A Fox Under My Cloak

by Henry Williamson

  As he sat there, he heard the gate bang, and stood up. It was Mother. She did not see him at first. When she did, she stopped, her mouth opened slightly, then she said, still standing still, “Is that Phillip? Is that you, dear?” as though for a moment she had seen a ghost.

  “Hullo.”

  “Phillip, Phillip, how long have you been there? Didn’t you ring the bell? Doris is in. You mustn’t catch cold.” She pressed the bell. “Well, dear, and how are you?”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “We were expecting you later on, dear. Your telegram said tonight. Well, you’re here now, that’s all that matters!” she said with forced cheerfulness. He looked so thin, so lonely, so lost.

  Doris came to the door. Her eyes opened wide, she smiled, showing her canine teeth slightly overlapping, then pink spread up her cheeks. “Good old Phil! Bravo, well done, say I! Have you just come? We were expecting you to arrive about the same time as Father. Gramps tried to work out the trains from Manchester on his time-table, only it was a Bradshaw, printed before the war. Well, how are you, old boy? Still feeling a little dickey?”

  “Don’t keep Phillip on the door-step, dear. He will be tired after his journey. Come in, dear, and sit by the fire.”

  He followed her on to the mat. There was really no need to wipe his boots, but he did so; then hanging greatcoat and glengarry on his peg of the hatstand—first removing a special constable’s hat—he went down to the sitting-room. It seemed very small, somehow. The same old plush tablecloth, Father’s green-leather armchair, the cane-bottom rocking chair, the pictures, roll-top desk, bookcase, gramophone, mantelpiece that Father would call chimney-piece, the same green roll-blinds, the darkling silhouette of the elm tree seen through french-windows, horse-hair sofa still broken at one place, crackling coke fire—ah, crackling like the braziers in the frost, before the floods. The same lilac-pink flames, like the charcoal Maconochie hand-braziers of the Lilywhites and the Bill Browns. Cranmer’s lucky fire-bucket …

  “Sit down, dear, and rest. I expect you’re hungry. Have you had any tea?”

  “I had a cup at London Bridge, thanks, and some bull’s-eyes.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  When he shook his head, Hetty said, “Doris dear, lay the cloth. I’ll soon have something for you, Phillip.” She went out to the kitchen.

  “Well, Phil, what was it like out there?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  When Doris had laid the cloth and set a silver-plated spoon and fork, he sat at the table. Every dent and scratch of the spoon was familiar to him, as was the ivory-handled knife part-blackened where many hot soda-water washings had seeped after cracking the ivory, Father’s querulous complaining voice, Very well then, if Mrs. Feeney doesn’t know any better after all these years, all I can say is that it is time she did know better.

  “I say, Phil, you won’t forget to kiss Mother, will you? She has been so looking forward to your return, old boy.”

  “Oh, do shut up.”

  Hetty came in with a tray, on which was a loaf of white bread, a knife with wooden handle cut in the pattern of a wheat-sheaf, salt and pepper castors, and a plate with two slices of cold mutton lying in its centre. She put them down.

  “Now dear, try and eat, a little food will do you good.”

  He took up the knife with the cracked and blackened handle‚ the fork with the prongs straightened by himself after he had bent them using them as a harpoon on a stick. He looked at the cold mutton. Seeing with the eye’s retina the two faces regarding him, he got up and without a word went out of the room, and up the stairs to his bedroom.

  Hetty looked at her younger daughter. “I expect everything seems a bit strange to him, dear. Did you say anything to upset him, when I was out of the room?”

  “No, Mum. Of course not.”

  “I expect he’ll be all right soon. Perhaps, after his illness, the sight of cold mutton has put him off. I’ll boil him an egg—put one on the gas, will you, dear, and make some toast—what a pity, I’d prepared some plaice for him, I expected your Father with Phillip, I don’t know why, and imagined us all having dinner together, as Phillip likes it to be called. Anyway, you boil the egg, Doris, and make some toast. Phillip’s stomach agrees with a boiled egg. I meant it the other way. Hush, Doris, it is no laughing matter, we mustn’t laugh. Not just now, at any rate.”

  Upstairs, Phillip had taken one look in his corner cupboard; felt nothing for the boyhood “treasures” within; closed it; and was sitting on the bed when Hetty looked round the door.

