A Fox Under My Cloak

by Henry Williamson

  “May I offer you two gentlemen a drink?” said Phillip. He had seen that the locket was not spoiled.

  “No, thank you,” said Brendon.

  Pyjamas on, Phillip felt more cheerful. He flicked the water from his new pipe, and, offered O’Connor’s big glazed jar, filled his pipe, and was about to put it in his mouth when Silas B. Ramshott, another elderly subaltern, looked in from his room next door. Ramshott was a short, rather puffy pale-faced American actor, always talking about the plays of Pinero, Winchell Smith, Somerset Maugham, and others in which his Broadway successes had been made. Now he cried out:

  “Well, I’m darned, if you’re not gum-sucking my noo pipe! Jeese, that’s my Loewe you’ve got, I bought it King’s Parade, Cambridge, last weekend. I missed it three days ago!”

  “I bought this one in Cambridge, too, really I did!”

  “The hell you did! That’s my pipe! I left it on the ante-room table, by the noos-papers.”

  “Well, I bought this pipe in Cambridge.”

  “What was the name of the shop?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Where was it?”

  “In the High Street.”

  “There isn’t a High Street in Cambridge!”

  “Anyway, I bought it there. However, if you think it’s yours, by all means have it,” and Phillip held out the pipe.

  “D’you think I want the darned thing now, after you’ve been gum-sucking it?” cried the other, his putty-coloured face showing disgust.

  “Well, then, what’s all the fuss about?”

  “You wouldn’t know,” said the voice of Baldersby, as the yellow moustache came round the door. “The sooner you clear out of our regiment, the better everyone will be pleased. You’re nothing but a damned outsider!”

  “Come, now,” said O’Connor. “Maddison, as an anomaly in our midst, may be out of place for the time being, but there is a possibility of misunderstanding in this matter of the pipe. Maddison said he bought the pipe in the High Street of Cambridge. Admittedly he does not know the town, and quite possibly the tobacconist where he says he bought it has sold others of that make and pattern. As for tonight, he has the drink taken, and I suggest that an apology to the colonel in the morning is due for his act of misplaced humour. Now, as we have an early parade, I for one have a wish for m’ bed.”

  When the others had gone, O’Connor said that he would suggest to Phillip that he wrote out an apology immediately after breakfast, and took it to the colonel personally. He appealed tactfully to Brendon, who was getting undressed, revealing a bulky body almost covered in long woollen combinations. “What do you say, Brendon?”

  “Well, since you ask my opinion, I should say that my cousin, being a good sportsman, will appreciate that it will take some effort on Maddison’s part to ask to see him, after his attempt to cremate him in his own ante-room.”

  “I am sure that is very good advice, Brendon; and courage is always its own reward. But go aisy in future, my boy, or you may find yourself in the wars again.”

  “Yes, I will, certainly. And thank you for your kindness, O’Connor. And also for your good advice, Brendon.”

  Brendon turned in his bed and looked at Phillip. He said nothing; for O’Connor was kneeling by his bed, head bowed, touching the beads of his rosary.

  *

  In the morning when Phillip went down to breakfast, he stopped at the letter-rack in the ante-room. There was a foolscap envelope addressed to him, without a stamp, obviously just put there, for the gum on the label still felt slightly damp. He took it to the lavatory to open it.

  To (T) Sec.-lieut. P. S. T. Maddison,

  Gaultshire Regt.

  Sir,

  We, the undersigned subaltern officers of the Cantuvellaunian Mess, hereby request you to apply immediately to return to your Regiment, alternatively to resign your Commission, which in our unanimous opinion you are not in any way fitted to hold——

  Phillip ran his eye down the list, headed by Bertram E. St. George Baldersby, and followed by a score of names. He did not examine them; but tearing the round-robin into little pieces, went out and dropped them in a trickle across the ante-room floor, as though for a miniature paper-chase. After this gesture of defiance he went into the mess, where a dozen officers, including Major Fridkin, were sitting, eating fried bacon, kidneys, mushrooms, and scrambled eggs.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Phillip: to which there was no reply. Helping himself to a plateful from the silver dishes over the spirit flames on the sideboard, he ate his breakfast, with feigned unconcern that he had obviously been sent to Coventry.

