Anyway, in Willie’s honour, the silver was in use for the week-end; then it would be locked up again. “After all,” Richard had said to Hetty, “the Royal Navy will have something to say to any attempted invasion!”
*
The next morning something happened which the master of the house declared to be “without precedent”. Through the letter-box came a special Sunday edition of The Daily Trident. Phillip took it down to the breakfast room. No one had ever dared to look at the paper before Father had seen it.
“Do you know, Willie, I have taken this paper since number one came out, and never missed a single copy! Let me see, it must have been a few months before you were born, old chap. It was in the spring of’ninety-six; you were born in the following winter, I remember.”
Richard looked at the face of his nephew, seeing upon it the lineaments of his adored Jenny, who had died when the little chap was born. He saw upon his nephew’s face the same glow, the same inner shining, as once upon the face of Jenny.
“Well, it looks as though our fates have been decided, Willie boy, since the Trident has come out on a Sunday! Let’s see what it says, shall we?”
“Yes please, Uncle Dick!”
Fear of war, yet longing for war to come, moved again in Phillip.
“On second thoughts, I think that perhaps we should wait for your aunt, don’t you?”
“Yes, Uncle Dick.”
Phillip got up from the table, and with long silent strides, one of them taking him up the three steps in the passage, entered the kitchen.
“Come on, Mum, hurry! You know what Father is—if you don’t come, he’ll prolong it for ever. I must know!!”
“I won’t be a minute, dear. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Hurry!”
She was waiting for the kettle to boil, in order to fill the hot-water jug, and the tea-pot.
“Why can’t he tell us at once?”
“Father is only being considerate, dear, he wants me to hear, too. Just coming, Dickie,” she sang out. Then to Phillip, so that his father might hear (she was taking no chances), “Don’t forget both taps, Phillip.”
“All right, I know the form!”
All were now seated at table; and then (it may not have been entirely due to the influence of the silver plate) Richard decided to say grace—an event that had not occurred in the house for many years. After that he waited while Hetty poured out the tea —while Phillip fumed and sighed. The cups having been passed round, Richard concerned himself with his guest—salt and pepper for his plate of haddock, and butter for his bread. Only when everyone had been served did he open the special edition of The Daily Trident.
Phillip’s third or fourth sigh was overlaid by a low whistle from his father.
“Listen to this, I say! GERMANY BEGINS WAR!—Precautionary Measures—Russia’s Partial Mobilisation—British Fleet Puts to Sea—(‘Thank goodness we shall not be caught napping!’)—Mr. Asquith on the Crisis—(‘“Wait and See,” I expect, is that Old Woman’s contribution, Hetty’)—Extreme Gravity—(‘Well, I’m glad anyway he realises our danger, Phillip’)—Financial Strain (‘They say in the City that a Moratorium will probably be declared, to stop a run on the Banks, Willie’)—Foreign Bourses Demoralised——”
At this point Zippy ran in through the open french windows, tail up, mewing at the smell of haddock. Seeing the cat, Richard began to speak to it in what Phillip called (out of his father’s presence) his soppy feline lingo.
“Zippy, my little Pippy, where have you been, you naughty, porty catty? I called you for your milky-pilky-wilky, but you did not come, did you, Zippy Pippy Wippy?”
“And so you missed the newsy pewsy, Zippy Pippy Wippy, about the Foreign Bourses being Demoralised,” said Phillip.
Hetty tried not to laugh. Richard was not pleased with what he considered to be his son’s unexpected lampoon of himself; but he maintained his new equilibrium.
“Where were we?” he said. “Oh yes—‘Foreign Bourses Demoralised’. INVASION OF LUXEMBURG—FRANCE’S CLAIM ON BRITAIN—Germany the Aggressor—‘To be able to Claim British Support’—(‘They are frightened, you see, the French, and no wonder, after eighteen seventy! I was only a bit of a boy at the time, Willie, but I well remember my father saying that the French, who forced that war upon the newly federated German States, were decadent, living on illusions of Napoleonic glory, instead of keeping their powder dry—well, that seems to be about all, except——’) TODAY’S CABINET, Last Efforts to Limit War, Great Britain’s Position—(ah, here’s something)—The Kaiser’s Order, ‘Mobilise Our Entire Force,’ he says, ‘and Safeguard the Empire’.”
