Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (46 page)

The newcomer slapped Greville’s face twice – hard. As he tried to avoid the second blow, he realised that he was in a bed.

‘Be good,’ said the burly man, ‘and answer the Squire’s questions. He doesn’t like people who don’t co-operate.’

‘Now,’ said Sir James Oldknow. ‘Christian or Surname?’

‘Surname.’

‘And your Christian name is –?’

‘Matthew.’

Sir James smiled once more with his lips only. ‘How nice. We already have Mark, Luke and John … How old are you?’

Greville had to think about that one. ‘Thirty-seven.’ ‘You look ten years older … The white hair, I suppose.’

‘I feel ten years older.’

The burly one slapped him again. ‘The Squire doesn’t like cheekiness,’ he said.

‘What was your profession?’ asked Sir James.

‘Grave-digger.’

‘Naughty,’ said Sir James. ‘Very naughty.’ He gave a sign, and the burly man advanced on Greville once more.

‘You’re a slow learner.’ The burly man hit Greville in the throat. He was too weak to avoid the blow. Sir James waited patiently until he had finished coughing and gasping.

‘Profession?’ he repeated. ‘That is, before the solar eruptions, of course.’

‘Adman.’

‘I beg your pardon’

‘Advertising man … I was a copywriter.’

‘Splendid,’ said Sir James, rubbing his hands. ‘Absolutely splendid. I have just the job for you. In a way, I suppose it’s promotion … No doubt you will be happy to learn, Mr Greville, that you will shortly enter the field of Public Relations.’

Greville felt a hysterical urge to laugh bubbling dangerously inside him. He fought it down. Sir James – Oldknow did not look as if he would approve of laughter – unless it was his own.

‘Public Relations?’ echoed Greville blankly.

‘You heard me the first time, laddie. Try to keep a grip on things. It’ll be an advantage – to you … Now, are you going to take a sensible interest in life?’

‘Yes.’ The burly man was out of sight once more, but not out of mind.

‘Then I’ll put you in the picture.’ Sir James Oldknow settled himself on the side of the bed. ‘My family has had a few thousand acres in this part of the world for about three centuries … Not that that’s important in itself, d’you know. But it gives a man roots. It gives him his bearings … D’you see what I’m driving at?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, now. Here I am in this topsy-turvy world, a man with land, a knowledge of how to deal with men, a sense of position and – though I say it myself – a bit of a flair for leadership … It begins to add up, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Greville carefully, ‘it begins to add up’

‘The point is,’ continued Sir James, ‘when the sun gets a bit off-colour and people start kicking the bucket, it makes for a nasty spot of anarchy – unless you’re lucky enough to have somebody who knows what’s what.’

‘I imagine you know what’s what,’ supplied Greville.

‘That’s it, laddie, that’s it. I know what’s what … Incidentally, while I think of it, have you got any Negro blood in you?’

The impulse to laughter bubbled once more, but Greville managed to suppress it. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good. Good … You don’t look as if you have. But what about Jewish blood? That’s a bit more insidious, isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got any Jewish blood either. Is that bad?’

‘No, laddie. It’s excellent. Depending on how you shape, I might even consider you for breeding purposes. We’re a bit thin on intellectuals … Now where was I?’

‘What’s what,’ prompted Greville.

‘Ah, yes. Well, that’s me. The point is, laddie, I represent order in chaos. Stability. Permanence. Some chap once wrote about the rich enduring qualities of the English tradition. Well, there you have it. You see, with the world as it is we’ve got to take a sensible approach. And that brings us back to the feudal system, doesn’t it?’

‘Inescapably,’ agreed Greville. Soon, he was thinking, soon I shall be able to cry for Liz. If I humour him, maybe this clown will go away; and then I shall be able to think about her. I shall be able to build up a picture of what she was like. I shall be able to see the look on her face when I kissed her – and the look there was when she told me about the child … Oh, Liz! Dear, warm Liz!

