The Power of the Dead

by Henry Williamson

  It was Richard’s first long railway journey for many years. He looked for old landmarks, murmuring now and again to himself, “God bless my soul——”, feeling ravaged by the changes; but when the downs came into sight, his spirit settled upon the hills.

  Lucy and the little boys momentarily restored his youthfulness. The burial service, the church, the coloured form of St. Christopher hidden behind plaster when he was a boy, were as spring-water to his being; the innocence of early life came back, with his tears. Happiness succeeded this restoration of faith: the years between were levelled with the sight of the open vault wherein his parents, and the grandparents he had known, were resting. And now John had joined them.

  The will was read in the library, whence the dust sheets had been removed. Phillip was left the house and the furniture; there was little else. John William Beare Maddison had lived on an annuity purchased years before. Dora had been unable to come, so had Belle, who was living at Westcliffe-on-Sea in a boarding house, partly crippled by arthritis. Hilary had motored from Bournemouth with Viccy. She had kept her pale face and girlish voice with its clear tone; but she had little or nothing to say. They had tea in the farmhouse.

  All thought highly of Lucy. In her presence the awareness of death gave way to a light, happy feeling. Phillip rested himself quietly among them, telling himself that never, never must he use satire, as Thomas Morland had used in describing his relations. It was the life within, human hopes and fears, and above all the tragic estrangement of love, which must be kept steadily in mind.

  He went for a walk with his father to the Longpond. “Father, I shall be very pleased to offer you the house—your home really—for as long as you and Mother care to live there. Rent free, of course. I’ll pay the rates, naturally.”

  Richard was inclined to refuse: the garden would be beyond him; but his son’s thought for him must not be rebuffed. As for Phillip, he felt that his father was so used to not wanting presents that his offer had been made rather crudely.

  “I know the house is rather large, but it seems to me a pity that the Aunts, I mean Dora and Belle particularly, should all be so far apart. Aunt Dora’s ‘Babies’ are over eighty, and can’t last for ever. You could have your own part of the house, and now I’ve got some cash of my own, I would like to put in an extra bathroom, and also central heating for the winter.”

  “I suppose you and Lucy will live in another part of the house, old man?”

  “Eventually, yes, Father. My idea is that you and Mother, and the Aunts, shall all have your own quarters, and have a sort of mess together.”

  “But won’t all that cost money, Phillip?”

  “I can count on at least a couple of thousand coming in, Father. I’ve had all kinds of offers from publishers and editors. The alteration to the house will be done by an architect, of course, everything planned properly. In fact, if anyone in the family wants to live there, it would be a help to me, for then I would know it was being really lived in, instead of as it has been.”

  “Have you told Hilary of your plans?”

  “Not yet, Father. I wanted to consult you first. There’s no hurry, really.”

  “I suppose you know what is in Hilary’s mind?”

  “More or less, I think. But whether he gives up the idea of keeping the land, the house won’t go with it. I know the War Department chaps have been down here. It’s common talk in Colham.”

  “Yes, Hilary told me.”

  They watched a few rises of trout, then walked back. On the way Richard said, “I think, entirely between you, me, and the gatepost, that Hilary begins to feel he’s taken on a bit too much. You’ll keep this to yourself, won’t you, but I fancy it’s a millstone round his neck. He’s losing a thousand a year at present, and the entire estate as a going concern is valued at under ten pounds the acre. And from all the signs a bigger slump is on the way, at least that is the feeling in the City. I needn’t tell you what havoc would result if the Socialists came back into power. Still, house property is unlikely to depreciate in a comparable manner. The value of land at this present time has never been so low for well over a century.”

  When they returned to the farmhouse he said, “Well, I am most grateful to you for your offer, my dear boy, and I shall think it over.”

  Richard had planned to return by the evening train, which left the junction shortly after 7 p.m. There was time to look at the garden. He remembered the peaches and greengages along the walls, the espaliers of apples and pears lining some of the paths, the lavender hedges along others; the central lily-pond fed by a fountain; the hot-houses backed by the row of low buildings—apple-store, potting sheds, boiler house for vinery and orangery.

