At the other end of the house Jim and his wife Liza slept back to back, in warm relaxation as one being, as they had slept ever since marriage two years before the Diamond Jubilee of the old Queen, whose oleograph portrait from a bygone Pears Annual hung on the wall above them, with various texts from the Holy Bible worked in silk and wool.
*
Fifty miles south, across fields of gravel and heavy gault clay—the blue lias—beyond the dimmed lights of London and the gleaming serpentine coils of Thames, Richard lay in the iron bedstead with brass fittings which he had occupied alone for several years now, his knees drawn up like an embryo in the womb. His early-morning glass of water was on the bedhead table beside his nickel-plated revolver, his constable’s whistle, and the truncheon ready for duty at any moment in the night. He was alone in the house; his daughters, one working at Head Office, the other still at school, were sleeping next door: a matter for relief, since he was the less perturbed when alone, and always had been since the break-up of his old home in the West Country thirty-five years before, when his father had deserted his mother. For this ageing man, in the rushing black spaces of the night, it was now harder to live with the dead than with the living.
*
“It’s no good,” groaned Phillip, finally, as the grandfather clock downstairs struck one. “The truth is, I keep thinking I am a chap called Church, a friend of mine out there, Polly, and I can’t do anything.”
So Polly went back to her room, the board creaking again as, pulling bedclothes round neck, Phillip drew up his knees for warmth and companionship, and clasping himself, tried not to think of “out there”, until he went to sleep.
Part Two
TEMPORARY GENTLEMAN
Chapter 9
IN CLOVER
RICHARD had repaired the bird boxes in the elm at the bottom of the garden while Phillip was in hospital, and refastened them with brass gimp to the trunk; they had been nailed before, and the nails had rusted. Now, as April approached, he went every morning down to the sitting-room, to watch the pairs of blue and great titmice which had evidently decided to use them again this year. He hoped his son would approve of what he had done, and make some mention of it when he returned from Beau Brickhill; but when Phillip did come home with his mother before the week was up, he was so full of his commission—Richard had telegraphed immediately he had seen the announcement in the London Gazette, in the Town Department copy of The Times—that he had no desire apparently to hear about the birds.
“Well, Phillip, I have some further news for you, about your bird boxes which I repaired, as best as I could—I don’t say I am as expert in the matter as you are—but at any rate both boxes seem to have acquired tenants.”
“Oh, good. By the way, Father, might I have the money you are keeping for me? I have an account now, at Cox’s the Army Agents, and should like to pay it in.”
“Certainly, Phillip. There is a sum of thirty-four pounds odd due to you.”
“Oh, thank you, Father.”
Phillip calculated. £50 kit allowance, plus £34, plus about £8 back-pay as a ranker totalled over £90! He was flush. His pay from the Moon Fire Office was now £70 a year, since the annual Lady Day rise jumped from £10 to £20 at the commencement of the third year. He, Second-lieutenant P. S. T. Maddison, 10th Battalion the Gaultshire Regiment, with a private income! How suddenly life could change!
“And while I remember, Phillip—I saw your Uncle Hilary the other day, and he asked me to tell you that he and Aunt Beatrice would be delighted if you cared to pay them a visit. Just send a telegram, he said, to announce your coming. They live in Hampshire, as you may remember, and Uncle says he can offer you some salmon fishing. Perhaps you will write to your Aunt? I’ll give you the address.”
“Oh, thank you, Father.”
But fishing, like watching birds, was a thing of the past now. Full of visions of himself in officer’s uniform, he went up to Town in a first-class carriage, as befitted his rank. He had decided to get his uniform made at the Stores (which was, apart from his old tailors in Fenchurch Street, the only place he knew of. Father dealt there). So to Queen Victoria Street went Phillip, where he was duly measured. The tunic cost £3 10s.; the khaki breeches were £1 7s. 6d.; Sam Brown belt, £2 2s.; cap, 15s. 6d.; Fox’s puttees, 15s. 6d.; two khaki shirts, £1 1s.; a silk tie, 3s. 10d. He saw for the first time a gilt button of his new regiment; it seemed to glow in his hand, a star of many rays embossed with a wild ox with big horns in the centre. Buttons were included in the tunic price, said the shop-assistant, but the bronze lapel badges were extra, at 6s. 6d. the pair. Phillip scarcely heard the figures; prices were nothing to him; all that mattered was, would the uniform be ready by Saturday, so that on Sunday morning, after church on the Hill, Helena Rolls and her parents could see him in it. When would it be ready?
