Reckless Read online

  ‘He loves Kitty,’ said Rupert.

  Geraldine let go of his sleeve and came to a stop.

  ‘No,’ she said. Then she screamed. ‘No! No!’

  Rupert was forced to turn back. Passers-by were staring.

  ‘He doesn’t love Kitty!’ Geraldine howled. ‘He loves me!’

  The exultation was gone from her face. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. Her arms hung limp by her side.

  This is my baby sister. We played together as children. I loved her once.

  Rupert was overwhelmed with pity and sadness.

  ‘Come here, sis.’ He took in his arms. ‘It’ll be all right. There won’t be any war. We’ll all go on living.’

  ‘I don’t want to go on living,’ she cried, sobbing in his arms. ‘I want the world to end. I want it all to be over.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  She calmed down slowly, her face pressed to his shoulder.

  ‘We just have to struggle on somehow, don’t we?’ he said.

  ‘It’s too hard,’ she said. ‘Too hard.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What’s wrong with us, Rupert? Why can’t we be happy, like everyone else?’

  ‘I don’t think everyone else is all that happy. I think most people find it hard too.’

  He hailed a cab for her.

  ‘You go home now. Go home and rest. I have to go back to work.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Men always have to work.’

  Rupert gave the cabbie Geraldine’s address. The taxi drove off. He walked slowly now, back to the Ministry.

  I want the world to end.

  An end to struggle and failure. An end to loneliness. What if those in charge of the nuclear buttons felt it too? Let all our sorrows be wiped away. Let the page turn and we can start afresh. A new story on a new sheet. The age-old seduction of the end of the world.

  47

  It was Father Flannery’s idea to hold a prayer service that Thursday evening. The pilgrims weren’t going away.

  ‘We’ll pray the rosary,’ he said. ‘We’ll ask God for forgiveness.’

  The rain was falling heavily, streaming down the tile roof of the church, overspilling the clogged gutters and running in streams between the gravestones. The pilgrims crowded into the church, shaking off their umbrellas, discreetly shuffling for a place in the whitewashed nave where they’d be close enough to hear.

  Father Flannery and the Brennans and Patrick Dempsey, who had experience as a bouncer in the pubs of Sligo, were squeezed into the tiny vestry, waiting for the crowd to settle. The priest peeped through the crack of the door.

  ‘That’s a good crowd,’ he said.

  ‘Am I to say no flash photographs?’ said Patrick Dempsey.

  ‘No,’ said Mary. ‘Let them do as they wish.’

  ‘They’ll not come past the communion rail,’ said the priest. ‘Not in my church.’

  ‘Will you speak to them, Mary?’ said her brother.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say,’ said Mary.

  ‘We’ll just pray,’ said the priest. ‘We’ll pray together for the world.’

  Then the priest stepped out of the vestry and spoke to the people packed into the church.

  ‘I have Mary Brennan with me here,’ he said. ‘She’s here to join us in prayer. She’ll not be speaking to you herself.’

  He beckoned Mary out, along with Eileen and Eamonn Brennan. There was a stir in the church as the people strained to see her.

  ‘Now I’ll ask you to kneel with me and pray to Our Father in heaven to show us his mercy and kindness in these troubled times.’

  The people shuffled onto their knees, as did the Brennans by the altar. The priest made the sign of the cross and led them all in the prayers of the rosary.

  ‘I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth … ’

  The murmuring voices of the faithful filled the church, blurring into the sound of the rain on the roof. Mary spoke the familiar words of the creed by rote, no longer aware of any meaning.

  ‘He descended into hell; the third day he rose again from the dead … ’

  She knew she should be thinking of the perilous state of the world, but she was not. She was thinking how small the church was, and the village, and how she wanted to get away from it. She was thinking how she had never had pretty clothes to wear, like Pamela, and how men had never looked at her the way they looked at Pamela.

  Then she was remembering how Brendan Flynn had given her a cigarette to show him her weenie. And how she had flicked up her skirts to show the devil her bum.

  Here I am, twenty-nine years old and never been kissed. All I’ve had is Jesus come to me over the water and say to me, ‘Be my voice.’

