The Penal Colony (30 page)

“Not just now, thanks. Perhaps later.”

“Put one behind your ear.”

Briefly Routledge saw Godwin frowning at
Fitzmaurice and lightly shaking his head. Routledge looked away,
out of the window, at the rain in the garden, at the dull gleam of
the bungalow roof.

“Letter from home?” Godwin said.

“Yes. A letter from home.”

“I think you’d better pack it in for today,”
Godwin said.

“I’m all right. Really.”

“That’s an order.”

Routledge went to his house. He read the
letter over and over again. He lay on his bed. He stared at his
photos. Towards dusk he remembered looking out towards King’s
place.

King did not return until nightfall, at
half-past five. At six fifteen Routledge put on his waxed cotton
jacket and went out into the rain.

He knocked on King’s door. King was clearing
up after his supper.

“I need your help,” Routledge said. He did
not know what he was doing. He had not intended to show the letter
to anyone, or to speak about it. What had happened between him and
Louise was the business of no one on Sert, no one in the Village.
She had been, she was, the most important part of him. There was no
allegiance left for anyone else.

King, suddenly concerned, took the letter and
held it close to the lamp. As he read, Routledge knew, word for
word, line for line, exactly what was passing before his eyes.

19th October

Dear Anthony,

This is the worst and hardest letter I have
ever had to write. I do not know how to express what I must say to
you. I know that I shall be hurting terribly the one person in the
world who least deserves it. You have given me years of your love.
The life we had together was special and unique and no one can take
that away from us. You know that I love you and that I want the
best for you. But we can never be together again and I, as I am
sure you do, want the best for Christopher. He is at a difficult
age and faces an uncertain future without a father’s influence.

I do not how to break this to you. It would
be so much better to speak face to face or even on the phone. █ █ █
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█ █ █ █ █ In the end one must be cruel because the truth is
cruel.

What I am trying to tell you, Anthony, and
have been too cowardly to tell you before, is that I have met
somebody else. I met him some time ago and now he has asked me to
marry him. He is a successful businessman, a widower with two young
children. I know that you would like him and hope that you can find
it in you to wish us well, knowing that the position for you is
hopeless now. Oh Anthony we tried so hard but in the end █ █ █ █ █
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I pray that you are safe on the island and
every morning wait for the postman in case I hear word of you. Most
of your last letter █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
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█ █

This is too painful for me. I beg you to give
us your blessing. Soon you will receive papers to sign from my
solicitor – another one, not █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
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█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ I will
continue to write, if you will let me, and send news of our son,
for I know what torment you must be going through. I have already
spoken to your mother and have asked her permission to introduce
her to Tom.

But whatever else happens know that I love
you always.

Forgive me.

Louise

The Christmas tree occupied most of the end
wall of the recreation hut. It consisted of the crown of a Monterey
pine, removed with the Father’s permission and decorated with
tinfoil stars and streamers, small fake parcels in coloured paper,
brightly painted papier mâché globes. Beneath the tree stood the
prizes for the Christmas raffle: beer, two bottles of Thorne’s
whisky, a box of biscuits, and, in pride of place, the iced
fruit-cake sent over on yesterday’s helicopter, a gift from the
governor’s wife.

The fairy at the pinnacle, supervising
tonight’s festivities, had been modelled by Venables in papier
mâché, then dressed in a pink tutu and given a pair of silver
wings. The outsize head was bald and bore a face painted red, with
worm-like lips, watery blue eyes, and tufts of curly grey hair
extending above the ears. To Routledge, who had never seen
Houlihan, the caricature meant nothing; but King had laughed when
he had first seen it, the more so when Fitzmaurice observed how and
with what force Venables had thrust the figure down onto the wire
holder at the top of the tree.

“There’s bliss for you, Archie,” Fitzmaurice
had said.

Fitzmaurice was one of the impromptu band. He
had brought his concertina. Mountfield, Macness, and Wright, all
Irishmen, were playing too. Macness played the fiddle, Mountfield a
drum, Wright a penny whistle. The air was thick with marijuana
smoke. Routledge was already drunk, stamping his feet with the
rest.

“What do you think of the music?” King
shouted in his ear.

“Marvellous! Bloody marvellous!”

He had not known that Fitzmaurice, that
anyone on Sert, had such music in him. Celtic music, reels and
jigs, wild, flowing tunes that stirred the heart, carried along
with yelps and shrieks from the band and the room full of men. As
the sound filled his veins Routledge could half believe that
something in his own ancestry was responding too, and not just the
drink. He had been here before; had visited this epicentre of
comradeship in some different life, in a purer time when the honest
values were all that mattered. Who cared what a man owned or what
was the colour of his skin? Who cared how he spoke or where he’d
been to school, just so long as he was on your bloody side when the
chips were down?

“Another! Another!” King was yelling, in
chorus with the rest.

Routledge, drinking moonshine from his glass,
looked at him and blearily away, elated he knew not how. King was
on his side all right. They all were. Even Fitzmaurice. Especially
Fitzmaurice, Fitzmaurice and his Irish music. Routledge leaned over
towards King. “King,” he tried to say. “I want to apologize. To
you. To Mr Fitzmaurice. To the Father. Everybody.”

King gave a puzzled frown. “What?”

Routledge’s words were lost in the din. The
band were protesting that they were dry and wanted to take a break
for more beer, but that was impossible. Another tune was demanded:
there was no refusing.

