Spring Manoeuvres Page 10

  “Well, one day you’re going to have to tell me about Helen,” Larry said, smiling his one-sided smile. “Just as, when we get home, we’re going to tell mother about this afternoon. Right?”

  “I’ll tell you about Helen whenever you want. Or maybe she’ll get a chance before too long to tell you about herself.”

  Douglas was aware of his son observing him in the darkness.

  He feared it was another of those remarks which anticipated Edith’s death. He drove slowly. The rain was slanting across his headlights, from the right, where the loch was, to the left, where the moor began.

  Edith’s Journal – 4

  Larry keeps to the house these days. An idea or plan has occurred to him, I suspect, because he’s not miserable any more but purposeful. He’s told me about the arrest, how he and David, his new friend, suddenly saw they had to do something. Everything’s being allowed to drift, he believes.

  I’m not quite sure though what did happen. Each time he tells me, it’s a slightly different story. First, the Americans shouted at them and they shouted back. Then the shouting was all on the American side, Larry and David just standing there. Then it was Larry and David who started it, incensed at drivers being held up, yet again, by a missile convoy. He doesn’t seem aware of these inconsistencies and I don’t draw them to his attention – I suppose because actually I’m quite proud of him. Even if I were to point them out, I doubt if he’d be able to know now what the truth is.

  Douglas doesn’t know what happened either, but whereas it doesn’t bother me, it does him. All that matters to me is that something happened. Something was done. I don’t think Douglas understands. He keeps going on about objective truth. But when this can’t be ascertained, you can make of the truth what you will. Maybe that’s how myths are born, myths of protest and rebellion and sacrifice and so on.

  It’s definitely got him thinking seriously. He seems almost delighted, actually. I’m so glad, because after he lost Ruth to “the American”, as he calls him, he was very low, terribly agitated, no sooner in than out, out than in again. Not that he ever won Ruth from the American in the first place, I fear, though he’d have us believe otherwise. His accounts of the key moments in his life have always been so. As with the arrest, so with his love affairs. Vague, ambiguous. It used to annoy me, but not now. Now I take it to mean, not that he’s a liar in any sense, but that he genuinely sees or feels events to be complex, shifting, strange.

  He comes to me several times a day to talk. It’s a great pleasure. I should also say a great relief, for it eases the pain. Good conversation as an antidote to pain: the healthy will find this hard to believe. But for people like me it is a great truth. Certain kinds of conversationalist can seem like healers.

  Take this march, for instance, that is to take place in three weeks’ time. Although neither Larry nor I are going on it, it excites us to think of the day. It’s as if, like Christmas, it’s a focus for the highest aspirations. Just discussing it is good for us, for the more we do so, the more we seem to be approaching an understanding of what we should do on the day, of how we should proclaim and conduct ourselves, while the others are marching, I mean, quietly and proudly, with their banners.

  Sometimes I think that what we will see is that we should co-operate in some way, but then I think that probably we’ll go our separate ways. We’re not pacifists, as Douglas is, so we have many more options, we have to deliberate more.

  How strange to be so excited about a day on which neither of us knows what he’s going to do! All we know is what we’re not going to do. We’re not going to march and we’re not going to hand out leaflets or pamphlets and we’re not going to hector the crowd through loudspeakers. The one idea Larry has had is that he must do something which somehow exposes the horror which threatens us. An act of illuminating symbolism. But what this might be, he doesn’t know. If I press him, he just laughs. We press each other to discover what we’re going to do on the day and always end up laughing!

  Sacrifice. The need for sacrifice. I have a feeling that that will be my theme. But what I will have to do to show it, make it manifest, I can’t think.

  So we wait for inspiration, my son and I, we wait to have it revealed what we must do on the day, laughing as we wait, joking, like schoolchildren, adolescents. I’ve rarely had such fun. On the day though it won’t be fun. It will be beyond fun, terribly far from life at the moment. There can be no doubt about that.

