Andrew Crumey: The Secret Knowledge

“But I think your newspaper is very bad,” he says, dismissively folding it. “And you wasted your time trying to sell it here. You don’t mind my being blunt, do you?”

“Of course not,” Quinn says, humbled.

“In France we have had a little more experience of revolution. You could say that along with women and wine it is a national speciality.” The stranger laughs, nudges his new friend, and Quinn is bathed by the warmth of exotic lands. “My name is Pierre Klauer.” Their introductory handshake is like a pact.

“Come for tea,” Quinn says abruptly, almost surprising himself with his own hospitality.

“I should like that, whenever is convenient for you.”

“Come now. Unless you need be somewhere else.”

Pierre shrugs affably. “I have no prior engagement.”

The factory gate is quiet, the winter evening cold; there is no further cause for formality. “Let’s go then,” says Quinn. He’s parked his bike against a nearby wall; he pushes it while Pierre carries the satchel of unsold newspapers. Quinn asks how long the Frenchman has been in Scotland.

“I arrived before the war, unfortunately.”

“You’d have preferred to be with your own people?”

“I was imprisoned by yours. My father was born in Germany; the one thing I have from him is his surname.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“What was prison like for you?”

“It gave me time to think.”

Leaning on the handlebars of the bike he wheels, Quinn agrees earnestly. “Plenty of time, certainly.” They take the path beside the river, poorly lit and muddy in parts. “Where do you live?”

“At a lodging house near Logie Colliery. And you?”

“Not far, in Mossmount.”

“Ah, the respectable part of town. Then you’re what they call ‘posh’?”

Quinn laughs, unsure if Pierre is being naive or ironic. “My father’s a doctor, a very good one and a brilliant man, though highly traditional in his politics. Like you, I’ve inherited nothing but a name. He says I’ve brought shame to it.”

“He lets you remain beneath his roof, that shows how much he loves you.”

“He needs me and my sister to look after him since mother fell ill.” Quinn catches himself. “How vain of me to expound on my own circumstances. I fear I may bore you.” He feels a comforting hand on his arm.

“It makes me happy that you speak freely.”

They walk in darkness; beyond the river’s murmur the town is alive only with the distant sound of workers retreating to home or pub.

Pierre asks, “Are you employed?”

“I’m a student.”

“I thought you might be.”

“Started in medicine, failed my exams, simply couldn’t take it in. Father suggested law but that was no better. Then the war…”

“You fought?”

“No,” says Quinn, slowing to a halt. “You told me honestly about your misfortune — it’s one I shared.”

“Prison?”

“I was called up but declared myself a pacifist. Father got me out, the lawyers argued that as a medical student I should never have been conscripted. So it was back to anatomy, and now it’s all over I can change subject again. Or to hell with it.”

“It was brave of you, refusing to enlist. For me there was no choice.”

“It wasn’t hard, telling the board I wouldn’t fight for capitalism. It was when I heard of so many friends dying that

I felt ashamed.”

“We must put the past behind us,” Pierre says soothingly. “For everyone this is the start of a new life. I began at the factory only two weeks ago.”

“And in France? What did you do there?”

“I told you,” says Pierre, “let’s not dwell on the past.”

They take the lane leading to Mossmount and come eventually to a street of dignified stone houses with neat gardens. Quinn’s front door opens before they reach it; a pretty red-haired young woman stands waiting.

“Hello, Jessie,” Quinn says, stooping to kiss her cheek, then looks over his shoulder. “Pierre, this is my wee sister.”

“ Enchanté, mademoiselle .”

She smiles nervously, pleasurably, looking to her brother for further explanation, her face like that of a child seeing Santa Claus, but Quinn only asks, “Is father here?”

“In the front room.” Jessie offers to take the men’s coats for them as they step inside.

“Pierre’s having his tea here, can you manage that?”

“I expect so.”

A gravelly voice calls. “Is that you, Johnny?”

“Yes, father. We have a guest I’d like you to meet.”

“Come here, then.”

Dr Quinn sits in an armchair near the curtained window, a book open on his lap. Freckled, bald, eyebrows grey and shaggy, his old face is ruddy in the firelight. “I won’t stand, if you don’t mind.”

“Pierre Klauer, sir, at your service.”

“Is that a Belgian name you’ve got?”

“French, sir.”

“Then what would you prefer, whisky or brandy?”

“I like whisky very much.”

“See to it, Johnny, will you? Only a wee drop of water for me, mind. Have a seat, Pierre. I’ve been chuckling at this book, very droll . The Man Who Was Thursday . You know Chesterton?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose not.” The doctor quickly finds another topic. “Most appalling what the Hun’s done to your country.”

“A tragedy.”

“How did the land of Beethoven ever go so wrong, can you tell me that? Do you like music, Pierre?”

“In fact I do.”

“I used to sing often when I was younger. Handel’s Messiah , they have it in France I expect.” He takes the glass his son offers and stares at it disapprovingly. “Are we running short? What’s your profession, Pierre?”

“He just started at Russell, father.”

The son’s interruption makes Dr Quinn stare from one man to the other as though wondering where the next voice might come from. “An engineer? That’s very fine. The world needs engineers. Was that your father’s profession too?”

“My father built his fortune from arms factories in Germany.”

A stunned blinking of Dr Quinn’s grey eyes. All he can manage after a moment is, “I see.”

“But you’ve broken with your father, haven’t you?” John asks uncertainly.

Pierre nods. “You could say I broke with everything.” He looks straight at Dr Quinn. “Would you prefer me to leave, sir?”

“Of course not.”

“I can’t help the way my father became rich. I’ve disowned him.”

The doctor pensively rubs the indentations of his crystal glass. “Very sad. Though under the circumstances, clearly appropriate.” He again looks from one man to the other. “Johnny, how did you two meet? How long have you been acquainted?”

“A while,” Pierre answers quickly. There is a palpable air of something unstated; John does nothing to contradict a lie he finds strangely pleasant.

“Pierre was interned as an alien.”

The doctor’s eyebrows sink with sorrowful understanding. So that’s it: prison-mates. Best not discuss further. “You’re having tea with us?”

“If I may.”

“Jessie should have sorted it by now, let’s go through.”

In the dining room the table is set, the meal is ready.

“This looks wonderful,” Pierre says approvingly, making Jessie blush as she comes from the kitchen with a serving ladle.

“If I’d known we’d have a guest…” She sits down without completing her sentence, toying instead with her hair.

“Will you write a wee note for mother tonight?” Dr Quinn asks, and she nods. He explains to Pierre, “My wife’s in a sanatorium. Her lungs, you understand. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be so Jessie takes care of letters.”