The Alien (18 page)

“Not to worry,'' John answered, in his usual cheerful voice. “I gave him the bare facts earlier today.''

“That's all right, then. I've been told to keep my mouth shut, but Margaret—You know how things leak—We're due at the garden-party this afternoon.''

“You're pushing on up, aren't you?'' Carfax said, admiringly. “When's the C. B.E. coming along? Christmas?''

“Never, probably,'' Colin said, with a despairing note in his voice, “if this chap Sudenic goes on getting under my feet. He's tripped me up more than once, already.''

“He's a very single-minded bugger,'' Carfax said, “as you or I might be in his place.''

“I don't want him to come to any
harm
,'' Colin said, desperately.

The Russian demand had cleared his mind about Boris to a considerable extent. The issue was really between himself and Margaret and that did not concern John at all.

“He's resourceful, too,'' said Carfax. “If Margaret hears and gets – upset – tell her to keep in touch with
me
. That'll let you out, won't it?''

“Thank you,'' said Colin, stiffly.

Meanwhile Boris, waiting for Ann to pick him up, had plenty of time to consider what Carfax had told him, very briefly, of the Russian intention. The request, of course, had no validity at all. He was not a Soviet citizen, he had stolen nothing. They themselves had provided the initial British currency. There was no extradition treaty between Britain and the U.S.S.R.

So it meant something quite different from its face value, this request. It was a cover for whatever might happen next.

If this had been all the news that came to him that morning, Boris would have been, for him, distinctly depressed. But he had also received a letter, forwarded on to him from his previous address by the Post Office, whose form he had filled in the day after he moved. This letter changed everything, perhaps. His excitement was growing. When he opened his door to Ann she saw at once that something had happened.

“Boris!'' she exclaimed. “Have you got engaged or something?''

“Not engaged,'' he said, laughing so wildly she wondered if he had been drinking. “No. But I have a letter today from a friend – a very, very old friend. He is ill in hospital.''

“Honestly!'' Ann was shocked. “You look as if you'd come into a fortune and it's a poor wretched friend who is ill.''

“It may be a great fortune,'' said Boris, instantly sober.

“I don't understand you.''

He moved away from the door, not inviting her to go in, picked up his raincoat, which he always carried and turning her gently, moved outside his flat, shutting the door behind him. They took the lift in silence, he got into her car beside her, still without speaking. But as they moved away he said, “Ann, it is of the greatest possible importance that I see this sick friend of mine at once. Today. He is at a hospital near – Reading. If you could take me as near as possible and make my excuses to Admiral and Mrs. Phillimore—''

“Don't be silly,'' Ann answered, calmly. “Reading isn't much out of our way. We'll go there first. If your friend is ill you won't be allowed to stay long. We can easily do it and get home in time for lunch.''

“You are good and clever as well as very beautiful,'' said Boris, fervently, with such conviction that Ann felt it was not at all conceited of her to agree with him.

At the hospital, where Ann dropped him before going off to shop in the neighbourhood, Boris had difficulty at first in reaching his friend. Visiting hours were in the afternoon, three times a week, and every evening for close relatives of the patient. Never in the morning.

“But I come from London,'' Boris explained. “I get this letter only today, so I come at once.''

The porter was inclined to be sympathetic. Poor bloody foreigners, speaking like little kids, engaged his pity. He directed Boris to the right ward, advising him to ask for Sister Hood and put his case to her.

The Sister was young, Irish and warm-hearted. She explained that the patient had undergone a very serious operation and for a time was not expected to live. He was now improving rapidly and was due to leave the hospital in about ten days' time.

“He will then be well?'' asked Boris. “Completely well?'' The letter had been despairing.

Sister Hood considered.

“You had better have a word with Dr. Subandarah. He is the registrar. He is in the ward now. Wait here and I'll see if he will come and speak to you.''

Dr. Subandarah appeared through the swing doors of the ward. He was a small, slight, pale brown Indian. He looked up into Boris's face with compassion in his dark eyes.

