HOW DEAR IS LIFE
HENRY WILLIAMSON
To
C.M.D.W.
without whose help these novels might have remained unwritten
‘How dear life is to all men’.
Admiral Lord Nelson, dying in the cockpit of H.M.S. Victory (from The Life of Nelson by Capt. A. T. “Mahan, D.C.L., LL.D.‚ United States Navy).
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE
WINE VAULTS LANE
1. BOY IN THE MOON
2. A MAN OF MEANS
3. SPARE TIME
4. LAST WINTER OF THE OLD WORLD
5. PATTERNS
6. THE CLOBSTER
7. EXCURSION
8. SUMMER’S LEASE
9. SOMETHING IN THE AIR
10. PENUMBRA
PART TWO
‘THE GREAT ADVENTURE’
11. MILITARY ARDOUR
12. AS IN TWO GLASSES
13. ELASTIC-SIDED HIGHLANDER
14. WAR CORRESPONDENCE
15. BLEAK HILL
16. A LUNCHEON PARTY
17. CIGAR FOR A SOLDIER
18. LINES OF COMMUNICATION
PART THREE
‘THE RED LITTLE, DEAD LITTLE ARMY’
19. ALARUMS
20. ACTION
21. MOONRISE
22. HALLOWE’EN
23. REACTION
24. INCIDENT IN CHARLOTTE ROAD
25. THE BROWN WOOD LINE
26. THE BROWN WOOD LINE—continued
27. AT THE GUILDHALL
28. THE BROWN WOOD LINE—continued
29. PAUSE
30. REST
31. PRIE DIEU
By Henry Williamson in Faber Finds
Copyright
PART ONE
WINE VAULTS LANE
‘And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.’
W. Shakespeare.
Chapter 1
BOY IN THE MOON
JUST before Ladyday he bought a third-class monthly ticket from Wakenham Station to London Bridge. His father had advanced him money for this, also for luncheon tickets, since he would not be paid his first salary until half-quarter day, in the second week of May.
“At Head Office Luncheon Club, there are two kinds of luncheons available, one for a shilling and a penny, the other for ninepence. You will soon find out what proportion you will be able to afford during each half-quarter. Go steady at first, old chap, and feel your way. Experience teaches us all how to cut our coat according to our cloth.”
“Yes, Father,” said Phillip, thinking that his was ready-made.
“Well, don’t look so doleful, my boy! A City life is not exactly the prison that you seem to think it will be. Why, bless my soul, the hours of the Moon Fire Office are considerably shorter now, than when I first went to work there in the ’nineties.”
Richard went on to say that Phillip was also fortunate in the fact that he had been taken on at a Branch Office. He would find Mr. Howlett a decent manager; and if he did what he was told, and proved reliable, there were good opportunities for advancement. The office hours were now from a quarter to ten until a quarter to five, a period which gave plenty of time for long summer evenings; while six Saturday mornings a year, together with Bank Holidays, and a fortnight’s summer holiday, were not to be sneezed at.
“No, Father.”
Richard explained that he had made it a rule for the past twenty years to leave for the office earlier than he need, to allow for eventualities and to avoid undue hurry; he liked to walk on the far-side pavement over London Bridge, to be away from the crowd. The rush-hour was more intense now than in his young days.
“Yes, Father.”
“It will take all of twelve minutes to get to the station, Phillip.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, I hope you will not live to regret that you decided against an open-air life in Australia.”
“So do I, Father.”
Suspecting irony in his son—a curious boy, taken all round—Richard said no more, except, as he opened the front door, “Now mind you are not late!”
“No, Father.”
The next train left Wakenham station twelve minutes after Father’s, so Phillip had a little time to wait. He went into the front room, to think of old times, to enjoy the pang of reverie. Never again would he wear his school-cap, or free-wheel down the hill from school, or feel the rush of wind in his ears as the hard tyres hummed on the cobbled High Street, as in top-gear he overtook horse drays, carts, motorbuses, trams,—flying past Clock Tower and Roman Catholic church, market stalls and Electric Palace, Gild Hall and Public Baths—over Randiswell Bridge and through Randiswell; then, in bottom gear at last, up the curving avenue of chestnut trees lining Charlotte Road, past Aunt Dome’s and Mrs. Neville’s, up Hillside Road, and home. Never again to the woods in the spring—his woods, his preserves, his warblers and woodpeckers and nightingales.
