Читать книгу The German Numbers Woman - Alan Sillitoe - Страница 15

Richard downhilled into town towards the sea, the morse key squeaking intermittently in its box. Contacts were too close, no hidden message made out of such electrical dribble. He smiled that if it went on much longer he would feed its canary spirit to the cat, or cut down the ration of birdseed for breakfast. He had practised using it during the afternoon, testing for digital dexterity and the flexibility of his wrist. It was a little ex-post office model, all shining precision of brass-made parts except for the Bakelite thumb and finger hold.

Lights spread along the front and, parking by the church, he unscrewed the key to stop the contacts mewing, unwilling for the battery to waste. Stars pushed from ragged cloud, and he knew he needed a drink when half a dozen lucky youths rocketed from a pub and went singing towards the amusement arcades. He climbed steps between the houses, undrawn curtains showing dolly-mixture coloured screens ogled by those who had nothing better to do.

Drizzle blew from behind, kept at bay by his trench coat and cap. No bell, but a solid knocker on the door of a Queen Anne house, no more than a glorified cottage, windows curtained though blades of light whitened the edges.

The television went off, an outside bulb glowed on him, and Laura opened the door. Her tenseness made him wonder why he was here. Perhaps the most important actions are done for no apparent reason, in spite of or even unknown to yourself, whether for ill or good. He recalled Amanda’s laugh at his intention to do a charitable deed, her remarks seeming irrelevant, even spiteful.

Laura’s poise and superb figure told him that if she had been twenty years younger he would have regarded her as the love of his life, and even now he felt regret at seeing what he had lost. Maybe I’m here to find out, which says something about me, though I should be too old to wonder.

She took his coat and cap, surprised at how vacant he had looked for a moment. He handed over the plastic bag with his morse key, and took the bunch of Dutch roses from its swathe of white paper. ‘Some flowers for you.’ He enjoyed her blushing amazement. ‘I couldn’t come empty handed. It was kind of you to invite me. Not much, but they’re all I could find. I hope they keep for a while.’ He supposed he had little chance of staying favourably in her mind after the flowers had wilted.

‘You shouldn’t,’ she said, though liked him thinking he was under an obligation. In the living room there was an air of long-lived domestic comfort. A black cat sleeping its length on top of the still-warm television didn’t stir as he came in, though the man got up from his armchair by the fireplace and strode so quickly that he was ready to step aside in case they collided.

Howard stopped a couple of paces off, and put out a hand. ‘I’m pleased you could make it. I’m Howard. Laura’s told you about me, I expect.’ The horizontal voice makes him about my height, not a bit puffed after climbing the hill, so he’s in fair condition, though he smokes, and obviously likes his tipple. He sensed the uneasiness at being in a strange house, and though not able to see, and never would, fixed a face to match words and gestures. Fair, neat hair, alert features enhanced by a small clipped moustache maybe. A curious and enquiring face, intelligent and perhaps devious, a bit like the bomb aimer in the kite that was crippled. Beyond that he couldn’t go. Have to check with Laura.

Richard felt an intruder into their long-fixed relationship, but since he was there he’d have to relax and be at his best. At least he could stare at Howard for more than long enough to take him in, though not too intently with Laura looking on. ‘I’m sure you want coffee,’ she said.

He did. Howard sat down, pointing to a chair as if the plan of everything was firm in his mind. ‘It’s a lousy night. Did you come far?’

Pots rattled in the kitchen. ‘Only from near Bracebridge.’

‘It was good of you to help Laura with the car.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I’d do the same for any woman. For a man as well if he was having difficulty.’

Howard thought about this, then went on: ‘Is your house up, or down?’

‘I’m on a fair hill.’ He’d imagined Howard to be tallish, but he wasn’t much above medium height. The solid arched forehead looked as if much was packed behind, but whether profitable grey matter or as a result of suffering it was hard to tell. With glazed eyes and seemingly dead much expression was gone, but he felt a central all-seeing eye somewhere. The chin jutting beneath full curving lips suggested a temper well controlled. He wore a polo-neck fisherman’s blue jersey, corduroy trousers, and carpet slippers.

