Sleeping Tiger (3 page)

FIESTA AT CALA FUERTE

by
George Dyer

Selina turned down the corners of her mouth. The book seemed very heavy. She riffled its pages and then closed it, as though she had already finished reading it, with the back of the book lying upwards on her knee.

The face leapt at her, as a name does, suddenly out of a column of newspaper print. It was a casual photograph, blown up to fill the space on the back of the jacket. George Dyer. He wore a white open-necked shirt, and his skin, in contrast, was dark as leather. His face was seamed with lines, they splayed from the corners of his eyes, drew deep channels from nose to mouth, furrowed his brow.

But still, it was the same face. He hadn't changed so much. The cleft was there in the chin. The neat ears, the light in his eye, as though he and the photographer were sharing some outrageous joke.

George Dyer. The author. The man lived on an island in the Mediterranean and wrote about the inhabitants with such balance and sanity. That was his name. George Dyer. Selina picked up her bag, took out the photograph of her father, and, with hands that trembled, held the two photographs alongside each other.

George Dyer. And he had published a book. And he was alive.

2

She took a taxi back to Queen's Gate, ran up the stairs, burst into the flat and called for Agnes.

“I'm here, in the kitchen,” Agnes replied.

She was making tea. As Selina appeared in the open kitchen door, Agnes, spooning tea into the pot, looked up. She was a small, ageless person, her slightly sour expression a defence against the tragedies of life, for she had the kindest heart in the world, and she could scarcely bear to hear of hardship or sadness which she was unable to relieve. “Those poor Algerians,” she would say, putting on a hat in order to go out and buy a postal order, probably for more than she could afford, and during the Freedom from Hunger campaign she had done without lunch for seven days on end, and suffered cruelly from the resultant tiredness and indigestion.

The lease of the Queen's Gate flat had already been sold, and when Rodney and Selina were married and moved into their new house, Agnes was going with them. It had taken some time to make her agree to this. Surely Selina wouldn't want old Agnes under her feet … she would want a fresh start on her own. Selina had managed to assure Agnes that nothing was further from her mind. Well, Mr. Ackland, then, Agnes argued; heavens, it would be like having his mother-in-law come to live! Rodney, primed by Selina, talked Agnes out of this one. Then she said she didn't like the idea of moving, she was too old to move, so they took her to see the new flat, and she was charmed, as they had known she would be, by the brightness and convenience of it all, the American kitchen filled with sunlight, and the small sitting-room which would be Agnes's own, with a view of the park, and her own telly. After all, she told herself stoutly, she was going with them to help. She was going to work. And, in time, no doubt she would become a Nanny again, with a new nursery to rule, and another generation of babies, an idea that stirred anew all her latent mothering instincts.

Now she said, “You're back early. I thought you were going to go and measure the floors.” Selina stood in the door, pink-cheeked from running upstairs, and her blue eyes bright as glass. Agnes frowned. “Is anything wrong, dear?”

Selina stepped forward and laid a book on the scrubbed table between them. She said, looking Agnes straight in the eye, “Have you ever seen that man before?”

Agnes, alarmed, let her gaze slowly drop to the book on the table. Her reaction was more than satisfactory. She gave a small gasp, dropped the caddy spoon, and sat down suddenly on a blue painted chair. Selina half-expected her to place a hand over her heart. She leaned forward across the table. “Have you, Agnes?”

“Oh,” said Agnes. “Oh, what a turn you gave me!”

Selina was relentless. “You have seen him before, haven't you?”

“Oh, Selina … where did you … How did you know … When did you…” She was incapable of framing a single question or finishing a single sentence. Selina pulled up a second chair and sat facing her across the table.

“It's my father, isn't it?” Agnes looked as though she was about to cry. “Is that his name? George Dyer? Was that my father's name?”

Agnes pulled herself together. “No,” she said. “No, it wasn't.”

Selina looked rebuffed. “Well, what was it?”

“It was Gerry … Dawson.”

