A Fox Under My Cloak

by Henry Williamson

  “Then it’s a deal at thirty-four pounds?”

  Phillip shook hands on it. Following the rider to the hotel, he was given a registered packet at the office. His gold brooch from the Stores! He would ask Helena Rolls to accept it on the morrow! He ran upstairs for his cheque-book, and five minutes later was the proud possessor of the Connaught.

  Later that day he realised he had been done, when he saw, in the only garage he had not so far visited, a new 1915-model Connaught for £29 10s.

  “Why didn’t you come to me first?” said the garage owner. “You could have had the machine you’ve got now for fifteen pounds. That’s the price I got for it, from the fellow who took it out the day you tried it. It’s got a cracked crankcase, you know, that’s why there’s little compression. I told him that when he come back here after he had seen you, and bought it off of me.”

  “Then,” cried Phillip, “that’s fraud! He sold what wasn’t his!”

  “Too late now,” said the other.

  Phillip did not mind about the little oily crack, or the price: he had a motor-bike, that was the main thing. He thought about the coming weekend all the rest of the afternoon and evening, his new life symbolised by a gleaming, golden brooch.

  Yet the fear of returning to the front sometimes recurred. One of the officers in the Green Howards had already received orders to go overseas before the end of the course. At night, in the room which now had been set aside as the ante-room, he asked Phillip if he could suggest anything, outside the prescribed officer’s kit, essential for the trenches. “Bearing in mind, of course, that one’s kit must not exceed thirty-five pounds in weight. You’re the only one of the class who has been out, so I wonder if you would advise me?”

  The others gathered round the veteran.

  “Well, yes, now you come to mention it. Take plenty of newspapers.”

  “Newspapers? I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.”

  “Well, you know,” replied Phillip, “they are very scarce at the front. For going to the latrine.”

  “But why not take the real thing?”

  Phillip was puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean by the real thing.”

  “Well, a box of Bronco.”

  Phillip felt that he had shown himself to be rather a simpleton; and after a while left the circle of polite port-sippers. He went out into the street, seeing Cox his room-mate standing there with an undecided air, a monocle fixed in one eye.

  Cox’s face looked as though it had been so scorched by the Chinese sun that the skin had peeled off and never grown again. Cox’s boiled red look seemed to be in his very nature, for he was always restless, seldom able to sit still. He had a hoarse voice, and every evening so far he had walked about the town, looking for what he called a bird.

  “They hunt in couples in this town,” he said to Phillip. “How about coming with me?”

  “Right ho!” replied Phillip, not really wanting to meet any girls, but at the same time he did not want to appear to be a greenhorn. Cox had an extraordinary method of attracting their attention. He carried a whangee walking stick, full length, and when they passed a girl half way down the hill, he turned round and rattled it on the pavement, a grin on his face. “Will that fetch her?” he said to Phillip. The girl went on up the hill without looking back.

  “No,” said Cox, “that one doesn’t rattle!”

  Nor did any of the girls in Sevenoaks rattle, apparently; for after hanging about outside the Picture House at the bottom, they returned up the hill on the other side of the street, Cox’s rattles having no result.

  “I think your presence is putting the birds off,” said Cox, with sudden red-faced irascibility.

  “Where did you get the idea of the rattle?” asked Phillip.

  “Shanghai,” said Cox, shortly.

  Then, gnawing his lower lip, he swung on his heel and barked, “I must write some letters to my fiancée! And I’m damned if I remain at the Regina with you, muttering and groaning to yourself all through every bloody night, especially as they won’t reduce their scale of charges! Damme, how can one live on seven-and-six a day, and pay eight-and-six at a hotel? I gave up a good job to come home and join up.”

  “What were you in, Cox?”

  “That’s my bloody business! I suppose you’ve got private means?”

  “Well, sort of. I’m sorry I mutter and groan, but you snore like a barn owl, don’t forget! Well, cheer-ho!”

  Cox abruptly left Phillip, and strode away. Phillip saw the red round face turn again at the corner, as a girl went past. There came the rattle of the whangee cane, again without response. Cox threw up his hands in a hopeless gesture before disappearing round the corner. Well, thought Phillip with glee, he had learned something about customs in the Far East. He was seeing life. He went back to the Regina, hopeful of seeing more.

