The Power of the Dead

by Henry Williamson

  “No, he doesn’t, Virginia! It’s not a horse,” cried Anders, in distress. He poured the other tumbler of clear schnapps down his throat. “It’s not a horse. It’s an otter.”

  Phillip said, “Anders, will you kindly be quiet.”

  People around were looking at them.

  “Tell Virginia, Phillip!”

  Anders, who now had the expression of a man about to sink for the third time, after appealing in vain for a life-belt, cried, “Why not tell them, Phillip?”

  “Virginia, please don’t listen.”

  “But why not, Phillip?” came the agonised cry.

  “Anders! It—is—a—secret.”

  “But why let it be a secret, Phillip? Tell Virginia. Tell everyone!”

  “Don’t believe anything he says, Virginia.”

  “I can’t hear a word in this din,” she smiled. “As soon as I can get my skirt free—oh, thank you so much!” to a man who, with many apologies, had found himself to be standing on her tail. “Now I must powder my nose. Phillip, you won’t forget to tell Piers, will you?”

  With a cheesy smile below unhappy eyes the brave, small mermaid moved away, dreaming of her new element.

  “Phillip,” cried Anders, gripping his arm. “Tell them!”

  “Please do not hold my arm.”

  “For God’s sake don’t misunderstand me, Phillip!”

  “I don’t misunderstand you. Will you please not hold my arm?”

  His momentary anger induced a greater sense of being misunderstood; and since by now a dozen or more faces were looking their way he became alarmed lest Anders give away Miss Arden’s secret, and struck Anders’ forearm a blow with his open hand. The finger-clutch broke, he moved away; but Anders pressed after him, begging him to believe it was only RIGHT that people should know who he was and what he had done.

  He pushed on through the crowd, apologising to one person while thrusting past another; but Anders pressed after him. Disaster seemed imminent, for the way was closed by several of Anders’ friends belonging to the Barbarian Club. They stood together to prevent what they considered might easily become a brawl. One of them was a painter with a beard grown to hide the scars of a machine-gun bullet which had gone through his cheek.

  “Why not be reasonable?” he said. “I am a friend of Anders. Now let us keep calm. Why don’t you want to hear what he has to say to you?”

  “If you are his friend, will you ask him to forget about me? I’m afraid that I can’t explain.”

  “But that is being rather one-sided, isn’t it? Surely Anders is owed the explanation for which he has asked repeatedly?”

  The painter’s wife then tried to explain. She was a novelist, and Anders was her agent.

  “After all, you must admit that you are making Anders most unhappy, and indeed, spoiling the party for him, not to mention the enjoyment of others. Won’t you make friends, whatever the rights or wrongs of it, and shake hands?”

  “Come here, Anders,” said the painter. “And shake hands.”

  Anders held up a hand as though to make an announcement. He stared straight ahead, and then slid down upon the floor and lay still.

  Channerson moved forward to inspect the only casualty so far at his party which included, he considered, a hundred uninvited people among the three hundred present. He called for help. Phillip, Plugge, and two other men, each grasping leg or arm, bore the body to the door. They waited while a taxicab drew up. Out of it stepped Piers.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Phillip. You’re not going? I’m most awfully sorry——”

  “I understand, Piers. Do forgive me a moment. I must make sure that Anders’ head isn’t bent too sharply forward. Help me to put him on the floor, where he can’t get any lower. Virginia’s inside looking for you. I think I’d better take Anders to the Barbarian Club.”

  “Pickled?” asked the driver.

  “He tried to make a speech.”

  Piers said, “Would you mind holding the cab? I won’t be a moment.”

  “Well,” said the amiable voice of Plugge, “I wonder what it was the poor chap was trying to say?”

  “He was, like all prophets, a little before his time, Archie.”

  Piers returned with Virginia now looking extremely happy.

  “D’you mind if we come with you, Phil? It’s rather urgent. Do you really want to leave now? If not, I can drop your friend at the Barbarian Club.”

  “I think I’d better say how d’you do to Channerson.”

