Mr. Driver sighed, and dropped his pencil on the desk. “There, you see?” he said to Phillip.
*
Pa and Ernest were waiting outside Reading Station, sitting motionless in the Crossley tourer.
“Ha,” said Pa.
“Have you seen the papers?” asked Phillip.
“No,” said Ernest.
“Thank goodness.”
They drove back mile after mile upon the winding grey road that rose to the uplands of the Great Plain, past beech hangers and wilderness tracts of thorn and rounded barrows of the ancient dead. It was summer weather, and in coppice and brake the nightingales were in full song. Now the course of his life was running full. ‘Young landowner awarded Grasmere Prize for finest book of the year by any British writer under 41 years of age’. ‘Literary prize awarded to book of undoubted genius’, says Thomas Morland O.M. ‘Shy young man unable to make a speech, yet writes a book unsurpassed for clarity and truth to Nature’. And all that from a compound of suffering and regret removed from the page—an almost total refraction of light rays through the prism of the mind.
He sat beside a Lucy enjoying the sight of familiar fields and coppices, Lucy beginning secretly to glow with imminent warm thoughts of Peter and the little one within her, who would play through sunlit hours with their big brother, dearest Billy, the more cherished in her heart because she was ‘Mummy’ to him. The faces of children were still smiling in her imagination as the motor descended to the valley and climbed to the last ridge, whence fell before them a prospect upon the plain of Colham, and the distant blue line of the hills above the Chase. Now they were descending the winding lane sunken through the wreckage of Rookhurst Forest and its wild growth of sycamore, elder, thorn and bramble among its rotted beech-stumps—a perfect sanctuary for the wild birds she loved; but to the man beside her an extension of a memory of timber-tracks long since tipped and splintered by the shellfire of Third Ypres.
For Lucy, a happy cluster of thatched cottages of the village around the church tower, the fields faintly green after re-seeding with permanent pasture mixtures; for Phillip, the grave of Willie under the churchyard yews, Willie who had not compromised, but given his life for the truth as he had seen it. Perhaps, when The Phoenix was published in the late autumn, people would understand.
*
Skirr Farmhouse; two excited little boys; broad beaming face of Mrs. Rigg, Pa and Ernest having a drink before tea (Ernest the teetotaller always drank port because, he said, ‘it didn’t count’). Then they had gone, Pa wondering about his tomato plants because the sky was dulling over, and their going left no feeling of absence behind them, because there had been no feeling of warmth.
“The childer was both so good as gold, ma’m.”
As for the master, all the village had heard about the money of the prize he’d won. And zum was zaying it was wonnerful, my dear zoul, vancy winning a hunner pounds for writin’ of a book about a water-hotter.
“Vancy it happening to Mr. Madd’zn, whoever would have thought it, but there it be, up on the paper. But what be I about, forgettin’ the post. There be scores and scores o’ letters corned, and several telegrams for the maister.”
He left them unopened, and walked down to the village, hoping that no-one would speak of money. He met no-one, and went into the churchyard, to sit beside the grave of his cousin; and returning, said to Lucy, “Would you put in some plants for me, when you go there next? What grows test on chalk?”
“Oh, pinks and carnations, and love-in-the-mist. And there’s cornflowers, of course. Shall I get some in Colham? The ’bus goes in tomorrow.”
“Would you? Leave the wild poppies, won’t you? They’re not in bud yet, but will be soon.”
Part Three
STRAWS IN THE WIND
Chapter 11
A GIRL FORLORN
Phillip was up early, to walk as usual through the meadows beside the brook to the Longpond. The rainbows were feeding on some underwater nymphs, or perhaps minnows. Did minnows ever leave the shallows? Anyway, the trout were not feeding on surface flies. Swirls arose, little humps of water spreading out like shallow craters. The fish were after shrimp or minnow, perhaps.
