Phillip was startled: he had not thought of Julian as a gossip.
“Did you read that Lord Castleton has died?” went on Porky.
“What!”
“Oh yes, it’s in The Trident today. I’ll show you.”
There it was, in heavy black type—CASTLETON DEAD.
Having eaten the egg, he waited for ten minutes before leaving, to mourn his old Chief by the sea. Then he set off for the Selby-Lloyds, hoping that they hadn’t already gone to bed.
Peering through the lighted window in the garden, he saw that Sophy and Queenie were alone. Where was Annabelle? He withdrew hastily, feeling that such spying was unworthy: also, he might be seen. Then opening the door into the smaller studio built against one side of the house, he sat down in an armchair, fortifying himself before knocking on the door.
An open wooden staircase led up to the loft, which had been converted into a bedroom for guests. He imagined that he had the place to himself, and was therefore surprised to hear the creak of a board above him and a voice whispering, “Who’s there?”
Uncertain of the voice he said, “My name is Maddison, I’m a friend of the family.”
“Come up, Phillip. Don’t make a sound!”
“Who is it?”
“Annabelle! Only be quiet!”
He crept up the stairs and saw her lying in bed. He sat on the bed and her arm came to him and pulled him to her. As in a dream he felt her warmth on his cheek, her night-gown was warm, he kissed her as she kissed him pulse for pulse with short little offered kisses, seeming to want to cling to him while breaking off only to kiss him again. He hardly knew what was happening as with closed eyes he returned her kisses on brow and cheek and soft skin behind the ear—kisses as blind and brief and compulsive as her own.
“Where have you been all this time?”
“I wanted to be with you!”
“Don’t tell anyone you came up here, will you?” She kissed him again, he glowed in her warmth, still in a dream.
“Of course not.”
“Now you ought to go. Mummy may come up any moment.”
“Are you ill, Annabelle?”
“Not really, only a bit run down, I suppose. I’ll be all right tomorrow. Now go, before they find you up here, you old owl, you!”
“Annabelle, I love you so. Do you love me?”
“What, love an old owl! Go! Go—do what I tell you, owl!”
“Good-night, Annabelle!”
“Go, owl!” She hid her head under the bedclothes; but his last sight of her as he went down the stairs in the dim light was of her face looking at him as she sat up in bed.
*
Midnight rolled from the church steeple. Phillip and Sophy were alone in the kitchen. He had told her of the dance fiasco, and was now trying to read The Times.
“Aren’t you cold, all that way from the fire, child?”
He mourned the death of the great man with whom he had talked, admiring his courtesy and directness, only two years before, while working in Monks House. It was sad to think of that enthusiasm and vitality being strangled and distorted by insanity before being finally darkened out.
“I’m quite warm, Sophy, thank you.”
“You’re not very sociable, are you?”
He moved his chair six inches closer to hers, and went on reading.
“Must you sprawl on the kitchen table, on your elbow?” He sat up.
“I’m awfully sorry, I felt I was at home!”
“You have no respect for me, have you, you odd creature!”
“I have great respect for you!”
“Not too much, I hope!”
“Well, the right amount, as of one good friend to another.”
Wheedling and patient, as to a hound puppy being walked, she repeated, “Won’t you come and sit near me? Why are you always so tiresome, child?”
He moved his chair another eighteen inches nearer hers. She complained that they were still too far apart, so he moved his chair again and sat staring into the fire, seeing the eyes of Annabelle in the dying embers. Drowsily her voice asked him to be nice to her. He did not know what to reply.
“What’s troubling you, child?”
“Nothing.”
“But there must be something. You are always so distrait.”
“Nothing, really.”
“Is it anything I have done?”
“Good lord, no! You are always most kind to me!”
“But you don’t like me!”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then put your arms round me, boy.”
He put an arm on Sophy’s shoulder, telling himself he must be “master of the situation”, and thus prevent Sophy injuring herself. Also, to prevent injury to himself. All the while Sophy’s lips were fondling his cheek. He sat still, concealing his dislike of the familiarity.
