A Fox Under My Cloak

by Henry Williamson

  “’Strewth,” said Phillip to an imagined Desmond. “It’s all too damned posh for me.” He cracked his fingers, and did a jig, before going round his bedroom examining it in detail.

  The room had big windows looking out on a garden and lawn. It had a soft carpet that was like walking on sand, a four-poster bed with gold satin coverlet, bookcase, table with leather-bound pad, blotter, and tray with writing paper and envelopes and pens on it, with a tiny matchbox in a silver case, with an unused stick of blue sealing-wax. “All very posh, Desmond, my boy.” Through an open window he heard the remote double-crow of a cock pheasant. Uncle Hilary must be very rich.

  The plum-coloured housekeeper was in the hall arranging flowers in a bowl when he went down. Opening a tall door, she said pleasantly, “Mr. Maddison, ma’m!” and he was walking forward to shake Aunt Beatrice by the hand. Then Aunt Viccy, thin and pale as ever, sitting beside a log and coal fire in a polished steel hearth, gave him her hand, and a slight smile.

  “Well, Phillip, so you’ve come back from the war. Let me look at you. Are you quite recovered?”

  Aunt Victoria’s voice was gentle, but he could not feel at ease. He stuttered when he spoke, sitting on the edge of a chair by the fire, conscious of the smoothed-out skin around Aunt Beatrice’s eyes—white, very soft skin and frightening china-blue eyes—frightening because their rare blue, like the eyes of Helena Rolls, seemed to hold the secret of the inscrutable mystery of Woman. Aunt Beatrice’s skin was very white and smooth, especially the skin of her slender wrist and forearm. He felt small, almost guilty, as she looked at him, with her brilliant smile; he felt, in a way, less afraid of Aunt Viccy, who was not affectionate in her regard, but remote in an unwarmed way. Between the feelings of the two women he felt rigid; he spoke jerkily, trying to overcome his uneasiness. Was it because the room, and everything about the house, was too comfortable?

  Aunt Bee asked him if he would like some beer, after his journey; and when it came, he was surprised to see that the man bringing it, in dark trousers, wasp-striped waistcoat, and black vicuna jacket, was the driver. The bottle of beer and glass, on a little round silver tray, with corkscrew also of silver, was put on a low table by his side, then the man went away. Was he supposed to draw the cork, or wait to be invited? In his nervousness, because he had forgotten to say “Thank you”—in the magazine stories he had read, servants were never thanked when they served at table—ought he to have thanked him, anyway?—in his uneasiness he found, to his horror, that he was telling lies about himself. Aunt Viccy had never liked him: she had lectured him as a boy, she knew his real self. So he found himself giving a false account of the “boxing match” in No Man’s Land, and unable to stop talking rot.

  “Yes, the Germans sent up flares specially to light the ring, which was made of posts and telephone wire. Of course I didn’t stand a chance against Church, who was the company runner-up at the School of Arms before the war. Anyway, the Germans cheered as round after round ended with the bell. What bell? Oh, someone had taken one of those old wire-pull bells from the Red Château, you know, perhaps it was a door-bell, anyway, it ended each round, until I got a biff that sent me down for the count. I learned to box more or less before the war, you know,” he ended up lamely, avoiding both pairs of eyes upon him, feeling that Aunt Viccy was thinking of the time Father had taken him to her Epsom house in disgrace, after Peter Wallace had called him a coward for getting him to fight Alfred Hawkins for him in the Backfield.

  “Do help yourself,” said Aunt Bee; and too quickly he drew the cork, and spilled froth on the carpet.

  Dinner that night, served by the driver now in evening dress, was just as awkward for him. That night he could not sleep. The mattress was too soft, Uncle Hilary’s silk pyjamas too large, the bedroom curtains suffocatingly heavy. He selected some books to read, and was wondering if he dared light his pipe—or would it stink out the room afterwards—when there came a soft knock on the door and before he could leap out to switch off the electric light, the glass handle turned and Aunt Beatrice came in with a tray with a tiny teapot and sugar jug on it, and two small cups, almost transparent, they were so thin. She said she always had China tea at night, and would he take a dish with her?

