied with himself. Neil needs me; he has no one.’

  ‘He has this new friend up there—this Mike Andersen.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. Gran, you’ve got to help him. All I’m asking you to do is to let him stay here all day. He can sleep in the little room behind here—and eat in here with you. By tonight I’ll have got something fixed. Please, Gran, please.’

  Her grandmother sighed. ‘Very well,’ she said at last, unwillingly. ‘But it’s no good, Nonie; they’ll get him—they always do. It’d make it easier for him if he went back now.’

  ‘Thousands get away—why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘If he goes to Ireland he’ll have to stay there. They’ll arrest him as soon as he sets foot here again.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘And you still want him to go? Even though you won’t be able to see him?’

  ‘I can’t see him like this. I can’t bear it. I’d rather he went away than suffered like this. He’ll become a criminal with all this time in jail.’

  ‘All right, Nonie. He can stay here. But no good can come of this. I warn you now. Things are apt to come back on you. It’ll end badly. And I won’t lie—so don’t ask me to.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to do anything except allow Neil to hide here all day. . . .’

  ‘All right. Kiss me and don’t look like that. You look as if all the cares of the world were on your shoulders.’

  ‘They are . . .’ said her granddaughter glumly, as she went in to her brother.

  He was sitting on the chair trying to pull on the pink socks she had given him. He had put on her blue jeans and the blue jersey. She tied the scarf pirate-fashion round his head, pulling forward a lock of the fair hair as she wore hers. She attached a pair of gold hoop earrings to his ears, then took them off. ‘No. I almost slipped up there. Your ears are much bigger than mine—too big for a girl. The rings accentuate them.’ She drew the scarf lower to cover them . . . brushed his face over with a powder puff and drew a lipstick quickly and deftly over his full, rather sensual, mouth. . . . ‘Look,’—she surveyed him critically—‘you’re exactly like me . . . Look at us . . . I wonder why we couldn’t both have been boys?’

  ‘Or both girls—that would be more suitable!’ said her brother bitterly. ‘You must despise me, Nonie, like Gran does. I’m yellow-bellied. I know it. Did you ever know me when I wasn’t scared?’

  ‘Everyone’s scared—if not of one thing then of another. Some let it get the better of them—that’s all.’ She put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Neil. Tell me the truth. We’ve never had secrets from one another.’

  ‘You had Charlie. You kept that from me.’

  ‘I was so shattered when you had to go in the Army. It seemed awful to write that I was going to be married . . . I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

  ‘So you let Len do it for you. . . .’ His voice was bitter.

  ‘Neil. Don’t be like this.’

  ‘It’s a free country—I don’t think. A free country which takes one brother and kills him, and then forces the other one into the same pattern. There’s no war on. I’d fight if the country was attacked—but why shouldn’t I choose whether or not I want to be a soldier in peacetime?’

  ‘It’s never peacetime. There’s always trouble somewhere. You’re quoting Father when you talk like that.’

  ‘A lot of what he says has some truth in it—even if he is a shadow Communist.’

  ‘The Commies have conscription, you know that. Come on—let’s have some breakfast. You can stay in Gran’s room; she’s agreed that you may. I’ve left some food in the kitchen cupboard and I’ll bring some in tonight.’

  ‘Nonie . . . I’ve got to get away tonight. You must get Charlie to help me. If he’d take me in the lorry—that’d be so much safer than my having to travel by train. Will you?’ In his urgency he shook her backwards and forwards.

  She detached herself gently. ‘I’ll do my best. Surely you know that. But Charlie’s difficult. . . .’

  ‘He doesn’t like me, I know that.’

  ‘He doesn’t like compulsion either.’

  ‘You’ll try and persuade him?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t talk loudly to Gran. Remember there are others in the house. The old woman upstairs is inquisitive and your voice is deeper than mine. If old Evans comes offering to do Gran’s shopping, don’t let him in. The only person you must open the door to is the doctor. If Gran were left locked in too often all day he’d insist on her being visited more often by the health officers. You know how she feels about them. I don’t think the doctor will come. But let him in if he does.’

