Heavy, p.16
Heavy, page 16
He touched his moustache, averting his gaze. Happier thoughts: while Mr. Haxonbury was in the middle of the countryside, whereabouts unknown, Mrs. Haxonbury would not be able to have Words about putting their name down for a Set.
Television, Mr. Haxonbury thought dismissively. It was all very well to be able to look down your nose at the neighbours, but that much money for two hours of nonsense in the evening and an hour of marionettes for the girls in the morning was preposterous. You might as well hire a Punch and Judy show to set up in your front room.
Mrs. Turner rapped on the door.
Mr. Haxonbury got up hastily, making sure his clothes were in order. He opened the bedroom door: it was indeed Mrs. Turner.
The old woman said, “There’s been a message left for you,” with something bordering on disapproval.
Mr. Haxonbury glanced back at the room. Ernest lay almost still under his quilt. The clock showed a time which, poised between a late tea and the reasonable hour for whatever substitute you had for cocoa, was not an unreasonable time for messages to be left. He said, “Thank you, Mrs. Turner.”
It occurred to him immediately afterward that there should be no possible way for anyone to know where they were. To leave him a message in person was a deliberate move, something of the kind of threat Reggie made against people that Mr. Haxonbury tried to pretend didn’t happen. Calculated. Ruthless. Knowing.
He swallowed. “May I, er, may I see it?”
Mrs. Turner pursed up her mouth. “I don’t wish to say,” she said, which Mr. Haxonbury knew from every encounter he’d ever had with a member of the gentle sex meant she very much wanted to talk for the better part of an hour and then say, at length, and with meaningful looks no one could actually interpret. “But I shouldn’t like to associate with That Sort of Person myself.”
“We all have our crosses to bear, Mrs. Turner,” said Mr. Haxonbury, meaninglessly. “It’s that way, in business.”
“I should be more circumspect,” said Mrs. Turner, relishing the word, “about the business I did, and with whom, if I were you.”
“It is a luxury I hope one day to afford, Mrs. Turner,” said Mr. Haxonbury, impatiently. “What was the message? I didn’t hear the telephone.”
“She left it in person,” said Mrs. Turner, with a sniff that owed nothing to dust or cold and everything to dislike. “I don’t like to judge people, Mr. Haxonbury, but that kind of girl makes it a trial to abstain from it.”
Mr. Haxonbury felt his guts turn to water. Somewhere inside him a stodgy rabbit pie constructed partially from wallpaper paste and accompanied by some very fine potatoes was disintegrating into vomit. He suspected he would not be allowed to see out the night with mere indigestion but the indigestion itself was now a certainty. He leaned on the door frame and tried to ignore the prickle of sweat in his moustache.
His memory presented an almost-photographic image of the short, dark woman with her silent, scarred accomplice. She had been severely dressed, but she was precisely the sort which Mrs. Turner would be moved to Judge. He could just imagine what Mrs. Haxonbury would say about her, or his Mam. The rude manner. The hair. He gulped.
“Might I trouble you for the message, Mrs. Turner?”
“If you have plans to continue receiving that kind of woman in my house, Mr. Haxonbury, I may be forced to ask you to seek an alternative set of lodgings,” said Mrs. Turner, coldly.
“That is quite understandable,” Mr. Haxonbury heard his mouth say, “and I can assure you I do not.” The sound of his own accent made him cringe. He thought, in this second, of how untrustworthy he sounded to this Mrs. Turner, who had probably encountered his antecedents wherever she’d been stationed. The patter of men in broad-brimmed hats selling butter that was wax for the middle three inches did not easily remove itself from the mind.
“I don’t like to pry—”
“Just one second,” said Mr. Haxonbury, struck by a thought.
Mrs. Turner reared back like an affronted horse. “Excuse me?”
“What… what exactly was this woman like?”
Mrs. Turner gave him a hard stare. It was the kind of stare that usually came attached to a better quality of coat than the kind Mr. Haxonbury had ever been able to acquire for his wife. “I thought she was an acquaintance of yours?”
