It’s a Battlefield by Graham Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

listening to what Bennett was saying, thinking of several things at once. Drover’s wife, there might be a good interview, ‘not sit down under it like bloody intellectuals,’ suppose there are other newspaper men here, ‘pamphlet 36’, mustn’t risk being thrown out of the party, if it’s in the morning papers I shall be blamed, ‘three volunteers to distribute at the gates,’ I shall be blamed, I shall be blamed.
    â€˜I’m a delegate from the garidge. They want to know what’s going to be done about Drover.’
    â€˜I’m coming to Drover all in good time,’ Bennett said. ‘There’ll be the petition to sign. Do you expect us to attack the prison? What’s the good of breaking windows? If they want to ’ang ’im, they’ll ’ang ’im.’
    â€˜There’s a lot of feeling at the garidge.’
    â€˜Then ‘old a meeting at the garidge. Get some of the intellectuals to talk till you feel all right. I’ve got up ’ere to face facts.’
    â€˜Something ought to be done.’
    â€˜This meeting’s got more to attend to than Drover. Who’s Drover anyway? I’ve never ’eard ’im do anything for the party. We’ve got a big job on now that can’t wait for Drover.’
    Somebody in the middle of the hall called out: ‘Good old Bennett,’ and everybody laughed.
    â€˜They’re shouting Drover this and Drover that at me. Drover doesn’t matter now. It’s not one policeman we want to kill. I’m not a talker. I’m the man who does a job. We’ve got enough blacklegs. We’ve got ’em in the party, we’ve got ’em in this ‘all as like as not. Spies and blacklegs. Men who’ve never done a stroke of honest work, talkers, scribblers. We’ve got to weed ’em out.’
    â€˜Really,’ Conder said, stroking his head, ‘he’s going too far. He’s questioning our honesty.’
    Kay Rimmer sat with her head on her hands and her eyes on the floor. She thought of the long streets between her and Battersea, the Jews in Charing Cross Road, the whores in Coventry Street, and the long hill of Piccadilly; at the other end, past the King’s Road and the cabmen’s shelters, past the slow dull river and the warehouses and the tram-lines, Milly waited, Milly with her intolerable grief, fear in the kitchen, suspense in the sitting-room, pain on every stair. ‘They’re shouting Drover this and Drover that at me.’ Drover who had never intruded, who had sat as quietly as a visitor in his own home, importuned now from every piece: the plant unwatered, because it had been his job, no beer in the house because he used to fetch it. I want to enjoy myself, she thought, Jim doesn’t matter to me, I could hate Milly for this, and looking up she saw Mr Surrogate’s smooth cheek and pale hair.
    â€˜There’s Kay,’ Jules said and waved his hand. He noticed again that she had been crying. Above his head Bennett rumbled on. His rage was like a storm which, if two were together in a room, drew them together with its darkness and the closeness of the air. He allowed himself for a while to think of loving Kay; she was more of an individual with her eyes wet. His mind, which had been misty with regret, vague with aspiration, cleared momentarily, and it occurred to him that possibly all he needed was a woman. Love when one had no money was a chancy thing; one took it when it came, but that was seldom. They were always, women, wanting something in return: a visit to a dance hall, chocolates, a cinema; they thought it undignified to take the pleasure as its own reward; or else they became moony, passionately monogamous, and when he wanted to laugh and love and make a noise, they wanted to be quiet in the dark, alone with him. But Kay was not like that; she had too many friends ever to want to creep into corners; he almost