A Fox Under My Cloak

by Henry Williamson

  Laughter at the sight brought ease. Helena laughed; but he saw her tears, so looked upon the carpet, while he spoke of the lighter things he had seen, in the spirit of the Bairnsfather cartoons in Tatler and Bystander. He made semi-nervous little jokes, which seemed to be appreciated, thus,” There is no glass in the windows of the corons; it has all been called up.” “Twinkle” was a joke—“of course he managed to escape from the police; trust ‘Twinkle’.”

  “Thank goodness there is a lighter side to this terrible war,” said Mrs. Rolls. “Now, Helena, you must have a good hot bath and go to bed, then I will bring you up some hot milk. You must give your best to the hospital ward tomorrow. Phillip, too, is in need of a sound night’s sleep.”

  He got up, accepting the hint; and so did the bloodhound, who was back in the chair almost before he had said goodbye.

  “See Phillip to the door, Helena.”

  He carried away the vision of a white throat and a black gown, the Star of the Garter badge pinned above her heart, of frank eyes withdrawn in shadow behind the long lashes, of a tall brow with its wave of hair sweeping beautifully back, of curve of cheek and chin so sweet, of head held up in pride.

  “Goodbye, Helena.”

  “Goodbye, Phillip.”

  Searchlights were puzzling star-spaces in the clouds, grass and pavement and roofs lay dim under the shining swords of light. He felt strangely exhilarated, almost heroic; he wanted to go back to the line, to meet his fate as bravely as Bertie had met his. Words sang through him, flowing from Helena, as he walked down the pavement. She is Night, her neck and brow are as the lilies rising, so gently o’er the disentangled dead. He hesitated to go into his own home. At length he rang the bell.

  “It’s Phillip, Mother, it’s Phillip!”

  “Oh, not so much noise, for God’s sake!”

  He stood there.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to come in?”

  “In a moment.”

  “I say, I can’t keep the door open, you know! There are Zeppelins about! I suppose you’ve heard about Bertie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it awful? I say, what’s the matter? Have you been drinking?” Mavis giggled from nervousness.

  The giggle hardened him. He turned and walked away.

  “Phillip! Phillip!” His mother hurried out under the porch. “Why, dear, this is a surprise,” she said, with forced gaiety. “Is everything all right?”

  “Quite.” With an effort he said, “I thought I heard a Zeppelin engine, that faraway churning growl.”

  “Don’t, whatever you do, tell Mavis, Phillip!” she said in a low voice. “She is terrified. Father has just been called out——”

  “Mother, Mother, come in——!”

  “Poof, what’s a Zeppelin!”

  “Do come in, dear, just to please me,” pleaded Hetty. “Polly is staying with us.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You needn’t see her now, dear, she and Doris are upstairs, having their baths together.”

  He nearly said that that was how he would like to see Polly, but suppressing the thought, he washed in the scullery, before going upstairs to change into mufti; and after boiled eggs, tea, and toast, said he must go out.

  “Must you, so soon, dear? Anyway, take the key, and please don’t be late——”

  He called to see Mrs. Neville; then on down to the High Street, his mental gaze fixed steadily upon the face of Helena, looking down steadily on all grief. Oh, if he could give his own life to bring back Bertie to her. But the thought was not genuine, he knew. Thank God he was out of it! He fitted the monocle into his right eye, for the entry into Freddy’s.

  Chapter 30

  ZEPPELIN

  FREDDY’S bar was almost empty. Only two strange men were there, and one gas-mantle alight. Acute disappointment: emptiness: he had been imagining, to replace Desmond on duty with searchlights, the faces of their last visit together—Cundall, Eugene, Mrs. Freddy, “Sailor” Jenkins, even Tom Ching. The two strange men looked at him. Both wore bowler hats, dark suits, big boots, and rolled umbrellas hung on their left elbows. One was tall with a wispy black moustache; his older companion had a full meaty face and ginger hair, and being clean-shaven his projecting rabbit’s-teeth were the more noticeable.

  The door leading into the unlighted billiard-room, set with pieces of coloured glass in leaden panes, opened to reveal Freddy wearing straw-hat, celluloid collar and bow-tie, striped shirt, elastic arm-bands, brown trousers and yellow shoes. At once the straw was tipped.

