The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1

by Philip Hensher

  ‘We shallna be able to hold this long, but we’ll give them a grand run for their money,’ said the Scotsman.

  The body of one Arab was lying on the brink of their trench and the other in the trench itself. Fortunately they both had bandoliers, which Ned and his companion instantly removed.

  ‘You face east and I’ll take west,’ said the Scotsman, his eyes glittering in the dim light. ‘I’m going to try and scare that Boche devil.’

  He peppered away at the hut, putting bullets through every window and smashing the telephone connection, which was a fine target at the top of a post against the sky. Bullets pinged over their heads from all directions, but there was little chance of them being rushed while their ammunition held out. However, it became necessary to look ahead. It was the Scotsman’s idea in digging the graves to plan them in zig-zag formation. The end of the furthest one was barely ten paces from a clump of aloes. He now got busy with his spade whilst Ned kept guard in both directions, occasionally firing at the hut and then in the opposite direction into the darkness. In half-an-hour the Scotsman had made a shallow connection between the three graves, leaving just enough room to crawl through. They then in turn donned the turbans of the two fallen Arabs, who were otherwise dressed in a kind of semi-European uniform.

  They ended up with a tremendous fusillade against the hut, riddling it with bullets; then they crept to the end of the furthest grave, and leaving their rifles, they made a sudden dash across the open space to the group of aloes, bending low and limping like wounded Arabs. They reached them in safety, but there were many open spaces to cover yet. As they emerged from the trees Ned stumbled on a dark figure. He kicked it and ran. They both ran zig-zag fashion, and tore off their turbans as they raced along. They covered nearly a hundred yards, and then bullets began to search them out again. They must have gone nearly a mile before the Scotsman gave a sudden slight groan.

  ‘I’m hit,’ he said.

  He stumbled on into a clump of bushes, and fell down.

  ‘Is it bad?’ asked Ned.

  ‘Eh, laddie, I’m doon,’ he said quietly. He put his hand to his side. He had been shot through the lungs. Ned stayed with him all night, and they were undisturbed. Just before dawn the Scotsman said:

  ‘Eh, mon, but yon was a bonny fight,’ and he turned on his back and died.

  Ned made a rough grave with his hands, and buried his companion. He took his identification disc and his pocket-book and small valuables, with the idea of returning them to his kin if he should get through himself. He also took his water-flask, which still fortunately contained a little water. He lay concealed all day, and at night he boldly donned his turban, issued forth and struck a caravan-trail. He continued this for four days and nights, hiding in the day-time and walking at nights. He lived on figs and dates, and one night he raided a village and caught a fowl, which also nearly cost him his life.

  On the fourth night his water gave out, and he was becoming light-headed. He stumbled on into the darkness. He was a desperate man. All the chances were against him, and he felt unmoved and fatalistic. He drew his clasp-knife and gripped it tightly in his right hand. He was hardly conscious of what he was doing, and where he was going. The moon was up, and after some hours he suddenly beheld a small oblong hut. He got it into his head that this was the hut where his German persecutor was. He crept stealthily towards it.

  ‘I’ll kill that swine,’ he muttered.

  He was within less than a hundred yards of the hut, when a voice called out:

  ‘’Alt! Who goes there?’

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Doan’t thee get in my way. I want to kill him. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to stab him through his black heart.’

  ‘What the hell—!’

  The sentry was not called upon to use his rifle, for the turbaned figure fell forward in a swoon.

