The Power of the Dead

by Henry Williamson

  “Aunt Dora went up an hour ago,” she said. “We thought you’d gone for a walk, to clear your head after all the happenings of the past three days. It was a lovely party, wasn’t it? I think everyone enjoyed themselves.”

  *

  The next morning there was a letter from Anders Norse, his literary agent, together with a parcel of the typescript of his book. Mr. Quill, of Cowdray & Smith, did not feel disposed to publish it unless the author, who appeared to have some connexion with the sporting fraternity, he wrote, would undertake to guarantee a sale of 500 copies, on laid paper and buckram binding, among his friends, at £1/1/– the copy. This would enable the publishers to cover the cost of setting, so that a popular edition at 7/6 could be run off the type for the trade. Meanwhile, Cowdray & Smith were prepared to consider any copy for a prospectus which Mr. Maddison might care to submit for their approval.

  Phillip was still thinking about this as he drove Aunt Dora in the side-car, at 20 m.p.h., to the junction later that morning. Dora, too, was preoccupied with her own thoughts. She still suffered from her brother’s attitude towards her ‘Babies’; she had observed his interest in Irene, who was still attractive; and hoped that Hilary would do nothing rash.

  “Goodbye, Aunt Dora. Thank you very much for coming all this long way.”

  “Goodbye, Boy. Be good to Lucy, won’t you? She is such a gentle creature.”

  *

  Having seen her off, he went to Down Close, to ask Pa’s advice about getting lists of subscribers to the numerous Otter Hunts in England, Scotland, and Wales.

  That old gentleman suggested that he get hold of a copy of Baily’s Hunting Directory, where no doubt he would find the addresses he required.

  “Perhaps it would be as well if you made no mention of any particular connexion with any of the local hunts.”

  Phillip pondered thisremark, this hint: did Pa think it best to keep any local light under a bushel measure? So, avoiding the home hunt, he wrote formally to the honorary secretaries of a dozen distant packs. In due course he received lists from four of them; made his copies of the listed names, and returned the originals with thanks.

  From the secretary of a pack in Sussex—‘the portly pole-carriers’ of Martin Beausire, his Fleet Street friend—Phillip got a startling letter about The Water Wanderer.

  Your ears would burn if you could have heard what I and some of my fellow members, including the Master, said on reading a short story of yours about an otter hunt at Lynton, which recently appeared in The Sporting and Theatrical World.

  Phillip had written about the water ‘carrying the ream’, in the sense of scent. He had heard someone among the pole-carriers use the expression. His correspondent declared that the ‘ream’ was a wave, or travelling ripple, pushed out by the otter’s nose when surface-swimming.

  I advise you to give up all attempts to write such a book as you contemplate, for it is obvious you have no talent as a sporting writer. Also, I would inform you, there is neither room nor need for a book such as appears to be your declared intention to write, since the field is already covered by Tregarthen’s Life of the Otter, a capital work by a Cornishman who knows what he is writing about, a thing which it is made apparent by your article, you lack knowledge of.

  When he had recovered equanimity, Phillip wrote to say that he was most grateful for the kind help and advice he had received: that he fully realised he knew nothing about the hunting of otters. He had once observed a tame otter for a short while: and he was always striving to learn from his superiors. The correction regarding the erroneous use of ‘ream’ was a most valuable criticism. His letter ended by asking Mr. Hon. Secretary Sheepshanks to read the revised typescript for further errors before publication.

  Mr. Hon. Secretary Sheepshanks’ reply, written in a different tone, proved to be most useful.

  I am in receipt of your letter, and am afraid you have taken my criticisms rather too seriously, but at the same time, I am glad you have given due consideration to my remarks, and in substance, agree with them, which shews me at once that you are prepared to accept the advice of those who have had perhaps longer experience of otters, their ways and habits, and the hunting of them, than yourself.

  Had I not been sure of my ground, I should never have written you as I did, but after nearly 30 years’ active participation in otter hunting, and in close study of the animal’s habits and ways, I think you will agree that my remarks are those gained by long experience.