“Come on,” King had said, a long time ago,
five hours or more. Routledge held his watch towards the light.
Five to twelve. Five to midnight. Yes, five hours ago. “Come on,”
King had said. “We’re going to get you well and truly plastered.”
He had dragged Routledge from his house and to the recreation hut,
where, during the autumn, the stocks of drink had been built up to
heroic proportions. Each man had an allowance, noted by Venables in
his little red book. You could drink it gradually or all at once,
or give it away. The Community made beer, not too badly, and an
explosive potato moonshine. It made horrible carrot wine. It made
every kind of booze. Thorne’s whisky was the thoroughbred.
Routledge had acquired a half-bottle to give to King tomorrow
morning. Christmas Day.

The 23rd, yesterday, had been the last
Tuesday before Christmas. No new prisoner had been deposited.
Instead the helicopter had brought a bumper delivery of mail. A
ludicrous greeting from the governor, which Appleton had pinned to
the veranda noticeboard so that everyone could have a good laugh.
With the greeting had come the cake. Most men had received at least
one card. For Routledge there had been cards from his mother and
his two sisters and their families.

From Louise, from Christopher, there had been
nothing. Nothing.

“Come on,” King had said.

On the mainland, Routledge’s circle of
friends had been small and untrustworthy, held together only by the
flimsy common circumstances of their life. Without exception they
had let him down in his time of need. Some he had known at school;
all were just like him, middle class, golfers mostly, members of
clubs and professions, estate agents, accountants, solicitors, a
dentist: all, just like him, relentlessly mediocre.

Now he had no friends whatever. Except King.
Routledge was beginning to think King was the first real friend he
had ever had.

His advice about Louise had been
compassionate and sage. He had said that if Routledge really loved
her, he would not wish to prevent her from starting a new life; he
would, as the letter had asked, give her his blessing. If he
couldn’t bring himself to do so, then perhaps his feelings for her
were not as he had imagined. That being the case, losing her was
not such a tragedy after all. At least she had promised to keep in
touch. Some men in the Community would have given anything for such
a letter: the first they had known about their divorce was the
arrival of the papers.

“Did you ever get married yourself?”
Routledge had asked.

“No. That was one pitfall I managed to
avoid.”

“Did you ever come close?”

“Yes. I came close.”

“What happened?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was better off alone with my
sister. Women these days … well.”

“Women these days what?”

“If you found a good one, just be thankful
for the years you had.”

Had he found a good one? She certainly hadn’t
wasted any time in finding another mug to pay the bills. That much
he knew.

He had not heard from her since November,
even though he had dutifully signed and promptly returned the
divorce papers.

The bitch.

“Bitch,” he said. “Faithless bitch.”

“What?”

“Louise,” Routledge said. “Bitch.”

“No.” King shook his head.

The band were giving in. Another tune.
Fitzmaurice conferring with Macness. Beginning to play. A rapid
reel. A chorus. Men starting to sing. Stamping feet. Yells and
laughter. The chorus again. Routledge made out the words and joined
in, louder than the rest.

If I had a wife to beggar me life

I tell ye what I would do –

I’d buy her a boat and put her afloat

And paddle me own canoe.

“Paddle me own canoe!” Routledge shouted,
completely won over. Yes: he had to put her afloat. There was no
other way. No use pretending. He had to get on with these people or
he’d be dead. Buy her a boat and put her afloat. And what a canoe
they were building! Bit by bit, component by component, the
schedules were becoming intricate reality. He had never known such
craftsmanship, such obsessive attention to detail. For it all had
to work first time. There could be no tests, no trials. It all had
to go together perfectly and nothing could be allowed to fail. He,
Routledge, was one of the chief checkers. Every dimension of every
last bit of wood had to be checked five times, written down and
submitted to Appleton. The same quality control with the
electronics, which Godwin and Fitzmaurice were now completing. No
sea trials. Had to work first time. He wished Godwin were here so
he could get him a drink and shake his hand. Brilliant, brilliant
Godwin! Brilliant Thaine! Brilliant Appleton! Brilliant Father!
Then he thought of the other men who weren’t here tonight, who were
sober on his behalf, patrolling the border, tending the stock.
Foster and Johnson out there in the freezing darkness above Old
Town or the lighthouse. Appleton in his office. The Father
somewhere in the Village, aware of everything, bearing the entire
weight of the Community’s problems. A wonderful, extraordinary man.
Quite extraordinary. A privilege to know someone like that, to be
tolerated, to be allowed to belong. As the music died and the band
took on more beer he leaned towards King to try again.

“Wish to formally apologize,” he said.
“Formally apologize for being such an insufferable little …
insufferable … the term is I believe … insufferable little …” He
did not know whether he had said the word or not. It didn’t matter.
For it was true. Now he belonged: he realized he belonged. After
thirty-seven years of quiet desperation, of dwelling among
two-faced people who were dead inside, the ineluctable workings of
his destiny had brought him here and taught him the human lesson of
belonging. For the first time in his life, Routledge knew he had
outgrown the pitiable creature that had once been himself. He knew
at last that he belonged.

He saw the room tilt and sway and then he was
falling, losing his balance, passing out, falling with heavenly
grace forwards into midnight and stupor and the beatific silence of
this, his first truly happy, because selfless, Christmas Day.

* * *

Looking north from Piper’s Beach, between Old
Town and the lighthouse, the sea appeared almost mirror smooth. A
black-backed gull and its reflection flapped in synchrony low
across the water from right to left; at the curve of the headland
two shags were perched on a white-squirted pinnacle of rock. The
morning was frosty. Except for a haze which made the water seem
even smoother, it was also bright. Here under the cliffs, out of
the sun, the air felt damp and cold.