It was half-past eight. The Strand was crowded with soldiers and sailors, all going somewhere. Many had wives or sweethearts with them, and carried full kit and rifle; they were returning from leave. What could he do to kill time, until ten o’clock? It was a Saturday, too, and perhaps Orlebar would be away for the week-end. The weekend! How to face it at Wakenham? Should he go to Flowers’ hotel? On the excuse to tell Miss Flowers how All Weather Jack had died? Would it be the thing to go there for breakfast only? Hardly. He went into the Strand Apex House, and had eggs and bacon, while reading in The Daily Trident of the successful offensive in Russia; about Kerensky, “the new strong man”; 122 British ships had been sunk in June by German submarines, totalling417,925 tons. He thought it odd that the May figures, which he remembered reading in the Trident in White Rose Camp, had also been 122 ships. Perhaps they made up any odd figures to deceive the enemy, or someone in the Admiralty had muddled them.
Outside in the Strand he saw a team of Boys’ Brigade nippers hauling a sort of limber by ropes, with a board on it saying Prince of Wales Waste Paper Fund. He added The Daily Trident, thinking of Father. Why not go and see the old fellow after his visit to the War House?
He filled up a form, and was led along passages by a much smaller Boy Scout than before, to the M.S. department. To his pleasure he was greeted by Colonel Orlebar, who remembered him, but said nothing of the last meeting in the Café Royal, at the luncheon for “Spectre” West’s gong, when he had drunk too much wine and had to go out.
“If you’d been here this time yesterday you’d have seen ’im. He crossed over last night, to take up a special appointment. Perhaps in the circumstances you might care to consider going down to see the Militia Battalion on the East Coast, and have an interview with the Colonel there, and get him to apply for you. Is your present Commanding Officer willing to release you?”
“I am fairly certain that he is, sir.”
“In that case the better course would be to go down to Felixstowe, and see the Colonel; and if you get his approval, to forward your papers through your C.O. in France. If and when the transfer goes through, you may be posted to a line battalion, or more probably, be sent home to Felixstowe, and then take your turn.”
“I suppose, sir, there’s no chance of my going direct to a line battalion of the Regiment in France, without coming home first?”
Colonel Orlebar looked shrewdly at the young man before him. “You’re pretty keen, aren’t you? How many times have you been out so far?”
“Four, Colonel. But I have only done fourteen months in all.”
“That’s a fair stint. Well, the best of luck!” He half rose across the table, and held out his hand. Phillip thanked him, saluted, and left; with a glance at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to eleven.
Should he go to Flossie Flowers’? Sasha, would she be there? The image of her winsome face drew him, her breasts slightly repelled. He felt a cad, and said of his mean self “Damn you!”, then was discomposed because a man in a seedy purple velour hat and mackintosh walking the same way heard, and gave him a quick, as though alarmed, look. Phillip drew on his gloves, assuming an easy expression; but for some reason the man in the old mackintosh abruptly crossed the road, dodging between the two streams of taxis and buses, and then walked in the opposite direction. Had he dodged the call-up, and thought he had been spotted?
Phillip walked to the City along the Embankment. He was already used to women bus-conductors, in short skirts, black button’d leggings and cocked hats, but the sight of a woman in trousers pulling on the long sweep of an empty barge beside a terrier dog seemed a bit queer. He watched her go under Blackfriars Bridge with relief, then wondered why she was looking up at the sky, over the north bank and the City. Other people were looking up, too, and following their gaze, he saw a V-formation of what to him was a new type of aeroplane, bombers by the size. They were fairly low. He watched them coming nearer, they made quite a heavy growling. They turned in some sort of formation above the gilt cross of St. Paul’s, shining in the summer sun, and he saw four others behind the V-formation, and was wondering why they flew so raggedly when a gun went off behind him, from the direction of Whitehall.
People began to cry out and run. Traffic was stopping. The aircraft broke formation, and he heard the whine of a bomb. It exploded with a deep crum-m-p. Others followed.
