The Convalescent Page 7

  “I’ll do it for you,” he said awkwardly, imitating the movements he might make.

  She stood up slowly, smiling, and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Thanks, but I must go; I’ve the children to collect. Come and see us.”

  “Thanks for the vegetables.”

  “A pleasure.”

  “And I hope you won’t have much longer to wait.”

  But she was already reversing the car and didn’t hear. His pleasantry, unheard, sounded suddenly peculiar to him, like part of a parable or incantation … “hope you won’t … much longer to wait …”

  After she had gone, he found that the binoculars, promised so readily, seemed less necessary.

  Early that evening, William was startled by the sound of rifle fire. At first it was scattered and occasional (in the pauses he imagined figures running about frantically or standing perfectly still), then regular, concentrated. It came from the east, where the land he was responsible for was divided from the land beyond by a dyke and a fence running parallel.

  He walked up and down in front of the house with what after a few moments struck him as a purposeless briskness. What did it mean? He rang George Weir for advice – there was an especially loud burst of firing as he held the receiver – but there was no reply. He went outside again. The firing appeared to have spread out now, as if those responsible were moving in opposite directions. William found that without a hypothesis he couldn’t make a move. He remained in front of the house, either walking up and down with that purposeless briskness (as if, crazily, his walk had become an end in itself), or standing still, his chin cupped in his right hand, listening to the rifle fire as if he had never heard anything like it before.

  He came to the conclusion that they must be vandals or poachers. If the vandals were capable of silent arrogance, they would be capable of this. And poaching, he had heard, was widespread, and, like vandalism, was taking new and strange forms. (Much, according to George Weir, was taking new and strange forms.) He knew that there were many rabbits, most of them in the tussocky fields beyond the hamlets and most of them healthy. Only a few were ill, struggling with enormous eyes to regain their burrows. (One day, before he knew what he was doing, William had killed one, chopping it on the neck not once but three times, in death its enormous eyes more enormous still.)

  At last, having repossessed his adjutant’s walk and holding his map, he set off in the direction of the rifle fire, moving from tree to tree, or, where there were no trees, from bush to bush, once, when he thought that the rifle fire was getting closer, throwing himself on his stomach in the open. Leaning against the trees, he consulted his map, having pencilled in crosses where he thought the riflemen were. After each consultation (glad to notice that his hands hardly trembled as he held the map), he would run, bent double, to the next tree and the next consultation, arriving breathless but clearheaded.

  Danger had concentrated him: he sprinted without effort and when he had to do so, he believed that he would be able to deal with the enemy without effort. His theory was that he would find them near the perimeter fence. There was a long gully just beyond it and the muffled quality of the rifle fire made him think that the riflemen had entered it. It was a favourite spot for rabbits and hares. William had often seen them there, basking or frisking between the tussocks and the gorse bushes. So, almost certain that the riflemen were poachers (he thought of a fraternity or guild of poachers, for some reason), he leant against a tree and wrote “poachers” beside the pencilled crosses.

  There was a long silence. He could hear absolutely nothing. Crouched behind a bush (in the middle of which he saw torn stained underwear and beer cans), he waited. Without binoculars all he could do was try to interpret the silence. A hard task. Had they killed as many rabbits as they wanted? What were they doing – laying them in a pile before dividing them, or having a smoke? How many poachers were there? What age? Would they walk to the end of the gully before climbing out or climb out here, so that he could see them?

  He remained behind the bush, looking at his map, drawing a circle round “poachers”. The delay began to upset him. He knew that he should find out what was happening, and, if necessary, report it to the police. But he would have to cross about two hundred yards to the top of the gully, and he would have to cross it in silence and without cover. His initiative, certainly his most important since coming to the farm, would be taken under the eye of heaven.