  Sir,

  I have the honour to submit this Apology to you for my unwarranted act of incendiarism upon your person last night, after which my person was rendered sparkless by a great many gallons of water——

  He scrumpled this up, and began again,

  Sir,

  I have the honour to offer you, with my most sincere regret for my conduct last night in the ante-room, this Apology for my effrontery and ill-timed “joke” upon your Person. I can only plead the heat of the wine in my head, which was, shortly afterwards, duly cooled by a great many gallons of water——

  This joined the first draft in the waste-paper basket.

  Sir,

  I have the honour to submit this Apology for my outrageous behaviour last night, for which there is no excuse. I can only say with sincerity that I realize my place in a Regiment of such Traditions is an anomaly, that I am unworthy of remaining here, and therefore request that my name be put down for immediate return to the Front.

  I have the honour to be,

  Sir, Your most obedient Servant,

  P. S. T. Maddison, 2-lt.

  After this momentary submission to the idea of resurrection through death, Phillip put the letter under the blotting pad, meaning not to send it. He would think it over. It was time to go on parade.

  The mess-sergeant found it later, and put it in a plain envelope, and took it to the mess president, Major Fridkin; who gave it to Jonah, the adjutant; who showed it to the colonel. “Strawballs” read it, gold spectacles on nose; and later signed a chit, typed in the orderly room, recommending the application. Thence to brigade; and to Eastern Command, held by the white-haired General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien, who had been relieved of his command in France; and so to the War Office in London.

  “So I went in and apologised in person, Mrs. Neville. Well, the colonel, I won’t tell you his nickname, looked at me over his glasses, and all he said after what seemed a long time was, “Very well, I shall accept your apology, Mr. Maddison,” so I saluted and went out. My luck was in, in more ways than one, for that very afternoon after parade I bought an almost-new O.K. Junior motor-bike in a local garage for seventeen pounds ten, and sold it straight away to someone in the mess for twenty-two pounds ten. With the profit I bought a new set of tyres for my own bike, and here I am, on weekend leave!”

  “I can see all as you describe it, Phillip; you ought to write a book, you know, you make it all so vivid. What times we’re living in!” A sudden shriek punctured Mrs. Neville’s words. “Have you heard about Mavis’ officer on the staff? Oh, oh, that major on the staff!” She quivered helplessly. “Haven’t you heard?” Another puncture, followed by subsidence into her chair; helpless flipping of hand; turning away, wiping eyes, gasping, “Oh dear! Oh dear!” Another shriek, “We haven’t any money, but we do see life!”

  When she was calmer Mrs. Neville became solemn. “Not a word of all this, Phillip! Your mother would never forgive me if she knew I had told you! Your Father must not know, you see, dear,” she went on in a sweet, clear voice, as her mind took command of her feelings. “If you promise, Phillip, never to say a word about it, I will tell you—although I feel mean in saying anything at all.”

  “I promise, Mrs. Neville.”

  “Well, Phillip, how can I begin? First, let me say, there has been nothing wrong, you know what I mean, concerning Mavis! Oh no, all abo
ve board! She met him in the train, and he took her to the Hippo. Nothing more! I would never breathe a word of scandal, you know that, dear, don’t you?”

  “What happened, Mrs. Neville?”

  “He was a fraud! He ordered a Review of Troops on Blackheath!” shrieked Mrs. Neville, flipping a hand at him. “On a horse! That he had hired from Soal the coalman, down here in Randiswell! What a nerve! You know, Phillip, I can’t help admiring the fellow. Inspecting a whole battalion! All dressed up in staff major’s uniform! And the horse found its own way back to Soal afterwards!” She quivered away once more into gasps, little groans, and watery eyes. She went on to tell him details, while Phillip began to feel it was very funny. What a cheek, for a civilian to dress up as a major and inspect a battalion, after writing to the C.O. on War Office paper!