He felt rough and angry, and yelled “Bastards!” The policeman on point duty was waving his arms and yelling, “Take cover! Take cover!” Phillip shouted, “Keep calm! No wind up!” as men and women ran to shelter, some screaming. He stood calmly, feeling scorn. Waitresses from a tea-shop ran out, also screaming, then ran back into the shop. Where the hell were our guns, he thought angrily. Then shrapnel began to burst in the air overhead. More bombs. Splinters hissed and whined down, rattling on paving stones. Plop! That was a nose-cap, which had cracked a stone ten yards away. He thought of Jimmy the mule, and found he was trembling when the biplanes had flown away; but not with fear, he told himself.
As he hurried up Ludgate Hill, making for Haybundle Street where Father and Mavis worked, an omnibus stopped at the corner of Old Bailey. It was covered with sawdust. Blood, he thought; then, why no glass broken? He crossed over to hear what the conductress was saying, again and again. “Sawdust, I ask you! They dropped sawdust all over us! A dark cloud come down! Sawdust! I ask you! They dropped sawdust on us! What if it’s poisoned, like their gas? Oh Gawd, isn’t it awful? Don’t touch it! It may be poisoned!” A man said angrily, “Where’s our Flying Corps, that’s what I want to know! John Bull will want to know the answer! No flies on Horatio Bottomley!”
“No flies on sawdust,” said Phillip, walking away.
Later, he heard that a bomb falling on the Central Telegraph Office of the G.P.O. in Newgate Street had blown up the wooden huts on the roof, which were dry in the heat, and up they had gone in dust, just as the Zeppelin bomb which had killed Lily had blown glass to powder over poor old Father. How interesting all these details were; but they never got into the papers. He would put them in his diary.
“Well, old chap,” said Father, in the Moon Fire Office, “you’ve arrived at a queer time! It just proves what I’ve said from the start, that the Germans will stop at nothing! Nothing!” he repeated, pale and agitated. “You saw what happened? You heard it?” He stopped himself from adding, Now perhaps you’ll believe what these Prussians really are. After a pause, “Well, how are matters out there? On leave, are you? For eight days, well——Still with the same Corps? Well—this is quite a surprise!” He was relieved that his son seemed to be settled down. “Your sister is upstairs, but no doubt you’ll be seeing her at home. I mustn’t keep you. You’ll be wanting to go down to see your mother, I’ll be bound.” He had not the power in him to ask if his son would be staying at home. The boy had his own plans, no doubt; and he himself was quite an old stager now having turned of fifty. He wanted to say, ‘You are always welcome, you know’, but the words would not come. Rather than risk a rebuff he turned away, with a wave of his hand, to his desk in the Town Department.
*
Phillip went on to Wine Vaults Lane, where the news of Downham having command of the company was already known.
“It’s the same everywhere,” remarked Hollis, the head clerk. “Downham stays in England nearly three years and rises to field rank, and others do all the real work. It’s exactly the same here in this office. As you know, I got most of the new business before the war, and Howlett got all the credit for it. He’s been out for the past two hours, while I’ve been here with Phillpots, doing the work. Now tell me, when’s the war going to finish? This year? Or next, when the Americans come over in force?”
“I think it will be next year, Mr. Hollis.”
“Have you got any particular reason for your assessment of the situation?”
“Oh yes. We’ve got the stuff now. It’s bound to be a slogging match, you know.”
“So you think it’ll be all over in 1
918, do you? Even with Downham in command of your company?”
“Oh, we’ve got a good sergeant major, and the men know their jobs, Mr. Hollis.”
“Good. Then I’ll try and hold the fort here until you come back, although I suppose you’ll both be too big for your boots by then, what?”
Phillip thought that he would never want to go back to that dreadfully tame life.
It was Saturday, he suddenly realised; soon offices and warehouses would be closing; so saying goodbye he hurried away to Houndsditch, hoping to see Eugene at the C.M. Corset factory. He caught his Brazilian friend as he was drawing on his chamois gloves, boater on head, nosegay in button-hole, attaché case and silver-topped ebony stick ready to hand. His face showed great pleasure when he saw Phillip.
