Boys and Girls Come Out to Play (45 page)

The plunderers were hardly out of sight—and Morgan standing, his tie half-tied, staring after them—when a siren sounded over the power plant and screamed at full strength for a half-minute.

Morgan waited for no more. He opened the door and ran out, a suitcase in each hand.

But he had barely turned toward the stairs when he heard a high voice, and there, cantering after him, was old Simon’s haunting, exasperating figure. “Mr. Divver? Where is Mr. Divver?” cried the old man angrily.

“What!
You
know, don’t you? Did he not come back?”

“No, sir; where is he?”

“Don’t ask me. In his room?”

“He has run away, too.” The old man hit Divver’s door
with his fist, threw it open, and turned on Morgan again: “No, sir, he has never returned … Very well,
you
must come instead.” He caught Morgan by the wrist.

“For what?”

“You sit with him for ten minutes, sir—no more, I promise you. You were his wife’s friend: now, you can repay him. Ten minutes, while I make arrangements.”

“Is he really dying?”

“No, but I cannot make him hear me.”

In the drawing-room, the curtains were closed tight, the place was still in darkness.

“Who is it?” cried the engineer from the bedroom. “Divver?
Wer
da?”

Simon pushed Morgan into the bedroom.

“You, James,” said the engineer, “well, well!”

He was lying in the middle of the familiar bed, propped up by pillows, wearing his gold glasses and pale blue pyjamas. His white mane, pressed out of shape by sleep, rested against the headboard just at the mouth of the embroidered trumpet which Cupid was blowing into his ear. He looked like any prosperous businessman, caught in an unusual stage of convalescence. He was unshaved, his topsheet and blanket were pushed down below his knees, an ashtray rested on an undersheet smeared with ash. In his hands was a Tauchnitz book entitled
The Public Papers and Addresses of Albert, The Prince Consort,
yellowed by years of exposure, unpurchasable by even the most bored and desperate tourist. Tapping it, the engineer said, in his strong, normal voice: “A highly intelligent man: those who sneer at him are ignoramuses, believe me. Sit down, James.”

Laying the book away, the engineer sighed, and seemed to reflect on a possible choice of words. At last he assumed an expression of humorous woe, and in a voice exactly attuned to his expression, said: “Well, James, my boy, the old mountain-lion
has received a mortal blow. They’ve got him on his back at last.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Morgan.

“And so am I, James, so am I: but we cannot deny plain fact. The doctor tells me that I shall soon be up and around once more, but I cannot share his optimism.” He sighed again. “Divver has left?”

“I have no idea where he is, Mr. Streeter.”

“Pooh, pooh: call me Larry, James … Ah, well; he had the right to walk out; he has many active years ahead of him. And so here we are all alone, you and I, with our mutual friend departed.”

He looked at Morgan with an agreeable smile that managed to suggest that they were mutually betrayed and, consequently, partners. Morgan was terrified, and said hurriedly: “I hope to take the train this morning, Mr. Streeter.”

“Of course; quite right,” said the engineer, nodding and smiling so warmly that Morgan felt ashamed. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” he asked.

“I think not, James. I must draw on my own resources now. Yes, I must rebuild my life with my own hands. Have you by any chance seen my wife?”

After hesitating, Morgan replied: “Yes, Mr. Streeter. She took the train last night.”

“Did she borrow money from our friend Max?”

“No, from me, sir.”

“Well, don’t look so downcast, James. No doubt she spun you some story that you couldn’t resist. Am I right? … Never mind; I am embarrassing you. Did she happen to say where she was going? Now, James, don’t you answer me if you don’t wish to.”

“She’s gone back home.”

“And left you ashamed of being her accomplice.” The engineer smiled genially. “Don’t give it a thought, James. I’ve
lived long enough to know how these things happen … Well, the old lion must rise up alone, it seems. How about a cup of coffee before your train, James? Of course. Simon!”

There was no answer.

“Well, we must wait. What is the noise outside?”

Morgan parted the curtains, and cried: “My God, it’s the evacuation practice!”

“But
real
this time, eh?” said the engineer.

