by John Masters
He said, ‘Are you still writing poetry, Fletcher?’
‘Trying to,’ the young man said, grinning.
‘Can I see some of your latest?’
Fletcher opened a drawer of the table and pulled out a few sheets of paper. Cate drew on his pipe and read. The papers were smudged and stained, the words misspelled, the poems unformed, some in blank verse, some in simple rhyme, more often in a powerful free form reminiscent of Walt Whitman. The subjects were as formless as the poems: was this about man, or the sky, or a lark ascending? It was difficult to tell. Perhaps it was ‘about’ all three … or none. What was certain was that the poems were alive with a soaring lyric power and beauty akin to Shelley’s.
Cate handed them back. ‘These are very good, Fletcher.’
The young man shoved the papers back, and banged the table with his fist. ‘I can’t write proper! I can read … but sometimes I don’t know whether the words in my head are real, ’cos I don’t know words, see? I mind in school, teacher reading poetry. She said ’twas Shakespeare, and the words went into me, not here – ’ he touched his ear – ‘but here – ’ he slapped his chest – ‘an’ they weren’t words, that I could use myself, but like waves, big waves, or wind blowing, sometimes soft sometimes hard. Shakespeare made the words do that, see, ’cos he knew words, like Granddad knows pheasants and ferrets – but until I know ’em, the poetry won’t be nothing. Stands to reason, don’t it?’
Cate stood up and, while thinking, knocked out the dottle from his pipe into the fireplace. Would it help this natural genius to see the shape of others’ poetry on the printed page? Or would it frustrate and worry him, from not being able to find those words in his own vocabulary? He made up his mind, and said, ‘Fletcher, come to the Manor whenever you feel like it, and read in the library. The first time I’ll show you where the books of poetry are, and make some suggestions about what you might start with. Most books you can take home, too.’
‘Blyth won’t let me in if you’re not there,’ Fletcher said.
‘I’ll tell him to,’ he said. ‘Well, goodbye for now. Goodbye, Mrs Gorse.’
The Woman nodded; the twins said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Cate,’ and Cate walked out, down the path, through the gap in the brambles and out of sight.
When he was gone, Florinda said, ‘He looks thin.’
The Woman said, ‘It’s her. She doesn’t care nothing for him. Nor her kids. Nor none of us.’
Fletcher said, ‘Laurence is a good kid.’
Florinda said, ‘He’d be happier if he was a Gorse, living here and poaching with you and Granddad.’
‘Except he doesn’t like to kill anything. He can tell any bird there is, sometimes before I’ve even seen it … Think they’re going to get Stella married off soon? She’s been to Buckingham Palace and all. She likes the men.’
Florinda jeered at her brother, ‘You think she likes you? Just because you got Mary Maxwell on her back?’
‘And some others … I could get her, too, if I wanted to …’
Florinda said, ‘Poor squire.’
‘… but I don’t, see?’
The sun was setting, across the Scarrow a man was scything hay in a late-growing field, that would be sown to winter wheat. Bees still drowsed through flowers, and the smell of ripening hops sharpened the warm air as Cate walked through the edge of his village, the men touching their caps to him as he passed, towards Walstone Manor.
Daily Telegraph, Wednesday, July 15, 1914
LONDON DAY BY DAY
Forthcoming Marriages
The marriage of Captain Anthony Fielden, 10th Royal Hussars, and Miss Phoebe Brand will take place at Glynde on the 27th inst.
The marriage will shortly take place between Major Alexander Houstoun, Royal Field Artillery, of Clerkington, East Lothian, and Evelyn, only daughter of the late Sir George Lauderdale Houstoun-Boswall, Bt., of Blackadder, Berwickshire.
Garden Parties
Hon. Mrs Wood of Hengrave
The Hon. Mrs Wood of Hengrave was ‘At Home’ to her friends in the garden attached to 52, Grosvenor Gardens, and among the many present were:
The Chilian Minister and Madame Edwards, Lord and Lady Sinclair, Geraldine Marchioness of Bristol, Lady Brownlow Cecil, Lady Hatherton, Lord and Lady Mostyn, Alice Countess Amherst and Lady Enid Vaughan, Sir Edward and Lady Coates, Sir Reginald and Lady Hardy, Lady Beatrice Pretyman, Sir John and Lady Smiley, and Sir Owen and Lady Phillips.
