Giant's Bread (38 page)

He smiled happily.

‘And he was killed in the Boer War?'

A sudden look of doubt crept into Green's face. He seemed worried – distressed. His eyes looked pathetically across the table like a dog at fault.

‘It's queer,' he said. ‘I never thought of that. He'd be too old. He – and yet I'd swear – I'm sure …'

The look of distress in his eyes was so acute that the other said, ‘Never mind,' and went on: ‘Are you married, Green?'

‘No, sir.'

The answer came with prompt assurance.

‘You seem very certain about that,' said Mr Levinne smiling.

‘I am, sir. It leads to nothing but trouble – mixing yourself up with women.' He stopped abruptly and said to Jane, ‘I beg your pardon.'

She smiled faintly and said: ‘It doesn't matter.'

There was a pause. Levinne turned to her and said something so quickly that Green could not catch it. It sounded like:

‘Extraordinary likeness to Sydney Bent. Never imagined it was there.'

Then they both stared at him again.

And suddenly he was afraid – definitely childishly afraid – in the same way that he remembered being afraid of the dark when he was a baby. There was something up – that was how he put it to himself – and these two knew it. Something about him.

He leant forward – acutely apprehensive.

‘What's the matter?' he said sharply. ‘There's something …'

They didn't deny it – just continued to look at him.

And his terror grew. Why couldn't they tell a chap? They knew something that he didn't. Something dreadful … He said again, and this time his voice was high and shrill:

‘
What's the matter?
'

The lady got up – he noticed in the background of his mind as it were how splendidly she moved. She was like a statue he'd seen somewhere – she came round the table and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said comfortingly and reassuringly: ‘It's all right. You mustn't be frightened.'

But Green's eyes continued to question Levinne. This man knew – this man was going to tell him. What was this horrible thing that they knew and he didn't?

‘Very odd things have happened in this war,' began Levinne. ‘People have sometimes forgotten their own names.'

He paused significantly, but the significance was lost on Green. He said with a momentary return to cheerfulness:

‘I'm not as bad as that. I've never forgotten my name.'

‘But you
have
.' He stopped – then went on: ‘Your real name is Vernon Deyre.'

The announcement ought to have been dramatic, but it wasn't. The words seemed to Green simply silly. He looked amused.

‘I'm Mr Vernon Deyre? You mean I'm his double or something?'

‘I mean you
are
him.'

Green laughed frankly.

‘I can't monkey about with that stuff, sir. Not even if it means a title or a fortune! Whatever the resemblance I'd be bound to be found out.'

Sebastian Levinne leant forward over the table and rapped out each word separately with emphasis:

‘You – are – Vernon – Deyre …'

Green stared. The emphasis impressed him.

‘You're kidding me?'

Levinne slowly shook his head. Green turned suddenly to the woman who stood beside him. Her eyes, very grave and absolutely assured, met his. She said very quietly:

‘You are Vernon Deyre. We both know it.'

There was dead silence in the room. To Green, it seemed as though the whole world was spinning round. It was like a fairy story, fantastic and impossible. And yet something about these two compelled credence. He said uncertainly:

‘But – but things don't happen like that. You couldn't forget your own name!'

‘Evidently – since you have done so.'

‘But – but, look here, sir – I
know
I'm George Green. I – well – I just know it!'

He looked at them triumphantly, but slowly and remorselessly Sebastian Levinne shook his head.

‘I don't know how that's come about,' he said. ‘A doctor would probably be able to tell you. But I do know this – that you are my friend, Vernon Deyre. There is no possible doubt of that.'

‘But – but, if that's true, I ought to know it.'

He felt bewildered, horribly uncertain. A strange sickening world where you couldn't be sure of anything. These were kindly sane people – he trusted them – what they said must be so – and yet something in him refused to be convinced. They were sorry for him – he felt that. And that frightened him. There was something more yet – something that he hadn't been told.

‘Who is he?' he said sharply. ‘This Vernon Deyre, I mean.'