  Three weeks later Ned wrote to his mother from Bethlehem (where Christ was born), and this is what he said:

  DEAR MOTHER, –

  Everything going on all right. I got three parcels here altogether as I had been away copped by some black devils an unfriendly tribe. I got back all right though. The ointment you sent was fine and so was them rock cakes. What a funny thing about Belle getting lost at the picnick. We got an awful soaking from the Mid-Lancs Fusiliers on Saturday. They had two league cracks playing one a wonderful centreforward. He scored three goals. They beat us by 7–0. The weather is hot but quite plessant at night. We have an old sergeant who was born in America does wonderful tricks with string and knots and so on. He tells some very tall yarns. You have to take them with a pinch of salt. Were getting fine grub here pretty quiet so far. Hope Henry remembers to wash Toffee with that stuff every week or so. Sorry to hear Len Cotton killed. Is his sister still walking out with that feller at Aynham. I never think he was much class for her getting good money though. Hope you have not had any more trouble with the boiler. That was a good price to get for that old buck rabbit. Well there’s nothing more just now and so with love your loving son.

  NED.

  Ned went through the Palestine campaign and was slightly wounded in the thigh. After spending some time in hospital he was sent to the coast and put on duty looking after Turkish prisoners. He remained there six months and was then shipped to Italy. On the way the transport was torpedoed. He was one of a party of fifty-seven picked up by French destroyers. He had been for over an hour in the water in his life-belt. He was landed in Corsica and there he developed pneumonia. He only wrote his mother one short note about this:

  DEAR MOTHER, –

  Have been a bit dicky owing to falling in the water and getting wet. But going on all right. Nurses very nice and one of the doctors rowed for Cambridge against Oxford. I forget the year but Cambridge won by two and a half lengths. We have very nice flowers in the ward. Well not much to write about and so with love your loving son,

  NED.

  Ned was fit again in a few weeks and he was sent up to the Italian front. He took part in several engagements and was transferred to the French front during the last months of the war. He was in the great retreat in March, 1918, and in the advance in July. After the armistice he was with the army of occupation on the banks of the Rhine. His mother wrote to him there:

  MY DEAR NED, –

  Am glad that the fightin us now all over dear. How relieved you must be. Mr Filter was in Sunday. He thinks there will be no difficulty about you gettin your job back when you come back dear. Miss Siffkins as been deliverin but as Mr Filter says its not likely a girl is going to be able to deliver letters not like a man can and that dear. So now you will be comin home soon dear. That will be nice. We had a pleesant afternoon at the Church needlewomens gild. Miss Barbary Banstock sang very pleesantly abide with me and the vicar told a very amusing story about a little girl and a prince she didn’t know he was a prince and talked to him just as though he was a man it was very amusin dear. I hear Ettie is goin to get married next month they wont get me to the weddin was it ever so I call it disgraceful and I have said so. Maud Bean is expectin in April that makes her forth in three years. Mr Bean as lost three more rabbits they say its rats this time. The potaters are a poor lot this time but the runners and cabbidge promiss well. So now dear I will close. Hoppin to have your back dear soon.

  Your loving mother.

  It was, however, the autumn before Ned was demobilised. One day in early October he came swinging up the village street carrying a white kit-bag slung across his left shoulder. He looked more bronzed and perhaps a little thinner, but otherwise little altered by his five years of war experiences. The village of Ashalton was quite unaltered, but he observed several strange faces; he only met two acquaintances on the way to his mother’s cottage, and they both said:

  ‘Hullo, Ned! Ye’re home agen then!’

  In each case he replied:

  ‘Ay,’ and grinned, and walked on.

  He entered his mother’s cottage, and she was expecting him. The lamp was lighted
and a grand tea was spread. There was fresh boiled beetroot, tinned salmon, salad, cake, and a large treacle tart. She embraced him and said:

  ‘Well, Ned! Ye’re back then.’

  He replied: ‘Ay.’

  ‘Ye’re lookin’ fine,’ she said. ‘What a fine suit they’ve given ye!’

  ‘Ay,’ he replied.

  ‘I expect you want yer tea?’

  ‘Ay.’

  He had dropped his kit-bag, and he moved luxuriously round the little parlour, looking at all the familiar objects. Then he sat down, and his mother brought the large brown tea-pot from the hob and they had a cosy tea. She told him all the very latest news of the village, and all the gossip of the countryside, and Ned grinned and listened. He said nothing at all. The tea had progressed to the point when Ned’s mouth was full of treacle tart, when his mother suddenly stopped, and said:

  ‘Oh, dear, I’m afraid I have somethin’ distressin’ to tell ye, dear.’