  Beyond the acre and a half of walled garden lay the orchard, also within a lime-stone wall, of about an acre. It would require a great deal of work to keep in order, even with some of the men brought in to plough or dig, according to the season, as his father had done.

  Richard found the postern half open. The gate must always be kept closed in his father’s time, on account of roe deer living in the woods. He had to lift the gate up to get past; the upper hinge had dropped off. A rusty length of sheet-iron nailed to the foot scraped against grass on the path. He managed to squeeze between door jamb and post.

  What he saw within reduced him to a feeling of helplessness. How long had it been like that? Docks, thistles, burdocks; roofs fallen in; skeleton glass-houses topped by elderberry bushes; espaliers gone to wild wood, canker, and hung with lichen. How many years had it been like that? He turned away, appalled; and was walking back when he met Phillip, who said, “I hope you won’t allow the state the garden’s in now to put you off. I meant to say that I had an idea to get it cleared, and then ploughed deep, to bury all the rubbish, as they call weeds round here, and the seeds. Also the cankered fruit-trees must be grubbed up, and new kinds planted. Not all at once, of course, but bit by bit.”

  He thought that his father looked very tired. “Anyway, there’s plenty of time ahead in which to decide.” He thought to add that he was going to ask his sister Doris and her husband to spend August with them, but knowing how his father felt about that marriage, forebore.

  He spoke of it to his mother. “After all, they haven’t much money, and there’s plenty of milk and eggs now, and Lucy loves making butter. I’ll be able to take Bob sailing, too. I’ve joined a yacht club, and one can hire boats there at non-racing times for ten shillings a day.”

  “Oh, I am so glad, Phillip. Country air will do Doris a world of good.”

  “Father needs country air, too. Look how he’s different down here, from what he used to be at home.”

  “He’s thinking of trying to find a cottage, you know, somewhere in Kent, now that he has thought of retiring. I hope it won’t be too far away,” she sighed.

  “You mean from the girls? Oh, mother, why can’t they live their own lives? I know how you feel about it, but I honestly think Elizabeth and Doris will be better on their own.”

  “Ah, my son, wait until your children grow up. Still, you have your own interests, you are fortunate, you are a man, and can do as you please.”

  When they had gone back to London he did not know what to do with himself. There was now so much more to be done. He went to look over the house with Lucy, but gave it up after going into a couple of rooms. The aged house-keeper, what was to be done with her? A telephone message from the solicitor awaited him after his return. Would he go into Colham and see him at his early convenience? He went immediately after a light lunch of fish with red-pepper sauce.

  “I think,” said Mr. Grandison, “that I, as the executor of your late uncle’s estate, should begin to consider the matter of death duties. Later on, perhaps you will tell me whether or not you decide to dispose of any furniture. I ask because an auction of any household goods that you may find surplus to your requirements will not have to be valued for probate. The market value of such household goods, as determined by an auction sale, will be acceptable
to the Commissioners. We shall, in any case, have to engage the services of valuers for the property itself, that is, for the house. If you decide to retain the house, I shall require to know your assets, with a view of getting some idea of how we shall meet the death duties.”

  “I’ve been offered a thousand pounds to write a book about a trout, Mr. Grandison. Five hundred pounds down, and the rest when the manuscript is delivered. I really must get down to it after our holiday in Devon.”

  Chapter 13

  BY THE ESTUARY

  Now Lucy was back with baby Rosamund, and Billy and Peter were happy again, Phillip motored to Devon. Piers and Virginia were staying in the cottage, having their meals with the postman’s wife. For Phillip it was like old times; Martin and Fifi had stayed there; even better times, for Piers was an ideal companion, and Virginia had the candour of a boy, which she resembled with her cropped hair and slight figure.

