Implosion, p.24
Implosion, page 24
“I’m off to bed. The car will be here at six thirty, and it’ll be a long day.” He hesitated, then turned and left the room. On the stairs he called out to anyone who might be interested, “Good night.”
The sisters looked at each other. For a fraction of a second there was an affinity, a bond, between them. Mary used it to try and bridge the gap. “And they call us the weaker sex!”
But Julia did not respond, and Mary immediately reverted to armed watchfulness, regretting her move. In silence she showed Julia her room, sketchily indicating the bathroom, and in silence they parted.
At six thirty precisely, and without disturbing Julia, John left for Skegness. Mary saw him off and then went back to bed. About nine o’clock she was wakened by the sound of activity in the bathroom, and she got up and went down to the kitchen. She took stock of the refrigerator, then called up the stairs,
“D’you want a cooked breakfast?”
There was no reply, then Julia came down, dressed in a borrowed nightgown and with an eiderdown wrapped around her, not for warmth, or for modesty, but concealment. Mary repeated her question in a businesslike voice.
Julia replied in a like vein. “Do you?”
“No. Ryvita and coffee is all I have.”
Julia stared contemptuously at her sister in an equally thin nightgown. Words were unnecessary.
Immediately Mary flared up. “Now look here! I don’t give a bloody damn if you eat or starve to death! I just want to know.” She went on, sarcastically, “It’s probably news to you, but deep-freeze stuff can do with thawing out a little before cooking.”
“Don’t bother. If I want anything, I’ll cook it myself.”
Mary slammed the fridge door. “All right! Do what you damn’ well please! I’m going to have a bath!”
She thumped up the stairs, and Julia was alone. She lost some of her stiffness as her sister left, her shoulders drooped, and she fought hard with herself and the terrible sense of isolation. Now surely she must have hit bottom, she was quite alone, and had nothing, nothing … But she was free, life could still be good. She opened the casement window, and looked out into the small walled garden. There had been a heavy dew in the night, and the air was cool, earthy. To be free, away from the eternal smell of the sea!
She was still gazing out of the window when Mary came down again, dressed in shirt and slacks. Neither spoke as Mary made the coffee. She poured out two cups and sat down to drink hers.
“Coffee’s ready,” began Mary. “Look, Julia—we can’t go on like this. We were both exhausted last night, let’s forget it—”
Julia turned, hitching up the slipping eiderdown. She took in the slim, trim figure of her sister, the firm breasts, the clean-cut neckline, and at once her attitude hardened. She said, calmly, “You can talk till you’re blue in the face, it won’t alter my opinion. You’re a scheming little bitch who saw what she wanted, and got it. I’ll bet you can’t wait to be Mrs. Prime Minister. Let’s hope that when you get there you’ll be able to enjoy it.”
The vindictive quality in her voice made her sister look up sharply, “And what do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, dear sister, beyond what I have just said. Let’s hope you are able to enjoy it.”
Mary banged her cup down. “I’ve had more than enough of you—I’m not staying here, I’m going back to town!”
“Good!” retorted Julia with false cordiality. She became reasonable, her voice almost sweet, “Don’t worry Mary, I won’t steal anything of yours.”
Twenty minutes later Mary was backing the car out of the garage. Such was her state of mind, she scraped the car against the wall, and did not bother to get out and inspect the damage. Without a backward glance she drove out of the gate, and headed for London.
Julia’s state of mind was also confused. She stood quite still, her eyes darting restless glances around the room as Mary drove away. Now she was really alone, and did not mind if she never saw her sister again. The unity of identical twins is far stronger than most human bonds, but once severed, the division is irrevocable. And both knew it.
For a time she wandered round the living room, touching a chair, an ornament, savoring its difference. Five years is a long time in one place, one room. She would have a place of her own; she too would have real privacy … She daydreamed, making impossible plans, staging scenes in her mind which included a repentant John, and a cast-out Mary …
She was hungry, and a little cold; fantasy retreated before the immediacy of the present. She bathed, and dressed leisurely, dipping into the overnight bag Mary had brought. It was a final, wicked twist that the panties were too tight.
