The Parrot Cage, page 7
One evening after she had had to talk Mike down from a nearly hysterical outburst about the absurdity of the work they were all trying to do when they would have been more use on an assembly line in an armaments factory, Suvarov came back into the office looking more angry than she had ever seen him. He put his briefcase down on the desk in the window and started to walk round to the chair. Then she saw him stop, shrug and turn back to face her.
‘Gerry, I can’t do any more tonight. Will you dine with me?’
Feeling very glad that her close acquaintance with the second-floor had been teaching her not to blush, she smiled at him.
‘That would be very nice. Now?’
‘Why not? Get your hat and we’ll walk over to the Ritz. I can’t stand this place any more tonight.’
He stood waiting by the door as she pulled on her old and far from elegant felt hat and picked up her gas mask.
‘Gerry,’ he said, watching her from under his bruised eyelids, ‘did I ever tell you how much you help here?’
‘No. I’m glad. Though I often feel that I hardly do anything. You work so hard and all I do is calm the boys down and process their information.’
‘It’s quite a big all; before we had you it got increasingly difficult – they need someone to comfort them and I can’t do that; partly because I have to be tough with them and partly because … I just don’t have anything left for that side of things. And,’ his voice changed and became lighter, more teasing, ‘now that you rewrite their reports I can read them in no time at all. It’s wonderful; they used to be so turgid it would take minutes to work out what they had meant to write in each sentence.’
‘I hadn’t realised it was so obvious. I’ll try to vary the style sometimes.’
‘No, don’t do that. You write clearly and with such conciseness that … I knew as soon as I talked to you at Evelyn’s that weekend that you would never waste time and that’s nearly the most precious commodity at the moment.’
‘You’ll make me blush in a minute,’ she said as they crossed the bridge over the little lake in St James’s Park. ‘Look at the way the moon’s reflected on the swans down there – don’t they look extraordinary, all silver like that on the black water?’ They stopped for a moment, leaning on the elegant iron railing of the bridge, shoulder to shoulder, looking down towards Whitehall and watching the stately birds paddle gracefully along the lake that had been so carefully planned to lead the eye towards the fairy-tale roofs behind the Horse Guards. The strange night light slid off the willows that curtained the edges of the water and lit odd parts of the whole scene, making it look somehow artificial. There was a sudden stiffening in Suvarov’s shoulders, which Gerry felt and wondered at, but all he said was:
‘God, it’s good to stop for a moment.’ Then he stood up. ‘Come on or we won’t get any dinner.’
‘Peter,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you specially want to go to the Ritz?’
‘Not particularly, no. It’s just convenient – and the food’s better there than in most places. Why, is there somewhere you’d rather go?’
‘No, it’s just …’ She stopped, shy all over again, but the memory of his exhaustion and the way he had relaxed against the bridge made her go on. ‘It’s just that I’ve some lovely steaks from Harrods and my flat’s very close. We could talk there, without anyone overhearing … I mean, if you wanted to.’
‘That’s generous of you. I’d like it. Lead the way, Miss Alderbrook.’
‘It’s only a tiny flat – one room, really; though it’s possible that if the ground-floor tenant decides to stay in Wales as they think she may, then I could get that. My sisters’godmother helped me furnish it, but it is quite shabby, really.’ Gerry knew that she was babbling, but could not stop. He touched her elbow lightly with his cupped hand.
‘Gerry, it’s all right. Don’t go social on me or I’ll have to take you off to the Ritz. OK?’
‘OK, Peter. Sorry.’ They walked on in silence, up St James’s Street and across Piccadilly and into Dover Street. She stopped when they reached the house and put one hand on the temporary wooden gate to the basement steps.
‘Down here; servants’quarters.’ He laughed, held the gate open for her and waited for her to precede him down the steps. She opened the door under the steps and as soon as he had followed her in, she switched on the lights.
‘Come on in. What would you like to drink? There’s some whisky left or wine.’
‘What kind of wine?’
‘Not bad. My sisters’ godmother, who is the most generous person alive, gave me a case of more than respectable claret when I moved in, and I’ve only had one bottle so far.’
‘Then wine, please.’
She made him sit down in the one comfortable chair that stood by the empty grate and brought him the bottle, a corkscrew and a glass.
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen. I’ll have some later. It won’t be long.’
She left him then and set about cooking the steaks, using the last of her butter and a precious bottle of tomatoes from Sudbrook House that she had been hoarding against some special need. When she had put the dish in the oven, which for once lit at the first attempt, she washed up the tools she had used, dried her hands on her apron and peered into the looking glass she kept by the door. Her face looked back at her, oddly alive and healthy-looking. So often her skin looked thick and dully grey, but – perhaps it was the oven’s heat – that evening it looked rosy and almost as though it had just been treated by some expert with expensive cosmetics. She smiled sheepishly at herself, and quietly shut the kitchen door behind her.
