The Power of the Dead

by Henry Williamson

  “I must read your book, Phillip.”

  “Will you? Oh thank you. I’ll give you a copy.”

  They left the nursery, and went homewards. Before they went into the parlour, where Hilary was erecting his wireless set, Phillip gave Irene a copy of The Phoenix; and after she had gone to her room he went to see if he could help his uncle.

  “With luck we might get Hoover’s speech tonight, and hear how things are over in America, Phillip. Our economy is tied in with that of the United States.”

  “Yes, I realize that it’s the international money system which rules the world.”

  “Why do you have to talk like that?”

  “Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  “You make it sound like a conspiracy to dominate world trade only for the sake of making money.”

  “But aren’t slumps and booms engineered by international speculators, Uncle? The markets are rigged—bullion transferred—sterling finances Bombay cotton mills to put Lancashire on the dole——”

  “A slump is the effect of over-production of certain commodities, a boom is the effect of under-production.”

  “Isn’t there a slump coming in the United States—where the dollar rules solely——”

  “If America undergoes a slump I agree that it will affect our economy. If it comes, it might very well put paid to farming in this country for a year or two.”

  To change the subject, Hilary went on to talk of the effect of shooting stars at that time of year, and how they might cause wireless interference. “They usually come from the constellation called Berenice’s Hair, you know.”

  “What a beautiful name, Uncle!”

  “In any case it will be about eleven o’clock before we can hear Hoover, owing to the five-hour difference between Greenwich and Eastern Standard Time.”

  “Oh good. I rather wanted to hear Parsifal on my own wireless set tonight, but it’ll be over by ten-thirty.”

  “By the way I heard from Colonel De’Ath that you and that ruffian Kidd had been poaching his water——”

  At this point Lucy came in with Billy helping her to push the tea-trolley, and Phillip took the opportunity to go up to his room.

  *

  After tea Irene retired to continue her reading of Phillip’s novel. At six o’clock, Greenwich Time, Hilary switched on the B.B.C. news. This was followed by the Stock Exchange prices, a message of gloom to Hilary, but a joy to Billy, whose enthusiasm was echoed by Peter. Hilary cheered up when Flotsam and Jetsam came on, the one a squeaky tenor, the other a basso profundo, to sing their usual commentary on the news in verse, to the tinkle of a piano. Everyone enjoyed this brief turn before the owner of the set switched off with the remark, “There’s nothing interesting until the nine o’clock news.”

  He was left alone to read his newspaper, but his attention wandered. Why was Irene avoiding him, by going to her room again? He felt hurt that she had gone for a walk with his nephew that afternoon without even letting him know that she was going. Surely she realised that he, too, was interested in the tree nursery, and could have suggested to that selfish nephew of his that he ask him to go along with them?

  When Phillip ran down the stairs from his writing room, Hilary said, “I’d like a word with you later on this evening.” He saw hesitation in his nephew’s face before Phillip replied, “Yes of course, Uncle Hilary.”

  “You speak as though you weren’t sure, Phillip.”

  “Well, I was rather hoping to hear the second Act of Parsifal; but it doesn’t matter.”

  There was an hour to supper—cold birds, the remains of a ham, and the Stilton ordered by Hilary from London. He opened two bottles of claret, and having stood them behind one firedog on the hearth, prepared to continue reading his paper.

  Sometime later Lucy went upstairs to tell Philip that supper would be ready in twenty minutes. She found him looking at The Wireless Times. He told her that Parsifal was being broadcast that night from a German station, the second Act was starting in a few minutes. There was an interval after Act Two, couldn’t they have the meal then, since it was a cold supper?

  “Well, Uncle Hilary wants to say something to us after supper, you know.”

