The Gifts of War Read online

  Frances Janet Ashton Hall also knew what it meant, for she too had been born and bred there; although, being younger, she had not lived there for so long, and, having been born into a different class of society, she knew that she was not sentenced to it for life, and was indeed upon the verge of escape, for the next autumn she was to embark upon a degree in economics at a southern University. Nevertheless, she knew what it meant. She was a post-war child, but it was not for nothing that she had witnessed since infancy the red and smoking skies of the steelworks (making arms for the Arabs, for the South Africans, for all those wicked countries) – it was not for nothing that she had seen the deep scars in the city’s centre, not all disguised quite comfortably as car parks. In fact, she could even claim the distinction of having lost a relative in the air-raids: her great-aunt Susan, who had refused to allow herself to be evacuated to the Lake District, had perished from a stray bomb in the midst of a highly residential suburban area. Frances was not yet old enough to speculate upon the effect that this tale, oft-repeated, and with lurid details, had had upon the development of her sensibility; naturally she ascribed her ardent pacifism and her strong political convictions to her own innate radical virtue, and when she did look for ulterior motives for her faith she was far more likely to relate them to her recent passion for a new-found friend, one Michael Swaines, than to any childhood neurosis.

  She admired Michael. She also liked him for reasons that had nothing to do with admiration, and being an intelligent and scrupulous girl she would spend fruitless, anxious and enjoyable hours trying to disentangle and isolate her various emotions, and to assess their respective values. Being very young, she set a high value on disinterest: standing now, for his sake, on a windy street corner in a conspicuous position outside the biggest department store in town, carrying a banner and wearing (no less) a sandwich-board, proclaiming the necessity for Peace in Vietnam, and calling for the banning of all armaments, nuclear or otherwise, she was carrying on a highly articulate dialogue with her own conscience, by means of which she was attempting to discover whether she was truly standing there for Michael’s sake alone, or whether she would have stood there anyway, for the sake of the cause itself. What, she asked herself, if she had been solicited to make a fool of herself in this way merely by that disagreeable Nicholas, son of the Head of the Adult Education Centre? Would she have been prepared to oblige? No, she certainly would not, she would have laughed the idea of sandwich-boards to scorn, and would have found all sorts of convincing arguments against the kind of public display that she was now engaged in. But, on the other hand, this did not exactly invalidate her actions, for she did believe, with Michael, that demonstrations were necessary and useful: it was just that her natural reluctance to expose herself would have conquered her, had not Michael himself set about persuading her. So she was doing the right thing but for the wrong reason, like that man in Murder in the Cathedral. And perhaps it was for a very wrong reason, because she could not deny that she even found a sort of corrupt pleasure in doing things she didn’t like doing – accosting strangers, shaking collection-boxes, being stared at – when she knew that it was being appreciated by other people: a kind of yearning for disgrace and martyrdom. Like stripping in public. Though not, surely, quite the same, because stripping didn’t do any good, whereas telling people about the dangers of total war was a useful occupation. So doing the right thing for the wrong reason could at least be said to be better than doing the wrong thing for the wrong reason, couldn’t it? Though her parents, of course, said it was the wrong thing anyway, and that one shouldn’t molest innocent shoppers: Oh Lord, she thought with sudden gloom, perhaps my only reason for doing this is to annoy my parents: and bravely, to distract herself from the dreadful suspicion, she stepped forward and asked a scraggy thin woman in an old red velvet coat what she thought of the American policy in Vietnam.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the woman, crossly, annoyed at being stopped in mid-stride, and when Frances repeated her question she gazed at her as though she were an idiot and walked on without replying. Frances, who was becoming used to such responses, was not as hurt as she had been at the beginning of the morning: she was even beginning to think it was quite funny. She wondered if she might knock off for a bit and go and look for Michael: he had gone into the store, to try to persuade the manager of the toy department not to sell toy machine-guns and toy bombs and toy battleships. She thought she would go and join him; and when a horrid man in a cloth cap spat on the pavement very near her left shoe and muttered something about bloody students bugger off ruining the city for decent folk, she made her mind up. So she ditched her sandwich-board and rolled her banner up, and set off through the swing doors into the cosy warmth: although it was Easter the weather was bitterly cold, spring seemed to reach them two months later than anywhere else in England. It was a pity, she thought, that there weren’t any more Easter marches: she would have liked marching, it would have been more sociable; but Michael believed in isolated pockets of resistance. Really, what he meant was, he didn’t like things that he wasn’t organizing himself. She didn’t blame him for that, he was a marvellous organizer, it was amazing the amount of enthusiasm he’d got up in the Students’ Union for what was after all rather a dud project: no, not dud, she hadn’t meant that, what she meant was that it was no fun, and anyone with a lower sense of social responsibility than herself couldn’t have been expected to find it very interesting. Very nice green stockings on the stocking counter, she wondered if she could afford a pair. This thing that Michael had about children and violence, it really was very odd: he had a brother who was writing a thesis on violence on the television and she supposed it must have affected him. She admired his faith. Although at the same time she couldn’t help remembering a short story by Saki that she had read years ago, called ‘The Toys of Peace’, which had been about the impossibility of making children play with anything but soldiers, or something to that effect.