“What relation have you to the patient, please?''

“He was in my father's service in Poland,'' Boris answered, carefully. “He looked after the horses.'' As Dr. Subandarah said nothing, Boris went on, “I was in the Polish army and then a prisoner of the Russians. I know that my parents were killed but never how this happen. Perhaps Sergei can tell me.''

“You are interested in what he can tell, not in the man himself? He is a very sick man.''

“I am sorry. Naturally I am interested in Sergei – in all my people. You will let me see him? I come from London. I have little time.''

He controlled his impatience with difficulty.

“I will let you see him for ten minutes. It is irregular but I understand your circumstances. The surgeon who performed the operation will be here at any moment. So ten minutes only.''

“Thank you.''

Dr. Subandarah disappeared again through the swing doors. Sister Hood said, kindly, “Follow me,'' and Boris found himself inside the ward, walking between ranks of beds, some curtained, with nurses and trolleys glimpsed inside the screens, some open, with men of all ages propped against pillows, sleeping, reading, or merely staring in front of them.

Sister Hood came to a closely curtained cubicle and stood aside for Boris to enter.

“I'll come for you when your time's up,'' she said.

Boris bowed his thanks, his eyes on the figure in the bed. It was indeed Sergei, much older, very thin and pale, a mere shadow of the man who had helped to keep his father's stable, ruled over three lads and ten fine horses. But Sergei himself, the first familiar figure he had met for twenty years.

With tears running freely down his face Boris stepped up to the bed, clasped the man's thin hand in both of his and began to pour out his sorrows, his long saga of distress, betrayal, hardship and grief, in the language of his youth, in the manner he had used as a boy, when, suffering from a supposed injustice, he had found refuge in the stables with this same friend.

“And you, Sergei? Tell me what happened! I have heard terrible things. You did not have a part in them or you would not have written to me.''

“What have you heard, my master?''

“That my father's peasants rose and murdered him and all of my family.''

“That is a lie. There were a few, corrupted by the communists. They were put up as leaders afterwards. It was the Russian commissar who ordered the – execution.''

“Go on. Tell me. I must know at last.''

The pitiful commonplace tale was soon told. It had made no difference that the Sudenic estate was well-run, prospered; that the peasants enjoyed privileges not found on all such estates; that they liked and respected the count and his family. Dogma was supreme. Theory ruled. Peasants were all oppressed. Landowners were all evil.

“How did you escape? Did many escape?'' Boris asked, to stop the tale that had become a lamentation.

Sergei had gathered together a small band of like-thinking men from among the personal staff of the murdered family. They knew that they had narrowly escaped the same fate and that they must act soon. They were helped by the confusion of the German advance. All the horses had been commandeered but many were still being used on the estate. They took these one night and fled, losing three of their number in the alarm that was instantly raised and two more in an ambush the next day. The rest got through to Rumania.

“And then?''

“The Germans caught up on us, too. But I escaped again to Greece.''

“Like many others,'' Boris nodded, thinking of Scziliekowicz.

“I joined a ship, knowing nothing. I spoke German by then, but it was of no help in Greece. The boat was a fishing vessel. It was blown up by a mine, but I was taken from the sea by the English from a warship. I came to England. I still work on boats, English trading ships. My wife works in a factory in Reading, so I live there when I am ashore.''

“Your wife—Then Maria escaped also?''

Sergei turned away his face.

“She died,'' he said, in a muffled voice. “In the first winter before the Germans came. This wife is English; her name is Elsie.''

“You have children?''

“Two sons. They are completely English.''

For the first time they smiled at each other.

“I am so glad, Sergei, that you have found happiness and work in this country. It is a good country for exiles.''

“I think so now. At first I wanted only to go to America. There are so many Poles there and certain great advantages. But now I am content to finish my life here.''

“That will not be for a long time. The Sister told me you have made a splendid recovery.''

Sergei shook his head.

