It was drizzling, the surface of the road slightly greasy, he must go gingerly. But by the time he came to a wide thoroughfare he felt at ease, and passing omnibuses and drays, after several enquiries reached the Embankment.
There he stopped, and walked up and down, in doubt about going to see Westy’s parents in their City pub. But supposing O’Gorman had gone to see them, and told them the truth? The thought was unbearable; and pushing off the Norton he leapt upon the saddle and opening the throttle with a crackle of the exhaust went down the Embankment a couple of hundred yards before dropping back to a quiet 35 m.p.h. Thence through traffic on wet cobbles to the Old Kent Road and finally home, subduedly to collect an old trench coat and flying helmet. His mother asked if he were going to stay the night, as it was Father’s birthday, but he replied that he must get back to duty; and after declining an invitation to a lunch of cold mutton, ate bread and cheese, and with a cheerful goodbye set out for the Dover Road over Shooter’s Hill. At the sleepy village of St. Mary’s Cray, where cuckoos and nightingales sang outside the post office, he sent off a telegram to Eve, Falcon flying east hope arrive six tonight please dine with me Corvanos.
*
Down Wrotham Hill to the Weald of Kent, the fruit gardens of England; through Maidstone and on to Ashford; at last he was running with closed throttle down the hill into Hythe, round the sharp left-hand corner and along the coast road to Sandgate, where he stopped, and trudged on the brown shingle, trying to think back to a moment of his childhood there, to recover at least a picture of cousin Gerry’s face, and his own romantic feelings when Gerry had told him of the wreck of The Benvenue. Then he thought that he might miss Eve if he did not hurry; and flying up the hill with the open exhaust cracking at more than four times the rate of a Vickers gun firing bounded over the crest, and closing the throttle, turned right-handed to the Leas, and went along smoothly and almost silently beside the promenade, at little more than fast walking pace; to see, a hundred yards ahead, the figures of Colonel Tarr, his C.O. talking to the G.O.C. Shorncliffe Command, General Shoubridge, a convalescent in a bath chair after double pneumonia. Out of the corner of his eye he saw them looking his way as he passed, and felt relieved that he was not in uniform. Should he have got leave from old Tarr, nicknamed locally the Flapper King? What did it matter, the war was over.
Chapter 20
SPECTRES OF THE MIND
The engine was making deep harp-string notes in the silver exhaust pipe now burnt faintly blue where it left the port. He passed the Pavilion, to see with a shock Eve walking beside a tall, heavy-weight figure wearing the double oak-leaf scroll of a General on the peak of his red-banded service cap. At the same moment Eve saw him and waved. He stopped, and walked over to her, wondering who her elderly companion might be.
She seemed to be a different person, almost formally composed as a lady as she walked a foot apart from her companion, not exactly keeping step with him, but giving the impression of unity with him. As he approached she smiled, and said something to her companion, who had an air of knowing him, almost of expecting him, which was puzzling. He tried to recall where he had seen the big face before.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fairfax!” he said, pulling off his tweed cap with an assumed air of shyness.
“Good evening, Phillip. I’ve had a wonderful surprise! Lionel arrived home on leave at five o’clock this morning, isn’t it simply heaven? We’ve got a whole ten days together. Lionel, this is Captain Maddison, otherwise Phillip, adjutant to the Flapper King.”
“How do you do, sir.”
So this was her husband: crossed swords of a Brigadier, two rows of ribands, four wound stripes, friendly face—not at all like the ‘we live our own lives’ dullard he had imagined from Eve’s description.
“We’re going to sit by the band, Maddison, why not join us?”
The Bacarolle from Tales of Hoffman throbbed from the octagonal glass shelter.
“I think you know an old friend of mine, George Mowbray, who commanded the Home Counties division in France? We travelled together from Cologne. As you may know, he’s come home to command your first battalion at Cannock Chase——”
“Oh really, sir?”
“I’m a sapper, and may get posted to the Canal. I was telling Eve that life can be quite amusing in Cairo. You are serving on, I suppose?”