“I’m on leave, Gene! How lovely to see you. What about a spot of lunch with me in Piccadilly? And a theatre afterwards? Or are you doing something?”
“I’ve arranged to go with a bird to Brighton for the week-end.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I can’t very well get out of it, because such an opportunity may not occur again.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Her husband’s gone to Dublin on business, and will be back by next week-end.”
“I see.”
“Otherwise I’d come with you, like a shot, you know that. How about next week?”
“I’ll be going back next Sunday, and ought to spend Saturday with my people.”
Eugene’s sallow face showed indecision. His eyes narrowed as he weighed up the idea of a week-end with dear old Phil, in uniform as a full lieutenant and two wound stripes, on leave from the front, against the pleasures to be had with someone ten years older than himself, whom he had already taken to his attic flat opposite Paddington station. She had offered to pay for everything—first-class fares, oysters and white wine at the Old Chain Pier Bar, dinner at the Ship, and suite at the Metropole. At the same time, he wanted to keep in with Harry Spero, who might take him in partnership in his scheme for after the war, he told Phillip, for cheap suitings for soldiers returning to civilian life. Hence the visit to Dublin, to buy up hundreds, thousands of bolts of cloth, before prices rose any further.
“Harry’s in army contracts for uniforms for the WAACS now, also omnibus conductresses and police-women, and it would be all u.p. with me if he found out about Leonora. So I’ll call it off. Where shall we go? Piccadilly Grill? Then how about the Lilac Domino? I’ve seen it six times already, and still think it’s the best show in Town. Here’s my new card, by the way. My mother’s father was General Goulart, you know. Would you like to see his photograph?”
“You showed it to me, Gene.”
“Oh, did I?” He was a little disappointed.
Having arranged to meet at 7 p.m. outside Swan & Edgar’s in Piccadilly they said goodbye. Gene went to telephone his regrets that, owing to a sudden attack of grippe, he would not be able to go to Brighton. He longed to say that an officer friend had just returned from the front, his great friend Major Maddison, of the Staff; but he did not want to offend Leonora, and through her, his business acquaintance Jack Spero.
Phillip walked to Pimms’ in Old Broad Street, where he bought some smoked salmon and ham at a stout-and-sandwich bar to take home. Then a taxicab to Charing Cross.
In the train he looked at Gene’s flowery new card, obviously not printed from an engraved copper plate, like his own cards, which had been done properly by Gran’pa Turney’s firm. Mr. Eugene Franco Goulart-Bolivar, with flourishes and twirls—rather vulgar, he considered. After all, Gene was a foreigner.
He got out at St. John’s station, meaning to walk over the Hill, and so avoid letting all of Hillside Road, on the other side of the Crest, as he thought of it, know that he was back on leave.
He imagined a battle for the Hill, as he walked up the long flag-stoned road, rising gradually until green slopes extended before him, and the gravel path beyond the spiked iron gate and railings. No hope for the 1st Guard Reserve Division, hastily entrained from the Arras front to Wervique, marching up that way. A nickel lattice curtain would hiss sixteen-fold over the Crest, and catch the column in feld grau.
On the grassy Hill, with its keepers’ huts, shelters, and bandstand, somehow all looking so much smaller, he walked between the two armies of his imagination, thinking to hang about until the imagined figure of Father appeared, straw boater in hand, swinging along as he had seen him a hundred times, and always with a feeling of life stopping abruptly, in the summers of boyhood. How strange that the damping feeling was still in him, despite the war. Of course! That feeling underlay the war! It was the war! The war was different view-points upon the same thing, each view-point felt to be the truth, and so believed by Germans, English, French, Belgians, Russians, Roumanians, and among all people in the entire world. And because each fighting nation believed in its feelings, or ideas, the same feelings and ideas, the war would not end until one side was broken by the other. If only people would try to understand the points of view of others, and not strive to force their own exclusively. When he got back, he must try and help Downham, who must feel rather nervous, having a command when he had known no action.
