The Power of the Dead

by Henry Williamson

  “Cor stone the crows,” he muttered in his excitement of seeing a large black-fin and part of a tail near the descending lure. Allowing the fly to touch the water, he lifted the point of the rod again and again, dapping the insect until a large olivine neb arose and sucked it in. After a pause, the rod point was smartly lifted, and Bill Kidd told himself that he was into one of aldermanic proportions as the rod bent in an arc and the check on the reel screamed with line drawn out.

  When Bill Kidd left about 7 a.m. nine large trout were concealed under the thatching wads at the back of the car. He sold the fish in Colham to a fishmonger recommended by ‘Bosun’ about the time that Sir Hilary Maddison had finished packing for an early start from Pembrokeshire.

  Chapter 12

  HILARY IS WORRIED

  The London newspapers were on sale in the town of Haverfordwest every day after 10 a.m. On the morning following the news of the Grasmere award on his wireless set Hilary had bought a copy of every paper on the station bookstall—a small wooden shed with lock-up shutters—and looked through them while sitting in his motorcar. At first he had felt a little satisfaction in the prominent space given to the name of Maddison. There it was, in the fourth leader of the Telegram. But when he came to the penny papers this feeling changed to astonishment, then to exasperation. The damned young idiot, posing as the heir to ‘a considerable estate in the West Country’ and ‘married to a niece of Lord Kilmeston.’ The Fawley property was little more than a holding originally established by a scion of the family whose seat was in Durham. The Durham estate had been sequestrated during the Civil War, and later restored by Charles the Second. Master Phillip was getting too big for his boots, evidently; and he was not the heir: he was a probationer, to whom by now it should have been perfectly clear that unless he made good within a stipulated period he would not succeed to a life-tenancy.

  Hilary called daily for his letters poste restante at the main G.P.O.; he had collected them before buying the newspapers, but had not yet opened them. They lay, neat and compact, within the cubby hole in the dashboard of his second motorcar, the Wolseley 2-seater. Now he took them out, and with a feeling of constriction selected an envelope with a French stamp addressed to him in surely too neat a handwriting—the dots between the letters after his name so correctly placed, as though the writer had to make up in added respect for adverse news within——

  He sat back, overcome by dread, then by fear, and finally by a pessimistic thought that he might as well be dead. Irene Lushington had refused his offer of marriage. He knew it, he knew it. He had not asked for her love when last he had seen her in London; only for her care, and, possibly in time, her affection. All he wanted, he had said, as they sat in his drawing room of Claridge’s (usually when in London he stayed at one or other of his three clubs, the Voyagers, the East India, and the Flyfishers’) was a home somewhere where he could feel that he really belonged. A man’s home, he had said, meant the grace, the beauty, and above all the happiness of a woman.

  He would prefer to live in the East, perhaps in China—Shanghai he had known romantically as a young man—but the choice would be hers; he would live wherever she wanted to live, and the marriage settlement should be on her own terms, subject to her grandson Billy inheriting the Fawley property.

  Irene liked Hilary, up to a point. Beyond that point, she was shut-away from him. When driving her to South Devon, after the christening of her grandson, she had been drawn to his loneliness, for he had told her restrainedly about his long-ended marriage: being aware that to have put his ex-wife in a poor light might have aroused defensive or at least curious thoughts about himself in relation to Beatrice. And although he did not know this, Irene was already on his side; for Phillip had told her about the attempt of his aunt-by-marriage to get into his bed one night—the only night he had stayed at her Hampshire home after returning from Flanders early in 1915, while Uncle Hilary was at sea.

  No; what had led Irene to have reserved thoughts about Hilary was his unfeeling attitude at her daughter’s grave soon after they had arrived at Malandine. The weed-grown mound, set with a brief marble stone on which was carved a reaping hook encircling a rose-in-bud, had made Hilary critical of Phillip, whom she loved for his sweetness and sympathy towards others.

  “If he cannot think to arrange an annual payment with the parson to have the grave kept in order, how can he look after twelve hundred acres and all that goes with the property? You see, Irene, I can never be sure of my nephew.”