  Yes, I know the Lyn quite well. I have seen it hunted by Littleworth, Martin and Waters, and when I was Master of that pack, took hounds there once, but as I had several hounds badly injured by slipping off the boulders, decided that the game was not worth the candle.

  The water is hunted however above Watersmeet, and the present Master has had several good hunts there during the last two seasons.

  I too, have kept tame otters, having brought up a bitch cub on the bottle, keeping her for 5 years and getting the loan of a dog otter from the Zoological Society, of which I am a Fellow, with the hope that they would breed, as no record exists of otters breeding in captivity, but although the surroundings were as natural as I could make them, with a pond, holts, trees, and a constant supply of their natural food in the form of live eels, frogs, varied by small birds, earth worms, etc., my hopes were never realized, as they did not breed.

  I could write you pages of interesting stuff concerning the habits and ways of otters both tame and otherwise, but I entirely agree with you that the otter is a savage, relentless beast that will kill anything within its capacity when pressed for food, and when hunted, shows little sign of fear.

  I have seen otters attack hounds (not bitches with cubs) but big, old dog otters, and the Culmstock when hunting on the Irish coast some years ago, swam an otter to sea, when he attacked a hound and drowned him in full view of the hunt.

  The words ream, or wave are not to be confused with wash, as the ream or wave indicates the otter’s movement through the water, while the wash is the scent carried down stream from the otter which is in a holt or some place of hiding.

  With regard to your expressed wish that I should look over the typescript of your book, you do me an honour, which after my somewhat drastic criticism I do not feel myself to have merited. However, if when the book is recast, you still feel the same way about it, please consider me to be at your service in the matter. I have a certain experience of publishing, having written a book about a Wiltshire Hunt, and may be able to help you also in this connexion.

  Phillip replied to this saying that he would not take advantage of the kind offer by sending the typescript, feeling that he had already made too great a use of his correspondents’ considerable knowledge; but the real reason was that now he felt sure of his subject. It so happened, a few weeks later, when Hilary looked in on his way to Bournemouth, that he spoke of the letter, and mentioning the name of the writer, discovered that Nuncle had been at his private school with him, and they had been inseparable as boys. This was a point of contact between uncle and nephew; they got on better after Phillip had told him how grateful he was for the help his old chum had given him.

  The hay had been carted, stacked, and thatched; there was little or no work to be done on the farm. The sowings of clover and grass seeds having failed, alternate fields had been cultivated and drilled with mustard.

  “Come with me while I throw a fly, and carry the net,” suggested Hilary. “I want to have a talk with you.”

  Phillip thought he knew what was coming. Lucy had had a cheerful letter from Irene two days after her departure, saying how much she had enjoyed her visit, and been delighted with the appearance of her grandson.

  I must see more of the little pet, and get to know him properly. He is the dearest little boy, and constantly reminds me of his mother at that age, especially his sudden smile, giving all of himself to happiness. Skirr Farm is delightful, I cannot imagine a more beautiful place for the children to grow up, nor a kinder mother. My deares
t love to you all.

  Hilary’s talk was not quite what Phillip had expected. It was short and to the point, taking the form of questions.

  “She’s a nice woman, Irene Lushington. How did you come to meet her?”

  “On the sands at Malandine, during my first summer. I got marooned on a rock, and she and Barley tried to help me.”

  “She’d left her husband then, hadn’t she?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Weren’t you curious about her?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you cotton on to her?”

  “Barley and I were keen on walking and exploring, and she took an interest in my work.”

  “I see by Who Was Who that Lushington was a judge in India, and was educated at Harrow and Trinity, Cambridge. Why did she leave him, d’you know?”

  Phillip avoided that one. “She came back to find a school for Barley.”

  He wanted to ask about the grave, but could not utter the words.

  Hilary went on, “I left her at the Clarence, in Exeter, and then motored north to stay the night at Bristol.”

  In his relief Phillip said, “I must go down to Malandine one day, and plant some flowers on the grave.”