  The next day, Saturday, was fine; work ceased at 12.30 p.m. After a hurried luncheon, he set out for the journey home. It was most pleasurable. The Connaught ran with a pleasing purr, and he soon mastered the way to change gear without clashing the teeth, with de-compressor valve lifted.

  He enjoyed the shape and colour of the red and green tank, long aluminium foot-boards, on which he tried to stand up and drive as though it were a circus bike. He tried hands-off, too, but an alarming stagger showed that the weight was not properly distributed. Soon he was buzzing along Shooting Common, then through Brumley, down the hill to Cutler’s Pond—and then he was going up Charlotte Road, seeing above him the sticky brown chestnut buds broken into green, and with a brief glance at Mrs. Neville’s window, up Hillside Road.

  That afternoon, hearing that Helena Rolls was going to visit her grandparents in Twistleton Road, Phillip waited until she left her house to walk over the Hill, then mounted the Connaught and went along Charlotte Road to meet her the other way. He wore his light fawn British warm because it looked so nice on other officers, with the gilt star on either shoulder-strap—the wonderful yellow star with red and green enamelling in the centre. He waited near St. Simon’s Church; watched her turn the corner from Foxfield into Twistleton, waited with drying mouth for her to get fifty yards down before starting up and passing her. Fifty yards on, he stopped, got off, and feeling in his velvet-lined pocket for the blue case, opened it with slightly shaking hands; and clutching the brooch in his left palm, walked forward and gave her a salute.

  “Hullo, Phillip!”

  Panic held him; but he managed to say, as he had rehearsed, “Hullo. I say, would you like to have this brooch? It’s my regimental badge, the Mediators.”

  He had never before been so close to her, to see the beautiful moulding of her cheeks and forehead, her lips, her chin. Then calmly and pleasantly she was saying,

  “I don’t think I could take it, Phillip, but thank you very much for offering it.”

  “You—you aren’t offended?”

  “No, of course not! It is a beautiful brooch. But I couldn’t possibly accept it.”

  “I see. I hope everyone is well at home?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Well, goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Ten minutes later Phillip had told Mrs. Neville all about it, having asked, several times, if she thought from Helena’s frank manner that it might after all mean something; and heard Mrs. Neville’s reply that she was very young, but, of course, in her heart a woman would be pleased to think that a man thought so much of her that he would want to give her of his very best——

  “I don’t know, Phillip, I can’t say dear——” went on the fat woman, hoping she would not cry. He was so young, so inexperienced, she knew how he worshipped that girl; the more, she sometimes thought, because his early life had been so unhappy. Oh dear, these boys and girls, how they were growing up. There was Phillip’s sister, Mavis, only seventeen, but already she had got an officer—a staff-major in the War Office, of all things!

  She was glad that Phillip and Desmond and Eugene, the Brazilian boy, were together
that evening; it was almost like old times, Bloodhound Patrol pram-wheel wagon camping days, to see the three of them setting off for Freddy’s—Phillip driving, Desmond on the carrier, and Eugene sitting on the tank, his legs over the handlebars. Let them be happy while they could, bless them.

  *

  Mavis, a slim dark girl with large brown eyes that glistened with a strange light when she was happy or animated, had fallen in love with an officer she had met in the train, when, during the rush-hour, she had, with considerable nervousness, got into a first-class carriage at London Bridge Station. He was sitting alone in a carriage, and he wore a very new uniform with red tabs on his lapels and a red band round his hat. From the three pips on his shoulders she knew he was a captain. When she got out at Wakenham station, he saluted her, and said that he hoped he would be allowed to see her again.

  On the second occasion of their meeting, Mavis’ new friend was in ordinary clothes, what Phillip had called mufti; and he invited her to the Hippodrome. She went with him, determined to go straight home afterwards, since strange men were not to be trusted. It was with some apprehension that she had a cup of coffee with him in a teashop, with two chocolate éclairs; then he walked with her part of the way home, saying goodbye outside St. Mary’s Church, and adding that he hoped to see her again soon. In some excitement that he was so gentlemanly, Mavis hurried home, telling her mother that she had been out with her friend Nina, having first found out that Nina had not called for her that evening. Nina was a fair girl with rather fat legs who lived in Rushy Green.