“I’m only temporary, sir——”
Eve’s red-lipped smile and bright eyes turned from one to the other. “You two soldier boys don’t mind me eavesdropping, I hope?”
“Do forgive me, darling.”
“I wasn’t serious, I can see you both at once when you talk across me!”
There was a pause, while the ’cellist stroked dark blue plummy notes from a humming G string before moving over to an ecstatic A.
“Let me change places, darling,” she said, with a brilliant smile for her husband.
Under the assumption of an open, unsophisticated manner Phillip concealed a feeling of slightly painful perplexity increased by a liking for Lionel and faded hopes of an early dinner in a restaurant with Eve and the dream of taking her on the pillion to the open spaces of the Romney Marshes, free as air, and bathing in the sea off the shallows of Dungeness among the ring-plover and shore-larks. Soon he made an excuse to say goodbye, with thoughts of applying to be sent back to the first battalion; or for a job in the Army of Occupation, anywhere so long as it was not in England.
“We’ll be seeing something of you, I hope, before I go back to Hunland?”
“Oh—thank you, sir.”
“Call me Lionel. Damme, I’m only a camouflaged major!”
“Thank you, Lionel!”
“Come round in a day or two, Phillip,” called out Eve and as he backed away she gave him a wink.
Every afternoon for the following three days he went alone to the low country behind the long sea-wall of the Marsh, visiting places he had hoped to visit with Eve, whose image accompanied him every moment of the long sunny days, arising from the vacancy within. At moments he twisted to get free of her image, while knowing that by every thought he was more deeply held.
*
“Quillie darling, be Mummie’s very own sweet girl, and ask Marty to bring in tea, will you?” Eve knelt on the carpet to enfold and kiss her child. Then to Phillip staring out of the window, “When are you going to take me on the Romney Marshes?”
The old woman called Marty brought in the tea, set it down on the leather pouffe by the sofa, and without a word went out again.
“I don’t know, Eve.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I think I ought to go away.” He took a letter from his pocket. “This came yesterday from a cousin of mine, in Devon. He’s left the army, and suggests that I do the same, and go and live with him, and share a wild life. He has an old lime-burner’s cottage miles from anywhere, by the sea.”
“I should go then, if you feel you’d like to. Is he a nice person?”
“Yes. Full of fun and life. Unlike me.”
“Darling, don’t get morbid. It’s all those books you read. Julian Warbeck got the same way, and seemed to think I was responsible. Personally I think a barrel or two of beer and half a dozen volumes of Swinburne may have had more to do with his state of mind.”
“I don’t like Jay Double-u, Mummy, and hope he never comes back. But I like Pat, and I like Pillie, too, because he plays with me sometimes on the floor. I like the floor best, and under the table.”
“Yes, darling, it’s fun to enjoy yourself, isn’t it? What’s that, Pillie, a photograph of your cousin? Oh, isn’t he good-looking! Such enormous eyes, and humorous mouth. Where was this taken?”
“Under one of the trees at the bottom of our garden.”
“Where is that?”
“Near Blackheath.”
“I like your straw boaters. What kids you both look! Willie and Pillie, under the tree at the bottom of the garden. Yes, I certainly like the look of Willie! The name seems to su
it that clever little face, full of intelligence.”
“Shall I read you his letter?”
“Do, please.”
He read only part of it, telling of Willie’s life in the solitary cottage above Shelley Cove, with an otter, seagull, and birds he had tamed. It was a beautiful life, said the writer, but lonely at times. He recalled the holiday they had spent together at Lynmouth when on convalescent leave in 1916, particularly the day when they had gone on the light railway from Lynton to Barnstaple and walked down the estuary and round the coast to Cryde bay, ‘where those two men were drowned trying to rescue a governess, who afterwards walked ashore.’
“The bathing sounds as dangerous as Cornwall, where Lionel and I went for our honeymoon. Oh, that grim little Cornish farmhouse at Constantine Bay! Lionel chose the place from a map, because of the name.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Quillie darling, ask Marty to take you for a walk on the Leas, will you? It’s such a beautiful evening.”