  He came out from behind the bush and walked towards the gully, the heat and the silence matching each other. He felt that if he could get his walk right – if he could maintain it impeccably across these two hundred yards – he would know what to do when he surprised those in the gully. But if, affected by his apprehension and the uneven ground, his walk went wrong; then he would run the risk of speechlessness at the top of the gully. He would have the air of a doomed trespasser or a half-hearted walker. Of an amnesiac, even. He might even appear only to disappear.

  But his walk didn’t fail him. Head thrown back, arms swinging regularly, heels coming down promptly, he approached the gully. A shout made him pause; two shouts made him crouch; a sudden chorus of shouts made him fling himself on his stomach. But in the long silence that followed he was able to get to his feet (saw himself do it, indeed, as from an admiring distance) and proceed without any loss of composure. He went on until he knew that his next few strides would make him visible to those below. He was now certain that they were poachers, and poachers, he believed, were less of a problem than vandals (rogues rather than criminals).

  He moved to the top of the gully and saw, disposed below him in a semicircle, three jeeps and about twenty soldiers. They seemed – it was William’s first thought – to be having high tea. They were eating in groups, their rifles beside them. The mood was convivial, almost hearty, young men in their prime together. Only one of the soldiers was standing. He was wearing a green cap and had a stick or cane tucked under his arm. He was eating a roll, his hand and arm – as though he was demonstrating how to eat rolls in the open – held well out from him. It was he who spotted William. He said something to one of the soldiers beside him, and, smiling, tapping his stick on his thigh, started up the side of the gully. His walk was complacently neat: out of uniform, away from the gravity of command, it might have been effeminate. All the soldiers had noticed William now, standing as still as he could on a dry and dusty patch between rabbit holes, his hands behind his back, waiting for the officer to reach the top of the bank.

  Still smiling, the officer stopped in front of him. He appeared to want to be exceptionally agreeable. There was a silence behind them, as if the meal couldn’t be resumed until William had been checked over.

  “Shooting rabbits?” William said.

  “One or two,” the officer replied. “I hope you don’t mind. But that’s not our main business. We’re T.A.”

  “T.A.?”

  “Territorial Army. Captain Jenkins. Pleased to meet you.”

  “William Templeton.”

  “Farmer?”

  “No, I’m caretaker to these acres,” William answered, remembering how, faced by the professions, he had often been facetious. “A gentleman caretaker.”

  “That I see, sir,” the captain said.

  William noticed that there were potatoes hanging from the captain’s belt. “I didn’t know it was the potato season,” he remarked.

  “These are not potatoes, Mr Templeton,” the captain replied, suddenly unsmiling. “They are grenades.”

  “I beg your pardon, captain. I’m fairly ignorant. I didn’t know, for instance, that you had permission to use this land.”

  There was loud laughter from the waiting soldiers. The captain merely smiled; but when the soldiers continued laughing, he raised his hand, indicating that they should resume their meal.

  “Oh yes: you might say that it’s one of our favourite stamping grounds. We come here every five or six weeks. You must be new.”

  “Comparatively,” William sa
id. “I’m certainly new to potato wars.”

  “You wouldn’t thank us for using the real thing. No indeed! Don’t worry though; we’re spoken for. We’re licensed.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Perhaps you’ll allow Lieutenant Jackson and I to visit you later? We can show you the authorisation. I don’t suppose you have many visitors.”

  “If you like,” William said, exasperated. “It’s the yellow farmhouse. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, Mr Templeton,” the captain said, half saluting. “I know the yellow farmhouse.”

  William walked away. By the time he had got back to the farmhouse the war in the gully had started again. He didn’t know if it was some trick of the atmosphere or the result of his meeting with the captain and the soldiers, but the rifle fire sounded different now: remote, random, the echoes of shots rather than shots. He spread his map on the kitchen table and, rubbing out “poachers”, wrote: “Territorial Army – Evening Antics.”

  It was quite late when the captain and lieutenant arrived. They came by jeep, taking off their caps and putting down their sticks and then lying back in the deckchairs William had got ready for them. Out of the gully and with their caps off, they looked very young. What did they do when they weren’t in the Territorial Army? William didn’t ask; it was enough that they did this.