  ‘But, Nonie—like this? He’ll know I’m not a girl.’

  ‘He won’t look at you. He’s one of the new kind. No time for anything but death—because that means a compulsory certificate—and possible trouble.’

  ‘What’s happened to old Penfield?’

  ‘Dead. This one has his practice. You can hear him counting the seconds while he’s in the room. It’s not Gran’s pulse he’s counting but the passing of time—his time.’

  ‘Well, why not? What else is a pulse but a clock—same as any other.’

  ‘Here, let me look at you. . . .’ She scanned his face very carefully. ‘You’ll do. You’ll pass as me to the casual eye seeing you through the window or crossing the yard to the lavatory. . . .’ She suddenly gripped her twin hard. ‘I want the truth, Neil. I know you’ve been lying. Why have you quit again? You’ve not done something wrong have you?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ he retorted resentfully, ‘that’s all there is to it. Why must you and Gran think I’m a criminal just because I can’t stick it? Call me a coward—anything you like—but I’m not a criminal.’

  ‘Ssh . . . Don’t shout or all my work on you will be wasted. Everyone in the house will know you’re here. Come on . . . cheer up . . . and remember that for today you’re me!’ She pulled him protesting through the door into the bedroom. ‘Like your new granddaughter, Gran?’

  The old woman raised herself up in the bed as Nonie stood there side by side with her twin. She drew in her breath sharply as she looked from one to the other. ‘How long d’you think that’ll deceive? Granted—it’s extraordinary! The likeness is amazing. But everyone knows that Nonie’s out at work all day.’

  ‘Surely I can have a couple of days off. I’m entitled to have a headache or a cold without a doctor’s certificate. . . .’

  ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like anything about this business at all,’ said the old woman gloomily.

  ‘Have your breakfast,’ was all her granddaughter said to this as she busied herself with the tray, placing the teapot and the bowl of porridge within easy reach of her grandmother. ‘I’ve put your coat and slippers on the chair ready for you to go across the hall to the yard.’

  ‘What sort of day is it? Raining? I can’t see properly through that double net over the window.’

  ‘Not raining. Just grey and close—a sort of waiting day . . . you know. Neil’ll be able to help you get up.’

  ‘No need. I can get myself up. I do it all right—just take my time over it, that’s all.’

  The girl, so extraordinarily like her twin, with the very fair hair and the dark hazel eyes, the delicate colour which came and went so easily and the curious fawn-like grace, pulled on a coat and picked up a handbag. ‘I must be off; I’m late. Don’t go out whatever you do, Neil. You’ll be safe enough going across the hall—they’ll think it’s me. But it’d be better if you didn’t meet anyone. I’ll try and get off early.’

  She kissed her grandmother who was already pouring the tea. Her twin, legs astride, was eating bread and marmalade ravenously on the end of the bed. Nonie sighed as she observed this. He looked just a gangling growing boy, and in her blue jeans and jersey terribly defenceless. She closed the door softly behind her as
she slipped out.

  CHAPTER III

  WHEN the girl had gone the two went on eating. The old woman ate as ravenously as her grandson. She was surprised at her appetite this morning. Neil’s arrival, after the first shock, had given her the feeling of being part of life again. In the dreary room in which she was now virtually a prisoner because of her illness, the days ran into night and one sleep into another without any noticeable frontiers. The last time he had come home she had not been confined almost continuously to bed; in between the bouts of pain she had been up and sometimes even out for half an hour. Now like the nights and days, the good bouts ran into the bad ones, and in between the pain there were only the dull bearable intervals when the Monster slept—and she gathered her forces together for the next bout. Before these forces could be fully mustered, the Monster, as she had come to think of the pain which gripped her in his crab-like vice, was upon her again. The very nature of the disease which was killing her made it seem a live evil, a veritable creature there to prey and feast upon her as a vulture will follow the last lagging steps of a wounded man, knowing that soon the final meal will be his.

