The Alien (6 page)

“The pay must be very good,'' she said, lightly, “if you can afford a new suit like that one. Who made it?''

He gave her the name of Colin's tailor.

“Did Colin tell you where to go?''

“Stephen. You like it – my suit?''

“Very much.'' She laughed. “Colin converted Stephen three years ago.'' She went on, thoughtfully, “Do you see much of Stephen? And Ann?''

“Of Stephen, yes, we meet. Ann, once, perhaps. She is so charming. So pretty. He is like a watch-dog when he has her with him.''

He laughed loudly. Margaret made a feeble effort to join in.

The conversation began to wilt. It had moved so far from her desires that she began to feel both dull and hopeless. Boris was too good, too loyal. He assumed her total fidelity to Colin. How could she begin to tell him the dreary facts of her marriage when he gave her no possible excuse to do so? If he was hiding his own feelings it was noble, but unutterably useless and frustrating. A waste, a waste, her heart beat out, nearly choking her. With all that was unspoken between them it was not surprising that his visits, his frequent visits, were becoming a bore. But it was not possible for her to break the barrier; her upbringing and her basic common sense that lay always beneath her adolescent dreams, told her that this would be fatal to her relentless hopes.

She yawned and suggested tea. Boris said he must go. He had an appointment. It was for this he had the afternoon free to visit her on his way.

“My firm considers that we lunch from twelve until three. My appointment therefore it is fixed for four. I have all my work finished before my lunch. So—''

“I see.'' He was clearly not going to tell her any more, Margaret decided. She got to her feet and in silence walked with him across the lawn and into the house.

Louise was in the hall as they reached it. She acknowledged Boris's polite bow politely.

“I make the tea, Mrs. Brentwood?'' she asked.

“I thought you were going out this afternoon?'' Margaret said, coldly, staring at her.

“I have just come back. I make the tea?''

“Not just yet, thank you. Mr. Sudenic has to go now. I will have my tea at four – indoors, today. It is too hot, outside.''

She could not bear to go back to the garden retreat, alone.

“Yes, Mrs. Brentwood.''

Boris walked to the end of the road and got on a bus. He arrived in the City half an hour later and was shown into the offices of P. H. and W. T. Phillimore, solicitors. Stephen was already there alone in the waiting-room. Boris was a trifle uneasy and showed it.

“It's all right,'' Stephen said. “Very natural for you to see your solicitor about your affairs. And after all, Bill is Ann's brother and he's handled them since you arrived in England, hasn't he?''

“That is true. But this matter—''

“Has nothing to do with Bill. It seemed a good opportunity to see you and hand it over. My leave is up tonight.''

Stephen dipped into a brief-case he carried and taking out a revolver handed it to Boris.

“I take pride in the fact that it's just as good as new. As good as it was when you gave it to me before you left the country in 1939.''

“Oh, Stephen!''

“I was tremendously proud of it at that time,'' Stephen said, gruffly. “Of course I was under age to have such a thing. When I got into the Navy later I simply kept it in my kit. Lucky to avoid getting it pinched, I suppose. After the war I licensed it and have kept that up.''

“It is licensed in your name?''

“That's right.''

“It cannot be helped. I may keep it for now?''

“For good, as far as I'm concerned. I told you I'd still got it because I thought, if the Commies are after you for escaping, as they may well be, it might come in useful.''

“A thousand thanks. You are a good boy, Stephen. A good friend.''

“Got anything on tonight?'' Stephen asked, feeling that the interview was again taking too emotional a turn. “Care to have a meal with me before I go off to Portsmouth?''

“You are very kind. Another time. I have already a date.''

“Another time, then. Only I shan't have any long leaves for a bit. Might slip up for the day, though.''

Boris put the gun into the shoulder holster he had already put on that morning in preparation for this event. His immaculate suit was not distorted by the new article of underwear. A few minutes later he was summoned to his solicitor's room and with Stephen assisting in the matter of English technical terms, completed his legal business. Afterwards, leaving Stephen with Bill Phillimore, he walked out into the street with feelings of deep gratitude and comfort.