  When she reached the toy department, she located Michael immediately, because she could hear his voice raised in altercation. In fact, as she approached, she could see that quite a scene was going on, and if Michael hadn’t looked quite so impressive when he was making a scene she would have lost nerve and fled: but as it was she approached, discreetly, and hovered on the outskirts of the centre of activity. Michael was arguing with a man in a black suit, some kind of manager figure she guessed (though what managers were or did she had no idea) and a woman in an overall: the man, she could see, was beginning to lose his patience, and was saying things like:

  ‘Now look here, young man, we’re not here to tell our customers what they ought to do, we’re here to sell them what they want’, and Michael was producing his usual arguments about responsibility and education and having to make a start somewhere and why not here and now; he’d already flashed around his leaflets on violence and delinquency, and was now offering his catalogue of harmless constructive wooden playthings.

  ‘Look,’ he was saying, ‘look how much more attractive these wooden animals are, I’m sure you’d find they’d sell just as well, and they’re far more durable’ – whereat the woman in an overall sniffed and said since when had salesmen dressed themselves up as University students, if he wanted to sell them toys he ought to do it in the proper way; an interjection which Michael ignored, as he proceeded to pick up off the counter in front of him a peculiarly nasty piece of clockwork, a kind of car-cum-aeroplane thing with real bullets and knives in the wheels and hidden bomb-carriers and God knows what, she rather thought it was a model from some television puppet programme, it was called The Desperado Destruction Machine. ‘I mean to say, look at this horrible thing,’ Michael said to the manager, pressing a knob and nearly slicing off his own finger as an extra bit of machinery jumped out at him, ‘whatever do you think can happen to the minds of children who play with things like this?’