COURT CIRCULAR
Buckingham Palace, July 14
The King and Queen visited Queen Alexandra, the Empress Marie Feodorovna of Russia, and Queen Olga of Greece at Marlborough House today, and remained to luncheon.
Marlborough House, July 14
The King and Queen, the Queen of the Hellenes, and Princess Irene of Greece, Princess Frederick Charles of Hesse, Prince Philip of Hesse, Prince Wolfgang of Hesse, and Prince Christopher of Greece visited Queen Alexandra today and remained to luncheon.
Prince and Princess Louis of Battenberg called at Marlborough House this afternoon.
Christopher Cate, reading in the garden, continued browsing, alert for hidden nuances in the announcements. The Court Circular and society columns seemed ridiculous relics to a lot of people, Americans in particular – but they contained a great deal of useful information, if you knew some of the names, and listened to what was being said over the port or at the tea table. And, whether one liked it or not, society was in fact like a layered cake, the Royal Family the icing-sugar statuettes on top. But, far more important than that, they were also the cement holding the nation and empire together. In that role they were much more than mere figureheads. The Sovereign, of course, had real constitutional responsibilities: he had the right to be informed by his ministers; to advise them; to dissolve parliament; to ask anyone he wished to form a new government. Of course the man he selected could not succeed unless he was widely supported by the majority party in the House of Commons, but still, the Sovereign’s power was there. And he, and only he, had the power to create peers; indeed it was that power, used as a threat, which had finally persuaded the House of Lords to pass Lloyd George’s revolutionary social insurance bills of 1910–11.
Was the monarchy, then, secure and well loved? He considered, and decided he could not say so with a clear conscience. The old Queen had started the trouble by retiring into almost total seclusion after the death of the Prince Consort – so, until the Golden Jubilee over twenty-five years later, the people were hardly aware they had a Queen. Edward VII had done good things diplomatically in his later years, but by then he had alienated much of the middle class, the chapelgoers, by the well-known sexual immorality of his private life, and that of his circle. Then there were the whispers that his eldest son, the Duke of Clarence, was, in secret, Jack the Ripper. Cate couldn’t bring himself to believe that such a thing was possible … but when both Edward and Clarence were dead, and George V succeeded, he was faced with a new rumour – that he had secretly contracted a morganatic marriage. Denials and denouncements were to no avail … more indigestible matter for the Nonconformist Conscience. So, how strong would the monarchy be, if a storm blew up? It would depend on George V, and his somewhat forbidding German wife … but she was a descendant of George III, too …
He yawned … When Greece and Rome had shown the world that the best form of government was a Republic how was it that Europe was now nearly all monarchies? And none of them very stable. Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany was a poseur, shallow, and jealous; it was frightening to think that he commanded the mightiest army the world had ever known. Francis Joseph of Austria seemed to be a dear old thing, as gemütlich as his people, but they too were an unstable lot, the heir murdering his mistress at Mayerling, and then committing suicide – full of drugs, he’d heard; and the Empress, having her annual flings with Bay Middleton in Leicestershire, in the hunting field and in bed … dead now, poor woman, assassinated … unstable, and unlucky, the Hapsburgs were. The Tsar of Russia, another cousin of the
King’s, and not very intelligent according to rumour, and certainly not well fixed in the affections of his people: look at what happened to his grandfather – another assassination – and he had a foolish, stubborn German wife … Italy – too newly formed a country to be settled in anything and its King such a funny looking little fellow … Alfonso XIII of Spain, quite a ladies’ man, and a gay blade, but his people so bigoted, and poor – but was that the king’s fault, or the Roman Catholic Church’s? Or the fault of both, seen by the people as one? That unity of Church and State could be a source of strength; or it could be very dangerous … Turkey, the tottering sick man of Europe. It would really be a kindness to break up the Turkish Empire into its constituent peoples of Kurd, Arab, Syrian, Jew, Egyptian, Bulgar, Circassian, Armenian, and heaven knew what others … but the Sultan was also the Caliph of Islam, and what he did and how he acted could have important repercussions in the British Empire, which contained over a hundred million subjects of Islamic faith … France, an Empire, and a Republic, both, its governments going in and out of office like spinning tops – corruption rampant, the Dreyfus affair still fouling relations between all parties, religions, and classes! Look at …
He awoke with his chair in the shade, a little chilled. He picked up the fallen newspaper and went back into the house. thinking that he might have visited Probyn in gaol this afternoon after his lunch with Frank Cawthon; but perhaps it was too early. Better wait a week, and then make it a special trip.