  “Are you all right, Phillip?”

  As he did not look at her, she put her arm round his shoulder. He moved away from her; and turning his face to the wall, wept.

  She felt swollen with sympathy withheld, as she sat there. He went on crying when she took his hand; still his head was turned from her. It had always been like that, ever since he was three years old; her little boy had not wanted her. Even so, he was still her son. She made another attempt to bring him to her.

  “It’s—it’s all so different, Mother. My room—this house—you know—out there—I used to think of it—and everything——”

  Hetty reached up and kissed his brow. “There now, don’t you worry, Sonny. You are still my little son, you know——” and, her assumed cheerfulness gone, she broke into tears.

  “Here, have my hanky, Mum.” He pulled it out of his pocket with a piece of string and a bull’s-eye sweet. “It’s the khaki one that came in the St. Simon’s Christmas packet. Not very clean, I’m afraid. And I saved you a bull’s-eye, it should be rinsed before you eat it.”

  “How very kind and thoughtful of you, dear! Mrs. Feeney is coming tomorrow, and she can do all your washing. Now, come down with me, and warm yourself by the fire. You must not worry any more, now that you are home again. Father and I want you to be very happy. He is so proud of you, so are we all. Come along, Doris is very kindly boiling you an egg, and making some buttered toast.”

  Having eaten this, and drunk several cups of sugary tea, Phillip felt better. He showed them the crucifix on its leather bootlace round his neck with the papier-mâché identity disc; the Prussian Guard leather-belt, with the brass clasp Gott Mit Uns; six pieces of 5·9 shell, three leaden shrapnel balls; a tiny pair of wooden sabots found in the Château; and best of all, Princess Mary’s Gift Box, with its contents and the cigar a German soldier had given him on Christmas Day.

  *

  “It’s an odd thing, but all you fellows are the same, in so far as I can make out,” said Richard, sitting in his armchair later that evening. “Not one of you wants to talk about the front. Why, bless my soul, each of you must have had enough experiences to fill a book. Yet you never speak about what goes on out there. Why is it, Phillip?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Father.”

  “Well, tell me this, old chap, did you shoot any Germans?”

  “I don’t know, Father.”

  “Well, you beat the band!” laughed Richard. “Your cousin Gerry Cakebread was just the same when he came home. Hubert we have not seen yet, though I believe he went in to see his grandfather next door. A very soldierly figure Hubert is nowadays, what I believe is called a Guardee. A very decent fellow, he takes after his father, Sidney Cakebread.”

  “Is he or Gerry at home, Mother?”

  “I don’t think so, dear. Gerry is with the second battalion, and Bertie at Caterham still, so far as I know.”

  “Before I forget it, Phillip, no doubt Mother has told you about Timmy Rat—we were sorry to have to put him down, Phillip, but he had croup very badly, and the skin disease was spreading, and with all my Special Constabulary work, and late hours at the office——”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Father. Timmy’s race was run.”

  “He had a reprieve, you know, old chap, on the day the news came about Messines—— Oh well, Hetty, have it your own way!” Richard laughed, seeing his wife’s frown-signal. She went out of the room, ostensibly to look at
the fish kept hot for Mavis’ supper—the girl had gone straight from the office to a St. John of Jerusalem Ambulance Brigade meeting in St. Simon’s Parish Hall. Doris was doing her homework.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Phillip, “I think I’ll just go in and say how d’you do to Gran’pa and Aunt Marian.”

  “Wrap up well, old chap! We don’t want to lose you, now we’ve got you home, you know. By Jove, you had a narrow squeak, judging by your greatcoat!”

  “Oh, I’ll be all right, Father.”

  “Come back afterwards, and play the gramophone, Phillip, if you care to. I shall have to leave at seven-forty-five precisely, as I am on special constable’s duty tonight.”

  “Well, thank you, Father, but I think I’ll go and see Mrs. Neville, after I’ve been next door.”

  “Very well, just as you wish. You know, I suppose, that Desmond has joined up?”

  “Desmond? But he’s only sixteen!”

  “Well, he’s in uniform, and has left school, so I hear.”

  “He’s in the London Electrical Engineers, and comes home every night,” said Doris. “Didn’t he write and tell you?”

  “I had only two letters from him all the while I was out there.”