“Gerry Dawson. G. D. The same initials. The same face. It's a pen-name. It's obvious; it's a pen-name.”

“But, Selina … your father was killed.”

“When?”

“Just after D-day. Just after the invasion of France.”

“How do we know he was killed? Was he blown up in front of an eye-witness? Did he die in somebody's arms? Do we
know
he's dead?”

Agnes ran her tongue over her lips. “He was missing. Presumed killed.”

Hope leapt anew. “Then we don't
know.”

“We waited three years, and then he was presumed killed. They let your grandmother know, because Harriet … well, you know. She died when you were born.”

“Didn't my father have any family?”

“None that we knew of. That was one of the things your grandmother objected to. She said he was without background. Harriet met him at a party; she was never properly introduced, the way your grandmother would have liked.”

“For heaven's sake, Agnes, there was a war on! It had been going on for five years. Hadn't Grandmother noticed?”

“Well, maybe, but she had her standards and her principles and she stuck by them. There's nothing wrong in that.”

“Never mind about it. My mother fell in love with him.”

“Hopelessly,” said Agnes.

“And they got married.”

“Without Mrs. Bruce's consent.”

“And did she forgive Harriet?”

“Oh, yes, she was never one to hold a grudge. And, anyway, Harriet came back to live here. You see, your father was sent … well, in those days they called it Somewhere in England. But he was sent to France … on D-Day-plus two, it was. He was killed soon after. We never saw him again.”

“So they were married for…”

“Three weeks.” Agnes swallowed the lump in her throat. “But they had a honeymoon, and they were together for a little while.”

“And my mother was pregnant,” said Selina. Agnes looked at her in a shocked silence. She still did not expect Selina to use such words, or even to know about such things.

“Well, yes.” The face on the back of the dust-jacket caught her eye, and she straightened the book neatly, watching the wicked light in the dark eyes. Brown, they'd been. Gerry Dawson. Was it really Gerry Dawson? It certainly looked like him, or at least the way he would look now if he hadn't been killed, like that, so young and so handsome.

Memories came nudging back and they were not all of them bad. He had given Harriet a glow and a vitality that Agnes had not known she could possess. With Agnes he had flirted mildly, slid her a pound note when nobody was looking. Nothing for Agnes to be proud of to be sure, but it had been a bit of fun, just the same. A bit of fun when life was singularly unfunny. A masculine wind blowing through the house of women. Only Mrs. Bruce had held out against his charm.

“He's a waster,” she had announced. “You can tell. Who is he? What is he? Take away the uniform and you're left with a handsome drifter. No sense of responsibility. No thought for the future. What sort of a life can he offer Harriet?”

Of course, in a way, she was jealous. She liked to order people's lives, to keep a tight rein on the way they behaved, and the money they spent. She had meant to choose, herself, a husband for Harriet. But Gerry Dawson, for all his charm, had a personality and a determination to match her own, and he had won the battle.

Afterwards, after he was dead, after Harriet, not wanting to live, had died, Mrs. Bruce said to Agnes, “I am going to change the baby's name from Dawson to Bruce. I've already spoken to Mr. Arthurstone about it. It seems the obvious thing to do.”

Agnes did not agree. But she had never been one to argue with Mrs. Bruce. “Yes, madam,” she had said.

“And, Agnes, I would rather she grew up not knowing about her father. It can do her no good, and it might make her feel very insecure. I trust you, Agnes, not to let me down.” She held the baby on her knee, and she had raised her eyes, and the two women had watched each other over the fluffy head of the baby.

After a little pause, Agnes had said, again, “Yes, madam,” and was rewarded with a brief, cold smile. Mrs. Bruce lifted Selina and placed her in Agnes's arms. “I feel much happier now,” she said. “Thank you, Agnes.”

*   *   *

Selina said, “You think it's my father, don't you?”

“I don't know for sure, Selina, and that's the truth.”

“Why wouldn't you ever tell me what his name was?”

“I promised your grandmother that I wouldn't. Now, I've broken my promise.”