There was no doubt of it. The organized crowd that had shown so white against the gaslight was now picking its way in clear view into the most mixed collection of real private cars and trucks. The mayor sat as before under the lime tree; and as Morgan watched, his jaw hanging, the stretcher bearers ran smartly out of a baroque house and, under the eyes of two policemen and his secretary, inserted the old body of Mr. Grieg into the lower berth of a genuine ambulance.

Panting for breath, old Simon ran into the bedroom. Ignoring the engineer, he whispered in Morgan’s ear: “The mayor has a place for the director. Make him come, sir.”

“Not for me, sir,” said the engineer loudly. “I stand on my own feet. James, you take my place.”

“Jesus, I would die of shame! I chose to stay, I am not ill, I have a passport. By God no! I’ll wait for my train.”

“Then
you
,” said the engineer, pointing his finger at Simon. “Get along with you! Thank you for your help, Simon: now, get out, or you will be too late.”

“I can never leave …”

“Go on, goddammit; go on, old man. Don’t argue with me. Go home!”

“Home?” said Simon, with shaky bewilderment.

“Home, Tutin, wherever it is!” The engineer was now shouting like a strong man. “You do what I tell you and get out!”

The old man looked at him, puzzled, unhappy, frightened.

“Get out!” shouted the engineer. “You’re no good here.”

At this, the old man gave way and ran from the room.

“Sometimes one must be harsh,” said the engineer, falling into his normal tone. “That old man was trained as a serf: you need a crowbar to free a serf.” He thought over his own words, and then added, “There is
one
other way, of course.” He looked closely at Morgan and asked curiously: “Will you see our mutual friend again?”

“When he gets home, if he
does
.”

“Then perhaps you would like to know why he has run out on me … No, don’t get all het up; it’s a simple, useful story. I am alone here because I turned out to be a criminal in the eyes of your friend and my wife. I committed the worst crime in the book: I freed them, freed the slaves.” He sat up eagerly, his eyes full of satisfied malice. “Do you know what I did yesterday? I said I was through; I cried; I asked them to help an old man and remember how much he had helped them. I told them I was ashamed of my life and that I would repent and never be a tyrant again. At first, they soothed me and said ‘There, there, Larry; you just feel a little depressed.’ When they saw I meant it, it was more than they could bear: they began to feel a terrible cold draught. First my wife ‘went out to the drugstore’ as she said; then that poor idiot Divver went into the next room and spent an hour or so heating up his old principles. Do you know what his last words to me were? He put his head in at the door and said: ‘I have decided that it is impossible for me to associate with a man whose views are totally reactionary.’ If he had had a gun, he would have shot me … Well, sir, when I think of those two parasites searching around now for a bigger and better nursemaid, I feel my strength come back. I shall make
all
the parasites and politicians miserable”—and holding up a set of fingers, he began to tick off: “one—Mr. Minister Tevil: two—his government and his lousy country: three—our mutual friend, with his
parrot’s tongue, his indomitable principles and his reversible conscience: four—my dear wife, who will marry again, and live in misery to the end of her days with a man who respects her. I am only sorry that she has no conscience to worry herself with, and no brains to grasp the truth of the situation. Divver, fortunately for me, has just enough of both to live on in endless shame … Well, off you go, young man, and catch your train. And do pass on what I have said, to Divver; otherwise, there is just a chance that he may manage to bury the past, to forget that he never felt so natural and happy as when he escaped from his progressive friends and found me, a dictator.”

“What are you going to do, Mr. Streeter? You look very healthy to me. I should never have listened to you.”  

The engineer made no reply, and picked up his book.  

Morgan left the room, picked up his suitcases, stumbled down the backstairs, past the empty kitchens and into the courtyard. On rounding the hotel he saw that although the evacuation was over, the square was not empty. The Turin workmen from the mines were coming through it, some running, some on bicycles, and, without pause, heading straight on towards the station. Far away down the railroad track, perhaps two villages distant, Morgan heard the whistle of a train.  

His heart jumped, he stood stock-still, his mind asking in a silly way how the train could exist if it was a half-hour ahead of schedule.

Then he, too, started to run for his life.  

