Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) (43 page)

23

In the morning, around six o’clock, just as the pale weak sun filtered through the curtains and woke Paul Haydn in the Tysons’ living-room, Jon returned. He stood at the door, looking at Paul, at Paul’s wrinkled clothes, at the ashtrays near him filled with cigarette stubs, but it seemed as if he registered nothing.

Paul rubbed the cramp out of a leg muscle and asked, “Bobby’s all right?”

Jon didn’t answer. His white face looked at Paul blankly. He said, “He’s still alive.” His voice broke.

“How’s Peggy?” Paul asked quickly.

Jon regained control of himself. “She’s—she’s pretty wonderful,” he said. He looked round the room again, at his desk with its pile of exam papers to be graded. Yesterday afternoon, he had begun to work on them. But yesterday was a thousand miles away... “I came for some things,” he said, trying to remember. “Clothes for Peggy...my own stuff... we’ll work out some kind of routine between us so that there will always be one of us with him...” Again he paused, and a shadow crossed his face. “We sat outside his door last night. We weren’t allowed inside. We’ll get a cot moved into his room tonight. Peggy’s going to stay with him. If Rona will look after Barbara, then I can divide my time between the hospital and here. And college. How’s Barbara?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but opened the hall closet and brought out a suitcase. Then he went into his bedroom. He came back with a fistful of handkerchiefs and a nightdress. “A toothbrush,” he said to himself, and hurried into the bathroom.

Then he came back and packed the articles he had gathered. “It isn’t enough,” he said, staring down at the empty spaces in the suitcase.

“What about slippers? A dressing-gown?” Paul suggested.

“Yes, that’s it. And stockings. Peggy ripped one of her stockings.” But he didn’t move; he still stared down at the suitcase. “She wanted something for Bobby...” He couldn’t remember. “God,” he said, “how can a kid bear so much pain? At least, he’s alive. He has a chance. That’s what the doctors say. And they’re telling the truth, Paul. They told us, when they wheeled him into the operating-room, they told us they could promise nothing. They were frank then. Now they say he has a chance. We can believe them, can’t we?”

“Yes,” Paul said. “Yes. Look, Jon. I’m going to cook up some coffee for us. You take a quick shower and a shave. Then you can get back to the hospital and let Peggy have time out for her breakfast. Is that an idea?”

Jon nodded. He left the suitcase lying open on the floor. He moved towards the bathroom. He kept talking as if words were a release. “That’s the way it happens with young children. There’s no real warning. Just the sudden attack. Even then, you don’t know what is wrong. The pain even isn’t on the right side to tell you what it could be. If the doctor hadn’t come round here at once, last night—if he hadn’t lived near us—if Peggy and I had been out—if we... Oh, God!”

“But you got Bobby to the hospital. And he has a good chance,” Paul said quietly. “No good torturing yourself with ‘ifs’, Jon.” He thought of himself during those last hours since Rona had arrived here. I ought to have given myself some of that advice, he told himself grimly.

“Barbara all right?” Jon asked again. “Rona’s with her?” He looked as if he might enter their room to see for himself.

“Let them sleep,” Paul said quickly. “Have that shower and shave, first.” He went through to the kitchen, and began rummaging around to find where Peggy kept the coffee and the percolator. Eggs. Bread. A toaster. Butter. What was he going to tell Jon about Rona, about Scott Ettley? How little, how much? It depended on the punishment Jon could take. He had to know, and the sooner the safer. Not only for Rona’s sake, but for his own.

It wasn’t long before Jon came through to the kitchen. He had changed his wrinkled shirt and suit. His manner was different, too, as if the cold shower had put new energy into him. He said quickly, “I went into Barbara’s room to see if she was all right. Rona—she’s still in her street clothes. They’re torn. There’s a purple bruise at her throat.” He took a deep breath. “What’s wrong now?” he asked. I might have guessed something was wrong, he thought, when I found Paul still here half-asleep in an armchair. Only, I was thinking of Bobby; I was thinking only of Bobby. “What’s wrong?” he repeated.

“Easy, Jon, easy. Nothing is wrong now.”

“You’d better tell me what
was
wrong,” Jon said, his face white and taut.

“Here’s some coffee. Drink it. And I’ll tell you what I know.” Paul watched Jon’s face as he talked, keeping his voice unworried, his eyes reassuring. He chose his phrases carefully, giving only the brief details as he had learned from the policeman. He hid his own emotions as well as he could.