“There is something on your mind, obviously. Won’t you tell me?”
“Oh, it’s nothing much. I owe a lot to Castleton. Did you read his last dispatch from Germany? At Cologne he said to the Burgomaster, ‘I don’t shake hands with Germans’. After that, his next article wasn’t published—suppressed by his own editor. He was mentally ill, you see. Worn out.”
“What has that to do with you and me?”
“Well, you asked me, and I’ve tried to tell you, Sophy. I owe a lot, indirectly, to my job in Monks House, after the war. There was something rather fine about Castleton.”
“What, The Daily Trident—that rag!”
“I meant Castleton. He was generous.”
“Is he the only one who has been generous to you?”
“Oh, no, he was one of many. Including you.”
“Stop fencing, child! Something is on your mind. Why not tell me?”
“Well, I’ve learnt one thing, and that is that ties which one day must be broken, should never be made.”
“Dear dear, that sounds rather like something out of your Pauline book! It’s like saying, bootlaces which have to be untied should never be tied, or necks that are bound to get grubby should never be washed.”
“Is my neck grubby?”
“No, don’t be alarmed! You are a clean little animal. But your shoes should be brushed occasionally.”
“Haven’t got any brushes.”
“Then buy some.”
“But seriously, Sophy, I meant that, on moral or ethical grounds, such ties that inevitably will involve human suffering and remorse, should not be made.”
Sophy threw her cigarette into the fire. “Don’t talk so, child! What has remorse to do with you and me?”
“I don’t know how to continue.”
“Of course you don’t! So why try?”
He talked about the poetry of Francis Thompson, but she interrupted with, “Words, words, words! You don’t like me, do you?”
“Of course I like you, Sophy. You have been most kind to me.”
“‘Kind!’ You avoid me, all the time. Why?” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “I do believe that you are afraid of me! Surely you know women at your age? You have a reputation for being one for the ladies, you know. Or don’t you know?”
“I’m a hermit!”
“That isn’t what I heard from my sister at Folkestone. You were at one of the Rest Camps, weren’t you, after the war?”
“Yes, I was. What else did you hear?”
“Ah, a little bird told me lots and lots about you!”
Relieved that the quiver of intimacy had gone from her face, he followed her line. “What did your—er—chronicler say?’’
“Don’t look so anxious! I don’t suppose you’re the first young man who has ‘gathered rosebuds while ye may’. Isn’t that what Fitzgerald wrote?”
“I like what Blake wrote, ‘O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, that flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed of crimson joy, And his dark secret love, Doth thy life destroy’.”
“My dear boy, you are far too young to think like that! The trouble w
ith you is that you are too wrapped up in yourself, as J. D. Woodford once wrote and told you. What you need is someone to look after you, to see that you are fed properly, someone who will mend as well as wash your socks! Then one day when the right young woman comes along you will be ready for her. Experience is all, you know. Have you read Rousseau’s Confessions?”
“No, but that chap I told you about, Julian Warbeck, had a copy, and was always talking about them.”
“I heard about that young man. He didn’t do your reputation any good, you know. A very wild young man, from all one hears. Well, if you would like me to look after you, here I am. I shan’t do you any harm. Now I’m going to send you home to your cottage, you’ve had a full day, and should get some sleep. We’ll expect you over tomorrow, but if you have work to do, I’ll understand.”
She got up. “Oh yes—when am I going to be allowed to see your mother?”
Aug. 30. Yesterday I invited the four Selby-Lloyds to a picnic tea on the sands of the Bay, with Mother, Doris, and Bob W. It went quite well; although at first Doris caused me some qualms. She lacks social grace; indeed, Sophy said to me, when we were looking at some queer string-like jelly-fish left by the tide—“Your sister thinks I am trying to steal her brother, is that the reason why she was a little abrupt when you introduced her? ‘How do you do, Mrs. Selby-Lloyd’, with a blank face.”