Suvarov was sitting where she had left him, the corkscrew in one hand, the claret bottle on the floor and the glass she had given him balanced precariously against his waistcoat. He was fast asleep. Moving with extreme delicacy, she removed the glass and corkscrew and carried the bottle away to the kitchen so that he would not be awakened by the sucking pop of the cork. Then she came back and curled up on the lumpy sofa, sipping her wine and watching him. The sight of him lying back in such abandon of sleep in her chair made her think of her husband, and she began to realise how much she had been missing his physical presence over the months since she had come back to London. For so long her mind and emotions had been caught up with the death of their child and her struggles to find some kind of life for herself that she had not understood how much she was being affected by the simple fact of Andrew’s absence. It was strange, she thought to herself as she sipped her claret, that something you took for granted, that often irritated you, could in fact be something you relied on for ordinary contentment. Belatedly, and with a kind of shock, Gerry realised that she was lonely.
Peter’s eyes opened, very wide, just before she had decided to wake him and, without saying anything, he smiled at her. She had never seen his face so naked. Then he seemed to collect himself together. The smile resumed its familiar lineaments and he said, rather thickly:
‘Did you say something about claret, Gerry?’
She unfurled herself, stood up and brought him his glass, wanting to let her fingers touch his as she handed it to him and therefore taking enormous care to avoid them.
‘The steaks should be just about cooked,’ she said and was glad to hear no hint of breathlessness or confusion in her voice.
‘Something smells jolly good anyway.’
Gerry was glad that she had plenty of practical things to do so that she could control the absurdities that were dancing through her mind and when at last they were sitting at the round cherry-wood table, she could think of nothing to say. He helped her out.
‘So, Gerry, tell me about your sisters. One’s in the Fanys isn’t she?’
‘Yes, did I tell you that?’
He shook his dark head and she saw the thin white strands in it.
‘No, I think I met her somewhere. Very like you, no?’
‘Sometimes you sound awfully foreign, did you know?’ He smiled, but did not comment and so she nodded. ‘Yes, Felicity – she’s prettier though, and great fun, too. I miss her.’
‘She’s not stationed in London, then?’
‘No, all over the place, it seems. She’s got enormously discreet since the war – she used to tell me everything, but now she’s very cagey. I don’t quite know what she’s up to.’
‘Everyone is supposed to be cagey. Why are you surprised?’
‘I didn’t really mean about the war; when we were last at home – when she was telling me to brace up and tidy myself up or you’d never give me a job – she hinted that she was living in a rather, er, racy kind of a way, which is unlike her. She was always pursued, of course, she has that kind of energetic fragility that seems to draw men to her – of course it’s entirely illusory: Flixe is made of tempered steel and toughened glass…’
‘You sound almost bitter, Gerry, and most unlike yourself. Don’t you get on with her?’
Gerry was so surprised that he should have put such a construction on her words that she got up to fetch the wine bottle, which was still standing on the hearth where they had left it. She handed it to him and as he was refilling both their glasses she tried to answer him.
‘I hadn’t realised what I sounded like and I don’t want you to think that I don’t care for Flixe. She’s probably more important to me than anyone else. And I miss her terribly; I’d thought that when I came to London again I’d see much more of her … that it would be like the time before I was married.’ She paused and thought about how to explain to him the complete importance of the bond between them, how to explain that even if she sounded as though she were criticising her sister, she would defend her against criticism from anyone else in the world, including their family; how they could be so angry with each other that it felt like hate; how they were often foully jealous of each other; but how the existence of the other was the most important thing in life.
‘When we meet after being apart for any length of time neither of us can stop talking – I feel as though I have to tell her everything that’s been happening to me – but after that first rush of enthusiasm, I suppose we do get cross with each other. We live such different lives; perhaps it’s that.’ Finding it so difficult to explain, Gerry wanted to change the subject by asking Suvarov about his family, but since he had never spoken a word about anything personal she felt she could not. Instead she said:
‘Things are rather different with the twins. I don’t know them nearly so well. They’re six years younger than Flixe – eight than me. Do you know …? I’d never thought of how lucky they’ll be, to be leaving school in the war. I mean it’ll be quite obvious what they should do and there’ll be none of the hideous arguments I had.’
‘With your parents?’
‘Yes, well, primarily with my father, I suppose. Mother says worse things, but he’s the one who thinks that education damages women for life and … and all that sort of thing. Look, let’s talk about something different: he’s away in the desert and there’s no point thinking about him if one doesn’t have to.’
‘Of course. There’s one thing I want to know …’ His voice seemed very serious and Gerry braced herself for some difficult question. She watched his dark eyes and could see no glimmer of light in them. ‘Where did you learn to cook? That was the best beef I’ve ever eaten.’
In the spurt of releasing tension, Gerry burst out laughing.
‘I just follow the recipe. But if you’re serious I’m glad – at least you won’t have missed the Ritz too much.’
‘Not at all. But I ought to get going soon, Gerry.’
‘Must you?’ she said before she could stop herself and then hurried to cover it up. ‘It’s a good idea though, before tonight’s raid starts.’
‘Yes. You seem quite secure in this nice basement – I shouldn’t move up to the ground floor even if you do get the chance.’
‘Well, I could always keep my bedroom down here, but it would be convenient to have more space – especially when the top-floor tenant comes down as he usually does on bad nights.’
‘Does he indeed?’
‘You need not look like an outraged maiden aunt – we play chess, actually, until the all-clear.’