When the child and her nurse had gone Eve continued, “He made me swear I’d be constant, after calling me his ‘wild English rose’ to rouse his passion. He’d been used to living with scores of native women, you see, and wasn’t quite sure how to tackle a sixteen-year-old bride, I suppose.” She laughed. “The weather certainly lived up to the name, it rained constantly for a fortnight! However, it helped to produce Jonquil eight months later. Well, are you going to visit Willie Watt on your beautiful new female Norton, whose heartbeats mean so much to you?”
“Willie Watt?”
“Well, I don’t know his surname, do I?”
“Oh, the same as mine, Eve.”
From the high window of her flat she watched Jonquil and Martha walking to the Leas. Then taking his hand, she said, “Why are you so aloof, Pillie? Oh, before I forget! I got The Man of Property out of the library when Lionel was here, and found it very moving, and life-like. Especially the feelings of Irene, Soame’s wife. I know exactly how she felt. I’d have gone straight to Bosinney’s side, and damned those bloody old Aunts and Uncles. But she married someone nearly twice her age, and that I do understand. Darling, come and sit beside me. I do love you so.”
On the sofa she put an arm round his neck, her fingers gentle in the hair behind his ears. Then she leaned to him, enclosing him with her arms, and put her head on his chest. “Don’t speak. I could be like this for ever with you.”
Half a minute later she said, “I can hear your heart beating, Pillie.”
He held back his head to look at the back of her neck, where the auburn hair grew away in thick tresses, and felt desire from the innocence of her white flesh.
“Pillie dear, don’t you ever feel you want me?”
“Yes, Eve, of course I do.”
“Then why don’t you make love to me?”
He was shocked; for so far he had esteemed her above Rupert Brooke’s ‘sneaking lust’ felt by Lionel for his ‘wild English rose,’ otherwise a young girl’s virginity. But who was he to judge another, when he was afraid to tell her the real truth: that he might give her venereal disease.
“Pillie darling, you disapprove of me, don’t you, in your heart of hearts?”
“I feel first one thing, then another. Anyway, the ‘wild English rose’ feeling is only—lust.”
“Pillie, do you feel lust for me? How lovely, darling: Tell me when you first felt lust for me!”
“When you rubbed your bare foot against my shin, when we were lying on the pebbles side by side after bathing that day, soon after I met you.”
She kicked off a shoe, and held up a foot. “This was the one. Bad foot! It couldn’t help it, honest it couldn’t, cross my heart. Naughty foot!”
“I liked the spread of your toes, on the shingle. They looked so natural.”
She felt under her skirt, and unfastened her stockings, pulled them off, and threw them across the room. “That’s better,” she said, spreading her toes. “I used to climb trees like a monkey when I was a kid. I could hold on to branches with these toes.”
She lay back, waving one leg, admiring its shape. “I know how a fish feels with its fins. Let’s go and have a swim!”
“No.”
“Oh, darling, not now. Someone may come.”
“I’ll lock the door!”
“Do you truly love me?” she said, feeble now. He did not answer, held in tension by a thought to pay her out, since she wore nothing under her skirt. Afterwards, alarmed and weakened by shame, he asked what she was going to do about ‘preventive measures.’ She said in a hurt voice, “Why do you have to talk like that, and spoil it? You’re like Lionel.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I wouldn’t mind a baby with your dark blue eyes, Pillie.”
“I think you ought to take precautions, all the same. Haven’t you any——”
“Really!” She looked at him with scorn. “Very well, I’ll ease your mind. On such occasions I usually douche with Lysol, and swish away any little strangers. God, you men are all alike. Go away from me, you and your poetry! Don’t you dare to touch me!”
*
Some weeks later, on returning to Folkestone after taking Desmond back to Wakenham on the pillion of the Norton, Phillip went to the orderly room and saw the Commandant sitting at his, Phillip’s, desk.
Colonel Tarr was smoking a cigar and reading, or rather examining a library book which had remained on Phillip’s desk, unread, for some months, Joan and Peter by H. G. Wells. The presence of the C.O. was a surprise, for Tarr seldom put in an appearance at the camp after mid-day, and never on a Saturday.
