Cat and Mouse (11 page)

But with the baby, her body changed. Her skin bloomed and her breasts swelled and although he understood it was a natural form of female beauty he did not want or dare to touch her any more; and after the baby was born she remained the same. His child-wife had blossomed into a mother, an adult woman with more generous hips, fuller breasts, a softer, looser stomach — and, in the early years, an embarrassing love and admiration for her husband. Despite a most earnest struggle with himself, none of those things, in the end, were what Charles Cavendish wanted.

And so over the years he had taken every opportunity to be away from home, with his soldiering and his polo and his secret. A secret that, until two months ago, he had guarded more carefully than anything else in his life. Even now, he was sure, Deborah had not the slightest suspicion. Despite my neglect, he thought, the poor woman still appears to be attracted to me. And, Lord knows, she's right in what she said about another child. Of course it's my duty. It's not completely impossible, even now. If Simon hadn't knocked on the door just at that moment, I might well have . . .

As though to mock him, the knock came again. Charles jumped, turned abruptly. ‘Yes? What the devil now?’

Simon Fletcher came in. ‘I'm sorry, sir. The motor's ready. I thought you said . . . ’

‘Oh, yes, of course I did.’ Charles waved his hand dismissively in front of his face, as though to brush his emotions away. ‘You saw the signal — meeting in Craigavon by six o'clock. You were right to bring it straight up.’

‘Yes, sir. I thought it looked urgent. It'll be about the gun-ship, I suppose — the
Clydevalley,
won't it?’

Charles paused, his tie half-tied, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, you're not supposed to talk about that, Simon, you know.’ So far as Charles knew, only twelve men in the whole of the UVF High Command knew that the
Fanny
, the ship that was bringing in 20,000 new Mauser and Mannlicher rifles from Germany, had evaded the British Navy and was preparing to transfer her cargo into the coaster
Clydevalley
, which was due to bring them into Larne tomorrow — the 24th of April. The men on the ship knew, of course, but apart from them only the most senior UVF leaders: Sir Edward Carson, Sir James Craig, and a very small, select committee of officers.

Charles was on that committee. Simon Fletcher was most certainly not.

Simon smiled — a peculiarly beautiful, winning smile, which he knew Charles could seldom resist. ‘Yes, sir, I know, of course. Mum's the word.’ Then, seeing Charles still lost in thought, fumbling with his tie, the young man walked over, took the tie out of Charles's hands, and fastened the knot for him. ‘There.’

He stepped back, still smiling conspiratorially. ‘I thought you needed rescuing, anyway.’

‘I . . . what the devil do you mean by that?’

Charles's voice was friendly, like an uncle addressing an indulged nephew, but there was an edge to it, too, which Simon had not expected. The smile stayed on Simon's face, and he lifted his chin very slightly, in a way that displayed the smooth line of his jaw to better effect.

‘I thought you were being — bothered — that's all. By your lady wife. I know how you say she fusses.’

Very suddenly, something snapped inside Charles. There was something about the insouciance of the tone, the self-consciousness of the pose, that hurt him deeply even as it appealed to him.
Because
it appealed to him, and Simon knew that and was using it.

He turned away, strode to a chair, picked up his jacket. ‘She is my
wife,
Simon. Don't speak of her in that way!’

‘But why ever not? I thought you liked
me
too! Isn't that why you told her women shouldn't behave like that, wantonly, in the afternoon? After all, men do, don't we, sometimes?’

‘You . . .’ There had never been, until now, a moment when Charles had hated Simon Fletcher. He had met Simon on the ship returning from Egypt and it was only the third time in his entire adult life that he had succumbed to his attraction for young men. He had been virtually celibate for so long; he was still uncertain how he had fallen for this boy. At times he was appalled by the shocking risks they ran, at others enormously grateful. He had felt emotions he had forgotten he had ever known — tenderness, fascination, lust, extreme love. Exasperation, sometimes, even jealousy. But never, until now, anger. It hurt him more than he had thought possible. ‘
You were listening, outside the door?’

Simon saw it had been a mistake. He had only meant to tease, to flirt a little with his power over this man. The smile faded. He tried to look contrite, but succeeded only in looking devious and unrepentant.