“I…” Mr. Haxonbury glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Ernest. “She could be an acquaintance of my… friend’s. I am not personally known to them all—”
Mrs. Turner gave him a suspicious look, and sniffed again. “Racy,” she proclaimed, which had not been the word Mr. Haxonbury had expected at all. “No better than she ought to be. You know the type.”
Mr. Haxonbury thought, and if what Mam said about you enlisted girls in the forties is right you got no business taking that tone about them either, but he only gave her a watery smile and said, “Only by reputation, Mrs. Turner, I do not associate with such wimmin myself. What was this racy woman looking like, I wonder?”
“Hair done,” said Mrs. Turner, scathingly. She held a small square of cardboard in her hand but too far away for Mr. Haxonbury to catch a glimpse of the contents. “And you know what that means.”
He knew full well exactly what that meant, and had encountered precisely the type of girl in question once when meeting Reggie to discuss some matters of finance. She’d been pleasant enough, nothing like as overbearing as Mrs. Haxonbury, but the prospect of being Found Out had rather put the dampener on pursuing an extended acquaintance with the lass.
“Terribly dressed,” added Mrs. Turner, which simply didn’t add up. “I should never have slouched about in clothes like that at her age. Of course,” she said, with an air of superiority that Mr. Haxonbury didn’t much care for, “We had to deal with far more direct threats then. Incendiaries. Imminent invasion. All this ‘Far Off Front’ rubbish is making today’s girls soft.”
“I quite agree, Mrs. Turner,” said Mr. Haxonbury, trying to lubricate the conversation towards some sort of conclusion. “She didn’t happen to be a girl of a, a darker complexion, by any chance?”
Mrs. Turner frowned at him. “No,” she said, apparently contemplating the question, “No, I should say she was quite fair. Hard to tell with that tint in her hair, of course, and it’s dark, and she looked like a drowned rat, but I shouldn’t have called her olive.”
The surge of relief that passed through Mr. Haxonbury was like a snifter of some of that bathtub gin Reggie had dressed up as Icelandic Import the other year. He could hardly see straight.
“Ah, I know just the girl,” he lied, holding out his hand. “She’s with… the Church. Early days yet, still a bit wayward. But my er, my cousin inside thinks she’s on the right path.”
“Mrmph,” said Mrs. Turner, presenting him with the card. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that.”
She turned and went down the stairs with infuriating slowness.
Mr. Haxonbury stood in the doorway of the bedroom and stared at the unfamiliar handwriting.
It was in ball point; the card was clearly one of Mrs. Turner’s own, for the transverse had her own telephone number and the words: may be reached at printed on it by a typewriter. The side that drew his attention had a tiny smear of mud on it. It read:
You are being followed. Information to your advantage in evading pursuit may be secured by calling this number. M.
It was quite obviously a trap, Mr. Haxonbury thought, his heart sinking. They had eyes and ears everywhere: he’d said it himself. They were just toying with him now – he temporarily forgot about Ernest – and the Net, as Reggie had once said, would Close Around him. Reggie had been referring to the boys with the domed helmets and the Customs men, but the principle held.
He abandoned the card to the mantelpiece above what had once been a fireplace and how held a three-bar heater, with every intention of consigning it to the flames as soon as he’d retrieved his Ronson from the car.
The car.
Mr. Haxonbury stole one glance at the room to ensure Ernest was still sleeping, and crept down the stairs. The car was an appalling wreck fit for at most a bob in scrap, but if someone were tampering with it – hanging around while they knew he was inside, reading their message – then all hope of escape was gone.
He slipped out of the front door: the sound of a brass band on the wireless in the drawing room stifled every other noise.
The night was clear: the rain had passed on, and Mr. Haxonbury could see an infinite number of white stars overhead, fading into nothingness. The sky was almost grey with them.
The wretched Metropolitan was as he’d left it: rusting, troublesome, unexchangeable. They ought swap cars again, Ernest had said. Mr. Haxonbury fished his Ronson out of the back seat, among the maps and the bandages, and gave the car an irritable kick. It was not as if he was made of money.
He slipped back into the house.