  Piers gave him the latchkey. “It’s awfully good of you. Do help yourself to anything you want—you’ll find pyjamas in the drawer, drinks on the sideboard. I’ll see you later.”

  Standing side by side, Phillip and Archie watched the taxi turning into Haverstock Hill.

  “My dear Phil, it looks as though Piers is running off with Virginia. Oh dear. You see, it was I who introduced them to one another.”

  They went inside. As they inspected the débris of the buffet he said, “Have you had any dinner? I haven’t.” He salvaged the last remaining sandwich, and having blown off cigarette ash, opened it and saw a thin layer of potted meat within.

  “I had some eggs and bacon before I came here.”

  “Oh, don’t torture me.”

  Archie gulped down the sandwich, then continued his hunt round the table strewn with ashtrays, empty plates and glasses. There were some odd cheese-straws, and a squashed mince-pie.

  “Well, I must go back to my horrible room in Old Compton Street, I suppose. I shall have a good dinner next Friday, which is pay day. What it is to be in Fleet Street and earning only four pounds a week, and thirty bob for my room. And dinner every Friday with Zorinda. I think I’ll call on her tonight, and risk finding her with another boy-friend. Usually she’s not at home to me on Monday. Not that I look forward greatly to Friday. I suppose one might call it one’s social duty.”

  Having scooped up some crumbs of cake, an idea seemed to strike him. “I wonder if you’d like to meet Zorinda?” he asked, hopefully. “She keeps that hat shop at the Oxford Street end of Bond Street.”

  “I must go back fairly soon, thanks all the same.”

  “Well, I have so enjoyed seeing you, my dear Phil. We must meet again at Rookhurst, if not before. I’m quite a good cook—you know—plain, wholesome fare, should you ever want a house-parlourman who isn’t above turning his hand to anything.”

  Felicity Ancroft was leaving, led by a small elderly man. She kept her eyes lowered, Phillip noticed, as she went towards Channerson, whose laughter was now coming almost continuously from the centre of a group of people. When the couple had gone, the painter’s unlaughing eyes were turned on him as he approached.

  “My name is Maddison.”

  “So you told me,” replied the painter, with an air of ironic courtesy. “I have been wondering if you had perhaps mistaken our humble abode for an annexe to the Haverstock Arms next door? You didn’t tell me you were a friend of Anders Norse. I thought you said that you were with the Crufts.”

  The young woman with a round smiling face came forward and took Phillip’s hand. “I’m Dikkon’s wife,” she smiled. “Virginia has been telling me all about your lovely horses. Do come and tell me more about them. How good of you to come all the way from Belgium to our little party. Won’t you stay and have some eggs and bacon and meet some friends of ours?”

  She was charming with her joyous Saxon face, her warmth, her pleasure in being alive. She held his hand for a few moments and said, “I’d love a glass of champagne. And do get one for yourself as well.”

  They drank to one another. Channerson was looking at him gravely. “Who, or what, is Plugge, can you tell me?”

  “He’s a friend of the Crufts.”

  “He has such charming manners, Dikkon.”

  “He needs them,” replied the painter, to his wife.

  “Your husband’s war pictures have the truth in them, Mrs. Channerson. They are beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?�
�� said Channerson. “What is beauty?”

  “Compassion. All beauty is truth, and all truth is compassionate. Few know that, fewer still can express it. You can, and do.”

  “Ah!” said Channerson, gravely. “But the problem remains, how to put paint on paint.”

  As Phillip was leaving, a man with black hair plastered on each side of his forehead like jackdaw’s wings went up to him and said, “Have you by any chance a studio floor I could sleep on tonight? I was wondering if you would perhaps be feeling somewhat lonely after your boy friend left you so unhappily.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t live in London. I’m a farmer, from the West Country.”

  “Fortunate man. You don’t mind my asking?”

  “Not in the least. I’ve spent hundreds of hours sleeping on billet floors in my time, and only wish I could fix you up.”

