Reckless (51 page)

‘And after dinner, would we go back to your place?’

‘If the mood took us that way.’

‘And would we go to bed?’

‘Well, I must say!’ He sat back in his chair and wiped gravy from his mouth with his napkin. ‘You don’t beat about the bush.’

‘I can’t think of any other reason why you’d want to take me out to dinner.’

‘The pleasure of your company, of course.’

‘What’s my name?’

A slow smile spread across his face.

‘You really are quite something, aren’t you? You’re right, of course. I don’t know your name.’

‘I need some air.’

She got up and left the dining room. The long drawing room was empty. She went out through French windows onto the terrace. The air was crisp, the river sparkling in the autumn sunlight. She took out a cigarette and lit it, and as she smoked she felt the turmoil within her subside.

So many ugly men. Let the world end. Let them all perish.

They’re much nicer to you before than after, Christine said.

They fondle your tits till they shine.

She wanted to hate them for their hungry gaze, for the cruel game they called ‘fun’, for their intimacy where no one knows your name. But if she wasn’t desired by men, what was left of her? A semi-educated young woman with a taste for the good life and more than a touch of pride. She couldn’t cook. She couldn’t type, or do accounts. She had only the one talent, which was to use her good looks to her own advantage. This one talent gave her power and enslaved her at the same time. Whatever her destiny, it could only come through love. Love must be her gift, her purpose, and her means of support. She would be courted, she would fall in love, she would marry. That was as far as her dream had ever reached.

If you’re lucky you get fun here and money there and love now and again
.

That was Bobby, her first lover, who had made love to her without loving her, while André watched.

Nothing happened. Nobody needs to know.

She walked the long terrace of Cliveden, and smoked cigarettes, and felt the darkness closing in. We must love one another or die. But there is no love. We are already dead.

There were people in the library now. She heard voices, and the tinny boom of the television. Then she heard loud cries. The French doors flew open, and Ivanov came out, distraught.

‘Impossible!’ he said. ‘There’s been some mistake!’

Stephen followed.

‘Looks like it’s all over,’ he said. ‘Khrushchev backed down.’

‘Never!’ cried Ivanov. ‘There will be more! You will see! This is only one move in the game!’

‘He’s announced he’ll take the missiles out of Cuba,’ said Stephen.

‘So there won’t be a war?’ said Pamela.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

The other guests were all now emerging onto the terrace.

‘Harold had a Cabinet meeting called for just about now,’ said the tall old man. ‘They needn’t have bothered.’

‘Extraordinary!’ said Lord Astor. ‘Good for young Jack Kennedy. Held his nerve till the other fellow cracked.’

‘No!’ cried Ivanov. ‘You wait and see! There’ll be a deal. Khrushchev’s a tough guy. He never cracks.’

‘Poor old Ivanov,’ said Astor. ‘Looks like you lost this one.’

‘This is not the end,’ said Ivanov. ‘You will see!’

The little ugly man sidled up to Pamela.

‘Your name is Pamela,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Pamela. ‘It is.’

‘I think you’ve cast a spell over me, Pamela. Just now, while the television news was telling us all that there would not after all be a nuclear war, my only thought was, Then I can see Pamela again.’

‘And now you have.’

‘Away from here. In private.’

Pamela had been avoiding meeting his gaze, but now she turned to him and looked him up and down. He was at least sixty years old, with a stooped body, shorter than herself, and an ungainly lopsided face. Why would such a man suppose she would want to pay him any attention?

‘Are you very rich?’ she said. ‘Or very important?’

‘Both,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry. It turns out the world isn’t going to end after all.’

She began to laugh, without knowing why. She laughed uncontrollably. The ugly little man frowned, visibly offended.

‘Forgive me, I misunderstood. Stephen’s friends are usually easier to please.’

He dipped his head, and turned away.

Slowly Pamela’s wave of nervous laughter passed. Now she wanted to cry.

She looked round the group scattered over the terrace. Lord
this and Lord that, all millionaires, all accustomed to having their own way. How can they be expected to love? What they want, they get. Desire puts down roots in stony soil.

She went to Stephen.