‘You come from this part of the world. You were born and spent most of your childhood at a place called Abbots Puissants –'

Green interrupted him in astonishment.

‘Abbots Puissants? Why, I drove Mr Bleibner there yesterday. And you say it's my old home and I never recognized it!'

He felt suddenly buoyed up and scornful. The whole thing was a pack of lies! Of course it was! He had known it all the time. These people were honest, but they were mistaken. He felt relieved – happier.

‘After that you went to live near Birmingham,' continued Levinne. ‘You went to school at Eton and from there you went on to Cambridge. After that you went to London and studied music. You composed an opera.'

Green laughed outright.

‘There you're quite wrong, sir. Why, I don't know one note of music from another.'

‘The war broke out. You obtained a commission in the Yeomanry. You were married –' he paused, but Green gave no sign, ‘and went out to France. In the spring of the following year you were reported “Killed in Action”.'

Green stared at him incredulously. What sort of a rigmarole was this? He couldn't remember a thing about any of it.

‘There must be some mistake,' he said confidently. ‘Mr Deyre must have been what they call my “double”.'

‘There is no mistake, Vernon,' said Jane Harding.

Green looked from her to Sebastian. The confident intimacy of her tone had done more to convince him than anything else. He thought: ‘This is awful. A nightmare. Such things can't happen.' He began to shake all over, unable to stop.

Levinne got up, mixed him a stiff drink from materials that stood on a tray in the corner and brought it back to him.

‘Swallow this,' he said. ‘And you'll feel better. It's been a shock.'

Green gulped down the draught. It steadied him. The trembling ceased.

‘Before God, sir,' he said. ‘Is this true?'

‘Before God, it is,' said Sebastian.

He brought a chair forward, sat down close by his friend.

‘Vernon, dear old chap – don't you remember me at all?'

Green stared at him – an anguished stare. Something seemed to stir ever so faintly. How it hurt, this trying to remember. There was
something
– what was it? He said doubtfully:

‘You – you've grown up.' He stretched out a hand and touched Sebastian's ear. ‘I seem to remember –'

‘He remembers your ears, Sebastian,' cried Jane and going over to the mantelpiece she laid her head down upon it and began to laugh.

‘Stop it, Jane.' Sebastian rose, poured out another drink and took it to her. ‘Some medicine for you.'

She drank it, handed the glass back to him, smiled faintly and said:

‘I'm sorry. I won't do it again.'

Green was going on with his discoveries.

‘You're – you're not a brother, are you? No, you lived next door. That's it – you lived next door …'

‘That's right, old chap.' Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don't worry to think – it'll come back soon. Take it easy.'

Green looked at Jane. He said timidly and politely:

‘Were you – are you – my sister? I seem to remember something about a sister.'

Jane shook her head, unable to speak. Green flushed.

‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have –'

Sebastian interrupted.

‘You didn't have a sister. There was a cousin who lived with you. Her name was Josephine. We called her Joe.'

Green pondered.

‘Josephine – Joe. Yes, I seem to remember something about that.' He paused and then reiterated pathetically, ‘Are you
sure
my name isn't Green?'

‘Quite sure. Do you still feel it is?'

‘Yes … And you say I make up music – music of my own? Highbrow stuff – not ragtime?'

‘Yes.'

‘It all seems – well, mad. Just that – mad!'

‘You mustn't worry,' said Jane gently. ‘I dare say we have been wrong to tell you all this the way we have.'

Green looked from one to the other of them. He felt dazed.

‘What am I to do?' he asked helplessly.

Sebastian gave an answer with decision.

‘You must stay here with us. You've had a great shock, you know. I'll go and square things with old Bleibner. He's a very decent chap and he'll understand.'

‘I shouldn't like to put him out in any way. He's been a thundering good boss to me.'

‘He'll understand. I've already told him something.'

‘What about the car? I don't like to think of another chap driving that car. She's running now as sweetly –'

He was once again the chauffeur, intent on his charge.

