Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) (41 page)

Jon acknowledged. “Here’s tae us! Wha’s like us? Gey few. And they’re a’ deid.” Then he grinned. “Haven’t thought of that in years. I learned it from a Scotsman who once tried to teach me philosophy. Moral philosophy, naturally. Do you remember old Abernethie, Paul?”

“Sure,” Paul said. He turned to Peggy. “Old Abernethie used to come into the classroom, look around us all, throw down his lecture notes on the desk, blow aside his whiskers and say, ‘Good morning, fellow-sufferers!’ And how right he was; we knew little about life, then. But translate for us, Jon. He never gave me the benefit of any toasts. I wasn’t one of his star pupils.”

“Here’s to us. Who’s like us? Very few. And they are all dead,” Jon said. He reflected on the fact that translation, as always, lowered the blood pressure of the original.

Peggy said, “Cheerful little jingle. It’s almost enough to sober up a man.”

“That may have been the idea. The Scots invented whisky, but they are strong on moral precepts too,” Jon said. “Now cheer up, Peggy. You can stop worrying about your dress, or about Bobby, or...” He didn’t finish.

They all avoided looking at each other, thinking of Rona.

Paul said quickly, “What’s wrong with Bobby?”

“Nothing,” Peggy said. “That’s the trouble. I wish I knew what was wrong with him.”

“The doctor says he seems to be all right,” Jon said, but he was worrying too, now.

“Today, he’s been so listless,” Peggy went on. “I took the children out to the playground this afternoon, and Bobby had his new gun with him—the one you sent, Paul—and do you know, he didn’t even play with it. He just sat on the bench beside me and let the other boys use it. I ask you!”

“By the way,” Jon said, changing the subject determinedly, “I was talking to Milton Leitner today. I told him you were coming to see us tonight, so he may drop in on us this evening if he gets ahead of his work. He’s been having an amusing time with that chap in your office, the one who works in advertising and spouts politics at parties.”

“Murray?”

“Yes. Murray’s been doing some heavy arguing with Milton, and Milton has been stringing him along just to see how far he would go. But this week, a great change has come over Murray. He’s scared stiff about something, Milton says. Something to do with the death of that fellow who jumped out of a window. Rumours are starting, of course. A reporter—he’s a friend of Milton’s—got some information about the ‘goings-on’ in that household from one of the maids, but he couldn’t print it. Libel, I suppose.”

“The greater the truth, the greater the libel.’” Paul quoted.

Peggy said, “Rona seemed very upset about the man who jumped out of the window.”

“About Charles?”

“Yes. Why was Rona upset, Paul? She only saw him once, didn’t she?”

“He was a pathetic kind of figure.”

“Tragic. An incurable drunk, wasn’t he?”

“No,” Paul said. “I don’t think he was that.”

Jon was watching him. “I don’t suppose the true story will ever come out,” he said, giving Peggy a warning signal to stop questioning.

“If it does,” Paul answered, “it won’t seem to bear any relationship to Charles. The poor guy won’t even get that credit.”

So that’s the kind of story it is, Jon thought. He was interested, but he began a conversation about summer plans and other problems that troubled no one too seriously. Peggy needs a holiday, he was thinking as he listened to her talking to Paul. She’s worrying too much about everything. We’ll scrape along somehow, this year, even if I don’t earn any money by teaching in summer school. And I’ll finish that book of mine, and that will ease things a little. A book meant promotion, promotion meant more money; and that meant more chance to keep next summer free too from teaching, more chance to start writing another book. It’s a spiral; either you go up, or you slip down.

“What’s wrong?” Peggy asked suddenly, interrupting her remarks to Paul.

Jon looked up. “I was just thinking you don’t grumble as much as you should,” he said frankly.

Peggy gave her husband a warm smile. And watching them, Paul suddenly felt as if he were shut out of the room. Peggy may have sensed that, for she said to him, “I had a fit of grumbling this evening just before you arrived. When I tried on this dress and looked at myself in it—oh, well, why bring that moment up again? Anyway, I was thoroughly stupid and bad-tempered.” She rose and went over to Jon as she spoke, and she gave him a quick, tight hug. “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly, and retreated hastily to the door as the bell rang. “Probably Milton,” she called back cheerfully.

