Jane, however, was much more than an averagely good citizen. In no time at all she seemed to have acquired a position of authority at the Town Hall, distributing chits for this and that, fixing homeless families in temporary quarters, smoothing out countless difficulties and bringing order out of chaos wherever she turned. All the qualities that had made her hoydenish as a girl and excellent as a diplomat's wife made her now superb. She knew how to talk to poor people without condescension and to officials without subservience. She knew exactly when to insist and when to cajole, when to rebuke and when to flatter. And she seemed to have no physical fear. This, to Charles, who had, was the most remarkable thing of all.
Owing partly to an early fresh-air upbringing and partly also to much experience of savage injuries caused by broken glass, she developed what Charles jokingly called a 'window neurosis'. As soon as she entered a room she would rush up to closed windows and open them, thus lessening the danger of blast, but also (as Charles pointed out) destroying the effect of indoor heating on cold days. Charles, in his office overlooking the Horse Guards Parade, was one of those who found the government heat ration hopelessly inadequate unless he worked in his overcoat and trusted to draughts for ventilation. Once Jane visited him and went straight to the windows, opening them wide and exclaiming: 'Charles, you're stuffy in here.' A man named Etheridge, who happened to be with Charles at the time, gave the statement a prolonged joy-ride. 'Of course he's stuffy in here. Isn't he stuffy when he's with you too? Why, that's what we call him--STUFFY ANDERSON.'
They hadn't, until then. But afterwards those who knew him well enough and liked him sometimes did. Others picked up the nickname without the story of its origin, and thinking of him as Stuffy found stuffiness in some of his behaviour. His minute handwriting helped, and perhaps also a certain fussiness over details that did not, just then, seem to everybody worth the attention he gave them. He could not have explained, and perhaps he did not know, that he clung to the importance of these trivia as to a symbol of what could not be blown to bits or buried under rubble. The verbal correctness of despatches, for instance. He abhorred jargon, the diplomatic as much as any, and would frown on any junior who talked or wrote of 'implementing a decision' or 'activating a policy', except of course when such idioms were consciously used to disguise or fog a meaning. For certain words his dislike amounted to prejudice--'rededicate' was one; 'underprivileged' was another. To the surprise of some in his department, he had no objection to 'okay'. He was not a pedant. Now that the immediate threat of a German invasion seemed to be over, there were often arguments about the value and quality of Churchill's oratory--that speech, for example, about fighting on the beaches and in the fields and the streets and the hills. How far could it have weighed in the hairline balance that had so recently existed? It was often conceded that further fighting would have been hopeless if ever an enemy had seized the airfields, the railways and roads into London, and the Channel ports, nor was it certain that all this could have been prevented if enough German lives had been staked. Yet the romantic view, the heroic attitude, however false or illogical-- what a weapon it had been, and especially in the almost total absence of other weapons! Charles, whose service to his country was at no time romantic, nor did he ever think it was, could share nevertheless the sense of glory that sometimes touched London's tired morning faces like an extra colour on a painter's palette that came from no known mixture of other colours. It would have been hard to make a memorandum about this, but it was clearly the stuff that dreams were made of, and English dreams at that. Charles was a great admirer of Churchill and of the fighting-on-the- beaches speech. But of the other famous one, about having nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat, he would only comment: 'It always WAS good--even when Garibaldi and Lord Byron and John Donne thought so.'
* * * * *
Charles alternated with Jane, as a rule, in visiting Gerald at weekends; it rarely happened that they could go together. But Gerald meanwhile was happy enough with Aunt Birdie and had made friends of his own age in the small Cheshire town. Charles told Jane he sometimes doubted whether the boy really enjoyed his visits or was just polite enough to give him a civil welcome.
'Of course he likes to see you, Charles. But he's as shy of you as you are of him.'
'I don't mind. My time will come later. What I'm really looking forward to is when he's about seventeen or eighteen and we can start being companions. Climbing, for instance--I'd like to take him up Scafell.'
'I'll be getting on for sixty when Gerald's eighteen.'
Charles's vision of Scafell had included only himself and Gerald, but he replied gallantly: 'Why all the mathematics? People have climbed the Matterhorn at sixty.'
She shook her head. She was in one of the sombre moods that had come rather frequently of late--the strain of the raids, he surmised. He wished she would go back to Cheshire and rest for a few weeks.
Abruptly she came over to his chair and sat on the arm. 'Charles, do you remember those little islands near Stockholm that we always said were so fascinating though we never found time to land on them?'
'Yes?'
'Well, that's the point. We never found time. And it would only have taken a day.'
'That's so. But what made you think of them?'
'I've been thinking of a lot of places lately. For relief, I suppose. You have to think of OTHER things when you're doing SOME things. . . . Places where we've lived, or just visited, or passed in a train or boat, and memory put a red star in the corner like pictures in a gallery that get sold. . . .'
'That's a pretty comparison.'
'. . . The Danube at Giurgiu, do you remember, and the old man who came on board festooned with green peppers and pomegranates? And St.-Rémy-de-Provence on the night they had the wine festival? And Kandersteg, where you said you'd like to paint, but I wanted to climb, so we climbed. . . . I'm sorry about that now. I should have let you paint more.'
