The Fledgeling Page 8

  ‘How’s the rug getting on?’ Miss Rhodes picked up the grey rug on which her patient was working. ‘How quickly you work, and how beautifully. It’s almost finished, I see. I have a customer for it—did I tell you?’

  ‘You did. Thank you.’

  ‘Have you seen your son again, Mrs. Collins?’

  ‘Last week. He’s begun coming quite often. Since Len’s death he’s been here three times. Edward never comes unless he wants something.’

  ‘Perhaps he feels that you need him now that your eldest grandson’s been killed.’

  ‘It’s not that. You’ve met him, Miss Rhodes. You know how he talks. Words, words, words—like the radio. Only Edward has no time signal to stop him. Last time he was here I had a feeling that he was edging on to religion. He’s never been on to that yet. That would be the last straw.’

  Alison Rhodes said nothing to this, but by the way she set her lips Mrs. Collins saw that she felt her to be hard on her only son, just as Nonie did. Nonie always defended her father.

  ‘We’re all different,’ she said rather primly. ‘Your son sees things from a different angle to yours.’

  ‘Edward sees things from whatever angle suits him best—and that angle is left or right, whichever is most advantageous at that particular time.’

  ‘But he must be very proud of his son. Why, the newspapers were full of your grandson’s heroism.’

  ‘Not at all. Edward rather despised the boy for doing his National Service so willingly. He considers that his death was legalised murder by the State. I’m quoting him, Miss Rhodes—those are not my opinions. That’s why I won’t have Edward going to the Palace to get Len’s medal. Edward’s by way of being a Communist—or was. No Communist, whether he’s my son or not, is going to handle Len’s medal.’

  Miss Rhodes felt uncomfortable. She felt for the old woman but she thought her hard on her son. She opened her notebook and began the routine questions. To all of them, the patient replied with a little smile of amused tolerance, if not disdain, and the girl thought despairingly. Now we’re poles apart again; she likes me as a person and hates me as an official visitor.

  ‘I’ll bring you some more wool. You’ll be needing canvas for a new rug, too. What colour will you make next time?’ she asked, looking at the old fingers which, although knotted and deformed with rheumatism, could still work so quickly and so well.

  ‘Any colour which sells. I leave it to you, Miss Rhodes.’

  ‘And how’s your granddaughter, Nona?’

  ‘Pale—this warm weather tires her in that stuffy shop.’

  ‘Must she go on working now that she’s married?’

  Miss Rhodes knew Nona, and often bought her groceries from the shop where she was employed.

  ‘Charlie earns treble what my Jim earned when we had three children to feed and clothe. But they’re saving to emigrate to Australia—that’s why Nona is working.’

  Miss Rhodes looked round the small dark room. It was neat and cleaner than many which she visited, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Collins was often confined to bed for days at a time. A round table—a small sideboard, and on the mantelpiece a pink china swan. Her attention was caught by some bright blue tissue paper on the sideboard. On it lay a mango. Miss Rhodes could not help looking at it. Strange exotic fruit to find in this dingy little room.

  ‘Looking at the mango? That’s Edward. He says it will take me out of this room to the land where the sun always shines—to India. Every time he comes he brings some outlandish fruit and gives me a long discourse on the country from which it comes. I asked him if he could bring me a fruit grown in the land to which Len has gone—and where I shall soon be going—that’s the only geography in which I’m interested now. Do you believe in an after-life, Miss Rhodes? There’s been a lot of articles by famous people in the newspapers about it.’

  Alison Rhodes shook her head—she had no wish to be drawn into a discussion on the possibility of a hereafter.

  But the old woman persisted. ‘That Joshua Taylor is so certain of the after-life that he’s quite shaken me. I’ve got to think about it again. My time here’s getting short.’

  ‘That’s your negro friend isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Edward brought him here one evening last year. He’s called several times since. He’s got something—a kind of hidden strength as if he knows what’s wrong with civilisation and is laughing at us all for our blindness.’

  ‘You mean he’s got some new kind of philosophy?’