  “I expect he had a great deal to do, dear,” said Hetty.

  “Yes, I understand they have to do with searchlights,” went on Richard. “Raids by Zeppelins, you know, old chap, can’t be ruled out! The Prussians will stick at nothing to bring England down—you mark my words! It says here in the Trident——” and Richard read out part of a speech by Winston Churchill.

  Phillip sat with his eyes on the tablecloth. After a while he said, “Well, I think I’ll go and see Gran’pa now, Father. By the way, Mum, if Ching calls, tell him I’ve gone out, but don’t say where. I did not want him to write his soppy letters to me, while I was in hospital.”

  “Very well, dear. But don’t remain in the cold damp air too long, will you?”

  Phillip did not stay long next door. Gran’pa was having supper. He refused a glass of wine, and also ideas about a spring offensive to the Scheldt. “You’ll remember that river, at Antwerp, m’boy? Well, it says here in the Telegraph that the high land, or ridges, that would give command of it, now in German hands around the town of Ypres, if assaulted—in the spring—— Oh, must ye go? So soon? But you’ve only just come! I expect you’ll want to talk to your mother. Tell her not to forget to come in for bezique, won’t you? Keep well wrapped up. Goodness me, what’s become of the rest of your overcoat?”

  “I sold it, sir, to buy bread with.”

  “You’re not serious, are ye——”

  “The Belgian peasants, since the Cloth Hall was bombarded, can’t get any material to patch the seats of the trousers of their grown-up sons who have dodged the call-up and are sitting about all day at home.”

  “Most reprehensible!” remarked Great-aunt Marian, with serious, attentive face.

  “It was a joke, Aunt Marian. Well, I’m glad you’re both keeping well. How is Mr. Bolton, Gran’pa?”

  “Poor fellow, poor fellow,” said Thomas Turney, sipping his claret. “His son’s death has broken him. He’s an old man now, before his time.”

  “Well, no-one can live for ever,” said Phillip, eager to see Desmond. What luck, that Des was at home!

  Outside the gate of “Wespaelar” he hesitated before tip-toeing up the road, to look at the house of Helena Rolls. He told himself that no flag would be hanging there; and saw that it was so. Chinks of light showed through the drawn curtains. Dare he call? No, they were probably at dinner. Mr. Rolls always dined at night, sometimes in a smoking jacket. Why did not Father wear his sometimes, with a white shirt? Turning away, he walked slowly down the road, to cross over and knock and wait while remembered footfalls came down the stairs. The door opened.

  “Hullo, Desmond.”

  “Hullo, Phil. I was expecting you later. I’ve just come home, and am having my supper!”

  As Desmond did not move at the open door, Phillip said, “Oh, I’ll come back later then.”

  “Who is it, dear?” called out Mrs. Neville.

  “It’s Phillip, Mother.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to ask him up, dear! Come on up, Phillip! Welcome back!”

  He went up behind Desmond, feeling the floor shaking as Mrs. Neville came out of the drawing-room to kiss him—“Phillip, Phillip, dear boy——” He was hugged in her huge arms, led into the kitchen with a “Let’s have a look at you, dear——” Then, to let Desmond finish his supper, Mrs. Neville told Phillip to make himself comfortable in the armchair by the fire, his old place.

  Mrs. Neville asked no questions. Wide-eyed, with Mazeppa the large neuter cat at her feet, she looked at him, exuding sympathy, tragedy, acceptance. His thin, haunted look drew forth tears, which turned to gaiety very soon, as she gave him an account of the day when she had seen, from her window, Timmy Rat in his box being carried down the road by his mother, to the vet’s; and then all the way up again. “Mazeppa knew there was something in the air, didn’t you, Mazeppa? Oh yes, he knew! He was watching the box in your mother’s hands, from Desmond’s window, for Mazeppa remembered when you used to bring Timmy in his box here; and when Mr. Bolton came out of his house without his stick and gloves, to speak to your mother, we both knew there was something wrong. Yes, he’d had the War Office telegram——” Mrs. Neville dabbled her eyes again. “Mazeppa knew, cats do know, Phillip, I am sure. Yes, Mazeppa knew. He came and gave such a funny little howl when your mother went back with Timmy Rat up the road again. Ah, but it was no laughing matter, dear. Poor old Bolton, oh dear, what a day! Then the telegraph boy calling at Mrs. Wallace’s, all three boys killed! Poor woman, she was distraught. When your Aunt Dorrie called to offer sympathy, she cried out, “It isn’t right that you have two sons, while all mine are killed.”

