Women of Courage (53 page)

‘Like Charles Cavendish?’

‘Yes, if you like. I don’t see what the hell this has got to do with . . .’

‘One minute, and you will.’ Werner held up his crippled right hand, one finger extended like a warning. The finger seemed to fascinate Simon. Werner said: ‘So when you and the aristocratic Colonel Cavendish hear some of the fundamental Orange preachers holding forth about Old Testament values, how do you feel, Simon? When they talk about Sodom and Gomorrah, for instance? After all, Sir Edward Carson is a fine speaker, as I heard for myself the other day, but he is very morally correct, too, is he not? I believe it was he who prosecuted the poet, Oscar Wilde, for . . . what some people call unnatural vices, some twenty years ago. He does not seem to me a man who would look kindly on any . . . immorality . . . amongst his followers. I wonder if that is a strain, sometimes, for a young man such as you.’

For a moment Simon sat quite still without speaking. He seemed very cool but a flush flared on his cheeks and then drained away. There was a vicious look in his eyes, like that of a weasel who has been cornered by a terrier and will bite if it comes any closer. One of the girls behind said: ‘Oh, Belinda, you really can’t have another! It’s
sinful
, that’s what it is.’

Simon murmured: ‘I don’t understand you.’

‘Let me make myself clearer then. If I wrote in my newspaper, or better still in a letter addressed to Sir Edward Carson, House of Commons, a paragraph to say that Simon Fletcher was a sodomite, committing sin and buggery with Colonel Charles Cavendish of the UVF, what would be his reaction, do you think? What would happen to you? It is a crime that carries a two-year prison sentence, I believe.’

For the first time Simon appeared flustered by the proximity of the young ladies behind him. Werner had deliberately raised his voice a little louder than it needed to be and Simon glanced nervously over his shoulder to ensure the women had not heard. Then he turned his head this way and that, as though looking for a way to escape.

‘If you leave now I shall do exactly what I said. Sit still.’

Simon shuddered, then took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the sofa firmly. He met Werner’s eyes with a look of hatred.

‘How did you know?’

‘That is none of your business at the moment. Let us just say I am older than you, and . . . you are not quite so invisible as you seem to believe.’

Let him sweat, Werner thought. He had no intention of revealing his schoolboy connections with Charles Cavendish. That would only give Simon a weapon to turn against
him
. After all, knowledge was power. If he had not known from his own body what Charles was like, he would not have watched him for weeks with the intense gaze of hatred. Would not have seen that he had a young, handsome aide-de-camp who was constantly with him. Would not have approached that aide-de-camp to test his loyalty, and found it wanting. Would not have tested it further with the inspired guess that he had made just now.

There was no doubt it was true. The fascinated horror in Simon Fletcher’s eyes, the fear and honesty that went into his response, put it beyond doubt.

‘What do you want me to do?’

Werner took his time. He extracted a fresh cigarette from the silver case in his pocket, lit it left-handed without offering one to his victim, and said: ‘No more than I have already told you. I want you to get me a full itinerary of Sir Edward Carson’s next visit to Ulster. Date of arrival, people he’ll meet, speeches he’ll make, houses he’ll stay in. I need a precise time and place for all those. Also, exact details of how he’ll be guarded – which unit, how well armed, how many men, how often the guards change, that sort of thing. It shouldn’t be too hard for you. A matter of detailed staffwork, that’s all – and that’s what your unit’s good at, isn’t it? Part of your job.’

‘I can’t find out all those things! They don’t write it all down on one sheet of paper, you know. They keep it secret and change their minds at the last minute, sometimes, for security.’

‘You’re part of that security, aren’t you? You and your lover boy?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Then make it your job to find it out! If it’s difficult, that’s too bad. You know what the alternative is.’

As the shock of discovery sank in, Simon struggled to get control of himself. He felt as though he had stepped through a looking-glass, into the sort of situation which he recognised, but in which he had always previously been in control. He had to find out what the rules were, what were the limits to Werner’s blackmail.

‘Why do you need to know? You
are
a German spy, aren’t you?’