6 St Pancras Station, London: Friday, July 17, 1914
Fiona Rowland waited on the platform half a dozen steps beyond the booking office door of St Pancras. The station clock showed 11.45 p.m. – a quarter of an hour to go before the midnight sleeping car express left for Scotland – their train, their magic carpet. It was two months since she had seen him, and then only for a single night in his Chelsea studio. She had been waiting here for over ten minutes. Why did he not come? Her travelling suit was of tan linen, the jacket belted at the waist. A veil hung from her ample hat, half covering her face. Her porter waited with her suitcase, hat box, shoe box, and bag of golf clubs. She wondered for a moment what the porter thought of her – for whom he imagined she was waiting, and what was the nature of their relationship. Not many married couples would set off on a golfing holiday from separate houses, only meeting at the station, though of course a husband might come direct from the office. In that case he’d be wearing city clothes … unless he took his sports clothes to the office in the morning … but a meeting at midnight? She cut short the speculation. What did it matter what the porter thought? Or the inspector standing at the barrier, examining the tickets held out to him – ‘Down the train, sir … That way, sir … Near the front … It’s the third carriage from the back … Good evening, madam. Fifth carriage from this end, and your maid will be in the next carriage forward …’
She saw him, wending steadily through the thin crowd towards her, and her heart bumped. He rolled a little still, from his early years at sea – anything rather than follow his father’s calling of coal miner; he’d seen what that did to a man … the nose broken in bar-room brawls and cheerful escapades in foreign ports; cleft chin, sloping powerful shoulders, narrow-set deep-sunk blue eyes, searching, noncommittal. She waved her hand, standing tiptoe inches above her considerable normal height. He saw her, and he was close enough so that she saw the spark light in the guarded eyes. She flew to his arms, wordless, raising her veil. He engulfed her and said, ‘There, there, lass! Ye’re looking bonnie the nicht.’
‘Oh, Archie!’ She smiled at him, for though he would never speak with the la-di-da southern accent, nor the pure accurate English of Highlanders who had learned it only at school, their native tongue being Gaelic, he had taught himself well enough, as he had taught himself painting; and only used this broad Gorbals speech to tease her.
‘Where are your bags and clubs?’ she asked.
‘The porter’s taking them straight to our compartment. Hadn’t you better put your veil down again, lass? This place is probably thick with Rowlands and Cates and their friends, all dying to take you in adultery.’
‘I don’t care who sees me,’ she said, ‘and you didn’t kiss me.’
‘That can wait … not long, though. We only have two minutes. Hurry along, now.’
At the barrier the inspector said, ‘Good evening, sir, good evening, madam. Nearest carriage but one. Compartment D. There’s the attendant, sir.’
Archie pressed something into his hand, they half-walked half-ran down the platform. Their porters were handing the bags to the attendant, Archie again reaching in his pocket. The guard stood close by, green flag unfurled, whistle in hand. He put it to his mouth as they stepped up and into the compartment. The attendant said, ‘I’ll get the bags into the compartment first, if you’ll wait a moment, sir.’
They stood pressed close in the narrow corridor space by the carriage door. Through the open window drifted the smell of coal smoke and the hot presence of the crowded platform. The guard’s cheeks puffed as he blew his whistle, the green flag waving imperiously in his other hand. From ahead, one engine whistled back, then another. The train began to move, and the guard stepped aboard. The gigantic iron and glass arch, over a hundred feet above them, echoed to the volleying blasts of the engines’ exhausts. The lighted platform slid faster backward, and they passed out into the night.