“They never tell the whole truth. I have not said this to my wife or to anyone. But I can say it to you, my master. I think I have a cancer and that it cannot be cured.''

Boris again took the man's hand and held it closely.

“Is this why you wrote to me?''

“Partly. I read of your arrival in the newspaper but I did not at first believe it could be you. I heard you had been killed in battle. It was another of their lies. Then I heard – other things – that I did not believe.''

“They, too, were lies.''

“I knew that. But I hesitated, in case you were not my Count Sudenic after all and for fear – of recalling too much – or of seeming to impose—''

“No,'' said Boris, “none of that now, Sergei. I hope to God you're wrong about yourself, but if not, believe me that I will do everything in my power for your wife and sons.''

“I am not asking for favours,'' said Sergei, stiffly.

“But I am,'' Boris told him. “I need your help, Sergei, more than I ever needed help in my life before. I am asking you for a favour and not ashamed to do it.''

Sergei drew himself up, smiling.

“In ten days they will let me out of here,'' he said.

“Then in ten days, or perhaps before that, I will get in touch with you again.''

The curtains parted and Sister Hood came into the cubicle.

“Time for you two to stop nattering,'' she said, briskly. “Come away with you now, Mr. Sudenic. You've been exciting my patient, I can see that.''

On the way down the ward, she said, “Mr. Colehill, that's the surgeon, would like a word with you in my room before you go.''

Mr. Colehill shook hands with Boris, eyeing him curiously.

“Are you the chap who swam ashore in February up in Yorkshire?'' he asked.

“It was a raft,'' answered Boris, laughing, “but very wet, all the same.''

“I bet it was. Now about Voliniak. What is your position with regard to him. Relative, friend, what?''

Boris explained.

“Right,'' said Mr. Colehill. “You're prepared to take some responsibility in his case, I imagine?''

“Anything I can possibly do. But I may not remain long in England.''

“He won't have long, poor fellow.''

Mr. Colehill explained.

“He knows,'' Boris said, quietly. “He told me the same, himself.''

“Who told
him
?'' Mr. Colehill was angry.

“He guessed. No one has told him. He will not tell his wife. Or not yet.''

“I don't think you understand the position—''

“I understand the
whole
of the position,'' Boris said, holding out his hand in farewell. “I thank you for your frankness. I will do all I can. And now you must excuse me. I am to be picked up here for luncheon with friends.''

He bowed and went out, leaving the surgeon considerably puzzled. Sister Hood joined him.

“Who does that chap think he is?'' he asked her.

“The Pole? Voliniak says he's a count in his own country.''

“They're all counts or princes or used to be, rather. None of that in Poland today. All the same he has quite an impressive manner, don't you think?''

“He has a naughty eye on him,'' Sister Hood said, smiling in recollection.

Boris found Ann waiting patiently in her car at the front door of the hospital. As they drove along to her parents' home he told her about Sergei Voliniak's adventures. But he said nothing about his illness or its probable outcome. He suggested too that the subject was not likely to interest Admiral and Mrs. Phillimore.

Ann took the hint. The conversation at lunch was chiefly of the sea, with the admiral and Boris exchanging their very dissimilar experiences. Afterwards Mrs. Phillimore led them all into the garden where they spent a pleasant lazy afternoon under the trees until Boris decided that it was time for him to catch a train back to London.

Though the Chiltems that afternoon had enjoyed uninterrupted pleasant sunshine and a cool breeze, the Buckingham Palace garden party had seen London in its most disagreable summer conditions. Under a dull sky a dry hot wind snatched at the women's hats and wrapped their thin dresses tightly round their knees. It blew dust into everyone's eyes and destroyed everyone's temper. Movement became a battle; conversation a tedious lament. Interest quickened along the route of the royal progress but faded quickly. When at last it was over, the well-dressed but windswept guests flocked out into the Mall and Buckingham Gate, seeking the shelter of their cars or of taxis, or, if they were of sufficient importance, were driven out from within by their own chauffeurs in their own Rolls Royces.