  “There won’t be any need to, Phillip. Irene said she would see to it. She realises you have enough to do here, and won’t think any the worse of you. In fact, she thought the stone you put up, with the carving of sickle and rosebud, was just right. But I’ll tell her that it’s been on your mind when I see her in London next week. We’re going to dine and do a theatre while I’m up.”

  *

  Phillip was still wondering if he dare guarantee the sale of five hundred copies of a non-sporting book at a guinea each, by buying them himself at trade price and storing them as future valuable first-editions, when Anders wrote that he had learned that Mr. Quill’s publishing business was in a precarious condition: and would he consider having the book submitted to another publisher, Mashie & Co? Anticipating his agreement, Anders said, he had already taken the typescript round to Mr. Driver of that firm.

  Three days later Anders wrote to say that Mashie & Co. would take over from Cowdray & Smith, pay an additional £50 advance now, and hope to publish the book in time for the Christmas season, paying a further £25 on publication.

  I put up the question of a special limited edition, and hear that they are prepared, at their own expense, to put out, before publication, a limited edition for subscribers, one hundred copies on hand-made paper, to be printed by the Eyot Press and bound in vellum. Meanwhile Mr. Driver, the managing director, has a few queries to submit to you. He says he read the typescript most carefully, and, if you accept his terms now, he will post the typescript direct to you, to save time.

  Phillip accepted with glee. Later in the week the Tss. arrived, with a letter signed Jasper Driver saying that the writer had carefully gone through the story and made notes of what he considered might possibly spoil the book as a good seller for school prizes. Glancing through the pages, Phillip found that the chapter he liked best, describing the prolonged hard winter, was the one most blue-pencilled. Mr. Driver’s criticism was, Cosmic references to come off must be very good indeed. These do not quite come off.

  Phillip threw the bundle of typed sheets over his head, and rushed down to tell Lucy, whose hands were scaly with dough being moulded for a currant pudding.

  “Mr. Driver wants to make a bran-mash of the best chapter, my winter chapter! Look, for God’s sake.”

  “Oh, what a nuisance,” she said, peering at some pencil marks. “Why not rub them out and send it back again? He’ll probably have forgotten what he wrote. And as he says in his letter, he went through it while in bed with influenza.”

  *

  The supra-sensitive perception which was the basis of his writing, reinforced by the visual sense—a handicap in ordinary life which had made him so poor a manager of the Boys’ affairs—now induced a searing inner disintegration which he could not control. He ran upstairs, and sitting at the typewriter began to dash off a letter, Dear Mr. Driver, I have received your plate of mash but where is the sausage; then ripping the sheet off the roller he flung it into a corner. Another attempt went the way of the first; followed by a third, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, all varying in content and style from understatement to overstatement, with ideas ranging from a declaration that he did not wish to compete with Bumper Annuals to a suggestion that their two names should appear jointly on the title-page, together with that of the compositor, should that official find it necessary to misprint any sentences. Thus an entire morning was wasted in rubbish: but it served to clear his feelings for the next day, when he was able to benefit from the publisher’s advice: for he set about revising the criticized chapter, crossing out, altering, shifting, and clarifying until it flowed to a crescendo with the appearance of the Dawn of the Winter God, a passage which he knew was better than the original.

  *

  One afternoon towards the end of the month, while he was hoeing weeds between the rows of late-sprouting potatoes, he saw, over the hedge, the hooded top of an apparently new motor-car stop in the lane outside the farmhouse. He was peering through a gap in the hedge to see who it was when Lucy’s voice from her open bedroom window exclaimed “Ernest! How perfectly lovely! Where did you get it?”

  From the other side of the hedge he heard a gentle murmur of “Oh, I just got it.”

  Phillip went on with his hoeing while telling himself that if Ernest wanted to spend all his money at once on a brand-new motor car it was nothing to do with him. Nevertheless, a heavy feeling spread up from his diaphragm. How could Ernest be so feckless as to chuck away his remaining capital like that? And after all that had happened?