  “I did think of calling to see Mrs. Wallace, Mrs. Neville, but perhaps it would be better if I didn’t.”

  Mrs. Neville knew about Phillip’s past trouble with Peter Wallace, before Boy Scout days, when Peter had fought his battles for him.

  “Well, it was a long time ago, Phillip, and that poor woman would be glad, I am sure, to hear anything about her boys.” Mrs. Neville wiped away her tears. “What times we’re living in! Well, you do what you think best, Phillip. There’s no hurry, after all. Death is so—no, we must be cheerful! Now I expect you’ll want to talk with Desmond. He’ll want to take you down to ‘Freddy’s’, if I know my son!” She called out to Desmond in the kitchen: “There’s apple tart in the oven, dear!” To Phillip: “Don’t say I told you, but Desmond wants to take you for a ride in his motorcar.”

  “A motorcar? Has Desmond got a motorcar?”

  “Yes, but only lent to me for a week, by my uncle,” said Desmond, holding a piece of tart as he came into the room.

  “What is it?”

  “Singer open two-seater.”

  “How wonderful. Where is it?”

  “In Wetherley’s garage. I’ll take you for a drive when I get a day off.”

  “Desmond, what are you doing? Why don’t you offer Phillip some of your apple tart?”

  “He knows he can help himself, any time.”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Neville. I had enough Tickler’s Apple and Plum in Belgium.”

  Phillip told them the story of the soldier who pretended to be mad, by crawling all over the barrack square picking up little bits of paper. This set Mrs. Neville quivering with laughter; and in happy mood, the two left for the High Street, on their way to Freddy’s.

  “Freddy is a most extraordinary man, in his way. Everyone calls him Freddy. He has a very good billiard table. I’ve learned to play since I joined up.”

  “I’ve played a bit, too, at Alderley Edge.”

  Freddy, in his warm, bright, saloon bar, politely lifted his yellow straw-hat. He was in shirt-sleeves, his cuffs kept back by nickel-silver bands. He smiled a Chinaman’s smile, his eyes almost disappearing behind his gol
d-rimmed spectacles.

  “Good evening, gentlemen! This is your friend we have had converse about, I take it? Welcome to my ’ouse, sir! May I have the pleasure of offering you one, as tribute to a hero? My word, you had a narrow escape!” The landlord stared at Phillip’s greatcoat. “You need fortifying at once, if I may say so!”

  “It will be a pleasure,” said Phillip.

  “The pleasure’s mine,” Freddy lifted the front of his hat again. “What is it, gentlemen?”

  “I recommend Freddy’s hot rum, Phil.”

  “That’s the stuff to give the troops!”

  After the half quartern of rum, Phillip began to feel that life was good. Then it was his turn to stand a round. Freddy politely tilted his hat again, and let down a half quartern of water from one of the bottles hanging upside down from a shelf behind the bar. “I’ll take a drop of gin, gentlemen!” he said with his tittery laugh, his eyes almost disappearing. “Well, your very good health!”

  They played a game of billiards. Phillip could neither pot nor go in off; only strike the ball hard in the hope that something would happen. Desmond reached fifty when Phillip’s score was still thirteen. They put back the cues, and went through the stained-glass door to the saloon bar again.

  More gas-mantles had been lit. The evening trade was beginning. Behind the mahogany counter stood a young woman, with a sweet childish smile on her face. It was a sly-eyed pretty face, with the dark hair drawn back tightly from her forehead. She carried a baby, rocking it. She looked about fourteen years old. Phillip ordered two more hot rums.

  It was much nicer, taken hot with lemon and sugar, than the Belgian rhum, which had made him swirl. They sat on the horsehair settee, and Desmond began to tell Phillip about the extraordinary adventures of Freddy. He had been all over the world, according to his yarns to Desmond: Australia cattle-droving, New Zealand sheep-farming, diamond-mining in Africa, silver-mining in the United States, gun-running in Cuba, gold in Alaska. “Freddy’s motto, he told me, in all those places,” sniggered Desmond behind his hand, “was ‘frig and run!’”