It was past the Colonel’s time of going to the East Kent Club to read the evening papers, drink a couple of long brandy-and-sodas, and talk with one or another of his cronies at the bar before dining. Throwing down the novel, he said,
“You are doing no good for yourself here, Maddison. I am sending you back to your regiment. You will hand over your office to Captain Browne tomorrow morning, and he will give you the necessary papers for your journey. Good night.”
Phillip went to see Eve to say goodbye, and on approaching her flat saw a grey Mercédès-Benz standing outside. Ah, he thought, she didn’t think I would be coming back so soon. After walking about for an hour he rang the bell, and went up to the flat, to be told at the door that Mrs. Fairfax had given orders that she was not at home to anyone.
“I’m sorry, mister, but that was what I was told to say.”
“Tell her that I understand. Well, goodbye, Marty.”
He walked about until dawn; and after breakfast, having handed over to Browne, and sent off his valise by train, addressed to the first battalion at Brockton Camp, Cannock Chase, Stafford, he set off to cross the Thames by the Gravesend ferry; and riding north passed through Essex and Gaultshire to the Midlands, stopping only for oil and petrol, and so through Birmingham and on to Cannock Chase, where his heart sank deeper when he saw hutments.
Mon. 9 June.
I am attached to a company for duty. O.C. is Lt. Silvester, M.C., a regular. 2d i/c another loot, also reg. Both Lt.-cols. in the war. Drills on square, route marches, bayonet practice, Lewis gun instruction—all dull & lifeless. Know no-one. Camp on high moor of ling and heather, stunted pines growing out of poor soil. Bredon Hill in far distance, seen through glasses when smoke haze of Brum and other industrial towns drifts away east. Bought a new gramophone and records in Stafford.
Mon. 21 July.
Went on leave four days ago. Peace Day Celebrations on 19th. Bonfires everywhere. Couldn’t stick the Hill, so went down to Folkestone, blinding all the way, almost no need for lamp, sky ruddy and fireworks going up all the time. E. and I had agreed last May to meet ‘whatever happens’ on Peace Night. Knew it was no good but went. Saw her in Grand Hotel, with a mob of people. Surprised to see Willie there. She and Pat C. went down to Devon, apparently the day I left Folkestone. E. was a bit tight, and rude to me. Returned to Wakenham, slept under bushes in gul
ly. Cold. Thought of going back to find Willie but didn’t fortunately, would have bored him. Had ‘Nunhead’ nightmare, awoke slippery with sweat.
Phillip stayed in his cubicle, and did not go on parade. At last the adjutant sent for him. Phillip said he was not well.
“You will report to the Medical Officer.”
The doctor, a locum tenens from Stafford while the R.A.M.C. regular was on leave, said: “You have a dull patch on your left lung. How long have you had these sweatings?”
“Off and on since September 1915, doctor. But much more since I went down with mustard gas—”
“That’s enough to have caused a break-down of tissue, and infection by tubercle. Can you give me any particulars of previous wounds or illnesses?”
After this the doctor said, “What do you want to do? Go into hospital, or on leave? Anyone to look after you? Where d’you live? No, London’s not too good. How d’you feel about things?”
“Oh, fairly fit, except a bit depressed at times.”
“Sleep well? Any nightmares? H’m. The same dream night after night, you say. Tell me about it.”
When Phillip had ended his somewhat jerky account, the doctor said, “You know, more ill-health is caused by chronic depressive thoughts, from painful incidents buried deep in the mind, than medical science generally allows. There are two schools of thought about this. The new school, very much in the minority, one need hardly say, believes that the effects of prolonged strain in the war can be delayed longer than was formerly thought. I was an M.O. with a regular battalion for a couple of years, beginning in 1915 and going on until Third Ypres, when I came home fagged out. The former theory was that, as experience is cumulative in human life, so battle experience hardened and acclimatised a man to endure where a partly trained soldier would crack. The contrary is the truth, I believe, for within my experience I saw again and again that a soldier’s power of endurance is worn away the more by every battle he goes through. My dear fellow, what’s the matter?”
A Test to Destruction Page 43