  ‘O-oh? what’s that?’

  ‘Poor Toffee was killed.’

  ‘What!’

  Ned stopped suddenly in the mastication of the treacle tart. His eyes bulged and his cheeks became very red. He stared at his mother wildly, and repeated:

  ‘What’s that? What’s that ye say, Mother?’

  ‘Poor Toffee, my dear. It happened right at the cross-roads. Henry was takin’ him out. It seems he ran round in front of a steam-roller, and a motor came round the corner sudden. Henry called out, but too late. Went right over his back. Poor Henry was quite upset. He brought him home. What’s the matter, dear?’

  Ned had pushed his chair back, and he stood up. He stared at his mother like a man who has seen horror for the first time.

  ‘Where is – where was—’ he stammered.

  ‘We buried ’im, dear, under the little mound beyond the rabbit hutches.’

  Ned staggered across the room like a drunken man, and repeated dismally:

  ‘The little mound beyond the rabbit hutches!’

  He lifted the latch, and groped his way into the garden. His mother followed him. He went along the mud path, past the untenanted hutches covered with tarpaulin. Some tall sunflowers stared at him insolently. A fine rain was beginning to fall. In the dim light he could just see the little mound – signifying the spot where Toffee was buried. He stood there bare-headed, gazing at the spot. His mother did not like to speak. She tiptoed back to the door. But after a time she called out:

  ‘Ned! … Ned!’

  He did not seem to hear, and she waited patiently. At the end of several minutes she called again:

  ‘Ned! … Ned dear, come and finish your tea.’

  He replied quite quietly:

  ‘All right, Mother.’

  But he kept his face averted, for he did not want his mother to see the tears which were streaming down his cheeks.

  Viola Meynell

  The Letter

  There came a day when it was realized at the farm that Jessie was no longer working. It was this that brought the truth of her condition suddenly forward, as nothing else had done, into the full glare of recognition and disapproval. Until now it had been lurking in the background, half ignored, or at least postponed in the perpetually behind-hand pressure of farm life. For some time she had been slackening off; she gave no helping hand at the anxious time of harvest, and at last she stopped milking, with inconceivable inconvenience. In that work-ridden household the matter had at last become prominent and disastrous. George Troubridge evidently thought that by setting her to tasks different from those to which she was accustomed he could still draw service out of his daughter. His wife in similar circumstances always worked right up to the end. But all the same, it was his wife who now defended the girl from the necessity to perform these tasks, telling him sharply that he could see for himself that she wasn’t fit for work. Never, however, was a defence more coldly put forward, purely on its merits, and without a touch of personal bias in Jessie’s favour. This protection of her by her mother was like the cold intervention of the law against some popular act of mob justice.

  Once made a conspicuous question, therefore, the whole matter emerged out of its silence. ‘Something’ll have to be done,’ said George Troubridge. Repeating this several times, the necessity took a more definite form in his mind. ‘She’ll have to write to him and tell him,’ he said doggedly. ‘I don’t care who he is, he’s got to be told. You’ll have to make her sit down and write to him,’ he said to his wife in the presence of the girl; and Jessie’s sudden flood of tears at that pronouncement only made him more certain that he was right.

  At first it was just a blow dealt her by her father, but presently it became something gradually closing her in on every side – that she must write. No matter how often her father or mother repeated it, the effect on Jessie was the same – one stiff, frightened look and she was dissolved in tears which made her eyes swollen for hours. So that even when the subject might have been laid aside for a time – as everything but death gets laid aside for the immediate task in farm life – people were constantly being reminded of it by the sight of the girl’s tear-stained face.