  ‘The kind on which you and I were brought up, Miss Rhodes—Christianity. It’d be strange wouldn’t it if those so-called heathen for whom you and I were made to put our pennies in the missionary boxes should be the ones to bring healing to our present state of chaos?’

  Miss Rhodes drew in her breath sharply. Mrs. Collins had the power to disconcert her with such statements. She had seen the negro, Joshua Taylor, a huge man with a magnificent head and the treacly-smooth voice of his race. He was said to be doing quite remarkable work in the district. The social worker in her resented him. He had no status; there was no label to be pinned on him. He came under no official health, social or religious organisation; and yet in several homes in this district she had heard him spoken of with both interest and respect.

  ‘You could see the Rev. Palmer if you wished, Mrs. Collins,’ she said stiffly, ‘You’ve only to say the word.’

  ‘He’s a paper creature. No blood in him. He makes me impatient. I like that great black man. I sit here and look at him so neat and respectable in my basket chair and I picture him a few generations ago in the jungle leaping about savage and half-naked . . . and now he can recite the whole Bible to an old sick woman who learned it by heart as a child. I think it’s extraordinary. It makes me chuckle.’

  Miss Rhodes found the subject distasteful. If the old woman knew she was dying—and she was no fool and must realise it—she ought not to be so frivolous about it. She was determined to change the subject and reverted firmly to the mangoes.

  ‘Have you tasted the mangoes, Mrs. Collins? What an original and charming idea of your son’s.’

  ‘Nonie and I ate one—he brought two. Tasted to us like turpentine. I’d rather have an apple any day.’

  ‘What other fruit has he brought?’

  ‘A Chinese gooseberry—looked like a huge woodlouse unrolled. He brought a persimmon too. I liked the persimmon, but I was bored by Edward’s long geography lesson. Does he think that no one ever listens to the radio or reads the newspapers?’

  Miss Rhodes said eagerly, ‘But Mrs. Collins, your son is quite exceptional.’

  ‘Was’ corrected his mother grimly. ‘When he was twenty it was exceptional to think as he does. Now he’s forty-eight, it’s just pathetic. I’ve heard the same tale in a different setting from Edward ever since he was twenty.’ She picked up the envelope with the red crest on it again. ‘He’ll start off again as soon as he sees this, and I know exactly what he’s going to say. Sometimes he doesn’t come for months—but when he does he starts off exactly where he left off the last time. I could address any of his meetings for him. He’s only got one record and it’s a long-playing one.’

  Miss Rhodes got up to go. She was dressed quietly but well. The old woman always noticed her accessories—bag, hat, gloves and shoes—all unobtrusive but expensive. She was slim and could have shown her figure to better advantage—but Mrs. Collins preferred her quiet slenderness to the blatantly vital statistics of the young women of the street, whose tight jerseys and tighter trousers hid nothing.

  ‘I’ve taken down the particulars of the Investiture,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to it all for you. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Collins?’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind, Miss Rhodes.’ There was no gratitude but rather an unwilling acceptance in her face and voice, and an unmistakable wish for the visitor to go.

  ‘Goodbye then, until next week,’ Miss Rhodes was saying. ‘No, please don’t get
up. I’ll let myself out. . . .’ When, suddenly, with a terrific thud, the door behind the bed shook, then burst violently open, and there fell into the doorway a figure which appeared to be enveloped in blankets and to have its legs caught in the wire frame of a broken bed.

  CHAPTER VII

  ON the narrow cot on which Nona often slept when Charlie was away, or when her grandmother was suffering more than usual, Neil had been in an uneasy dream. The centre of a class of his fellow Servicemen, he was demonstrating rifle-drill, loading, unloading and reloading his rifle. ‘Safety catch forward, open breech, place charger in guide, force rounds into magazine, close breech, apply safety catch, watch front.’ He heard himself repeating the rule as he complied with it.

  ‘Collins, you there—what is the object of weapon training?’ The sharp voice made him jump to attention, his rifle, as always, forgotten. . . . ‘The object of all weapon training is to teach all ranks the most efficient way of handling their weapon in order to kill the enemy, sir. . . .’ ‘In order to kill the enemy . . . in order to kill the enemy. . . .’ chanted the class, louder and louder, closing in in a circle upon him. . . .