“In five or six days, we hope, sir.”
It was then Tuesday.
“Can’t you possibly let me have it by Saturday?”
“Well, I’ll try, sir, but cannot promise. Our stitchers are going day and night. But I’ll do my best. Now, how about a valise, sir? You will find it an absolute necessity; it can be turned into a sleeping-bag by night, and accommodation can be on the rough-and-ready side, so I hear, in the new encampments. You will need a canvas wash-basin at 27s. 6d., but perhaps you would like to see the list for yourself, sir?”
Phillip’s eye moved down the list, scarcely seeing the items: green canvas mattress 7s. 6d., pillow 3s., camp-bed 15s., water bottle 8s. 9d., haversack 10s. 6d., holdall for sponge, soap, and toothbrush 2s., whistle 1s. 7d. including lanyard.
“Are the straps for the holdall extra?”
“Yes, sir, six shillings and sixpence.”
“Oh, I want a British warm, instead of a greatcoat. How much is that?”
“Three pounds five shillings, sir. Shall I order them to be sent to your residence, sir?”
The shop-assistant, who was forty years old, with a wife and two children, was paid commission on his sales, in addition to his weekly wage of thirty shillings; so the war was, as he often told his wife, a God-send to him. Nowadays he made as much as seventy shillings a week.
“There is likely to be a shortage, sir, you know. The new armies are expanding very fast, almost faster than the equipment makers can cope with. You are the fifth gentleman since we opened this morning, sir.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll need the camp-bed. I’m used to sleeping on any old floor, in fact a bed is too soft.”
“You’ll find this camp-bed redolent of the rigours of the campaign, sir. It’s the standard bed for the officers of the Army in France. And a sword, sir, for ceremonial drill, best Wilkinson, two guineas, engraving with regimental crest or coat-armour and name, extra of course. Prices are liable to rise, too, that is a consideration. I would suggest that you acquire your kit and equipment while you can, sir.”
“I shan’t need a sword. Nor a washing-basin. We usually wash in a shell-hole. As for a whistle, we don’t use them at all out there. What I would like, is a patent collapsible coke-bucket——”
“Ha, ha, I see you have a sense of humour, sir. No doubt you’ve seen the new Bairnsfather pictures in The Bystander? They depict, truly, I think, the essential humour of our Tommies in contrast to their humourless opponents. Let me see now, have we got all your requirements?”
Phillip said he would take the bed, mattress and pillow; but shook his head at wash-basin, sword and field-glasses.
“I had a fine pair of Zeiss glasses, but they were pinched in my billet by one of those skrimshanking Belgians.”
“Oh dear, dear, what a state of affairs, sir! You will want some boots, of course? And shoes, for wearing with slacks for mess dinner.”
The shop-assistant accompanied him to the boot department, where Phillip bought the first pair of shoes he saw, with rubber stubs coming through the soles. “I see you play golf, sir. All right for clubs and balls?”
“I’ll need a tennis ra
cket for No Man’s Land.”
“Quite a joker, I see, sir! Now may I interest you in a brooch, in gold, or gold and platinum, of your regimental badge, for a lady friend?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea!”
Phillip decided to take the haversack he had bought, with the holdall containing shaving kit, and towel; and his new pair of poplin pyjamas. Then he wrote his first cheque for the total, and was assured that the goods would be delivered by Carter Paterson as soon as the uniform was made; while the badge in nine-carat gold, costing three guineas, would be sent later on, by registered post, to Lindenheim, Wakenham, Kent. “It will have to be specially cast, sir, by our goldsmiths.”
“Oh, good!”
He would ask Helena Rolls to accept the brooch! Having shaken hands with the shop-assistant, he left the Stores in elation, and decided to call on his father in Haybundle Street. There the idea came to him that, to fill in the time until Saturday, and also to pique Helena—whom he had not yet met since his return—he would go down to Hampshire to visit Uncle Hilary.