  Most of the time we’re not together though. Then I know the pain is getting worse. The base of my spine seems to be under siege. Now from one direction, now from another, it is attacked, so that I have to move, or list, from side to side to ease it, and even that doesn’t really help. It must look as if I have piles. Would it were as simple as that!

  I’ve always dreaded pain in this particular region. The spine is the body’s highway, isn’t it? It connects all parts to the brain, the brain to all parts. Such horrors as incontinence can’t be far away, I fear. To have to be told one has wet or fouled oneself. Not to know!

  I’m helped a little actually by thinking of my body as a vast plain, myself as a fugitive seeking refuge from its weather. I can reach the point where I feel my body flowing away from me out into the darknesses of this plain. So the plain is my body but also my body flows out into it and away from me. For a moment or two then, when this happens, I am without pain. I enjoy a kind of exhilarating numbness.

  To be hit by the pain again is like being hit, at some street corner, by a wind one thought one had escaped, a wind carrying the plague perhaps or a cold wind carrying fatal chills. That’s not so far out actually, for there are hot pains and cold ones, each carrying its own message. I writhe in my chair, and, if no-one else is about, scream out. Screaming helps. Once I miscalculated though, screaming before Larry had left the house. He came to me so kindly and sat with me for hours. He knows he has the power to ease me. I hadn’t wanted him to know it, but there it is, both husband and son bound to me, crippled by a cripple.

  Larry and I have an agreement. When we discover what we must do on the day of the march, we’ll tell each other. Bad to keep such things to oneself. Only occasionally, I’m glad to say, have I felt he’s humouring me. I wouldn’t blame him. What can a cripple be expected to do on any occasion? Oh well. Let the day of the march be fine and clear. A true spring day. On a day like that, I like to think, my pain may yet prove to be my ally.

  VII

  One evening about a week after Larry’s arrest, a large black car approached the cottage. After a bright day, the dusk was soft, luminous. Watching from the living-room, Douglas and Edith thought how slowly the car was moving, as if it too was savouring the graciousness of dusk. When it stopped, four men in uniform got out, carefully brushing down their uniforms before opening the garden gate and walking – just this side of ceremonial slowness, Douglas thought – up the path to where a rectangle of light fell from the living-room window.

  They saw that two of them were policemen, two from the American navy. They weren’t talking; indeed it was as if they had done talking hours ago. Their knock when it came was peremptory, twice repeated.

  For a moment after opening the door Douglas couldn’t see anything at all. The men were standing back, out of the light. The better to see them, he stepped over the threshold, feeling as he did so that he was being looked over, checked.

  A broad streak of orange light opened up in the western sky then, catching Douglas’ attention. The foreground went into deeper shadow. Two of the men he could see in silhouette against it, two barely at all. To see more clearly, he raised a hand to his eyes, but it didn’t make any difference. The orange light seemed both to be causing and framing his inability to handle the moment. He feared it might extend it indefinitely.

  “Come in,” he said at last, as though breaking a spell, “come in.”

  He didn’t catch their ranks, only their names: Addison, McBride, Moretti, Goldberg. Silently they shook hands in the hall. Douglas led them
into the living room where the fire, just stoked, was roaring and crackling, and Edith, a book on her lap, was looking at them over the top of her spectacles with ill-concealed suspicion.

  One of the policemen went through the introductions again for the benefit of Edith. Douglas introduced her in turn. She made no attempt to extend a hand but simply nodded, soberly, four times. The officers sat down, caps on their knees.

  “How can I help you, gentlemen?” Douglas asked.

  The policeman who had done the introductions sat forwards, hands clasped, and began to speak. The others nodded, whether in agreement or to encourage him wasn’t clear.

  “I’m sure you can guess why we’re here, Mr and Mrs Low. It’s about Larry. But I don’t want to suggest that we come to complain. Not at all! This is a peaceful visit. Contrary to popular opinion, we do pay peaceful visits, probably more peaceful ones than otherwise, in fact.” The policeman paused, jerking his head forwards and upwards. “It is very likely that Larry will be found guilty of disturbing the peace, he and his young companion. Many are found guilty of it every day. It is not uncommon.”