  There was a boatbuilder’s shed beside the creek leading to the estuary. Various small boats, some decayed, others for repair, were lying about. Among them was a long canvas canoe. The paddles looked to be new under their varnish, so did the small mast and triangular red sail. It had been lying out for a couple of years, the canvas stretched over a wooden frame was not rotten, but a coat of paint was needed. Was it seaworthy? asked Phillip, thinking that it would be the very thing in which all three of them might cross the estuary to the fishing village beyond the line of sandhills.

  It was all right for a short voyage, but to be in proper order it needed a patch or two, and a coat of lead paint, replied the owner.

  “How much is it?”

  “Will five pounds be too much?”

  While Phillip hesitated, the boatbuilder added that he would make good any cracks and after the painting it ‘would be tight as a cup’. Phillip bought it, and asked him to paint it with two coats, and the name, Canute, on the bows.

  “I’ll bring her back tonight for the painting.”

  They carried it down to the creek, getting black with mud below the knees. It floated, they moved down to the estuary, and thence close inshore to Point of Crow. The tide was flowing, gravel barges waiting to cast off. They landed, and hauled up their craft. Into pits whence gravel had been taken, discoloured seawater was pouring fast. It was a spring tide, a breeze blew up the estuary. They watched while the paraffin oil engines were started up. Crews sat on the decks, awaiting the rise of the tide to float off their craft.

  Phillip looked around. He felt clear and happy. The sun glittered. Herring gulls were flying almost straight up from the middle ridge of packed gravel which lay, an island in the rising tide, between Crow Spit and the village across the water. The birds spiral’d up a hundred feet or so before dropping down to the stones below.

  “What are they doing?” asked Virginia, sitting between Phillip and Piers. All three were dressed in shorts and shirts, bare-footed.

  “They prise mussels from the rocks, and then drop them to smash shells.”

  “I’ve not seen gulls doing that before.”

  “I suppose a gull dropped a mussel one day, when pursued by other gulls, and, diving to get it, learned the quickest way to break the shell.”

  The wooden barges, gunwales awash, swung into the tide racing up the narrow channel between Crow Spit and the black Yelland rocks. Anchors were pulled up, drum-like engine-beats increased as they wallowed away with the tide. Silence settled upon the hot sands, save for the little wash of waves. They were alone on the shelving shore in which were embedded ancient root-clumps of riverside trees, wicker crab-pots, herring-boxes and other jetsam of the sea. Piers lay back to enjoy the sun, Virginia stretched out beside him. Phillip watched the Shrarshook, the middle ridge, as it appeared to be shortening and sinking fast, while gulls flew to the rigging of ketches by the distant quay-side.

  At last Piers and Virginia got up to stroll into the sandhills, and Phillip lay upon the hot sand, feeling to be dissolved in sunshine and air. When at last he arose on an arm the Shrarshook was gone under the waves. He thought of The Phoenix, now being set-up in type, and wondered if the story of Willie would stir and move the public as it had moved him during the years it had lain upon his life.

  Footfalls purred in the loose sand, Piers’ voice from the sky said, “When is The Phoenix being published?”

  “End of September. I was thinking of it at that moment. It must be telepathy.”

  The footfalls purred away. He lay still, with eyes closed. He heard quicker purring, and Virginia’s voice said, close to his head, “I ought to hate you.” The words came so quietly that he replied as gently, “Why should a mermaid hate me?”

  “Because you tried to take Piers away from me.”

  “Take? Oh no! I remember saying something to Piers about a girl I once knew, who was married, but it never occurred to me that——” He sat up. “But of course that was what I was doing. Trying to mind Piers’ business for him. I am always interfering in other peoples’ lives.”

  “You have a great influence over Piers.”

  “I thought it was the other way about.”

  “Nearly everyone is against my marrying Piers. Before we came down here my cousin Shetland asked me to luncheon to talk it over. ‘Take the fellow as your beau, but be discreet’ was the line he took. He has his mistress, and is so unkind to Angy, who is such a sweet person. ‘You know the one commandment, don’t you,’ he said, ‘Thou shalt not be found out.’ Aren’t people beastly? When I told him that I loved Piers and we wanted to be married, he said, ‘My dear cousin, the heir to a baronetcy is the lowest form of animal life.’ People are such snobs and hypocrites.”