Richard passed the paper to Willie.
“Well, I am going for a bicycle ride,” he announced, getting up from his chair. “It may be the last chance for some considerable time. But before I go, I propose to write a letter to Winston Churchill, at the Admiralty, to warn him of a danger that he may not have foreseen.”
These words had a quietening effect on his listeners. Doris was frightened; but she did not show it in her face when in the presence of her father. Then her face was invariably expressionless; her spirit remote, withdrawn. She had never recovered from the shock of being beaten by him, when, a small child, she had suddenly announced that she had a big knife to kill him with, if he made her Mummy cry.
Phillip wondered whatever Father was going to write to the Admiralty. He might be able to find out later from Ching, if he saw him, for Ching was in the Admiralty. Anyway, what could Father possibly know? Then he remembered reading a story in Pearson’s Magazine, some time back, about a German battleship called the Von der Tann getting into the Atlantic through the Channel with masked lights, to sink scores of British ships until brought to book by British Dreadnoughts, and sunk, after a terrific fight. Father had been very impressed by that story, in fact he had given it to him to read, saying, “If ever there is war, this is what might happen to our merchant ships, Phillip.”
“Father, what are you going to write to the Admiralty? Tell us!”
“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know!”
Richard wrote his letter, carefully with stylograph wire-point pen, sealed the envelope, stuck a penny stamp on it, and posted it at Fordesmill, as he passed on the Sunbeam. He had warned the First Lord of the Admiralty that the German Fleet might try a surprise dash down the Channel, with masked lights, under cover of darkness, in order to raid Atlantic shipping; and as a loyal citizen he felt that it was his humble duty to point this out, in case it had not occurred to the responsible authorities. He had the honour to be, their Lordships’ most obedient servant, Richard Maddison.
No reply or acknowledgment ever came; but Richard, who as a boy, a would-be cadet, had failed to get into the Navy, had done his duty.
*
Bank Holiday tennis on the Hill. A day of sun and wind, white cumulus clouds passing swiftly across the blue, dry elm leaves rustling above a sun-baked gravelly soil, kites flying, distant Crystal Palace glinting along its grey scales. The thud of tennis balls on strung catgut (one or two strings broken), how proud he was of Father’s swift service, coming down from the racquet held at the top of his extended right arm, whipping just over the net, flicking in low swift bounce upon him. Willie as Father’s partner was jolly good, too, and beat him and Desmond. Then Eugene played with Desmond, and they beat Father and Willie. Eugene had a crafty, slicing, underhand service, which made the ball break in all directions. Phillip thought that it wasn’t quite sporting, just like a foreigner. Still, Eugene wasn’t half bad.
Father looked almost distinguished. He was glad he had asked him to play. He had been nervous about it at first, in case Father became cross. His relief therefore was the greater. Father wore old-fashioned brown-striped white flannel trousers, but they looked quite nice. Then Mavis and Doris and Petal came up to play, with cousin Hubert and Maudie his sister, at the next court. It really was a wonderful Bank Holiday. It felt somehow to be the last of the old kind of Bank
Holidays. A pity Mother had to miss it all, having to do the housework. The wind blew, warm and sunny, the atmosphere was very clear. When the play was over, the question came uppermost again, Would Great Britain stand by France?
*
Thomas Turney sat on his usual seat, Panama hat on head, his hands clasping his thick yellow lemon stick, his ginger cat as usual squatting underneath the seat, watching feet passing on the gravel path. Mr. Bolton walked up the gully, in covert coat, gloves, and bowler hat, to stop, as usual, and speak with his acquaintances, while Bogey the pug-dog rested in the shade underneath the seat, snuffling beside the cat. On the seat with Thomas Turney sat Mr. Krebs, the pink-bald German. Phillip went to speak to them, while the others were playing. Mr. Krebs did not talk much. Mr. Bolton said that his son had gone off to the London Highlanders camp near Eastbourne, with Peter and David Wallace, and his cousin Hubert Cakebread. “Quite a local contingent.”
Phillip said he was going later. Thoughts of sea-bathing and fishing for the rest of the summer enlivened him. Perhaps he could take Timmy Rat!
