Reckless Page 32

  Stay with the core conclusions. This is not a military crisis. Nuclear missiles are weapons designed not to be used. In this sense they are imaginary weapons. Understand the fear they are designed to allay, remove that fear, and the weapons become redundant.

  But even now, Rupert knew, the Chiefs of Staff would be analysing the Russians’ move in terms of the danger it posed to the West. They would be war-gaming every possible development of Soviet strategy in order to defend against it. In other words, they would be acting as if the Soviet intentions were wholly aggressive. That assumption generates fear. Fear leads to aggression.

  So fear faces fear. Expectation of attack faces expectation of attack. Fingers begin to twitch on triggers. It would be a doomsday scenario but for one thing. Nobody wants to be the bad guy.

  It’s like the final gunfight in a Western. It’s a moral stand-off.

  The first and most crucial battle, Rupert wrote on his pad, is the battle to make the other side shoot first.

  40

  Pamela travelled back from Sussex to London on the afternoon of Monday, October 22. She found the Brook Green house empty. Hugo was at work. Harriet and Emily had gone to stay with Harriet’s family in Lyme Regis for the week of half-term. Mary was in Ireland. Pamela was not sorry to have the house to herself. She was in a strange state of mind.

  She phoned Susie and got no answer. Then after some hesitation she phoned Stephen Ward’s flat, but no one answered there either. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to Stephen. Had he known about André’s tastes? Why had he not warned her?

  Were all men incapable of love?

  She went into the kitchen, and then into the larder, prowling for some source of gratification. She found a tin of Horlicks, and decided to have some. It was years since she had tasted Horlicks. She heated milk in a pan, and added the pale powder, and spent an annoying amount of time making it dissolve.

  The hot sweet malty taste took her straight back to childhood. That brought memories of her father, pulling her over the snow on a sledge, turning back to smile for her. With a lurch she realised how much she had adored him. In her mind he was always some distance away from her, perhaps turning back to wave, but always leaving.

  I hate you for leaving me.

  The anger burst out of nowhere. Still storming that fatal beach. Why? The war was over, the medal won. What was there left to prove?

  It was in him from the beginning.

  And now it’s in me.

  This was what made Pamela walk about the empty house, unable to settle to anything. She was supposed to be calling the art college. Larry had made the contact, they were expecting her. But she could no longer imagine herself as an art student. It had been the picture she had built for herself once of the world she would enter that was beyond home, beyond school. But since then she had been introduced to a very different world, at Cliveden and Mayfair and Herriard, and by that bright light art school looked childish and provincial.

  So what do I want now?

  She felt hurt, and cheated. When her mother was her age war had come along, and swept her up and filled her days. She had been a driver, of all things. When she talked about it, which she did sometimes, she laughed, knowing it was a little ridiculous. But she had loved it. She was in control of her army staff car. She had known, day by day, what she was supposed to be doing. There had been days and nights off, and dancing in London clubs during the blackout, and boyfriends, but nothing serious. Then she had fallen in love.

  The world is different now. Bored people looking for fun, lonely people looking for love.

  Pamela thought back, asking herself when it was that she first saw a man look at her in that certain way. It was five years ago. They’d had a Christmas party at their house, just a drinks party, maybe thirty or forty local friends on one of the evenings leading up to Christmas. Her mother had said, ‘Pammy, you can be our waitress. Take round the cheesy biscuits.’ Edward had still been very small, so how old had she been? Twelve, thirteen. She had held up a plate before the local lord, George Holland, who was even older than her parents, and he had stared at her as if she were the only person in the room, and at the same time as if he didn’t see her at all. Then he said, ‘My word, Pammy, you are growing up.’ She had understood then that he wanted her as a man wants a woman, and it had thrilled her. She had given him her special smile. This involved wrinkling up her nose and half shutting her eyes and giving a little lift of her shoulders, as if she and the person she was peeping at were sharing a secret that was funny and a bit rude. He had smiled back and said, ‘You run along, you bad girl.’ Later, remembering this, she had realised they had been flirting.