  When he met Irene again in London, Hilary, after dining with her at the Savoy, had taken her to a play at the small and intimate Fortune Theatre. It was a comedy by Frederick Lonsdale. Hilary had wanted to see Cochran’s revue, One Dam Thing After Another, but Irene had already seen it, so they saw On Approval; and afterwards they returned to sup at the Savoy.

  At the next table sat a party of young men and women discussing a play about the war. Irene heard only words here and there, but among them, with a start, she heard Phillip’s name mentioned. A man with a clean-shaven, meditative face, said, “If anyone can do it, it will be Phillip Maddison. That article in the Crusader on the opening of the battle of the Somme will be a classic. I heard him talking one evening in the Barbarian Club. There is something in that young man dead beyond resurrection, but he holds the entire war in the palm of his hand.”

  When the party at the next table had left, she had asked the waiter who they were, and learned that the speaker was Captain Reginald Berkeley, the author of a play called The White Chateau.

  “Did you hear what he said about Phillip, Hilary? I read what he wrote about the Somme in the Daily Crusader. Someone cut it out and sent it to me at Laruns. It was deeply moving.”

  Hilary had replied shortly, “The sooner he forgets the war, the better for himself and his prospects.”

  “What they were saying was high praise, Hilary.”

  “Possibly; but have you looked at his novels? I found them an unreadable hotch-potch. In any case, it’s too soon now to write about the war. Let him wait until all the history books have had their say. After all, I heard my father once say that Tolstoi wrote about the Napoleonic era in War and Peace more than fifty years after the event.”

  There had been a feeling of blankness when they parted that night, Hilary driving her to her club; but the next day when she had telephoned early to thank him for her evening he had offered to see her off at Victoria on the boat train. He was at his best, bringing her flowers and a light luncheon basket. As the time for the train to leave drew near, they felt that they were going to miss one another. Just before the whistle blew, without premeditation she leant down to offer her cheek for a kiss, while he reached up also without thought and kissed her gently. There were tears in her eyes as she sat down; while Hilary, having raised his bowler hat, turned away with the idea, enchanting and sad, that she must love him.

  From that time he was preoccupied with the thought of what his sister Viccy would feel if he married again. Despite, or perhaps partly because of, their father’s defects, and certainly because they had all loved their mother, the three Maddison brothers and four sisters had always been devoted to the idea of themselves as a family.

  His sister Viccy might not live long. She had had one operation for the dreaded carcinoma, when her womb was removed. One could never be certain that the malignancy was no longer in the blood stream.

  Hitherto Hilary had been fairly content to spend the summers in his caravan in Wales, ‘far from the madding crowd of trippers’, as he thought of it. Since the war, ribbon-building was increasing behind and along the coast centred on Bournemouth, a pleasant enough place to spend the winter, in his home efficiently run by Viccy. But should anything happen to her——

  And now there was brother John. The doctor had said that he should be X-rayed to determine the condition of the chronic bronchitis.

  These considerations had led Hilary to write to Irene and ask her to marry him. And now, within the envelope, was her answer.
He dared not open it. He put it in his breast pocket beside his wallet, and looked at his remaining mail. Nothing from Phillip; and according to The Times, the mayfly was up all over southern England.

  He returned to the post-office, and sent a telegram to his nephew; and then, going into the Mariners Inn, ordered a pint of porter, which gave him sufficient energy to open Irene’s letter. At the first glance he was shocked; then depressed. He ordered a large whisky, and thus encouraged, read the letter in a different light. There was hope after all. She would like time to think it over: she was going on a cruise to India with a woman friend, and would let him know in the autumn, when she hoped to meet him and talk things over, because, she said, she had a persistent feeling that she might not be able to be all that she knew was expected of her.

  The next day, on receiving his nephew’s reply to his telegram, Hilary packed his rods and kitbag and set off for Colham.

  On arrival there he went to see the family doctor about his brother’s condition, to learn that there was some obstruction in the bronchus. A sputum test had revealed absence of tubercle.