He felt suddenly happy about the Longpond. The black overhanging, water-logged boughs of the willows could be sawn off, new trees and bushes planted. Peering into a shallow clarified by the low sun behind him, he saw the delicate lines on the oval shells of several large fresh-water mussels, some nearly six inches long. A kingfisher flew over the surface above its vibrating chest-nut-and-blue image.
It was six o’clock. The water reflected patches of blue in the white of passing clouds. Swallows were flying high, sometimes letting out ringing cries. The morning mists below in the combe were lifting with the sun. Above slowly drifting nimbus could be seen motionless scales of cirrus.
He went on to the beech hanger, and looked down upon the vale. Far away a layer of smoke showed that kitchen fires had been lit. It was time to return and examine the letters and telegrams, most of which had been opened and glanced at the previous evening, while Lucy had gone to find out how Uncle John was. On her return she told him that they were invited to supper the following evening.
“He isn’t very well, but he hopes to be better when we go there tomorrow. I knew you would like to see him, so I accepted. He sent his congratulations, and asked you to forgive him for not writing a letter.”
About forty more letters were lying on the table. Most of them were from strangers, a few from old acquaintances. He flung them, read and unread, into the bushel measure he used for waste-paper, then swallowed his breakfast. Meanwhile Billy picked out the letters and arranged them in a linear pattern on the parlour floor, pretending to be the postman delivering one letter to each cottage. He gathered them up and went to the night nursery when Peter crawled over and started to post them in the bushel measure.
Phillip carried Peter up the stairs and divided the envelopes between those addressed by hand, which he gave to Peter, and those which were typed, to Billy.
“We must see what’s inside them, so come down and I’ll open them on the parlour floor.”
Afterwards each boy had his packet to play with, while Phillip scanned the letters. One was from Anders Norse telling him that the galleys of The Phoenix would be sent to him direct from the printers at Plymouth, as Coats wanted to get the novel out in the early autumn. Anders went on to say that he had placed the short stories he had by him, seven in all, at forty guineas each. The English editors had agreed to hold them until American publication was arranged. He was confident of doing this through his New York agent, who was asking a thousand dollars a story.
Phillip calculated, and said to Lucy, “There’s a possible thousand pounds from America, and a definite three hundred pounds from English magazines.”
In the post next morning was a score of letters, one from his agent.
Further to my letter of yesterday I have just been on the telephone to Coats and they are prepared to draw up another contract for your next nature book, which is not covered by the options on their agreement with you for the novels. They offer you one thousand pounds now (£1,000) against a book on the life of a trout, half to be paid on signing the agreement and the remainder on day of publication. They are prepared to wait until you feel you are able to write the book. There is no hurry for a year, perhaps two years or even longer, as they don’t want to rush you.
I don’t know what you feel about journalism, but the Sunday Crusader, which I think you know is edited by Arnold Cressingham Brexell, offer fifty guineas each for a series of twelve articles, leaving the subject to you. Each article will be 750 words, more or less, but that is to be the average length. The payment will include all British serial rights, all other rights being reserved by the author. It occurs to me that you may like to consider these articles as a basis of a book about a trout, and river life generally, which Coats wants to publish for you. Water seems to bring you luck!
Pe
rhaps you will think about these offers and let me know. There is no immediate hurry. I saw you at the Aeolian Hall, but as you were busy with others, I kept out of your way; but you know, I think, how I have believed in your work from the early days. May I add my congratulations now, if only to affirm, once again, that I remain,
Ever yours,
Anders.
P.S. I have just heard that Coats has accepted the volume of short country stories you looked at in my office recently, by A. B. Cabton. Edward Cornelian wants Cabton to gain more experience, at first-hand, of the countryside; as I think you know, Cabton has never left London. He is going to write to you proposing that Cabton comes to work on your farm, where, in his words, ‘all will be grist to his mill’. If you don’t want him it doesn’t matter, he says; Cabton will find himself a lodging somewhere. It’s the starting point that is required. I hope this won’t put you out, but it will anyway give him a start, and I can’t think of anyone more suitable to whom to entrust a young man of genius.
