The Power of the Dead

by Henry Williamson

  “The fact that, in all probability, his name doesn’t appear in the official list of ‘Old Wycks’, should be offset by the pride he must have felt before admitting himself at his advanced age, to Winchester College.” He struck at nettles with his stick; a whitethroat flew out in alarm. They peered for the nest. It was safe, thank heaven.

  “Don’t heed what I said. I was assuming my satiric, worthless self, Felicity, for I do really understand Bill Kidd’s persona, or mask. I assumed an identical attitude when I became a temporary gent, and was attached for training to a territorial battalion whose officers were most of them from Cambridge. I had such a ragging for being a bounder—and I did behave like a bounder—that a little later on, when with another regiment, I found myself suddenly saying that I was up at Cambridge University just before the war. I wasn’t; I was a junior clerk in the City. I suppose it was a natural effect of fear, of wanting to conform in all respects. What in nature is called ‘protective coloration’, which after all springs from fear.”

  “That’s a generous way to look at it.”

  “But isn’t it the truth?”

  “They say that truth is bitter.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  He stopped and looked at her. “What did Bill Kidd mean about seeing you in the Game Pie?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve been there only three times, always with my guardian. The third time I saw you.”

  “But why do you think the truth is bitter?”

  “I don’t really. Blake said, ‘Everything that lives is holy’. That’s what I really feel.” She concealed her bitten nails.

  They sat down at the edge of the beech hanger. She longed to put her head against his heart, and feel his arms holding her. It was an aching feeling. But he merely spoke about Bill Kidd in Archangel. She burst out with “How can anyone want to be photographed beside a row of men who have been hanged?”

  “They may have been dummies for a film. Tell me what he said in the Game Pie?”

  She had looked flurried when she spoke about her ‘guardian’. And also, there was Piers’ remark about ringing her up the next time he went to London. She’ll be only too glad of the chance, I expect.

  What a hypocrite he was, pretending to Lucy that he thought of her only for help with his work. The days were drifting by, and he was not working. It had been the same with Barley—she had been between him and all thoughts about war. He must continue his book about the war. O, it cried out to be written: the historical truth of those years. How the war had altered not only the face of the land, with its hutment camps and practice areas, but also the faces of the people. Consider his own case—or, more obviously, the case of Bill Kidd. From being a frightened, evasive little fellow—his eyes in moments of quiet were still haunted—with moustache no bigger than one of his own eyebrows, Bill Kidd had developed, through fear and desperation, and in admiring imitation of his superiors, into a conglomerated man with a jargon improvised to fit the picture of himself as ‘a bold, bad lad’: full of ideas of his own potential valour; his old self, still the inner man, thrust behind that Kaiser moustache.

  Felicity came to him with some shells of hill-snails in the palm of her hand.

  “Are those ammonites, Phillip?”

  “Aren’t ammonites found only in water? Felicity, I feel I’ve been mean about Bill Kidd.”

  “Only because you understand him.”

  “You knew him before he came here, didn’t you?”

  “I’ve only seen him once before, at the Game Pie. But never spoken to him.”

  He felt warmly towards Bill Kidd.

  “After all, every living creature strives to get on, by copying, that is learning from, others. Birds and butterflies imitate foliage—soil—rocks—to escape being seen. All the world is a stage, full of invented life.”

  There was a shot among the trees, the screaming of a blackbird. Cabton came to the edge of the hanger, holding up a bird.

  “Ever had a blackbird pie? Not bad, eh? If I can get some clay, I’ll bake it in the embers of a fire.”

  “I did that once with a sparrow.”

  “Did you eat it?”

  “It was not only burnt, but burst.”

  “You should’ve taken out the guts first.”

  He took Cabton aside. “There are a lot of young birds about, pheasants and partridges included, so couldn’t you watch them, without shooting?”

  *

  Hilary felt hedged-in when he saw two more strange faces in the garden. Phillip should have known better than to have his friends to stay at the same time as himself. After all, there was the rest of the year in which to invite them. However, he did his best to be pleasant, but got only monosyllabic replies from Cabton. He was finally repelled by the fellow cleaning his nails with a single-bladed penknife while sitting at table.

