The Secret Knowledge (11 page)

She doesn’t see Pierre again until the weekend. It’s Saturday afternoon and she’s at the piano, hasn’t played for months, the instrument’s in need of tuning but she’s been gripped by a renewed urge to touch those yellowed keys whose vibrations are like a secret acknowledgment of her thoughts. Father is reading, she hears the occasional turning of a page behind her, and in her mind the words of the song she plays.
You have loved lots of girls in the sweet long ago and each one has meant heaven to you.
She doesn’t notice the knock at the front door; father tells her to go and see who it is. She finds Pierre waiting on the step, straight from the end of his shift, and feels herself redden. But he hasn’t come for her; it’s John he’s looking for, there’s urgency in his voice.

“Is something wrong? Come inside and tell me.”

“I expected to see him at the factory. The strike’s going ahead.”

“At Russell?”

“Everywhere. All of Glasgow will be out on Monday.” Pierre brings in cold air with him and removes his cap. “Scobie, the shop steward, told us this morning, says the union still won’t back it though everyone I’ve spoken to is willing to walk out. Where the blazes is that brother of yours?”

It’s as if none of it ever happened. She knows it has to be this way. “My father’s in there, go and say hello.”

Dr Quinn has heard Pierre’s raised voice though not his words. “
Bonjour
, Monsieur Klauer,” he says from his chair, pleasantly but with cool detachment, his professional bedside manner. “If you’re looking for John I don’t know where he is. You could always try again later.”

“Are you hungry?” Jessie asks from behind Pierre’s back.

He turns. “That’s very kind.”

“We’ve eaten already,” says her father. “I suppose Jessie could fetch you something.”

She goes to the kitchen, Pierre waits for an invitation to sit but none comes, so he perches on the piano stool, facing away from the instrument and towards Dr Quinn who looks at his book, unable to read, then eventually says, “I hear you made a fine speech the other night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“A forty-hour week. I wonder if I’ve ever done so few. You’re all finished for the day and I’m only starting, I’ll be making my rounds soon.”

“I’m sure everyone appreciates what you do.”

The doctor believes he detects some sarcasm. “You’re sure are you? I don’t think anyone appreciates the work I have to do. And this son of mine, ought to be studying but doesn’t know the meaning of work.” He looks penetratingly at Pierre, something on his mind he’s now prepared to raise. “I asked John if he knew you from prison. He said no.”

“I was at Stobs camp.”

“I know that, I checked with a policeman friend of mine.”

Pierre is acquainted with such frank suspicion, untroubled by it. “My name was my misfortune.”

The doctor appears almost sympathetic. “Must have been hard for you, locked up with Germans. Your enemy as much as ours.”

“They’d been living in this country for years.”

“What about bolshevists? Were there many of them in the camp?”

“Not really.”

Dr Quinn proceeds towards his chosen point with clinical precision. “My son’s no revolutionary, he’s an idealist. This newspaper of his is only a game.”

“You worry I’m a bad influence.”

“Yes, I do. Of course any man’s entitled to his opinions and I believe in free speech as much as you. But where can a man speak freely if not in his own home? So I tell you honestly, Pierre, while I respect the strength of your convictions, even feel a degree of sympathy for them, I fear the possible consequences. Just look at what happened in Russia, and now in Germany, uprisings all over the place, bringing nothing but sorrow. Maybe you want to become a martyr like that confounded Luxemburg woman, that’s your choice, but my son didn’t survive four years of war in order to get himself shot on a barricade.”

He stops when he sees Jessie enter. She’s fried some bacon, the smell comes with her. “Shall I bring it here?” she asks father, who shows no sign of anger in the wake of his outburst, able to retain objectivity even when contemplating tragedy. He calmly sends both of them to the kitchen so that he can read. Pierre sits down there and begins to eat, chewing thoughtfully while Jessie stands watching in silence. She heard none of the conversation but perceived its tension. Eventually she tells him, almost whispering, “I haven’t said anything about our walk.”

Pierre looks up at her, somehow puzzled that she should mention it. “Probably best,” he agrees.