  But Len hadn’t killed the enemy. The enemy had killed him, and it had been Len who had worked so hard at instilling the hated rifle drill into his brother. He had explained again and again loading, unloading, maintenance and firing. You know it perfectly well—I can’t understand what you’re worrying about. But Len couldn’t know the fumbling, groping, stupid idiot which the loud authoritative voices made of his brother.

  ‘What is the object of maintenance, Collins?’ boomed one of those very voices . . . and he heard himself repeating the answer. . . . ‘The object is to teach the soldier from the beginning that he must take proper care of his weapons so that they are always at maximum efficiency for killing the enemy. . . .’ ‘For killing the enemy . . . for killing the enemy. . . .’ chanted the ever-encroaching khaki circle of the class. But there was no enemy; this was not even an exercise . . . it was all so stupid. Or was he the enemy? The approaching faces of the khaki men grew larger and larger and more and more menacing. No. They were the enemy —they with their stupid grinning faces. He must kill . . . he must. That was surely what they wanted him to do.

  One lay down to kill. It was all in the orders. ‘Long pace forward with left foot to right front; rifle into left hand grasped at point of balance; left arm extended, legs well apart; load as already taught.’

  He took the long pace forward with his left foot to right front . . . he would kill them . . . kill them . . . that would wipe the grins off their faces. . . .

  ‘Always examine your rifle before use to see if it is loaded. . . .’ It was Len’s voice . . . the same voice which had told him patiently that whether or not there was an enemy didn’t make any difference; you had to learn what to do in case there were an enemy. ‘Len!’ he shouted, ‘Len! Help me! There’s too many of them. Help me!’ and he awoke with a violent jerk dripping with sweat, his hair damp and clinging to his head.

  He heard voices again and slowly sat up. But now he realised that the sounds came through the thin door between the room and his grandmother’s. The voice talking now was not Len’s. He had been dreaming as he always did . . . dreaming that he was doing the rifle drill which he hated and feared. He put his wet face in his hands. His grandmother was talking to someone who was in the room with her. And suddenly new terror came crowding in on him. Was it that horrible Mrs. Danvers? He pulled the head scarf up over his short hair and crouched up on the bed listening. So confined was the space in the dark closet-room that by moving to the far end of the cot and bending his head down he was on a level with the door knob. There was no keyhole; it had been covered over on the far side with the wallpaper of his grandmother’s room. He leaned down. He could hear two distinct voices but he could not hear all that was being said.

  It was a woman talking to his grandmother. A rather high voice—one which belonged in Neil’s category to the classy ones. Clipped and clear—and somehow with the same ring of authority as those which hectored him. His grandmother had warned him that Wednesday was the usual day on which the visitor from the Health Service came. Must be her. ‘If she comes don’t you stir,’ his grandmother had said, ‘she’s rather an officious young woman.’

  His grandmother must have got up to let her in. What were they talking about? He leaned even further over to get his ear right against the place where the keyhole used to be. The weight was too much for the balance of the rotten old bedstead and suddenly with a terrific crash the whole frame collapsed on to the floor and he was thrown violently against the frail door. Built originally as a cupboard, it could not withstand the impact and burst open so that he was precipitated through it, while at the same time Len’s picture of the Queen crashed down on to his grandmother’s bed.

  Miss Rhodes, exclaiming in alarm, sprang to help him, pulling him from the tangle of blankets, pillow and steel spring frame. The scarf fell from his head again and, helped to his feet, he stood there shaken and agitated. Miss Rhodes looked from the scarf which he snatched up and began twisting again round his head, to the jeans, the jersey and the plimsolls. Across a chair in the wretched little room now revealed was a khaki uniform. He saw her looking from it to him. ‘You’re Neil!’ she said accusingly.

  This was the twin brother, Nona’s double. She had heard about him so often. There had been all that trouble over him deserting some months ago. Old Mrs. Collins had been horribly upset when the police had come for him to hand him over to the Military Authorities. And that had not been the first time apparently. He had done it previously, a few weeks after he’d been conscripted.