She closed her eyes, leaning against him, feeling her consciousness slowly concentrate in her body, her loins.
The attendant said, ‘All ready now, sir. I can serve you a snack in your compartment, if you wish, sir. Or a bottle of champagne, perhaps?’
‘The champagne,’ she said, wishing him away, ‘and two glasses.’
‘Certainly, madam, right away.’
He bustled off and they went into the little compartment. Archie said, ‘A drop of malt whisky’s more my mark, but…’ He shrugged, smiling.
The beds were made, one above the other, and she whispered in his ear, ‘This is a special occasion, darling. Tell him we’re tired and are going to sleep soon, and do not want to be disturbed.’
She sat down on the lower berth, waiting, looking idly around. The little room was panelled in mahogany, inlaid with rosewood. The monogram of the Midland Railway was sandblasted into the ornately framed mirror on the forward partition, and red velvet curtains swayed across the closed window. At the head of each berth was a hook and a circle of green baize for gentlemen to hang their watches on retiring. The mirror was flanked by sepia photographs of Leicestershire and Yorkshire scenes. Faintly she heard the engines labouring far away, rushing her magic carpet northwards, rattling over bridges, rushing over junctions. No, the magic was in his body, and until he took her she was merely existing.
The attendant came bearing a tray, bottle and glasses. ‘Open it, sir?’
‘If you would.’
She sighed inwardly. More time passing and she not in his arms. She kept her head turned, as though looking out of the blind window. She heard Archie mumbling, and the man saying, ‘Very good, sir. I’ll call you at 6.30. The dining-car comes on at Carlisle. Change at Kilmarnock at 8.22. Good night, sir. Good night, madam.’ She did not turn her head. The door shut, a bolt slid.
She tore off her hat, threw it on to the top berth, and opened her arms. Archie came towards her, filled glasses in hand, ‘We’ll not waste this, though. It’s cold, cold as a Sassenach’s heart.’
She said, ‘Let’s drink it quickly … oh darling, at last!’
They stood, facing each other, swaying with the motion of the train. The shrill call of an engine whistle was blown past on the hurrying wind. They emptied the glasses. ‘Another,’ he said, ‘and another.’
‘Not for me.’
‘I’ll finish it. We’ve six hours, woman!’
‘And then ninety-six hours at Dalmellie. Oh darling, do hurry. I’m … melting!’
‘Go on then. Undress. I’ll watch you.’
She began to undress, taking of
f her clothes with lascivious movements and poses, and at last lay back naked on the lower berth, her arms out to him, all the floor and upper berth littered with coat, skirt, blouse, corset, bust bodice, petticoat, camisole, underdrawers. By then he had his coat and shirt off and she could admire the muscles sliding silkily under the smooth hairless skin of his body. Thirty-six years old, four years younger than herself; barely a touch of grey in the thick dark hair. There was the scar near his right nipple, where a Malay girl had ripped a five-inch gash across his chest in Singapore … the nose broken in Rio de Janeiro. And his eyes, probing her, aware of her as a person, as Fiona, understanding her. Her arms ached, tears blurred her eyes, as she cried, ‘My own darling … come to me.’ Through the tears she saw that he too was naked, and ready, and hungry.
She had been lying awake for half an hour, on the lower berth, staring at the bottom of the berth above in the dim blue light. He had fed her, but she was not assuaged, needing him to pass more of the wild honey of his seed into her. Her swollen lips ached and longed. One day he would make a baby in her: then bliss without boundaries would lap her. But perhaps he could not, for they had been lovers nine years now, and although it was only infrequently that they could consummate their love, surely if he were fertile, she would have become pregnant in those hundred or so matings? Guy and Virginia proved that the barrenness was not in her … but it was disloyal and ridiculous to think that Archie Campbell, the most wonderful man that God ever created, could have been denied the gift of fertility …
She said, ‘Darling?’
No answer. The train rocked, the wheels clickety-clacked on the rail joints, a station passed in a blur of closer, louder sound, suddenly falling back.
‘Darling … what time is it?’
He couldn’t be asleep. He must have heard her. She lifted her leg and pushed her foot up against the bottom of the upper berth – ‘Darling!’