While Hetty had been waiting there, fetched with the others by her father because there was a better view through the railings, she had thought of her brother Hugh, and of Dickie—and, by contrast, how wonderfully her son had succeeded in life. The world of the spirit, which flowers through success after tribulation, was upon her as she watched her son before the King, so confident and upright as he stepped back to salute, to be joined by two officers who, said the policeman on duty, were holders of the Victoria Cross. Her son, on whose behalf she had suffered and hoped so much, protecting him from the weaknesses of his character which at times had seemed more than she could bear—now he was a success before all the world.
She awaited him, smiling and tremulous, a little anxious lest she say the wrong thing, and admit her pride to others, and telling herself that she must not attempt to kiss him in public. Elizabeth stood beside her, prepared to defend her ‘little Mother’ should Phillip criticise her by look or word. On the other side of Hetty stood Thomas Turney, wondering if his grandson now had the character, reinforced by his experiences in command, eventually to take his place in the family business, to be the one he needed—at times desperately when he felt death to be very near—to carry on the firm of Mallard, Carter, and Turney. His other three grandsons were dead, and Joey, his son, had no aptitude to manage even a department, let alone the ability to meet and reorganise for the new conditions which would inevitably arise after the hostilities were ended. How boyish Phillip looked, walking unsteadily—poor fellow, he still looked a bit shaky, and thinner than ever, his eyes staring like a hawk’s as he came towards them. Then the boy stopped, and said something to one of his companions, who wore the hat of a Staff officer.
“Yes, of course!” said the Staff officer. “We’ll see you later! Au revoir!”
Phillip saluted him stiffly, and turned towards his people with a forced smile.
“I am so sorry I didn’t get you tickets——”
His sister looked at him sceptically. He was reduced by that look to his old life; there was change, ‘Spectre’ used to say, but never progress in human affairs. The soul, and the body, were evolved to their peak. He remembered ‘Spectre’ quoting Spenser, ‘For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make’.
“Well, Phillip, how do you feel after all that?”
“Oh, much the same, Mother.”
“May we see the medal, dear?”
“It’s an order, Mother.”
“Yes, of course, how silly of me.”
He opened the case, and gave it to her. “Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” She could not stop herself from saying, “You have made me very, very proud, my son.”
The deliberate tone of voice, less fluttery than he had dreaded, was touching. “Well, Mother, such things are really a tribute to the men, you know.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Thomas Turney. He seemed shaken, and sighed, before saying, “Phillip, I must congratulate you. I am an old man——” His voice stopped.
Phillip had not seen him like that before. “Thank you, sir.” He felt almost gay.
“You’ll be coming to luncheon with us, m’boy?”
“Yes do, Phillip,” put in Aunt Marian. “It will make us all so happy if you will.”
“Mother, the photographs——”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot, Elizabeth. Phillip, do you mind if the man takes some?”
“Oh, Mother, you haven’t been saying anything about me, have you?”
“Of course not, dear. He’s from the local paper, the Borough News.”
He felt relief. If it appeared in the London papers, it would be bound to be seen, and perhaps O’Gorman would be interviewed, and then—— “All right, so long as it’s only for the local rag.”
“Oh yes, of course, Phillip. I shall buy some prints afterwards, and send some away, to Aunt Dora and others in the family.”
The photographer came up. “Would you mind, sir, a family group? I won’t detain you long. First, I’d like one of you standing between your mother and sister, holding the case, and showing them your medal, sir.”
“Well——”
“It won’t take a moment, dear.”
“Oh go on, Phillip!” said Elizabeth, as he hesitated. “Don’t pretend to be shy!”
The photographer arranged the three figures. “Could you and your mother hold the open case between you, and the medal in your hand, as though you’re offering it for the inspection of this young lady. It’s the usual pose, sir, I’ve taken scores like that. I might place one in The Tatler, and other weeklies, so if you don’t mind I’ll take one or two poses.”
Phillip looked at his mother, saying with his eyes, Only the Borough News, Hetty?