  “Who is he?” he asked later, when he, Phillip and Billy were in the garden.

  “Stick Gun,” said Billy earnestly, looking up.

  “A writer,” Phillip hastened to say. “I’ve never met him before.”

  “Then why is he here?”

  “Edward Cornelian, the critic and friend of Thomas Morland, thinks he has great talent.”

  “Then there was that other fellow who was poaching my trout.”

  “He just turned up.”

  “This sort of thing won’t do, you know, Phillip. Who’s the girl?”

  “Miss Ancroft is staying at Shakesbury, and came over for the day. Lucy thought she could help with secretarial work.”

  “Well, don’t get mixed up with too many people like Stiggun or Stiggin whatever he calls himself, and that other fellow, what’s his name, Kidd. There’s only one word for a man who claims to be a Wykehamist and tells you that the Test runs past Winchester. He hadn’t even bothered to look at a map to find out that the river is the Itchen. I suppose it was you three who got rid of my whisky?”

  “I must apologise for not telling you earlier, Uncle Hilary. When these people called, I offered them refreshment. There was also a man from Savoy Hill. I didn’t drink any myself, by the way.”

  “I don’t want to have to lock up my things, you know.”

  “I tried to get another bottle to replace it, but malt whisky isn’t sold locally.”

  “Why didn’t you drink any?”

  “I’m trying to keep as fit as possible.”

  “Well, that’s something. Good God, look at that child.”

  Billy had taken one of the table knives and was trying to clean his fingernails with it.

  “You really must use your judgment about whom you allow in your home, Phillip. What does Lucy think about these people?”

  “Oh, she’s happy whatever happens.”

  Felicity came up to them.

  “I’m going now. I have so enjoyed myself. I think I’ll walk to Shakesbury. Thank you for letting me come here. Did you have some good fishing, Sir Hilary?”

  “Oh, not so bad, you know.”

  Phillip said, “Well, thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

  “I wish I could have done more.”

  “Please let me pay you for the typing.”

  She was pale. “Oh no. It’s been a great privilege to be allowed to come here. I’ll find Mrs. Maddison, to say goodbye—— No, I love walking, really. Please don’t bother about me——”

  “Of course I’ll run you back. I expect Cabton will like a ride on the carrier, too.”

  Hilary saw them off with a genial manner; he was relieved to think that now he would have the sitting room to himself before supper.

  Lucy came downstairs, having put the boys to bed, to find Hilary standing by the fireplace.

  “Will Phillip be long, d’you think, Lucy? I think it’s time we came to some definite arrangement. I’d like you to be present, too.”

  “It takes about half an hour to go to Colham and back, Uncle Hilary.”

  “Perhaps we three can talk in another room?
I suppose he’ll be bringing that fellow Stiggun or Stiggin back with him? What’s Phillip doing, anyway, to allow him to walk about with that poacher’s gun of his?”

  “I think he’s supposed to be getting ideas for a book.”

  “Good God! Getting ideas for a book, with a Belgian walking-stick gun in June!”

  “Anyway, I’ll tell him we have some family business to talk over after supper. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  When the supper table was cleared, and Cabton had gone out, the brushwood in the hearth was lit. Sticks blazed against the back-log, they sat in the light of cheerful flames.

  Phillip had feared the worst; he was therefore surprised when his uncle began by saying, “I’ve decided to follow my advisers, and go in for milk, and take a moveable bail to the fields. We’ll build up a pedigree Friesian herd to begin with. The Government will be forced to subsidise milk sooner or later, and to build processing factories. Other downland farmers are going in for milk. It will mean getting rid of the ewe flocks. I want to do this at Michaelmas, before the slump really gets going. All the political signs point to a General Election in the Spring, and if the Conservative party has any sense it will let in the Socialists to show the country what a mess they can make of things.”

  “Make a mess out of a mess, you mean?”

  “Exactly. If you have anything to say, now’s the time to get it off your chest.”