‘Only for a moment. You were shouting so loud I could hardly avoid it.’

‘I don't believe that.’

The two confronted each other, very still, silent. Charles had never said anything like that to Simon before. He felt the house echo round him with the importance of it.

‘You're shouting now.’ Simon's voice was sibilant, a whisper. ‘If you're not careful the servants will hear.’

And that would be the end of everything, Charles knew. Sodomy was not just a social disgrace, but a crime for which they could both be imprisoned. He would be cashiered from the UVF, unable to take up public employment or appear in society again. At school, his son Tom would be mocked, bullied, scorned. His wife could even divorce him.

An affair like theirs was only worth the enormous risk if there was love, complete trust, mutual respect. If that was gone . . .

From somewhere outside himself, Charles heard his own voice speaking again. It sounded like an echo from inside a bell; he had no idea whether it was really a shout or a whisper.

‘Simon, I think if this is the way you behave, it is time for us to end — what we have had. It has been a beautiful, a very good relationship but we always knew it could not last and this is the time to end it. I will give you good references, you will find a good post . . . ’

‘No!’

‘What do you mean,
no?
’ As an army colonel, Charles was not used to having his orders questioned by anyone, certainly not by a young man scarcely half his age. But then, no one else had ever had such power over him. ‘If I say it will end, young man, that's what will . . . ’

‘I am not just a toy, you know, to be picked up and thrown down at your whim! What the hell do you think you're talking about, Charles? I . . . ’

‘I've told you never to call me that here! If anyone heard . . . ’

‘I don't care if anyone hears!’ The whisper was low, but the words were lethal. ‘You think that just because one day you grow tired of me, because that woman flaunts herself at you, you can throw me out in the street? Do you know what would happen if you did that?’

‘You would find another job, as I said. A good one, Simon, I promise. And I suppose, in time . . . ’

He paused. The vision was too painful. He didn't even want to think it. Simon was less squeamish.

‘Oh yes, in time, another lover, you suppose.’

Again the silence fell between them, long, terrifying. Had anyone heard them? Charles wondered desperately where Deborah would be at this moment — to say nothing of the butler, the housemaids, his son Tom.
Oh no, please not Tom!

Simon said: ‘It wouldn't be such a long time as you think, either.’

The smile had quite gone from the young face now. Simon looked as beautiful as ever, but cold, clean, deadly. He was not blushing. Nothing of what he said embarrassed him.

‘There are plenty of other men, you're right. I met one in Bangor the other night. A journalist, foreign correspondent, can you believe that? Just over from Europe, special assignment, lonely. I could have him any time I wanted. Is that what you want —
Charles?’

Charles flushed. Despite his sense of danger his voice was enormous. ‘You mean you have . . . ?'

‘No, no.’ Simon had his finger on his lips, shushing Charles, almost smiling at the outrage he had provoked. ‘Of course not. I'm not a tart, not unfaithful, don't think that, old boy. I'm just telling you. I can spot them, where ever I go. It's not hard. And I need it, you know that. I
like
what we do together.’

Charles's anger was beginning to cool into a terrible sadness. Of course he had suspected that Simon might think and behave like this, but he had never seen it before. He never wanted to again. And yet, at least Simon had been faithful. And even now, he was so beautiful. I will never find anyone like this again, Charles thought, so how has it come to this?

He said, huskily: ‘We don't talk of it.’

The sardonic smile had returned to Simon's face. Tinged, too, Charles thought, with a hint of sadness.

‘No, not until now. But if you do send me away, you must know what you're losing.’ He paused; an idea came into his mind. ‘I can't help being what I am — I thought you loved me for it. But if it were a journalist, Charles, a foreign correspondent eager for things to tell his readers . . .’ The young man bent his beautiful, Grecian head to one side and tapped it gently with his finger. ‘There are a lot of things in here that I know now, because of you. I wouldn't want to let them out, by mistake. It could have serious results, not just for you, but the UVF.’

Another silence.

Far away, Charles could hear the sound of the car, its engine throbbing outside the front door as the chauffeur brought it round. And the shouts of young Tom on the stairs; he had probably seen it.

He said, very softly: ‘Are you threatening me now, Simon?’