Four different poses were taken. To Phillip, depressed after the strains of the morning, it was a disaster from the roots of his being. The hopes for a new life, desperately maintained at times, were discarded as he resolved to go straight to the War Office and ask to be sent to the front immediately. The shadow took the place of the impostor, a shadow arising from an event which, while not forgotten, had as yet no connexion in his mind: an event which had appeared to lay darkness evermore around him when, after the mumbling of Father’s voice coming up through his bedroom floor had ceased one Sunday evening when he was small, his mother’s red tarn o’shanter above her overcoat had come round the door, in the twilight as he lay in bed unkissed, Mother weeping as he watched her standing there, all his life dulling away while he lay still and heard the whisper, Your father does not want me any more, so I am going away for ever, Sonny. Then she had gone away down the passage and he had heard her footfalls on the stairs, the front door had closed quietly. He had waited for her to return, lying still, his eyes wide in the darkness. Mother had died, his feeling was deeper than tears. Without knowing it, from that night the four-year-old child had gone forward into life always a little apart from his mother, as he had already departed from his father.
The photographer was writing down Hetty’s address, for specimen copies to be posted, when Thomas Turney got the idea that he and his grandson should be photographed together. In the course of time, he thought, such a record might well grace the walls of the Board Room of M., C., & T.
At last the posing, clicking, and spool-winding was over. “Now we’ll get a cab to take us to Simpson’s. I expect you could do justice to a good meal, Phillip? Mustn’t deny the inner man, y’know, as Napoleon knew very well.”
They sat at one of the tables along the wall, with tall wooden partitions between each table. It gave a feeling of privacy, almost of intimacy, with the rest of the world shut away. The trolley with shoulder of mutton and vegetables came round, kept hot by spirit flames; the chef, all in white from tall starched hat to apron extending to his boots, carved the meat, with its browned skin covering a layer of fat, into thick slices, while a smart boy, bony of head and thin with quickness, in similar laundered white uniform spooned on each plate red currant jelly, a braised onion, and three small boiled potatoes—a delicacy allowed in any restaurant or hotel only one day a week by order of the Food Controller. Hetty had her ration books ready, one meat coupon each for the meal, but after Thomas Turney had tipped the chef with a crown piece these were waved away.
“I’ve ordered a bottle of claret, will you tell the wine waiter——” Tom Turney was saying to the chef, when Phillip said quietly, “I rather fancy that he’s waiting just behind you, sir.”
The ritual of smelling and tasting was observed; the wine was not corked. Hetty said, “Just a little, please, only a little”; Phillip thought, All the more for me; Aunt Marian put her hand firmly over her glass, thinking of her lumbago; Elizabeth asked for half a glass only, being afraid that it might bring on one of her ‘attacks’; Thomas Turney said, “Fill it up”, not wanting his grandson to get the taste of too much liquor. Then, tucking one end of his napkin into the top of his ‘weskit’, the old man proceeded with one of his four main enjoyments of life—food, reading before his fire, daily walk and talk in the shelter on the Hill, and
his evening game of picquet or bezique with Hetty. Once there had been sleep; that was now broken, and through the breaks came the twin torments of the night, the senses of past failure, and regret.
“Excellent saddle, Marian. Oxford Down and Hampshire cross, more substantial than South Down, I fancy.”
Blackberry and apple tart followed, Thomas Turney eating his portion with a slice of cheese, in the country fashion. No coffee; it was mainly roots of chicory and dandelion, ground up, he declared, going on to propose a visit to the factory in Sparhawk Street. “I’ve told Hemming that we might be coming along.”
Hetty looked at Phillip. “Will there be time for you to meet your friends afterwards, dear?”
“Oh, I don’t think I shall go now, Mother.”
After his first glass of claret he had felt easier, almost at home with them, a feeling marred by the thought that he had behaved badly by cutting the Café Royal luncheon. He could hardly turn up just as they were leaving. It was always the same: he could never keep to what he had made up his mind to do. The Bill Kidd fiasco at the Staenyzer Kabaret from which so much had followed, including the gas-shell outside Byron farm, up to his presence at that very moment in the eating-house in the Strand, was but one sequence in his aimless, ragged living. He should have accepted definitely for one party or the other, instead of falling between the same old stools.