  “Aren’t you jumping the gun?” Douglas asked. “He’s not been tried yet.”

  “Exactly,” Edith said. “And, what’s more, he doesn’t think he’s guilty.”

  “That may well be, one never knows,” the policeman resumed awkwardly, “but what we’ve come here to say this evening is that we sincerely hope the incident hasn’t soured your son against the police and our American friends here.”

  He fell silent. His companions were nodding again. Silent, he seemed at a loss, as if more was expected of him and he couldn’t see what it was. The flesh of his cheeks trembled slightly.

  “In this as in other matters we must keep a sense of proportion,” one of the Americans said.

  The policeman who had been speaking smiled broadly, as if this was just what he would have said had he been able to.

  Attempts were being made to soften them up, Douglas could see.

  From her wry look, Edith clearly thought so too. Their visitors were trying to ingratiate themselves – too pointedly however. Douglas wouldn’t have been surprised had they been offered a free lunch or dinner at the base.

  Suddenly Edith bowed her head, almost always a sign that she was bitter, angry, wrestling with herself. The silence deepened. It was as if each was waiting for the other to speak, remonstrate. The fire roared. Douglas forgot what had been said. To what exactly were they supposed to be responding? He sensed that the visitors were becoming embarrassed. Possibly they felt they had miscalculated in some way and were wondering how to regain the initiative. From the way they were sitting, bolt upright and looking straight ahead, they might have been trying to recall the exact details of some official brief.

  Why should a minor infringement of the law be concerning them so? A scuffle at dusk on a cold highway have come to their attention? Beyond the suspicion that it hadn’t – that they’d come not of their own accord but because they’d been sent – Douglas had no idea. He turned to Edith. With difficulty she had raised the knuckles of her right hand to her mouth. Briefly there was an odd sound, a kind of exasperated slavering.

  “I don’t understand your visit,” she said. “I don’t understand it at all. We must keep a sense of proportion – what kind of talk is that?”

  The American smiled uneasily and rubbed his forehead.

  “It surprises you?”

  “Not so much that,” Douglas said. “I just don’t know what it means.”

  “A cripple, her husband and their son live in a quiet cottage,” Edith broke in. “First of all, they come to your attention for some reason, then they’re advised to keep a sense of proportion. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Is Larry in?” the other American asked brightly, as if all it required for their visit to become intelligible was Larry’s immediate appearance.

  “Will that make any difference?” Douglas asked.

  “He’s young and enthusiastic,” the American said. “We were all young once, of course, and can remember what it was like, how readily we took to things then. We get more resistant with the years, I think.”

  “Oh do we?” Edith was looking astonished.

  A distant booming followed by a sudden gust of wind made them all look up. Sometimes the wind swept down the loch like this from the open sea. It always took Douglas and Edith by surprise. Always at first it seemed to be something else. They only knew it was the wind when the trees shook and moaned and the windows rattled, as they did now.

  “There’s been a gale warning,” one of the policemen said. “It’s the time of year for gales. March …”

  “I can see we’re just mystifying you,” the other policeman said with an appeasing smile. “What’s more, I can see why. Forgive us please. Let me try to be plain.”

  “That’d be much appreciated,” Edith said. “Think of us as simple folk if you want. Be direct.”

  It was a difficult moment for Douglas as the policeman prepared to speak. He couldn’t tell what was coming, found himself thinking of the worst: some revelation about himself and Helen – after all, hadn’t they been photographed some time ago by someone in a missile convoy – or about Larry. Or both. If not a revelation, a warning, a warning probably so coded it would take them weeks to decipher. The need for some degree of secrecy sooner or later seemed to make it impossible for those in uniform to talk straight. Or was it the desire to keep people guessing, to make them wonder if they were guilty or not, and, if so, of what?

  Breathing deeply, Douglas soon had the feeling that the policeman’s words would pass on either side of him. He was aware of Edith struggling with the moment too, trying to discover some immunity to whatever was coming. To these youngish men in uniform, he realised, they must appear quite old.

