Charles Snow - George Passant

If he quits before the trial, mind you, Lewis—’ she began.

I exclaimed.

You know that he’s thought of that?’

Of course I know,’ said Olive. ‘I’m not blind when I love. He’s thought of getting abroad. On the whole, I don’t think he’ll try.’

If he did?’

I should run after him. As soon as he cricked his finger. Whether he cricked his finger or not.’

I thought of George’s safety: when she asked, ‘How easy is it — for us to get abroad?’ I kept the details out of my answer.

Just then I heard George’s voice above the rest. The partition had slid further back, and from our room we could see him; he was half-lying on a sofa with Daphne on his knee, one arm round her; in the other hand he held a glass. He had begun to sing at the top of his voice, so violently his hand shook and the spirit kept spurting out.

Daphne jumped from his knee, and stood behind the sofa, trying to quieten him. He sang on: the words were so loud that I could not disentangle them, but it sounded like one of his father’s hymns.

There’s George,’ said Olive.

She watched him.

Some people once thought there might be something between us. They were stupid. We’ve never had the slightest feeling for each other.’ She went on: ‘I know what you were afraid of a minute ago. If Jack flew, I should be ready to desert George. That’s true. Yet he’s been close to me — in a way I’ve never understood.’

She got up, and walked into the other room. Some of them looked in Jack’s direction, expecting her to go there. But she went and stood by George. I had not seen her touch him, not once in those years.Now she dropped on her knees by the sofa, and took his hand in hers.

I left them at three o’clock. Some hours later, when I was still in bed, a telephone message came from the hospital: would I go to the children’s clinic at once? Morcom was on duty there, he urgently wanted to see me. The streets were filling up as I went out; out of the shops, women bustled by, their cheeks pink in the frost. The indifference of the scene, the comfort, like a Breughel picture, only brought out my anxiety. It was an actual relief to see Morcom’s face, meeting me with a look of question and acute strain.

He could ask nothing; a nurse was in the room, and a batch of boys, round the age of twelve or so. As I watched, it was his gentleness which fascinated me. They responded to him immediately, with shrill, high, squealing laughs. With the nurse he was sharply efficient: but, as he talked to the boys, his manner became natural and self-effacing, so that they gathered round him, their nervousness gone, chaffing him. Some of them had noticed his pallor: ‘Have you got a headache, Mr Morcom?’

‘Were you out on the spree last night, Mr Morcom?’

Then, as he took me into his office, his expression changed.

‘Were you with them last night?’

I nodded.

‘What do they think?’

‘They’ve a good idea what the chances are.’

‘Has George?’ asked Morcom.

‘Yes.’

‘You talked of Jack escaping, the first night this began. Why don’t you suggest it to George?’

I hesitated.

‘It wouldn’t be easy,’ I said.

‘Easy! You of all people talk of it not being easy — when you know what the alternative is.’

‘I know—’

‘But you won’t go to George.’

‘I can’t,’ I said.

‘It’s his fault,’ said Morcom. ‘It’s that madman’s fault.’

‘It’s no use blaming anyone now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s too late to talk about George’s fault. Or yours. Or mine for not stopping it,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Morcom.

‘If you had gone back that night and taken care of them, this might never have happened. That night you warned me, and I begged you to go back. If you had only been able to forget your self-respect,’ I said.

My voice had gone harsh like his; he heard me say what he was continually thinking; he was relieved. His face became softened. He said, in a casual, almost light-hearted tone: ‘That wouldn’t have been so easy, either.’ He paused, then said: ‘The only thing is, what’s to be done? There’s still some time.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do,’ I said. ‘They will have to wait for the trial.’

‘You’ll be busy with the case?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re lucky.’ Then he said: ‘I’ve not asked you before. But are you as likely to get them off — as anyone we could find?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘If we could afford to pay.’

‘I ought to have been told that. I’ll give the money—’

‘I’ve thought it out — as dispassionately as I can,’ I said. ‘I don’t think the difference is worth the money. For one reason. Money may be more important afterwards. If we’ve spent every penny—’

‘You mean, if they’re convicted—’

‘We’ve got to be ready,’ I said.

That afternoon, when I was sitting alone in the drawing-room at Eden’s, Daphne visited me. She talked of the previous night.

‘It was rather an orgy, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Of course, you didn’t see it after it really began—’ She mentioned a common acquaintance, and said: ‘Of course, it would have sent her away for good, wouldn’t it? But then she’s “upright”. I can’t help respecting her, you know, when I’m not relapsing like last night.’ Then she said: ‘But I’m being silly, wasting your time. In the middle of this horror. It’s as bad as going mad last night. But that happened because we were in this mess, didn’t it?’

The shrewdness shot through the prattle of her talk, and her eyes, often flirtatious, were steady and sensible. ‘That’s just why I’ve come up to see you now. I’m getting a bit worked up.’

‘Go on.’

‘You’re easy to talk to, aren’t you?’ she said (coquettishness returned for a second; her upper lip puckered). ‘I shan’t be terribly helpful, you know. It’s just to get it off my chest. But anyway, it’s like this. When George first thought of making passes at me he wanted me to know the awful secrets of his life. He was certain that I should be shocked,’ she went on. ‘I oughtn’t to laugh at him, poor dear. He was serious about it. It must have been a struggle. When he decided it was the right thing to do, he went ahead — though he fancied he was taking a risk. He really believed he might lose me.’ She smiled.

‘Well, do you know what he did?’ she said. ‘He insisted on giving me his diary. It’s a staggering document. I expect I enjoyed the pieces he thought I’d mind. But there are some I can’t always laugh away. I’ve brought it along.’ (She had placed a small despatch case on the floor.) ‘I want you to look at it for me—’ She sat on the arm of my chair; the arrangement of the first page, as her finger pointed out an entry, seemed identical with those George himself showed me years ago.

First she made me read a series of passages about the agency; quite soon after they bought it, it seemed that George was troubled about the circulation of the Arrow — ‘it cannot conceivably have reached the figure that Martineau gave me in good faith’. The set of entries went on for several pages: neither of us spoke as I read it.

‘That’s all about that business,’ said Daphne. ‘I don’t know what it means. But I couldn’t rest till you’d seen it. I thought you might need it for the case—’ then she broke off. ‘Will you read some more? While I’m here?’

There was little else directly bearing on the case in the entries Daphne selected. I saw only a few perfunctory references to his job at Eden’s, and little more about the ‘enterprises’ with Jack and Olive. On the whole, I was surprised that they had seemed to matter so little.