  I’ve done what you said, Lord. When’s it my turn?

  They were into the long chain of Hail Marys now.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women … ’

  And I’m Mary too, and I’m blessed among women. Only nobody asked me and I don’t want it.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.’

  Mother of God. Not wife of God. Not girlfriend of God. No fun and games for Mary, no making love, just a baby out of nowhere and a lifetime of sorrow and an eternity of being prayed at by keening women. Who’d be a Mary?

  I’ll go back to London tomorrow, she thought. First thing I’ll be on the bus south, and catch an afternoon plane. Rupert will come to see me and I’ll tell him all my wicked thoughts and he’ll laugh at me. That’s assuming the world hasn’t ended after all.

  She became aware of raised voices. Someone was shouting. There was a scuffle in the nave, and more raised voices.

  ‘Save me, Mary! I don’t want to die!’

  A woman was pushing through the crowd towards the altar, her arms flailing. Her face was distorted with panic.

  ‘Let me touch her! If I touch her I’ll be saved!’

  People were pulling the woman back, trying to get her on her knees again. From the sound of her voice she wasn’t a local, Spanish perhaps, or Mexican. A lot of strangers had come to Kilnacarry in the last few days.

  ‘The warning! Tell us the warning!’

  This was a different voice, a younger woman, crying out from the back. At once a dozen other voices joined in.

  ‘Mary! Speak to us! When’s it to come, the great wind? The wind, Mary! Tell us!’

  Mary turned towards them, not knowing what to do. The priest was on his feet, his hands raised in protest.

  ‘That’s enough now!’

  But fear had taken hold of the pilgrims, and they were pushing forward, calling out.

  ‘Take me with you, Mary! I don’t want to die! Have pity on us! Tell us! Tell us!’

  Now they were forcing their way past the communion rail, and Mary, frightened, was backing towards the altar. Eamonn and Patrick Dempsey stepped forward to protect her. The priest called out in vain.

  ‘No! Go back! What are you doing? This is a disgrace!’

  The woman who had first begun the calling out now broke free of those trying to restrain her and hurled herself forward onto the altar steps. She had black hair in a braid and big black frightened eyes. She lunged at Mary, hands outreached, and managed to seize hold of the hem of her coat.

  ‘Take me with you!’ she cried out. ‘Take me with you to heaven!’

  She had a mad desperate look about her. Mary shrank back in fear as Eamonn pushed the woman away. The woman held on so tight to Mary’s coat that she was almost pulled over.

  ‘Take her outside, Eamonn!’ said the priest.

  Everyone seemed to be shouting now, the whole crowd pushing forward to reach Mary. Eamonn took her by the arm and pulled her away to the vestry, while Patrick Dempsey blocked the rush of people. From the vestry Eamonn took her straight out into the night, into the falling rain, fumbling to open the umbrella he carried. Before he could get it open he saw there were pilgrims spilling out of
the main door of the church, making their way between the gravestones of the churchyard towards them.

  ‘Run, Mary! Don’t mind getting wet!’

  He kept hold of her hand, and they set off at a run up the road. The pilgrims caught sight of them and gave chase. It would have been comical if it hadn’t been frightening.

  Hot, panting, drenched, they ran all the way to their cottage. As soon as they were inside, Eamonn bolted the door. They stood there in the dark and listened as the chasing crowd caught up, and called to Mary, and beat on the door.

  ‘Mary! Mary! Speak to us!’

  Then they lit the lamp and took off their wet coats and dried their wet faces.

  ‘It’s madness out there,’ said Mary.

  ‘And it’s cold and wet,’ said Eamonn. ‘They’ll not stay long.’

  Shortly there came a different voice at the door, the voice of the priest. He was outside with Eileen Brennan. They opened the door and let them in, closing it at once afterwards.

  ‘That was a terrible disgrace!’ said the priest. ‘The shame of it in my church!’

  He was very angry.

  ‘It’s the fear has got them,’ said Eileen Brennan. ‘They believe our Mary can save them.’

