“Do you play an instrument?” Dr Quinn asks Klauer.
“None at all.”
“But you like music, you told me.”
“Only listening.”
“Jessie has a fine touch, such an expressive legato.”
“I’m no expert.”
She suddenly stops and turns. “I’ve had enough.”
“We were enjoying it,” her father says.
“My hands are tired. I want to go for a walk. Pierre, would you like to come with me?” Both men are surprised by the proposal. “You’re starting your rounds soon, father, it would be rude to leave Pierre waiting here on his own.”
Dr Quinn can see the logic; it’s a polite way of getting the Frenchman out of the house. “You two go for some air, then. But not far, your brother should be back soon and he’ll be needing fed.” He doesn’t see the glance that passes between the young pair as Jessie goes to fetch her coat and hat.
Outside it’s grey and damp but she’s glad to have him by her side, her French beau, almost wants him to put his arm round her, though instead he keeps a polite distance between them, saying nothing. She can tell he’s thinking about the strike, walking more swiftly than she’d prefer, almost as if wanting to get away from her. She can’t see the point of the dispute, nor understand how the men can possibly get what they want; it’s a battle over an impossible dream. Only when Pierre spoke at the meeting did she feel persuaded by the argument.
He pauses, turns. “There’s something I have to ask of you.” His hesitancy ominously magnifies the possibilities.
“Anything.”
“The union’s against us.”
“I know that.”
“They’ve declared there’s to be no strike pay.” His fingers play nervously together in fumbled prayer. “Already I’m behind with bills…”
“I can help you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!”
“Then what?”
“Your father; I’m sure he must have some cash around the house that he’d never miss.”
She’s shocked, horrified by the mere suggestion, yet brings it to its conclusion. “Yes.”
“I’d soon repay it.”
“I trust you.”
“If your father found out…”
“He won’t, he never looks.”
“The last thing I’d want would be to get you into trouble.”
He should take her in his arms right now, here in the street, she wouldn’t resist. He should kiss her in view of anyone who might pass. “Tell me how much you need.”
His expression changes. “How much could you get?”
Now they’re negotiating, they’ve crossed a boundary; Jessie, darkly thrilled by the moral calculus, considers her own wage when she was packing shells at Russell. “Would fifteen shillings do?” Pierre hesitates to answer; she says, “More?”
“I’m in arrears, even two or three pounds wouldn’t be enough, and if the strike continues…”
“I’ll find whatever I can.” The bargain is closed by a clasping together of their hands.
Pierre smiles. “One day, when times are better, I’ll be able to reward you properly.”
She repeats softly, “One day.” The future is feathered, comforting, just beyond reach; a marriage bed.
“Shall I walk you home again?”
“Father will have left, if we don’t go too quickly.”
“And then?”
Then anything: love, dreams, revolution, she wants the future right now. “I’ll give you the money.”
Their pace is as measured and deliberate as the ticking of a clock. He’s asking her to do something bold and courageous but his own risk is surely greater. There’ll be picketing, he tells her, the police will doubtless intervene and a few heads may be split.
“You have to be careful.” She never had a gallant soldier to pray for, not even her brother.
“I know how to take care of myself.”
Nearing the house, she tells him to wait while she goes ahead to check. If the place is empty she will draw a curtain as signal that he should come and knock. It’s like something from one of those French novels she’s secretly read; life transfigured by a higher honesty known only to the heart. God will forgive all this — as long as father never knows.
Pierre Klauer stands as instructed until at a window he sees the movement that equals her surrender. To visit a woman and be paid for it: that’s new. The door opens for him without anyone visible beyond; when she closes it he immediately goes to kiss her.
“No.”
“But we’re alone.”
“We have to be careful. John might be back any minute.”
Bolt the door and leave the fool standing outside, Klauer thinks; leave him waiting until they’re finished and getting dressed again. He takes her in his arms, his immortal arms, and tastes the sweetness of her lips.
She pulls away with some reluctance. “I’ll fetch that money.”
Still in his coat he goes to the sitting room, looks at the piano and the song sheet open on it, feels a deep urge to sit and make generous music, while from the kitchen comes the rattle of china, a lid being lifted and a jar replaced. His life is like the flicking of a false coin. She comes to the kitchen doorway and stands with the gift in her hands, a bouquet of crumpled notes.
“Four pounds,” she says.
“He stores so much for housekeeping?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?” He goes to her, cups his hands round the warmth of hers.
“I saved this from when I was working.”
“You’ll have it all back soon.” He puts the crisp bundle into his pocket without looking at it, both of them ashamed by its presence. Then he holds her waist and she lets him kiss her more fully, she folds into him like a vine, he pecks at her ear and she gasps with surprise and uncertainty.
“I love you,” he says.
She knows what happens next in those French novels, but could she really do it, make herself into an Yvette? She wishes a great cannon were about to destroy everything, then she’d have the courage; only death can equal the magnitude of what she feels.
“John will be back.”
“I don’t care.”
“Father might have forgotten something.”
“If anyone calls we ignore it or escape through the back door.”
She laughs. “You’re a monster!”
“I’m in love with you, that’s all. When you’re in love nothing is forbidden, everything is allowed.” There’s solemnity in his voice.
“Everything?” she repeats.
“The whole world. The universe.” He releases her. “Look at this.” When he reaches into his coat she expects him to take out a little box with a ring inside, a fantasy replaced just as quickly by another, a photograph of the woman Jessie has supplanted, Yvette in Parisian finery. Yet neither emerges; what he instead produces is something it takes a moment for her to recognise and comprehend, black and terrible in his hand. He holds it by its muzzle, a small pistol.
“By the good Lord, why do you have such a thing?”
He displays it with boastful pride. “Just in case.”
“But it’s dangerous, unlawful. You have to be rid of it.”
“It’s harmless, there’s no bullet.” He puts it to the side of his head and pulls the trigger, she screams as the little weapon gives a click, hears her own scream reverberate, gasps and bursts into tears.
“Don’t cry, silly woman.”
His arms try to encircle her again, but at the end of one of them is the gun she feels pressing on her. “Why show me that horrible thing?” she sobs. “You’re not going to take it to the picket are you? Pierre, you’re frightening me.”