‘It’s not conventions that perturb me. No, Gerry, this is serious. Do you know who he is? Come on, how old is he – and what’s his name?’
‘I suppose in his thirties. He’s called Jeremy Oldridge; he’s some kind of businessman. Wine, I think. Peter, what is the matter?’
‘Gerry, you are involved with extremely secret work; as you well know, part of our task is internal security: anyone is suspect until we know exactly who and what they are. I don’t like your sharing night-time air raids with some civilian.’
‘Well, I can’t exactly refuse to let him take refuge in the safest part of the house. I mean that would look very suspicious. And he’s thoroughly respectable – an old friend of the twins’godmother.’
‘Is he though? Well, be careful, won’t you? Does he ever ask about your work?’
‘Only when we first met – as anyone might. It’s all right: I just said that I had a dreary filing job at the War Office. Look, Peter, why should you be suspicious of him?’
‘No particular reason; except that I’m suspicious of any man of fighting age who is not in the services – and some who are. Just promise to be discreet and very careful of yourself.’
‘Yes, of course I will. I signed that wretched piece of paper, didn’t I? I’m not likely to talk to anyone. Don’t look like that; there’s no Gestapo in London.’
‘No, but there are some highly unsavoury characters. It oughtn’t to touch you, though, if you keep quiet.’
‘Of course,’ she said as soothingly as she used to speak to Ming when she was upset by family quarrels. Then another thought hit her with the force of a sandbag. ‘Peter, you’re not facing that sort of thing are you?’
He shook his head, but those dark eyes were watchful.
‘I seem to have been very stupid,’ she said. ‘I assumed that all those days you spent out of the office you were with the Chiefs or the War Office or in Baker Street or something. What is it you’re actually up to?’
‘Nothing that need concern you, Gerry. Now, good night, my child. Sleep well, and work out your moves carefully.’
‘I always do – and I usually win, at least with Mr Oldridge.’
‘We must play one day. Thank you for my nice dinner.’
‘It was a pleasure.’ She stood in front of him, almost barring the way out of her flat. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘Now who’s behaving like a maiden aunt?’ he said, putting both hands on her shoulders and gently turning her aside.
After he had left her, she washed up their plates and glasses, cursing mildly that the hot water had failed again, thinking round and round what had happened. Until that evening she had thought of Suvarov as her chief, nothing more; the very idea of being frightened of him would have seemed absurd. But now he had eaten her food, she had watched him fall asleep in her chair, she had felt … In the privacy of her own room, Gerry blushed and tried to ignore the things that he had made her feel.
But she could not sleep and even welcomed the air-raid sirens when they came, and the two knocks at her door as Jeremy Oldridge came for chess and sanctuary. As always he was wearing thick flannel pyjamas that looked as though they had been freshly pressed, an extravagant dressing gown, this time with a pattern of peacocks woven into the thick, dark-red silk, and a cravat at the neck to hide any glimpse of his skin. Gerry almost laughed at the idea that there could be anything improper in their decorous sharing of the bombing. They shook hands and she got out her new full-sized chess board. He waited until she had seated herself ceremoniously in the chair and then he bent his long legs and sat on a cushion on the floor on the other side of the table.
‘Will you give me a pawn, Mrs Kyrle, tonight?’
‘Certainly, Mr Oldridge,’ she answered and then, driven by some emotion she did not want to recognise, added: ‘if you feel you ought to accept concessions from a woman.’
‘Now, now, there’s no need to be waspish. You’re a better player than I, and I only want to make the game worth your while.’ Neither spoke as an enormous thump seemed to buffet the atmosphere. ‘That one was close,’ he said coolly. ‘Your move, Mrs Kyrle.’
Chapter Six
Gerry was almost too embarrassed to look at Suvarov the following morning when she arrived at Queen Anne’s Gate, but he greeted her with a cheery:
‘Well, did you win, then?’ She smiled ruefully.
‘Actually, no, not last night. I gave him a pawn and something seemed to go wrong with my concentration.’ She would not say any more, could not tell Peter that every time she tried to think out her next sequence of moves his tired face seemed to slide between her eyes and her brain, and the strange but delectable sinking inside her that she had first felt when he took the wine glass from her absorbed all her faculties.
‘Well never mind. Look, there’s been no post this morning. See to it, will you?’
‘Yes, certainly,’ she answered, pleased to be able to go and do something easy and away from him.
When she had tracked down the usual large stacks of post and opened, dated and distributed it, she could concentrate on the twenty or so letters addressed to herself. All but one were written to her in her official capacity, and she dealt with them first, looking up now and again at her chief. Once he caught her eye and smiled faintly, almost as though he knew what she was thinking. She quickly went back to the letter in her hand.
‘Oh! Can they do that?’
‘What?’
‘Some new regulation that says we all have to do a stint of firewatching if we work less than fifty-five hours a week…’
‘I should think you do more than that most weeks, Gerry.’
‘Yes, I know; it’s just that I’d never thought of that and I suppose one should do some anyway. It would be more use than playing chess. Perhaps I should do Sundays at least. Never mind. Oh, that reminds me, Peter.’