‘Basically,’ said Sir James, ‘it’s a mutual security pact. I look after you: you look after me. You swear fealty: I swear to protect you. Damn simple. Damn fine arrangement. I’ve got two hundred and forty-seven men, seventy-four women and about two thousand acres. You’ve got yourself. We strike a bargain. You give me energy and loyalty. I give you security and protection. What could be neater?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Greville tactfully. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Good. Then you’re in the Public Relations business … Very properly, my people are a bit afraid of me. That’s good. That’s very good. But it’s important that they should understand me – that’s where you come in. And when they understand me, it’s important that they should like me – that’s where you come in again … I’m a bluff old type. No finesse. Never had time for it. That’s where you come in once more. Understanding, liking, finesse. Your department. People have to know that what I tell ’em to do is for their own good … Now, how does it sound to you?’

‘A definite challenge,’ said Greville.

‘Think you can meet the challenge?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Good. There’ll be speeches, news sheets – that sort of thing. You see, I want my people psychologically prepared for war.’

Greville was weak and aching, and he was beginning to feel light-headed. ‘For war? he repeated dully.

‘For war,’ said Sir James emphatically. ‘The age-old struggle has never been – as friend Marx would have us believe – between the haves and the have-nots. That was just a damn big socialist-communist red herring. The real struggle is between order and anarchy. Order as represented by established authority, and anarchy as represented by the long-haired decadents who gibber about equality and all that rot … Point of fact, there’s a rather nasty bunch of annies about five miles away. Their presence is, to say the least, disturbing. Not only do they give sanctuary to a few of my runaway serfs – in every society there are bound to be a few malcontents – but they attempt to undermine me with subversive propaganda. Incidentally, that’ll be another of your jobs – counter-propaganda … Anyway, as I see it, the trick is to deal with the annies before they outnumber us … So my people have got to be made to see what a rotten lot of decadent bastards they are. D’you follow me?’

Greville’s head was aching, his limbs were aching and his throat was aching. More than anything he wanted to be alone. ‘The lucidity of your argument is admirable, Sir James,’ he said. ‘You may count on me to do whatever I can.’ For a sickening moment, he was afraid he had overplayed it. In fact, he knew he had overplayed it. But Sir James Oldknow was impervious to irony.

‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Absolutely splendid. Tomorrow we must get you out of bed. Then you can have the regulation two weeks’ basic training, and then you shall swear the oath of fealty. After that, my dear fellow, you’re in business. Do a good job and you will not find me ungrateful.’

‘What is the basic training about?’

‘Oh, lots of things,’ said Sir James, airily. ‘Husbandry, unarmed combat, the use of the longbow.’

‘I see … I’m already a pretty fair shot with a rifle.’

Sir James Oldknow laughed. ‘Firearms,’ he said, ‘are strictly for the use of the Praetorian guard … You have quite a lot to learn, laddie. I hope you benefit by it.’

It was nine days before Greville managed to make his escape from Sir James Oldknow and his latter-day feudal system. But for two men – known respectively as Nosey and Big Tom – he might not have attempted to escape at all, or, at least, not until it was too late; for he was haunted by memories of Liz. The thought that he would never see her again sapped his energy and even his self-respect. For a while he was not really sure whether he wanted to live or die. Memories of Chelsea Bridge rose disturbingly in his mind – not of the day when he saved Liz from the dogs but of the night he killed Pauline.

He had killed her, he thought, because he was trying to kill himself. Maybe he had killed Liz for the same reason and, oddly, in a similar way. Maybe both episodes constituted one of the odd little jokes of history. Maybe the possibility that someone else’s child lay cradled in Liz’s belly was somehow a sequel to the fact that other men than he had lain between Pauline’s legs. And maybe Liz and Pauline were the same person in a different world …

Fortunately he didn’t have much time for introspection. Come to that, he didn’t have much time for anything. Sir James Oldknow was as good as his word. Weak though he was, Greville was hauled out of his bed early on the following day by Big Tom – the heavy individual who had been present at his interview with Sir James.

It was barely after dawn when Big Tom arrived. Greville was still uneasily asleep. Big Tom picked him up like a child and set him on his feet. Then he threw his clothes at him.

‘The Squire says for you to get basic training,’ he announced happily. ‘I’m basic training.’ He laughed. ‘By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll think there’s nothing more basic in the world. I’m going to toughen you up. Even a bloody clerk has to be able to stand on his own two feet.’

After he had dressed, Greville was taken out of Brabyns House, through two wooden gates in two wire fences that he later learned were electrified, and to a kind of mess hall where about twenty men were eating breakfast.