“Phillip dear, shouldn’t you be starting?”
His mother had come into the room—her room, containing her ‘treasures’ on the Sheraton side-table: beaded moccasins and necklaces from Canada; miniature Zulu shield, a native knee-band, an ostrich’s egg, relics from South Africa brought home by her brother; little pieces of china and silver left her by Mamma; bowl of rose-leaves, its twin of lavender—this and other objects were almost as dear as life itself to Hetty, to whom the past was as real, sometimes more so indeed, as the present. Her son was her dearest possession, though never would she admit it even to herself. Had she not, when he was a baby, very nearly lost him?
He was still a child, she thought, though often wilful, even strange. For a rare moment their feelings met and mingled. Usually his feelings were concealed, for he was afraid of his family, with whom he did not share his feelings. Now on impulse he kissed his mother hurriedly, cried out “Feed Timmy Rat for me, won’t you?” as he threw on new raincoat, and dobbed bowler hat on head; then snatching walking-stick and gloves, ran out of the door and down the path to the gate, while making sure of money in trouser pocket, handkerchief in breast pocket, gun-metal watch on plaited horse-hair cord across waistcoat. Why did Mother have to wave and smile by the fern in the middle window of the front room, as though he was going away for good? He waved slightly, and then heard the front door of Mrs. Bigge’s house below opening, and Mrs. Bigge’s voice saying, as she too waved a hand,
“Good luck, Phillip! Don’t let me stop you, dear! I just wanted to wish you luck!”
“Thank you, and the same to you, Mrs. Bigge.”
Then of course as he passed Gran’pa’s house there was rattle of knuckles on glass, and Gran’pa and Miss Rooney, his housekeeper, smiling and nodding.
Waving perfunctorily, he hurried on, before they could stop him. Eyes on asphalt path he passed the top house—to dare to look for Helena Rolls was like daring to look at the sun—and strode fast up the gully to the crest of the Hill. He was across it and had left behind the old, pale-brown flag-stones, haunt of many idle dogs let out from the early Victorian houses, and was crossing the High Road to Wakenham station, in just over seven minutes since leaving home.
In Railway Approach he bought a ha’penny newspaper from a man with a wooden leg standing at a trestle table covered with piles of newspapers. He took The Daily Chronicle, the first one to hand, for the man was busy with many people, tossing coppers into a tin plate, whipping off papers with both hands, sometimes putting sixpences between his lips while giving change.
Phillip went away with it under his arm, feeling rather daring that he had bought a Liberal paper, the one Uncle Jim Pickering took, when he was Unionist, like Father. He showed his clean ne
w season-ticket, a little surprised that the collector did not appear to notice that it was his first day. He went up the wooden steps and over the covered bridge to the far platform. There he waited with others for the up train.
No one spoke. There was a push for carriages when the train came in. Not wanting to be one of the pushers, he hung back and managed to get into a crowded smoker just as the guard waved his green flag and the whistle blew. The engine starting jerked him against someone’s bowler hat: he apologised, but received only a semi-indignant glance as the owner, puffing a pipe with a cracked, coke-like rim, opened a newspaper and hid his face from further sight.
He opened the Chronicle. Imagining Uncle Jim Pickering on his face, he tried to read while he swayed, throat and eyes irritated by blue tobacco smoke arising from five bowler hats on one side and five on the other, and three in front of him. The windows were closed. The only human sounds were occasional coughing, rustling of paper, gurgling and puffing of pipes. Now and then an eye regarded him covertly. He moved his feet, to get a better balance. He trod on someone’s toe, and apologised. Again there was no reply.