Julia rooted through the well-stocked fridge, and cooked herself a comprehensive breakfast. Ryvita!
The sun was up, and the secluded garden inviting. She had a sudden desire to go out, she had not been alone in a garden for years. She left the washing-up and with infinite care opened the door, checking that she was not overlooked. A house was visible through the trees, presenting a blank expanse of red-brown tiled roof to her. No danger there. She settled on the wall seat, her back resting against the rough stone wall of the cottage. The sun was warm, and Julia was grateful, closing her eyes, basking in the sunlight and the feeling of security and freedom. Life could still be good. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.” Trite, but true. By God, it was true!
Vigilance relaxed, she may have dozed. There was no preliminary warning. The first she knew was the grate of leather on stone. Her eyes opened in alarm, alarm that escalated to speechless, freezing horror.
Two women, raincoated and stoutly shod in brogues, were looking down at her.
Her expression was enough for them. The taller, with sharp-cut black hair, spoke to her companion.
“No one is going to say we didn’t do the job properly.” She leaned forward menacingly, “Got your ticket?”
Half-frozen with fear, Julia could only think of her handbag. To reach those scissors! Her parched throat was constricted, she managed to croak, “My, my handbag.”
The tall woman played with her. “You’ll have to do better than that,” she said reprovingly, but with infinite latent menace. “You really will. We’ve looked already—you shouldn’t leave it lying around—not with all that money—and those nasty sharp scissors. Might cut yourself!”
The second woman, a good deal shorter and broader, grinned appreciatively at her companion’s wit. She spoke, “What’s your name?”
“I—I—,” Julia could not answer.
The tall woman was less playful now. “If the certificate is not in your handbag, where is it?”
“I—I lost it,” Julia tried to fight back, “What right—how—”
The tall woman had it off pat, “Section Two of the Visit and Search Order, 1972, that’s our right. How? Well now, let’s say we found the key, shall we?” She was ferociously genial, “That’s right isn’t it, Mabel?” Her eyes never left Julia.
Mabel nodded vigorously, “Yes, that’s right, we found the key.”
They both laughed and then the taller woman’s manner changed abruptly. “Come on, get up. We can hold you for that alone. Unclassified, you are—without your ticket—if you want to go on pretending you’ve even seen one. OK, play it your way. We don’t mind. You’ll be retested—and the Lord help you then.” She smiled.
Julia was incapable of movement. The short MOHS woman suddenly reached forward and jerked her to her feet. Julia swayed, reached forward to support herself, and got a stinging blow across her cheek.
“See that!” said the taller triumphantly, “resisting arrest, she was!”
“She’s a dangerous one,” responded Mabel, delighted with her own humor.
They half-walked half-dragged Julia through the house and out to a waiting car. She was thrust in the back seat, and the short woman crowded in after her, forcing her in a corner. A short delay, and the senior woman got into the driving seat. The slamming car door was, to Julia, like the gates of Hell shutting behind her.
The woman in the driving seat was adjusting her porkpie hat, studying her reflection in the driving mirror. She spoke without turning her head.
“Where d’you live, dear?” Her off-hand, casual manner terrified Julia, she could not speak, she watched with horror the gleaming hatpin the woman held between her teeth as she set her hat at the regulation angle.
“Answer!” The short woman struck her a sharp backhander on her already swelling cheek.
Choking, tears rolling down her face, Julia gasped, “I—I live—here!”
“Oh yes?” said her tormentor conversationally, “how long?”
“I—one year—two years—”
“Married?”
“Yes—no! No, not now.” God, not now!
“OK, what’s the name of the village pub?” The woman’s tone was harder now.
“I can’t remember …”
“Oh, hard luck!” Again the mock sympathy. “Well—what’s the name of this road?”
“I—I,” Julia could not go on.
