The Tiger in the Well, Page 9

  "That's contingent upon the decision going the right way, as you know. Which it will. Your wife's property is legally speaking your property; there's no need for a separate ruling. The law's quite clear."

  "So all her property's mine?"

  "I wouldn't put it quite like that," said Mr Gurney, whose conscience, though it had largely drained away, had left the odd puddle of fastidiousness behind. "I'd prefer to say that your property, which your wife has misappropriated against your wishes, will naturally and properly revert to your control."

  "Say what you like," said Mr Parrish. "A nod's as good as a wink. What it boils down to is that as soon as the court's found for me, not only the child, bless her heart, but the money and property my wife controls come to me. That right?"

  "Precisely so," said the lawyer.

  "No snags? No last-minute hitches? You sent that injunction?"

  "The injunction will have been served this morning."

  "Capital," said Mr Parrish. "You know, Mr Gurney, even more than getting my money back, you know what I'm looking forward to?"

  Mr Gurney made an indeterminate noise expressive of polite inquiry.

  "My little baby girl," said Mr Parrish. "I'd leave her mother all the money, I would really, for the sake of her little golden head on my shoulder again. You got any kiddies, Mr Gurney?"

  The lawyer had two sons at Eton, both stupid, both idle, both hideously expensive to run. The idea of their little golden heads on his shoulder filled him with nausea. He emitted another indeterminate noise.

  "Still," said Mr Parish, getting up, "in justice to myself, I can't overlook the financial aspects. I'm reassured to think that my little girly won't go short."

  And with these words, he left. Mr Gurney would have wondered at his client, if he'd had anything left to wonder with; but what imagination and sympathy and human concern he'd been born with had trickled away with his conscience years before. He put Mr Parrish's papers away, and turned back to the straightforward, cleanly matter of evicting a widow from her tenement.

  Sally realized as she came away from Middle Temple Lane that she hadn't told Mr Adcock about the breakin, and the man in Harriet's room, and the missing toy bear.

  She stopped in the Gate House where the Lane turned into Fleet Street. Should she go back and tell him? The thought of his probable reaction decided her not to. There'd be a law against objecting to people stealing from you; she was very unwise to have gone to the police, since that would brand her as an agitator and troublemaker, and prejudice the courts against her; she must be prepared for further injunctions restraining her from even mentioning the matter; she must remove all the new locks, and put back the old ones, so as to avoid making difficulties for burglars. . .

  She couldn't even laugh at her own imagination. She hadn't laughed for days; she'd hardly smiled. She didn't know, and Rosa hadn't wanted to tell her, but she was paler than she'd ever been, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She knew she wasn't eating; she just didn't feel like it. She'd been sleeping badly, waking at the slightest noise and then not being able to sleep again, and when she did drift off, her sleep was filled with disturbing dreams. She'd dreamt the night before that she'd left Harriet waiting on a bench in the park while she went to consult the solicitor and forgotten about her, and only remembered when she got home; so she had to rush back there in a panic, and, of course, the bench was empty. She woke sobbing with guilt and went in to the sleeping child and lay on the bed beside her and held her tight, whispering that she'd never abandon her, never leave her alone, while the cold grey light of the dawn filtered in and reminded her that they were one day closer to the court case.

  It felt like waiting for an execution.

  So she was not in a mood to react favourably when a hand tugged at her sleeve as she turned into Fleet Street.

  She looked around, expecting a beggar, and automatically reached for her purse to find a coin and get rid of him quickly. But the figure she saw was clearly not a beggar.

  It was a young man with a cap low over his eyes, a blue spotted handkerchief about his neck, and a wide brass-studded belt holding up his corduroy trousers. What she could see of his face was not encouraging: for Bill's experiences of life had left his habitual expression one of sullen threat.

  She took it in, surprised, and then looked down at the rough-knuckled hand resting on her sleeve.

  "Miss Lockhart?" he said, astonishing her further. "Listen. I know who you are. There's a bloke as wants--"

  His low, hoarse mutter, the air of menace he wore, were too much for her. She shook her arm free, seized his arm instead, and to his amazement dragged him suddenly into the angle of the Gate House and pushed him against the wall. Anger lent her strength, and the movement was so unexpected that Bill didn't resist, and in any case he was off-balance - but before he knew what had happened, something hard and painful was thrust against his ribs. He looked down and saw the dull, nickel-plated shine of a revolver.