  She wore a silvery kind of dressing-gown, which made her rather like a fish; she did not look so old as she had looked downstairs, she looked almost girlish, with her fair hair brushed down her back, but nevertheless with the very smooth skin of her face and the large china-blue eyes she was quite frightening.

  “I could not talk to you as I wanted to ‘Mr. Cornflower’, before Viccy. That woman freezes me. Do you remember when you called yourself ‘Mr. Cornflower’, when you ran away with that old dog Joey, to see the races, the Derby wasn’t it, or was it the Oaks, at Epsom? You were such a sweet little boy, Phillip. My heart ached for you, you were such an unhappy little pet. How old are you now, twenty?”

  “Nearly twenty, Aunty Bee.”

  “Don’t call me ‘Aunty’, there’s a dear boy. ‘Aunty’ has always reminded me of a dressmaker’s dummy, for some reason. Would you prefer some hot milk, instead of tea? You look so thin, my pet. Do say. I want you to be well again.”

  “No, really, thanks ever so much. I like tea.”

  He tried to conceal his quivering hand as he took the saucer and cup with the grinning mandarin figure and dragons in gold and black. She took his hand between hers, and warmed it on her lap. “What slender fingers you have, Phillip. An artist’s hand.” She turned it over. “Shall I read your fate? Do you believe in palmistry? I do. I must cast your horoscope, too. Hilary laughs at all occult things, but he’s an old materialist, with no imagination. You don’t like him, do you? Tell the truth, and shame the devil!”

  “Yes, I do. He’s been really very kind to me.”

  “Yes, I know, in his way. But he wants everyone to be like him.” She sighed. “Are you shocked at my frankness, Phillip? I’ve always said exactly what I think—it’s got me into hot water more than once. ‘The Cornish urchin’, they called me at home when I was a child. We’re Celts, you and I, you know. We know things by intuition, don’t we?” She looked into his eyes, still holding his hand.

  Phillip thought that he must hide his intuition; he must pretend that he did not know what she meant. And when, after some more talk, she asked him to kiss her, his pretence broke down, and he felt ashamed that he could not. When she looked at him with another expression, a much older one, he felt sorry for her: and managed to kiss her on the cheek, slightly.

  “Dear ‘Mr. Cornflower’, do you know that you have the most beautiful eyes? No, do not look away from me,” she sighed. “God, isn’t life hell? We all have to dissemble most of the time. I knew you were dissembling before Viccy. What a cold woman she is! Are you shocked, dear boy, at my frankness?”

  “No. I think I know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do. Well, I must not keep you from your beauty sleep. Kiss me again, ‘Mr. Cornflower’. Is my skin soft? Don’t you feel that it is kind to you?” She sighed again, looking very tired.

  “Yes, it is very soft. Is that why they call you Honey Bee?” he managed to say.

  “‘Honey Bee’, my God! ‘O Bee, where is thy sting?’ I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?”

  “No, of course not, really you haven’t!”

  “I suppose I’m an old woman to you, Phillip?”

  “You look very young, Bee.”

  “Do I really,” she said, looking at him, with a sad, resigned expression. “You won’t tell anyone I came to ‘drink a dish of tay’ will you, my pet? I came really because you looked so lost, so lonely. I am lonely, too—everyone is lonely in this world, I think. Don’t you?”

  He was not so afraid now that she sat back, away from him. He told her about Helena Rolls. She listened sympathetically.

  “She sounds a lovely creature, my pet. You keep your ideals, Phillip! Don’t sell the pass. And thank you for your confidence, dear boy. She must have a heart of stone
if she can resist those eyes of yours, and those long dark lashes! She loves you, Phillip, of course she does! Well, I must go now. May I come with you by the river in the morning? I’m quite a good ghilly, you know! An expert with the gaff!” Her voice was ironic. She bowed her head, and to his dismay he saw she was crying. “Now you’ll see what an old hag I am!” she said, smiling at him.

  He stroked her head. She took his hand and held it against her bosom. She kissed his hand. She stroked her cheek with it. “Slender fingers, my pet, they should hold a painter’s brush. Did you ever paint?”