‘I know. I know.' Sebastian was impatient. ‘But the great thing, my dear fellow, is to get you right as soon as possible. We want to get a first-class doctor on to you.'

‘What's a doctor got to do with it?' Green was slightly hostile. ‘I'm perfectly fit.'

‘Perhaps, a doctor ought to see you all the same. Not here – in London. We don't want any talk down here.'

Something in the tone of the speaker's voice attracted Green's attention. The flush came over his face.

‘You mean the deserting business …?'

‘No, no. To tell the truth, I can't get the hang of that. I mean something quite different.'

Green looked at him inquiringly.

Sebastian thought: ‘Well, I suppose he's got to know some time.' Aloud he said:

‘You see – thinking you were dead – your wife has – well – married again.'

He was a little afraid of the effect of those words. But Green seemed to see the matter in a humorous light.

‘That
is
a bit awkward,' he said with a grin.

‘It doesn't upset you in any way?'

‘You can't be upset by a thing you don't remember.' He paused, as though really considering the matter for the first time. ‘Was Mr Deyre – I mean, was I – fond of her?'

‘Well – yes.'

But again the grin came over Green's face.

‘And I to be so positive I wasn't married! All the same –' his face changed – ‘it's rather frightening – all this!'

He looked suddenly at Jane, as though seeking assurance.

‘Dear Vernon,' she said, ‘it will be all right.'

She paused, and then said in a quiet casual tone:

‘You drove Mr Bleibner over to Abbots Puissants, you say. Did you – did you see anyone there? Any of the people of the house?'

‘I saw Mr Chetwynd – and I saw a lady in the sunk gardens. I took her to be Mrs Chetwynd, fair-haired and good-looking.'

‘Did – did she see you?'

‘Yes. Seemed – well, scared. Went dead white and bolted like a rabbit.'

‘Oh, God,' said Jane, and bit off the exclamation almost before it was uttered.

Green was cogitating quietly over the matter.

‘Perhaps she thought she knew me,' he said. ‘She must have been one of them who knew him – me – in the old days, and it gave her a turn. Yes, that must have been it.'

He was quite happy with his solution.

Suddenly he asked:

‘Had my mother got red hair?'

Jane nodded.

‘Then that was it …' He looked up apologetically. ‘Sorry. I was just thinking of something.'

‘I'll go and see Bleibner now,' said Sebastian. ‘Jane will look after you.'

He left the room. Green leant forward in his chair, his head held between his hands. He felt acutely uncomfortable and miserable – especially with Jane. Clearly he ought to know her – and he didn't. She had said ‘Dear Vernon' just now. It was terribly awkward when people knew you and you felt they were strangers. If he spoke to her he supposed he ought to call her Jane – but he couldn't. She was a stranger. Still he supposed he'd have to get used to it. They'd have to be Sebastian and George and Jane together – no, not George – Vernon. Silly sort of name, Vernon. Probably he'd been a silly sort of chap.

‘I mean,' he thought, trying desperately to force the realization upon himself, ‘
I
must have been a silly sort of chap.'

He felt horribly lonely – cut off from reality. He looked up to find Jane watching him, and the pity and understanding in her eyes made him feel a shade less forlorn.

‘It's rather terrible just at first, isn't it?' she said.

He said politely:

‘It is rather difficult. You don't – you don't know where you are with things.'

‘I understand.'

She said no more – just sat there quietly beside him. His head jerked forward. He began to doze. In reality he only slept for a few minutes, but it seemed to him hours. Jane had turned all the lamps out but one. He woke with a start. She said quickly:

‘It's all right.'

He stared at her, his breath coming in gasps. He was still in the nightmare then, he hadn't woken up. And there was something worse to come – something he didn't know yet. He was sure of it. That was why they all looked at him so pityingly.

Jane got up suddenly. Wildly, he cried out:

‘Stay with me. Oh! please stay with me.'