  She fought the pain, not as a disease, but as a personal enemy. When the worst was upon her, her limbs twisted in agony, her face contorted with anguish, she would welcome the Monster grimly. . . . ‘Well, old friend, here we are again! All set for the next round . . . come on . . . come on! . . . do your worst . . . I can take it. A tough old woman—stronger than any man . . . stronger than my drivelling non-stop-talking son . . . or my faint-hearted grandson . . . come, try me and see. . . .’ Instead of resisting the onslaught she would welcome the struggle, taxing her powers of endurance as long as she could, knowing that when she reached the breaking point and her reserves were weakening, then, and then only would she resort to science, and so escape the final fury of the thwarted Monster in oblivion. The little tablets lay there, regularly replenished. She had only to stretch out her hand to escape the Monster’s worst.

  ‘Neil,’ she said now, surprised and delighted at her sudden hunger, ‘see if you can find me some more bread—over there in the cupboard in the wall.’

  He came back with half a loaf.

  ‘Cut me some—not a thin wishy slice like Nonie thinks an invalid should have—a proper door-step like I used to cut you after school.’

  He cut the bread as she wanted it, and watched her pile it with marmalade. He liked seeing her enjoy the food. She had good strong teeth still, and the line of her jaw was sharp and clear. The illness had fined down every superfluous fold and line. Her face was a mask stretched tightly over a beautifully-made skull. Helpless as she was, not one strand of hair was allowed to escape the relentless knot into which she confined it, and her granddaughter washed it for her every week-end.

  ‘What day is it?’ she asked suddenly, looking up from her food.

  ‘Must be Wednesday,’ replied Neil. ‘I left Tuesday—it seems years . . . and yet it was less than twenty-four hours ago.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours ago! They’ll be after you today!’ she said apprehensively. ‘Last time it was less than twenty-four hours that the police were hanging round this door-step.’

  ‘Last time there wasn’t Mike to help—or you, Gran.’

  ‘Me!’ she laughed harshly. ‘I’m an unwilling helper. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ he said humbly. ‘I know the trouble I’m causing you.’

  ‘This Mike Andersen you’ve been writing so much about—what’s he like?’

  He looked away from her but she was aware of his sudden agitation again. The mere name of his so-called friend caused a change of colour, a perceptible heightening of his awareness. She pursued it, relentlessly. ‘What’s he like? What’s he look like?’

  ‘He’s tall—and large. He’s dark—and tough. He’s had to be. He’s got no parents—he’s had to fend for himself.’

  ‘Too many of them are tough now. Can you trust him? Will he do as he said?’

  ‘Yes.’ The answer was short and came unwillingly. She knew perfectly well that he did not want to discuss Mike Andersen, that for some reason or other things were not right between them. How much had he lied? Was this Mike really covering up for him? ‘And you like him?’ she pursued.

  ‘He cottoned on to me right from the start. He came in the draft after mine. He’s smart. He knows his way around—knows how to dodge things. He’s clever all right. He can make people do as he likes.’ He did not look at his grandmother as he told her this.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. I said “Do you like him?” Funny you should have run away again if he’s so wonderful. I should have thought that with a friend up there things would be easier—more bearable.’

  ‘Well, they aren’t,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Funny. I don’t like the sound of that young man Mike. You’re no good at judging people, Neil, no more than your father is. Len now, and Nonie—they know a good coin from a bad. Strange that you and your father don’t.’

  ‘Why do you have to keep harping on Father?’ he said resentfully, ‘Mike’s all right. He suits me.’ But there was no conviction in his voice and he would not meet her eyes, and even in his averted face she sensed his tenseness, his guardedness, and her fears grew.