  “Good evening, sir.” He lifted the mahogany slab across the bar, and said to the two men, “All ready for you, gentlemen.” He pushed on the stained-glass partition level with his head, and a little oblong peep-hole opened aslant. He bent over and whispered: “You’ll take the usual? On the house, of course?”

  The two bowler-hatted men went into the dark billiard-room. “I won’t keep you a moment, sir,” said Freddy to Phillip, as he poured out quarterns of Irish whiskey into two squat glasses, added hot water, sugar and lemon, put in glass rods; and opening the door behind the bar, took them to the strangers.

  “What’s yours, sir?”

  Phillip decided to drink milk stout, to build up his strength. “Very quiet tonight, Freddy.”

  “I only hope it stays quiet,” smiled Freddy. He kept his face still, but moved his eyes sideways towards the billiard-room. Then he said conversationally, “Your friend’s on searchlight duty tonight, I suppose? A fireman from the station was in earlier, and said the warning was out.”

  “A lot of fuss over nothing, Freddy.”

  “I don’t know. Those aerial torpedoes they carry can do a lot o’ damage, I hear. I expect your father’s on duty tonight?”

  “Yes. What are you drinking?”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll have a gin.”

  Freddy poured the usual fourpenny tot of water for himself, proposed and drank Phillip’s health, and taking out his pocket-book, leaned over the bar and showed a snapshot of his wife and baby. Then coming close, “Two flatfoots from the station, they’re hopin’ for a pinch, nice little camera, isn’t it, only a No. 1 Brownie.”

  “Jolly good!” said Phillip loudly; then, “Who are they after?”

  “That sprucer Wilkins, who dresses up as a major on the staff—the Galloping Major people call him, since he ordered that parade review of the territorials. He’s bin in here lately. Don’t let on to those coppers I told you.”

  “I’ve never seen him.”

  “Very nice-spoken fellow. He told me his father was a parson in the country, but I have heard he comes from Leytonstone, the other side of the river. He usually comes in ’ere from the Roebuck, he’s very hot at billiards. Your friend Desmond knows him, and that Brazilian fellow often with ’im. Took five bob off them last time!” Freddy tittered.

  “What do they want to arrest him for? He has paid for his uniform, and helped recruiting, which is more than those plain-clothes flatfoots have done. They ought to be in uniform themselves.”

  Freddy winked slightly, then raising his voice, said: “Yes, she’s a very nice young lady, sir, and I’ll introduce you two to each other with pleasure.”

  Phillip began to feel a return of the black depression, sitting by himself on the horse-hair settee, while behind the stained-glass partition waited two pairs of cold, man-catching eyes. He thought of “Twinkle”, and wondered again if the story of the defiance of a deserter shot outside Béthune belonged to him.

  The shooting had taken place behind a high brick wall of the garden of the château used for corps headquarters. The deserter, an old sweat, had been tied to a post, his eyes bandaged, a piece of white paper pinned over the heart. The firing squad’s rifles were loaded by the provost sergeant, some with blank, others with ball, so that no man would know who shot him. Before his eyes were bandaged, according to the story, the deserter had made a speech to the twelve marksmen, all from the Brigade of Guards, lined up before him. Si
tting on the horse-hair settee, Phillip could imagine the rivets in his gold teeth working like miniature rifle-bolts as he spat out his insult. “I ’ave sojer’d all round the globe, I ’ave fought niggers, chinees, wogs, an’ fuzziwuzzies, but I never thought till now that me, a reel sojer, would ever find ’isself anywhere near to such a row of tailor’s dummies, what is all you little lot ever was, s’elp me Gawd.” That insult delivered—so ran the story—the old sweat stood to attention. He made his last remark to the two chaplains standing near, prayer-books in hands. An extra chaplain, a non-conformist with one of the two new K 3 divisions from the north, had come along in case the prisoner was a Methodist. The prisoner had refused to discuss his religion with either padre, until he said, while being tied to the post, “No talkee talkee about what religion a stiff belongs to, thank you, gentlemen.” By God, Mad Jack or Twinkle, the old boy had guts!