“I must go back to the office,” said Elizabeth. “I’m supposed to be in by two o’clock.”
They took a taxi to Holborn Viaduct, where Thomas Turney, having paid the driver to take his grand-daughter on to Hay-bundle Street, led them up Farringdon Street.
“You look tired, Phillip,” said Marian Turney, when they had climbed the steps to High Holborn. “You must not do too much yet awhile, you know.”
After the visit to Sparhawk Street they had a cup of tea in an A.B.C. shop and caught a tram on the Embankment by Blackfriars, and so over the river and down the dreary streets to Camberwell—where Thomas Turney remarked sorrowfully on the changes which had taken place since the ’eighties, ‘when your dear Mother and I set up our little house together here, Hetty’—and southwards to the Obelisk and the familiar stop at Randiswell road. At least there would be Mrs. Neville, Phillip thought, as they walked slowly home.
“I think I’ll just drop in and see her, Mother. Thank you, Gran’pa, for a most enjoyable time.”
“What did you think of Emm, Cee, and Tee, m’boy?”
“Carrying on nobly, sir.”
“Yes. There’ll have to be changes, after the war, to meet new conditions.”
“You’ll be coming home later, won’t you, Phillip? Father will want to see you, of course.”
“Yes, Mother. Oh, before I forget, you’d better take this bauble.” He gave her the case, with the ‘badge of the Order’, as it was officially described, while wincing momentarily at memory of those ghastly photographs.
He crossed over and rang the bell of the flat. Heavy footfalls came down the stairs, the door was opened by Desmond, whom he had not seen for nearly two years, since the death of Lily Cornford. His old friend, much sturdier, brown of face, and with a light brown moustache, looked at him impassively. Then, “Come up, Phillip,” called down the voice of Mrs. Neville. “You’re just in time for a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Neville. How are you, Des?”
“Well, thank you. And you?” He moved aside to allow the caller to go up first.
“Quite fit, thanks.”
The constraint remained until Mrs. Neville had an inspiration. “Here, what am I thinking of! This calls for a celebration! Get out the brandy bottle, Desmond, and let’s drink to the end of this dreadful war, and all it’s responsible for. I’ve got a syphon of soda left, thank goodness.”
Desmond poured out the drinks. He offered his mother a cigarette, then Phillip. “Oh yes, I’ve taken to smoking!” cried Mrs. Neville. “Well, here’s to your very good health, and I do congratulate you, Phillip. My, you two boys do look smart!”
“I had to wear this,” said Phillip, almost apologetically to Desmond, as he touched a shoulder strap. “I can take it off now, thank God. So we’re level now—congratulations on your second pip, Desmond Where are you stationed?”
“Oh, in Yorkshire—inland from the Humber.”
“Come on, let’s clink glasses, all together!” said Mrs. Neville. They drank. “Now come on, Phillip, tell us all about it!” Her voice became creamy. “Where was the Investiture held, dear, in the Throne Room, or perhaps in the garden, in such beautiful weather?”
“In the forecourt, Mrs. Neville.” He drained his glass.
“Give Phillip another drink, Desmond.”
Desmond emptied his glass, before refilling the two.
“Desmond is engaged to be married, Phillip!”
“Mother! I told you in confidence!”
“I’m a bit hard of hearing,” said Phillip. “What did you say, Mrs. Neville?”
“Only unofficially, Mother. I don’t want it to get about. He added, “I haven’t told even Eugene.”
“Ah, dear old Gene!” said Phillip. “I haven’t seen him for ages!”
“I think,” said Desmond, “that Eugene feels you have dropped him.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Neville. “Phillip has been out in France practically all the time!”
“I hope to go again soon. Colonel Vallum, whom I saw today—he’s at the War House now—says the war will be over this year. I’m supposed to be seeing him, with some other chaps of our crush, tonight. They’re going to the Alhambra, then to the Grafton Galleries. I don’t really want to go.”