Walking up and down upon the summit of the Hill, warm and sunny, the new leaves on the trees shining in the gentle breeze, he felt extraordinarily happy. He saw himself as a boy again, in dark blue jersey which rolled round his neck, blue serge knickerbockers below the knee, black stockings and shoes, and his new cricket bat, stumps, and ball. Giving a treat to poor boys, and so anxious that his new bat shouldn’t be used for sky-ing stones, and a small girl smiling as she looked on, obviously longing to be allowed to join in. She wore ragged clothes and her yellow hair hung down thickly from under a big floppy grown-up hat, hiding nearly all her big blue eyes, but not their shine. He had let her play, quite unaware that this was Lily, the darling girl who had known him all the time, but whom he had not seen clear and plain, as she was, until the night of her death. O Lily, he said to himself, as he walked on the grass, to and fro with his shadow, sometimes passing under the tall young lime-trees near the bandstand, with its sparrow nest hanging raggedly from the inverted pinnacle cage of iron under its roof, O Lily, are you in the sunlight and the blue sky, calm and smiling with the love of God?
While he walked up and down, levitated by his feelings in the fine summer weather, seeing the Hill again as he had seen it in boyhood, a party of girls came along the crest, linked arm in arm, and singing a song that he had heard Gertie Gitana sing at the Hippodrome, years before; a sad and haunting song of a girl who had nothing to leave when she died, no money or property, but only happiness in nature.
I’II leave the sunshine to the flowers
I’ll leave the songbirds to the trees,
And to the old folks I’ll leave the memory
Of a baby about their knees.
I’ll leave the stars to the night-time,
And the quiet hills to the breeze,
And to those in love I’ll leave the moon above,
When I leave the world behind.
The faces of the eight advancing girls looked most peculiar as the singing line approached; they were yellow, and he realised they were munition workers from Woolwich, probably having the day off from packing bombs or shells with picric acid. They were happy, two were graceful, their breasts under their white silk blouses moved up and down in unison as they walked in step, the arms of these two being linked crosswise behind them. Their yellow faces gave them a Chinese look, rather attractive, he thought. Mrs. Neville had said that they treated soldiers, the only way they could get off; but they must have worn overalls, hiding their breasts, if private soldiers noticed such things. Perhaps such men cared only for one thing—the soul in them was not awakened.
He sat on a seat, pretending not to have noticed them, waiting for them to pass, so that he could see their breasts moving and feed on the movement in his mind with longing that was almost an ache through his being. B
ut the girls passed behind the seat, and he did not like to turn his head, but sat there, leaning forward, poking the gravel with his short cane, as though absorbed in some problem.
When they did not go on, but stayed by the bandstand, twenty or thirty yards behind him, he looked round. They seemed to be discussing something; there was a mixture of directions in eager cockney voices. “You go there, Ireen, that’s right, you cross with Dot, and you, May, you take the first round with Vi!” He shifted on the seat and rested his leg along it, to enjoy what they were doing. They began to dance, in pairs, weaving in and out of a circle, then all but two of them forming into pairs of arches, a couple passing under with bobbing heads; then they formed into two lines of four each, advancing and bowing and swinging back again, before breaking into couples and dancing in and out of their changing formations. He thought that girls in ancient Greece must have danced like this; and how well they looked, in spite of their canary-coloured faces, and what good clothes they wore. But for the war, these who had been poor urchins, screaming in nervous excitement around the bandstand on Thursday nights when the band played—dirty-faced children, pallid, thin, clad in rags—many without boots or shoes or stockings—but for the war they would now be white-faced girls, subdued, probably raped before adolescence, driven to inner hopelessness, or the streets; lost to love in unawakened homes. Now the war had brought, under its sacrifices, some kind of freedom, and hope for the future. He wanted to speak to them, but could not rise above his voiceless inner self.
Love and the Loveless Page 20