“Of course. That is why I have come to see you. Harris thought with all the present dislocation you might have some work for me.”
“It’s rather late,” Burlap said, chewing his pencil tip, “all the purely voluntary posts have been filled.”
“I was living abroad, as I expect Harris told you. It took me some time to get back.”
“What was it like on the Continent?”
“Oh, very interesting. Of course we knew that war was inevitable years ago, but people here would not listen.”
It was just as he had surmised; Ferguson was another of those old-fashioned chatterers who were partly responsible for the present chaos. A type that had hated Chamberlain and talked irresponsibly about “liberty,” as if it mattered that a frontier was changed. “What a tragedy this is,” he said, “the Germans were such an orderly people.” To Burlap, with his instinctive distrust of action, no more admirable virtue existed.
“They were really not very efficient, you know, except with their propaganda.” It was curious how unwillingly the English gave up any tradition, but Ferguson himself had never found German organization particularly good. “Still, that’s all over for the moment; what I want to do is help to the best of my ability.”
“And what special qualifications do you possess?”
“I speak several European languages fairly fluently,” Ferguson said with a faint touch of pride. It was fortunate that he had never allowed his mind to rust and that he had kept up his German translations.
“Languages!”
“Yes.”
“Rather a drug on the market. I think, on the whole … ” Burlap jotted a few words on the blotter, “it would be better not to mention them. I am not suggesting, mind you, that you are a fifth columnist, but you know how people talk? All this grumbling about the British climate is exaggerated. I have often watched birds in February, with only a light coat on.”
Ferguson did not attempt to argue. He knew that sunlight suggested sin to many islanders, who seemed to confuse it with free love; and perhaps, he looked at the sallow face in front of him, a pale atmosphere suited some temperaments. “What about liaison work with the foreign troops? They must need someone, if only to teach the men English.”
The very thing we want to avoid, Burlap reflected; it was bad enough having the soldiers land, and essential to keep them from mixing with the population. These elderly volunteers gave way to a foolish kindness without a thought of the consequences. Besides, it was a bit suspicious, first living abroad and now wanting to work with a lot of Czechs and Poles. He wondered how well the old fool really knew Harris. “What is your experience? Have you a degree?”
Ferguson shook his head. “I have handled groups of men,” he could not help a slight emphasis on the word, “since I was twenty, but I have no teacher’s diploma.”
“I’m afraid they’re sticky about that now, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose they are.”
There really was no vacancy, but if there had been one, Burlap thought, he would choose his own man to fill it. Ferguson irritated him, for there was no knowing what was going on in the visitor’s head. “I appreciate very much the offer of your service,” he said with what was intended to be a warm smile, “but just at present I am afraid that your qualifications are impossibly high,” it was better to flatter the fellow. “If you care to fill up this rather … importunate … form in triplicate and post it back at your leisure I’ll advise you at once if anything turns up.” He leaned back in his chair with a technique that had warned countless visitors that their interview was at an end.
“You mean … you have no suggestion for me at present?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then I must not take up more of your time.” Ferguson reached for his hat.
“Oh, a delightful interlude, I assure you, in my dreary routine. Drop in for a chat sometime when this tiresome business is over. Where’s your pass? I’m supposed to fill in the time you leave. Silly, isn’t it?” He signed his initials with a flourish. “But rules are rules. The lift is at the end of the corridor; can you find your way downstairs?”
“Easily, thanks.” Ferguson got up. “Goodbye, I’ll tell Harris that I saw you.”
The passage was full of girls chattering over cracked mugs of tea. Ordinarily he would have smiled at them, but now they seemed part of the unreality of the building. So the spirit—it came over him in a blinding flash—could be conquered? Perhaps when a world was doomed, each person, no matter how innocent, had to go through some personal destruction? This is the end and not a raid, Ferguson thought, jabbing the lift button impatiently. His Swiss friends had been right, he should never have come home.
8
“NOW, JOE,” EVE SAID, stepping off the bus, “I know the name is funny and the place looks prehistoric, but the Tippett does have good cakes and lots of the gayer places ration you to one apiece.”
“Anywhere you say, Eve, so long as there’s food.” It seemed a long time since lunch, Joe thought, and then there had not been much of it; between his father’s liver and his mother’s theories meals at home were always dull and cheerless. They never had those big steak-and-kidney puddings that he loved, with bits of bacon added and crusts soaked in gravy. They never had steak, with golden onions on top of it. He always said that he could count his age by his mother’s experiments; she had stopped eating bread the week he had changed schools and had introduced nut cheese just after he had gone to business. If he had
