Phillip held down the second wire strand for Ching to get through. “You idiot! We’ll have to move fast! Get on with it.”
“They can’t prove we did it,” replied Ching, loosely.
“We did it! I like that! Run, for Christ’s sake! I can see flames! Come on, damn you, get through! Move, blast you! Don’t argue. Follow me.”
He ran through the trees on the other side of the railway, and up a path through the wood. After a couple of hundred yards, while the pursuer was still shouting, he had to wait for Ching. But less than a stone’s throw away Ching sank down on the path, rolling his eyes and gasping, “Oh my side! My side!”
“Don’t do that old stuff on me! Get up! Run, you swine! There’s only one man after us. If we keep on, he’ll give up, My God, look at the smoke.”
Ching lay there, groaning and rolling his eyes; in vain Phillip tried to pull him to his feet, while Ching moaned about his mother, saying she had only just come back from Peckham House, and it would kill her if anything happened to him. “Oh, oh, I can’t breathe! My side! It’s that phosgene gas.”
“You horrible bloody mess, why in God’s name did I ever bring you here? If you won’t help yourself, then go to hell!”
Phillip set off up the path again; only to stop once more and return to where Ching was lying, the man standing by him. “I think we ought to go and put out the fire,” he said.
“Too late for that, my bucko! You come wi’ me!”
“It’s not too late. Come on!”
“Ah no, you don’t play no tricks on me, like that! You be comin’ wi’ me to the constable!”
“I’ll pay for the damage.”
“Ah, that you will!”
“I didn’t do it, you know.”
“You was both the same! I seed you both runnin’ away. You’re comin’ along o’ me, mister!”
“What about him?” Ching was apparently unconscious.
“I don’t trouble about he. One’s enough for me. You was both together. I wor’ watchin’ of you both, you didn’t know that, did you? So wor’ my mate, worn’t you, Jim?” to another man hastening up.
“That I wor’! I seed ’em both a-doin’ of it!”
“You know, there’s still time to put out the fire. Take your hand off me! I’m not going to run away!”
“Not this time, you ain’t! We’ll see to that! Call yerself a gent! Where you from, the sawney house? Don’t you try no tricks, now, or we’ll crown yer!”
“I told you, I won’t run away, and I’ll pay for the damage. But why do you refuse to let me put out the fire? It’s not got a real hold yet, and we’re wasting time, I tell you!”
“Ah, you’ll be wastin’ time all right, mister!”
Between the two men Phillip walked to the main road, and down towards Cutler’s Pond. “I’ll tell you again: if you come home with me, I will give you a cheque for ten pounds, to cover any damage. You will have my address, then. Ten pounds should cover the cost of replacing that hut.”
They got on a tram, he paid the fares. The men neither assented nor disagreed, and he thought the matter would be settled by his cheque. They got off at Randiswell Road, and had passed the Fire Station and come to the Police Station when suddenly his arms were grabbed and he was hauled up the step, and inside, where he was charged with destruction of property by arson. Asked his address, he said, “I haven’t got an address.”
“Then where do you live?” asked the sergeant. On being told nowhere, the sergeant wrote down No fixed abode.
“May I have a pen, and some writing paper, to communicate with a friend?”
“I shall have to report your request to my Inspector.”
While the sergeant was telephoning Phillip remembered that his grandfather had been ill, and thought of writing instead to his mother; but she would be too upset. Mrs. Neville came to mind. He would write and ask her to come down. Looking round the room, where two young constables sat reading sheets from the News of the World, he said: “I can’t, of course, even suggest offering a police officer any money to take a letter, but could anyone outside be asked to take it, when it’s written, I mean?”
“You’ll have to ask the sergeant.”
“Any objection to my reading a newspaper? I mean, if you’ve done with that sheet over there.”
“There’s a Bible if you want it.”
“Have you ever thought that parts of the Old Testament are rather like parts of the News of the World?”
This attempt at humour fell flat, and he sat unspeaking until the sergeant came back.
“If you wish to make a request to see a lawyer, I shall take notice of it, in accordance with the regulations.”