“You’re a lying little cow, aren’t you, dear,” said the woman genially. She turned to her companion in the back, “Isn’t she, Mabel?”
Mabel nodded, her eyes bright. She hit Julia again.
“Now!” reproved the senior woman. “I know you’ve missed your weekend because of her, but save it, Mabel, save it.” She looked at Julia’s quivering, puffy face. “You enjoy the ride back Home, dear. Make the most of it. Mabel’s annoyed, lost her weekend she has—all through you. And she’s duty tomorrow.” She injected mock surprise into her voice, “You’ll meet tomorrow—she’ll be on the other end of that whip—and she’s a bloody artist with it—aren’t you, Mabel?”
Mabel grinned sheepishly.
9
Mary was locking the car when the tall woman with gray hair approached her.
“Mrs. Bart?”
Mary nodded. She could guess.
“I’m Penelope Stephens. I’d rather like to talk to you, if you can spare me a few moments.” It was masterly understatement, like “helping the police with their inquiries.” Mary made no comment, but led the way up to the flat.
In the lift, the visitor spoke. “Forgive the spying, but one of my patrol cars saw you in Esher, so I came here and waited for you.”
Mary barely nodded at the MOHS Commandant. Inside the flat, she waved a brief invitation for her visitor to sit, but both remained standing.
“This is a delicate matter, Mrs. Bart. I thought we might get it straightened out without worrying the Minister.” It was nicely put.
“Do sit down,” said Mary. She intended to remain standing.
The Commandant could afford to concede the odd point. She nodded, smiled faintly, and sat. She was clearly determined to keep the matter on as light and casual level as possible. “Acting—as the police say—on information received, two of my women visited your cottage about an hour ago. They found the absentee, and she is now being returned to her Home.”
“An hour!” Mary was startled, her guard slipped. “But that must have been within a half an hour of my leaving!”
The Commandant was not disposed to argue. “Very probably, Mrs. Bart.” She looked with synthetic interest at the carpet. “We were already watching the cottage when—someone—telephoned, so there was no delay.”
“You had my place watched?” Mary was surprised. If she had known!
“It seemed a reasonable precaution; you are the absentee’s sister.”
“Let’s come to the point, Commandant,” said Mary abruptly, “what are you going to do?”
Two cold gray eyes regarded her dispassionately. “Do, Mrs. Bart?” Her voice was almost devoid of expression. “I’d say, nothing. I’m quite sure the Minister knows nothing of this—and we have recovered what is ours. Whether or not you were aware of her presence is in the circumstances, idle speculation. I only know that the Minister was quite,” she stressed the word, “quite explicit in his orders for her recovery. In view of this and in accordance with our legal rights, we inspected your cottage. That is the whole story. A routine inspection of suspected premises.”
So that was the official line. Thin, but plausible. Few would know anything of the episode, and fewer still the true story. The MOHS woman got up to go.
“Yes,” said Mary flatly, “well, thank you for taking all this trouble.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Bart. It occurred to me that you might care to tell the Minister.”
So that was the quid pro quo.
“Very well. Perhaps it would be best.” Mary looked away from the cold expressionless eyes. She fumbled with a cushion, straightening it unnecessarily. “My sister—can you see she is treated—” The words came haltingly.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Bart, truly sorry.” The Commandant was sincere but adamant. “You will appreciate—for the very reason that you ask—that we must let events take their normal course. To do otherwise would be disastrous to Home morale.”
Mary was close to tears. “It’s so damned unfair! She asks so little, really!”
“She asks more than the nation can give.” The Commandant unbent a fraction. “Do not think we are unfeeling, unaware of the tragedy, but there is the bigger tragedy of the nation. That must take precedence. If it is any consolation to you, I intend taking a personal interest in her future.” There was a significant pause. “After tomorrow.”
“But can’t you have her graded unfit?” pleaded Mary.