  Hilary went on to Rookhurst and made his first call at Fawley. There he offered to arrange matters with a London nursing home.

  “Thank you, my dear brother, but I think I’ll return for a spell at the Shakesbury home. After all, my old doctor has the case in hand. But I have little doubt that my time has come. We must keep it from the others. One does not want Phillip and Lucy to be worried.”

  “You’re going to be all right, John. You’ll pull round now that the weather is set fair, after all this wet we’ve been having. I’ll come and see you again tomorrow, old chap, and hope to bring you a trout for your luncheon. Also, I would recommend stout, to build you up. It’s about the finest tonic there is, when one is run down. I’ll bring a bottle or two tomorrow from the farmhouse.” If Master Phillip hasn’t finished it by now, he thought.

  *

  As he was going down to the village Hilary passed a hatless young man with what appeared to be a walking stick carried under one arm like a gun, and an army valise on his back. Just before the car came level the man turned abruptly and held up his hand for the driver to stop. Hilary was put out by this, and when the young fellow, who had a swarthy face, asked him if he knew where Skirr Farm was, he replied shortly, “Yes. It’s half a mile down this road, about a hundred yards past the church, on the left. Do you want to see anyone there?” He meant to add, “If so, I’ll give you a lift”; but when the young fellow, who wore a pair of new brown leather leggings with ill-fitting khaki breeches, and a jacket he appeared to have outgrown, replied, “Yes I do, but I’ll find it all right,” Hilary drove on.

  *

  In preparation for Sir Hilary’s visit, Haylock had asked the bailiff that the small boat, stored in the barn, be carted to the Longpond and there submerged near the pier. It was carvel built, and the seams needed swelling. As soon as the drakes were seen on the water, the keeper had the boat hauled up on the bank, there to be drained and cleaned before refloating.

  Early the following day, on his rounds, he had thrown a pail of water into the boat, to keep the caulking damp.

  Hilary arrived that evening; and after breakfast the next morning Phillip went with him to the pier, which consisted of a broad elm plank on sunken posts; and having seen his uncle aboard with Haylock, returned to the farmhouse.

  The Longpond curved near its middle length. The boat, sculled gently backwards, moved towards the bend. Hilary sat in the stern, casting his fly on the water. Suddenly he said, “Haylock, I see a man up there, fishin’. Who is it?”

  Haylock reversed one paddle, so that the boat swung broadside on. “No idea, Sir Hilary.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Phillip has given anyone permission to fish?”

  “Not so far as I’m aware.”

  They both stared at the stranger, who continued to dap his fly as though unaware of the boat’s presence.

  “Take me to him. I made it plain that on no account was this water to be fished until I had paid my visit.”

  The fisherman was standing near one of the willows sprawling over the water. When Hilary looked at him again, to his surprise the fellow, whom he could have sworn had been without a hat when first seen, was wearing a deerstalker stuck with large salmon flies, of the kind fished in Norwegian rivers.

  “How d’you do, Sir Roland,” he called out. “You’re just in time for the rise. I thought it was Piers at first. Is he comin’ out this mornin’?”

  “And who may you be?”

  “I am Major Kidd, late of the Gaultshire Regiment, Sir Roland. I say, surely these rainbows are stew-fed?”

  “I am Sir Hilary Maddison, I own this water, and no-one has been given permission to fish here.”

  “But this is Benbow Pond, isn’t it, sir?”

  “No. The Benbow Ponds belong to Sir Roland Tofield, my neighbour. They’re three miles down the valley.”

  “I offer you my apologies, sir. It also explains why I’ve been puzzled. You see, Piers said the fish were brownies, but these big’ns are rainbows. And that fact’s been puzzling me, for as you know, Salmo gairdneri usually dies off in landlocked water during the first spawning season.”

  “Rainbow trout grow quickly here, the food is plentiful. Have you killed any fish yet?”