  Sitting there, with his fourth milk stout, Phillip wondered what had happened to the old chap’s French money. No doubt it had gone into the red-caps’ pockets—or more likely into that of the sergeant who had brought the A.P.M. to him. From “Twinkle’s” face he thought to “Spectre” West’s—and of how Westy had asked him to see his mother at The Grapes, near Leadenhall Market. Could Westy’s mother possibly keep a public house? But he had been to Oxford University! All the same, sometimes Westy’s voice had had a different intonation. And he had a pre-war commission in the third, the special reserve, battalion. Of course, Westy must have come from the University O.T.C.!

  Then there was “Twinkle” and his mother. It was a strange coincidence; the two of them, so different, yet both asking him to see their mothers—but why a coincidence? Didn’t everyone have a mother? He heard in his mind the cries of German boys, wounded and afraid—mutter, mutter. And of Helena, with her lily-in-death look. He could not sit still. Pacing about, he said suddenly, “Give me a spot of old man whiskey, Freddy. Anyone—yes, that’ll do.” He did not want the whiskey; he wanted the spirit of “Spectre” West, and “Twinkle”.

  He was in half a mind to walk down to the Roebuck and warn the billiard sharper Wilkins; but he stayed in the bar, for its warmth, safety, association. He sat down again, feeling sleepy; but his mind would not rest, it descended into shadow and melancholy, and so to the edge of frenzy that nothing in the world was really right. And never could be. He had another whiskey to avoid the great loneliness that was life, feeling that death was the only true companionship of souls, and was drinking the last drop when the door opened and Desmond’s Brazilian friend, Eugene, came in.

  Seeing his face, Phillip felt a surge of warmth and gladness, to which the newcomer instantly responded. The wide mouth in the sallow face smiled, revealing even teeth; the small natty figure in bowler hat, light raglan coat, carrying wash-leather gloves and black silver-topped cane, came quickly forward on small highly-polished shoes below blue serge trousers.

  “You do look a swell, Gene!”

  “When did you come back? I’m frightfully glad to see you Phillip.”

  They clasped hands, looking delightedly at each other. Freddy behind the bar simpered with reflected amity, prepared to tip his straw when his customer should turn to the bar.

  Eugene had left the army; his feet would not stand the marching, he said. He had a job in the City, in the warehouse of a friend of his father’s, Charley Mayer, of C.M. corsets. Eugene was learning the business, eventually to return to Brazil, and an import agency, he said.

  Phillip felt a stab of regret. Gene leaving England? It was one more link with the past breaking. Eugene apparently felt the same, in the flush of sudden affection for Phillip. “It won’t be yet awhile, Phil. Not during the war——”

  “Oh good! Freddy, two hot rums, and have a drink yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Freddy added more of his especial water to his glass, while Phillip, his eyes on the other man’s, told Eugene not to look, but behind the glass screen were waiting detectives. Gene’s eyes fought against Phillip’s in order to look; but Phillip’s gaze won.

  *

  Phillip said to Eugene, as they walked down to the Roebuck, that he couldn’t understand how the bogus major had managed to get away with it for so long. There he was, in khaki shirt-sleeves, showing his new leather jockey-braces, as he leaned over the green baize table, going in off the red again and again; while his tunic, and soft khaki trench cap, its neck-cover hiding the red band beneath, hung on a peg for all to see. How had he the nerve to appear like that, despite the well-known story of his disappearance after the Blackheath review last May?

  Phillip thought that he had rather a nice face, with curly hair and pink cheeks. His hands were delicate, he wore a gold wristlet-watch. Obviously he was a very good billiard player. Everyone watched as he went in off the red again and again, bringing the red back every time to the same place near the spot at the top of the table. Sixty-four, sixty-seven, seventy, seventy-three, seventy-six—then he caught Phillip’s monocled eye. Phillip had put on mufti before leaving home, rather in the hope that he would attract attention to himself in the Castle, perhaps to be given one of those white feathers that some pretty girls were said to be presenting to slackers.

  “A break of seventy-six, Major,” called the marker; and there was desultory clapping in the room.

  The man in jockey braces glanced quickly again at Phillip. Then he came over, and with a slight smile said, “Haven’t we met somewhere? Surely you were at Sandhurst?” as he put on his tunic, which had only two stars on the shoulders, Phillip noticed.

  “I say, may I have a word with you?” said Phillip.

  Eugene, his coffee-coloured face slightly simian with curiosity, made to accompany them; but seeing Phillip’s slight head-shake, he remained behind when they went into the private bar.