Jon looked after her and then around the room. “Sometimes I think I chose the wrong profession,” he said gloomily.

Paul looked at him in surprise. “You’re pretty good at your job, I hear.” And heaven only knew that we needed good teachers, now more than ever.

“Except when it comes to finding the cash to pay the bills,” Jon said angrily. “Sometimes I think I’ll give up the struggle, and go into business. Or perhaps teachers should be monastic: a cell and a cowled robe—that’s just about all they can afford these days.” Then his face and voice softened as he added, “But I couldn’t teach well if I hadn’t Peggy to keep me human.” He rose and turned to the door, for Milton Leitner, followed by Joseph Locastro and Peggy, was coming into the room.

Paul noted the way the two students greeted Jon, the warm smile he gave them. He began to wonder why a man should be penalised for doing an essential job. If the best brains were to leave teaching to the stupid and ill-trained, what would happen to the Milton Leitners and the Joe Locastros? That thought gave him the beginning of an idea for a series of articles: the economic exploitation of the teacher by his students, their parents, and the good citizens who liked to talk of culture but hated to pay for it. That would just about hit every man jack of us, he thought. Then he pigeonholed the idea for tomorrow’s brooding and rose to shake hands with the two young men.

“We only came in to say hello,” Milton Leitner said. “We’re hitting the books tonight. Exams are breaking out all over.” He handed a couple of heavy looking volumes over to Jon. “These have been hit, I’m glad to say. Thought I’d better return them before they got lost in the shambles I call a room at the moment.”

“And Joe came to give us some news,” Peggy said, her eyes smiling as she watched her husband to see his reactions. “He’s—no, you tell it, Joe!”

“I’ve got that part-time job,” Joe said, unable to control the grin of delight that was spreading over his thin aquiline face. “I can work it in with my classes next semester. So we are all set.” He turned to Paul and explained. “I’m getting married this summer. I think you met Edith here, didn’t you?”

“And Edith—” prompted Peggy.

“Edith is leaving Vassar but she’ll finish her degree in New York. She’s got a part-time job, too, in an advertising office. We’ll manage.”

“Good for you,” Jon said, and shook his head warningly once more. “And good for Edith. But I never thought you’d get around Edith’s people.”

“Oh, they turned out to be human,” Joe said cheerfully. “But they are still a bit dazed, though.”

“Then that’s your first bond in common,” Milton Leitner assured him. And then as Joe began telling Peggy about a room he had found to rent, this afternoon, and Peggy was promising to go round and see it and report back whether it was a reasonable bargain and practical for housekeeping, Milton drew nearer to Paul.

“There must be something to this love business,” Milton said. “In spite of the divorce rate, people keep on trying.” His fine eyes watched Paul thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t think, to look at Joe, that he’s taking on enough work and worry to paralyse him for five years, would you?”

“Looking at Joe; I think I’d risk that. He’s a good propagandist.”

“Better than I am in my line,” Milton admitted wryly. “Bob Cash—remember he was up here that last evening we met?—he’s fallen hard for Thelma’s little parties and all the bright lights he met there.” He made a quiet gesture toward the other end of the room, and together, he and Paul drifted in that direction leaving Jon and Peggy listening to Joe.

“I’ve been doing a little research,” Milton said, dropping his voice, “and I’ve found out several things. At one time, Scott Ettley did make a habit of cultivating Jon Tyson’s students. Murray was next in the assembly line. Through him, they were taken to Nicholas Orpen who looked them over. If they made the grade, then they were in for a whirl of discussion groups and parties like the kind Thelma gave. After that first meeting with Orpen, they didn’t see any more of him for quite a while. Not until they had been promoted to a series of meetings and intense discussions. And then, if they passed with top marks, they suddenly found themselves invited back to Orpen’s place for small meetings that were big stuff. Scott Ettley reappeared in their lives, then, I hear. He was cagey—just like Orpen; they never mentioned Party membership. That was left to men like Murray. And that’s as much as I could find out. The students who refused Murray’s approach didn’t get any further, and those who accepted aren’t talking, naturally. But it’s fantastic, isn’t it? The amount of trouble some guys take to convert a few pliable young men.”

Paul looked at him in amazement. “How the hell did you find all that out?”