“Shall we invite Cabton?”
“Why not? It will be nice for you to have someone to talk to, and go for walks with.”
He opened more letters. After glancing at half a dozen, he pushed the remainder aside.
“Fancy me having begging letters. Someone with forty-two cats wants me to help pay for their food.”
“Let me fry you some more bacon. Yours has gone cold.”
“How ironic it all is. The Grasmere Memorial will make Nuncle feel that I have betrayed him. No word from him as yet.”
She flushed, and said, “I honestly don’t see why he should object to your writing in your spare time. After all, a farmer shouldn’t have to work all the time as a labourer.”
“I quite enjoy working with my body. The trouble is, I can’t write unless I remain broody. And then I get irritable and over-sharp.”
“Well, you deserve a rest now. Let Ned carry on with the farm work. You have a holiday, now all the fuss is over.”
“What about yourself?”
“Oh, I get along quite happily.” She was big with a child due in September.
He took the letters upstairs to his room, to reply first to Edward Cornelian saying that he’d be pleased to put up Cabton, and show him the country. If Cabton liked the district, he would be able to get a room out. ‘Or he can use our tent and camp beside the brook, while having his meals with us, as he prefers’.
By 7 p.m. all the letters were answered, except that from the woman with forty-two cats, who said that they were living in her house, like the otter she had read about who had lived happily with his dogs, cats, and birds; unless she could get money at once to provide food for them all, the order of the Court to have them destroyed would be enforced. Also her landlord had threatened to turn her out, as her rent money had been spent on the cats’ food. Please would he send her £30 at once, and also advise her what to do?
Phillip made several attempts to reply, but as each degenerated into farce he threw it in the bushel measure, feeling guilty.
They had supper with Uncle John. Phillip noticed how thin he was getting. The old fellow complained of finding it hard to breathe, but did not speak of himself beyond saying that he had found the nursing home a bore. “Now tell me, Phillip, have you heard from Hilary?”
“No, Uncle John.”
“Perhaps your success will make him reconsider his opinion of your abilities. Have you any ideas for future books?”
“I’ve a novel coming out in the autumn. That ends the tetralogy.”
“What becomes of Donkin?”
“He comes to the end of his self-tethering.”
Nothing more was said about the novel.
“I’m asked to write about a trout’s life. But I know nothing about fish.”
“Well, this is the country for trout, Phillip.”
“Yes—it’s all here, Uncle John.”
The next morning, and the next, he walked beside the brook to the Longpond. Yes, it was the place for the story of a trout. He owed it to his work to ‘be idle’, to sit about and watch. Reaching the little wooden landing-stage, he saw that the row-boat from the barn was sunken, but secured by a rope to one of the posts which supported the fifteen-inch-wide elm plank. Obviously the boat required to be swelled, to stop it leaking.
As he lay on one elbow, feeling happy and free, he noticed that the water appeared to be sliding about. Fish were on the move. A back-fin wavered above the surface, followed by the curled edge of a tail. As he stared he saw arising from the water the slow pale-green flutter of a newly hatched mayfly.
Kneeling on the bank and peering over the reeds he watched a grey, shrimp-like object crawling up a stem. It was about an inch and a half long. Then he saw others moving up the reeds. They remained still a few inches above the water, masked nymphs fixed as though glazed: but only for a moment: the celluloid-like sheaths split, and heads with bulbous eyes came forth, the bodies bent. He moved nearer, resting himself on his arms in water to the elbows, to watch one growing, as tremblingly it unfolded gauzy wings.
A swallow dived beyond the fringe of reeds, to dip its breast in the water and then, sweeping up, snapped a mayfly, and then it flew in a direct line to the farm premises down the valley. Was it going to call its mate? Many mayflies were now drifting all over the water, little spheres of pale-green light making scarcely any progress as they moved in a daze of a new and uncertain existence. Insect after insect rose slowly, each in a whirl of new wings, some to reach the willows and cling to leaf or twig. Their eyes were now large and dark, the three whisks from the end of the abdomen were upheld in anticipation of the climax of life, of love high in the air—later a drifting down the sky to drop the egg-burden on the mirror’d water—finally to fall spent into that which had given it life.