In the bedroom, Ernest was upright, slowly unravelling a bandage.
“Don’t do that,” Mr. Haxonbury said, startled.
“It’s alright,” said Ernest, showing him a hand he didn’t want to look at. “I can flex it.”
“Yes,” Mr. Haxonbury said, looking at the ceiling. “But you shouldn’t.”
“Pass me the card.”
“What card?” Mr. Haxonbury muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“The one you left on the mantel, Rodney, don’t play dumb.” Ernest pulled at the last of the bandage with his lips. His right hand sat exposed, bent, the bruises green instead of black. In this light the hue of his skin was dark enough that it was impossible not to know what he was.
Mr. Haxonbury hesitated. “I was going to burn it.”
Ernest nodded, but held out his clawed-up hand. “Let me see.”
Mr. Haxonbury took the card, and passed it to him. “It’s a trap, surely?”
“If it is,” said Ernest, “it’s an utterly illogical one. If They know we’re here They’ll just come in and arrest us. Mrs. Turner won’t stop Them, she’s a law-abiding sort – there’s no precedent for messages like this. This is undercover stuff – you leave messages when you’re being watched, not when you’re doing the watching on your own turf.” He tapped the card with his bandaged left hand, and grimaced – Mr. Haxonbury looked away again.
“Nevertheless, caution—” Mr. Haxonbury began, rubbing his hands together.
“Yes,” agreed Ernest, “and this is amateur as all hell – but.” When Mr. Haxonbury looked at him again he was holding up the card for inspection. “Spur of the moment, impetuous, undisciplined, possibly dodgy, but useful.”
Mr. Haxonbury put his hands back in his pockets and leaned on the mantel. Obviously he didn’t want to meet any racy women. He thought of the girl Reggie had introduced him to. Obviously. That would be a mere distraction.
“She might have supplies,” said Ernest, with something that could have been a smile on a face with all of its muscles intact. “She might have potentially useful information. She might even be willing to loan us a car, if you’re charming enough.”
“Me?”
“Look at me,” said Ernest, with a short, painful laugh. “I am not any girl’s idea of a good time. Even Florence Nightingale would give up on me as a lost cause.” He turned the card over a few times – Mr. Haxonbury, sickened by the lumps of his finger bones and the expression of pain which flitted back and forth across his features, turned away again.
“She said to call,” said Mr. Haxonbury to the framed reproduction of a watercolour of a Spitfire that hung about the mantel. “They watch the phones.”
“And if she’s worth her salt,” said Ernest, “she’ll figure out a code.”
“And if she’s not?” Mr. Haxonbury demanded of the painting.
“I’m still worth my salt,” Ernest pointed out. “I know how to hang up a telephone.”
Mr. Haxonbury regarded the picture. They were lost. Embarrassingly, nerve-wrackingly lost. They were lumbered with a car that could stop at any moment, his money was painfully low, and if someone else thought she could help Ernest then perhaps he could go home. He’d have to think of a good excuse for Mrs. Haxonbury, but Reggie – Reggie would know. And then someone, somewhere, would owe him a truly enormous favour.
He thought about the few extras in his notebook. Yes, even if he left now, the trip had earned him something. Cost to earnings perhaps it had been a loss, but there was the future to consider.
“I shall need you to help me down the stairs to talk to Mrs. Turner about her telephone,” said Ernest.
Mr. Haxonbury pivoted on his heel. Ernest was making a pig’s ear of trying to remove the bandage from his left hand – with no nails to pick with, and an apparent reluctance to expose his teeth, he was just pushing about Mr. Haxonbury’s careful wrappings to no real avail.
“I can’t do it without you, Rodney,” said Ernest, with a weak, frank smile. His eyes, dark brown, were round as pennies. He looked – well, he looked haggard and broken and his stare went on a long way past Mr. Haxonbury – but he looked for a moment the way he must have done when Mr. Haxonbury heard him on the wireless as a little boy. Not much older than Mr. Haxonbury himself, and now quite helpless. Smart as a whip, may be, but as totally exposed as a baby left in a bin.