  Hitherto Mavis and Nina had been inseparables. Their friendship was one of spiritual intimacy, based on Nina’s regard for the porcelain-delicate dark-eyed Mavis; and on Mavis’ acceptance of her friend’s devotion.

  Mavis felt that she was now leading more than a double life. In order to be with her officer, she told Nina that she was going out with her mother, and her mother that she was going out with Nina. She felt herself to be living a very strange life indeed, when, in addition to playing off Mother and Nina, she became involved in a conspiracy with Phillip. An envelope marked Strictly Confidential and Private arrived one morning, with the Sevenoaks post-mark. Mavis responded at once to the contents: for it would give her an additional safeguard, or excuse, should Nina find out that she had not been out with Mother.

  Dear Mavis,

  How are you, alright I hope. Now listen. I want you to meet Helena Rolls accidentally on purpose, and invite her to come with you next Saturday at 3 p.m. to go to the National Gallery in London near Charing Cross station to look at the Old Masters there. As you know, Mrs. Rolls is an artist, and very much interested in paintings, etc. She has done some very fine paintings herself, and once told me that Helena was interested in Art also. DON’T SAY I AM COMING TOO. I will meet you at Charing Cross station, about 3.22 p.m. on Saturday, as though by chance. I will of course offer to accompany you, and will needless to add pay all expenses. TELL NO ONE, not even mother. It is to be a surprise. I have had my photo taken, and when we are going home (I am coming by train, as my crankcase is being soldered up, they can’t weld it or braze it, you see), I shall offer it to her. Write by return, on the enclosed stamped addressed postcard, as soon as you have seen Helena. Don’t say I am coming. Life is fairly hectic down here, though the actual work is boring and unnecessary, being for open warfare, which won’t be for a long time yet, in my opinion. No more now, love to all,

  Your scheming brother

  Phillip 2-lt.

  The meeting took place as Phillip had planned. Although it was a warm sunny day, he wore his fawn-coloured British warm, carrying gloves and whangee cane, and punctiliously returned all salutes. He wandered in a dream within the tall cool rooms of the National Gallery, between Mavis and Helena. He took a taxicab to the Trocadero afterwards, having heard that this was a place where officers took ladies. He gave the waiter a half-crown, and bought a packet of gold-tipped de Reszke Turkish cigarettes, the fat ones, remembering it was not done to smoke in the streets. Then home again, buying first-class tickets to Randiswell, as he could not bear the idea of drab Wakenham station. They walked up Hillside Road together, watched by Mrs. Neville, who was in the secret, from her flat window. Outside No. 11 they said goodbye, Helena thanking him before she went on to her home, carrying the photograph.

  The next day, after Evensong at St. Simon’s, he got a report from Alwyn Todd, a friend of Helena’s, about the happenings of the day before, and entered notes, “for later cogitation and analysis”, in his old 1914 diary, in a space between records of birds’ nests found, and the holiday on Exmoor, just before the war. He wrote partly in code, based on the little Latin he had bothered to learn at school, and “let the truth rip”, as he said to himself.

  National Gallery Business, Results of

  1. Mrs. R. told A.T., “Why can’t young people enjoy themselves sans faciendum stultus ipsi.”

  2. H.R. told A.T., (a) Didn’t accept brooch because she “didn’t like me, and it wasn’t fair”.

  (b) P.M. “runs” after me, and uses M. to further “suit”.

  (c) Mavis did not say until very end that I was coming, and then bunked before Helena could say if she minded.

  (d) What would she do if I joined the Tennis Club and ran after her “like a two-year-old”?

  (e) I was alright as a “chum”, but she felt young and skittish.

  (f) Bertie asked her to go with him to the old Alleynian Dance, but her mother said she was too young. He took a hint, and I wouldn’t.