‘I’d like to go, please,’ she said. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

In the car back to London Stephen was in philosophical mood.

‘You know, for a while back there Ivanov and I, and your friend Rupert, we really thought we could make a difference. But we might as well not have bothered.’

‘I don’t see why anyone ever bothers about anything,’ said Pamela.

‘Oh, I know that feeling, all right.’

‘I was quite looking forward to a nuclear war.’

He laughed at that.

‘You think it’s a pretty rotten old world, do you?’

‘Well, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes, yes.’

‘Everyone’s just out for themselves,’ she said. ‘No one really cares about anyone else. People talk about love, but they don’t really mean it.’

She said it so he’d tell her she was wrong, but he didn’t.

‘I’m afraid love isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,’ he said. ‘Expect too much and you’re bound to be disappointed.’

‘Is that why you’ve never married again?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘But don’t you get lonely?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say so. I’ve just lowered my sights. I don’t expect love anymore. But there’s always good company.’

‘Good company.’

It seemed to her to be a small sad substitute.

As they approached Hammersmith she said, ‘I expect I won’t be seeing you again.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ll be leaving London.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Where will you go?’

‘Home, to start with. After that, who knows?’

She gave him a hug when he dropped her off.

‘Thanks for everything, Stephen. You’re one of the good ones.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that.’

‘Yes, you are. I’ve never forgotten how we first met. You were in that café, where all the men were drawing the nude model. And you were just drawing her face.’

‘Yes,’ he said, smiling, pleased. ‘I’ve always liked faces.’

She let herself into the house and went directly up to her room, not stopping to see who else was in. She pulled out her suitcase and began to pack her belongings. It was past four in the afternoon. The trains ran once an hour. She could ring from a phone box on Victoria station, and Larry could pick her up at Lewes. She could be home in time for supper.

She took out her black chiffon dress, and held it up to let the light fall through the fabric. She wondered if she would ever wear it again. Then she folded it carefully, and packed it. She packed her black lace underwear. She packed her Dutch cap.

What had it all been for?

Good company, Stephen said.

She sat down on the side of the bed and put her hands on her knees and held her head up high. She remained like this, motionless, for a few minutes. She was reassembling her sense of herself, like the victim of an accident feeling her body to know what if anything has been broken. Life was going to go on, it appeared.

What have I learned?

You make your own luck. And good men are hard to find.

So she made a decision. She would use the only power she had, to achieve the only goal she now wanted. She would plant her future like a bomb.

When she came down the stairs, carrying her suitcase, there was Hugo standing in the hall.

‘So you’re leaving,’ he said.

‘Yes. I should say goodbye to Harriet.’

‘She’s got one of her headaches. She’s upstairs.’

Pamela put down the suitcase and went back upstairs. Hugo watched her go.

Harriet’s bedroom was in semi-darkness, the curtains drawn, a single lamp glowing with a low-power bulb. Harriet was in bed, half sitting up, supported by a mass of pillows. She had a folded damp flannel over her eyes.

‘Who is it? Is that you, Hugo?’

‘No,’ said Pamela. ‘It’s me. I’ve come to say goodbye.’

‘Oh. Are you going?’

‘And I’ve come to say sorry.’

‘I’m sure you meant no harm,’ she said.

‘I didn’t really mean any of it,’ said Pamela. ‘It was a strange sort of madness that came over me. I couldn’t stop myself.’

‘Well, it’s all over now.’

But it wasn’t over at all. It was only just beginning.

‘You see,’ said Pamela, speaking clearly and carefully so that Harriet would miss nothing, ‘the truth is, I’ve fallen in love with Hugo. I know that doesn’t make any of it right. But I wanted you to know. It hasn’t just been a game.’

Harriet reached up one hand and slowly drew the flannel from her eyes. She looked at Pamela sharply.

‘You’ve fallen in love with Hugo?’

‘So you’re quite right. It’s best that I should go.’

‘But this is absurd. This is what we used to call a crush. You’ll have forgotten it in a week.’

‘I hope so. I just wanted you to know that I was serious.’

Harriet gazed back at her, trapped by Pamela’s combination of contrition and confession.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done for me.’