  “No. I can’t draw.”

  “You’re a poet, I think. Is my cheek soft?”

  “Yes, it is. Sort of creamy.” He was alarmed by what she might do next. “Do you wash it in special soap?”

  “I’ve not used soap since I was a ‘Cornish urchin’. I wash my face in milk.”

  “Didn’t Queen Victoria always have a bath in milk?”

  “Vinegar, I should think, more like it! You’re very sweet, Phil. Don’t let anyone change you, my pet.”

  Then leaning over, she took his face between her hands, and kissed him lightly on the lips. He could not help drawing back slightly. She stroked his hair, got up from the bed, smiled tenderly, fluttering her eyelids at him, and whispered, “Now you must sleep, my child! I’ve ordered your breakfast to be brought up on a tray. Come down any time you like. It’s fun, isn’t it, our little midnight party? Till tomorrow, then, ‘Mr. Cornflower’.”

  With a last tender glance, she was gone.

  *

  “Well,” said Richard on Phillip’s unexpected return next day from Hampshire, “this is a surprise! But no doubt you are keen to get into your new uniform, to show yourself to a certain goddess——”

  Phillip was sitting in the front room. He had just opened a large envelope, seen that it was his commission scroll, glanced at his name and regiment, and was skipping the copperplate engraved words, to dwell upon the signature of George R.I., when his father, on the way upstairs, looked round the door.

  “What’s the matter, are you feeling under the weather?” Had the boy been drinking? “Well, tell me about the place down in Hampshire? How did you find your Uncle Hilary?”

  “I didn’t see him, Father. He had gone to London on business, Aunt Bee said.”

  Richard waited for his son to say more, but Phillip remained silent. “What did you think of Uncle’s place? I’ve not been there yet, you know.”

  “It was all right, Father.”

  “Oh, I see.” Another pause. “Did you have any fishing?”

  “No, Father.”

  “I see. Was there anyone else staying there?”

  “Aunt Viccy, Father.”

  “How was she?”

  “All right, I think.”

  “Did she send any message?”

  “She asked after you, Father.”

  Richard remembered that his son had left unexpectedly—run away, in fact—when staying with his sister Victoria at Epsom, years before. Well, he was a funny chap: he didn’t understand him, or his moods when he closed up like an oyster. Phillip held out the commission script.

  “What is that, something for me to see? Oh, the patent of your commission. My spectacles are in the other room—I’ll read it when I come down.”

  Later, in the sitting-room, Richard said, “Well, you will have a lot to live up to now, old chap. I suppose you have read it carefully?”

  “To tell the truth I haven’t, Father.”

  “Well, I hope you will, because it is a declaration of what is expected of you. It implies a solemn undertaking on your part.”

  Seeing Phillip’s frown, and trying to avoid anything that might lead to an abrupt departure for Mrs. Neville’s, Hetty said, “You have done very well, Phillip; promotion in the field is something to be very proud of.”

  “Oh, Mother! I wish you wouldn’t talk like that! Besides, I wasn’t ‘promoted in the field’.”

  “Well, dear, you were made lance-corporal, weren’t you?”

  Phillip sighed. “I think I’ll go for a walk, Mother.”

  “Very well, dear. Don’t be late, will you?”

  He made no reply. They heard the front door close.

  *

  Hetty was worried by Phillip’s visits to the public house in the High Street, sometimes with Desmond, sometimes alone. She was worried, too, about Mavis, who also came home much later than Hetty felt was quite safe. Mavis, she knew, was seeing a strange officer she had met in the train. All Hetty knew about him was that his name was Wilkins, he was at the War Office, and wore a red band round his hat. He must have an important position, since, according to Mavis, he had just been promoted from lieutenant to major. She would have to trust Mavis, who was seventeen and very young for her age, and hope that everything would be all right; all the same, she could not help worrying.

  “Why not ask him home, dear?” she had said once. At this Mavis’s face had expressed dread. What would Father say? Oh, she would die of shame if Father said anything at all grumpy.