When he told his father this, into Richard’s mind came the thought that his brother Hilary was on the way to becoming a wealthy man: that his wife Beatrice was turned forty, and it was unlikely that she would give Hilary any children of his own: moreover, Hilary had been buying back some of the family land at Rookhurst—— But of this he said nothing to Phillip: it was not his affair, anyway: but if Phillip did well in the Army, as he had begun, there was every likelihood—— “Well, be sure to give them both my kind regards, won’t you?”
After saying au revoir to his father, Phillip shook hands with several of the older men in the Town Department, including Mr. Journend, and then went on to Gracechurch Street, through Leadenhall Market, and so to Wine Vaults Lane. Mr. Howlett received him with smiling face; Mr. Hollis cried, “Bless my soul, we thought we’d got rid of you, you Pugilistic Scotsman, you!”; while Edgar grinned as he sat in his corner now adorned with high officers of the Allies, the Grand Duke Nicolas, Sir John French, “Papa” Joffre, the Kings of Belgium, Servia, Montenegro; and several V.C.s. Phillip pretended interest in them, to please the messenger; and when Edgar asked him for a photograph, Mr. Hollis said, “But I thought you had discontinued your famous boxer series, my lad?” with a wink at Phillip, who gave a forcedly comic account of the supposed bout in No Man’s Land, to comply with what was evidently expected of him.
“You should have been a clown,” said Mr. Hollis, “for your gifts certainly do not run in the direction of accountancy! My word, your stamp book was in a mess when you left last August!”
This startled Phillip, for he did not remember ever having pinched any stamps. Ashtrays, yes, and a packet of Pear’s soap now and then; but no stamps.
“Don’t let it worry you, my boy,” said Mr. Howlett, seeing his face. “By the way, Downham is commissioned with the Surrey Sharpshooters, did you know?”
“Third battalion, home service, commands a company,” said Mr. Hollis. “A full-blown captain, paid twelve shillings and sixpence a day, plus allowances, while I have to stay here and earn his damned salary for him. I suppose I ought to include you in that remark, young fellow, for you never did any work while you were here, did you? But I don’t, all things considered, you ugly duckling. Seriously, Maddison, you’re a credit to the branch, apart from your taxidermatical—if that’s the right word—aberrations, young fellow-me-lad.”
Both Mr. Howlett and Mr. Hollis were beaming at him, so Phillip felt bold enough to say, “I suppose, gentlemen, you would not care to lunch with me at the London Tavern today? I have to catch a train to Hampshire at half-past two.”
“That’s very civil of you, Maddison,” replied Mr. Howlett. “But I shall have to go to Head Office, having some business there. However, thank you for the invitation.”
“And I have an appointment, young fellow, otherwise I would avail myself of your most kind invitation,” said Mr. Hollis, glancing at the clock. “By Jove, I must get on with this new clothing-factory survey. You remember Roy Cohen? His father, Moses Cohen, now has contracts to supply the new armies with uniforms, made up of old police uniforms, the value of which is about quadrupled. Through him we’ve got his wife’s people’s furniture factory, old Morris Hartmann, you know, running into fifty thousand pounds and more! Then there is the house the Moses Cohens have built in Hampstead. If this war runs the three years that Kitchener forecasts, you’ll see a lot of the Jews will be out of the Whitechapel ghetto. Remember Rothschild in the Napoleonic wars? So you see, Maddison, young Roy Cohen looks like becoming one of our most valuable agents. I needn’t remind you whose initiative got him for Wine Vaults Lane!”
Phillip was just going, when Little Freddy Fanlight came into the office. He looked just as dapper and airy as before the war. In the old days, Little Freddy had not noticed him very much, if at all; now he said, “Hullo, aren’t you the chap who challenged Carpentier or somebody in the trenches?” Without waiting for a reply, Little Freddy went on to explain, as he flipped a violet cachou into his mouth, that he was not fit. “Otherwise I’d have gone long ago. Well, Hollis, I’ve got a proposal for you——”
Uneasy in the presence of Little Freddy, Phillip raised his bowler and departed, remembering just in time to give a wave of the hand to Edgar as he went through the glass door.
*
At Breamore Station a chauffeur in a long coat touched his cap, and having enquired his name, smilingly asked if there was a portmanteau to be collected. Phillip explained as he sat behind him in an open green Sunbeam motor-car, with an A.A. registration, that he did not need pyjamas or anything like that; a toothbrush was all he had brought with him. At which the driver grinned, showing irregular teeth.