This time it was his voice that was raised slightly higher. He noticed Werner’s eyes flicker momentarily past him, to check if they had been overheard. Two can play this game, he thought.

But then we both lose . . .

Werner said: ‘You can think that if you like, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve always regarded myself as a humble journalist.’

‘Liar!’

Werner stared at him coldly, noticing a hint of courage return to the young man’s face. But it was the courage of desperation, the weasel trapped with nowhere to run. He exhaled smoke across the table.

‘You can insult me if you like, little pederast, I am impervious to that. But I give you two days, that’s all. You must come up with the bones of the information by then. I shall look it through and possibly ask for more details. If there is any backsliding or failure, then you and your Colonel will provide the biggest scandal the national press has seen this year. And for all I know Sir Edward Carson himself will lead the case in court for the prosecution. It will do the cause of Ulster Unionism no good at all. Rest assured, young man, I
am
a genuine journalist, and your story would further my career just as well as the other.’

‘Why don’t you just publish it then?’

Werner smiled. He was aware that it was not a nice smile but he was enjoying the situation. His dislike for Simon and everything he stood for was intense — and he was also aware just how viciously the young man would fight back if he got the chance. It was not a chance Werner had any intention of giving him.

‘Let’s just say that I understand and sympathise with your perversion, shall I? And that it would pain me to think of a sensitive young man like you being beaten and buggered all day by strangers in prison. Or does that appeal to you, perhaps?’

Simon’s face had gone quite white, and his hands shook as he stood up, quite involuntarily, quivering in front of his accuser. Werner thought he might have gone too far. But then they both saw a waiter, hovering uncertainly, and the moment when Simon might have attacked him was gone. He turned abruptly to leave.

‘Simon!’

It was a pleasure to Werner to see how his voice brought the boy up short, like a dog on a leash.

‘Yes. What now?’

‘You forgot this.’

He held out the faded straw boater. Simon reached for it but Werner held it back. As the boy bent towards him, Werner hissed: ‘At the Royal Ulster, on Monday at six, as before. And remember, I shall write the article beforehand and leave it in an envelope ready to be posted if I do not return. Don’t pretend to have principles, will you?’

‘Can I have my hat?’

‘Here.’

As Simon snatched it and strode away through the jungle of potted plants, Werner leaned back in his armchair and took two deep, satisfied breaths. That young man will dream of killing me tonight, he thought. Slowly, he held his cigarette at arm’s length in front of him, watched the smoke curl lazily up towards the ceiling, and smiled.

His fingers were not shaking at all.

26

S
UMMER HAS come early, Charles Cavendish thought.

It was an unusually perfect day. The sun sparkled out of a cloudless blue sky, a cool crisp breeze blew in from the sea over the waving green corn, and all along the hedgerows the trees were in their first flush of new leaf. Charles lounged in the back seat of his open-topped chauffeur-driven Lancia as it bowled along the country roads towards Lough Neagh. They drove past fields full of sheep and young lambs, bouncing after each other like long-legged white rubber balls; woods with a sudden hazy, limitless carpet of bluebells under the trees; a deep swirling river where a single fisherman stood, up to his thighs in water, like a silent, watchful heron; a meadow where a hare stood up on its hind legs in alarm and then ran, zig-zagging left, right, and away, out of sight behind a herd of stolid munching cows.

This is my country, Charles thought. In its way it is the most beautiful place on earth.

The wind on his cheeks was cooler, softer than the breeze on the high veldt, or the harsh dusty blast of oven-heated air that came down the Khyber Pass in summer; but this was the place that mattered most to him. Those other places were for travel and adventure; this was home.

They drove through a small village of a few dozen thatched and slate-roofed cottages with a large Catholic church with a spire like a small cathedral at the end of the street and he thought: it is their land too in a way. But they are not fit to govern it, no more than peasants in the Sudan or Zulus in South Africa or Muslims in Lahore can be expected to rule themselves. It is not their place in life, nor will it be for a hundred years. If the government gives way to them all the energy and prosperity of Ulster will be lost, we will sink in confusion and savagery.

But it isn’t going to happen.

