trennels | The Marlows and the Traitor Readthrough: Chapters 7-10 (Reply)

(i)

Despite Nicola at least having displayed some fairly conspicuous gallantry, the Marlows are glum and convinced they’ve 'bungled the job.' I enjoy Ginty’s various suggestions for a further attempt at escape and Peter’s quashing of each of them. Peter has a slightly solemn sense of duty to King and Country inculcated by his family and Dartmouth that his older sister has missed out on; I am perhaps unreasonably amused by this contrast in their characters.

The lighthouse! Having always wanted to play at lighthouse-keeping myself, I quite understand Humfrey and Rupert Foley’s folly-building impulse. And the Marlows are now living out a nightmare version of a jolly weekend spent camping out at this rather atmospheric spot: it’s superbly chilling and ironic. You imagine that Ginty in particular might have, under different circumstances, rather enjoyed the windswept romance of it.

It might be interesting to note (I haven’t made a count) how many times Foley incidentally betrays himself in the course of the novel, from his first deliberate non-recognition of Peter. I really like little details like his touching the oilskin package in his pocket as he outlines his plan for refloating Talisman. It may be that just that at this stage he sees no need to dissimulate, but it also indicates an amateur, dilettante quality in him. Anquetil is a better dissimulator (though not too brilliant either; if he can’t convince Pam Marlow he’s Special Branch investigating drug-trafficking, he was obviously wildly lucky to get away with undercover operations during the war--perhaps Anquetil is rather inclined to underestimate women: his sexist dismissal of Ida Cross is secondary evidence here). That maps to an extent onto their class backgrounds, which Forest otherwise rarely emphasises.

Peter’s self-reproach for being unable physically to tackle a grown man is rather heartbreaking: his prep-school master was completely right about young Marlow, one reflects. Nicola’s regret about sugaring the petrol, similarly, seems rather self-castigating given the extremity of their circumstances.

Foley’s drugging the children with sleeping tablets is foreshadowed in his pouring brandy down Nicola’s throat; and perhaps returns us also to Selby’s original unease (depending on how you read that).

(ii)

I have been promiscuous in identifying favourite passages, but here is another. I love the way it mirrors the passage from Anquetil’s point of view in the next chapter, and its insights into Foley’s unstable personality: I enjoy in particular his reflection that had his handlers not given him the equivalent of a blistering ticking-off on the hard, he might have felt more inclined to obey their orders and murder the children. Brrrrr. It is the sort of confused logic that Forest sketches so well in more benign circumstances in the other novels: it’s something I particularly associate with Lois Sanger, with whom he also shares ‘light-hearted arrogance’ when things are going well.

‘That he worked for them--or rather through them--did not make him of the same kind.’ Foley’s motive is characterised as almost cosmic here: he thinks of himself as a sort of Lord of Misrule who is simply using the situation for his own gratification. He’s dangerously misled, able to think of himself as using others when he is undoubtedly being used by them.

Like a lot of other characters in the novels, Foley can be easily rattled, as his thoughts on the thunderbolt show: he’s prone to the sort of magical thinking that Lawrie, Ginty and indeed Lois display on occasion. And he shares Lawrie’s conviction that things will work out somehow no matter what--his unguarded optimism rather reminds me of her thoughts about the Play in Cricket Term.

The final paragraph of this chapter is undoubtedly well-written, and often quoted: 'death at the hands of the people he had served to the justice of those he had betrayed' is a splendid bit of analysis of motive: Foley is at once seen as abject (a servant of thugs) and Satanically proud: unwilling to face the shame of a trial, determined to see through his mission to disrupt and subvert even at the cost of his own and others’ lives.

But there’s a puzzle here. Foley thinks that if he were to give himself up he would be ‘tried under the Official Secrets Act and imprisoned.’ He’s surely deluded if he thinks his actions don’t warrant the death penalty--or would having handed himself in be sufficient mitigating circumstances to have a reasonable chance at having the sentence commuted? (I would think not, given that he’s been passing information for a year and is now approaching endgame, but more informed opinion would be very welcome). His propensity to lunatic optimism has been averred, after all, but isn’t it odd that he doesn’t even contemplate the gallows? Foley seems to consider imprisonment a worse fate than death (perhaps a view, given her interest in martyrdom, shared by his author.) But it makes the parallelism less than neat, if perhaps the more intriguing, that Foley does not seem to consider his choice being between two different kinds of death: his own shameful death at the hands of the justice system as opposed to both his own death and the murder of the children at the hands of the U-boat crew, with the consolation that he has at least thwarted British interests.

In any case, his willingness to sacrifice the children casts considerable doubt on his lack of cruelty. He’s no sadist: he doesn’t seem to get off on others’ physical suffering. (Their psychological suffering might be another thing.) But cold-bloodedly cruel he most certainly is.

(i)

The Marlows’ feelings on rising are delightfully characteristic: Nicola, having perhaps acquitted herself best, is cheerful and pragmatic; Ginty worries mostly about the family row to come, in a wonderfully self-centered way; Peter is still fretting about duty and worrying that he’s not up to the demands of the Navy.