  ‘Take this tray through to the kitchen. The window there looks on to a blank wall so no one will see you. I’m going across the passage. Take care that no one sees you if you go out there.’ She began heaving, almost rolling her thin body out of the bed until her feet touched the floor. Neil held out the coat and slippers which his sister had laid out in readiness. ‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘I can manage. Put them down. I can get them—in my own time—same as I can do everything for myself. When I can’t, they’ll take me away—but not before. Make yourself scarce in the kitchen. That old Evans’ll be down any minute now. I’ll have to lock the door and take the key while I’m gone or he’ll come in here.’

  He picked up the tray, but not before he had seen the horrible struggle she had to bend down to reach the slippers and still more to get them on her feet, but she accomplished it—just as she eventually got the coat on and buttoned it up.

  He carried the tray into the dark malodorous little hole that served for cooking and washing-up. A cooker, a sink, a cupboard, a table and two chairs by the window. That was the kitchen with barely room to turn. All water had to be heated; there was only a cold tap. On the first floor there was a tumbledown bathroom which served the whole house. The water there was heated by an unreliable geyser appropriately named Vesuvius. It took four or five pennies to get a few inches of hot water and half an hour to clean the bath before it could be used. In the barracks there had been baths—really hot ones—and there were hot showers too. Neil liked hot baths. Before his call-up he had looked forward to Saturday afternoons when Nonie had scrubbed out the bath and he had wallowed in eightpence-worth of hot water.

  He looked round the dreary little kitchen now, noting with a kind of loving pleasure each well-worn pot, kettle and pan. It was all small, shabby, homely and familiar. He knew it all—could find anything in the dark—as could his grandmother. Up at that dreary place he’d never got over his feeling of being lost, confused and disorientated. He wasn’t like Mike who was the sort who would find his way around anywhere, in a coal mine or a jungle. Mike had what he called the nose for things. Neil had no illusions about himself. Because he was always scared nothing was simple for him. Fear made him lose his wits, paralysed him, made him into a clot a stumbling, inarticulate fool. It had always been the same, at school, at the factory where he’d worked until his call-up, and worst of all in the Army where it seemed that they could smell his fear and he had quickly become the butt of the sergeant and his draft . . . so that ‘Let’s take a rise out of Ninny Collins’ had become the highlight of the day.

  He had never been able to clarify his fear in his own mind or the reasons for it. He didn’t know why he was afraid, only that he was afraid. He was scared to deat
h—of himself, of his superiors, of his fellow conscripts, of the rifle with which he had to drill, and of the drill itself, of the filthy obscenities of the latrines, the sleeping huts, of the terrors of the nights there, of the anguish of each waking. He had hated the whole business from the very first day. He wanted to hide, to lose himself in anonymity, to be alone and yet not alone because now he was frightened of himself.

  He felt safer here. It was here that he wanted to remain. Here, safe with his twin Nonie and his grandmother. She was often crabby and strict, censorious and sharp—but he felt safe with her. If only he could tell her about Mike. Tell her that he didn’t want to desert, that if only he could escape Mike he would go back and finish his service. If only Len were here he could talk to him. He had mentioned some of his troubles to Len on his first leave and Len had said that there was nothing to be done but to use one’s fists right from the start. But Len was dead; killed out there in Cyprus waging war against the terrorists who were young lads like himself. He had loved Army life, had gone joyfully and excitedly to Cyprus and written vividly of the life there. People liked Len, he made friends easily and had gone into life with all the zest with which he had taken up boxing and cycling. Len was dead. It didn’t seem possible; and now that his brother was dead Neil’s fears were accentuated. He was frightened of death now. Death . . . that was something for the old. Gran, for instance, who wanted it. Why was she alive and Len who loved life, dead?

  He put the things in the sink and ran cold water on them dispiritedly before he returned to the room which was formerly the sitting-room and was now his grandmother’s prison. She was back there again. Nonie had tidied the whole room before she left. When she came back at night she would put her grandmother in a chair and make the bed properly. Neil watched the determined efforts of the old woman to do her hair and put on a clean woollen wrap. She waived his attempts at help impatiently. Slowly and with horrible deliberation she managed it all, even to the measured calculated movements with which she got herself back into the bed.