'We couldn't climb and paint at the same time, and I always enjoyed climbing.'
'Charles, if you ever marry again, pick a young girl who doesn't like climbing, because you're getting to the age when painting is so much better for your heart.'
Charles laughed, yet was increasingly puzzled by her mood. He said lightly: 'My heart's all right, Jane, as you know better than anybody.'
'That's pretty too. Reminds me of old times. Compliments and champagne under the chandeliers. Our lives have had so much of that, haven't they? You remember François Pichel? He once told me you could pay a compliment as well as any Frenchman.'
'Which was a nice way of paying himself one.'
'He also liked your paintings. Where are they all now?'
'Goodness knows. Brunon had a lot, and where's he? Still at Clermont-Ferrand, I hope--it's pretty safe there. . . . Some others were at Beeching and when the place was sold they got mixed up with the stuff that went to auction. I have a few here, probably ruined by dust and dampness. . . . Why this sudden interest in them?'
'Because . . . oh, Andy, paint some more some time, will you? Would there be anything to paint on one of those islands?'
'Why, yes, I daresay, but--'
'Could we ever go there and see?'
'After the war, of course. . . . But Jane, what's the matter? You're not--specially--UPSET about anything, are you?'
As soon as he had spoken it the question seemed absurd. There they were, huddled in a cold room after a makeshift meal, weary from a day of effort and nervous tension, waiting for the night which, if it followed a familiar pattern, would bring them more of the same.
'I'm all right,' she answered. At that moment the sirens began, and from then on it was the plain truth; she WAS all right. And though Charles wasn't, altogether (his stomach never could get used to the sound), it was easier to brace himself for the performance of certain known duties than to prowl wistfully among the memories. 'No champagne under the chandeliers tonight,' he said grimly, reaching for his equipment. It was his turn for fire-watching a
nd with a raid in prospect he must start at once.
He often felt that he endured these occasions only by having to go out and do things instead of staying at home to wait for things to happen.
* * * * *
One morning in March there was an 'incident' in a street called Marlow Terrace, where bombs had fallen during the night. The usual after-raid work was in progress--digging into ruins to discover if anyone trapped were still alive, and an evacuation of families from nearby houses that had been declared unsafe. The sun shone like a red globe through the dust, the air was warm with a touch of spring, and a canteen served tea to anyone who wanted it-- officials, rescue workers, and residents alike. All the routine of behaviour that had by now become so dreadfully normal was operating smoothly, and there was nothing in Marlow Terrace that made it different from scores of other London streets that morning. Suddenly a delayed-action bomb exploded from the front garden of a house where evacuation had just been ordered. It was an enormous explosion heard miles away. The walls of all the adjacent houses caved in and made a mountain of rubble from pavement to pavement. A roaring fire broke out almost immediately from escaping gas. The whole street had been so busy, just before, that survivors were unable to say exactly who had been there and who elsewhere; only a roll-call, undertaken later, gave a list which could be no more than tentative. A few persons were just not seen again, and nothing was ever found of them, or guessed about them unless someone came along to say that so-and-so was missing and might have been or must have been in Marlow Terrace about that time.
Charles was caught up in an unexpected flurry of office work that day and towards late afternoon telephoned his flat that he would have to miss dinner and (since it was his night for fire-watching) would not be home till next morning. He left this message with the woman who came in to clean and tidy up; she said Jane had been out all day and had not telephoned. This was fairly unusual, but there were a dozen possible reasons; the whole fabric of wartime life was interwoven with such unusualness. Charles thought little of it, ate a sandwich at his desk, and worked throughout the evening. Towards eight o'clock he telephoned again, just to say hello, but there was no answer. This was on the way to being unusually unusual, since even if Jane had gone out again for the evening after receiving his message she would hardly do so without giving him a ring. He therefore telephoned again just before nine, which was his hour for beginning watch and ward; still no answer. It was an eight-hour spell, and after it of course he could go home, but generally he finished the night on the army cot that the government had austerely installed in his office. Etheridge was sharing duty with him. He did not tell Etheridge why or where he kept dialling fruitlessly every hour or so. Etheridge was sleepy and dozed part of the time on his own cot; Charles was ready to wake him in any emergency. But there was no raid that night. About four o'clock Charles decided that as soon as he was free he would go to his flat immediately. He was already disturbed enough to wonder at what time a call to the police would cease to seem panicky. After half an hour of wondering he didn't even care, and a few minutes later he felt he could wait no longer. He telephoned the police from the office. They put him on to some young woman whose job seemed to be nothing but dealing with that kind of problem, and after he had given all the details, he fancied he caught in her answering voice an implied rebuke for his premature anxiety. Actually this comforted him a good deal during the hour or so before the same voice spoke to him again.
He was then alone in his office, preparing to leave. He could not at first accept what he heard, but soon it fell into a perspective of credibility, being no more unlikely than much else one heard about every day. He sat at the desk for a moment, his hand still on the telephone. Then Etheridge came in. Etheridge did not apparently notice anything wrong, or perhaps he was too tired to observe Charles closely. Presently Charles said: 'Etheridge, I've just had . . . what may be bad news . . . about my wife . . . It seems . . . they say . . . by the way, where's Marlow Terrace? Isn't it near Sloane Square?'
