“Oh! Who’s your favorite tec?” Elene considered. “Maigret.” “I’ve never heard of him. What’s the author’s name?” “Georges Simenon. He writes in French, but now some of the books have been translated into English. They’re set in Paris, mostly. They’re very.. . complex.” “Would you lend me one? It’s so hard to get new books, I’ve read all the ones in this house, and in the school library. And I swap with my friends but they like, you know, stories about children having adventures in the school holidays.” “All right,” Elene said. “Let’s swap. What have you got to lend me? I don’t think I’ve read any American ones.” “I’ll lend you a Chandler. The American ones are much more true to life, you know. I’ve gone off those stories about English country houses and people who probably couldn’t murder a fly.” It was odd, Elene thought, that a boy for whom the English country house might be part of everyday life should flnd stories about American private eyes more “true to life.” She hesitated, then asked: “Does your mother read detective stories?” Billy said briskly: “My mother died last year in Crete.” “Oh!” Elene put her band to her mouth; she felt the blood drain from her face. So Vandarn was not married! A moment later she felt ashamed that that had been her first thought, and sympathy for the child her second. She said: “Billy, how awful for you. I’m so sorry.” Real death had suddenly intruded into their lighthearted talk of murder stories, and she felt embarrassed. “It’s all right,” Billy said. “It’s the war, you see.” And now he was like his father again. For a while, talking about books, he had been full of boyish enthusiasm, but now the mask was on, and it was a smaller version of the mask used by his father: courtesy, formality, the attitude of the considerate bost. It’s the war, you see: he had heard someone else say that, and had adopted it as his own defense. She wondered whether his preference for “true-to-life” murders, as opposed to implausible country-house killings, dated from the death of his mother. Now he was looking around him, searching for something, inspiration perhaps. In a moment be would offer her cigarettes, whiskey, tea. It was hard enough 212 Ken Follett
to know what to say to a bereaved adult: with Billy she felt helpless. She decided to talk of something else. She said awkwardly: “I suppose, with your father working at GHQ, you get more news of the war than the rest of us.” “I suppose I do, but usually I don’t really understand it. When he comes home in a bad mood I know we’ve lost another battle.” He started to bite a fingernail. then stuffed his hands into his shorts pockets. “I wish I was older.” “You want to fight?” He looked at her fiercely, as if he thought she was mocking him. “I’m not one of those kids who thinks it’s all jolly good fun, like the cowboy films.” She murmured: “I’m sure you’re not.” $,Ws just that I’m afraid the Germans will win.” Elene thought: Oh, Billy, if you were ten years older I’d fall in love with you, too. “It might not be so bad,” she said. “They’re not monsters.” He gave her a skeptical look: she should have known better than to soft-soap him. He said: “They’d only do to us what we’ve been doing to the Egyptians for fifty years.” It was another of his father’s lines, she was sure. Billy said: “But then it would all have been for nothing.” He bit his nail again, and this time he did not stop himself. Elene wondered what would have been for nothing: the death of his mother? His own personal struggle to be brave? The two-year seesaw of the desert war? European civilization? “Well, it hasn’t happened yet,” she said feebly. Billy looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I’m supposed to go to bed at nine.” Suddenly he was a child again. “I suppose you’d better go, then.” “Yes.” He stood up. “May I come and say good night to you, in a few minutes?” “If you like.” He went out. What kind of life did they lead in this house? Elene wondered. The man, the boy and the old servant lived here together, each with his own concerns. Was there laughter, and kindness, and affection? Did they have time to play games and sing songs and go on picnics? By comparison with her own childhood Billy’s was enormously privileged; nevertheless she feared this might be a terribly adult household for a boy THE KEY TO REBECCA 213