“You haven’t been to us before, have you, sir?”
“No. What’s the fishing like?”
“Very good this season. Mr. Maddison killed two fish yesterday morning from Martin’s Pool, twenty-one pun’ and eighteen pun’. On a prawn, both on’m. He’s had to go to London this mornin’, and told me to take you down his beat. It’s fly water, except in Martin’s Pool, where he used them prawns. Don’t hold wi’ prawns misself.”
Phillip kept silent, guarding his ignorance. Then he asked when his uncle was coming back.
“No idea, sir. Somethin’ to do with ships, to the Mediterranean, he said. He’s with the Admiralty now, you know.”
“Who’s at home, then?”
“Only Mrs. Maddison, and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Lemon.”
“Oh lor’. Is she called Viccy?”
“That’s the one, sir. The children’s away at school, they’ll be home for Easter.”
“What children?”
“Master John and Miss Pamela, name of Murgatroyd, of Mrs. Maddison’s first marriage. Master John’s at Winchester, Miss Pam’s at Eastbourne. You’ve lived abroad, I take it, sir?”
“More or less, yes,” replied Phillip, hurriedly, dreading further questions. They turned into a drive, going what seemed a long way along a gravelly lane, with tarred railings on either side, and cattle standing near rows of straw and hay spread on thin grass under oaks. In the middle of the enclosed area was a circular plantation of tall blue firs.
“We never shoot that plantation, it’s the Sanctuary. We holds the pheasants there, away from the poachers. There’s another on the south side o’ the park, same purpose.”
“Is all this my Uncle’s, then?”
“What, the park? That’s right. He bought the ’ouse with nigh on four hundred acres, when it was in the market, let me see, twelve year come next Michaelmas. He farms it, under the steward.”
“I knew he had a farm in Australia, in fact, I nearly went there.”
“Go on,” said the driver, adding, “I thought I’d never seen you come here before, I never forgets a face. Well, here we are, sir,” he said, with a return to his original manner, as a red brick Queen Anne house came into sight.
The thought of its bigness made Phillip nervous. Why had
n’t he pressed his trousers? Oh, hell, would they expect him to dress for dinner? And his tall starched collar was frayed a bit at the top. What a fool he had been to put it on, trying to look like Mr. Hollis, instead of one of his narrow pale-blue Hope Bros, collars. And no gloves. His hands were grimy, the nails wanted cutting. He must keep them hidden as much as possible. The motor stopped. He got out.
On the top of the steps, by the open door, stood a woman in a plum-coloured bodice and skirt. Could it be Aunt Beatrice? Her hair was grey, her hands folded in front. “Good afternoon, Mr. Maddison,” she said with a smile, and slight inclination of her head. Behind her, in the hall, stood a maid-servant in blue with a white starched cap. “No luggage, Mrs. Coles,” said the driver.
“Just come back from France, you know,” explained Phillip jauntily, as though he had left his luggage there. Ought he to tip the driver? He felt in his pocket, touched a milled edge among the coppers, wondered if half-a-crown would seem paltry; and was about to turn back to give it to the driver, when the housekeeper said, “I expect you would like to see your room, sir? You can go, Parkins,” whereupon the maid in blue gave a little bob and went away. “Will you come with me?”
The hall had a floor of black and white tiles, with an open hearth and polished steel fire-dogs almost embedded in a mass of grey wood-ash. He vaguely noticed glass cabinets with china in them as he followed the housekeeper up wide polished oak stairs and pale green walls on which water-colours and other pictures were hanging, and pedestals in the corners with statues, the whole place being lit by a wide skylight in the roof. He was shown into what seemed to him to be a very large bedroom.
“Your bathroom is here,” said the housekeeper, opening a gleaming white door, to reveal a bath encased in mahogany, silver rails with thick towels hanging on them with mathematical neatness. “Mrs. Maddison and Mrs. Lemon are in the morning-room, and if you ring this bell when you are ready to come down, sir, I will be in the hall, to announce you.” She smiled and went away, turning at the door to give him a slight bow before she went out.
A Fox Under My Cloak Page 15