‘Good for the antennae,’ he smiled. ‘Do you get much time to listen?’

‘I do a bit most days,’ Richard said.

Howard passed his silver cigarette case. He’d filled it himself. ‘You can’t keep away from the wireless gear, eh?’ Going to the table in the middle of the room, he put an ash tray on the arm of Richard’s chair. ‘I know I can’t. There are so many interesting things. You’d think the whole system was designed for a chap like me. It makes a pattern in my universe.’

Richard wanted to encourage him. ‘And mine, you might say.’

‘I suppose you believe in Fate, then? Predestination, and all that.’

Richard examined the large coloured print of a Lancaster framed on the wall. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Looking at the old bomber, are you?’ Howard said. ‘I got my comeuppance in one of those. Over Essen. Twelfth of March, in ‘forty-five. Beware the Ides of March! I should have known I’d get the chop, especially with the number 12.3.45. Easy enough to remember.’

‘Nice plane,’ Richard said.

‘Roomy,’ Howard laughed. ‘For bombs.’ He visualised the plane as if with the power of both eyes, even more clearly, the twin tail and sturdy Rolls Royce motors, long camouflaged body and angled wings (dihedral they called it), gun turrets and greenhouse cockpit, a strong craft to look at, but he remembered it feeling as flimsy as paper among the flak. He saw it right enough. The last home before the dark. Nothing more vivid. He also took in the photograph of Laura in its silver frame close by, every feature responsive to the fingers he now and again ran over them. He would pick it up, saying to himself, or aloud if she wasn’t close: ‘What a lovely young woman you are,’ then wonder in what way age had altered her, which he could confirm as he touched her actual face.

‘Fate, you said?’ Richard turned. ‘Predestination? If I think about it I suppose I do. You have to in a way, don’t you?’

‘Life’s treated you all right?’

The abrupt change of topic showed he had to be alert in dealing with him. He hadn’t expected to talk on such matters, and the older man seemed to be guiding him, as if he thought being blind gave him the right. ‘Yes, certainly.’

‘Not that you’d complain, eh?’ Howard laughed. ‘You’re not the type. Nor am I. I’m a lucky man in many ways, having something to cope with which shapes my life. No arguing there. The eternal test of ingenuity keeps me alert.’

And young, as if both man and wife had stopped dead in their tracks. Richard took in the portrait of Laura, a palimpsest of youth. You could see from where her present beauty came. ‘I hope listening to the wireless does that in any case,’ he said, wanting to escape the topic.

‘That’s a bonus for me.’ Howard opened the door for Laura to come in with the tray, and Richard marvelled at his sharp hearing.

The cat slid from the telly to lap up a saucer of milk. ‘I hope I’m not butting in on your conversation.’

Richard took his cup. ‘We’re only on generalities. No shop yet.’ Behind the Lear-like aspect of the blind telegraphist was a lot waiting to be said, and Richard wondered how much he would be able to salvage from his long-stored accretion of radio clutter to meet it.

Laura enjoyed the accomplishment of having brought them together, already as familiar to each other as acquaintances who had met after some years. Their uncommon hobby had cemented two people who on the street would have seemed utterly different – and passed each other without thought. Yet a whispered word of mutual interest, and they would stop and talk. ‘What generalities, though?’

Richard laughed. ‘Oh, Howard happened to mention predestination, though I’m not too sure what it means.’

‘I always thought it had something to do with God knowing every step of your fate,’ Howard said. ‘It’s written out even before you’re born. And whatever you think might happen, or would like to happen, when you’re young, there’s nothing you can do about what will happen. You just do your best, enjoy life if possible, and get on with it.’

‘He sounds a rather indomitable old God.’ She came around with the milk, not altogether liking the subject, Richard thought, who didn’t know it took her back to the hospital where Howard lay wounded and blinded after the raid, when he had said much the same thing. They hadn’t talked about it since, so his ideas had altered little in all those years, though why had such talk come up at this moment?