  ‘That’s a very nice model,’ said the manager, managing to sound personally grieved and hurt, ‘it’s a v
ery nice model, and you’ve no idea how popular it’s been for the price. It’s not a cheap foreign thing, that, you know, it’s a really well-made toy. Look –’ and he grabbed it back off Michael and pulled another lever, to display the ejector-seat mechanism. The driver figure was promptly ejected with such violence that he shot right across the room, and Michael, who was quite well brought up really, dashed off to retrieve it: and by the time he got back the situation had been increasingly complicated by the arrival of a real live customer who had turned up to buy that very object. Though if it really was as popular as the manager had said, perhaps that wasn’t such a coincidence. Anyway, this customer seemed very set on purchasing one, and the overalled woman detached herself from Michael’s scene and started to demonstrate one for her, trying to pretend as she did so that there was no scene in progress and that nothing had been going on at all: the manager too tried to hush Michael up by engaging him in conversation and backing him away from the counter and the transaction, but Michael wasn’t so easy to silence: he continued to argue in a loud voice, and stood his ground. Frances wished that he would abandon this clearly pointless attempt, and all the more as he had by now noticed her presence, and she knew that at any moment he would appeal for her support. And finally the worst happened, as she had known it might: he turned to the woman who was trying to buy the Desperado Destruction Machine, and started to appeal to her, asking her if she wouldn’t like to buy something less dangerous and destructive. The woman seemed confused at first, and when he asked her for whom she was buying it, she said that it was for her little boy’s birthday, and she hadn’t realized it was a dangerous toy, it was just something he’d set his heart on, he’d break his heart if he didn’t get it, he’d seen it on the telly and he wanted one just like that: whereupon the manager, who had quite lost his grip, intervened and started to explain to her that there was nothing dangerous about the toy at all, on the contrary it was a well-made pure British product, with no lead paint or sharp edges, and that if Michael didn’t shut up he’d call the police: whereupon Michael said that there was no law to stop customers discussing products in shops with one another, and he was himself a bona-fide customer, because look, he’d got a newly-purchased pair of socks in his pocket in a Will Baines bag. The woman continued to look confused, so Frances thought that she herself ought to intervene to support Michael, who had momentarily run out of aggression: and she said to the woman, in what she thought was a very friendly and reasonable tone, that nobody was trying to stop her buying her little boy a birthday present, they just wanted to point out that with all the violence in the world today anyway it was silly to add to it by encouraging children to play at killing and exterminating and things like that, and hadn’t everyone seen enough bombing, particularly here (one of Michael’s favourite points, this), and why didn’t she buy her boy something constructive like Meccano or a farmyard set: and as she was saying all this she glanced from time to time at the woman’s face, and there was something in it, she later acknowledged, that should have warned her. She stood there, the woman, her woollen headscarf so tight round her head that it seemed to clamp her jaws together into a violently imposed silence; her face unnaturally drawn, prematurely aged; her thickly-veined hands clutching a zip plastic purse and that stupid piece of clockwork machinery: and as she listened to Frances’s voice droning quietly and soothingly and placatingly away her face began to gather a glimmering of expression, from some depths of reaction too obscure to guess at: and as Frances finally ran down to a polite and only very faintly hopeful enquiring standstill, she opened her mouth and spoke. She said only one word, and it was a word that Frances had never heard before, though she had seen it in print in a once-banned book; and by some flash of insight, crossing the immeasurable gap of quality that separated their two lives, she knew that the woman herself had never before allowed it to pass her lips, that to her too it was a shocking syllable, portentous, unforgettable, not a familiar word casually dropped into the dividing spaces. Then the woman, having spoken, started to cry: incredibly, horribly, she started to cry. She dropped the clockwork toy on to the floor, and it fell so heavily that she could almost have been said to have thrown it down, and she stood there, staring at it, as the tears rolled down her face. Then she looked at them, and walked off. Nobody followed her: they stood there and let her go. They did not know how to follow her, nor what appeasement to offer for her unknown wound. So they did nothing. But Frances knew that in their innocence they had done something dreadful to her, in the light of which those long-since ended air raids and even distant Vietnam itself were an irrelevance, a triviality: but she did not know what it was, she could not know. At their feet, the Destruction Machine buzzed and whirred its way to a broken immobility, achieving a mild sensation in its death-throes by shooting a large spring coil out of its complex guts; she and Michael, after lengthy apologies, had to pay for it before they were allowed to leave the store.

  2

  Hassan’s Tower

  ‘If,’ she said, ‘I could be sure they were free, then I would eat them.’ ‘They must be free,’ he said, ‘when you look at the price of the drink.’ ‘But supposing, just supposing,’ she said, ‘they turned out to be as ludicrously expensive as the drink? If you can pay twelve shillings for one gin and tonic, just think what you might have to pay for those.’ He was silenced, for he too had been thinking this thought, though unwilling to admit it to her, unwilling to display before her the full extent of his mercenary fear; and he was annoyed with her for voicing it, for in her such thoughts were merely niceties, whereas to him they were daily bread. He stared glumly at the little squares of toast, with their sadly appetizing decorations of sardine, shrimp and olive, and wondered how much, in the fantastic and unreal financial system which he had entered, they could possibly cost. What, he wondered, was the absolute ceiling for each of those squares? Five shillings? Ludicrous, ludicrous, but alas surely not impossible? Seven and six? Now seven and six was truly impossible. By no stretch even of the Moroccan five-star imagination could they possibly cost seven and six each. So if she were to eat them all (and be assured that she would eat them all, if any, her appetites being as it now appeared insatiable), that would cost him over three pounds. But what was three pounds, after all, amongst friends? Or between bride and bridegroom, rather? Nothing, it would appear. To his continuing amazement, even he thought that it was nothing. Although, of course, so much too much for the article. And then, of course, there was the chance, the probability, that they might be free, thrown in, as it were, with the shocking price of the gins. It would be a shame to leave them, if they were free. But then again, if they weren’t free, and she ate them, and then set off towards the lift and the hotel bedroom on the assumption of non-payment, what would happen then? Would the barman in his foolish fez nip deftly out from behind his bar and pursue him? Or would the cost be added, discreetly, within the price of sundries on their anyway colossal hotel bill? Really, he was caught by inexperience between two brands of meanness: he hated to leave them if they were free, and he hated equally to eat them if they cost more than they ought. And he was moreover irritated by her luxurious, gratuitous hesitations: what had he married her for, but to decide about such things?