I tried to explain that D. had been like that ever since she, as a small child, had told Father, when he was cross with Mother, that she had a “big knife, and was going to kill him”, and in spite of being beaten, held upside down by Father at table, the four-year-old Doris had refused to apologise.
I said that Father had had a bad time from his father, who was a bit of a waster, and that the effects of father-son lovelessness were usually passed on down in families, whatever the social class. Sophy remained silent about this; I imagined her thinking, “Not in our class,” which meant, of course, “Not in our family of gentlefolk.”
Mother and Sophy got on quite well: S. spoke about children, and often brought the subject round to my childhood. Nothing loath, Mother told her various anecdotes. It was Mother’s last day, and as we were collecting the beach things Sophy said to her, “What station do you go back to, Mrs. Maddison? Brumley South, or North?” Poor Mother looked flustered and turned to me. “What station is it, Phillip?”
My mind was a blank.
One morning towards the end of the third week in September, Phillip gave Annabelle a part of his journal to read. She sat on the concrete steps of Belle View and read it, then handed back the book, saying, “Most amusing!”
“Did you like it?”
“Bits here and there. I looked through the rest—was it private?”
“Not to you.”
“I liked best the poem about Julian and the Carrion Crow.”
“Oh, that’s feeble stuff!”
“So like you!” she laughed. “Here, give me the book.” She sought, and read aloud.
“‘There was the roar of a carrion crow
Filling the midnight air
Then Julian lay prostrate in the snow
Void of three gallons of Roebuck beer.’”
She shut the book with a clap. “Now I must wash my hair! Can’t go back to school looking like a gipsy, can I?”
The following day he made an excuse to go to London because Annabelle was to be on that train. He took her across London to Victoria where another girl who had left school at the end of the summer term met her. Annabelle was games-captain of her house, and was given rosettes to present to members of her hockey team. There was one spare rosette.
“What shall I do with it?” said Annabelle during tea in the refreshment room. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone in a way that devastated him. He had tried to kiss her in the railway carriage—she had leapt up and sat on another seat. Thereupon he had sat almost unspeaking during the rest of the journey. He behaved like Sophy, in fact: except that Sophy didn’t seem to show obviously any fears of being unwanted. Now he hoped that Annabelle would give him the rosette: foolish thought, he knew, and out of proportion; but he hoped she would, secretly, as the train moved out, put it into his hand.
*
When he got back to Devon Sophy and Queenie were packing before leaving for Essex. By their talk they were looking forward to the hunting season, badminton, dances, plays in London.
After they had gone away he felt lonely, and went down to the sands and wandered among the old footmarks where they had played and walked. When he returned there were letters lying on the table, with some press clippings of the second novel which had been published. Then recognising Annabelle’s writing he tore open the envelope, glanced at it and dropped it on the table while struggling for self-control, before picking it up again. It was short, half a page only, and it said, You don’t seem able to hit off a happy medium, and so I am going to cry off for a bit. He saw Sophy’s hand in that, and recalled Denis Sisley’s words.
*
Most of the press notices were unfavourable. A lady novelist in The Cape Times said, “Mr. Maddison is not discovered as a Keats.”
The Pioneer of Allahabad said, “Donkin never saves the day at cricket or football. Like his author, he is entirely devoid of humour.”
That evening he went down to give Porky a copy of the book, one of six sent by the publishers. It was a haven, that cottage by the sea; there was no nicer companion than Porky when he sat quietly at home, smoking old dried tea-leaves.
“Leave the flappers alone, Phillip, leave the little gels alone, as well as the decoys. Get on with the good work, old boy. Get on with your writing. I’m thinking of startin’ up again myself, under a new name this time.”
He tapped out tea-leaves from his pipe. “Goo’ lor’ yes!” He took a sip of barley-water boiled with sea-weed, to cure gout.
“Jacky was here only this morning, on Dum Dum,” he said. “Yes, Jacky’s an awful good sort, more your type, old boy, huntin’ and all that. You want to get out of that hermit mood of yours, y’know, Phillip. Goo’ lor’ yes! Forget all these sea-side flappers and their mothers, and settle down. Marry someone belongin’ to local society, not a summer fly-by-night, goo’ lor’ no!”