“Very well, I would like to see a lawyer.”
But who? Then he remembered a brass plate on the gate of one of the houses in Charlotte Road, with Solicitor engraved after the name Bowles. “I’d like to see Mr. Bowles, if you please.”
After this he was locked up in a cell, and when later he asked if he might go to the lavatory, the constable on duty unlocked the door and took him to a seatless pan in a doorless space, and stood there close to him, apparently guarding against any attempt at suicide. This, added to the fact that all his personal possessions had been taken away—money, pocket knife, fountain pen, tobacco, matches, and note-book—before he had been put in the cell, increased his depression.
At last Mr. Bowles appeared. He was told that he would have to appear at Greenwich Police Court on the Monday, to be charged before the Magistrates. If the charge were proved, the bench might impose a fine, with damages, or a term of imprisonment, or both; or, at the worst, a remand to a higher court.
“It may depend on whether or not we can produce your companion. Perhaps you will give me his name,” said Mr. Bowles. As Phillip remained silent, he went on, “It will not help your case if, on the other hand, you merely state that it was someone else who set fire to the hut, and then refuse to say who he is.”
“Then it looks pretty bad for me, sir?”
“That I cannot say at this juncture. You say that you offered to help put out the fire, and that the two watchmen not only refused your help to do what you could, but prevented you from getting to the building to prevent further damage? There again, you will have to produce a witness or witnesses. If you cannot do this, it might be a case for the Petty Sessions. But again, if in the opinion of the magistrates it constitutes more than a misdemeanour, that is, a criminal offence, it may mean a remand until the Assizes, with a wait of some weeks for the visit of the Circuit Judge. In the interim that will involve remand in custody, or alternatively, a remand on bail. That, again, will be decided on any evidence of good behaviour, or testimony as to war service, and such things. How much bail do you think you could raise, or secure from relations or friends vouching for you?”
“I’ve got about fifty pounds, and a motorcycle worth at least another fifty.”
“You have no one—a parent perhaps—you could call on for bail?”
“I don’t want to involve anyone else, sir.”
“Well, we’ll leave that for the moment. Meanwhile I’ll call on this lady, Mrs. Neville, as you suggest, and ask her to let your mother know your present whereabouts. I’ll come back later on this evening, when I shall know more about tomorrow’s procedure at Greenwich. Until then, keep as calm as you can.”
When Mr. Bowles was gone, the sergeant came in and said, “Am I right in thinking that you was here once before, brought in by a Detective-sergeant Keechey, during the war?”
“Yes, sergeant. He thought I was a bogus officer. It was in the early summer of 1916, just before I went out to the Somme.”
The sergeant had an almost crafty look on his face. Closing the door, he sat down again and leaning forward said in a low voice, “Keechey never thought that, did Keechey! He knew Lily Cornford was goin’ with you, and that made ’im mad. You knew Lily was dead, no doubt?”
“Yes. She was a wonderful person.”
“She was t
hat. A fine girl. So was her mother.” He looked at Phillip sideways, “You wouldn’t by any chance be any relation to Special Sergeant Maddison, would you?”
Phillip knew that the sergeant knew, and he answered simply, “Yes.” And liked the sergeant when he said, “Of course I knew that, the moment I set eyes on you, sir, but I didn’t like to seem too personal like. Oh yes, we all know Mr. Maddison down here at the station. A very highly respected gentleman. And I fancy I saw something about his son in the local paper?”
Phillip’s heart thumped. He was for it. After a moment to steady his voice to casualness he asked if he might be allowed to have pen and paper. “I must write a special letter.”
“It’s against regulations, but between ourselves, I’d like to be of help. The letter must be read by me, of course.”
“It would be regarded as a confidence, sergeant?”
“Well, sir, that’s the trouble. I’m a policeman, as you might say, as well as a man. And anything that might bear on the present situation, if you understand my meaning, is within my duty. Of course, sir, anything reely private-like, you can count on my discretion.”