  She looked curiously at the lipstick on his mouth and at the fair waving hair—so like his sister Nona’s, and disgust for a fear so great that it could use a girl’s cosmetics and clothes as a disguise was visible on her face. ‘I’m afraid that bed is broken, or has the frame only slipped out of the socket? Let’s have a look, shall we?’ she said brightly to hide her discomfiture. ‘Take that end of the frame; I can just squeeze in here. Now, if we lower it gently together, I think we can get it back. . . . Now . . . heave . . . lower gently . . . there that’s got it. It’s in!’

  Triumphant at achieving a constructive task she mechanically picked up blankets and pillow and folded them neatly back on the bed. Mrs. Collins’ voice, harsh and commanding, made her turn from scrutiny of the boy, now flushed and even more agitated.

  ‘What’s going on in there, Miss Rhodes? What’s happened?’

  ‘Only the bed, Mrs. Collins. The frame slipped out of the sockets. We’ve got it back now. Neil’s got a bump, I’m afraid.’

  So she knows it’s him, thought the old woman. That’s the first one to know and there’ll be others. Can’t hide much in this dump.

  ‘Come in here, Neil,’ she called authoritatively, ‘and make Miss Rhodes a cup of tea.’

  ‘I ought to be going, Mrs. Collins,’ said the visitor nervously. ‘I’ve still got three more visits on my list.’

  ‘Leave them be,’ said the old woman grimly. ‘They won’t break their hearts if you don’t turn up.’

  The young woman in the neat dark suit and the small beret smiled a little. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way about us, Mrs. Collins. We try to help.’

  Mustn’t alienate her, thought Mrs. Collins quickly. She’s seen Neil—she knows he’s hiding. What was the little idiot doing to break the bed like that? Trust him to do something silly. Aloud she said quietly, ‘Sit down, Miss Rhodes, and listen to me.’ And at the same time she gestured to the boy to disappear into the kitchenette.

  She’s got nice eyes, thought Mrs. Collins, studying the closed earnest face of the young woman who had sat down again on a small stiff chair. And pretty hair. Why do they all have to put on this falsely bright manner—as if we were all mental defectives or children to be humoured?

  ‘Miss Rhodes,’ she said aloud, ‘let’s face facts. I’m not one to beat about the bush and I hate lies.
I admire you for doing this work, but today you’ve seen something you were not meant to see—through an accident. You’re here—in my room, not because I invited you into my home, but because I’ve had at times to ask help from the State. For that help, small as it is, I’ve had to pay in the intrusion of my privacy whenever the State feels like violating it.’

  Miss Rhodes said quickly, ‘No, no, Mrs. Collins!’

  ‘Yes. If I were a wealthy old woman I could live in filth—as many do—or in sickness or neglect and no one would trouble about me. But because the pension towards which I’ve contributed all my working life is not enough to keep me, and the State has had to supplement it, any young thing like you—no offence intended—has the right to come in here and visit me and write a report in your neat little book.’

  The young woman’s face turned pink with embarrassment, but she did not reply.

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ went on the old woman. ‘Indeed I appreciate all that you do. You look at the floor—at the bedclothes. Oh yes, I’m not blind. If they were dirty you’d go back with a bad report to your head office and soon I’d be carried off to a Home for the Aged or the Sick, where I’d be forcibly washed and kept in a carbolic-scented ward. Well, the floor in this room is still clean and so are the bedclothes and I’m dying just as slowly as it suits the disease which is killing me. I’ve no complaints. You do your duty and I’m grateful to you. But what you’ve just seen—that’s not your business.’

  ‘You mean your grandson is absent without leave again?’

  ‘He’s quit again,’ said his grandmother with a sigh, ‘although he gave me his word last time to stick it out until the end.’

  ‘But,’ faltered Miss Rhodes, ‘aren’t you going to send him back before they fetch him back?’

  ‘What’s the good? It’ll happen again and again unless he’s locked up permanently in the glass-house. He’s a quitter. He’s no use to them. No use at all. There’s no harm in the boy; in fact he’s a good law-abiding boy until they try to make a soldier out of him. Neil’s not cut out for soldiering. Why can’t they see it?’