Rose was cold, and full of contempt. 'You don't understand anything,' she said. 'I deserve it, don't you see?'
He gave a helpless shrug, and she stood there for a moment, staring him out and then went up the stairs.
He looked for a place to hide the money in this room that had no place where one could hide anything. At home you could slide forbidden things into thatch or bury them in the earth floor, or in the bush. At his parents' house were bricks that could be loosened and fitted back. In the end he put the money back into the drawer. He sat on the edge of his bed and cried, from homesickness, for shame because Frances was angry with him, and because he did not feel at home with those revolutionaries upstairs and yet they treated him as one of themselves. In the end he slept a little, and went up to the kitchen to find the two men gone, and everyone doing the washing-up. In this he joined, with relief, and with pleasure, one of them. It seemed there was going to be supper, though everyone joked it would be impossible to eat a thing. Rather late, about ten, the turkey carcass appeared again, and all kinds of stuffings and relishes, and there was a big tray ofroast potatoes. They were all sitting around, drinking, tired, pleased with themselves and with Christmas, when there was a knock on the front door. Frances peered through the window, and saw a woman on the pavement, uncertain whether to knock again or go off. Colin came to stand by his mother. Both were afraid that it might be Phyllida.
‘I’ll go,’ said Colin, and went out, and Frances saw him talking to the stranger, who was swaying a little. He put his hand on her shoulder to steady her, and then brought her in, with an arm right around her.
She had been wandering in the dark or half-lit streets and now stood blinking at the bright hall light. Frances appeared. The stranger said to her, ‘Are you the darling ofmy heart?' She seemed middle-aged, but it was hard to say, because her face was grimy, so were the rather beautiful white hands that clutched at Colin. She looked like someone rescued from a fire or a catastrophe. Colin's face was wrenched with pain, the tender-hearted youth was in tears. 'Mother,' he said in appeal, and Frances went to the other side, and together she and Colin took the poor stray up the stairs and into the living-room, which was empty now, and tidy.
‘What a lovely room,’ said the woman, and nearly fell. Colin and Frances laid her down on the big sofa, and at once she lifted her soiled hand and kept time while she sang... what was it? -yes, an old music-hall song, ‘I dillied and I dallied, I dallied and I dillied and I... yes, I did dilly, darlings, I did, and now I'm far from home. ' She had a light clear voice, accurate, sweet. The clothes she wore were not poor, and she did not seem to be poor, though she was certainly ill. There was no smell of alcohol on her breath. Now began another song, ' Sally... Sally...’ The sweet voice rose true to the high note and held it. ‘Yes, darling, yes,’ she said to Colin, ' you've a kind heart, I can see that. ' Big blue eyes, innocent eyes, even babyish eyes, were turned to Colin. She was ignoring Frances. ' Kind, but be careful. Kind hearts get you into trouble, and who knows that better than Marlene?'
‘What's your name, Marlene?' asked Frances, holding a grubby hand which was too cold, and lacked vitality. It lay weakly trembling, in hers.
‘My name is lost, dear. It's lost and gone, but Marlene will do.’And now she spoke German, endearments, in German. Then more singing, fragments of songs. World War Two songs, with Lili Marlene again and then again, and more German. 'Ich liebe dich,' she told them, 'Yes, I do.'
Frances said, 'I'll get Julia.' Up she went and found Julia having supper with Wilhelm, on either side of a small table set with silver and bright glass. She explained, and Julia said, meaning to be jocular, but it was a complaint, I see this house has acquired another waif. There are limits to hospitality, Frances. Who is this lady?'
No lady,’ said Frances. But a waif, certainly. '
When she got back to the sitting-room, Andrew had arrived, with a glass of water, which he held to the unknown's lips.
'I'm not much of one for the water,' she said, and lay back and sang that another little drink wouldn't do her any harm. And then, again, it was German. Julia stood listening. She gestured to Wilhelm, and the two sat in chairs, side by side, prepared to give judgement.
Wilhelm said, ' May I call you Marlene?'
'Call me what you like, dear, call me what you fancy. Sticks and stones may break my bones. They did once but it was a long time ago. ‘And now she wept a little, with gulping sobs, like a child's. ' It hurt,’ she informed them. ' It hurt when they did that. But the Germans were gentlemen. They were nice boys. '
' Marlene, have you come from hospital?' asked Julia.
‘Yes, darling. I'm an escapee from hospital, you could say that, but they'll take poor Molly back, they are good to poor Molly. ‘And she sang, ' There's none like pretty Sally. She is the darling of my heart...’And then high and sweet, 'Sally, Sally...'
Julia got up, signed to Wilhelm to stay where he was, and gestured Frances out to the landing. Colin came too. He said, ‘I think we should take her in here. She's ill, isn't she?'
'Ill and mad,’ said Julia. Then, with delicacy softening her sternness, she addressed Colin, 'Do you know what she is – what she was?'
‘Not a clue,’ said Colin.
' She was entertaining the Germans in Paris during the last war. She's a whore. '
Colin groaned, ‘But it's not her fault. '
The Spirit of the Sixties, with passionate eyes, a trembling voice, and outstretched pleading hands, was confronting the whole past of the human race, responsible for all injustice, embodied in Julia, who said, ‘Oh, you foolish boy, her fault, our fault, their fault, what does it matter? Who is going to look after her?'
Frances said, ‘What's an English girl doing working as a whore in Paris under the Germans?'
And suddenly, in a tone neither of them had heard from her before, Julia said, 'Whores don't have any problems with passports, they're always welcome.'
Frances looked at Colin, Colin at Frances: what was that all about? But often with the old these moments arrive, in a change of voice, a painful grimace, a harshness – as now – which is all that is left of some hurt or disappointment... and then, that's that, it's over, it's gone. No one will ever know.
'I shall telephone Friern Barnet,’ said Julia.
'Oh, no, no, no,’ said Colin.
Julia went back into the room, interrupted Sally, and bent over to ask, ' Molly? You are Molly? Tell me are you from Friern Barnet?'
'Yes, I ran away for Christmas. I ran away to see my friends but where are they, I don't know. But Friern is kind and Barnet is kinder, they'll take poor Molly Marlene back. '
'Go and telephone,’ said Julia to Andrew. He went out.
'I'm not going to forgive anyone,' said Colin, fierce, forlorn and rejected.
'Poor boy,’ said Wilhelm.
'Sending her back to... to...’
'To a loony bin, that's what you wanted to say, darling, but it's all right, don't be sad. Don't be mad either, ' and she laughed.
Andrew came back from telephoning. They all sat and waited, Colin with wet eyes, and they listened to the mad woman lying on the divan singing her Sally, over and over, and that high sweet clear note broke their hearts, not only Colin's.
Downstairs, the supper table was quietened by the crisis, which had been discussed, and had divided the company to the point where it had had to disperse.
The doorbell rang. Andrew went down. He returned with a tired middle-aged woman in a grey garment like an overall, and over her arm was – yes, it was a straitjacket.
‘Now, Molly,’ said this woman reproachfully, to the wanderer.