The Light and the Dark (44 page)

“By the way, it also did not take her long to become unimpressed by the battlements and other noble accessories. Including my poor Hugh. She rapidly recognised that she could reduce him to a state of gibbering admiration. They both get a good deal of innocent pleasure from their weekly bridge with the new vicar and his wife. I suspect they are happier because my less enthusiastic eye is removed. Possibly I am becoming slightly maudlin about the ironies of time; but I do feel it is unfitting that nowadays Hugh should be reduced to this one high event each week. He fidgets intolerably each Thursday evening, as we wait for the vicar and his wife. No one could call the vicar a deep thinker, and he has large red ears.”

All through that winter and spring, I was attending committees, preparing notes for the minister, reading memoranda, talking to Francis Getliffe and his scientific friends; for decisions were being taken about the bombing campaign, and we were all ranged for or against. In fact, all the people I knew best were dead against. My minister was one of the chief opponents in the government; through Francis, I had met nearly all the younger scientists, and they were as usual positive, definite, and scathing. They had learned a good deal about the effect of bombing, from the German raids; they worked out what would be the results, if we persisted in the plan or bombing at night. I read the most thorough of these “appreciations”. I could not follow the statistical arguments, but the conclusions were given as proved beyond reasonable doubt: we should destroy a great many houses, but do no other serious damage; the number of German civilians killed would be relatively small; our losses in aircrew would be a large proportion of all engaged; in terms of material effect, the campaign could have no military significance at all. The minister shook his head; he had seen too many follies; he was a sensible man, but he did not believe in the victory of sense; and he knew that too many in power had a passionate, almost mystical faith in bombing. They were going to bomb, come what may; and naturally human instruments arose who could fit in. Against the scientific arguments, the advocates of bombing fell back on morale. There was something the scientists could not speak about nor measure. The others said, as though with inner knowledge, that the enemy would break under the campaign.

I went to a committee where Francis Getliffe made one of the last attempts to put the scientific case. Like most of his colleagues, Francis had left the invention of weapons and, as the war went on, took to something like the politics of scientific war. He was direct, ruthless, and master of his job; he had great military sense; he had never found any circumstances which gave him more scope, and he became powerful in a very short time. But now he was risking his influence in this war. Opponents of bombing were not in fashion. Bombing was the orthodoxy of the day. As I observed it, it occurred to me that you can get men to accept any orthodoxy, religious, political, even this technical one, the last and oddest of the English orthodoxies; the men who stood outside were very rare, and would always be so.

But Francis’ integrity was absolute. He was pliable enough to bend over little things; this was a very big thing. Someone ought to oppose it to the end; he was the obvious person; he took it on himself to do it.

He was much the same that afternoon as he used to be at college meetings – courteous, formal, clear, unshakably firm. He was high-strung among those solid steady official men, but his confidence had increased, and he was more certain of his case than they were. He was impatient of less clever men: his voice had no give in it. But he was very skilful at using his technical mastery.

He was setting out to prove the uneconomic bargain if we threw our resources into bombing. The amount of industrial effort invested in bombers was about twice what those same bombers would destroy. Bombing crews were first-class troops, said Francis Getliffe. Their training was very long, their physical and mental standard higher than any other body of troops. For every member of an aircrew killed, we might hope to kill three or four civilians. “That’s not business,” said Getliffe. “It’s not war. It doesn’t begin to make sense.” He described what was then known of the German radar defences. Most of us round that table were ignorant of technical things. He made the principles of the German ground control limpidly clear. He analysed other factors in the probable rate of loss.

It was a convincing exposition. He was putting forward a purely military case. He was passionately engrossed in the war. He was out to win at any cost. He would not have minded bombing Germans, if it helped us to win. He would not have minded losing any number of aircrews, if we gained an advantage from their loss.

For me, his words struck cold. Roy would be back in this country by August. He would be flying in operations before the new year.