When he ended, Jon said, “And she’s been asleep like this ever since?”

“Yes. It’s probably the best treatment her nerves could have. I thought of phoning for a nurse. But the less fuss we make about this, the better. At least, that’s what I thought Rona would want.”

Jon nodded. Then his mouth tightened. “And Ettley disappeared? He didn’t put up much of a fight and then he ran away—is that what I’m to gather? But why? I’ve never known him to be a coward. Has he gone crazy?”

“I don’t think he’s a coward,” Paul said. “I don’t think he’s crazy, either.”

Jon shook his head. “No sane man would have behaved that way.”

“If he took Rona to that dark section of the Park, he did it for a reason. If he disappeared as soon as the officer mentioned a visit to the police station, he had a reason. We might not like his reasons if we learned them. We may never be able to understand them because we belong to a different world. But the fact remains he had his own reasons. They exist. And I, for one, want to find them out.”

“I must say you are taking this more coolly than I’d expect,” Jon said, his anger returning. “I’d like to break his jaw.”

“Last night, I was all set to break his neck. But I’ve had some time for thinking. I know what has got to be done. I’m going to find out Ettley’s reasons, I’m going to end his usefulness to the men who taught him his reasons. Yes, I’m going to find out all about Comrade Ettley.”

“Let’s keep the bitter jokes out of this,” Jon said. “I’m too damned tired to be able to smile.”

“I’m not cracking any jokes,” Paul said. “I’m as serious as you are.”

Jon stared at him. “Ettley?—I don’t believe it... Ettley a Communist? You’re crazy, Paul.”

“Then so is Milton Leitner.”

“Ah...” Jon said. He was remembering Milton’s visit last night, the hushed conversation at the other end of the room, the worry on Milton Leitner’s face as he left, the worry on Paul’s as he had started to tell Peggy and Jon a piece of news. So Milton Leitner had brought that news. “Is there evidence or is it just suspicion?” he asked. His voice was quiet again, quiet and controlled.

“That is the first thing I have to find out,” Paul Haydn said, and poured another cup of coffee. “I go on from there, depending on what I find.”

“But how are you going to do it?”

Paul passed over some toast and dished the fried eggs. “Let’s get something solid on our stomachs,” he suggested.

“Paul—how are you going to find out the truth? That will be a whole-time job.”

“What if it is?”

“You mean you’ll resign from
Trend
? But, Paul, you can’t give up your career. You’ve just started it again.”

“How many of us would have any careers worth following, if Ettley and his crowd won control?” Paul asked. He smiled grimly as he added, “Besides, once Ettley’s friends discover what I’m going to do, they’ll start such a campaign against me that I won’t be left with much of a reputation, far less a career.”

“You make them sound powerful.”

“They can be powerful, all right. They are as powerful as we make them.”

“Yes,” Jon said bitterly. “They take our good will and turn it as a weapon against us.” He was thinking of the news that Milton Leitner had brought. He was thinking of all its implications: Ettley making friends with his students, the seemingly casual introduction to Murray, the invitations, the easy path to Nicholas Orpen... “But I can’t believe it,” he said almost to himself. “Ettley?” He looked at Paul, and then he added, “That was just my vanity. It is pretty hard to admit that you’ve been a bad judge of a man. If this is true, then I certainly have been one of the trusting fools who have helped them.”

“So was I, if that’s any comfort,” Paul said. He was thinking of the way he had at first refused to listen to Roger Brownlee. Even later, he had only believed grudgingly. He had made a very unwilling recruit, cursing his own conscience for refusing to leave him in peace. But now—I’ll see Roger at once, he thought. He’ll be able to give me some advice, he’ll put me in touch with men who know more about this kind of work than I do. Thank God I’ve had some training, though. Those years against the Nazis are going to come in useful now.

“I’ve gone numb,” Jon said. “I can’t even think what I must do about Ettley.” But his voice was calm.

“I’ve told you I’m taking action,” said Paul. He was watching Jon. The counter-shock treatment was working, slowly and cruelly. But it was working.

“I’ve been to blame for a lot,” Jon argued. “Those who are to blame ought to pay the bill.” He had said that often enough—each man must judge his own debts and make his own atonement. “Yes, I’ve been to blame,” he repeated, his eyes narrowing, his white lips tight.

“Not you.”

“If Bob Cash goes the same way as Ettley—” Jon began.