  As she was no longer driven here and there by her work, and had strange free-time to dispose of, she began to spend hours in the fields and woods, and there at any rate she could feel a little removed from the necessity to write her letter. But how odd an inhabitant she felt of the familiar places! She was nearly eighteen, and had never lived anywhere else, and yet she felt a stranger now. Everything was new to her. There was one thing that she had never considered in the past about the roads and paths her feet used to cover so swiftly and lightly, and that was whether they were up or downhill. The country had been all flat beneath her swift, untiring feet. Now it rose and fell in so marked a way that this seemed to be the most noticeable thing about it. The slightest gradient shortened her breath and reminded her of her distress and weakness. As for all the village girls who could move quickly and lightly, she still might be their contemporary, but she was no longer of their kind; she was of an age and kind all to herself. She was more like an old man she met creeping up the lane than like those who used to be her playmates.

  One day when she came down pale in the early morning her father, pressed by the excess of things to do, just found time, amidst all his preparations for market, to be fretted intolerably by the sight of her uselessness.

  ‘Have you written that letter?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’ll write it today! You’ve got plenty of time on your hands, by the look of it.’ He slammed the door – all his useful work on one side of it, all her useless tears on the other.

  She did what she could to help her mother through her tears; but Mrs Troubridge, busy giving the younger children their breakfast, and nursing in her arms the youngest of all, seemed to Jessie silently to repeat her father’s command, if only because she had been present when it was made and had heard it and had not contradicted it. The very children by their mere complacence were of the same mind as their father. The servant-girl, because she had run so quickly to fetch his leggings when he asked for them, was obviously of his mind.

  She felt alone with the impossibility that confronted her. With dismay she watched her mother. Mrs Troubridge reached down from a shelf a box that for years had contained a few pieces of best note-paper, and laid one of the sheets, almost as thick as blotting-paper, and with fretted edges, on the table for Jessie. The girl gave one helpless look at it and went out.

  It had not rained, and yet when her arm touched a low branch heavy drops hung on her sleeve. No surface was exempt from the drenching wet. Even the tiny scarlet field-poppy, with petals so flimsy that they seemed to be made of nothing but light and redness, had to support a layer of moisture. The sun, wherever it was, could do nothing; it was one of those autumn days of dew and mist too heavy to lift, when midday is no lighter than dawn.

  Jessie walked slowly, breathing hard. Her thin face, in which the youth and beauty shoul
d have been so full of flitting subtle things to say, had now the simplest and singlest look in the world, the look of suffering. It was not mental strain that marked her; she had not lived long enough to be marked by the kind of trouble that writes slowly on young faces. But her body’s woes, with their much quicker signals, had reduced all the sparkle to languor, and she was a pale, haggard beauty instead of a fresh rosy one.

  She had not walked far through the first field before each of her ankles was bound round and round with threads of moist cobweb, spun between one stalk and another. If those threads had been cords, she would have been a close prisoner, neatly caught and fastened up. But as it was she went idly through the stubble, unconscious that with each step she was bursting bonds, dragging chains, and escaping a thousand prisons. From the bonds and prisons she was conscious of there was no escape. She knew that the letter must be written, for her father was determined.

  The knowledge that she must write overwhelmed her with simple, mystified dismay. What could she say to him? She had said so little to him at any time – never anything that was not timid and shy, and breathed out wildly and gently on the secret pulses of love. When her father said angrily, ‘You’ll write to him and tell him!’ she seemed to have a hard harangue of threats and disgrace and retribution thrust upon her with which to speak to him, instead of those soft broken flowers of speech which were all that she could remember or imagine with him; and her mind and heart were powerless and refused.

  She was out as long as possible that day, until clinging round each of her ankles was such a mass of the threads of cobweb that they seemed woven into soft grey fabric. The day faded away early from the light it had never really seemed to attain. When evening came she was at home getting the younger children to bed, while downstairs the evening that awaited her held nothing but her father’s homecoming, and the sheet of note-paper lying on the table.