I had to fend off the chill. Someone had just admitted that their defences were a “pretty bit of work”. I listened to the fierce argument in the smoky air; I was in attendance on the minister, and could not take part myself. The minister did his best, but his own stock was going down. As was inevitable, Francis Getliffe lost: he could not even get a few equipments diverted to the submarine war.

We went away together to have a drink.

“I’m on the way out,” said Francis Getliffe grimly. “This is the best test of judgment there’s ever been. Anyone who believes in this bloody nonsense will believe anything.”

From that day, the department in which I worked had to accept the decision. We did other things: but about a fifth of our time was spent on the bombing campaign. I found it irksome.

All that spring I was imprisoned in work, living in committee rooms, under the artificial light. I saw less still of my friends. I had an occasional lunch with Joan, and letters came from Boscastle. When I dined with Lady Muriel, she pronounced that the course of the pregnancy was satisfactory.

The child was born at midsummer. It was a girl, and was christened Muriel. That fact moved Lady Boscastle to write to me, at her most characteristic. I chuckled, but thought it wise to burn the letter.

During those months, I heard a few times from Roy. He was not being a great success on his pilot’s course. He was having to struggle to be allowed through; it irritated him, who liked to do things expertly, and I could not help smiling at that touch of vanity. He thought he would have done better ten years earlier; at thirty-two one did not learn so easily. In the end, he managed to pass, and landed in England in September.

After a week with Rosalind, he spent a night in my flat. He was sunburned and healthy; in uniform, his figure was less deceptive, one could have guessed that he was strong; at last his face was carrying the first lines, but he looked very tranquil. He was so tranquil that it was delightful to be with him. His spirits were not so intoxicatingly high as in his days of exaltation, but he laughed at me, talked about our friends, mimicked them with his features plastic, so that one saw a shadow of Lord Boscastle, of Arthur Brown, of Houston Eggar. We were happy. Since he had to return next day, we sat up most of the night. He seemed no longer driven.

He did not say much of his future – except that he would now be sent to his training in heavy aircraft. There was not much for either of us to say. But he talked of his daughter with extreme pleasure.

“It’s good to have a child,” he said. “It’s a shame you haven’t some, old boy. You’d like it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“You must soon. It’s very important.”

His pleasure was simple, natural, radiant.

“She’ll be pretty,” he said happily. “Very pretty. Excellent.”

A month later, I received an unexpected telephone call from his wife. I knew she was coming to London, for Lady Muriel had announced that her godchild was staying with her for a weekend and had invited me to dine; it was only during the course of the invitation that Lady Muriel reluctantly mentioned “Roy’s wife”. Rosalind’s voice always sounded faint, falling-away, on the telephone, but that morning she seemed worried and urgent. “I must see you at lunch time. No, it can’t wait till tonight. I can’t tell you in front of Lady Battleship.”

I put off an appointment and met her for lunch.

“I want you to help me, Lewis,” she said. “Roy mustn’t hear a word about it.”

She was dressed in the height of style, her shoulders padded, her hat tilted over one eye; but her expression was neither gamine nor mock-decorous, but tired, strained, intent. I jumped to a conclusion.

“What is wrong with him?”

“Nothing,” said Rosalind impatiently, as though I did not understand. “He’s very well and very happy. Didn’t you think I should make him happy? The old thing has never been so comfortable in his life. He’s got a bit of peace.”

She stared at me with hurt brown eyes, pleading and determined.

“Lewis, I want you to help me get him out of flying.”

“Does he want it?”

“Do you think he’d ever say so? Men never dare to confess that they’re frightened. God’s truth, I’ve got no patience with you all.”

She was desperately moved. I said: “My dear, I think it would be impossible.”

“You’d rather let things happen than try,” she flared out like a cat.

“No. Remember he left an important job. He made a nuisance of himself to get out. It would be very hard to persuade the Air Ministry to leave go now.”

“Wouldn’t he be more useful on the ground? How many people in the world speak all the languages he speaks?”

“That’s true,” I said.

“Then we must get to work.”

“I’m afraid”, I said, “that they won’t leave go of a single man. They’ve been given complete priority.”