  “Why can’t he say what he has to say now? Either he’s going to carry on, or he isn’t. All right, I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

  Left alone, Phillip corrected this attitude: he knew that the responsibility for the decision lay with himself. But must there be a decision? He had done his two years, and more, of apprenticeship, such as it was—and now he was a mere walking-stick farmer, looking at cattle which didn’t even belong to the estate. The milking herd was apparently as far off as ever. The fields, down to grass, were a mere cattle range, bringing in half-a-crown a week for each agisted beast. The bullocks belonged to a dealer, who was virtually tenant of the fields. Soon the bullocks would be in the yards, treading straw to make muck to cart back to the grass. Joby the shepherd had his ewe and hogget flocks, and was always complaining about insufficient feed for them. That was all the farming of Fawley Estates, Ltd. The fishing and shooting were to be let if Nuncle wanted to travel again. As Ned the bailiff had put it, “This land won’t walk away, even if Sir ’Ilary do do.”

  *

  Phillip was sitting in his room beside the little crystal-cum-valve Cosmos set, his ear close to the four-inch flare of the loudspeaker, when he heard tapping on the door. Thinking it might be Felicity returning from the Rigg’s cottage, come to tell him that supper was almost ready, he shouted out, “Come in!”, and switched off the feeble reception.

  Irene’s voice said, “Am I disturbing you? I do so want to hear Parsifal. It is such heavenly music.”

  “I’m saving the battery at the moment, Irene, for when the Grail appears.”

  “Then it won’t disturb you if we talk for a little while?”

  *

  Every time Hilary had started, hesitatingly, sometimes cold with fear, to ask for Irene’s decision, she had tried to avoid hurting his feelings. She had listened with outward sympathy. She had done her best to keep him buoyant; but she had not said what she could not help feeling—that he and she were so different in their outlook on life. At the same time she realized that he needed help: and if he had that help, it would bring his mind to a balance, perhaps, over his doubts concerning Phillip. It was all so involved, and she felt also that she had a duty to help Phillip to come to a right decision.

  Irene had confided her own personal feelings to Lucy. She was alone in the world, she said, but not lonely. She was a Roman Catholic; while Hilary, dear and generous man as he was, could not understand the reasons that had led her to the Faith. She realized that he had absorbed this aspect from his mother, who had come from a Protestant Swabian family which had suffered much in the religious struggles of the past; and particularly—though it had not been a religious war—in 1866 when Prussia had fought against Austria, with which Württemberg had allied itself, and been conquered: a war in which the Baronin had lost father and brothers on the battlefield.

  Irene could allow for the idea of a son being loyal to his mother, she told Lucy, but not for continued prejudice in a grown man who, in himself, had no feelings for any religion.

  All that Lucy could say was that perhaps things would settle down in time, like most things. Irene had begun to realize why Phillip felt lonely with Lucy. She had had a quarter of a century of experience beyond that of the gentle young mother. She did not believe that men and women could change their natures, as Phillip appeared to believe. And since the death of her daughter she had felt more and more that her life must be one of service to others, perhaps as a lay sister in the convent at Pau near her home in the Basses Pyrénées.

  *

  Irene and Phillip sat before the fire in the small room with its leaded casements which shook in the winds. Now all was quiet outside. The rising moon showed up the leaded panes to be small crosses.

  “I was reading your description of Donkin coming upon a
ll those tarred crosses in the German Concentration Graveyard at La Targette, Phillip. I suppose you felt the same shock when you suddenly saw them?”

  “Oh yes. You see, Willie worked with the War Graves Commission there. He wrote an article and brought it into the newsroom of the Sunday Courier one Saturday night. Bloom, the editor, said he couldn’t print it, but it was good. Ironically Bloom wanted it when Willie was ‘news’ two years later, just after he was drowned. But I couldn’t find it in his cottage. I walked over the battlefields after Barley died——”

  He recovered his voice and continued, “My description is much inferior. I remembered what Willie said about Jesus walking on water. He said that a poet walks on air when inspired, and Jesus’ disciples must have felt that Jesus could walk on water in his finest moments of inspiration. He did walk on water, because his imagination could go through all things with clarity. He was all spirit. I made Donkin say that it wasn’t intended as blasphemy.”