  “Operation over?” he asked.

  “Yes. Most successfully, too,” Captain Jenkins said. “Wouldn’t you say so, David?”

  “Certainly,” Lieutenant Jackson agreed, lying back with his hands clasped behind his head. “Soon we’ll be ready for the big one.”

  “The big one?” William asked.

  “Yes,” Captain Jenkins said. “But I’m afraid it’s confidential.”

  “Of course. It wouldn’t be the big one if it wasn’t,” William observed.

  “Only the small ones are fed to the public.” He was sitting forwards in his armchair, hands clasped about his left knee, holding it as if it was slightly injured.

  “So long as you leave the farmhouse standing. And respect my land.”

  “Oh, it’ll not be here,” Lieutenant Jackson said, suddenly standing up and crossing to the window, as if thoughts of the big one made him restless. “The big one’s happening up north. Destination unknown.”

  “I hope it goes well anyway,” William said.

  “Thanks,” the lieutenant answered, returning to his deckchair but not sitting down. Hovering, making a show of his restlessness, he looked down at Captain Jenkins who smiled at him, acquiescent, curious. A young officer in repose, his vulnerability betrayed by the way in which he was obliged to lie back in the deckchair, right back, his quiet easy relaxation under the army clothes making it seem for a moment that he had been miscast, he suddenly stood up and slowly and deliberately straightened his shoulders.

  “Can we offer you some plonk?” he asked.

  “You’re welcome to have a drink yourselves. Indeed I can even give you some cups. But, as for myself, I’m on the wagon. I’ll not join you, thanks.”

  Having said this, William stood up, squaring his own shoulders. There was a silence. It was clear that his guests didn’t know how to take him. His accent was wrong for the job; his manner was variable, now almost friendly, now sarcastic; the farmhouse was extremely bare; and he didn’t drink. Faced by their youth, their preoccupation with their roles, their matiness, he rediscovered his capacity for fantasy. It pleased him, for it was some time since he had been able to speak freely, without care and deliberation.

  “I use my job as a cover,” he said. “You must have guessed that. Of course you must! But please go and get your drink.”

  They began by drinking lager, for, as they explained to William, these summer manoeuvres were hot work. They gulped it straight from the can, belching between gulps, smacking their lips. Later, their thirst quenched, they would be going on to whisky. They had two bottles of this, one a malt, one a blended. (Would they be drinking it from the bottles too, William wondered, or using his cups?) Apparently Lieutenant Jackson was the regimental drinks buyer and, proud of his reputation, he tried (holding the bottle in his lap like an anaesthetised pet) to talk to William about malt whisky.

  “Really, lieutenant,” William protested. “My place on the wagon isn’t that assured! How about women? Or cricket? Or stocks and shares? Or racehorses?”

  “We upset you by our presence?” the lieutenant asked, making to rise. “You’d rather we left?”

  “No. That’s not what I mean.”

  “All right,” Captain Jenkins said, scanning the ceiling and the landscape outside as if in search of other topics. “Tell us then … tell us what your job’s a cover for? Unless it’s confidential, of course.”

  The lieutenant laughed loudly.

  “I could tell you that I’m a spy,” William began, “appointed by the Home Office to study vandals. There are vandals here, you know. Thieves too. One day they may make my life hell. They come quietly and go for the machinery that’s stored out there. I’m supposed to deal with them on my own. But I haven’t even got binoculars – unlike you fellows – though a pair is promised. I too have superiors, you see, superiors who are rather too remote from the field to appreciate what’s needed. It’s tough.”

  He was leaning back now, relaxed so long as he was able to talk. The officers had started on the whisky.