She sits down too, lays her hand on the table, outstretched fingers not far from his resting elbow, and waits for him to say something more, though all he can do is cut crisp shreds of meat, transporting them mechanically to his mouth.

“Do you think I should tell father?”

“He wouldn’t approve.”

“Then what do we do?” It’s a great problem to which she has given much thought. Pierre asks her to pour him some tea. She says with hardly suppressed anguish, “Must we stop going together?”

“What do you prefer?”

“I don’t know.”

Pierre can’t see what’s so complicated; the world is about to be reborn and this girl worries over a triviality. “I think we should carry on in secret.”

“You do?”

“It’s not as if we’re doing anything wrong.”

“But we… you know.” Gripped by romantic horror she feels the magnetic force of his body just beyond her fingertips, remembers his kiss.

He smiles. “We can do it again. Nobody need know.”

“I’m not like that.”

From the other room her father calls; she goes to be told that if Pierre has been served she should carry on playing the piano as before, Dr Quinn finds it soothing, their guest will too. At the first chords, Pierre comes and stands in the doorway, watching with folded arms.

“Sit and listen,” the doctor instructs him.

It’s a music-hall song neither man recalls, but the words are in Jessie’s thoughts as she plays.
I wonder who’s kissing her now, wonder who’s teaching her how. Wonder who’s looking into her eyes, breathing sighs, telling lies.
A postcard that was on the sheet music when she lifted it has a soldier standing guard at the front while in the corner, like a floating angel, a beautiful woman clutches a rose to her bosom, waiting faithfully for her lover to return. Yvette must have looked like that, she thinks.

“Do you play an instrument?” Dr Quinn asks Klauer.

“None at all.”

“But you like music, you told me.”

“Only listening.”

“Jessie has a fine touch, such an expressive legato.”

“I’m no expert.”

She suddenly stops and turns. “I’ve had enough.”

“We were enjoying it,” her father says.

“My hands are tired. I want to go for a walk. Pierre, would you like to come with me?” Both men are surprised by the proposal. “You’re starting your rounds soon, father, it would be rude to leave Pierre waiting here on his own.”

Dr Quinn can see the logic; it’s a polite way of getting the Frenchman out of the house. “You two go for some air, then. But not far, your brother should be back soon and he’ll be needing fed.” He doesn’t see the glance that passes between the young pair as Jessie goes to fetch her coat and hat.

Outside it’s grey and damp but she’s glad to have him by her side, her French beau, almost wants him to put his arm round her, though instead he keeps a polite distance between them, saying nothing. She can tell he’s thinking about the strike, walking more swiftly than she’d prefer, almost as if wanting to get away from her. She can’t see the point of the dispute, nor understand how the men can possibly get what they want; it’s a battle over an impossible dream. Only when Pierre spoke at the meeting did she feel persuaded by the argument.

He pauses, turns. “There’s something I have to ask of you.” His hesitancy ominously magnifies the possibilities.

“Anything.”

“The union’s against us.”

“I know that.”

“They’ve declared there’s to be no strike pay.” His fingers play nervously together in fumbled prayer. “Already I’m behind with bills…”

“I can help you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Then what?”

“Your father; I’m sure he must have some cash around the house that he’d never miss.”

She’s shocked, horrified by the mere suggestion, yet brings it to its conclusion. “Yes.”

“I’d soon repay it.”

“I trust you.”

“If your father found out…”

“He won’t, he never looks.”

“The last thing I’d want would be to get you into trouble.”

He should take her in his arms right now, here in the street, she wouldn’t resist. He should kiss her in view of anyone who might pass. “Tell me how much you need.”

His expression changes. “How much could you get?”

Now they’re negotiating, they’ve crossed a boundary; Jessie, darkly thrilled by the moral calculus, considers her own wage when she was packing shells at Russell. “Would fifteen shillings do?” Pierre hesitates to answer; she says, “More?”

“I’m in arrears, even two or three pounds wouldn’t be enough, and if the strike continues…”

“I’ll find whatever I can.” The bargain is closed by a clasping together of their hands.

Pierre smiles. “One day, when times are better, I’ll be able to reward you properly.”