“You don’t know Home life, Mrs. Bart, it cannot be done. It is a close-knit community. Such action could not be kept secret. In any case, the machine is in motion, and no one can stop it.” There was utter finality in her voice. “I have thought of various ideas—a transfer to another Home, for example, but none of them would work. I can only assure you I will do all I can for her.”
In silence Mary saw her to the door. The Commandant had the last word.
“We put the key of the cottage back where we found it. Good day, Mrs. Bart.”
John got back late the next night, Sunday. He was tired and edgy, trailing the remnants of his cold official manner.
Partly by design, partly by desire, Mary embraced him as soon as he was in the flat, standing on tiptoe, close, her head buried on his chest, smelling the cold night air of his coat. He held her, his eyes shut.
“God! It’s so good, so good to be with you!”
They stood quite still. A police-car siren, ululated distantly, and they held each other tighter. At last he spoke.
“How are things down at Bramley?” Somehow he could not bring himself to name his former wife.
Mary locked her hands behind his back, so that he could not get free. Quickly in a low voice, she told him the story she had accepted from the Commandant.
He tried to break away, but Mary held on with desperate strength.
“Why was I not told—why—why! Let me go, Mary! You don’t know—”
“No! There’s nothing you can do, John. Listen! Listen to me! I told the Commandant it would be best if I told you. If you think for a moment you’ll see that! You couldn’t do anything, you’re caught up in the web as much as anyone else! And now it’s too late. Too late …” She was crying now. “Julia is resting—that’s the official word, resting.”
He stopped resisting and tightened his grip on her. Mary went on, “So blame me, no one else! I could not let you face this decision—either way you’d have loathed yourself. Whatever I’ve done,” she spoke with great fervency, “was for you, because I love you and knew what was best for you—even if you hate me for it.”
“Never that, never. But had I known she had been retaken—” He could hardly go on.
“No, darling, no! Later you’ll understand.”
“Poor Julia! I should have realized they’d watch the cottage, but it never occurred to me they would have the nerve to search the place—”
Mary went cold with fear. Quickly she stalled the inevitable question.
“I know I shouldn’t have left her, but she wanted to be alone—”
He shook her gently. “Don’t reproach yourself, my dear. You did all you could. You’ve been marvelous, marvelous …” His voice faded to a whisper, hoarse with emotion, his head bent forward on her neck, and he wept.
It was then that Mary really hated herself.
Part Three
1
Slowly Bart paced up and down the gravel path in the secluded, hidden garden of 10 Downing Street. The few plane trees had shed their leaves. Usually he secretly enjoyed scuffing through the remnants of summer shade, but now he did it unconsciously, the crisp dry rustling sound passing unnoticed.
It was November 1990. The summer had been bad, and early hard frosts in October boded ill for the winter. Just now, a pale sun shone, and he was grateful for its thin warmth.
“You shouldn’t be out there without your coat!”
His answering smile matched the sunlight. Thin, disembodied. All the same he walked leisurely toward the steps which led up into the house.
Mary watched, then, sure he was coming in, she shivered slightly, and went in herself.
He walked with slow deliberate tread up the steps. There was a slight nagging pain in his side which he ignored.
“You’re hopeless, darling, quite hopeless. Going out there without a coat—”
She rattled on, and that too he ignored. Mary, pleasantly plump, fighting a losing battle with her waistline and graying hair, was always rattling on these days. It did not matter. It did not matter.
He looked back into the garden with regret. It was so familiar an oasis—as well it might be—for he had been the tenant of 10 Downing Street for nearly seven years, ever since old Farmer had died of a heart attack during the New Zealand crisis. So many crises …
That had been out-and-out piracy. Farmer had chosen well in striking at their South Island Home. Five hundred females had been captured in what was probably the last offensive operation of the Royal Navy. There had been a dreadful, fearful moment, when it looked as if the United Nations might act; and at the height of the crisis Farmer had died, and the inheritance was Bart’s. But, as Farmer had predicted at the outset, the UN had neither the interest nor the power to act. Farmer …