And Nicola, of course, being happiest, must be the one to discover that Foley has not, after all, departed. I love the unpredictable turns their conversation takes. Nicola’s disinterested sorrow at the loss of Talisman, which she sees as her ‘first command’, is a brilliant touch, especially coming so soon after Peter’s doubts about his professional future. Her observation that Foley has ‘nice eyes’; just before his behaviour to her turns nasty; her inadvertent betrayal of having sugared the petrol with Foley’s own composition. What tune do you hear it to? (inviting submissions of mp3s). And who was the ‘unpleasant and influential relative’?

Foley’s high opinion of his knowledge of late Elizabethan ordnance is unfounded: any annotated edition of Hamlet will tell you what a petard is. Though perhaps a lot of people who use the expression don’t know what it means: I had a vague notion of flagpoles, until I actually read one of said annotated editions.

Nicola’s reaction to Foley’s calm admission of treachery neatly mirrors her reaction to Anquetil’s admission that he dislikes his lifelong friend, I think: both of them stir her received ideas about friendship and loyalty. And even now, she still would like, even if she’s not quite prepared to believe that Foley isn’t a traitor after all. Foley’s mischievous motives (‘Don’t you get fed up sometimes...’) are reminiscent, I think, of some Kingscote characters--particularly Tim.

Ginty is notably failing to be the responsible eldest again: her conversation with Foley seems to reveal her as the least aware of all of them of the dangers they face. The recognition that going aboard the U-boat will mean their deaths is placed in Peter’s point of view--I think Ginty is too overcome by apprehensive claustrophobia to realise it--has it yet occurred to Nicola? Does she bolt for to distract herself with the destroyers because it occurs to her exactly at the same time as her brother?

Foley’s feeding the gulls is a lovely indication of his reckless eccentricity.

I really like the image of the unhappy group playing patience and chess when the tide comes in, in a sort of ghastly version of a rained-off holiday.

Peter’s slowly developing plan as he plays patience is good too, foreshadowing the chess game later. Does anyone know why banging your head on the pillow might make you wake up early, though? Is it some sort of semi-magical thinking: that banging your head a certain number of times will make you wake up at that hour of the morning? That’s all I can suggest.

Nicola’s letting on so demonstratively when she sees the Golden Enterprise seems mildly out of character: perhaps it’s there to reinforce Whittier’s refusal to allow a rescue by a small team: ‘the children will almost certainly greet you with open arms.’

Ginty demonstrates bravery in standing up to Foley when he’s twisting Nicola’s arm; but also she lacks the moral courage to admit her feelings of guilt and responsibility in having alerted him to their presence in Mariners.

(ii)

You’re probably all getting fed up of me saying ‘oh, my favourite bit!’ but this brief section is a lovely character-study in Anquetil’s observant caution and his and Foley’s friendship. We’ve anticipated and discussed how they might have come to be ‘boys at school’ together when the differences in their backgrounds are so wide, but ideas are still welcome. I love the detail that Foley never insisted on Anquetil keeping his mischief secret: it’s a wonderful illustration of Foley’s lazy privilege--that he felt entitled to Anquetil’s loyalty--and his bent to psychological sadism--that, feeling no such thing himself, he enjoyed and was amused by the sight of an ethical struggle between faithfulness to a friend and proper conduct.

What do people make of Anquetil’s decision not to attempt a solo rescue? My sense is that his estimate of a fifty-fifty chance against Foley is a way of not quite saying that he might hesitate--fatally hesitate--to kill his friend, while he knows that Foley would feel no similar compunction. I also really enjoy Anquetil’s regret at his native caution: ‘He wished with all his heart he could stay there.’ I think it’s both a great narrative device and a slight disappointment that Forest never gives Anquetil and Foley a scene together. But it is a gift to fic.

(i)

Let us take a second to appreciate that chapter title: Forest never worries too much about spoilers... which I’ve taken as something of an imprimatur in sprinkling this discussion fairly liberally with them.

Anquetil still underestimates Foley’s recklessness, attributing to him some of his own calculating temperament. Whittier’s account of Operation Fireweed is interesting. It’s purely rhetorical: Anquetil was part of the unit too and knows--presumably better than Whittier does--how Foley behaved. As well as being a nice indication of Whittier’s level of sensitivity (because I'm sure a purely performative reiteration of what must have been a pretty psychologically traumatic episode in Anquetil's Good War is exactly what he needs to hear right now; cf: ‘the little corpusses’) it suggests a background for the cooling of Foley and Anquetil’s friendship.

Though I don’t think it would have bothered me unduly as a child--maybe others feel differently?--I’m impressed by the audacity of Forest’s representation of Whittier deciding that the children are, well, expendable--and Anquetil apparently acquiescing in it.

(ii)

We learn a little more about Anquetil’s wartime activities, which seem to have involved intelligence work in enemy territory: one thinks he might then have an explanation which anticipates Mrs Marlow’s suspicions that espionage, not drugs, is the matter under investigation, given that Lawrie is likely to spill the beans.