By accident he had dropped a useful knife into Higlett Bay just before he reached the shore. For the last four months, though he had replaced the knife, he had been less than fully armed, not daring to approach an unorthodox source, certainly not a respectable gunsmith. As for his other contacts, he had dealt with some and ignored others, but always keeping his personal provision to himself.

Now the defect was remedied. An old-fashioned piece, perhaps, but useful. Loaded, too. Stephen had thought of everything. Ammo was always available, he had said, for the asking.

Walking down to the Embankment, Boris proceeded slowly along it, sitting down, at last, near Cleopatra's Needle to watch the river and the busy crowds of the rush hour. The hard object in his left armpit gave him a sense of security he had missed for many years, for nearly half his life, he counted, wondering.

The evening sun was still shining on the water at the far bank when Boris got up and walked away. During his long rest on the Embankment bench he had not read a newspaper nor smoked a cigarette. He had just sat and stared at the river, quite heedless of those who passed or of those who came to sit beside him for a few impatient minutes before jumping up and hurrying away.

Boris had learned the futility of haste, that exposure of bad timing. He had been forced by circumstances to scrape his life clean of everything but the bare essentials of existence. He was prepared, moreover, to accept a varying quality in these things, from a minimum just consistent with upholding life to a reasonable, if precarious, degree of comfort and at times, as now, to a temporary opulence.

He made no future plans as he sat there. Planning in advance, mapping out a future progression, were habits of behaviour, like haste, that he had long ago given up. Not that he allowed himself to drift into totally unprepared actions, unforeseen situations. On the contrary. His quick, practical mind was always at work on his surroundings and the possibilities of advantage that they offered. This, in his unending battle with circumstance, had become automatic. When he saw an advantage he never failed to secure it. When, after close inspection, it seemed to offer little, he let it go. Without regret or self-blame. He understood his own fallibility. That was another lesson he had learned over the bitter years.

When he decided to move he followed the Embankment to Charing Cross Underground station and from there walked up to the Strand and past St. Martin's church into Leicester Square and beyond. The rush hour was slackening, but a crowd still poured towards the railway station and Boris felt that he was the only one walking against the tide, the sole eccentric, the lone rebel, the outcast. As he stood under the characterless representation of a national martyr, flanked by her very bas-relief lion, waiting to brave alone the privileged crossing that the traffic consistently ignored, he began to laugh inwardly at his thoughts. It all came, he decided, of accepting this invitation to dine with compatriots.

The interior of Kettner's was warm, well-lighted, full of cheerful noise, preponderantly male. He hesitated just inside the entrance but was not overlooked for more than three seconds.

“Mr. Orloff's party? Yes, sir. Upstairs.''

It was to be in a private room, then, he thought, pleased to remember he was wearing his new suit. They must have funds, the free Poles. Or very good jobs. Both, decidedly. He gave his name at the door of a room near the head of the stairs. The waiter who had brought him up flung open the door and announced him. Nine heads turned from a bar in the far corner of the room.

Boris stepped forward, giving a quick look round him as he did so. Clearly this was an ante-chamber to the private dining-room, half seen through an open connecting door.

One of the nine moved to meet him, at the same time saying to the waiter, “You may serve now. We are all here.'' The waiter acknowledged the order and disappeared.

“Count Sudenic. We are delighted. We apologize for being so long unaware of your arrival in this country.''

Boris murmured suitably. He found himself taken by the arm and drawn gently farther into the room. Introductions followed, a drink was pressed into his hand. He repeated his usual condensed account of his escape and landing in Yorkshire. There were the usual grunts and exclamations of astonishment, pity, approval. Boris sipped his drink, waiting for the inevitable.

It came from an elderly, hawk-faced individual, whose bearing was in itself a sufficient uniform.