Mr. Haxonbury nodded.
“I can’t do anything without you,” Ernest said, wryly.
Heavy: Nine
During the visit of the Sichuan Province leaders she judges it too dangerous to leave messages anywhere, in any code, for any reason.
The questions she has asked herself: Where are they taken? Who takes them? How many other people in Chengdu are in contact with this unknown person? Do they know who I am? Is this a trap?
All of the questions are placed into a locked chest in her mind as she joins the other District Workers in ensuring the visit is fruitful, and in helping to carry the steel blocks which must be moved, around and around, to each workshop in turn.
See how productive Chengdu is.
She and Comrade Wu join Comrade Fan, and even Weng Ho helps to pedal the carts along the back streets to the next workshop. The workshop workers, the party members, the District Officials, like a machine they move as one, demonstrating the productivity of Chengdu.
See how Chengdu meets quotas.
Perhaps they would be impressed, the Sichuan Province leaders, if they could see how efficiently, too, many can be harnessed to meet a single goal.
She remembers, when the day is done and the Sichuan Province leaders are back in the compound in their cool rooms with their discussions and their too-far-away-to-be-eavesdropped-upon meetings, that there were similar deceptions practiced in Nanjing, when she was in school. The teachers had them transfer root crops to one patch: see how we have produced while learning, District Inspector.
She reported her classroom teacher as a Rightist when she was fourteen. It was no loss: he was an oaf, spoilt, vicious, and beat her once too often. She was commended. Now she uses his tricks: they all pull together to conceal their inability to meet the increasing quotas.
A message arrives the day after the Sichuan Province leaders depart. It comes in a copy of literature that must be censored for the good of the People. It comes to her whole office: Comrade Lin is merely required to read and to vote. The final decision will be taken elsewhere.
The message reads across the bottom of the columns.
It says;
We will change channels whenever you wish. If you are concerned about observation, indicate. To keep you safe is our aim.
She votes that the literature is subversive. The office is divided. The end decision will, she thinks, depend on the name of the author. Perhaps they are already known as a Rightist. Perhaps they are above suspicion. The name is withheld. The name of the printers – who will be responsible, she thinks, for the code’s inclusion – is also withheld.
Comrade Lin’s room is too warm at night. She lies with her face to the open window.
The city is without a coast. Sichuan is far from Nanjing, far from the place in which she received her education and her corruption, her name and her infamy both earned and inherited. Sometimes she can still smell the sea, the green-blue scent of deep water becoming thin at the shore, the tips of waves: sometimes the harsh song of the sea birds invades her dreams. Sometimes – she receives no peace when this happens – sometimes there is the voice of the old lady, teaching her: for grass to bend before the oncoming wind is no crime; grass is made to bend. Grass springs up once more when the wind is past. The grass that does not bend may meet the blade, and the grass that meets the blade never springs up.
This sedition, The Song of the Grass in the Wind alone, would have seen the old lady executed, but she had distributed more, and worse.
Comrade Lin sleeps poorly.
The old lady had not cared to protect anyone: except that they were all fighting the same fight, she had said. She protected the foreigner, sometimes. Perhaps.
But the old lady expected too much.
* * *
“Lian Lin,” says Weng Ho, when he meets her to eat lunch, “you seem burdened by care.”
He has been studying the ways in which agricultural policies in capitalist nations fail. His last essay on the distribution of rice in capitalist countries was hailed by the University as exemplary: they applied for permission to place it in a text book. Comrade Lin knows this because she was part of the group who wrote the edict for the University, informing them which essays they were to appreciate from the District.
Weng Ho is not a student, they said.
His work is exemplary and therefore shall be made an example of, the District replied. Universities are hotbeds of sedition and need to see what true scholarship is like.
Weng Ho’s pride in his work is without parallel. He is diligent, and careful, and he consults only those works which he has written permission to consult. He has botanical works which have been translated from many languages; many pre-date the start of the Eternal War, and some have colour plates. They are beautiful, and they are all marked with red tape as Restricted Works. Weng Ho carries copies of the letters informing him of his permission whenever he is in the room with them.
