Graham Swift: Shuttlecock

‘My dear chap — ’

‘In the prison chapter, Dad is silent about what they did to him. He keeps saying: this can’t be described, this is blurred.’

‘Yes, but that would be quite understandable. He was tortured — that’s almost certain — probably severely tortured — you must have considered that. You can’t blame him for not dwelling on those things.’

The garden glimmered in the evening light. A mirage.

‘Or,’ I said, ‘for quite naturally breaking down under them.’

He looked at me. He seemed suddenly perturbed, daunted by the vehemence in my voice. I realized I was defending Dad — defending that dignified dummy on a hospital bench.

Quinn said. ‘Consider the possibilities. The Americans were advancing. He must have known the chances of being freed very soon: an argument for “holding out” — an argument against betrayal — and for not undertaking, if we’re speaking now of the genuine article, a risky escape. On the other hand, the Germans were desperate. They were in retreat. They needed information, or they were simply extra-brutal’ — his eyes sharpened — ‘as desperate men are. Reasons for “breaking down” — or for effecting an escape even with liberation imminent.’

‘But if the Germans were desperate what would have been the advantage of a betrayal? They might have shot him anyway.’

‘True. But consider another possibility. He turns traitor — oh, scarcely with any object in mind, but simply because — like everyone — he has — a breaking point. Then he realizes the Germans will shoot him anyway — so he has to escape in earnest.’

He sighed. ‘Will you have another drink?’

‘No.’

He looked into his own glass and jogged the sliver of lemon at the bottom of it.

‘I know what you’re thinking. You hate me because I’m imparting all this information. Because I have the information — the file — I’m responsible for the fact. That’s not logical. But I don’t blame you. It’s just the same at the office. Because you handle all that information, you feel to blame for it. You don’t mind if I have another one, do you?’

He eased himself out of his seat, gripping his glass. ‘You see,’ he suddenly said, ‘this business of betrayal, and this business of breaking down — they aren’t the same thing at all, are they?’

I watched him waddle to the kitchen through the conservatory. I had never seen him before out of his grey or dark-blue office suit. Like all professional men suddenly seen in casual clothes, he looked vaguely clownish and defenceless. The Siamese cats followed him at a distance. Shadows crept up the garden wall and up the branches of the apple trees.

… to make the decision the hunted rabbit or the cornered mouse has to make …

Quinn returned. ‘ “Betrayal” sounds like some deliberate, some conscious act. But “breaking down” ….’ He sipped his drink and smiled, gently, at me. ‘Are we putting your father on trial or aren’t we? Think of his predicament again. Alone in that cell, he has all those possibilities to weigh up. Nothing is certain, nothing is clear. If he doesn’t “speak”, the Germans will shoot him. If he does, will they shoot him anyway? Will the Americans arrive in time or not? Should he risk escape or risk waiting for liberation? If he speaks will it make any difference, at that stage, to the course of the war? Is a betrayal a betrayal if, in fact, it has no consequences? And then, on the other hand, if he doesn’t betray, that may make a very real difference — between his own life and death. He has all this mental anguish, on top of confinement and — torture. And against all this he can only oppose one feeble imperative — his duty. It’s a mystery; I don’t know what really happened. But you can be sure of one thing. If he did betray, he only did what any ordinary, natural human being would have done — he saved his own skin.’

Quinn held his gaze on me and I looked away. The smile had melted from his face and I felt he was studying me as he often did in the office, searching for reactions.

‘Have I ever told you how I got my limp?’ he said.

I looked at him, surprised.

He bent down suddenly and rapped the front part of his right foot with his knuckle. It gave a hard, hollow sound.

‘You see, that part’s not me.’

I looked, perplexed, and slightly repelled. I’d never known Quinn had an artificial foot.

‘You’re wondering what this has got to do with it? Let me tell you the story. It’s not irrelevant. I was twenty-five when the war started, Prentis. Older than a lot of them. In ’44 I was thirty — nearer your age — a junior officer who’d spent the war in camps and depots and hadn’t heard an angry shot. I didn’t have any lust for battle, you understand, but the fact rather irked me. Our battalion went over to Normandy. Not one of the first wave. It was ironic. There were men under my command who’d been in Italy and North Africa and I was supposed to lead them into action — and it was all rather important to me. We didn’t see any fighting until we got to Caen — ’

‘Caen?’

‘Yes, I know, your father was in Caen. You see — he was preparing the way for the likes of me. Well, I saw my bit of action, and it was all over in about a minute. I had to take my platoon across open ground towards a wood which, in theory, should have been flattened by our artillery. The Germans were there; they opened up, and in ten seconds half my platoon was dead. That’s an astonishing thing when it happens, Prentis, believe me. I didn’t perform any of my much-rehearsed functions as a leader. I obeyed my instinct. I ran like bloody hell — like everybody else. I ran for my life . That’s no joke. I would have killed any English soldier who got in my way, let alone a German. Now I don’t remember any of this except one thing — it’s perfectly true, memories do get blurred. As I ran I had to jump over a bit of broken-down hedge. Lying face up in the ditch on the other side of it was a wounded man. I don’t know if I saw him beforehand or if I only realized he was there when I’d already jumped. All I know is that my right boot came down hard and firm on his face; and I had a good glimpse of his face because I was able to tell the poor fellow was still alive. I didn’t stop. A few seconds later something knocked me into the air and the next thing I knew I was in the dressing-station. I’d lost half a foot and, fortunately perhaps, I wouldn’t be called on to command any troops again; and the fact that I was wounded somehow obscured the possibility of my being charged for cowardice and dereliction of duty. You see if someone had accused me of cowardice, of betrayal, they’d have been perfectly right — but all that got lost in the confusion of battle. Now, I’m not necessarily superstitious, Prentis, but I can’t help believing my right foot was blown off because it was that foot that trod on that man’s face. Or is that just some guilty need of mine for punishment? But why punishment? Aren’t there certain situations when the pressure of events is so intense, so overpowering — that even the most wretched action can be forgiven?’

I looked at him, puckering up my face.

He nodded. ‘But that’s not all. There’s one thing I’ve never told anyone about that moment. When I brought my foot down — it was only a split second, but I remember this much — I thought: he’s had it, I can still save myself. I was glad.’

I turned my eyes to the garden. As the shadows crept upwards, they made the remaining chequers of sunlight, on the walls, the roses, the apple trees, more intense and dazzling. A sweet smell came from the honeysuckle. I remembered our garden in Wimbledon. Mother’s kitchen garden. Her clump of lavender.