  “I’ll come straight to the point,” said Phillip, when two drinks had been bought. “Purely as a friendly tip, the police are after you. I saw them in Freddy’s, ten minutes ago.”

  “After me? My dear old thing, what are you talking about?”

  “Aren’t you Wilkins?”

  “That is my name. Devereux-Wilkins. What police? Oh, I begin to see it! You are confusing me with my cousin, who got up that rag last May, on Blackheath, for a bet that he could stimulate recruiting! If you’re after him, you’ll have to apply to Secret Service. More I am unable to tell you. It’s all sub rosa. You’re from Horse Guards, I suppose, Provost Marshal’s Office, and all that?”

  “Good lord, no! I just came along to tell you about the coppers in Freddy’s. I don’t like policemen, civil or military.”

  The other looked at his gold wristlet watch. “I’ll have to go, old thing. I’m an A.D.C. for my pains. Care to see?” He removed the wristlet watch, and showed Phillip the words engraved on the back. Phillip read To Second-Lieutenant Charles Devereux-Wilkins, from the men in his platoon at Suvla Bay, May 1915, as a token of esteem. The watch was strapped on again.

  “You live in this salubrious neighbourhood? Nice place,” isn’t it?” said Devereux-Wilkins with such charm that Phillip felt he was not sarcastic. “Surely you were up at Oxford before the war? I seem to remember you in the common room at Keble?”

  “I was up at Cambridge—at Fitzwilliam Hall,” replied Phillip.

  “Fitzwilliam Hall? Do I know it? Surely——? I don’t recall such a college, old thing,” said Devereux-Wilkins blandly. “Where exactly is it?”

  “Oh, at the corner of Jesus Lane,” said Phillip, hurriedly guessing.

  “Sounds very suspicious to me, old thing! Well, I must be going. See you some time,” and taking up his leather-covered cane and gloves, the debonair Devereux-Wilkins left the Roebuck and sprang on a motor bus going towards London.

  “He’s a mystery,” said Phillip to Eugene. “I believe that he is on the staff, all right—but I feel also that he gave that watch to himself. Even if his platoon could afford a gold watch, how could they all get together to put money in the hat to buy one out there?
There aren’t any shops in Gallipoli, as there are in France, anyway. He’s a bit of a sprucer, all right! Told me he was up at Oxford before the war, so I told him I was up at Cambridge—so we’re two sprucers together! Would you like my monocle as a souvenir? It doesn’t really fit my eye.”

  Eugene took it eagerly, and screwed it into his own eye.

  “Well, cheer ho, Gene, my boy!”

  Two years were to pass before Phillip saw Devereux-Wilkins again, in the company of “Spectre” West, when, as it happened, all three met in the reserve battalion of the Gaultshire Regiment at Felixstowe.

  *

  Freddy’s was alive when Eugene and Phillip returned. With a surge of delight Phillip saw Tom Cundall standing by the bar, in what he called his new maternity jacket—the Royal Flying Corps tunic that wrapped across stomach and chest and fastened down one side. He wore his pilot’s wings. Half a dozen people, including Ching, were listening to him on the subject of Zeppelins. After greeting Phillip, Cundall went on to tell, in his dry, ironic manner, how he had been training at the Norwich aerodrome, during the late summer, when Zeppelins were reported making for the city. Instructors, the only people who could fly, went up in the darkness with Véry light pistols.

  “Talk about wind-up among the civilian population of our great big nation of hot-air merchants! We had to mark the corners of the ’drome with petrol flares for the homing birdmen, by cutting off with hacksaws the tops of petrol tins. The native population of spy-hunters, seeing the flares, rushed across the grass and put them out, just as two of our chaps were coming in to land. So they crashed their undercarts and got ’orribly mixed up with the office. To make more certain of their demise, the mob smashed the ambulance head-lamps, so the two blokes in aspic got to hospital a bit late. Talk about Julius Caesar and the stinking breath of the mob——”

  “Talking about the staff at Loos——” and Phillip, standing just below the open spy-hole in the stained-glass partition of the billiard-room, went on to give them details of what he had seen during the past month, ending up with a declaration that the Germans were really quite decent fellows, that the stories about them in the papers were lies, and that no war correspondent would have had the guts to tell the truth, for example, of how the walking wounded were allowed to go back unmolested after the Sunday morning attack on the 26th September across the Lens–La Bassée road.