By the time he reached the edge of the square, he was exhausted. Cyclists and runners passed him at what seemed like a dashing clip, skirting him as though he were a dead obstacle. Abreast of the cathedral, he hurled his suitcases into the gutter and, his limbs light and strong, sprinted down the road. Approaching the station-house, he once more heard the train’s whistle.

The waiting-room was crowded with miners. They had pinned the station-master against a wall: one of them repeated the same demand over and over, and, each time he received no answer, gave the station-master a brutal punch. The station-master’s face was covered with blood, his gold-braided hat was squashed under a miner’s foot. His eyes were closed, he said not a word; with each punch his head snapped against the wall. Behind him, in his office, a telegraph instrument clattered away in code without pause.

The last of the miners, a big foreman who was sweating like a pig, burst off the road into the waiting-room. He took in the situation in a second, bellowed to his friends and rushed out on to the platform. They all ran after him; the station-master, suddenly unpropped, fell on the floor in a heap.

On the sunny platform, half a dozen miners, directed by the chief, dragged one of the wrought-iron benches loose and lowered it over the side. In a moment it was in position, four-square athwart the rails, its high, convoluted back shining dully in the sun. The miners climbed back on to the platform, dusting their hands.

The train came round the bend at full speed. A hundred yards away it began to whistle, in sharp snorts. Fifty yards away, it slowed down abruptly, and out of the cab leaned the driver’s face, red and angry, his black fist shaking beside it: at each of three doorways down the train’s length, a soldier swung out, hanging by one hand, a rifle in the other, ready to jump to the platform.

The train drew in. As each window of the coaches pulled slowly by, Morgan saw behind the misty panes a crush of men’s and women’s faces, staring out. All the faces were blank and unmoved except for a common, profoundly sullen expression—the suppressed indignation of people who, having reached shelter, find it endangered by hysterical interlopers.

The train stopped a yard short of the bench. The soldiers
jumped down and advanced on the miners. Their rifles were menacing, but the soldiers themselves were young and unconfident. The big miner ignored them; having scanned the pale-faced windows of the massed cars, he jerked his thumb at his friends and marched off toward the freight car and caboose. At this, one of the soldiers came to meet him; but the miner boldly put out one hand, grasped the barrel of the man’s rifle and slung it down the platform. The door of the freight car was slid open, and the miners climbed in, followed by Morgan. The big miner put his head out and shouted an O.K.; the soldiers shrugged and resumed their places.

But the engineer still bellowed from his cab, pointing to the iron bench, which everyone had forgotten. At this, the miners began to guffaw, and with the air of lazy aristocrats settled themselves comfortably on the floor and the freight. At last, the three soldiers, joined by the furious driver and his mate, descended to the rails and hoisted the bench on to the platform.

The train pulled out. As the open door of the freight car passed the waiting-room, the dishevelled station-master came stumbling over the platform, his torn gold hat hanging over his bleeding face, his hands raised imploringly. Two miners reached out and hauled him in: they patted him forgivingly in a good-humoured way and tried to clean up his face. He lay on the floor, panting and groaning, his shoes still hanging through the doorway, the laces fluttering in the wind as the train ran faster through the countryside. Soon, it was whistling through successive stations, brushing past platforms that struck the eye as a momentary shambles of people, fronted by open mouths and waving arms. Then the train plunged into a smoky waterfront of docks and whirling spurlines and, running from the sun into a covered way, drew up alongside the Tutin customs-house.

In this great vaulted hall—where only yesterday cynical inspectors had raised one end of innocent lingerie and heard at
the other the rustle and thud of falling contraband—native refugees from neighbouring villages were already grouped under the big metal signs that told their names from A to Z. Soldiers stood at the exits, and their legs were visible on top of the thick glass roof, pacing smartly up and down. The noise of a big city mixed with the shouts and hurrying of the refugees; relatives hurried in and claimed whole families; and nuns, with composed faces, moved here and there, finding solitary children and leading them away. As he moved, awed and half-stunned by the din, to the nearest exit, Morgan bumped into Mr. Hovich, who said, his eyes searching on either side, “I am looking for my uncle. Mr. Divver is at the hotel outside. Where is the Director?”