Simon stepped towards him. Suddenly, amazingly, the young man's eyes were shining. Could that be tears in them, after such a statement? If they were he ignored them, met Charles's gaze without blinking.

‘What I am saying, sir, is that I don't want to go. I don't want to end what we've had, I don't want to be sent away. If I am sent away I don't know what I'll do. It could be anything. But there's no need for it, no need to think of that. Is there?’

‘Yes, Simon.’

‘No, Charles! There is not! Please sir, think of me for a moment! I'm not just some guttersnipe you picked up in a bar — I need you, I like you, I admire you! I help you in your work, don't I? I like being in the Ulster Volunteers, I feel proud! If I . . . if I said something wrong about your wife, I'm sorry, I apologise. I'll never do it again. I was jealous, that's all, I didn't mean it!’

For the third time that day, someone knocked on Charles's door. ‘Car's ready, sir!’ It was the butler, Smythe. Charles heard his own voice saying: ‘All right, Smythe. Thank you. Be down in a jiffy!’

And then felt his own arms go out, to hold the young man by the shoulders. It was strange: when they were dressed, either in civilian or army clothes, they never touched. Perhaps because of fear of discovery, perhaps because there was no social convention for it. They didn't know what to do.

But, as he felt Charles's hands on his shoulders, Simon stepped forward, and for a moment the two embraced.

And Charles thought, he didn't know why, of Christ and his apostles in the garden of Gethsemane. Simon Peter. Andrew.

And Judas . . .

O
N THE morning her son was to go back to school, Deborah Cavendish got up early. Young Tom was in the breakfast room before her, hurriedly bolting a slice of toast and gulping a glass of milk at the same time, under the indulgent eye of a housemaid. He had already been down to the stables to see his new pony fed. His fair hair stuck out sideways and there were several wisps of straw on the stained baggy trousers and riding jacket he was wearing. That high, narrow forehead, the hooked nose, the intense proud face: all those things are like Charles, she thought. But not the grey-green eyes, the unruly fair hair, the freckles — that's me, my side of the family.

He looked at her apprehensively.

‘Please, Mother, don't make a fuss. Father promised I could have one last ride on Bramble before we go — and there's acres of time, really there is! I'll just ride up through the woods past the ice house and then down to the three oaks. I promise!’

Deborah looked at her only son and sighed. It was a wonder to her how quickly the little baby who had smiled at her from his cot had grown into this gawky, tousle-headed ragamuffin. The older he got the more mess he made, the more energy he had. Only the smile was the same.

I wonder what the next one's smile will look like?

Not today. Forget that now.

Above all, this morning, Deborah wanted to see her son smile and be happy. Even if that meant she had to deliver him to his school appallingly late, covered in dust and straw. So she sighed, touched his cheek with her fingers, and said: ‘All right. Just an hour now. Mind you keep your word, young soldier!’

‘Yes, Mother.’ The light of relief came into his eyes. He dodged away from her caress, embarrassed, and turned swiftly towards the door. But when he got there he glanced back, and she was rewarded with the smile she craved. ‘It might even be less than an hour, you know. Father says he's the fastest pony he's seen in the County Down.’

‘You just mind you stay on his back, now.’

‘Like a leech!’ He gave her a mock salute, and was gone. As he went out of the door she thought: If I lose him, I'll lose part of myself.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat with it cupped between her hands, her elbows on the table, staring moodily into space. Thinking back over the past few months. About the man, James Rankin, who had made her pregnant . . .

Deborah first met James Rankin on the back of a cart in Dublin.

She was there to be thanked in Rankin's speech. She had been asked to make a speech herself but she had declined because she was too shy. When she saw how many people had come to listen, she was glad she had refused.

The cart was parked in the middle of Sackville Street. It was surrounded by a sea of people, completely blocking the road. Faces and hats everywhere — workers in flat caps, young men in straw boaters, office clerks in bowlers, a line of officious policemen in the high pointed helmets of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. And women — mostly poor women in shawls with babies on their hips, but others in small round hats, wide straw hats with flowers on, some large ones with ribbons tied under the chin. And under the hats, faces, silent, hopeful, angry, desperate, puzzled, ecstatic, disapproving — listening intently to Rankin.