“Now tell me, Phillip,” said Mrs. Tanberry. “Have you seen Dr. MacNab yet? Well, you must, you know. If only to relieve your own mind,” she added.
He took the hint. Tuberculosis was contagious: she was thinking of her children.
Chapter 15
WIGFULL, THISTLETHWAITE, MUTTON & CO.
Ever since his arrival in South Devon Phillip had put off going to see the doctor in the hope that his lung would heal itself in the fresh air, with exercise; now, to prepare himself for the coming winter, he determined to begin a new life. He got out of bed at the same time every morning, disciplining himself to shave and wash before going downstairs to see what the postman had brought. To train himself further he practised shadow-boxing in the bedroom; and while going through the motions one morning, working arms and shoulder blades, he heard his breath coming harsh through his throat. Were his bronchial tubes eaten away by tuberculosis, after the mustard gas in 1918? The thought touched him like an icicle.
There was a disabled infantry officer staying in the village, who had a tubercular throat due to mustard gas. Phillip had met him in the Ring of Bells. He must find out where he lived, from the landlord. As soon as he entered the pub the landlord said, “Funny thing, I was just tellin’ the very same gentleman where you lived. He’s got a message from Dr. MacNab, he tells me. He be sittin’ in the bar now.” Phillip went in.
“The Doc. ’s looking for you,” began the visitor. “He said to me at golf the other day, ‘I’ve got an unpleasant thing to tell young Maddison’.”
Phillip sat down on the nearest bench.
“Now what have you been doing, old boy? Have a whisky—I recommend it—you look a bit groggy about the gills—yes, old boy, the Doc. says to me, ‘Some of the lady members came to me and deman
ded a general meeting to expel young Maddison from the Tennis Club’.”
“What? Is this a joke?”
“If it is, it isn’t mine, old boy. That’s all the Doc. told me. I said I’d tell you when I ran across you. Don’t let it get under your skin.”
Phillip went at once to find the doctor. It was the afternoon surgery. Waiting among the panel patients, leaning against the flaky lime-washed wall, he felt the precision of the biblical expression of bowels turning to water. The patients were all in drab clothes; they sat still, obedient and subdued as they had in the schoolroom. Each one seemed afraid of his or her voice. At last the doctor saw him. “Hullo! Come on in!” he said cheerfully. He was tanned of face, and began by praising Phillip’s book of essays. “It’s delightful! I’ve just read it with my small son. You’re looking well.”
He peered quizzically at Phillip, who found it hard to say anything.
“You want to feed up, old chap,” went on Dr. MacNab. “Living alone is not good for a man. What do you eat?”
“Oh, anything—mainly bully beef and sardines—bread and cheese.”
“Be damned to that, my dear boy! Can’t you get someone to give you meals? What about the landlord’s wife at the Ring of Bells? She used to be a good cook, so I’ve heard, when she was in service. They take in summer visitors, why not try them? It’s not good for you to be alone. Oh, I know what I wanted to talk to you about. There are some very conventional people here, as you know, and apparently your bohemian reputation has got about; all nonsense of course, but you know how people talk. Anyone a little out of the ordinary—Well, this is what has happened. When you went to that fancy dress dance at the Bay someone saw you there and said, ‘Why was that man invited here?’ Mrs. Carder, you know her, don’t you, replied, ‘Oh, we’ve had him to the house, and he seemed a pleasant young man.’ And this has apparently led to something else, for a certain person came to me and said I ought not to have let you into the Club without a Committee meeting. I suppose, really, I should have put you up to the Committee in the ordinary way, but it seemed rather unnecessary, as we had only about a score of members anyway. Well, there you are, old chap. I managed to pacify them, saying I knew you were nothing of the kind, and to stop the general meeting they wanted to be called to have you expelled. I told them I’d see you about it quietly. A lot of damned rot, but there it is.”
The Innocent Moon Page 35