He lay on the bank, hands behind head, in a dream of sunshine until, hearing noon being tolled from the village clock—fitted into one face of the tower for a memorial to the dead in the war—he wandered home, leaving the Longpond to all kinds of small birds gathered to the feast.
*
“Billy and I were just going to look for you,” said Lucy. “We thought you must have gone up to the downs. Two telegrams came with the post, one from Uncle Hilary, the other from that girl who wanted to interview you. I’ve left them on the table.”
AM HAVING HOLIDAY AT SHAKESBURY STOP MAY I CALL ON YOU INTERVIEW PLEASE ANCROFT TELEPHONE SHAKESBURY 29
“Oh yes, the one I met with Piers in London. Shall we ask her over?”
Lucy telephoned, and left a message for Miss Ancroft to come over whenever she wanted to: and then dictated Phillip’s reply to Uncle Hilary’s telegram:
MADDISON POST RESTANTE HAVERFORDWESTMAYFLY UP LONGPOND
After lunch, Lucy took the little boys to see Uncle John, leaving Phillip to reply to letters in his room, and feeling that he was wasting the light of the sun now beyond Whitesheet Hill in the distance. Remotely he was aware of an unsilenced engine muttering in the lane below, and then there arose a sequence of raucous noises on a klaxon horn. Was this some drunken cattle-dealer come to the wrong farm? He listened. There was an interval before the klaxon began its grating again. This time it seemed to have a rough rhythm of dots and dashes, like a contact observation biplane circling over infantry.
There was a pause, and it began again. Phillip read the Morse Code.
MY MAD SON
There was only one man who would announce himself like that—Bill Kidd. Phillip ran to the window. And there he was, extravagant moustaches and all, at the wheel of an open car, leather flying helmet on head, lifting a hand in salute. Beside him sat Archie Plugge.
“I’ll come down.”
Bill Kidd gave him the crushing hand-squeeze of the strongman of fiction, followed by a brushing up of his Kaiser moustache. After the greeting, Phillip had to think of what to say.
“This is an unusual type of ’bus, Bill.”
“You’re telling me, my Mad Son! Belonged to a bloke in the R.N.A.S. a
t Harwich during the war, who shot down a Zeppelin over the North Sea, after taking off into the wind at forty knots from one of Tyrwhitt’s destroyers.”
“What make is it?”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
He went to the front of a Métallurgique radiator and gave the handle a jerk. At once there was a massive rumbling from four brass-bound Mercédès exhaust pipes serpentining through one side of the bonnet held down by a thick leather strap. On the off-side was painted a Union Jack; on the near-side the name in small red letters, Otazelle.
“French make?”
“Sneeze, old boy, your brain’s dusty. Take a look at the front springs.”
Phillip had to kneel, and peer under, because the space below the radiator was covered by a curved length of aluminium sheeting on which the registered number BK I was painted in white. He could see only that the front spring was transverse, and damped down on either side by André shock absorbers.
“What is it?”
“Take a squint at the body.”
The seats of red russian leather were thickly padded, giving an impression of pre-war opulence.
“I don’t know. It looks like one of those ’buses entered for the Gordon Bennett race from Madrid to Berlin in nineteen-nought-six.”
“Getting warmer. The body belonged to a Richard-Brasier.”
Bill Kidd opened the brass hand-throttle below the heavy mahogany steering-wheel; the exhaust thundered. He switched on a moveable lamp like a small searchlight beside the driver’s seat, moved it about, until suddenly the beam was in Phillip’s eyes.
“Sorry, old boy. But you see the idea? I had it put on for hunting rabbits at night. If you want yours kept down, say the word and Bill Kidd’s on.”
The Power of the Dead Page 29