The Lancia bounced and swayed down the long rutted track towards St Andrew’s Preparatory School, and Charles glimpsed an orderly pattern of young boys in white between the trees, with a little crowd of spectators clustered by the pavilion and the scoreboard. In the sudden silence as the chauffeur stopped the car and switched off the engine outside the front door of the school, Charles heard the sound of his own boots scrunching across the gravel, sparrows chirping in the ivy, the crack of bat on ball and young boys cheering in the distance.

There was no one about. He made his way quietly through the garden to the cricket field. As he appeared near the pavilion the headmaster, Dr Duncan, rose from a deckchair to greet him enthusiastically.

‘Colonel Cavendish! What a marvellous surprise, sir, marvellous! Your timing couldn’t be bettered — your son is next in to bat, I believe. Yes, that’s right! Fifty-three to get off eight overs with four wickets in hand! They have a wickedly good off-spinner but we’re still in with a chance, I think!’

‘Splendid!’ Charles glanced up the steps of the pavilion to where his son, in cricket whites and pads, sat with his bat clutched tensely across his knees, staring out across the field. At first he thought Tom had not seen him but then the boy turned his way, and his eyes widened with surprise and delight. Charles walked up the steps towards him and Tom got awkwardly to his feet.

‘Hello, Father.’

‘Hello, Tom. Thought I’d drop in, see how the old team was getting on.’

‘It’s a bit stiff. They were a hundred and thirty two all out and we’re eighty for five, and one of their bowlers is . . . oh crikey, look at that. He’s going to catch him!’

Charles turned to see a young fielder running slowly backwards with his hands raised high, intent on the flight of a ball which came down to him, safe into the hands which clutched it to his chest. There were cries, groans, and applause from the crowd.

‘Help! I’m in! Where are my gloves?’

‘Here, I think.’ Charles picked them up from the floor and handed them to him. ‘Good luck. Play a straight bat, Tom.’

‘I will if I can.’

And then his son was gone, out onto the field, still fumbling with the gloves, his bat held clumsily under one arm. The pads, Charles thought, were a little big for him — the straps flapped and clinked as he walked. There was polite applause as he passed the batsman on the way out, and then Tom was there at the crease, taking his guard at the umpire’s directions while the bowler waited impatiently.

Charles was astonished at the sudden tug of emotion the sight wrought in him. The boy seemed so small suddenly, so vulnerable — only a foot or two taller than the stumps he was standing to guard. I hope he does well, he thought, in front of all these people — and me. I could have put him off by arriving just at that moment. That would be awful.

He was suddenly aware that more than half the spectators and boys were watching
him
, rather than the game. He was in full military uniform, right on the front steps of the pavilion. Quickly, he stepped down and went to an empty chair right at the back of the crowd, to make himself less conspicuous.

Tom survived the first ball and the next, and Charles began to breathe more easily. The third spun off the outside edge of his bat and Charles groaned, but the boy in the slips dropped the catch. Off the last ball Tom drove the ball for two runs and Charles heaved a sigh of relief.

Over the Easter holidays, father and son had become, for the first time, friends of a sort. It was a new emotion for Charles. He had been away abroad so often while Tom was young, and when he was at home on leave the boy had seemed either afraid of his father or indifferent to him, more interested in collecting worms or beetles or stealing cakes from the kitchen. Then, Tom had been Deborah’s concern. Now, at the same time as he was finding his relationship with his wife harder and more repugnant than ever, Charles had come to feel new pride in his growing son.

That boy in white out there with the flapping oversize pads will grow into a youth and then a man and will one day inherit Glenfee, he thought. I shall never have another son. The sort of man he grows into will depend a great deal upon me.

When two more overs had gone and Tom had scored ten runs, Charles began to relax. The headmaster came over to talk to him and Charles responded civilly. His son, he learned, had settled in well this term and, in every department except Latin, was up to scratch. Dr Duncan was chiefly interested to learn what shape the UVF was in and Charles told him, curtly, that they could now take military control of the entire province overnight if they wished. Then Tom, to his father’s vast delight, hit a four, and both men applauded.