  She was standing so that her body shielded it from the view of passers-by. She knew what she was doing; he felt the skin crawl on his scalp as he noticed that the hammer was pulled back. A touch of the trigger and he'd be dead. Her hand was rock-steady, and to judge by her expression, she'd be glad to do it.

  "Tell him," she said, "that if he gives me the slightest excuse, I'll put a bullet through him. And that goes for his messenger-boys too. And for anyone who breaks into my house again. Stay away, you hear? Leave me alone!"

  Her voice was low and intense, and the furious hatred in her eyes - fine dark eyes they were, not at all what you'd expect in one so blonde - kept him silent. Ladies didn't behave like this. They didn't carry guns; they didn't display passion. So he stood still and silent against the wall of the Gate House as the revolver slipped out of sight, as she stepped away, as the busy crowd swallowed her and she disappeared.

  "She was like a tiger, Mr Goldberg," said Bill. "She wouldn't listen. She'd've shot me soon as blinking."

  It was late the same evening, and they were in an unsavoury public house near Covent Garden. Goldberg, in a wide-brimmed slouch hat and a black cloak, was smoking a cigar which earned a look of respect, even from the hardened navvies at the next table.

  "No go, then," he said. "What was that about breaking in?"

  Bill repeated what he remembered.

  "Someone breaks into her house, and she thinks it's Parrish," said Goldberg. "You stop her in the street, and she thinks it's Parrish. Understandable, I suppose. Pity though. We'll have to catch the right moment."

  "D'you know where she lives, Mr G? We could keep a watch on her house, like."

  "No, dammit, I don't. I made an excuse to go and see Parrish's lawyer a while back, and picked up some papers off a desk while his clerk's back was turned, and that's how I came across her case. I don't know, Bill; it smells wrong. It's mischief. The more I see of Parrish, the more repellent he becomes. Well, we've failed today. Have to try something else next time."

  Chapter Seven

  THE HOUSE BY THE CANAL

  That weekend Goldberg took Bill to Amsterdam.

  He was due to speak at a congress of the socialist parties of Holland and Belgium, and his speech was expected to make a stir. Bill had never been out of London in his life, and he stuck close to Goldberg, though he tried to look as tough and cool about it as he could. Nor, of course, could he speak German, which was what Goldberg was speaking most of the time. Goldberg introduced him as his bodyguard, a comrade from London, and he shook hands politely, accepted large glasses of the light Dutch beer, and watched. He was impressed by the respect all these people held Goldberg in. Wherever they went, from private house to cafe to meeting hall, Goldberg would be recognized and hailed and surrounded by admirers of all kinds: elderly, academic-looking gentlemen, vast and threateningly bearded Russians, stolid workers and trade unionists, and not least, young women. Goldberg moved among them like a king come back from exile: they hung on his words, they bought him drinks, they gave him c
igars, they stood up and applauded when he entered a room, they gazed wide-eyed as he spoke in that clear, harsh, laughing voice. Bill's estimation of him couldn't help but move up, to see his friend and protector treated as a man of such consequence.

  He didn't know, because he couldn't read, that Goldberg's articles had been syndicated throughout the radical press of Western Europe for some time; and he couldn't tell, because he didn't understand politics, that Goldberg represented for people a real possibility of advancing the socialist point of view into the mainstream of argument and out of the divided, shallow backwater that the failure of the International Working Men's Association in 1872 had left it in.

  There were delegates at the congress from Germany, from France, from Britain, from Russia and from Denmark, as well as from Holland and Belgium. Bill was content at first to watch them all, to try and make out what language people were speaking, even if he couldn't understand a word of what they said. He followed Goldberg everywhere, as close and faithful as a dog, and just as far from understanding what his master was saying or doing. On the second day, however, he heard someone speaking in Yiddish and - again like a dog - pricked his ears and looked sharply around.