  “Some of the men will be stood off, I suppose?”

  “Almost all of them. We’ll need five cowmen, including a head man, who will have had mechanical training. We’ll require one horseman to look after five horses, the usual number for a teams-man. Lads can lead the pairs in waggon, tumbril, and water-cart. In fact, there won’t be any water-carts. Water will be drawn to the herds in hollow light rollers, which can also be used for those cultivations required for growing oats, hay, and other fodder for the cows.”

  Phillip asked about Joby the shepherd.

  “He’ll have to be given notice when the hoggets are finished off next spring. Hibbs will have to go, too.”

  “Poor Hibbs, he said to me that the farm should be all milk, with bails, nearly two years ago.”

  “I’m afraid it wasn’t possible then, Phillip.”

  “What will I be expected to do under the new scheme, Uncle Hilary?”

  “You’ll have to make yourself responsible for everything generally, and particularly to see that the milk is got away in proper condition at the right time. That means early rising seven days a week, at least for the first year or two. Then you’ll have to attend regularly once or twice a week at the agent’s office, to get the hang of estate management.” Hilary leaned forward, and held up a finger for emphasis. “It’s the only way, Phillip. If you want to keep your head above water, you’ve got to learn the business from A to Z. Farming is a business, you know, and requires constant attention to detail. And as I’ve told you more than once, you’ll have to chuck this writin’ of yours. Remember the old adage—‘No man can serve two masters’.”

  The next morning Hilary went back to Wales; and when Phillip rang up Felicity’s hotel, he learned that she had gone back to London.

  *

  Cabton had apparently decided to remain, as a sort of detached member of the family. He did no work on the farm, nor any writing as far as Phillip could see.

  He had the odd ideas of the urban amateur in the country. He collected horsehair from the gate-posts, made a plait of dark hair and tied it to the back of the chair where he sat at the dining room table. A row of old nests, taken from hedge and apple tree, adorned his bedroom window ledge. Mrs. Rigg complained of fleas. One day he brought back a trout which he had shot with his walking stick gun as it basked in the shallows by the cattle drinking place, and showed it to Phillip.

  “Well, we don’t usually shoot trout, you know.”

  “What’s the difference between shooting a poor bloody fish and lugging it in on a line? Anyway, it’s quicker my way. I thought you liked efficiency, you’re always talking about it.” He said this with a lazy, self-pleased air as he picked his teeth with a burnt match.

  “I suppose it’s rather strange being in the country after a town?”

  “People are the same anywhere.”

  “You’ve got a fairly good idea of the country, I must admit, judging from your short stories. Where did you get your knowledge of birds?”

  “From cigarette cards.”

  “Well, everything comes from somewhere, I’ll admit.”

  “Have you only just discovered that?”

  “It sounds pretty obvious, I agree. How do you get on with the chaps in the pub? Any ideas for a book?”

  “They’re all right, when I can understand what they’re saying. Among other things, they laugh at you as a farmer.”

  “I’m glad they can laugh, there’s been a lot of unemployment since the war.”

  “They all think your uncle is going to sell up.”

  “I never listen to village talk, so I can’t say.”

  “Why not mix with the village people? It’s the stuff of living, isn’t it? That’s your trouble, that’s why you can’t write. You’re only interested in making money. Well, I’m going for a walk.”

  Phillip said, with an effort to be easy, “Don’t you find it hot with those breeches and leggings?”

  “There are snakes about, I’m told. Besides, I like the heat.”

  “Well, please don’t shoot with your gun.”

  Cabton had something about him of the Levantine. He had the ease, almost the laziness, of the dark-skinned. One morning he showed Billy how to load the walking stick gun. It was done by twisting the handle to open the breech, and slipping in a cartridge. There was no trigger, only a small button just above the breech. Billy was standing in front of Cabton, looking up, when Cabton closed the breech by a reverse twist. The button was depressed under the grip of Cabton’s right hand as he did this. There was a report with a kick of dust beside Billy’s feet as the shot rebounded. Phillip saw it from his upper window and shouted out, “You bloody fool, Cabton. Give me that gun!”