Pamela left the room, walking softly. Hugo was still waiting at the foot of the stairs.

‘How was that?’ he said.

‘Fine,’ said Pamela. ‘She’ll tell you.’

She picked up her suitcase and made for the front door.

‘Would you like me to walk you to the tube?’

‘No thanks.’

She had the front door open now.

‘When will I see you again?’ he said.

She looked at him and she wrinkled up her nose and half-shut her eyes and gave a little lift of her shoulders.

‘Why don’t you give me a call?’ she said.

Then she went out onto the step and closed the door behind her.

Mountbatten looked round the table at the faces of the members of the crisis team.

‘Well, what would we have done? If the Russians hadn’t pulled back, what would we have done? Do we know?’

There was no answer.

‘We’ve got to work this one out.’

‘Are we absolutely sure the danger is past?’ said Shaw.

‘We’re sure,’ said Grimsdale. ‘Soviet radio’s playing Beethoven’s “Ode to Peace”.’

There was relief, but no triumph. No one in the room felt that they had won a victory. The events taking place in the long week of crisis had been outside their control. There was no answer to Mountbatten’s question, because Great Britain, one of only three nuclear powers on the planet, was effectively powerless.

‘It’s a miserable business,’ Mountbatten said to Rupert, after the meeting had dispersed. ‘Christ knows what lesson we’re supposed to learn from it.’

‘Maybe the horror of nuclear war is self-cancelling,’ said Rupert. ‘No sane world leader is going to press the button.’

‘Until an insane one comes along.’

‘Or a man of faith.’

‘You and your religious wars,’ said Mountbatten.

‘Well, nuclear war is essentially suicidal. Who would accept mass suicide as a price worth paying? Only someone who believes in a better life after death. They’re the ones to watch. The ones who really believe they know the mind of God.’

*

Back in his office, Rupert put in a call to Father Flannery in Donegal. He wanted to know when Mary was coming back.

‘She left this morning,’ said the priest’s voice, thin and high and far away.

‘How is she, Father?’

‘Oh, she’s grand. You should have seen how she delivered her last message from the Lord.’

Rupert could hear the priest’s tinny chuckles coming down the line.

‘Came into Buckle Bay on a tractor, she did! Over the sea!’

‘Good heavens!’

‘Told the faithful their faith had saved the world. There was to be no great wind after all.’

‘When was this, Father?’

‘Last night. Saturday night. That girl really does have the Almighty whispering in her ear. Today we heard it on the news. It’s all over. And that makes Mary Brennan a prophet all over again. If it really is all over.’

‘It’s all over,’ said Rupert. ‘It really is.’

‘Then we shall have our chapel at Buckle Bay soon. You’ll see.’

‘I’m sure you will. Father, do you know what time her flight gets in?’

‘I don’t know anything about flights. She told me she’d be safe in her lodgings by this evening.’

*

The great army of officials who had gathered in Whitehall to manage the crisis were now all departing for what was left of the weekend. Rupert too went home, to rest and to think.

Mary Brennan was coming back. He could see her this very evening. Suddenly it seemed to him that this was a critical moment. It was for this that the world had not ended.

‘If there’s anything you ever want,’ she had said, ‘you have only to ask.’

But what if I want more than she has to give? After all, she had said to the nuns that she wanted to live a life of her own. Now she was free at last. Why would she choose to tie herself to a middle-aged man with an ungainly appearance and no prospects?

Oh, but it was hard. How did other people manage these things? I need a back channel, he thought, to sound out the response before I expose myself too far. The risk is so immense.

He remembered then the talipot palm in the Botanical Gardens that didn’t bloom for forty years. He was forty-four. Overdue for blooming.

Am I to say to her, ‘I love you, Mary’? Is that how it is? And if she doesn’t want my love, what is she to say? It would distress her very much to think she was hurting him. He would say to her, ‘I don’t expect you to love me out of gratitude.’

No, he’d say no such thing. He’d smile and say it was just a passing idea, and it had seemed worth trying out. Then he would say goodnight, as he’d said goodnight to Joyce all those years ago, with a peck on the cheek. He’d come back here to Tachbrook Street, and sit here, in this armchair, and …