Phillip knew that if he got a civil conviction his name would be removed immediately from the Register of the Order, so his letter addressed to The Secretary and Register, Buckingham Palace, London, begged that he be allowed to ‘relegate to obscurity from the Roll, for personal reasons which I beg permission not to disclose, and cease forthwith to be a Companion of the Order’. This was read by the sergeant, who made no comment before it was taken to the pillar-box round the corner. Soon afterwards the sergeant arrived back at the cell with a supper of fried steak and chip potatoes, fried onions, bread, and a large pot of strong tea.
The next morning at Greenwich Police Court Phillip saw his grandfather in a room with Mr. Bowles before the case was called. Mrs. Neville, her face powdered, sat at the back of the court, smiling when she saw him. The charge was read, to the effect that Phillip Sidney Thomas Maddison, of no fixed abode, describing himself as a racing motorcyclist, did, etc. Two witnesses, describing themselves in turn as watchmen, both employed by the same building contractors, told the same story. The foreman’s hut was burned out, the first witness got out in time to avoid injury. There was a second man with the accused, but he was a cripple, and had had a fit. The accused had tried to bribe them, after trying to pin the job, beg pardon the fire, on his friend. They weren’t having none of that, but took him to the police station.
Phillip reserved his defence, as directed by Mr. Bowles. The case was remanded, bail being allowed of £100 on Phillip’s own recognisances and a further £100 surety provided by Thomas William Turney (who put up both sums). Phillip thanked his grandfather, and said that he would pay back the money one day.
“You’re not thinking of absconding, are ye, m’boy?”
“Certainly not, sir!”
“Then the money will be returned to me in due course.” He added, “In any case it would have come to you, after my and your dear mother’s deaths. Now tell me, what made you two do it? Your mother tells me you were out with an old school-fellow. Aren’t you going to name ’im?”
“At the moment, if you’ll forgive me saying it, everything is rather sub-judice, Gran’pa. Cheerio, I’m going to walk home. See you later, sir.”
In the evening he went round to Ching’s house. The door was opened by the elder sister, who did not invite him in, but behind the almost closed door said, “We’ve seen the evening paper. No, my brother is not at home, Phillip. In any case, he would not want to see you. Why did you try to lead him astray? You knew he was not well, didn’t you? He has a war pension, you knew that, didn’t you?”
“Who is it, Ellie?” said a tremulous voice behind her. He saw the wan face of Mrs. Ching in the flickering gas-light. “Don’t let anyone in, Ellie.”
“It’s Phillip Maddison, Mother. I’ve told him it’s no good trying to see Tom.”
“If I cannot see him here, where can I get in touch with him, please?”
“He’s staying elsewhere.”
“But I must see him!” The adjoining door had opened slightly, as though someone was listening.
“Do you mind if I come in? I can’t very well talk on the doorstep.”
“What good would it do, Phillip? You can’t drag Tom in, you know. I remember when you used to set fire to the dry grass behind your house, again and again, when you were a boy. Why do you do such things? It must be a kink in you. You must go away, please, it’s no good your coming here any more. My Mother is very ill, you know, and must not be worried.” The door was shut.
Phillip went to call on Julian Warbeck, to be told by Julian’s aunt that he was out.
“I see. Well, good night, Miss Warbeck.”
“Won’t you come in, Maddison?”
“I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Good heavens,” said the voice of Mr. Warbeck, coming forward, spectacles in hand. “Good heavens, nobody could ever do that, I do assure you, my dear Maddison, after what we have had to put up with from Julian! I am only amazed that he is not about to go to gaol himself! So come in, and have some beer—my beer I may add, that is if there is any left after Julian has been to my own private cupboard—and you are prepared to take the risk of a row of empty bottles. There’s at least a fire in the grate, so you will not need to make your own, at least I hope not!”
From the house in Foxfield Road Phillip went to call on his grandfather. “If you promise not to tell anyone, sir, I’ll tell you what happened. Only you will promise not to say a word, won’t you?”
“I hope you are going to make a clean breast to Mr. Bowles, Phillip. He can’t very well help you unless you do that, you know.”