It was impossible to read, so he made a game of trying to balance with only one finger on the bar of the luggage rack. The train rattled and swayed over points, rushed momentarily into dark tunnels. Its speed increased past the familiar red-brick Mazawattee Tea factory, and now it was on the embankment above the low cottages of Bermondsey. There was a stir, folding of newspapers, pressing of bodies, as London Bridge approached. In turn he squeezed his way out, relieved to breathe cold fresh air again, and went along in the dark streams slowing by the ticket barrier. Out of the station, at last he could lengthen his stride and find his own way past and between slower, older men.
Upon London Bridge bowler hats bobbled away as far as he could see, right up to the buildings on the other side. As he crossed over the Thames he marvelled at the roar of continuous wheeled traffic arising from the granite roadway. Red motor omnibuses were passing and repassing on solid rubber tyres. Drays, drawn by great Clydesdale and grey Percheron horses, and piled high with beer barrels, bales of straw and hay, coal, or great white rolls of paper, had the iron rims of their wheels polished bright. Among them cabs, carts, taxicabs passed endlessly, in the dull roar of iron on sett-stone. Gulls screamed just over the parapet, adding to the lesser continuous noise of leather soles upon the big square flag-stones. The entire bridge was a-roar with wheels. It was all rather thrilling.
He kept beside the parapet, to see the river below. The Pool to the Tower Bridge was crowded with all kinds of shipping; sails, masts, smoke-stacks, barges. Perhaps cousin Gerry was, at that moment, steaming up from beyond Gravesend and Rochester. He stared for a while, watching a tug with brown fenders on its high black bows pushing yellow-white waves before it. Behind it was a steam-pinnace, its brass-bound smokestack being lowered on a wire rope, to pass under the bridge. A man on the bridge was drinking an enamel mug of tea. How lovely to own a pinnace!
Then, looking at his watch, he began to hurry onwards, seeing the Monument in front of him, a tall stone column with brassy flames at its top—one of the few sights of London he knew; pointed out by Mother as the place where the Great Fire had started in sixteen sixty-six. He smelt a distinctly fishy smell coming from the slopes by the grey base. Surely down there was Billingsgate, where the swearing came from? He went down to have a look. Porters, with thick flat leather hats on their heads covered with fish-scales, wearing dirty white overalls and enormous boots, stood about, unswearing.
At the junction of several streets beyond the Monument he stopped, bewildered by clack of hoofs and noise of motor engines. He decided to ask a policeman, directing traffic, the way to No. 42 Wine Vaults Lane. With arms extended, chest out, size 13 boots planted well apart, red-and-white duty-band on left cuff, the immense City of London constable said, without a glance at his questioner, “Over East Cheap up Gracechurch Street first right up Fenchurch Street third right again and you’re there.” Then moving his arms like railway signals he blew a whistle, at which one lot of traffic stopped and another began to cross over.
Phillip hesitated on the pavement. He had not listened to the directions. When the traffic stopped he crossed over, not liking to ask the same policeman again, and went on until a dreadful feeling of being in the wrong direction arose in him. He was in what seemed a different human stream, among many silk hats on both sides of a narrow street under tall dark buildings, some with signs hanging above their doors. One was a gilt grasshopper on a green field. From the lettering on the wall he saw he was in Lombard Street. Surely the policeman had not mentioned that name?
Dread of being lost, of being late, nearly became panic. He was looking for another policeman when he saw a brown face which seemed familiar. At the same time the face, under a silk hat, looked at him. Then the face smiled.
“Aren’t you Phillip?”
“Yes! And aren’t you Uncle George Lemon?”
“Yes, my dear boy. I remembered you by your eyes. ‘Mr. Cornflower’. Do you remember that name you gave yourself, when you ran away to the Derby, and met the gipsy woman? You were staying with us, and your baby sister, let me see, it must be thirteen years ago this year. It was about the time of Mafeking—yes, I remember now, your Uncle Hilary came down, to see Beatrice—do you remember Aunt Bee?—it was when they became engaged. You ran off with a dog, didn’t you, to the races, by yourself? How you have grown! I heard from Hilary that he had seen you.”