“I began with the names of the fellows who had been coming up here on Friday nights for the last three years. I talked around with some of them—those who had just gone along out of curiosity, and then picked up their heels and ran when they found what they were getting into. It was they who gave me the pattern of the whole set-up. One thing, though,”—Leitner’s heavily marked eyebrows straightened into a frown—“Ettley seems to have dropped out of the picture recently. Bob Cash and I were the two last contacts he made here, and that’s about six months ago. Does that mean he has broken with the Communist Party?”

Paul Haydn didn’t answer that. Perhaps, he thought. Or perhaps Ettley has got deeper in. “Have you told Tyson about this?” he asked quietly.

Milton Leitner looked at him unhappily. “How could I? I was kind of hoping that you’d drop him a word. Someone must. There’s Rona to think of, too.”

Paul said nothing, but his worry grew.

Then Joe, saying a cheery goodbye to Peggy and Jon, called over to Leitner. “Milt! We’d better shove off. We’ve still a couple of hours to put in on the books tonight.”

“You’re an optimist,” Milton Leitner said. He began moving to the door.

Peggy said to him, “I never did get around to asking you about the summer. Have you taken the job in Cheyenne?”

Milton nodded. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll be able to give Bobby all the lowdown on broncho busting when I get back.”

“I’ll see you out,” Jon said, leading the way toward the hall. The good nights were made, good luck was wished. And as Milton Leitner left the room, he turned for a brief moment to exchange a glance with Paul.

Peggy noticed it. “You like him?” she asked Paul. “So does Jon. Jon says he’ll go far. And Joe will, too. That’s why Jon is so pleased that he isn’t giving up college, after all. It would have been a waste.” She emptied an ashtray and straightened a cushion thoughtfully. “Joe was telling me that the reason he was determined to get married now is that he doesn’t trust what’s going to happen in the world. He thinks his generation had better get the happiness they can while they still can have it.” Her voice became strained. “What has made them so much older than we were at their age?”

“Because we were too young to learn anything from the First World War, and they’ve grown up during the second one. That makes the difference, I suppose. Telling didn’t teach us very much, did it?” Paul hesitated, then he said:

“To think that two and two are four

And neither five nor three,

The heart of man has long been sore,

And long ’tis like to be.”

“What’s this?” Jon asked, returning to the room. “Are you quoting poetry to my wife the minute my back is turned?” He grinned and put an affectionate arm around Peggy’s waist. “But why choose Housman in one of his remorseful moods?”

“I was having an attack of gloom,” Paul said, trying to smile. “I had to work it off on someone.”

Peggy, still following her own thoughts, said sadly, “Yes, we were the five-and-three generation, weren’t we?”

“And the bill was a steep one,” Jon said. He looked at Paul Haydn again, wondering what was troubling him. “Well, let’s sit down and be comfortable,” he suggested. “Where’s your glass, Paul?”

“I’ll have to leave,” Paul said. “But...” he hesitated, frowned. “I heard a piece of news about Scott Ettley,” he went on. “Of course it may only be a rumour, a piece of gossip, but it’s certainly—well, unexpected.”

“You mean about his new job?” Peggy asked.

“What’s that?” Paul looked at her quickly.

“He’s going to join his father’s newspaper. I suppose he will be editor some day, if he’s good enough. Very nice, too.”

“He will be good enough. He’ll make sure of that,” Paul said so bitterly that Jon and Peggy exchanged glances. “And we are all so damned helpless,” he went on angrily. “What can we do? Go to William Ettley and tell him? He wouldn’t believe us. And I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell him, anyway.”

“Tell him
what
?” Peggy asked.

Paul’s lips tightened. His grey eyes seemed to darken with worry. “Perhaps we had all better sit down,” he said. “Jon, here’s a piece of news that Milton Leitner passed on to me. If it’s true, it affects us all. In different ways. But I think we ought to—”

At that moment, a long piercing cry of pain drew them back on their feet. Then, just as suddenly, it was over, and there was nothing but silence, a grim warning silence filled with threats.

“My God!” Paul said. “What was that?”

“Bobby! It’s Bobby!” Peggy cried, and she ran into the dark hall with Jon. Paul began to follow, but he halted outside the bedroom door. Barbara had wakened, and she was wailing with fear. But from Bobby, there was now only a small moan and then silence.