  The stranger was seized with a paroxysm of coughing. He bent double in apparent agony, a hand pressed into his midriff. “Gas,” he managed to gasp. “Phosgene—got it in Oppy Wood——”

  In his time Hilary had had to deal with lascars from East India, larrikins in the docks of Sydney, dagoes from Port Said, and bums at San Francisco: and in the attitude of the man before him he felt something of the underdog, the fly boy, the four-flusher.

  “Did Sir Roland Tofield give you leave to fish his water?”

  “Well, sir, I would hardly have fished otherwise? An Old Wyck knows his manners.”

  “An Old What?”

  “I took my first trout from the Test at Winchester, sir, from the Common Water. On a dry fly, of course.”

  “You were in College at Winchester?”

  “Yes, before the war, sir.”

  “And you served with the Gaultshire Regiment? In that case you know my nephew, Phillip Maddison?”

  “He was my Commanding Officer in France and Belgium, sir.”

  “Did he give you permission to fish here?”

  Bill Kidd thought rapidly: his mind prompted a divided answer. “Phillip did offer me a day on his water, so did Piers, when I met them together in London, and we talked trout. As a matter of fact, I intended to look him up after my day on the Tofield beat. I’ve just come down from London, as a matter of fact, and mistaken my destination.”

  Hilary decided to let it go at that. “Well, finish your day. I’ll take the lower water, by the weir.”

  “That’s most generous of you, sir, but I rather fancy I’ll be expected at the Tofields’ place.” He wound in his line.

  Bill Kidd had a dozen fish hidden in a bed of nettles: he didn’t want the boat to land, so pulling off his deerstalker he bowed from the neck like a guardsman in plain clothes before Royalty; then with a “Good day to you, sir, I’ll get my motor”, he walked towards the site of the ruined house. There he shoved the wads of reed together with the spars or brooches through an empty window-space into the brambles and elderberry bushes below. Had anyone stopped him on the way there and asked what was he doing with them, Bill Kidd had his answer rehearsed. ‘I’m an ex-serviceman trying to get a living. These are samples of the best wheat reed. Know any bloke wanting a thatcher? My partners and I can undercut local rates by twenty per cent.’

  He congratulated himself as he returned slowly down the weedy drive. Near the farmhouse he met Phillip walking with a young man in creaking new leggings, together with the girl who had turned up the day before, whom he had seen several times at the Game Pie with a middle-aged man, who was obviously running her by the way he kept her from younger men.

/>   “I’ve been looking for you, my Mad Son. I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting Sir Hilary, who was kind enough to give me permission to fish. But I don’t want to take advantage of his generosity while he’s here. How long’s he staying, d’you know?”

  “He may be here for the rest of the summer, or gone tomorrow.”

  “Blime, a fly-by-night. Seriously, I thought he was a decent old boy. A sahib, in fact. Who’s this bloke?”

  “Mr. Cabton—Major Kidd.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Major. What sort of car d’you call this one? ’Ot as ’ell. A joke, I perceive.”

  “What sort of walking stick do you call that one? Poacher’s four-ten, what? You look out, my lad! Have you got a licence? Then watch your step! I’ve got a game licence, and that entitles me to ask questions, and don’t you forget it.”

  Cabton replied in lazy tones. “What does your old iron do, if it isn’t a rude question?”

  “At thirty the engine rattles, at forty your ribs rattle, at fifty a gramophone plays ‘Down Among the Dead Men’ Well, cheerio you blokes. If you, my little maid, can’t be good”—with a finger wag at Felicity—“be careful! I spied you in the Game Pie, with my little eye. Naughty, naughty!” And with a roar of conglomerate machinery Bill Kidd drove down the valley to the Benbow Ponds, thinking that what he knew about the little maid might one day come in useful.

  *

  Phillip and Felicity were walking up the borstal. His slight fear of her induced a satirical mood of defence. “In some ways, you know, Bill Kidd is a praiseworthy figure, if self-education be considered a matter of praise.”

  “He didn’t seem educated to me.”

  “He educated himself by telepathy at one of the three leading public schools in England.”

  “I don’t understand.”