“Why not, dear? You deserve a little fun, after all!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t dance. Also, I haven’t got anyone to take.”
“A girl, you mean? But there will be plenty at the Grafton Galleries, from what I hear! Go and enjoy yourself. Who is this Colonel Vallum?”
“He’s a regular, Mons and all that, and got the V.C. at Festubert. Stout, rugger-playing sort, has the D.S.O. as well, a real hero.”
“I’ll leave you two to talk, while I get the tea!” Mrs. Neville said.
Desmond sat back in his chair, one hand over his eyes. “I’m meeting Gene tonight.”
“I would like to see him again, sometime.”
When Desmond did not reply, Phillip wondered if Desmond were truly in love, if so, surely he would be different; he would be free. At the same time, Desmond always had been very reserved. Ah, he had been too hasty in his judgment!
“Why not come up tonight, and we’ll have a drink together, before you go to your friends?” said the near-expressionless voice.
“If I shouldn’t be in the way——”
“Well, I’ve just asked you to come, haven’t I?”
Large cups of weak tea, that innocent liquid, freed them all.
“How is my—I always feel he is mine—dear little Sprat? You know, I miss him more than I ever thought I would. He was such a companion! I am sure he understood more than what was said to him. How is the little pet?”
“Oh, flourishing! The servants look after him, but my batman tells me that Sprat is on the alert all the time for my return.”
“You weren’t serious about going back to France, were you?”
“Well, I was, but I don’t suppose I’d stand much chance. I’m B2 anyway, for three months. According to one of our colonels—the real ones—temporary officers, captains and below, are wanted for the Indian Army, so I’ll put my name down when I go back. One has to agree to serve for a period of two years.”
“Well, dear, if you want to find a home for Sprat, you know he is always welcome here, but I don’t think I could face another parting from him.” Mrs. Neville wiped an eye. “You see, I live rather a lonely life——”
“I’ll give him to you, Mrs. Neville, whether I go or not!”
“Well, don’t decide now, Phillip——”
It was time to leave. “What time shall I come for
you, Des?”
“I’m meeting Gene at the Monico bar at a quarter past seven.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten. I ought to stay to see Father. He may be late. If I miss you at the Monico, where will you be dining?”
“Oh, at the Pop, where we used to go.”
“Right, I’ll see you there, anyway. Au revoir, Mrs. Neville, it’s lovely being here again!”
*
“It was very kind of you, dear, to give up your time to be with us today.”
“I owe you so much, Mother.”
At this unfeeling remark she seemed to be twenty years younger, he thought sadly.
“You’ll be glad to hear that Gran’pa was impressed by your behaviour throughout. He told me when I went in to see him that he has decided after all to let Aunt Marian stay. You didn’t know the situation? Well, old people get on one another’s nerves at times. Marian was the eldest of the family, you know, and had to look after the younger children, and I think your grandfather was a bit of a handful, and didn’t always take kindly to his sister’s restraining hand. So he has always rather tended to resent her presence, I suppose it is very natural, in a way. But don’t imagine that he is selfish, or unkind; on the contrary, he has always been good to all his children in their troubles.”
“Yes, I know. He stuck to poor old Hughie, didn’t he. And look how Father’s sister, Aunt Victoria, kicked out Uncle George Lemon when he got syphilis. Shoved him out to Australia!”
“Phillip, don’t let your Father hear you talking like that, whatever you do. Your Aunt Victoria’s circumstances were a little different from Papa’s, and in any case, who are we to judge others.”
“She used to judge me, anyway. And doesn’t she say the Turneys are Jews?”
“Please, Phillip, never mention that before your Father!”
“I don’t suppose I’ll see him. I’m going up with Desmond to meet Eugene, before going on to the other fellows. Desmond is friendly again, thank God. By the way, is my old uniform here? I can’t very well wear these crowns any longer, it will look like showing off.”
“Yes, I’ve got the first tunic you had made at the Stores, Phillip. It has cloth badges, on the shoulder straps, I can take them off if you like.”
A Test to Destruction Page 36