“Well, whether England comes in or not, the war can’t possibly last long, as I was saying,” said Thomas Turney. “I give it three months at the outside. No country’s economy could stand the strain of a modern war longer. What do you say, Krebs?”
Mr. Krebs sorrowfully shook his big bald pink head. “It is beyond me, Mr. Turney, it is beyond me quite. I am South German, I do not like vaw.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bigge passed, the little woman bowing and smiling, the tall gentleman beaming. She said to Phillip, “Now you have your cousin, I expect you’re happy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, rather, Mrs. Bigge.”
Oh hell, the Pyes were approaching. It was too late to get away. He waited, inwardly squirming.
“Ah, Mr. Turney, I hope I find you well! Momentous news, is it not? A challenge which I trust we shall not refuse! I do not think I could properly hold up my head again if we stood by while——” Mr. Krebs looked at his watch, got up, raised his hat, bowed, and walked away.
“Well, goodbye, Gran’pa. I’ll see you at Phillipi!” and raising his hat to Mrs. Pye, he hurried back to the grass court, unsquirming as he cursed the image of Old Pye, sanctimonious old humbug, fondling Helena Rolls like that years ago, at his Magic Lantern Party! He felt lithe and vital in his new white flannels, white socks and shoes, Donegal tweed jacket, and Old Boys’ silk scarf round neck. If only Helena Rolls could see him! If only Willie could sec what a wonderful girl she was. Alas, Helena was away with her people at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight.
*
All day the sun burned bright in the blue spaces of the wind.
Richard lay back in his deck-chair, his eyes shut. He was alone in the garden, alone with the hot brilliance upon his face, alone with his newspaper on the lawn beside him. The nesting boxes in the elm above were forsaken, the young titmice hatched and flown. Flowers wilted in the dry beds. The peach espalier he had trained, years before, against the garden fence, was dead. It had never borne any fruit, in London yellow clay and acid smoke.
Beyond the hot gaze of the sun upon closed eyelids, brow, and face, he felt the glow, the inner shining that still moved him in the face of the rare, the incomparable Jenny, who had died in her beauty, so young. She had entered his soul with the first glance of her tender brown eyes, a glance so loving, yet so self-possessed, as she took his hand and held it while he congratulated her and brother John at their wedding. All his young years floated before him in a golden dream—his mother’s death—his empty life until he met Hetty, so like Jenny, and yet——There was only one Jenny. Ach Isolde, Isolde, wie schön bist du——
Richard had never told Hetty; but she had divined his feelings the moment she had seen them together, during that beautiful, beautiful Lynmouth summer holiday. Poor Dickie, poor lonely bearded wheat, dreaming of the rose in the hedge!
When Richard awoke, a strange sight met his gaze: a young cuckoo, brown-barred, was perched on the fence dividing the gardens. It uttered a thin reeling cry, and a robin flew to feed it. It cried again, and a hedge-sparrow brought it food. Then it flew away, and sat in the oak tree at the bottom of the Rolls’ garden.
How could it find its way, alone, to Africa, he thought, and then, what a wonderful thing was instinct. He would tell the boys about it at supper. What a jolly little fellow Willie was—and what a difference he had made already to Phillip. Richard felt a sudden sense of freedom, the first he had ever felt in his own home.
Chapter 10
PENUMBRA
RICHARD was not the only one who felt that life was becoming clear at that time. Men who had been familiar strangers for years on the same suburban platform now exchanged the same newspaper opinions. Almost every one of a hundred thousand faces under straw-hats undulating on the pavements of London Bridge bore a look of new resolution, on the Tuesday following the August Bank Holiday.
Phillip and Willie, sharing a newspaper in the train, read that Germany had demanded free passage for her armies through Belgium, against France. “Necessity knows no law”, Bethmann-Hollweg, the German Chancellor, had declared in the Reichstag. Belgium had appealed to England for help. And yet Sir Edward Grey had spoken of taking action only if the Germans bombarded the Channel ports!
“I hope to God we declare war, Willie.”
“So do I!”
Feeling themselves to be marching, they crossed London Bridge. Phillip pointed out the Tower Bridge, the Monument, and then, his knowledge of guiding being exhausted, they stared at the spars and rigging of ships at wharf, the dingy barges moored in the Pool, the down-river funnels and high white superstructures of steamers.