  He reached out and took one, then pushed the little plate over to her. She took one, to his annoyance, independently, almost absent-mindedly, showing no gratitude for his decisive action, her face blank as though her mind had left his trifling crisis far behind. As indeed, when she spoke, he found that she had.

  ‘I do so wish,’ she said, in her quietly strident, heavily over-inflected tones, ‘that you wouldn’t get in such a panic when people try to sell you things. I mean, that man in that souk place this afternoon. There was no need to get so worked up about it, surely?’

  ‘What do you mean, worked up?’

  ‘Well, there was no need to shout at him, was there?’

  ‘I didn’t shout,’ he said. ‘I hardly raised my voice. And anyway, if you don’t shout, they
go on pestering.’

  ‘You should ignore them,’ she said.

  ‘How can I ignore them, when they’re hanging on to my coat sleeve?’

  ‘Well then,’ she said, changing her tack, ‘why don’t you just laugh? That’s what other people do, they just laugh.’

  ‘How do you know they laugh?’

  ‘Because I see them. That French couple we saw in Marrakesh, with all those children pestering them, they were just laughing.’

  ‘I don’t find it funny,’ he said. ‘I wish they’d just leave me alone, so I could look at things in peace.’

  ‘They don’t mean any harm,’ she said. ‘They’re just trying it on.’

  ‘Well, I wish they wouldn’t try it on me.’

  ‘What you would like,’ she said, ‘is a country without any people in it. With just places. And hotels.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind people, I just wish they’d stop trying to sell me things I don’t want. I just want to be left alone.’

  ‘I find them all quite amusing,’ she said, with a determined little lift of her chin: and he hated her for saying it, because he knew they didn’t amuse her at all. On the contrary, they scared the life out of her, all these foreign jugglers and mountebanks, these silent hooded robed men, and the only reason she did not like him to shout at them was that she was afraid he would provoke some reciprocal violence or offence. She wanted him to laugh in order to placate them: she was so nervous that if he left her to herself she would buy their horrible objects, their ill-stitched toy camels, their horrid little woolly caps, their rings set with fake, crude-faceted stones. And yet, if he were to buy them, she would despise him for it, as she would have despised him had he left, through fear or ignorance, the shrimps and the olives. It was just like her, to accuse him of her own fears; yet there had been a time, surely, when they might have in some way shared their alarms, and a time not so far distant at that. Even during their long and grinding engagement there had been moments of unison, moments when he could sneer at her family and she could mock at his with some forgiveness, but in the last two weeks, since their wedding, their antagonism, so basic, so predictable, had found time to flower and blossom, and their honeymoon had been little more than a deliberate cultivation of its ominous growth. He had hoped that in leaving England they would have left behind some of their more evident differences, differences that should be of no importance in a foreign setting, but instead they had found themselves steadily isolated in a world of true British conflict, where his ways and hers had become monstrously exaggerated, as though they were on show, a true British couple, for all of Morocco to observe. Things which he had been able to tolerate in her at home, and which he had seen merely as part of her background, now seemed part of the girl herself: and similarly, in himself, he could feel his own defects magnified beyond all proportion, his behaviour distorted by foreign pressures into a mockery of itself. He began to see some reason for leaving sex until the honeymoon, for at least its problems would have diverted him from other more gloomy forebodings. It was a mistake to come to Morocco, but where else could they have gone, in their position, with so much money, and in so cold a month?