  “Yes, my dear, I know—but you did rather trail your coat, you know. But the book is so compassionate. Perhaps it would have been better to have omitted some of Donkin’s wilder sayings, such as the bit about the bishops blessing naval guns——”

  “I feel now that I’ve maligned Willie.”

  “Don’t, whatever you do, allow shallow critics to affect you. You are going on with your writing, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”

  “But you must follow your star.”

  “But if I give up the estate, Billy and Peter will be deprived, won’t they?”

  “My dear, how can one tell? They may both turn against a farming life. One may want to be an engineer, another a painter, or a sailor, like their great-uncle. Do you really want to be a farmer, Phillip? Really and truly, cross your heart?”

  “I like living here.”

  “You can still live here, if not in this house, another like it.”

  “But supposing Billy or Peter do want to farm?”

  “Then they can learn, and if they show real aptitude, and are keen, nothing will hold them back.”

  “But this land has been in our family for generations.”

  “That idea may be the root of the trouble. Hilary does not really care for the land, he wants to impose upon himself, and in a way upon you, too, a duty which is really what psychologists call a compensation-complex. He has never forgotten the failure of his father, your grandfather, who apparently had a writing talent which was never properly developed, I suppose, because in those days young men went either into the army, the church, or the law. They were disposed of by their fathers like that, while the heir was trained to take the place of his father in due course. The land was then the basis of the family; today the basis is rapidly changing to commerce. Hilary admits that, indeed it was he who explained it all so clearly to me. But a writing career isn’t altogether respectable, unless one writes to the current convention, with just a little ‘advanced thought’ to stir people. But such authors aren’t the real ones, are they?”

  Irene said all this so gently that he felt considerable relief, and taking her hand, he shook it with affection; and when she said, “An angel is watching your progress, you know,” he got up and looked at the moon through the lattice, then opening a casement, drew in a deep breath, feeling that he could never turn from the pathway on which his feet had been set, not through egotism or conceit, but because he was a trustee of a talent inherited from the spirit of that which had brought life upon the earth.

  “Phillip, I’m longing to say something else, but I hardly dare——”

  “Please do, Irene.”

  “You still love Barley, don’t you?”

  “I can’t forget her,” he replied hoarsely, with sudden tears.

  “Oh, Phillip—— I’m so sorry. I do understand. But, Phillip, can’t you turn your feelings to Billy—and Lucy?”

  “I’ve tried,” he said with more tears.

  When he was calm again she said, “I think that perhaps we should go down now. Thank you for being so frank with me.”

  “But it is you who have made everything clear, Irene.”

  “Tell me one thing more, Phillip. Are you falling in love with Felicity?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “If you do, you will be kind to her, won’t you? She’s still very young, you know.”

  *

  After supper all were quiet while Hilary listened to the 9 o’clock news. Lucy and Felicity were playing Mah Jongg. When the news ended Hilary turned the switch and lit some more joss-sticks. Lucy noticed after some minutes that he was no longer doing his cross-word puzzle. Phillip and Irene sat on the sofa. Lucy was about to invite them all to join in the game when from up above there came a cry, the noise of a stumble, and the nightgowned figure of Billy, clutching his teddy-bear and one of his pink lotus lanterns, tumbled down the stairs. He picked himself up, and staggered into his father’s arms, muttering ‘Find real Mummie dead’, and then settled to sleep.

  “He often gets like this when the moon is full,” murmured Lucy. “In his dream Billy always comes down to Phillip. Don’t you, darling?” she whispered to the boy, as she smoothed back the hair from his forehead, which showed a red mark where he had fallen. But Billy was already at peace; dreamlessly asleep.

  Hilary said, “Does he sleep with his head to the north? The moon on the face can keep one awake. Dora as a child was affected by the full moon, but she grew out of it when her bed was changed round.”

  “Ned the bailiff says that corn sown on the growing moon chits quickly, while on the waning moon it takes weeks. I wonder why, Uncle.”