“Why are they so keen to keep them?” she cried. “Because they’re going to lose so many?”

“Yes.”

“They won’t throw him away if I can help it.” Her face was dark and twisted, as if she were in physical pain. “Let me tell you something. The other night I got him to talk a bit. I know he doesn’t talk to me as he does to you. He says you’re the only person who knows everything about him. But I got him to talk. It was in the middle of the night. He hasn’t been sleeping too well this last week. It’s not as bad as it used to be, but I know that he’s been lying awake. Somehow I can’t sleep if I think he’s lying there with his eyes open.”

She paused. She was crying out with the intimacy of the flesh. “The other night I knew he was awake. I hadn’t been to sleep either. In the middle of the night I asked him if anything was the matter. He said no. I asked him if he was happy with me. He said yes. Then I got into his bed and cried till he promised to talk to me. He said it was a long story and that no one understood it all but you. You know how he speaks when he’s being serious, Lewis? As though he was laughing and didn’t give a damn. It makes my blasted heart turn over. Anyway he said that he’d been miserable for years. It was worse than being mad, he said. He hoped he’d get out of it. He’d struggled like a rat in a trap. But he couldn’t escape. So he couldn’t see any point in things. He might as well be eliminated. That was why he chose to fly.”

She stared at me.

“Then he kissed me, and laughed a bit. He said that nowadays it didn’t always seem such a good idea. He was caught again. But he needn’t worry this time, because there was nothing to do.”

I exclaimed.

“You know, Lewis,” Rosalind went on, “he must have got it all worked out when he decided to fly. He said that he was looking round for the easiest way to disappear. He didn’t want to give too much trouble. So he found out from someone reliable what was the most dangerous thing to do.”

She cried out sharply: “What’s the matter, Lewis? Why are you looking so terrible?”

“Nothing,” I said, trying to speak in an even tone. “I just thought of something else.”

Rosalind watched me.

“I hope you’re all right,” she said. “I want you to help me today.”

Rosalind had two lines of attack ready planned. She was cunning, she had not been successful at her business for nothing; she knew it was worse than useless for a move to come from Roy’s friends. The only hope was to get hold of people of influence. She wanted two different kinds of plea: first, by the leading orientalists, to say that as a scholar he was irreplaceable; second, by officials, to say that he was needed for a special job in an office. She was cunning but she did not know her way about this world; she needed me to tell her where to try.

She had no luck that afternoon. I sent her to old Foulkes, who was back in uniform again, a brigadier at the War Office. He had worked there seven days a week since the beginning of the war. I took her to the door in the side street, and waited on the pavement. It was an hour before she came out. She was angry and downcast. “I don’t believe the old idiot has ever seen a woman before. Oh, I suppose he’s rather sweet, but it’s just my luck to find someone who’s not susceptible.” Foulkes had told her that her husband had a European reputation. “Tell anyone so. Often do. Only man to keep our end up.” Rosalind parodied Foulkes ill-temperedly. But Foulkes would not say a word that would stand in the way of a man who wanted to fight. He had heard his colleagues wonder why Calvert had thrown up a safe job. “I’ve told them,” Foulkes had said, with his usual vigour. “No mystery. No mystery at all. He just wants to fight for his country. Proud of him. So ought you to be,” he had finished at great speed.

There was no other scholar in reach that day; and the officials who might be useful had all gone home for the weekend. Rosalind was frustrated, aching for something to do; but I persuaded her there was nothing, at least for the moment, and she returned to Curzon Street for tea. When I saw her next, as I arrived there for dinner that same night, I noticed at once that she was more restless. She was savage in her concern.

I was surprised to see the table laid for four. I had expected that Joan would spare herself; but she had decided with tough, masochistic endurance, to stick it out, and meet Roy’s wife and child. Both Joan and Lady Muriel agreed that it was a beautiful baby. I watched Joan nurse it with an envious satisfaction, a satisfaction that to my astonishment seemed stronger than envy. Her voice, like her mother’s, was warm and loving when she spoke to it.