‘No one can kick against Fate, in any case.’ Richard drank his coffee, hot as it was, even if only to have something to do in putting the cup down. Faced with a man who had been more in its grip than most he didn’t feel predestination to be the right subject so early on. Or maybe it was best to get it out of the way.

‘True,’ Howard said dryly. ‘Funnily enough, though, I dwell on it every day. Not for long, but I do. A survival exercise you might call it. Still, it’s strange the subject came up.’

‘Maybe it’s the common denominator of those who have a life long attachment to wireless,’ Richard suggested. ‘You can’t help but feel everything is foreordained, every dot and dash sparking the details of somebody’s fate into your ear.’ He turned to Laura. ‘Now we are talking shop. Didn’t take long, did it?’

She liked his levity of tone, as well as skill and diplomacy in keeping the chat going. ‘I’ll leave you both to it. I must put those lovely flowers in water, and tidy up the kitchen after supper.’

Richard tapped the rim of the cup with his spoon, as if she had taken their talk with her. Howard looked, if he could be said to, at the door through which she had gone, then lowered an arm to stroke the cat which, though silent, he knew to be there.

Richard saw him as being all the time alone in a place Laura could never reach. When they weren’t together Howard was somewhere on his own, unreachable and curled into himself. It was the only way he could get by, but even if he had never been afflicted he might still have been an unreachable loner. You couldn’t tell, though he imagined Laura got into his spirit and lodged there for her solace as well as his.

‘You sound as if you’re trying to send me a message.’

He lay his spoon in the saucer. ‘Same old restless fingers.’

‘Like all of us. The French call wireless operators “pianistes”, so I hear, because they play at the key and make a peculiar rhythmical noise. I suppose it does sound weird to other people, but to us it’s like listening to plain language.’

Richard thought it charitable to let someone do the talking who lived a virtual hermit much of his life. Which is good as far as I’m concerned because he’ll have little to judge me by, though it could be I’ll learn more from him than he will from me.

‘You might call us the high priests of morse. Funny how I sometimes feel one myself,’ Howard said. ‘We’re members of a secret society because we have access to spheres which let us clip into their traffic – unknown to those who are communicating. I often envy the way they go on so blithely, not suspecting a thing.’

He spoke slowly, yet a subtle urgency lay behind his words, sometimes as if he would stumble over the next, though he never did, choosing each phrase as if rehearsed beforehand in the darkness of his mind. Perhaps Howard thought he was speaking to someone who lacked one of the many senses developed through being blind, or who was without at least one extra sense which a man with sight couldn’t have. At the same time he seemed unaffected by Richard being a stranger, unselfconscious to an extent that he was on his own, or talking to a mirror in which he couldn’t see himself. Though finding it a peculiar experience Richard was neither offended nor embarrassed, simply standing to one side while Howard did the talking. He assumed he would get used to it, if he came to see him again, and for Laura’s sake, after another glance at the photograph of her as a young woman, he very well might.

‘For instance,’ Howard went on, ‘there was a time when I heard Chinese operators on the Peking to Turkestan run. Very peculiar morse they sent. Most had no idea of the rhythm, and it was hard at times to make sense of. Then Laura read me from the newspaper that when a Chinese airliner was hijacked the wireless operator killed the terrorist with an axe!’

Richard laughed with him, saw the smile lift his cheeks, an extension of the lips, the sound unnerving, like a hand scraping on cardboard. ‘Served the bugger right. Hijackers will become the unacknowledged legislators of the world if we’re not careful.’

‘It’s wonderful that the sparks did it,’ Howard said. ‘It must have made his day, after being bored so long at his key. I wish I’d been tuned in at the same time, when he sent his SOS. I’m always on the line for learning something new about the human soul. A peculiar wish, you might say, because I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to, at least until I’ve learned all there is to know about my own – assuming that’s possible, which of course I have to doubt. I’m not even sure I would want to know myself completely, though the wish is always there.’