  “Light is light, Phillip, and seeds respond to light. The moon’s light is growing, so the pull is stronger from a waxing moon than from a waning moon. The light comes from the sun, weak light I grant you, but light all the same.”

  “I’d never thought of it like that, Uncle Hilary!”

  Billy sighed and opened his eyes. “Hullo, Mummie. Where’s Dad to?”

  “Daddy’s here, darling.”

  Holding the child, Phillip picked up the pink lantern from the floor.

  “Where did you get that?”

  The voice was sharp, imperious. It did not sound like Nuncle’s voice.

  “Billy and his friend found them. I put them at the bottom of the gun-cupboard, Uncle Hilary.”

  Hilary went down on his knees before the gun-cupboard. He remained on his knees, silent, until he said in a low voice, “I brought these lotus flowers back with me from China after my first voyage to the East.”

  *

  It was a gentle night; frost had not yet faceted the dew; earth worms, their whole bodies sensitive to light, were out of their holes in the garden beds, and on the lawn, drawing leaves to their tunnels, where in darkness those gentle priests would perform the annual miracle of changing dead tissue into living soil. In May it was petals of apple blossom which they sought: each worm, wholly defenceless lay with its tail in its hole, ready to draw back at the tremor of an enemy. But undisturbed, they gathered petal after petal, sliding each to its entrance with its prize; and when six or seven petals were laid there, the worm withdrew all but its head; then seizing the pad, took it down to scent and sweeten the soil which had fed the tree. Billy had been shown the worms by candle-light, and had loved them ever since; later, the sight of a thrush hauling one from the lawn in the early morning had brought tears

  So mild was the night that they stood outside the french windows, Hilary between Lucy and Irene. A calm lay under the moon’s golden haze dissolving the downs. An apple dropping in the orchard made a thud. A flock of lapwing flew across the path of the moon, one uttering its wild cry for reassurance. Phillip opened his jacket and covered Billy’s legs and buttocks.

  Felicity stood apart, wishing that she belonged to these people. She felt herself to be an intruder, except with the children whom she looked upon with love in which was always a sub-feeling of fear, near to hopelessness that they cou
ld never feel for her as she felt for them.

  *

  “I wonder if you’d care to see how the Chinese set out their lotus lights on what is their All Souls’ Eve, Lucy? They believe that certain spirits of the departed hang about where they lived while on earth.”

  “Are you feeling cold, Felicity?” said Lucy.

  “Oh no, no.”

  “The Chinese call this the Seventh Moon of the Homeless Ghosts,” remarked Hilary to the girl in an effort to be genial.

  “How it all comes back to me,” said Irene, as she took the girl’s arm, and led her to the others. “Have you ever been out East, Felicity?”

  “No, Mrs. Lushington, but I’d love to travel.”

  The girl was trembling. “Let me lend you a coat, my dear.”

  Hilary said to Lucy, “I remember when I was a young man, on my first voyage to the Far East, being deeply impressed by what I saw outside Peking one night of the full moon. The Chinese believe in the moon’s influence, you know, and hold various festivals at different seasons. Some were very impressive——”

  Phillip held the small pink objects, more like paper flowers than lanterns of paper and bamboo, and stood by quietly while his uncle continued speaking.

  “The New Year festivities started with the full of the First Moon, and went on for several days until the New Year, Lucy. Everyone paid their debts, shops were shut, fire-crackers were set off, strangers in the streets bowed to one another, saying, ‘The New Year has come’.”

  “How wonderful. Everyone makes a fresh start in the release of the social spirit!” exclaimed Phillip.

  Hilary ignored this remark and said, “How do you feel about it, Irene? It’s a warm night, would you like to see the lights on the Long Pond? Good heavens,” he said, half relenting towards Phillip, “it must be all of forty years since I brought these back from Peking, intending, with my brothers and sisters, in the presence of our parents, to float them off under the hunter’s moon.”