“You didn't have any choice.”

A thought struck Agnes. “How do you
know
what he looked like?”

“I found a photograph, ages ago. I never told any of you.”

“You're not going to do—do anything.” Agnes's voice trembled at the very thought.

“I could find him,” said Selina.

“What good would it do? Even if it was your father.”

“I know it's my father. I just know it is. Everything points that way. Everything you've told me. Everything you've said.…”

“If it is, then why didn't he come back to Harriet, after the war?”

“How do we know? Perhaps he was wounded, lost his memory. These things happened, you know.” Agnes was silent. “Perhaps my grandmother was so horrid to him…”

“No,” said Agnes. “That would never have made any difference. Not to Mr. Dawson.”

“He'd want to know he had a daughter. That he had me. And I want to know about him. I want to know what he's like and how he talks and what he thinks and does. I want to feel I belong to someone. You don't know how it is, never really belonging to anybody.”

But Agnes understood, because she had always known Selina's hunger for what it was. She hesitated and then made the only suggestion she could think of.

“Why don't you talk it over,” she said, “with Mr. Ackland?”

*   *   *

The publisher's office was at the top of the building, at the end of an uncertain upward journey by small trembling lifts, short flights of stairs, narrow passages and again, more stairs. Out of breath, and feeling as if she were about to emerge on the roof, Selina found herself in front of a door marked “Mr. A. G. Rutland.”

She knocked. There was no reply, only the sound of a typewriter. Selina opened the door and looked in. The girl who was typing glanced up, stopped for a second and said, “Yes?”

“I wanted to see Mr. Rutland.”

“Have you an appointment?”

“I called this morning on the telephone. I'm Miss Bruce. He said that if I came about half past ten…” She looked at the clock. It was twenty past. The typist said, “Well, he's got someone in with him now. You'd better sit down and wait.”

She went on typing. Selina came into the room, shut the door and sat down on a small, hard chair. From the inner office came the murmur of male voices. After twenty minutes or so, the murmur became more animated, and there was the sound of a chair being pushed back, and footsteps. The door to the inner office opened, a man came out, pulling on his overcoat and dropping a folder of papers.

“Oh, careless of me.…” He stooped to scoop them up. “Thank you, Mr. Rutland, for everything.…”

“Not at all; come back when you've got some fresh ideas about the dénouement.”

“Yes, of course.”

They said good-bye. The publisher began to return to his office, and Selina had to stand up and say his name. He turned and looked at her.

“Yes?” He was older than she had imagined, very bald, with the sort of spectacles you can either look through or over. He was looking over them now, like an old-fashioned schoolmaster.

“I … I think I have an appointment.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I'm Selina Bruce. I called this morning.”

“I am very busy…”

“It won't take more than five minutes.”

“Are you a writer?”

“No, it's nothing like that. I just wanted you to help me … to answer some questions.”

He sighed. “Oh, very well.”

He stood aside and let Selina walk past him and into his office. There was a turkey-red carpet and a littered desk, and shelves and shelves of books, and books and manuscripts piled on the tables, and on the chairs and even on the floor.

He did not apologise for any of this. He obviously saw no need … and indeed there was none. He pushed forward a chair for Selina and went to settle himself behind his desk. Before he was even thus installed, she had begun to explain.

“Mr. Rutland, I really am sorry to bother you and I won't take a moment more than I have to. But it's about that book you published,
Fiesta at Cala Fuerte.
”

“Oh, yes. George Dyer.”

“Yes. Do—do you know anything about him?”

This blurted question was met with an unnerving silence and an even more unnerving glance over the top of Mr. Rutland's spectacles.

“Why?” said Mr. Rutland at last. “Do you?”

“Yes. At least I think I do. He was a … friend of my grandmother's. She died about six weeks ago, and I … well, I wanted to be able to let him know.”

“I can always forward a letter for you.”

Selina took a deep breath and proceeded to attack on another flank.

“Do you know very much about him?”

“I should think as much as you. I presume you've read the book.”