  There had been a great deal more flirting since. Pamela adored flirting. She loved that moment when she caught a man’s eye, and saw him struggling to conceal his response to her, and failing. She loved walking into a room and seeing every man there shift his posture to take account of her.

  But flirting is only a prelude. The story has not yet begun.

  In a sudden violent flood her mind filled with images of couples copulating, from André’s collection. Women on their sides, one leg raised; on their hands and knees, bottoms in the air; astride their lover, head arched back; and always, in every pose, stabbing into them, the angry male weapon. This turned out to be the true story after all. This was what being pretty and flirting led towards. You were the only person in the room and they didn’t even see you. It was so mean, it was such a swindle, it made her want to cry. Worse, it made her afraid. What if there was nothing after all? What if the years ahead held only loneliness and disappointment? What then?

  You hear the hiss and suck of the waves rolling up the shingle beach, and they call to you, and you go.

  The key scraped in the front door. Pamela ran into the hall. Hugo entered. The moment he saw her his face lit up.

  ‘Pammy! You’re back!’

  His transparent joy at seeing her changed everything. She laughed and was light-hearted, skipped about making him a drink after his day’s work, felt young and pretty again.

  ‘Guess what I’ve been drinking? Horlicks!’

  ‘My God! Is it drinkable?’

  ‘Next I’ll start wearing baggy cardigans and woolly slippers and keeping budgies.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve come back. I thought perhaps you wouldn’t. You know Harriet and Emily are away?’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m back for now, at least. If you’ll have me.’

  ‘You know you’re always welcome here. You brighten up my drab life.’

  ‘I don’t see that it’s so drab.’

  ‘Actually, business is rather booming at present. Today I signed a deal to supply the new Hilton they’re building on Park Lane.’

  ‘Hurrah! Does that mean lots more money?’

  ‘Some lots.’

  ‘Then we should celebrate. Why don’t we go out to dinner? There’s only us, and I’m a rotten cook.’

  ‘I say, shall we?’

  His eyes shone with excitement.

  ‘I shall dress up,’ said Pamela, ‘so that you won’t be ashamed to be seen out with me.’

  She put on her second-best frock, which was made of fine navy-blue jersey, and was very figure-hugging. There was nothing immodest about it, except for the closeness of the fit to her body. She brushed her hair back and wore it with an Alice band, aware that this showed her cheekbones to advantage.

  ‘There,’ she said, presenting herself with a demure curtsy. ‘I’m practically a convent girl.’

  ‘You’re divine,’ he said.

  They hailed a taxi on Hammersmith Road, and he told the driver to take them to Franco’s on Jermyn Street.

  ‘You’ll like Franco’s,’ he said to Pamela. ‘Italian, but smart.’

  In the taxi he asked after Kitty and the family, and quite suddenly Pamela found herself telling him about her father.

  ‘Mummy told me what really happened,’ she said. ‘I’d never known.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,
’ said Hugo.

  ‘I’m glad she told me. You knew, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, I knew. A real tragedy.’

  ‘Did you have any warning?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Hugo, sounding uncomfortable. ‘I mean, there had been problems. But I never expected him to … ’

  His voice tailed off.

  ‘Mummy says he just had this unhappiness in him.’

  ‘Yes. I think it had been hard for Kitty for some time.’

  ‘You were a good friend to her, Hugo.’

  ‘I adored her,’ said Hugo.

  This simple statement pleased Pamela. It was so heartfelt.

  The restaurant was bright and cheerful and reassuringly expensive. The maître d’hôtel clearly knew Hugo, and greeted him by name. They were given an excellent table. Hugo asked after the day’s specials in the kitchen, and offered to order for Pamela, and studied the wine list with a frown of concentration on his boyish face, and quizzed the wine waiter before deciding. All this was a side of Hugo Pamela had not seen before: the successful man, comfortably in command of the good things in life.