  “He did it very well, too, Phillip. Oh yes, nothing paltry about Mavis’ major! He arrived on a horse, oh yes, very magnificent was Mavis’ major from the War Office! Mavis and her mother were watching, and Gran’pa and Aunt Marian! There were thousands of others, on Blackheath, as it was Saturday afternoon. The rows of ribbons he had on his breast, everything from the V.C. to the Temperance Medal. Oh, it was all very smart, very smart indeed!”

  “What happened? How did they know he was a fraud, Mrs. Neville?”

  “He vanished into thin air, after he had led a recruiting march, still on the horse, beside the colonel. There the bands were playing, the flags flying, and lots of recruits following the procession. They signed on and he rode away down Belmont Hill and no-one has heard from him or seen him from that moment!” Another shriek. “Soal’s horse arrived back without the saddle or bridle! What a nerve, Phillip, what a nerve! Of course,” went on Mrs. Neville, now recovered, “enquiries were made by the colonel. The War Office said it knew nothing about him. There was no-one like him known there. They had sent no-one down to any inspection. The War Office paper he used had been stolen. No, he had not defrauded anyone; he had even paid in cash for his uniform, at a tailor’s in Fordesmill! Obviously he did it all for a spoof. What a nerve, Phillip, what a nerve! You know, I jolly well admire a man like that!”

  “I seem to remember a cobbler doing something like that, before the war, with the German Army—the cobbler of Zabern—no—Zabern was where the Prussian officer cut down a cripple in his path, wasn’t it—oh, anyway, it was a spoof, as you say, Mrs. Neville.”

  “Such men have missed their vocations, obviously,” said Mrs. Neville. “Well, dear, you won’t say a word about what I have told you at home, will you? Your father must never know about it. Shall I tell you what I think he did it for, Phillip? For a spree! And now he’s done his bit, he’s retired!” she ended with another explodent shriek, which set off the laughter again.

  Mrs. Neville in more sedate mood went on to say that Mother was getting about nowadays quite a lot, going up to London with Gran’pa, riding in omnibuses, even going to the theatre for matinées. Sometimes they met Aunt Dora, who was still working in the East End.

  “I do so admire your aunt, you know, dear. She is a brick, the way she has helped the poor mothers whose men have gone into the army. She is so good for your mother, too, who deserves her little bit of gallivanting. I often see her trotting down the road with Papa, usually they set off about eleven o’clock, and come back in time to give your father his dinner. She leaves the front-door key with me, so that Doris can call for it. Now don’t you go mentioning this, will you, you know how strict your father is about such things. So don’t breathe a word, dear. Well, Desmond will be home shortly, he is on night-duty every other night, on the searchlight in Hyde Park—they’ve got only two for London now, but more are coming, he says. You’ll stay and have tea with him, won’t you?”

  Chapter 13

  LUSITANIA

  ON the following Tuesday Hetty and her father set out to visit Dora in the East End. Their way led over the Hill, and down through streets of houses and so to the electric tube station which ran under the Thames. It was a warm sunny day, but Thomas Turney wore his overcoat, as he had recently been in bed with bronchitis. They sat down on the wooden scat half-way up the gully, under a laburnum tree in flower, and rested, the old man supporting his chest on his hands clasping his lemon-wood walking-stick.

  Hetty’s mind wandered into the past, seeing Phillip as Sonny when he had run away from home, and she had found him sitting on that very seat, looking lost, pale, a mite whose world had collapsed under his father’s anger. She had taken his hand, and led him home again, trembling, nervous, apprehensive.

  “You would hardly think, would you, Hetty,” said Thomas Turney, “that in this beautiful spring weather, such terrible things could be possible. Nearly two thousand poor souls in the deep water south of Ireland! What foolish people the Germans are! They have done their cause irreparable harm in the eyes of America. They gave notice in New York, it is true, but no-one apparently took it seriously. One thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine passengers and crew, and of that total ninety of them little children and thirty-nine infants in arms. Terrible, terrible.”

  The newspapers that morning had given details of the recent sinking of the Cunard liner Lusitania by submarine torpedoes off the Old Head of Kinsale in Southern Ireland.

