stool, facing away from the instrument and towards Dr Quinn who looks at his book, unable to read, then eventually says, “I hear you made a fine speech the other night.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A forty-hour week. I wonder if I’ve ever done so few. You’re all finished for the day and I’m only starting, I’ll be making my rounds soon.”
“I’m sure everyone appreciates what you do.”
The doctor believes he detects some sarcasm. “You’re sure are you? I don’t think anyone appreciates the work I have to do. And this son of mine, ought to be studying but doesn’t know the meaning of work.” He looks penetratingly at Pierre, something on his mind he’s now prepared to raise. “I asked John if he knew you from prison. He said no.”
“I was at Stobs camp.”
“I know that, I checked with a policeman friend of mine.”
Pierre is acquainted with such frank suspicion, untroubled by it. “My name was my misfortune.”
The doctor appears almost sympathetic. “Must have been hard for you, locked up with Germans. Your enemy as much as ours.”
“They’d been living in this country for years.”
“What about bolshevists? Were there many of them in the camp?”
“Not really.”
Dr Quinn proceeds towards his chosen point with clinical precision. “My son’s no revolutionary, he’s an idealist. This newspaper of his is only a game.”
“You worry I’m a bad influence.”
“Yes, I do. Of course any man’s entitled to his opinions and I believe in free speech as much as you. But where can a man speak freely if not in his own home? So I tell you honestly, Pierre, while I respect the strength of your convictions, even feel a degree of sympathy for them, I fear the possible consequences. Just look at what happened in Russia, and now in Germany, uprisings all over the place, bringing nothing but sorrow. Maybe you want to become a martyr like that confounded Luxemburg woman, that’s your choice, but my son didn’t survive four years of war in order to get himself shot on a barricade.”
He stops when he sees Jessie enter. She’s fried some bacon, the smell comes with her. “Shall I bring it here?” she asks father, who shows no sign of anger in the wake of his outburst, able to retain objectivity even when contemplating tragedy. He calmly sends both of them to the kitchen so that he can read. Pierre sits down there and begins to eat, chewing thoughtfully while Jessie stands watching in silence. She heard none of the conversation but perceived its tension. Eventually she tells him, almost whispering, “I haven’t said anything about our walk.”
Pierre looks up at her, somehow puzzled that she should mention it. “Probably best,” he agrees.
She sits down too, lays her hand on the table, outstretched fingers not far from his resting elbow, and waits for him to say something more, though all he can do is cut crisp shreds of meat, transporting them mechanically to his mouth.
“Do you think I should tell father?”
“He wouldn’t approve.”
“Then what do we do?” It’s a great problem to which she has given much thought. Pierre asks her to pour him some tea. She says with hardly suppressed anguish, “Must we stop going together?”
“What do you prefer?”
“I don’t know.”
Pierre can’t see what’s so complicated; the world is about to be reborn and this girl worries over a triviality. “I think we should carry on in secret.”
“You do?”
“It’s not as if we’re doing anything wrong.”
“But we… you know.” Gripped by romantic horror she feels the magnetic force of his body just beyond her fingertips, remembers his kiss.
He smiles. “We can do it again. Nobody need know.”
“I’m not like that.”
From the other room her father calls; she goes to be told that if Pierre has been served she should carry on playing the piano as before, Dr Quinn finds it soothing, their guest will too. At the first chords, Pierre comes and stands in the doorway,
“Thank you, sir.”
“A forty-hour week. I wonder if I’ve ever done so few. You’re all finished for the day and I’m only starting, I’ll be making my rounds soon.”
“I’m sure everyone appreciates what you do.”
The doctor believes he detects some sarcasm. “You’re sure are you? I don’t think anyone appreciates the work I have to do. And this son of mine, ought to be studying but doesn’t know the meaning of work.” He looks penetratingly at Pierre, something on his mind he’s now prepared to raise. “I asked John if he knew you from prison. He said no.”
“I was at Stobs camp.”
“I know that, I checked with a policeman friend of mine.”
Pierre is acquainted with such frank suspicion, untroubled by it. “My name was my misfortune.”
The doctor appears almost sympathetic. “Must have been hard for you, locked up with Germans. Your enemy as much as ours.”
“They’d been living in this country for years.”
“What about bolshevists? Were there many of them in the camp?”
“Not really.”
Dr Quinn proceeds towards his chosen point with clinical precision. “My son’s no revolutionary, he’s an idealist. This newspaper of his is only a game.”
“You worry I’m a bad influence.”
“Yes, I do. Of course any man’s entitled to his opinions and I believe in free speech as much as you. But where can a man speak freely if not in his own home? So I tell you honestly, Pierre, while I respect the strength of your convictions, even feel a degree of sympathy for them, I fear the possible consequences. Just look at what happened in Russia, and now in Germany, uprisings all over the place, bringing nothing but sorrow. Maybe you want to become a martyr like that confounded Luxemburg woman, that’s your choice, but my son didn’t survive four years of war in order to get himself shot on a barricade.”
He stops when he sees Jessie enter. She’s fried some bacon, the smell comes with her. “Shall I bring it here?” she asks father, who shows no sign of anger in the wake of his outburst, able to retain objectivity even when contemplating tragedy. He calmly sends both of them to the kitchen so that he can read. Pierre sits down there and begins to eat, chewing thoughtfully while Jessie stands watching in silence. She heard none of the conversation but perceived its tension. Eventually she tells him, almost whispering, “I haven’t said anything about our walk.”
Pierre looks up at her, somehow puzzled that she should mention it. “Probably best,” he agrees.
She sits down too, lays her hand on the table, outstretched fingers not far from his resting elbow, and waits for him to say something more, though all he can do is cut crisp shreds of meat, transporting them mechanically to his mouth.
“Do you think I should tell father?”
“He wouldn’t approve.”
“Then what do we do?” It’s a great problem to which she has given much thought. Pierre asks her to pour him some tea. She says with hardly suppressed anguish, “Must we stop going together?”
“What do you prefer?”
“I don’t know.”
Pierre can’t see what’s so complicated; the world is about to be reborn and this girl worries over a triviality. “I think we should carry on in secret.”
“You do?”
“It’s not as if we’re doing anything wrong.”
“But we… you know.” Gripped by romantic horror she feels the magnetic force of his body just beyond her fingertips, remembers his kiss.
He smiles. “We can do it again. Nobody need know.”
“I’m not like that.”
From the other room her father calls; she goes to be told that if Pierre has been served she should carry on playing the piano as before, Dr Quinn finds it soothing, their guest will too. At the first chords, Pierre comes and stands in the doorway,
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