  ‘I can’t save them,’ said Mary.

  ‘It’s the devil at work,’ said the priest, brushing the rain off his coat. ‘To riot like that in my church!’

  Eamonn peeped out through the shutters.

  ‘They’re not going away.’

  ‘I’ll give them not going away,’ said the priest. ‘Open the door for me, Eamonn.’

  Eamonn let the priest out and bolted the door after him. They heard him in the rain, raging at the pilgrims, ordering them back to their homes, threatening them with the police, and the bishop, and the wrath of God. The pilgrims listened in silence, but they did not go.

  The priest came back into the house.

  ‘They want you, Mary,’ he said. ‘They say you have a message for them.’

  ‘I’ve no message at all, Father.’ The pilgrims frightened her. ‘I want to leave. I don’t like this.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said her mother.

  ‘Well, there’ll be no leaving till the morning,’ said Father Flannery. ‘In the morning, they’ll be gone. They’ll not spend all night out there. Not in this weather.’

  But they did. In the morning, when Eamonn looked out through the kitchen window, he reported that the rain had passed and the pilgrims were still out there. If anything the crowd had grown bigger.

  The priest had spent the night on the wooden settle, and was in a foul mood.

  ‘You’ll have to tell them something, Mary,’ he said. ‘Just to get them to go away.’

  ‘What can I say, Father?’

  ‘They’re wanting to be given a date for the end of the world. So give them a date. Tell them Wednesday fortnight.’

  ‘Wednesday fortnight!’

  ‘And for pity’s sake someone brew me a mug of coffee.’

  48

  ‘Of course I want to do something,’ said the prime minister testily. ‘That is the bane of the politician’s life, the urge to do something. And, need I add, to be seen to do something. But there are times when the right if inglorious decision is to do nothing.’

  ‘We are not the principals in this affair,’ said Lord Home. ‘Our place is to support our allies.’

  ‘Yes, but confound it!’ said Mountbatten. ‘How can we stand by and do nothing when we’re on the brink of being dragged into an entirely unnecessary war? Today is Friday. On Monday the Marines go in. Kennedy doesn’t want it. Khrushchev doesn’t want it. But neither of them can back down. It’s a matter of face. That’s where we come in. We can broker a deal.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like better than to broker a deal,’ said Macmillan. ‘But are you quite sure this contact of yours isn’t using you for some other purpose?’

  Mountbatten sighed.

  ‘Captain Ivanov is a member of the Soviet armed forces. His loyalties are to the Soviet Union. All he’s saying is that the Soviet leadership wants a way out of this mess, but they can’t say so in public because it would involve a loss of prestige, and so he offers to provide a back channel. Yes, he’s using me. And we can use him.’

  ‘And the proposal is that we call a summit conference in London?’ said the Foreign Secretary.

  ‘We propose that in private. If Khrushchev signals that he’d accept, we make the proposal to Kennedy, also in private. No one has to back down from a public position of strength. When agreement has been secured on both sides, we here in London make the public proposal, in the interests of world peace.’

  Macmillan looked to his Foreign Secretary.

  ‘What do you think, Alec?’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Lord Home. ‘This proposal comes from a junior Russian spy. I have to ask myself, to put it crudely, what’s his game? None of these embassy boys makes a move without clearing it with Moscow.’

  ‘Maybe his game,’ said Mountbatten, ‘is staying alive. If this thing goes up, we all go. Imminent global annihilation does tend to concentrate the mind.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Home. ‘But I think it’s far more likely that this is part of a strategy to drive a wedge between ourselves and our allies.’

  Macmillan nodded.

  ‘I’m afraid I agree, Dickie. It’s a Soviet ploy.’

  ‘They play this game all the time,’ said Home. ‘Round up world opinion on some airy platform related to world peace in the hope of isolating the United States. The capitalist warmonger, and so on. If they could recruit us to their parade, it would be a major propaganda coup. This Ivanov of yours has been instructed to lay a bait for our vanity.’

  ‘So you don’t see any value at all in my back channel?’

