The child was born at midsummer. It was a girl, and was christened Muriel. That fact moved Lady Boscastle to write to me, at her most characteristic. I chuckled, but thought it wise to burn the letter.
During those months, I heard a few times from Roy. He was not being a great success on his pilot’s course. He was having to struggle to be allowed through; it irritated him, who liked to do things expertly, and I could not help smiling at that touch of vanity. He thought he would have done better ten years earlier; at thirty-two one did not learn so easily. In the end, he managed to pass, and landed in England in September.
After a week with Rosalind, he spent a night in my flat. He was sunburned and healthy; in uniform, his figure was less deceptive, one could have guessed that he was strong; at last his face was carrying the first lines, but he looked very tranquil. He was so tranquil that it was delightful to be with him. His spirits were not so intoxicatingly high as in his days of exaltation, but he laughed at me, talked about our friends, mimicked them with his features plastic, so that one saw a shadow of Lord Boscastle, of Arthur Brown, of Houston Eggar. We were happy. Since he had to return next day, we sat up most of the night. He seemed no longer driven.
He did not say much of his future — except that he would now be sent to his training in heavy aircraft. There was not much for either of us to say. But he talked of his daughter with extreme pleasure.
“It’s good to have a child,” he said. “It’s a shame you haven’t some, old boy. You’d like it, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“You must soon. It’s very important.”
His pleasure was simple, natural, radiant.
“She’ll be pretty,” he said happily. “Very pretty. Excellent.”
A month later, I received an unexpected telephone call from his wife. I knew she was coming to London, for Lady Muriel had announced that her godchild was staying with her for a weekend and had invited me to dine; it was only during the course of the invitation that Lady Muriel reluctantly mentioned “Roy’s wife”. Rosalind’s voice always sounded faint, falling-away, on the telephone, but that morning she seemed worried and urgent. “I must see you at lunch time. No, it can’t wait till tonight. I can’t tell you in front of Lady Battleship.”
I put off an appointment and met her for lunch.
“I want you to help me, Lewis,” she said. “Roy mustn’t hear a word about it.”
She was dressed in the height of style, her shoulders padded, her hat tilted over one eye; but her expression was neither gamine nor mock-decorous, but tired, strained, intent. I jumped to a conclusion.
“What is wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” said Rosalind impatiently, as though I did not understand. “He’s very well and very happy. Didn’t you think I should make him happy? The old thing has never been so comfortable in his life. He’s got a bit of peace.”
She stared at me with hurt brown eyes, pleading and determined.
“Lewis, I want you to help me get him out of flying.”
“Does he want it?”
“Do you think he’d ever say so? Men never dare to confess that they’re frightened. God’s truth, I’ve got no patience with you all.”
She was desperately moved. I said: “My dear, I think it would be impossible.”
“You’d rather let things happen than try,” she flared out like a cat.
“No. Remember he left an important job. He made a nuisance of himself to get out. It would be very hard to persuade the Air Ministry to leave go now.”
“Wouldn’t he be more useful on the ground? How many people in the world speak all the languages he speaks?”
“That’s true,” I said.
“Then we must get to work.”
“I’m afraid”, I said, “that they won’t leave go of a single man. They’ve been given complete priority.”
“Why are they so keen to keep them?” she cried. “Because they’re going to lose so many?”
“Yes.”
“They won’t throw him away if I can help it.” Her face was dark and twisted, as if she were in physical pain. “Let me tell you something. The other night I got him to talk a bit. I know he doesn’t talk to me as he does to you. He says you’re the only person who knows everything about him. But I got him to talk. It was in the middle of the night. He hasn’t been sleeping too well this last week. It’s not as bad as it used to be, but I know that he’s been lying awake. Somehow I can’t sleep if I think he’s lying there with his eyes open.”
She paused. She was crying out with the intimacy of the flesh. “The other night I knew he was awake. I hadn’t been to sleep either. In the middle of the night I asked him if anything was the matter. He said no. I asked him if he was happy with me. He said yes. Then I got into his bed and cried till he promised to talk to me. He said it was a long story and that no one understood it all but you. You know how he speaks when he’s being serious, Lewis? As though he was laughing and didn’t give a damn. It makes my blasted heart turn over. Anyway he said that he’d been miserable for years. It was worse than being mad, he said. He hoped he’d get out of it. He’d struggled like a rat in a trap. But he couldn’t escape. So he couldn’t see any point in things. He might as well be eliminated. That was why he chose to fly.”
She stared at me.
“Then he kissed me, and laughed a bit. He said that nowadays it didn’t always seem such a good idea. He was caught again. But he needn’t worry this time, because there was nothing to do.”
I exclaimed.
“You know, Lewis,” Rosalind went on, “he must have got it all worked out when he decided to fly. He said that he was looking round for the easiest way to disappear. He didn’t want to give too much trouble. So he found out from someone reliable what was the most dangerous thing to do.”
She cried out sharply: “What’s the matter, Lewis? Why are you looking so terrible?”
“Nothing,” I said, trying to speak in an even tone. “I just thought of something else.”
Rosalind watched me.
“I hope you’re all right,” she said. “I want you to help me today.”
36: The End of a Reproach
Rosalind had two lines of attack ready planned. She was cunning, she had not been successful at her business for nothing; she knew it was worse than useless for a move to come from Roy’s friends. The only hope was to get hold of people of influence. She wanted two different kinds of plea: first, by the leading orientalists, to say that as a scholar he was irreplaceable; second, by officials, to say that he was needed for a special job in an office. She was cunning but she did not know her way about this world; she needed me to tell her where to try.
She had no luck that afternoon. I sent her to old Foulkes, who was back in uniform again, a brigadier at the War Office. He had worked there seven days a week since the beginning of the war. I took her to the door in the side street, and waited on the pavement. It was an hour before she came out. She was angry and downcast. “I don’t believe the old idiot has ever seen a woman before. Oh, I suppose he’s rather sweet, but it’s just my luck to find someone who’s not susceptible.” Foulkes had told her that her husband had a European reputation. “Tell anyone so. Often do. Only man to keep our end up.” Rosalind parodied Foulkes ill-temperedly. But Foulkes would not say a word that would stand in the way of a man who wanted to fight. He had heard his colleagues wonder why Calvert had thrown up a safe job. “I’ve told them,” Foulkes had said, with his usual vigour. “No mystery. No mystery at all. He just wants to fight for his country. Proud of him. So ought you to be,” he had finished at great speed.