  “What we want to do is invite you, the three of you, to seminars. The Americans will be our hosts. Indeed it is their idea, and in my opinion a very good one. The initiative may have come from Washington, but it has been taken up very enthusiastically here. Notices will be going up all over the place. The idea is to allow people who are uneasy about the American presence to air their objections in open debate. We think this will be greatly preferable to the alternatives – noisy protests, violence, lawbreaking of various kinds.”

  Moretti, the American, took over now, with such enthusiasm it might all have been his idea.

  “Yeah, you’re cordially invited to come along. Young Larry especially. He seems like a young man with much to contribute. Not that we’re saying we’re open to change on essentials. For the sake of peace we could never do that. Obviously. But we would be happy to explain ourselves in debate. We have the feeling, you see, that our position isn’t appreciated. Who knows, we may go some way towards persuading you of its rightness! All ranks will be present at the seminars, by the way, which will be led by education officers.”

  “Education officers?” Edith asked.

  “Yeah. They’re very much in demand on all sorts of subjects these days. I myself am attending a class on Shakespeare’s history plays. So how do you feel? Do you think you might come along? Attendance is optional, of course, but we’ll be very disappointed if you can’t make it.”

  “I see,” Douglas said.

  “What do you see, sir?” Moretti asked.

  “I get the picture,” Douglas went on. “I must say, though, it’s very enterprising of you. We’ll certainly think it over.”

  “Sure, sure, I know you will. I wouldn’t have expected any less of you. In the meantime … here are three tickets, with our compliments.”

  He rose formally and, drawing a long white envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Edith. Seeing she had difficulty in taking it, however, he offered it to Douglas instead. “With the compliments of the American Navy,” Douglas read on the envelope, not knowing what to say, not managing any words at all, sitting, he feared, as though he had just been handed a summons.

  “Can I offer you gentl
emen anything?” he said at last. “Some tea, coffee, something stronger?”

  “Is Larry in?” Moretti asked again.

  “No,” Edith said, “he’s not in. But do stay for a refreshment.”

  “That’s kind of you,” one of the policemen said, “but we ought to be going. We’ve other calls to make.”

  The officers rose in unison, smiling, murmuring, holding their caps before them. In unison too they bowed to Edith, who nodded in response, attempting a smile.

  Outside, there was a warm wind smelling of the sea. The streak of orange had gone. It was very dark.

  The deputation went as quietly as it had come, with few words, an awkward politeness. Even the car was quiet, its engine drowned out by the wind. Douglas waved once, then went inside.

  He found Edith shaking with silent laughter. To a stranger it might have seemed like pain, however, for her head was moving slowly up and down and she was wringing her hands. He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, thinking it was a long time since he had done such a thing. For a moment or two he managed to massage her, her neck, shoulders. Then, abruptly, he was laughing too.

  The front door slamming and Larry calling from the hall interrupted them, but not for long. Edith was hooting now, Douglas hooting and cackling. “Can I share the joke?” Larry asked, coming into the room.

  “Did you pass them?” Edith asked.

  “Who?”

  “Those jokers.”

  “Which jokers?”

  “The ones that just left,” Douglas said.

  “I don’t think I passed anyone.”

  “Four high-ranking officers,” Douglas said. “They’ve just paid us a visit.”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you,” Edith said, her voice suddenly harsh, her tone somewhere between sarcasm and despair. Spittle gathered about her mouth as she spoke and her gnarled hands, as though given by another for safekeeping, she held delicately before her. “The three of us are cordially invited to seminars at the American base where British and American nuclear policy will be discussed. The seminars will be led by American education officers. You especially are invited, Larry, because you are young and responsive and forthcoming. You can air your views in the civilised calm of a seminar room rather than indulge in civil disobedience outside, in the streets and lanes of our towns and cities. Nothing you say will make any difference though, has any chance of making them change their minds. But they may change ours! So you’d better cultivate a respectable debating manner. You’d better realise that the only respectable currency in all this is words, words and more words. Nothing else. Not sticks and stones, blows or bombs. Be a sophist, not a militant!”