  They were in a crowded cafe near the docks: a place thick with smoke and salty with the pickled reek of herrings. Goldberg was discussing some point of doctrine with a group from Berlin, and Bill had been watching them automatically, watching in particular how one young woman kept interrupting scornfully, and how Goldberg dealt with her interruptions. He spoke to her with the same brusque humour that he used with the men, and no less cuttingly, though she blushed with anger more than once. She was dark-haired and stocky and proud-looking, with fine, large, angry eyes. Bill thought she might be Jewish. He was wondering what it would be like to have such a girl gaze at him with the intensity with which she was staring at Goldberg, when he heard the Yiddish speaker behind him.

  He turned around and found himself looking into the man's eyes. He was in his early twenties, sitting at a table with two others, drinking schnapps: a bony, grim-looking face with a mop of black hair and a thin black beard. Evidently he was aware of Bill's connection with Goldberg, because he gave a nod of half-recognition and raised his glass in invitation. Bill looked at Goldberg, but he was busy, so he stood up and hesitantly went to the young man's table.

  "Avram Cohn," said the young man, holding out his hand.

  "Bill Goodwin," said Bill, shaking it.

  Cohn said something in Yiddish. Bill felt embarrassed.

  "Only English," he said. "I don't speak hardly any Yiddish."

  "All right, we speak English," said Cohn. "Sit down, come on, drink some schnapps."

  Flattered by the attention, Bill sat down. Cohn introduced the other two: a red-haired young man called Meyer, and a fanatical-looking man called Giuliani, who was perpetually gnawing: his nails, his lips, his beard.

  "So you're from England," said Cohn.

  "London, yeah," said Bill, taking the little glass of ice-cold spirits that Cohn poured for him. He watched Meyer, and then threw the glass back in one movement as he did. Then he had to catch his breath and blink back the tears in his eyes.

  "You're an associate of the great Goldberg?" said Cohn, refilling the glass.

  "Well . . . I sort of work for him, off and on."

  "What kind of work?"

  Bill wondered if he could tell them about Mr Tubb. If they were socialists, then they were probably all right. And they were Jewish, so they'd approve of giving all that money to the Jewish shelter. He drank the second glass (less of a shock this time, though he still didn't much like the taste) and then looked around. Goldberg was arguing loudly with the girl; no one else was close enough to hear.

  "The last job I done," he said, "was tax-collecting. There's a man in London called Parrish. He's making money out of the Jews, out of the sweatshops, yer see, and he's got half a dozen houses beside - places for gambling, places for girls, places where these nobby Johnnies go, rich fellers. So we thinks we'll take some of his profits away. The people's tax, Mr Goldberg called it. He's going to write about him sooner or later, expose him, like, but I took three hundred quid off one of his men the other day. Just mugged him."

  "Mugged him?" said Cohn. The three of them were listening closely; impressed, thought Bill.

  "Just . . . attacked him. Took the money. We gave it to the Jewish shelter."

  "Ahh. . ." said Cohn. Their expressions were deeply interested, deeply respectful.

  The man called Meyer said, "You don't mind violence, no? That's good. That's powerful."

  "In the right cause," said Bill.

  "Of course," said Meyer, "of course. That's what I meant. Tell me, are the other comrades in London of the same mind as you?"

  "Well, some," said Bill. "Yeah. The Fenians. The Irish boys. I know some of them. In Lambeth, where I come from."

  "Fenians?" said Giuliani.

  Cohn spoke rapidly in Yiddish. Giuliani, watching Bill, nodded. Then Cohn said:

  "You know some of the Fenians?"

  "I got friends, yeah. They know I won't give 'em away. I know lots of Irish people, always have done."

  "And what does Mr Goldberg think of your Fenian friends?"

  "Well . . . I don't really talk about them with him. He's got his own point of view, see. I mean, I respect him."

  "Of course," said Cohn, "we all do. But he doesn't have to know everything, mm? That's interesting, what you say about the Irish. I would like to meet some of them."

  "I could introduce you," said Bill.

  "You could? Ah, that's good. And another thing. . ."