  ‘They have a truffle risotto, with fresh white truffles. We’re in truffle season, so really we have no choice. And I’ve ordered a big bold Barolo. You’ll like it. Oh, and how would you like a glass of Asti to start?’

  As they sipped the fizzy wine, Pamela smiled at Hugo across the fresh linen and the sparkle of silver cutlery.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he said.

  ‘I’m thinking about you,’ she said.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘About how you were going to marry me and you promised to wait for me.’

  He smiled, touched that she remembered.

  ‘So I did.’

  ‘But you didn’t wait.’

  ‘No. How fickle of me.’

  ‘You married Harriet.’

  ‘Yes. Apparently I did.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  He raised his eyebrows at that, and didn’t answer at once. Then he said, ‘Is it so very surprising?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s just a different sort of person to you, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugo, looking down. ‘She is a different sort of person to me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pamela, ‘she’s not well.’

  ‘No,’ said Hugo.

  He drank the rest of his Asti all at once.

  ‘I’m not as good with her as I should be,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ said Pamela. ‘Everyone knows you’re the perfect husband. You’re always so gentle with her. You really take care of her.’

  ‘Like an invalid, you mean.’

  ‘Well, she obviously has some sort of illness.’

  ‘Not one the doctors can find,’ said Hugo. ‘So you see, I’m not really the perfect husband at all. I do what I can, of course I do. But it’s not the way it was.’

  Pamela said nothing. There was no need.

  ‘When I first knew her, she was so adorable. She was so sweet to me, I couldn’t help loving her. We used to play a game—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Sorry. I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this.’

  ‘No, go on. About the game.’

  ‘It was Harriet’s game. We’d hold hands and close our eyes and guess things about each other, just little things, like each other’s favourite colour or the animal we’d be if we had to choose. The thing was, we both guessed right most of the time. Harriet used to say we were like one spirit in two bodies.’

  ‘You were in love,’ said Pamela.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Oh, God. I’m about to say something terrible. No, I won’t say it.’

  ‘About being in love?’

  ‘No. Please. We mustn’t.’

  That we sent a thrill through Pamela.

  ‘I don’t want to be disloyal.’

  ‘The last thing you are is disloyal, Hugo. You’re the most dutiful husband in the world.’

  ‘Well, duty, you know. That’s a matter of upbringing. I know how to do the right thing, I hope.’

  ‘Not everyone does,’ said Pamela. ‘Believe me.’

  She spoke feelingly.

  ‘Some chap been giving you the runaround?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Don’t stand for it, Pammy!’ He sounded almost angry. ‘What right does any chap have to mistreat you? I hope you’ve told him where he can get off!’

  ‘I don’t see him any more.’ ‘I should think not!’

  So Hugo was only doing his duty by Harriet.

  Pamela thought then of what Stephen Ward had said to her. There is no life after marriage. That’s the happy ending. He had spoken with such a bitter edge. She hadn’t paid his words much attention then, and she didn’t want to believe them now.

  ‘I want to believe marriage can be more than duty,’ she said. ‘I suppose what I really mean is I want to believe people can fall in love and it can last.’

  ‘I’m sure it happens,’ said Hugo.

  ‘Do you know any marriages like that?’

  ‘Kitty and Larry.’

  ‘But not my mother and my father.’

  ‘Not Larry’s first marriage, either.’

  ‘So there you are,’ said Pamela. ‘Everyone should get their first marriage out of the way as quickly as possible, and then settle down to a happy second marriage.’

  They ate the aromatic risotto and drank the rich red wine and shared the sensation of physical well-being that comes with a fine dinner. For their main course they had veal escalopes in Marsala sauce. Hugo’s gaze rested on Pamela throughout the meal, and the expression on his face was often pensive. Pamela believed she knew what he was thinking. She too was allowing herself to play with thoughts she had not taken seriously before. She was meeting a different Hugo this evening: a Hugo who was more grown up than she had thought him to be. He was kind, and above all he was moral.