  In the light morning air, made brighter with clusters of white buds everywhere on the thorns growing above the gully, a faraway cuckoo’s voice floated to where they sat. The cemetery behind the houses of Charlotte Road was, with its shrubs and bushes and flies breeding upon the heaps of wilting flowers, a sanctuary for small birds; to Hetty and her papa, a place of memory, of suspended acts and thoughts still arising from the past, still valid, still existing in their lives, for there lay mother and brother, wife and son, at rest, at rest.

  “Well, Papa, how do you feel? Ready to go on?”

  “Yes, my dear, there’s life in the old dog yet! Ah, here’s Bolton. Poor man, how he has aged!”

  Mr. Bolton, led by his pug-dog, was coming slowly up the gully, one arm held behind his back, in his eyes a look of the dead. He lived until he could bring home the bones of his only son, killed with the London Highlanders six and a half months ago, and buried, as Phillip had told him, in the German cemetery east of the road along the Messines crest.

  Phillip had also told Mr. and Mrs. Wallace that their sons were in the cemetery; and he had visited Baldwin’s girl, in Bereshill, with the same tale. It was untrue that he had seen any names there that he recognised, in his brief and nervous stopping before the low wooden crosses, the few hanging glengarries; but they could have been there, he had told himself. Anyway, he had told the Wallace parents as a fact during his uneasy visit, eyes downheld out of nervousness from the feeling that Mrs. Wallace, in her withdrawn attitude, was despising him. He had mentioned Baldwin’s name then; and so had to keep up the story when he went to see Baldwin’s girl. The awful thing was, supposing David and Nimmo were prisoners, after all? Peter was dead; several had seen him bayoneted, and heard his screaming cries dying away, as he was stabbed again and again, rolling on the ground with the Bavarian whose head he had been pummelling.

  *

  On the crest of the Hill, within the first shelter, sat Mr. Krebs, a little less pink of neck and head and face nowadays, a little shrunken with the thoughts of a mind which saw the two sides of the war at once: a mind which had, until recently, aspired with almost every conscious breath that a synthesis of reconciliation might be found; yet had had to remain mute, not from fear, but because he regarded himself as a guest in the native country of his wife. News of the gas attack at Ypres had come as a partial asphyxiation of the spirit which yearned for compromise; again, he had been like a man drowning when the Cunarder from New York had been torpedoed; he had walked from curtain-dark room to curtain-dark room of his house, tears running down his satin-smooth Kropp-razor’d cheeks as he thought of children in mothers’ arms stifling in the waves, mothers praying to God to be saved—yet knowing that the Fatherland was surrounded on all sides, blockade
d by the power of the British Navy, which would in the end strangle his people, reduce them to destitution, destroy them as it had destroyed Napoleon dreaming of a self-sufficient Europa freed of the satrapies of usury, so that the “canaille might become the best educated in the world”. The British Navy had swept the seas clear of all ships trading with the Fatherland; the Fatherland had replied with the submarine. So thought Mr. Krebs; while in his ears were the cries of lost little children, becoming feebler in the massive green drifts of ocean, mutter, mutter.

  Pride and courage had brought Mr. Krebs upon the Hill that morning. His wife had accompanied him in ordinary loyalty of love, to reassure him, and to stand by him should what she dreaded, after reading The Daily Trident’s call for all Germans to be interned, occur: that his acquaintances on the Hill show him the cold shoulder. To her great relief she heard Mr. Turney greeting him as genially as ever, while Mr. Bolton was his invariable courteous self.

  As the Krebs were returning home later, on what was to be their last walk together across the Hill, the pink and almost hairless South German said to his greying English wife, “You know, my dear, the English are at heart a most kind people, taken all in all. We old fellows were so happy, to meet in the little Chalêt every day, until this bad vaw came.”

  “Yes, dearest,” replied Mrs. Krebs, with sudden unconventionality taking his arm (since only children were near), “and we are the cousins of your people, never forget.”

  *

  Having made her visitors a pot of tea, Dora sat down for a few minutes’ rest. “A wonderful work you have achieved here,” remarked Thomas Turney.