  Cabton merely grinned and held the gun behind him.

  “A miss is as good as a mile, remember,” as he walked away. Later in the day he said to Phillip, “Can you lend me some four-ten cartridges? I’ve run out.”

  “You’ve got a bloody nerve, haven’t you? I’ve told you that I can’t have you shooting indiscriminately, Cabton.”

  “Oh well, if you want to talk like that I’m off.”

  “Bug off, Stick Gun,” said Billy.

  “Huh, chip off the old block, I see,” replied Cabton over his shoulder as he walked towards Colham.

  The following morning the keeper came to see Phillip. “That man staying here is shooting at anything he sees with that collector’s gun, sir.”

  “I’ve asked him to stop shooting, Haylock.”

  “Well, I won’t have it, Mr. Phillip. I’m responsible to Sir Hilary, and I can’t have my birds disturbed.”

  Phillip explained to Cabton that the keeper had to show a good head of game for the autumn shooting.

  “Game is an anachronism these days, surely?”

  “That’s not the point. All birds have young at this time of year. And they’re hardly an anachronism. Anyway, we don’t shoot song birds in this country, whatever they do in France or Italy or the Middle East.”

  “You believe in convention, don’t you?”

  “All conventions are based on common experience.”

  “I believe in uncommon experience. Doesn’t Shelley mean anything to you any more?”

  “Shelley didn’t go round shooting robins, larks, and blackbirds.”

  “It’s not worth arguing about.”

  When Phillip went with some agitation to report this miserable encounter to Lucy she said, “Oh well, I don’t suppose he can hit anything! Anyway, he’ll be gone soon, I expect.”

  “If he doesn’t go, I shall.”

  A chance to g
et rid of Cabton came the next day, when the thunder of Otazelle sounded in the lane. Bill Kidd was on his way home, and had come, he said, to pay his respects to the Mis’ess before returning to the Smoke. He told them a story of how he had met his old Divisional Commander who had given him a couple of days on his water. From a damp sack on the floor of his car he drew four trout, each about twenty inches in length. Cabton looked at them in silence.

  “Not easy to take fish after the mayfly gorge, old boy. I got ’em on a red cock’s-hackle put over them again and again until they slashed at it through irritation. That surprises you, doesn’t it? Fact though.”

  “They committed suicide, in other words. I suppose you can’t give us a lift to London, Bill?”

  “Jump in, you bastards. Hullo, Billy boy, what are you, a stowaway?”

  “Me come too, please, Daddy,” the child pleaded. An awkward period followed. Billy had to be detached from the wheel, sobbing. Phillip tried to console him, while Lucy held him in her arms. Billy hid his face until the engine started, then with a last despairing effort he yelled, “Bug off!”

  *

  On the way to Stonehenge Phillip said, “Do you realise that at this time, exactly eleven years ago today, we had kicked off at Third Ypres? The Pilckem ridge was taken, and the counter-attack of the Pomeranian Grenadiers, the ‘Cockchafers’, smashed by the Machine Gun Corps. Then the blasted rain came down.”

  “I was in Oppy Wood then, old boy, gassed with green-cross—phosgene.” Bill Kidd coughed violently, then lit another cigarette from the stub of his old one.

  At Andover Phillip mentioned that he was thinking of getting a second-hand small car.

  “I know the very ’bus for you, if it hasn’t been sold. I’ll take ’ee there, midear.”

  “I see you’re already talking West Country, Bill.”

  “Sure thing, my dear. What’s more, Bill Kidd and his missus are coming to live in these yurr parts.”

  “Yes, you told me. How about you, Cabton? Are you proposing to move in, too?”

  “I’m going to Cornwall.”

  In spite of being squeezed next to the smells of Cabton, Phillip enjoyed the ride along the familiar route to Basingstoke and Staines. They drove to a place in Westminster, a yard with a number of coach-houses made into a garage, where many cars were lined up awaiting the weekly auction. Among them was a long, fairly narrow small French car, with a brown fabric body; a four-seater.