Paul said sharply, “Get rid of that idea. Let’s pin the blame where it belongs. Ettley betrayed your friendship, he betrayed his father, he betrayed his girl. All in the name of Obedience to the Party, disguised in a flurry of double-talk about democracy and idealism. He hasn’t stopped to think that each step takes him deeper into the gutter, that the filth of the gutter will cling to him, and that no double-talk will ever clean him of that. He hasn’t stopped to think that his own corruption will corrupt the power he wants to have.”

There was a pause. Then Jon said, “What if he ever does stop to think?”

“That’s his problem,” Paul answered bitterly.

“I wouldn’t envy him that one.” Then Jon remembered his own. He glanced at the clock. “A quarter of seven...what’s wrong with Barbara this morning? She’s usually awake with the crack of dawn.”

As if to answer him, so that both men were forced to smile, Barbara’s light voice came drifting down the long hall. “Bobby,” she was saying, “Bobby’s gone. Aunt Rona, where’s Bobby? Aunt Rona, Aunt Rona!” Her chant became a despairing cry ending in tears. I’m abandoned, the frightened wail seemed to say. I’m all alone and no one loves me.

Jon started down the hall, but even as he reached the bedroom door, the crying ceased. Rona was speaking. She was speaking hoarsely, in a strained voice, but the words were calm and gentle. Barbara began to laugh. “Funny voice,” she said. “Do it again.”

Jon turned to look at Paul who had followed him. “No?” he asked, nodding toward the bedroom door, trying to put off the moment of seeing Rona, of telling her about Bobby.

“Leave it to Barbara for a few minutes,” Paul said. “What about finishing your packing first?”

They retreated into the living-room. Then they looked at each other. “All right,” Paul said helplessly. “Let’s admit it.”

He began gathering the blue-covered test papers which Jon had been grading yesterday afternoon. “You want these along?” he asked crisply. He was trying to forget Rona’s voice.

“Might as well,” Jon said, equally brisk. “The results have to be posted by Monday.” He brought the suitcase over to the desk. “Here, shove them in.” He began picking out the other books he would take with him. As he worked, he was beginning to realise what kind of night Paul Haydn had put in. Paul’s in love with Rona and I never even thought of it until these last moments, he told himself angrily; that’s how selfish your own troubles can make you. Last night must have been as much hell for Paul as it was for us. But he was alone. And I had Peggy.

Paul looked up to find Jon watching him. “Yes?” he asked.

“I was thinking that Peggy had better come back here and take charge. Or perhaps we could get Moira Burleigh from upstairs to help us out.”

“There’s no need,” Rona said from the doorway. “I’ll look after Barbara. I’m—I’m all right.” The two men turned quickly to look at her. She was wearing one of Peggy’s housecoats, and she had loosely twisted a silk scarf round her neck. Her face was white, but it was calm. She held Barbara in her arms. “Don’t worry about my voice,” she said, “it sounds worse than it hurts.”

“Funny voice,” Barbara said approvingly.

Rona came into the room. “Where’s Bobby? What’s happened?” She didn’t look at Paul, not even when Barbara stretched out an arm to him and said, “What happened?—what happened to the potamus?”

Rona, with her eyes fixed on Jon, kept that same unnaturally calm look on her face. “I came in late last night,” she said. “I was tired. I fell asleep. I was so stupid with tiredness that I didn’t notice I lay down on Bobby’s bed. It was empty. That was all I noticed. But why—where is he?”

“He’s in hospital,” Jon said gently. “Appendicitis.”

“Bad?”

“It was. He has a chance now, though.”

“Oh, Jon!” Rona set Barbara down while she stared at him unbelievingly.

He said quickly, watching her face, “I must get back to the hospital right away.” He pointed to the suitcase. “Help me, Rona, will you? What would Peggy need?”

Rona looked at the suitcase, and she almost smiled. “More than that,” she said.

Jon picked up the case, and carried it toward the bedroom. Rona went with him. She still did not look at Paul. Together, she and Jon finished the packing. When they returned to the living-room, it was empty.

“Barbara!” Jon raised his voice.

“Here I am!” Barbara called back from the kitchen. She sounded cheerful enough.

She was sitting in her high chair, a napkin tucked round her neck, her face buried in a large glass of milk. She blew gently into the glass and admiringly watched the bubbles rise.

“Where’s Paul?” Rona asked. The hall door closed quietly to answer her. She looked at Jon.