Of course I have not told anyone about this idea. It would be entirely wasted on them, and I fear their lack of enthusiasm might escalate slowly into scepticism and eventually into a full-blown revolt. The locals are, I find, very sensitive nowadays to any perceived slight to their national pride. I made the mistake of intimating to Alvaro the nature of my planting scheme, and he looked instantly displeased. That same morning, he approached me after having consulted the sorry collection of books that form the House’s “library.” He said, “Your idea cannot work. It is unscientific.”
“The Victorians achieved more implausible things,” I replied calmly.
“Those plants cannot survive. Maybe you should have a look at the books downstairs.”
“I will do no such thing. The Reader’s Digest Gardening Weekly didn’t create Sissinghurst,” I said, turning away. I did not want to become embroiled in a protracted discussion with a simple ignoramus.
He sighed. Before leaving my room he said, “Will you really not use any local plants?”
I didn’t answer. I merely smiled, as if to say, Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t.
“Crazy,” I heard him say as he closed the door.
I shrugged, my eyes and face feeling hot with anger. He would never have understood. Images of the Forest of Compiègne fluttered in my head once more, the scent of lily of the valley filling my nostrils. I knew that even Alvaro was not truly a friend. Like Pritchard all those years before, he would never be close to me. I was never meant to have “friends.” What happened to Pritchard? He went up to Cam-bridge and then ventured to the Sudan with the Shell Exploration Company; he married a nice girl, I heard, and settled in Rye. He never spoke to me again after our holiday in France.
No, I was destined never to have friends.
WHEN, ON ONE OF OUR WALKS, Johnny divulged his great secret to me, I was not in the least bit perturbed. “A Communist?” I shrieked, feigning horror. I had, in truth, expected something far more shocking.
“Quiet, please,” he urged, looking over his shoulder for phantom enemies. He began to tell me everything about himself — the meetings he organised deep in the jungle; the leaflets he wrote and distributed to rural communities; the funds he raised for the Party. He also told me of the so-called army. I thought they sounded nothing more than a band of rogue bandits who roamed the Valley with tinpot ammunition and canvas shoes coming apart at the seams.
“I presume your capitalist father-in-law knows nothing about this,” I said.
He shook his head.
“And Snow?”
With his machete, he slashed at the foliage that fell across our path, but did not answer.
“I see,” I said.
We were climbing a small hill; the trees gave way to a stretch of long, prickly grass, and I believed we had reached the summit. It turned out to be a false peak, and we paused to catch our breath. Johnny had not spoken for a while.
“If anyone finds out about me I would be finished,” he said eventually. I knew, from the flatness in his voice, that this was no exaggeration. “I would lose everything. My business, my wife. .” His voice trailed off.
“Is it worth the risk?” I asked.
He looked at me and smiled. “The Japanese will soon invade Malaya, you know. Look at what is happening in China. None of your countrymen seem to think this will happen. But it will. And when it does, I may lose everything anyway. So I think it is worth the risk, don’t you?”
“Isn’t it difficult to live like this, though?” I pressed. The thought of this poor innocent child embroiled in a brutal war was beginning to induce a sense of panic in me. “I mean, constantly living in fear of betrayal.”
He smiled, a picture of calm. “That is a danger we face all the time, every day of our lives, in one way or another. I myself do not fear it — if it happens, so be it. I would rather be betrayed than betray someone else. Wouldn’t you?”
“But what about Snow? It must be torture, not being able to speak about it to her.”
“No,” he said, with a hardened edge to his voice. “I don’t want her to know that about me.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I just don’t want her to know about me.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You never know, she might, well — admire you more for it.”
He laughed a hard, quiet laugh. “There are some things I would prefer to keep hidden from my wife. Besides, there are worse things than not having anyone to talk to.”
“Are there?”
He didn’t answer. I continued: “What do you think will happen if, as you say, the Japs invade? I don’t get the impression they’re terribly keen on Communists, do you? You have an awful lot to lose.”
“No more than anyone else.”
“Now you’re just being stupid. What about Snow?”
“Am I stupid?” he said, sounding remarkably sanguine given the obvious perils of his situation. “And what will you do when the Imperial Army invades?”
“Oh, I’ll be long gone. I’ll have taken the high road to the bonny banks of Loch bloody Lomond. Evacuated on some special ship with a lot of other ruddy-faced Englishmen and all the gin I can drink.”