  *

  Stars shone above the diminished tawny glow of London as he walked down the hill. He passed the Black Cat Cigarette factory and came to the Charing Cross Road. In streets off Piccadilly pale wastrel figures hovered in doorways. Poor darlings, he thought, still elevated by the champagne in his blood, as he entered Blue Ball Yard.

  Which was his bedroom? The same one as last time? He opened the bedroom door; snores came forth. He closed the door, and composed himself on a settee. He was still awake when Piers came in.

  “I’m afraid it wasn’t possible to explain at the party. Have a drink?”

  “I’d like some soda-water.”

  “Do help yourself.”

  Piers lit the gas fire. “Virginia likes you.”

  “I like her. She thinks with her head, and not with her feelings.”

  “I hope you can stay for a few days, I’d like you to meet her again. Tony walked out tonight. He said it was no good remaining with a wife mooning about the place thinking of someone else.”

  Phillip said nothing.

  Piers went on, “Would it be asking too much if I came and talked to you sometime at Rookhurst? In my Aston I can get down in a couple of hours or so. I suppose it’s asking rather a lot, after the way I’ve behaved tonight. I’ve no excuse of course, but it has been rather upsetting for Virginia.”

  “Do come, anytime, Piers. And bring Virginia if she’d care to stay.”

  “What about Lucy?”

  “I’m sure she’d welcome you both.”

  “Most generous of you. Must you go back tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but I’ll be up next week, for the Grasmere Award. I hope it doesn’t get to the papers prematurely. What sort of a girl is Felicity Ancroft? She must have guessed, from what Anders hinted.”

  “She does a thing for the Children’s Hour on Tuesdays. I’ll warn her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You found your bedroom?” Piers threw a dressing gown in his direction. “You go first into the bathroom, will you?”

  “I rather fancy someone’s in my bedroom.”

  “Plugge, most likely. One never knows when or where he’ll turn up. I suppose he heard of the Channerson’s party from someone. Have my bed. I’ll sleep here. You’ve had too many rough nights during the war, and deserve all the beds you can get. Sorry I can’t supply a girl this time, but when you come again I’ll ring up Felicity if you like. She’d be only too glad of the chance, I expect.”

  *

  In the morning Plugge said, “I say, I’m most frightfully sorry, old boy, but I’ve no idea how I got into your bed last night. I went to the Game Pie, and had drinks with your late comrade in arms, Bill Kidd. I think I must have passed out afterwards.”

  “Oh.”

  “Was I very tight at the Channersons?”

  “Sober as a judge.”

  Plugge sighed. “I always behave so badly, you know.” He reflected. “I suppose I ought to send them an apology. I wonder if they saw that I arrived without a bottle? It must still be in my desk in the proof-reader’s room. Oh dear, I feel as I felt after that awful floater of mine, the bogus wedding. You know about it, of course.”

  Plugge’s face regarded him with blank eyes.

  “You never got to it last night, Archie. Virginia came just at that point, if you remember.”

  “Well, Tony and I planned a bogus wedding to clear the way of any opposition to the marriage proper by Lady Donmaree. Virginia was eighteen then, and of course more minor than she is today, although whether a married woman can be a minor I don’t altogether know.” He groaned, and held his head. “It’s horrible to remember one’s past, don’t you think?”

  “You don’t look bogus to me, Archie. You have a great sense of fun.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I was the bogus priest at the bogus wedding. We sent out engraved invitation cards. The press came. We were in all the papers. I had a job at a prep, school in Sussex then.” He sighed once again. “I never went back—it was all too ghastly. My photograph was in The People. They even exposed me as a danger to young girls.” He meditated before continuing. “I’ve often wondered whether Tony gave the story to the press, because The Crusader published a photograph of the bill for hiring my parson’s rig-out from Willie Clarkson. You see”—he leaned towards Phillip and lowered his voice—“Tony suggested in the first place that I go to Willie’s shop. No-one else knew.”

  “Still they were properly married afterwards, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, I suppose that can be put on the credit side, although it was a runaway affair in Caxton Hall. Even so, what will Virginia’s lady mother think of me when she hears the too, too frightful news that Virginia has now bolted with Piers? You see, I am in a way doubly responsible”—the round unspectacled eyes were like a seal’s out of water—“because it was I who introduced Tony to Virginia in the first place, at Eleanor Metfield’s party.”