  He refilled Bill's glass. Bill watched, half-wanting to say no, but feeling ashamed to. He put his elbow on the table, leaning in close, straining to hear as Cohn began to talk quietly, one comrade to another, about the political meaning of violence. Meyer genially put in a word here and there; Giuliani gnawed his fingernails. Casually, as if he was used to it, Bill drank the schnapps. Cohn's voice continued. It was like a world opening for Bill; it was like being initiated into a whole new language, suddenly, without the pain of learning it. The theory of. . . That there was a meaning behind. . . That violence could be pure and noble. . . And he learned a new word: Terrorism. Terrorist. It made him shiver with something that he could hardly tell from pleasure. Cohn talked on, about nationalism, about freedom, about communism, about anarchism, about dynamite.

  When they came away from the cafe, Bill found himself alone with Goldberg. He wasn't sure how it happened, and he wasn't sure where they were, except that suddenly there he was, alone, and profoundly uncomfortable, and the source of his discomfort was Goldberg.

  "What did you say to those lice in the cafe?" Goldberg said harshly.

  "Eh?"

  Bill blinked. It was like being hit, being spoken to like that. He tried to clear his head.

  "They was telling me. . . They was asking. . . About the Irish and all. The Fenians. Dynamite and so on."

  Goldberg's eyes were ferocious. Bill, frightened of nothing, found himself trembling with fear.

  "And?" said Goldberg.

  "They said. . . They was talking about summing, I dunno, terrorism--"

  Without any warning, he found himself pinned up against the wall with his feet off the floor. Goldberg was holding him there with one hand, and the other was gathered in a huge fist under his jaw. He'd known the man was strong, shoulders like a navvy, but the speed and violence of this - he had no breath to struggle with, even -

  "That sort of talk is poison," Goldberg said. "That sort of man is poison. They're hangers-on, parasites, tapeworms. They've got nothing to do with us, nothing to do with progress, nothing to do with socialism. You know what bombs do? You seen a bomb go off? You seen innocent children torn apart? I have. Fight? Of course we fight if we have to. But we fight evil, not innocence. And we can tell the difference. All they want to do is kill, kill anyone, kill for the sake of killing, spread panic, spill blood, destroy. How the hell's that g
oing to make things better in the world? Use your voice. Use your mind. Use words. Tell people. Argue. Organize. That's what works. That's what progress means. That's where sense and courage and decency lie. If I see you with those filthy cowards again, by God, that's the end for you. Use your wits. Use your eyes. Compare. Listen. Think. Who are the good people? Who are the bad? Use your mind!"

  No one had ever spoken to Bill like that before. He felt frightened, not so much of Goldberg's physical strength, as of the challenge. But it wasn't a deadening, sickening kind of fear; there was excitement in it too. And pride too. Goldberg thought he was worth something.

  He wasn't entirely sure how he accompanied Goldberg to the hall where he was to speak that afternoon. He remembered eating pickled herrings somewhere, he remembered swallowing cup after cup of hot strong coffee, he remembered walking along narrow streets and little quays and over bridges and past barges tied up where dogs barked and pipe-smoking men unloaded coal, bales of tobacco, salt. He remembered the hot, smoky hall, the crowded seats, the air of excitement, the tense silence as Goldberg began to speak. Bill was wedged into a corner at the back of the hall, he couldn't even sit down, and much as he was longing to close his eyes, he kept nodding and jerking awake again.

  Goldberg was speaking in German. That clear, slightly harsh, but expressive voice; those dramatic eyes, the humorous curl of the lip; the disordered notes, the way he little by little moved away from the lectern until he was standing in front of the audience with nothing between him and them, the notes forgotten, the words coming from the heart now, singing them almost, and Bill found himself held in thrall to the voice and the man's personality, even if the words were mysterious to him. There was passion and humour and courage and vision; there was scorn and mockery and anger. There was intellectual force. There was hope. Bill was caught up completely. He stamped and cheered and shouted with all the rest of them, and Avram Cohn and Meyer and Giuliani, and the Fenians, and Terrorism, were forgotten.

  He felt someone shaking his shoulder, and woke. His head was aching horribly and there was a vile taste in his mouth and he thought he might be sick: were they at sea already?

  But Goldberg was speaking. Bill dragged himself up and listened.