  He had loved her mother. I adored her, he’d said. He had been much younger than her mother, of course. And he was much older than herself. She guessed at the age gap. Twenty years? Bronwen Pugh had married Billy Astor, who was twenty-three years older than her.

  This train of thought caused her to smile. Hugo smiled back across the table at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Silly thoughts running in my head.’

  He didn’t ask her what silly thought she was having; which in itself was interesting.

  ‘You have no idea what pleasure it gives me to be sitting here with you,’ he said.

  ‘Me too, Hugo.’

  ‘Really? I should have thought you’d find me far too dull.’

  ‘You’re not dull at all.’

  ‘I mean, after your smart friends.’

  ‘They’re not really my friends,’ said Pamela. ‘That’s not my world. I’m much happier in my own world.’

  ‘What’s your own world?’

  ‘People like us. People I’ve known all my life.’

  He topped up her glass, and then his own. He raised his glass and she raised hers.

  ‘Here’s to people like us,’ he said.

  They clinked glasses.

  Returning in a taxi Pamela had to restrain herself from snuggling up against him. Then as they entered the house, she realised she wanted Hugo to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her as she had seen him kiss her mother.

  He went ahead of her into the kitchen, saying, ‘I’m going to drink a glass of water before going to bed. Always drink water after wine.’

  She followed, and came to a stop just inside the kitchen doorway.

  ‘That was a lovely evening, Hugo.’

  ‘Wasn’t it just?’

  He drank his glass of water.

  ‘You’re a lovely girl, Pammy.’

  ‘Come and say goodnight.’

  The devil was in her. She felt her power. He came as she commanded.

  ‘Kiss me goodnight.’

  He took her in his arms, at first with his hands on the backs of her shoulde
rs, as you might an old friend. She leaned in to him. His hands moved, to hold her more closely. His face came down to hers. He kissed her, a real kiss, on the mouth.

  Pamela imagined herself as a child again, out in the hall, seeing through the kitchen door: two grown-ups locked in a kiss.

  He moved back from her.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I think we’d better just pretend it never happened. I apologise. I just couldn’t stop myself.’

  ‘It does take two, you know.’

  ‘I’m the responsible one here. I’m simply taking advantage of you, a guest in my house, the daughter of an old friend. My behaviour is unforgivable.’

  ‘So is mine,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Don’t, Pammy.’ He waved a hand before his face, as if in doing so he could erase the effect she had on him. ‘You mustn’t encourage me. I’m no good for you. You could have any man you wanted. You’re simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.’

  Helplessly, pitifully, his eyes implored her for mercy.

  ‘Darling Hugo.’

  ‘No, Pamela, don’t look at me like that. I’m only flesh and blood.’

  ‘I don’t know how else to look at you,’ she said.

  ‘If it wasn’t for Harriet, and Emily, God knows … ’

  He pushed his hands wildly through his hair. ‘It’s all right,’ said Pamela. ‘I understand. You have to look after Harriet.’

  ‘You do see that, don’t you? She needs me.’

  ‘Of course. You’re a sweet man, Hugo. I love you for that.’

  She kissed him again, but this time chastely, on the cheek. Then she went up to her room.

  41

  On that Monday evening in Kilnacarry a soft drizzle filled the air, beneath an overcast sky. Mary Brennan, flanked by Father Flannery on one side and her brother Eamonn on the other, made her way down the hillside path to Buckle Bay. The beach was packed with silent pilgrims, for all the damp weather. They wore scarves over their heads, and hoods, and wool hats. They had been waiting patiently for an hour and more.

  As Mary came in sight a rustling murmur passed through the crowd, and all eyes turned to see her. She was walking fast, her eyes cast down, her hair hidden beneath a scarf tied under her chin. Those in the crowd who remembered her from the time of the visions were shocked to see that she had become a handsome woman. Their voices murmured as she passed by.