Phillip was relieved that his uncle by marriage seemed to have forgotten the last time he had seen him, when Father had taken him over to Epsom, to tell Aunt Vicky what a beastly little coward he was, getting Peter Wallace to fight his quarrels for him on the Hill. Ever since, he had squirmed whenever he thought of it.
“Which way are you going, Phillip?”
“I’m trying to find Wine Vaults Lane, Uncle George. It’s my first day at the Moon Fire Office. I—I’m rather late, I’m afraid. I have to be there at a quarter to ten. Oh lor’, it’s twenty to, now!”
“We’ll soon put that right. Taxi!” said George Lemon, seeing the anxiety on his nephew’s face. Phillip had time to notice that it was a Belsize before the door opened, and Uncle George told him to jump in. “I’m going your way, Phillip, so can drop you almost at your door. I know your office, it’s only a few steps back from Fenchurch Street. We’ll have you there in a jiffy.”
It was the first time Phillip had been in a taxicab, but he could not fully enjoy the experience, owing to anxiety. George Lemon tried to put him at ease by telling him that they were a thoroughly decent lot of fellows in the Moon, and that he did a certain amount of business with the Chancery Lane branch, insuring clients’ properties against fire and burglary.
As Phillip did not respond, George Lemon tried another line.
“Your Aunt Dora’s living not far from your office, you know—doing good works among the poor, east of Aldgate, somewhere. Do you see anything of her?”
“Yes, Uncle George,” said Phillip.
“You two are much alike in temperament, I fancy. Well, here we are. You must come and have luncheon with me one day. I’m thinking of leaving the City, and going to farm in Cornwall. But you don’t like farming, I understand.”
Phillip got out of the taxi at the corner of a narrow street enclosed by tall dark buildings, and with relief saw the white letters WINE VAULTS LANE. He was too disturbed by all the strangeness to remember to thank his uncle for the ride; but George Lemon understood. With a wave of his hand he said goodbye, then told the driver to return to where he had picked him up.
George Lemon had been about to enter the bank with the grasshopper sign when he had met Phillip.
*
Phillip saw the sign of the Moon hanging above the door of a building only a few yards away. Brown mottled marble pillars stood on either side of the door. Electric light was burning behind the windows. As he hesitated by the door, about to enter, an athletic-looking man with a red face an
d thin beaked nose, in blue serge suit and polished brown shoes, wearing a bowler rather low over his red ears and carrying a silk umbrella, passed him and went inside. Phillip followed.
The room, or office, was empty of people. He saw three desks with frosted glass screens in front of them, one on the left side, two on the right. There was a mahogany counter between the two right-hand desks, which were set at an angle to the small square room. In front, a staircase led up through a gap in the ceiling. The walls were bare except for a large rolled-down calendar, with particulars of the Directors, Branches, Capital, and Establishment of the Moon Fire Office, above a low table in the corner. An electric light with a green shade burned over this table, revealing, plastered on the wall under the calendar, many pictures of boxers, cut out of newspapers and magazines.
While he was standing there, an extremely small boy, with an alert face, and hair plastered down with water, pushed open the door, let it close of itself behind him, and, passing Phillip with a grin, sat down at the table.
He was about to ask the boy where everybody was, when rapid footfalls came up from an open door beyond the two right-hand desks, and the athletic man who had entered before him reappeared.
“Good morning,” he said genially, as he laid his newspaper beside the single desk on the left. “You’re Maddison, aren’t you?” He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Downham.”
Phillip shook the hand, receiving a keen grip which was just not painful. “I’ll give Edgar the post, then I’ll show you the basement where we keep our coats.”
He went to the front door, opened the letter box with a key, and laid a heap of letters on the low table. Then crossing to the door he had just come through, he pointed downwards into a basement, and switching on the light, said, “You lead on.” Phillip descended in front of him.
How Dear Is Life Page 1