“You go that way, Willie. Ask a policeman for the Mansion House. Then you can’t miss it.”
At No. 42 Wine Vaults Lane he dared to ring up Head Office, ask for the Country Department, and enquire of Willie how he was getting on. They agreed to meet for first luncheon.
The room at the top of the Moon Fire Office building in Hay-bundle Street was cool and airy. Waitresses in grey-and-white striped uniforms, starched white coifs on heads, with discreet smiles put before them ninepenny plates of tongue and green salad, followed by bread and cheese. There were large portions of Gruyère, Gorgonzola, Cheddar, Wensleydale, or Cheshire, of which they might cut as much as they liked.
Phillip ate Gruyère with mustard, having observed, when he had first used the luncheon room, that Costello, who had left Heath School some years before himself, always had mustard with that holey cheese. Costello was a first-luncheon man; but they had seldom spoken. Costello flipped large pieces of Gruyère spread with mustard into his mouth from the point of his knife, as a gesture of superiority, or independence, thought Phillip, who considered it to be rather bad manners. He himself put his cheese, on broken bread, always unobtrusively into his mouth. Costello was in the London Highlanders. Today Costello was sitting beside Furrow, a hefty member of the London Rowing Club, who actually knew that he, Phillip, was in the same Company, as himself. Phillip was flattered when Furrow spoke to him.
“Well,” he said, on rising, “I expect you’ve heard that the Camp has been cancelled? This time next week we’ll be somewhere on the East Coast, with any luck.”
“Yes, rather!” agreed Phillip.
The cousins arranged to meet again at Head Office after the day’s work. The afternoon in Wine Vaults Lane passed strangely. Everybody seemed to be out of their offices, talking, looking at newspapers. The Government had sent an ultimatum to Berlin, requesting the German Army to evacuate Belgium by midnight. And the German Army was pouring on through Belgium! It meant war. Nobody could do any work. Even Mr. Hollis was absent. There was no paying-in at four o’clock, as all banks were closed, because of the Moratorium. Phillip went out and got a newspaper, returning with face tensed as he cried to Mr. Howlett, “Sir! The King has signed the order for General Mobilisation!” He felt a chill strike his spine.
“You’d better go, I think, Maddison. There�
�s nothing more to be done here. Goodness knows where Downham is——”
Phillip said goodbye to Mr. Howlett and to Edgar, and left.
Everywhere in the City streets, as he hurried to Head Office, were groups of men standing about, talking. He hurried through the shaded, nearly empty Leadenhall Market, with its high glass roof and pet-shop at one corner, where Father had bought Timmy Rat; through Leadenhall Street, down Cornhill, and so to the Royal Exchange. There a strange sight met his eyes. People were waving hats and cheering. Soldiers with fixed bayonets were marching to the Bank of England. People were crowding. It was terribly exciting. Tramp, tramp, tramp, moving as one man. The Guards! They were no longer in the familiar red jackets and black bearskins, but wore flat service caps and khaki trousers with puttees. Good lord, there was Cranmer! Looking straight ahead, Cranmer with the others wheeled up the narrow street under the high black stone walls of what Gran’pa called the “Old Lady of Threadneedle Street”
“Crikey, my old pal Cranmer, whom I told you about, my corporal of the Bloodhound Patrol, must have joined the army! I haven’t seen him since he played footer for the Old Boys’ team, so that’s where he got to! Fancy Horace a soldier! I vote we don’t go home. Let’s stay up and see the sights!”
“Rather!”
They climbed on top of a bus going past St. Paul’s to the Strand. The Strand was a place he knew to be rather wicked, ever since Father had forbidden Doris to sing the popular song, Let’s all go down the Strand (and have a banana). Marie Lloyd had sung it at the Hippo, and added as a leering aside Have a banana?, while the trombones went pom-pom-pom-pom-pom, and her blue eyes had glittered with a slow wink, her top teeth sticking out. She was, in Mother’s phrase, vulgar without being funny. It wasn’t very nice, really. But Doris had been quite innocent of the double meaning; and when she had repeated the words at home, afterwards, and Father had chided her, her face had gone blank, as usual. In the kitchen Doris had said, “I didn’t mean any harm, Mum! I don’t think it’s fair! But Father has always hated me, I know.”
How Dear Is Life Page 15