  “Perhaps the truth is best served by silence. I was foolish to say anything to Piers that night. I was thinking of myself and someone else, long ago. Of course you are quite different, and I should have seen it, instead of laying down the law so stupidly.”

  She laughed. He was moved by her friendliness, and running down the steep slope of sand, plunged into the sea, to be carried fast up the estuary, but close in and parallel to the shore. Even so, he could not touch bottom, and struck out for the gravelly edge, since the current diverged a dozen yards ahead, streaming out from beyond the shingle tongue. He managed to crawl out just in time.

  Piers returned and said, “The very place for a plunge. I’m going in.”

  “It’s safe a hundred yards down, the tide runs parallel to the shore. But come out before the end of the shingle tongue.”

  “Yes, I saw you get out just in time.”

  Piers ran down to dive. Virginia followed. Phillip followed them along the strand, ready to plunge in; but both crawled out safely. After sun-bathing, they arose and walked hand in hand into the sandhills. He remained on the shore, beside one of the ancient tree roots embedded in the sand, while thoughts of Barley, who had walked with him on this very shore, pierced the ducts of his eyes. He got up and wandered away past the lighthouse and around Aery Point, whence was visible a prospect of three miles of broad sands.

  *

  The canoe was ready two days later. They carried it down to the creek on the last of the morning tide, finding an empty estuary of ridged sand around fresh-water pools. So they came to deeper water, almost still, through which the river moved slowly into the Pool beside the Shrarshook, and to the sandbank upon which lay petrol tins and other home-made buoys attached to salmon boats. Leaving the canoe drawn up, and walking bare-foot, they reached the rocks below the quay, and avoiding rusty bicycle frames, fish-heads, and other litter, climbed up a slip hung with sea-weed and walked down a narrow cobbled street between two rows of cottages to a pub at the far end, where Phillip had more than once had a lunch of beer, bread, cheese, and pickled eschalots.

  Within the village were many public houses, or taverns: it was still the home of what were called mast-and-yards men, deep water sailors, while longshoremen lived in the small terraced cottages, getting a living from what they called rough-fish-catching. Then there were the crews of the licensed
salmon-boats; and men working in the ship-yards. Phillip had been told that two out of every three children of the multitudes playing bare-footed on the rocks and in the little courts of cottages, tucked away among the streets, had been born out of wedlock. All this seemed to him to be a sign of vitality, he said to his friends as they walked down the narrow street; the pubs filled, at night, with laughter and the talk of far places; the scrupulously clean cottages, each with its threshold scrubbed and swabbed, and every third open doorway with a wooden barrier to stop babies from crawling out.

  The doors had all been shut, the sea grey, the sky dull, the far hills white when first he had seen the village, on that winter day five years before with cousin Willie. Five years since they had walked across Dartmoor, in the frost and snow of winter.

  If only he had re-created in The Phoenix but one part of that life—brought back but one image of life, then all would not be lost. Where else could old mortality find life again, but in the imagination of man—that illusive gift of the gods.

  Piers divined the trend of his thoughts: and wanting his friend to be free, left him, to point out to Virginia the blue-painted figurehead of a woman fixed above a doorway in a little court beside the street, perhaps the home, he said, of some retired skipper of coasting ketch or schooner.

  There was a gap in the narrow street; shadow yielded to sunlight. The open sea was visible beyond a low stone wall, on which nets were hung to dry. Fishermen, some still in the stiff leather thigh-boots they used in shallow water while hauling, were standing about, smoking; or leaning, calm and unspeaking, against the wall. They had fished, between lapse and flow of tides, in darkness, returning with the dawn; in an hour or two they would be going out for the next four-hour spell when the returning tide brought in the salmon.

  “This is the place to live,” Phillip heard Piers say to Virginia. “David, Brenda, and Elizabeth come and stay at a pub somewhere here. It may be this one.”