  “But if I were to tell you that I was a Home Office spy,” William went on, “it would be a lie, and one can’t have lies. One can’t have lies anywhere. An accumulation of lies is like an accumulation of dead flies on a white windowsill. Eventually the light is affected. No! What I am is a writer. I’ve had a generous advance from a publisher – quite a well known one too – to write a book. A sort of autobiography. My life has been a curious one, quite off the straight and narrow. In a thicket, in fact, without lights and with the strangest noises. So what could be better than being a caretaker? Here, every morning, I write pages which show me what I am and how I became it.”

  “A man of education,” Lieutenant Jackson said. His long face and close-set eyes gave him the appearance of one for whom shrewd conclusions were the only currency. “But tell me more about the vandals.”

  “Yes,” Captain Jenkins said, “One can’t take that sort of thing lightly.”

  “There’s not much more to tell,” William said, realising that it had been a mistake to mention the vandals. He chose his words carefully, but he could see that the officers took this as a measure of the seriousness of the matter. He could see that they pitied him: a writer, not in good shape, up against vandals. He had experienced it so often with drinkers: the sudden conviction that they knew where their duty lay, the imperviousness to all else. There was no way of dissuading them, so his words were lonely ones, barely attended to even by himself, escaping him almost against his will, leaving his lips dry, distressed. “I must make it clear that there aren’t many vandals, and that the damage they do is minimal. I can’t really say it’s a problem. And the signs are that it’ll disappear.”

  “Oh, but it may not, William!” Lieutenant Jackson exclaimed, “It may not! It may get worse. What we’d like to know is simply this: can we help?”

  “Exactly,” Captain Jenkins said.

  “What do you mean?” William asked, though he knew what was coming.

  “I mean,” Lieutenant Jackson said, drinking from the bottle of malt whisky, “that we could drive them off once and for all. A few wounded vandals and they’d never come back. That’s how it would be if our police were armed. As they are in America.”

  “You’re not trying to suggest that there’s less violence in America? That’s not my impression. My sister …”

  “It’d work here. A different climate. I tell you.”

  “I’m sorry for you if you’re serious. Anyway, I don’t need that sort of help. I don’t want it.”

  “You could say it’s our job,” Captain Jenkins said quietly.

  “You could indeed,”
nodded the lieutenant.

  “You couldn’t,” William objected, looking at then in turn. “It’s a police matter. The police and the army have different roles. Don’t tell me you don’t know that.”

  “Our role is broad, William,” the lieutenant said slowly, holding his hands about a yard apart. “Broad! Understand?”

  William had stood up.

  “No, I don’t think I do understand. Not at all! I think perhaps you had better go. Take your plonk and go. Just keep it a game. All right? Throw your potatoes and fire your rifles in the air …”

  “But you’ve not been drinking, William,” the lieutenant said, “you’ve not been drinking! You can’t hold it.”

  “Will you go please?” William had stood up and was pointing at the door. “This is as pointless as it is unpleasant.”

  “We’ll go,” the lieutenant said, rising. “Your lavatory first though …”

  Captain Jenkins had risen too. He was swaying slightly, his look vaguely pitying (as though William was just one of many manifestations of the deviant he would have to meet with in his lifetime), his stick back under his arm. He didn’t speak, adjusting his cap, looking at William – who looked at him in turn – his expression slowly changing, from drunken pity through indifference to contempt. Knowing that he had excited the contempt by standing firm, his silence more concentrated than the captain’s, William stood firmer still, though with the contempt deepening and the lieutenant blundering about in the hall, cursing, it wasn’t easy.

  “All right, David,” Captain Jenkins said when the lieutenant came back, “let’s go. We can catch the boys at the Black Bull.”

  They left without saying a word, carrying their boxes of drink. The headlights of the jeep swept the farmhouse and William standing before it, the jeep passing very close to him as it made for the farm track and the main road. On the rutted track it bounced and lurched, its headlights picking out the birch trees which lined the track, now their trunks, now their branches, until, with a wild turn into the main road, it was gone into the night.