Richard sat again, resisted taking up the spoon in case he tapped out something incriminating. ‘I don’t imagine it would do much good to either of us.’

‘It might make me a different person, and that couldn’t be bad, under the circumstances. The thing is, that all the time I listen at the wireless I feel myself changing, but so subtly I don’t really notice at the time. That’s what keeps me going. Though it can be disturbing it’s also like a balm, twenty years measurable only in micro units. I tune in on the wavelengths we used in the Air Force, hoping to hear something vital, but there’s nothing there anymore, just silence, or atmospheric mush.’ He was quiet for a moment, and for Richard to fill it would seem too brusque an interruption. Then he decided: ‘Let’s have a whisky. We can take our glasses to the wireless room.’

The cat followed them. Howard switched on to the French merchant marine station, a call sign endlessly repeating. ‘Such a noise would send most people mad, if they were forced to listen.’

‘Me as well,’ Richard said. ‘Maybe they used that sort of thing in Northern Ireland, to get people to talk. A chap went mad from hearing it when I was at radio college. It can be a good weapon. For instance I was in a hotel room once, and a party was going on next door. It was after midnight, and I couldn’t get to sleep. Luckily I had a portable shortwave radio I was taking with me to join a yacht, so I plugged it in and held the speaker against the wall. It only needed two minutes, with the loudest possible morse belting away. Cut their jollity dead. Didn’t hear a murmur after that, though I did get a few funny looks at breakfast.’

The room was neat, custom built for the purpose, a narrow table from wall to wall, and a small window for taking the aerial outside. The wall was covered by a coloured Mercator map of the world, and a plotting chart of Western Europe similar to his own. Maybe Howard liked to feel the paper.

He was put in the spare chair while Howard fiddled with the controls of an old RAF Marconi, to the left of his typewriter and the modern equipment. A morse key was screwed into the table and wired to an oscillator. Richard imagined him being helped into his flying jacket, hitching on a parachute, and sitting hunched at his wireless as in the old days, re-living the trip of his final devastation over Germany. He might also wear a suit and beret, and play a resistant pianiste in occupied France, keeping a loaded and cocked revolver by his sending hand should the Germans break in, aiming to kill them but reserving the final bullet for himself. Such people were taken alive if possible, tortured to make them spill codes and contacts before being killed. ‘Been hearing anything interesting?’

The magic eye of his twenty-quid junk-shop radio was a button of green flame created out of electrons and neutrons, which produced a small circle of living light held to a constant glow, not an identity button for the blackout but one for the overcoat of a wandering wizard – fixed into the left side of the wireless. If the magic eye dimmed out the circuit would go dead, the world stop, all movable animal and geological life be sucked into space. Every morning Howard put his finger close to make sure it was at his bidding, and thanked the Deity – whoever or whatever that might be – for keeping him healthy and well provided for, except that he couldn’t see the green glow in the same way as everyone else, didn’t need to, because there was a greener eye inside him, an eye that could penetrate everything, which he now turned on Richard.

‘A fair amount. It’s hard not to, if you’re persistent. I’m at it all my spare time.’ The first rule in the procedure book at radio school was: ‘Intelligent cooperation between operators,’ but to share what he heard would be like leaving a hole in his body never to be closed. All he heard was his alone. To betray Judy and her friend, or the German Numbers Woman, or Vanya in Moscow, or the Flying Dutchman, or any other character culled from the network and allowed to grow and become real in his mind, wasn’t part of his wish. At the moment they were beholden to him for their secret existence. On the other hand, perhaps Richard already had them in his books, and to mention them would make no difference either to their fate or his. But he was taking no chances.

Richard sensed his reluctance. You only got what you gave, nothing more and nothing less. ‘I still have the speed to take everything, even the Italian news at twenty eight words a minute. It’s amazing how it stays with you. The Italian weather comes in pretty fast as well. It’s good practice, and keeps the brain sharp. That’s the reason I do it.’ He wondered at the red pins scattered across the Russia of Mercator’s World,