“We have been wondering why you have been here so long without getting into touch with us. Modesty? Embarrassment? Surely not. You an Army man – with your record?''

The merest trace of a break in the last sentence held Boris's attention. An afterthought? Then why? Did they not hold his record? Of course they did. This man had been a general. He had, to Boris's knowledge, made up all possible records of the Polish army, man by man, that he could glean from saved files, individual recollection, Red Cross endeavour and so on. There had been perhaps six men in his prison group who were released by Stalin to fight with the Allies. He mentioned their names now, not at first answering the general's question.

“You must have heard from them. They were in my lot in Siberia.''

“We heard from one of them, only,'' the general said, grimly. “The rest died, on the way out to Egypt or from disease or in North Africa.''

“They were six out of thirty,'' Boris said in the same tone. “As far as I know I and one other are the only survivors left.''

The arrival of waiters in the dining-room next door halted this exchange. Boris foresaw that he could get out of answering the general's question at present, but saw too that he would not be forgiven for doing so. As the assembled party began to move towards the clink of dishes and cutlery he said, raising his voice a little, “I had the good luck or perhaps the misfortune to be adopted on my arrival, by an English family. It so happens I had English friends who had not forgotten me.''

There was some laughter at this, a few exchanged glances. The general, however, was not amused. His back, a few paces ahead of Boris, stiffened slightly. Let us hope it will not break when he sits down, Boris thought, laughing inwardly. Aloud he went on, in a serious voice, “I wanted to find work first. Not to appear to ask for – charity.''

It was lame, but no one could with politeness reject it. Looking round the group as they took their places, Boris even wondered if he had been less than tactful. Apart from the general and an old gentleman with a white beard, neatly trimmed, he saw that he was the best-dressed man present. Orloff, who seemed to be acting chairman on this occasion, wore a very old-fashioned dinner-jacket, while one or two of the distinguished company were very shabby and even not altogether clean. Boris rebuked himself for criticizing hands probably used in manual work. He thought of his own past activities and nearly swore aloud at himself. His present life must be corrupting him.

“You don't remember me then, Boris?'' asked the white-haired old gentleman.

He had come up silently behind the new-comer as he stood waiting for direction. When Orloff handed Boris to a seat beside himself, this man sat down on his other side.

“You don't know who I am?'' he repeated.

“No,'' Boris said. “Should I remember?''

“Not even my name? You heard it just now.''

“It was bewildering, when I came in. So many names. Polish names. I was overwhelmed.''

“I will repeat it. Scziliekowicz. Now do you remember?''

Boris stared, a painful flush spreading slowly over his whole face.

“You were my father's friend,'' he said and bowed his head before all that might follow.

Nothing followed. Or nothing painful. Nothing accusatory. The old man even reached out a hand to pat his shoulder.

“We will speak later,'' he said, gently.

The meal, a very good meal, took its course. Coffee and liqueurs followed. The chairman made a few announcements. For the enlightenment of their guest, he went on, he would describe the constitution of their society, its close links with and distinction from, the political body representing a government in exile. Having thus drawn Boris into his remarks he turned to him and said, “You will not deny us the pleasure of hearing some account of your experiences since the end of the war. We know of your captivity and can imagine it. We have had many accounts of the life in Siberia. It is afterwards. Unless you would find it too painful.''

Too familiar, too often repeated, to rouse feelings any longer. Too far away now. He told them, in words he had already used to the police in Yorkshire, to the authorities in London, to the Brentwood family, the rough outlines of his experiences. There was much that he did not include, but nothing false, exaggerated or spoken for effect.

“We see clearly that he is one of us,'' Orloff concluded his little speech of thanks to the speaker. There was prolonged applause.

When the party broke up Scziliekowicz was just behind Boris on the stairs. The general was just in front. Boris heard the gentle voice at his ear.

“You will want to ask me many questions,'' the old man said. “You must come for a final brandy at my home.''