I’m interested by Pam Marlow’s disinclination to trouble her husband, and Anquetil’s momentary lack of backbone in not admitting that he thinks Geoff should be prepared for the worst. Pam does reproach herself for leaving the children alone: but I was intrigued by ‘it was almost worse than the time her husband’s cruiser had been bombed...’ (italics mine). Anquetil has misled her into thinking the situation is perhaps more hopeful than it is, it’s true, but she still suspects very considerable danger. And yet it’s not quite as bad as when she thought her husband may have been killed. Another rather audacious moment--a minute suggestion that maternal love doesn’t quite conquer all? I have to say I’m unreasonably amused by the repeated hints in the series that behind the irreproachably respectable façade of Commander (then Captain) and Mrs Marlow lies a grand and sometimes reckless passion, but it doesn’t seem calculated to go down well with a target market that is uncomfortable with suggestions of more than cheerful affection between parents.

We learn that Whittier is not entirely heartless, and that the children’s predicament has upset him--though more perhaps because he’d have to break it to Geoff than anything else (which is a rather superbly officer-class reaction). Though Bill’s ailment turns out to be very respectable in the end, our author does nothing to suggest that one of the crew on the Golden Enterprise is not, in fact, beginning his mission with a crashing hangover ("‘We had a party last night,’ explained David.") I think, again, as a child I would rather have enjoyed this irreverent look at adult behaviour, but it strikes me as quite daring for 1953, to represent adults neither as godlike figures of authority nor disbelieving bunglers, but people who occasionally mildly misbehave and suffer the consequences a bit themselves.

(iii)

And finally, the chess game, which is part of a complex of of ideas about destiny, omens, chance and causation in the novel. Chess is a creepy game. Especially when you’re playing a creepy opponent. Is Foley any good at chess? (Better than Peter, obviously: I can’t remember which of Peter and Nicola is the better chess-player elsewhere in the series and don’t have my other texts handy to check.) It seems an odd game for someone who is not ‘a cold, calculating piece of goods’ to be sufficiently interested in to set himself problems and so forth.

I love the girls becoming suddenly animated and cheerful at the idea of pretending that Peter has been drowned: one of those moments of barely-sublimated sibling hostility that Forest does so pitilessly.

Ginty’s dismay at having to stand guard is interesting, since it brings back her failure at Mariners--of all the siblings, I think Ginty is the most easily haunted--later, we see her being tormented by wee-hours, sheet-kicking remorse when she makes tactless comments, for example. I think Peter and Nicola are just being honest in reassuring her: it is hard to see that they could have escaped from the cellar, let alone from Mariners even had Ginty not panicked, but she nonetheless, very realistically, feels that they’re just being nice. Peter finds it easy enough to relate to--he has his ‘boat thing’--probably, ironically, the sort of crisis in which physically courageous and agile Ginty wouldn’t have much of a problem.

I also like Ginty’s momentary misgiving about whether they should try to escape, leaving Peter, and Nicola’s determined and unexpected response--it nicely inverts sentimental ideas of loyalty, but also shows Nicola’s pragmatism: Ginty tends to think about escape hypothetically, Nicola considers practicalities.

I’m sort of thrilled that Nicola gets to find the secret shortcut, even under such dire circumstances. Poor Ginty, though--I’m impressed that she does find resources to face her fears: ‘Sometime she was going to have to shut up about being scared stiff or it would always be like that afternoon at Mariners.’

I was (perhaps foolishly, given her recent history of being ‘delicate’) surprised that Nicola’s not a better swimmer. The mixture of self-interested and altruistic anxiety, of fear and lethargy and despair that characterise Ginty and Nicola’s thoughts during the overturning of the boat and return to the lighthouse is beautifully managed, I think. In front of Foley, Ginty pulls off a performance of fear and grief at Peter’s apparent drowning that wouldn’t have shamed Lawrie at her most plangent. Foley’s unexpected sympathy having a devastating effect on Ginty while not really altering Nicola’s feelings of relief and triumph is brilliant: for once, I think, our feelings are entirely with Ginty here.

Am I unreasonably interested in headcanoning that the clothes that Foley gives the girls might be boyhood relics of his own and Anquetil’s? I am, but at this stage I have no shame. (They’re ‘several sizes too big’, but a twelve-year-old girl as slight as Nicola is hinted to be would presumably fall straight through a grown man’s clothes. Incidentally: size headcanons for these characters? For some reason I picture both Foley and Anquetil--of a size, we know--as wiry and strong, but just about as small and slight as you could be and still have served in the Commandos: what were the wartime size requirements for that? Anyone know?)

Ginty’s convulsive tears and Foley’s inability to deal with them are also, I think, really nice touches--Foley can be mannerly and even gentle, but he is without real empathy; the admission that they grate on the rest of the Marlow family in the same way is perhaps more telling than even Forest meant to suggest.

Finally, Nicola’s left alone with Foley, and the psychological effects that hit Ginty straight away begin to tell. And with Nicola dazed with shock, uncertain of Peter’s fate, a bit fuggy with rum, we’ll finish up.

Well, that's enough from me. Have at it!