  “Mother, please don’t say a word to Father! Promise me!” The girl had become so agitated that Hetty had given her promise.

  She sighed as she thought of the barrier between Dickie and herself. She had to be so careful, always, in what she said; the least little thing was liable to upset him. His reserve was growing deeper; he was indeed a lonely man. She knew that he felt hurt because Phillip never wanted to talk to him; he was longing to hear about his son’s doings in France; and seemed to have no idea that the barrier between them was due, in part at least, to his own intolerance, and lack of sympathy in the past.

  While Richard read The Daily Trident, sometimes snorting to himself at “that old woman Asquith”, Hetty read the wording of her son’s commission.

  GEORGE by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, King, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India, &c.

  To Our Trusty and well beloved Phillip Sidney Thomas Maddison Greeting.

  Trusty and well-beloved Phillip! O, I am so proud, she thought. And they have spelled his name correctly, with two l’s, her original mistake in registering his birth!

  We, reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage, and good Conduct, do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in Our Land Forces from the Twentieth day of March 1915. You are therefore carefully and diligently to discharge your Duty as such in the rank of 2nd Lieutenant or in such higher rank as We may from time to time hereafter be pleased to promote or appoint you to, of which a notification will be made in the London Gazette.

  O Sonny, Sonny how proud I am of you, dear! I knew in my heart all the time that you were a good boy, and only needed a chance to show your true self! Fancy, the King himself had read and signed this wonderful document!

  You are at all times to exercise and well discipline in Arms both the inferior Officers and Men serving under you and use your best endeavours to keep them in good Order and Discipline. And We do hereby Command them to Obey you as their superior Officer and you to observe and follow such Orders and Directions as from time to time you shall receive from Us, or any from your superior Officer, according to the Rules and Discipline of War, in pursuance of the Trust hereby reposed in you.

  GIVEN at Our Court, at Saint James’s, the Twenty second day of March 1915 in the Fifth Year of Our Reign,

  BY HIS MAJESTY’S COMMAND

  Henry Sclater A.G.

  R. W. Brade.

  All the same, Hetty could not help feeling uneasy at what had occurred that afternoon, when Phillip had gone on the Hill, after returning home from Hampshire. He seemed so dejected that it had worried her.

  On impulse, leaving the house in charge of Mrs. Feeney, Hetty had put on hat and coat and followed him, coming upon him outside the shelter, his gloved hands bending short whangee cane behind back as he held forth upon the situation in France to the old men sitting in a r
ow within.

  “Yes,” he was saying. “It is a fact that the Mayor of Armentières was shot as a spy, after it had been discovered that a buried telephone wire led from the cellar of the Mairie to the German lines. The whole of Belgium is riddled with spies.”

  Whereupon a pale-faced man with woeful dark eyes, dark clothes, and black hat had almost hissed at Phillip, “Zat is not true! I and my wife and family are from Belgique, let me inform you! Further, let me inform you that my wife’s cousin was ze Maire of Armentières before ze war, and he is still ze Maire of Armentières, and has not been shot as a spy at no time at all!”

  “Anyway,” said Phillip, rather lamely, “apart from the fact that two negatives make a positive, that is what we heard.”

  “What you heard is not what is fact, sir! Let me tell you that Burgomaster Max of Bruxelles was himself followed by Boy Scouts in the streets of Bruxelles last August, until he, the supposed spy, was forced to seek shelter in someone’s house, for fear of the mob!”

  “Oh.”

  “Let this be a lesson to you, Phillip,” said Thomas Turney. “‘Guard well thy tongue’.”

  “Anyway, Gran’pa, it is all rot about the atrocities, or most of it, anyway.”

  “What atrocities?” cried the pale-faced refugee. “Are you denying that the reports from my suffering country are untrue, or fabricated? The massacres at Tirlemond, Louvain, Dinant——!!”

  At this, Mr. Krebs, the big pink-faced German, who had hardly spoken all the morning, got up, and raising his hat to all, said good morning in his guttural voice and walked slowly away, one hand behind his bowed back.

  “A lot of them are,” said Phillip.

  “How do you know?”