  (g) The photo was “ripping”. A pity I could not be just an ordinary friend.

  (h) Alwyn could consider ipse privileged person: can go out with H. sans faciens ipse stultus sanguineus.

  3. Mrs. R. told A.T., “I was ‘morbid as a boy, and the corners of my mouth were always turned down, not up’.”

  Conclusion, at first impression of above:

  I understand. My own fault. Finish!

  At second thought: Considering (e) and (g):—I shall join the Tennis Club!

  Hope kept the dream alive. He practised, in the mirror, turning the corners of his mouth upwards. Then a bold idea struck him. It came when, during the third and final weekend before the closing of the course, he stopped at a little garage in the High Street for petrol and saw in the workshop a racing motorcycle, the sporting lines of which immediately took his fancy. If only he could roar up Hillside Road on it! It had racing handlebars, small rubber-padded foot-rests, a single-cylinder engine with big cooling fins, a straight-through exhaust pipe of large diameter. As he stared at it the proprietor, a short stocky man with a face like an old boxer’s, smeared with oil and carbon, his dark suit shapeless and gleaming with grease, took an oil-soaked briar pipe from his mouth and said, pointing with bitten-through stem, “Nice job, ain’t it?”

  “By Jove, yes!”

  “Made by a bloke like you what ’ad to leave sudden for France. Left it ’ere to be sold. It can ’op it. Racing cams. He built it ’isself.”

  “I wish I’d known, before I bought this piffling little two-stroke!”

  “What’s up with it?”

  “It loses speed when it gets hot.”

  “Rings gummed up?”

  “They were, but I’ve had new ones fitted. I’ve only had it a fortnight. I was swindled.” He told the man his story, not concealing the crack in the crankcase. “But I’ve had it welded up now, with solder.”

  “You can’t solder aluminium. I’ve got a spare crankcase, as it happens. I’ll tell you—what about a straight swop? You’ll find this bus all right. Go on, take ’er out. She starts very easy. It’s a Binks three-jet carburettor, she fires at once on the pilot jet.”

  Phillip had already learned to push and vault into the saddle, awkward as it had been with the back-extending handlebars of Triumph and F.N.; but with these bars the start was a dream, especially as the engine fired at once, with the least opening of the lever. The saddle was comfortable, too. He lay forward, body-weight on wrists, knees
gripping the leather pads strapped round the tank, feet well back on the rests. His body felt like an arrow into the wind. And what a fine drum-like beat of the exhaust! He was entranced. A straight swop! But would he be doing the old chap?

  He went as far as the Hippodrome, then swung round in the road and returned sitting upright, left hand just touching rubber grip, right hand in trouser pocket. He could balance by sitting on part of the saddle, body slightly slewed round, while the engine barely ticked over, the exhaust uttering a resonant pun-pun-pun.

  “’Ow d’yer like ’er?”

  “Absolutely spiffing! Did you really mean I could exchange mine for it?”

  “If you’re satisfied, I am.”

  “Right!”

  Phillip returned with his beautiful bike an hour later, Desmond on the carrier.

  “I wonder if I could have it painted, and call for it next week? In case you think I’m dishonest, I’ll leave a cheque with you, for its value, and take away the Connaught, as I’ve got to get back to Sevenoaks tomorrow night. Then next week I’ll come for this. Can you paint it in a week?”

  “Easy. Painter next door.”

  The frame to be black enamelled; tank to be pearl grey, lined out with thin red, and the name Helena to be painted in small letters on the left-hand front end of the tank, in black. The tank then to be clear-varnished.

  “Oh, and I want a plate on the front mudguard, above the number-plate—no, I’ll have it broadside on, across the front forks, just here, see, with the letters in white on black enamel, O.H.M.S.”

  “On His Majesty’s Service. What are you, despatch rider section?”

  “No, I’m just on His Majesty’s service. How much will that cost?”

  “Is this your own bike, or do the Government pay, mister?”

  “I pay, of course.”

  “Look ’ere, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You leave me a bradbury for the painting, and I’ll be satisfied. Then if you don’t come back, that’ll cover the painting, and no ’arm done.”