“Gran’pa, I think there’s only one course open to me. Otherwise it will be three against one. Those two men said they saw me set fire to the hut, and they will be too scared not to stick to their story. Will you give me your word, sir?”
Phillip told him what happened. “So you see, Gran’pa, in all the circumstances, I think it would be best to plead guilty.”
“Will you let your mother know what you have told me, Phillip? She is not well, you know, and the strain might be very bad for her health. Do what I ask you, my boy, I beg of you!”
“Yes, I will, Gran’pa.”
The old man was moved so that he could not speak; his breathing choked him, he began to cough, long contorted raspings from an inflamed bronchial tube. “I’m—better—alone,” he managed to say, in shame that he was old, no longer hale, and suffering.
Hetty went in to talk to her father with a light heart after Phillip had confided in her. It would not do to tell Dickie, she agreed; his rigid sense of what was right and proper would prompt him to say that in the circumstances there could be no two ways about it: Phillip’s first duty was to his own family, as it was to his country.
“Dickie says he will not have Phillip in the house, Papa. I wonder if you would mind if he has Hughie’s old room for the time being? It is quite safe by now, I feel sure.”
The garden room, of tragic memory, had remained unoccupied since her brother Hugh had used it nearly ten years before—almost like last summer to Hetty. After his death sulphur candles had been burned in the room for a week, while all doors and windows were sealed, and the chimney blocked, to make sure that no germs remained; after which the floor had been scrubbed, disinfected with Dodder’s Fluid, and scrubbed once more in preparation for repapering and painting. So now Hetty thought that it was fairly safe for Phillip to have a bed there, with writing table and chair, and his own books and gramophone.
It was the best dug-out he had ever had, he declared, and put a notice above the door
GARTENFESTE
He decided to conduct his own case, after much confliction of mind. He did not want anyone to testify on his behalf, but could not bring himself to tell anyone the reason: that a defence, with possible testimony as to his service during the war, might lead to the dreaded exp
osure of O’Gorman ordered to remove his cork-belt, which led to the death of Brigadier-General West. If he offered no defence, it would also ensure the smallest mention in the paper. If asked about his war-service, he would say that he had served as a private in the London Regiment.
At the last moment Mr. Bowles advised him to plead not guilty. For the man in the lavatory had come forward—“Oi”—prepared to say that he had heard Phillip reproving the second man for behaving like a hooligan in throwing an old pail into his garden. But no: Phillip’s mind was made up. He pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to a month’s imprisonment in the second division—porridge among the screws of the scrubs.
Hetty was at times almost light-hearted, sharing a sense of innocence with her father while Phillip was away. Richard enjoyed another kind of freedom. He was the more settled in his mind because his former feelings about Phillip’s contrary character were justified. It was the boy’s mixed blood, inherited from that old Jew, Thomas Turney, who, he thought, had had no Irish mother at all: she must have been a Jewess! Hetty, her sister Dorothy, and Hugh Turney—all had the black hair and brown eyes of that accursed race!
Richard sat alone in his sitting-room at night with the Strand Magazine—which he had decided to take now instead of Nash’s—reading about Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, P. G. Wodehouse’s delightful heroes, although they could never fill the place left vacant by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!
Another worry in Richard’s immediate life was Doris. She and her beau, the stuttering Willoughby, spent far too much time in the front room, often staying there until 11 p.m., when Richard wanted to go to bed. What they were doing all that time he did not propose to ask; but was it necessary to turn down the gas, as soon as Hetty had left them? What good could come of a courtship, if indeed it could be dignified by such a word, of two young people from whom, whenever he passed the shut door, in his slippers, perpetual argument seemed to be coming. What were they talking about? There was never any laughter; Doris never appeared to be glad when the young man arrived, as he did, night after night, staying there in half-darkness until he, the master of the house, invariably had to tap on the door and say, as amiably as he could, “It’s eleven o’clock, you know!” for all the world as though he were a night-watchman. What sort of manners was this? It was all part and parcel of the new so-called freedom the young were beginning to claim for themselves, pushing aside the older generation as though they had no right to exist.
A Test to Destruction Page 49