Etheridge came over and gripped his arm. Charles then turned to him with a stricken face and a remark that sounded foolishly like the kind he might have made at a cocktail party: 'You met my wife once, I think?'
Etheridge accompanied him to Marlow Terrace, but there was nothing to see or do and hardly any more to learn. The rather remarkable circumstance, even for those times, was that there was just the slightest possibility that Jane might still turn up from somewhere else if one could think of any plausible reason for her continued absence from home. Charles, as the hours passed, could think of fewer and fewer such reasons. That she had had business in Marlow Terrace on the previous morning was verifiable, and that she had actually gone there was verifiable, but many had been killed who might have been with or near her at the time, and a postman delivering letters further along the street had already said he had seen someone roughly answering her description, just about where it happened and before he was blown unconscious. He had noticed her particularly, he said, because she had been doing her job so briskly and cheerfully, handling a group of evacuees as if (in his own words) she were 'running a school treat or something'.
The hair-line of doubt, the ten-thousand-to-one chance, preoccupied Charles for weeks and drove him near what he himself felt to be a dangerous edge of mental balance. Perhaps he was saved because he thus felt it, and could therefore exert the necessary controls. But there were times when control was uncertain. It was surprising how many people, seen at a distance or passingly for a few seconds, looked like Jane; and how plausible then became the theory that Jane might have walked away from all the commotion unnoticed and unhurt except for complete loss of memory. There were stories about things like that. One afternoon he was on top of a bus along the Strand when he saw Jane (his recognition was quite positive) standing outside a cinema. He started up like a madman, ran down the steps and dodged traffic at the risk of his life, but too late to intercept her before she entered. His excitement at the box office and subsequent explanations of why he was wandering up and down the aisles to peer along rows of dim faces, did not satisfy the ushers, who ordered him out and threatened to call the police if he didn't clear off. He went on explaining, so they called the police, who listened more tolerantly and advised him to go home. He did not go home, but waited three hours till the show was over, watching the main entrance from as close as he dared. But there was a side-street exit that he could not also watch.
Again he saw Jane in the Burlington Arcade leading a Pomeranian. That was strange, because she had always preferred big dogs. He hurried up to her. 'Jane . . . JANE! . . .' She smiled a professional smile and took his arm, but the little dog yapped and snapped at his heels. From the way she scolded the animal he knew she could not be Jane at all. He apologized. 'What's the matter with you?' the woman jibed. She called after him as he walked away: 'Nuts, that's what you are!' Odd, he reflected, suddenly sane inside his normal self, how American slang was driving out English slang--though 'nuts' was certainly a good word, as good as a good monosyllable can be.
This sort of thing disturbed Charles so much that he thought he might do well to see a doctor or a psychiatrist, but he shrank from the ordeal of discussing his affairs with a stranger. Then he remembered somebody who was not a stranger. On impulse he called on Blainey in Welbeck Street, catching the surgeon just about to leave for his hospital. They talked for a short while. Blainey was sympathetic, but had to insist he was unqualified to give more than the most general advice. He could, however, recommend a colleague--Heming Wentworth, just across the street. . . .
Charles said: 'I suppose the real reason I came to you is because you were a witness that time of my father's somewhat--er--peculiar behaviour, and I thought--I wondered if--by any chance--things like that . . . father to son, you know . . . not necessarily the SAME kind of peculiarity, but . . . But you're probably reluctant to give an opinion?'
'I couldn't as an expert, Anderson, but for what it's worth I'd say your father's trouble
is entirely his own affair--nothing to do with yours, which sounds to me like a very understandable result of what you've recently been through. . . . You need rest, probably that's all. And mental rest. Haven't they found any trace--some piece of jewellery or something you can identify and then feel sure about it?'
'There was part of a wristwatch that might have been hers.'
'What do you mean--MIGHT HAVE BEEN?'
'It was the same type. But I went to the shop and made enquiries-- they said it was manufactured in thousands before the war.'
'So you still feel . . . but that IS the trouble, isn't it?'
'I know. It's foolish. Like going back to the front door to try the lock when you know it's closed.'
'You don't really BELIEVE she's still alive?'
'No, not at all. Well, hardly at all. Except when I see her-- THINK I see her, that is. I'm a . . . temperamentally, I mean . . . I'm a bit of a sceptic. But perhaps a credulous one.'
'A credulous sceptic, eh? What sort of animal is that?'
'Well . . . if I saw a man walking on the water, I don't think I'd conclude he was the son of God, but I'd probably say: Look, there's a fellow seems to be able to walk on water. . . . Because so many strange things happen today. One must cling to one's doubts, but it's just nonsense to disbelieve everything on principle. . . . I won't take up more of your time, though. You're right about my needing rest--I'll try to get it. I wish I could join the army and get away somewhere. Sort of requiescat in khaki. But I'll be all right. You've given me the answer I wanted.'