She repeats softly, “One day.” The future is feathered, comforting, just beyond reach; a marriage bed.

“Shall I walk you home again?”

“Father will have left, if we don’t go too quickly.”

“And then?”

Then anything: love, dreams, revolution, she wants the future right now. “I’ll give you the money.”

Their pace is as measured and deliberate as the ticking of a clock. He’s asking her to do something bold and courageous but his own risk is surely greater. There’ll be picketing, he tells her, the police will doubtless intervene and a few heads may be split.

“You have to be careful.” She never had a gallant soldier to pray for, not even her brother.

“I know how to take care of myself.”

Nearing the house, she tells him to wait while she goes ahead to check. If the place is empty she will draw a curtain as signal that he should come and knock. It’s like something from one of those French novels she’s secretly read; life transfigured by a higher honesty known only to the heart. God will forgive all this – as long as father never knows.

Pierre Klauer stands as instructed until at a window he sees the movement that equals her surrender. To visit a woman and be paid for it: that’s new. The door opens for him without anyone visible beyond; when she closes it he immediately goes to kiss her.

“No.”

“But we’re alone.”

“We have to be careful. John might be back any minute.”

Bolt the door and leave the fool standing outside, Klauer thinks; leave him waiting until they’re finished and getting dressed again. He takes her in his arms, his immortal arms, and tastes the sweetness of her lips.

She pulls away with some reluctance. “I’ll fetch that money.”

Still in his coat he goes to the sitting room, looks at the piano and the song sheet open on it, feels a deep urge to sit and make generous music, while from the kitchen comes the rattle of china, a lid being lifted and a jar replaced. His life is like the flicking of a false coin. She comes to the kitchen doorway and stands with the gift in her hands, a bouquet of crumpled notes.

“Four pounds,” she says.

“He stores so much for housekeeping?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” He goes to her, cups his hands round the warmth of hers.

“I saved this from when I was working.”

“You’ll have it all back soon.” He puts the crisp bundle into his pocket without looking at it, both of them ashamed by its presence. Then he holds her waist and she lets him kiss her more fully, she folds into him like a vine, he pecks at her ear and she gasps with surprise and uncertainty.

“I love you,” he says.

She knows what happens next in those French novels, but could she really do it, make herself into an Yvette? She wishes a great cannon were about to destroy everything, then she’d have the courage; only death can equal the magnitude of what she feels.

“John will be back.”

“I don’t care.”

“Father might have forgotten something.”

“If anyone calls we ignore it or escape through the back door.”

She laughs. “You’re a monster!”

“I’m in love with you, that’s all. When you’re in love nothing is forbidden, everything is allowed.” There’s solemnity in his voice.

“Everything?” she repeats.

“The whole world. The universe.” He releases her. “Look at this.” When he reaches into his coat she expects him to take out a little box with a ring inside, a fantasy replaced just as quickly by another, a photograph of the woman Jessie has supplanted, Yvette in Parisian finery. Yet neither emerges; what he instead produces is something it takes a moment for her to recognise and comprehend, black and terrible in his hand. He holds it by its muzzle, a small pistol.

“By the good Lord, why do you have such a thing?”

He displays it with boastful pride. “Just in case.”

“But it’s dangerous, unlawful. You have to be rid of it.”

“It’s harmless, there’s no bullet.” He puts it to the side of his head and pulls the trigger, she screams as the little weapon gives a click, hears her own scream reverberate, gasps and bursts into tears.

“Don’t cry, silly woman.”

His arms try to encircle her again, but at the end of one of them is the gun she feels pressing on her. “Why show me that horrible thing?” she sobs. “You’re not going to take it to the picket are you? Pierre, you’re frightening me.”

“Calm yourself.” He puts it back inside his coat and wipes her cheek with his finger. “There are no rules except whatever we make for ourselves. I love you, Jessie.” The words sound different now. “I want to know how much you love me.”

“Can’t you tell already?” A sound startles her, someone trying the front door. “It’s John.”

“Does he have a key?”

“He’s always forgetting it.”

Pierre grabs her waist again, one-handed, a gesture filled with bravado. “Let him find his key, then.”