  ‘Let’s stick with the usual sources, Dickie,’ said the prime minister. ‘Safer to leave it to the professionals.’

  *

  Back in the Ministry of Defence, Mountbatten told Rupert of the failure of their proposal.

  ‘Leave it to the professionals,’ exclaimed Rupert bitterly. ‘Meaning the same bunch who got us into this mess.’

  ‘I’m sorry. They’re quite old school, you know. I think both Harold and Alec regard this back channel business as a touch ungentlemanly.’

  ‘God save us from British gentlemen.’

  Rupert was disappointed. But he had not given up yet.

  ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘The back channel is based on a nod and a wink. Nothing in writing. Why don’t I tell Ivanov to pass back the hint that London would be open to brokering peace, if given a strong enough nod from Moscow? Maybe if we start the ball rolling, the professionals can pick it up and run with it.’

  ‘You’re proposing to lie to Ivanov?’

  ‘Is it a lie? Macmillan wants the conference. He gets to be the peacemaker, the wise elder statesman. He just doesn’t want to initiate the proposal. But once we get it out there, once there are voices calling on him to step forward and save the world, don’t you think he’d accept?’

  ‘He’d think Christmas had come early,’ said Mountbatten. ‘I didn’t have you down as a Machiavelli, Rupert.’

  ‘I can go one step further,’ said Rupert. ‘You know nothing about this. Whatever I do, I do on my own initiative. As far as you’re concerned, the matter was closed by your conversation with the PM today. This conversation has not taken place.’

  ‘And still isn’t taking place?’

  ‘Even as we speak.’

  ‘Then let me add this last thought. Harold’s secret fear is that Britain’s views no longer carry any weight in the United States. And his secret pride is that he has a fatherly influence on Jack Kennedy. They’ve spoken on the phone every evening, you know, since this crisis began. So if there were to be some sort of peace summit, he would see himself as the natural chairman.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Rupert. ‘I shall now go and not act on all that we haven’t said.’

>   *

  Rupert met Ivanov as before, in Stephen Ward’s flat. Stephen Ward was present. A little to his annoyance, Rupert learned that Stephen had also been pursuing contacts for Ivanov.

  ‘I’ve talked to Godfrey Nicholson,’ he said. ‘He sits on the backbenches, but he’s highly respected. He’s willing to get on to the Foreign Office for us. And I’ve been on to Lord Arran, who’s a good friend, and he’s willing to meet you.’

  ‘Don’t bother with the Foreign Office,’ said Rupert. ‘And actually, Stephen, I’m not sure that roping in Uncle Tom Cobley and all is going to do us much good.’

  ‘I will meet anybody,’ said Ivanov. ‘The situation is critical.’

  ‘Just doing what I always do, old chap,’ said Stephen. ‘Getting people together.’

  ‘Listen, Eugene,’ said Rupert. ‘Mountbatten’s had a word with the PM. Macmillan is definitely interested. But any proposal for a peace summit can’t come from him. So you’re going to have to deliver on two fronts. First, Moscow has to signal they want this to happen. Second, they have to prompt a third party to make the proposal.’

  ‘Rupert! My friend! This is wonderful news!’

  ‘Do you think you can deliver that?’

  ‘Of course! All they’re waiting for is the hint that the offer will be welcomed. You know, Rupert, great leaders of proud nations are like lovers. They don’t wish to ask for a date until they know they will be accepted.’

  He reached for his coat, and then, his coat on, he embraced Rupert.

  ‘I go now, to save the world.’

  From the window, they watched him stride away up the mews.

  ‘Well done, Rupert,’ said Stephen.

  ‘We’re not there yet,’ said Rupert.

  49

  It was almost the end of Friday afternoon when Pamela arrived at the Kenya Coffee House on Marylebone High Street. She had suggested to Susie that they meet here, but had not told her friend that it was a favourite haunt of Stephen Ward’s. Pamela wanted to see Stephen again, and to talk to him, but she didn’t want him to know she wanted to see him.

  Susie appeared, only a little late, wearing a fawn-coloured suit and too much make-up. She looked to Pamela like a middle-aged child.