Breakfast consisted of porridge, some rather grey bread, a slice of bacon and a hot drink that was obviously meant to be a coffee substitute and tasted like burnt toast mixed with water. Greville was allowed ten minutes for eating; then training began.

Along with the other men, whom Big Tom was attempting to forge into a commando unit for the coming war against the annies, Greville was put
through all the acute miseries of an assault course. He was too weak to resist. In fact he was still too weak even to last out the morning. After physical exercises, there was archery and knifemanship; and after that there were more exercises. Greville collapsed long before the midday break. Big Tom had a bucket of water thrown over him, then he was carried to a large wooden hut with straw-filled mattresses on the floor and left there to dry off and meditate. He was too exhausted to do either. He fell asleep wet and woke up wet and shivering.

It was almost dark and somebody was shaking him. It was a man who introduced himself as Nosey.

‘Wake up, mate,’ said Nosey. ‘I’ve got a ration of stew here for you. Better get it down. There’s nowt else till tomorrow.’

The stew was in an old tin can. It smelt nauseating; but Greville was suddenly and dreadfully hungry.

‘Stewed cat,’ said Nosey. ‘It’s better than dog – more like rabbit. Except that the bleeding cook doesn’t know what to do with decent meat … Here, I’ve got a bit of news for you. She’s alive.’

‘Alive?’ repeated Greville blankly.

‘Your old woman, mate. The Squire had her put in the pen – that’s the place where he keeps women that are not for the likes of you and me … She’s got a duck in the oven, I hear. So nobody gets her until she’s foaled down. The Squire’s very proper about things like that.’

During the ten minutes or so that passed before the rest of the men returned to the barracks, Greville learned quite a lot about the Squire and his little community. But the thought that dominated him was that Liz was still alive. It was an elixir. It seemed to pump the will to live back into his veins.

When the other men came, Nosey immediately switched his conversation to obviously safe subjects – food, women and Big Tom. Food and women, it appeared, were strictly rationed. Big Tom, on the other hand, was completely unrationed. He was also universally disliked. Not hated, just disliked. For though he had fought and beaten every man in the barracks – it was all part of the basic training – he had enough sense to be magnanimous in victory. He respected men who could fight well; and anyone who was fortunate enough to give almost as good as he got could be sure of the occasional extra ration of both food and sex. Big Tom could lift a hundredweight sack of corn in each hand simultaneously. He offered every recruit the choice of fighting him or lifting the corn. If they chose to lift the corn and failed he would beat them until they were unconscious. Big Tom was a third-generation Liverpool-Irishman. He was also a devout Catholic. The Squire had given him a woman, and he had given the woman three children. Every Sunday he walked with her to Brabyns Church where the Squire, also a Catholic, officiated as part-time priest.

Conversation in the barracks was of brief duration, for the men were tired out. Nosey took a palliasse next to Greville’s. Presently they were both surrounded by snores and heavy breathing. But Nosey remained awake.

‘Hey, Greville,’ he whispered at length ‘Think you’ll stick it?’

‘Stick what?’

‘This here feudal lark. The Squire’s dead keen on it. Gives us history lessons. Says we’ve got to go backwards before we can go forwards … Maybe he’s got something. But I shouldn’t like to be one of his villains, or whatever he calls ’em. He has ’em branded, you know. A big V stuck right in the middle of the forehead. Keeps ’em in the old stables … Mind you he only makes villains out of blokes that give a bit of sauce … Think you’ll stick it?’

‘No,’ said Greville. ‘I don’t think I’ll stick it. I think I’ll get my girl back and take off.’

Nosey smothered a laugh. ‘You’ll be lucky. You’ll be bloody lucky, mate. The Squire may be a bit weak in his nut, but he’s got this whole place sewn up tight. The last bloke that tried it was hunted down like a fox … Tally-ho, and all that. The old Squire still keeps a pack of hounds. Would you believe it – dogs all over the damn country, and he keeps a pack of hounds … They made a right mess of this bloke I’m telling you about. All that was left was his shoes.’

‘Then why the hell did you ask me whether I was going to stick it?’ demanded Greville irritably.

Nosey laughed quietly. ‘ ’Cos I ain’t going to stick it, neither, mate. My old bag wasn’t much, but he didn’t have no call to put her in the bawdy house.’