  After a while, brother and sister came to where he was working. Lucy carried the baby, who had one sock and shoe on, Billy having pulled off the others. Phillip did not like the children wearing socks or shoes, wanting their toes to be broad and strong like Barley’s, not cramped as were his own; but Lucy enjoyed dressing the baby. Sometimes Phillip had taken off both the children’s clothes and let them lie naked in the sun, he beside them. Billy usually went away into shadow when his father leaned over the baby to let it pull his hair.

  “Ernest and I think of going for a little ride around in his new car,” said Lucy. “Would you like to come, too?”

  “I think I ought to get on with the garden, thanks all the same.” He leaned his hoe against a damson tree full of wild wood. “What make is it, Ernest? Oh, Crossley. I’d like to see it.”

  How could anyone have the hood and celluloid side-curtains up in such blazing sunshine?

  “Isn’t it very hot inside, like that?”

  “Oh, you don’t notice it when you are going along.”

  “It looks jolly nice, Ernest,” he said, relenting. He took a deep breath. “What’s happened to the dear old Trojan?”

  “Oh, I took ‘Mister’ into Salisbury, and the beastly thing broke down, so I decided to get rid of it.”

  Phillip couldn’t help saying, despite the knowledge that it was tactless, “I suppose you got an allowance for it, in part-exchange?”

  “Oh, I didn’t bother. It wasn’t worth considering, so I just parked the Trodge and left it there.”

  “Still, as you’re in the trade, I suppose you got fifteen per cent discount on the Crossley by showing your business card, so it amounts to the same thing.”

  “I didn’t bother.”

  Ernest by now was tired of being questioned.

  With an effort Phillip persisted, “How much did it cost?”

  “Oh, about six hundred.”

  “Jolly nice motor, the Crossley.”

  With this Phillip went back to the garden, working out the lost discount—15% of £600 was £90—as he struck at weeds, cutting some of the potato haulms. Didn’t Ernest realise that the money he, Phillip, had paid out to help save the Works had not been repaid? O, why had he ever been such a fool as to try and h
elp them? Still, he had promised Grannie Chychester, and had tried to keep the promise.

  “Are you coming?” asked Ernest through the hedge.

  As he washed his hands under the pump he realized how Ernest must hate being mentally disapproved of. Was he like Hilary? Nobody liked being overlooked. Was that the origin of the witch’s overlooking, the cursing of someone the black witch disapproved of? And yet, wasn’t he, in a way, being overlooked by the very name of Copleston? Why did he feel his stomach sink whenever he thought of the Works, of the stagnant Tamp, of old Ernest? Lucy was much nearer to Ernest than she was to him. They really had nothing to talk about, beyond the children. He had known it before his marriage, but had stifled his intuition. Lucy was kind, gentle, and—like Pa. No, it was his own fault, for not entering into their world.

  He went to the car. Ernest was telling Lucy that he had joined a flying club, and was learning to fly at two guineas a flight.

  At that rate Ernest would soon be broke again, and the same ghastly situation would arise. Was he resenting Ernest’s extravagance because it meant that his own work was wasted? Or because, when the crash came, Pa and Ernest would, of course, have to come and live at Skirr Farm. Where else could Pa go, if there was no money?

  “We thought of having tea first,” said Lucy’s happy voice.

  He noticed that his hands were not properly clean, so went back to the pump, to soap them thoroughly, rinse them in the cold spring-water, and dry them slowly in the cool and shade of the outside wash-house, or laundry, with the hart’s tongue ferns growing out of the north wall.

  Now he really must try to get to the truth of his own actions and thoughts. Was he growing like Willie—trying to alter the thoughts of others? Or more like Nuncle, who insisted on everything being done his way, the money-making way? Anders had not liked the last of the Donkin novels: like a fool he had sent it to him when only three-quarters written. Anders had argued with him about Donkin’s beliefs, declaring that he, Phillip, had not seen Donkin in the round. The fault of the novel, Anders had written, was that the author had not admitted the value of suffering as a divine or ordered means of regeneration, as the only way to truth.