  Later that morning Phillip found Anders sitting a little diminished at his office table, a box of soda-mints before him.

  “What happened last night, Phillip?”

  “Nothing. Except that it was a jolly good party.”

  “Didn’t I make an awful fool of myself?”

  “No.”

  “I know I drank too much. I am a fool to drink.”

  “So am I. But I never drink whisky nowadays if I can help it.”

  “I seem to remember that you were trying to avoid me, Phillip. Was it anything I said that offended you?”

  “No, of course not. I’m glad I didn’t drink too much, because then I might very easily have told people about the Grasmere. If I had, and it got into the papers, I’d have had to withdraw my book. After all, it’s Miss Arden’s secret.”

  “I stayed at the Barbarian, you know. I’ve no idea at all how I got there.”

  “I think two people gave you a lift.”

  “Who were they, d’you know?”

  Anders swallowed two soda mints with water.

  “It was dark then. The moon had gone down.”

  “Perhaps Anthony Cruft brought me here. No, I don’t think so, for he didn’t mention it when he called earlier this morning. He’s going off somewhere remote to write a novel, and will let me have his address when he knows where he’s fixed up.” He held out the box of soda-mints. “Are you sure I was all right last night? Not noisy, or anything?”

  “Not in the very least, my pilot. You couldn’t get a word in edgeways in all that chatter. Well, I must be off now, to catch my train. See you next week, at the Aeolian Hall. Keep mum about it meanwhile.”

  “You can rely on me, Phillip.”

  “I know I can, Anders. But keep away from the whisky bottle. It’s the death of literature.”

  Chapter 10

  GREAT DAY

  They set out early, driving slowly into the golden silhouette of morning above the downs, before turning north through the market town and the road to Shakesbury. Now that the sun was out of their eyes, Ernest went a little faster, the speedometer needle showing 25 m.p.h. There was no hurry; eight hours lay before them.

  Phillip felt that life was good. He lay back agai
nst the leather upholstery, his velour hat tilted over his eyes and one leg cocked over the other. In his pocket were the letters collected at Colham by special arrangement before the post-office opened. It was a grand feeling to be driven by Ernest, a steady driver if ever there was one. No ambition to show off the Crossley engine, or a fancied skill in driving: there he sat, upright and unmoving, Pa beside him looking about, approving what he saw of the natural world. What a good idea it had been of Ernest’s, after all, to buy a roomy touring car, instead of some poky little roadster 2-seater.

  “Happy, Lulu?”

  “Very happy.”

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. There’s a letter for you, from Australia. From Tim, I think.”

  She read it eagerly, rich colour in her cheeks. It was good news, she told them. The jobs Tim and Fiennes had in the coal-mine were now more or less permanent. They had economised by living in bivouacs made of sheets of newspaper stuck layer on layer with flour-and-water paste until a hard stiff awning was secured, stretched on rope between trees. A couple of coats of paint preserved the surface, each had his own bivvy, they cooked their own food, and were quite enjoying life, ‘considering all things’.

  “Good for old Tim.”

  Ernest was another matter. He recalled the talk they had had that morning in the Works before starting off. There the Delauny-Belville was, the parts of its transmission, accurate in every particular, laid out ready for reassembly. Ernest had done a meticulous, a beautiful job, but——

  “By the way, old chap, I suppose the owner knows you are repairing this old crock?”

  “Oh, I don’t suppose so.”

  “But isn’t this job going to cost a fair amount? These yellow-metal castings, aren’t they phosphor bronze?”

  Ernest had made no reply. It was hopeless: everything he did was a wastage of capital. There was Fiennes’ brand-new Grindley-Peerless motorbike still standing in the garage, exactly as Fiennes had left it, except that now there was mildew on the saddle. And there, too, was the Tamp, its straight wooden mudguards green and rotting, the chassis hidden by nettles and brambles——