The Golden Virgin

by Henry Williamson

  Had Hetty shown less obvious distress, less melting pity when smaller, weaker things were hurt and despairing, it is possible that her husband would have been less critical of her so-called sentimentality. He had been brought up in the country, and knew the balancings of nature, of life and death. A bird taking a butterfly, a cat the bird in its turn, should be outside a man’s feelings. Privately, he preferred that the cat should run after what he called his drag—a rabbit’s foot tied to string.

  Now, taking the lure from his desk, Richard and the cat played together. The chase went on for several minutes around the bulbous mahogany legs of the table, under the mahogany bookcase, the gramophone stand, over the chairs. Finally the string was fastened to the handle of the door, so that the furry foot hung clear of the carpet. Thus the game was rounded off, until the cat had had enough, and went back to its place, to tuck paws under before the fire; then Richard untied the lure, and locked it away until the next time.

  *

  Mavis looked back as she crossed the humped bridge over river and railway, and saw that Ching was following her. She felt disgust. He had written letters to her; she suspected that he waited in the grass behind the garden fence, to watch her when she went to bed in the end room. Where poor, gentle Alfred Hawkins had once crept, to leave little poems for her in a crack of one of the posts. Until——

  She put away the terrible childhood scene that Phillip had been responsible for.

  Mavis hurried on, to escape Ching’s attentions. He kept pace with her. Then, turning into Charlotte Road, with its leafless polled chestnuts, she decided to walk slower. Why should she have to run away from anyone? Perhaps he had something to tell her about Phillip. Perhaps he had not been drunk, after all, but only ill. Impossible. There was nothing the matter with him—except that he was going the way of Uncle Hugh. Poor Mother! Father bullying her on one hand, Phillip destroying her peace of mind on the other. Mother was a saint. Her whole life had been given to her husband and her son, and both treated her shabbily. Men were utterly selfish. Grandpa had knocked her down when he had found out about her secret marriage to Father, when she was carrying Phillip; and she had been unconscious for hours, in a kind of fit. And now Phillip was showing himself just as bad as Father, and in his time, Grandpa.

  What did Ching want to say to her this time? The usual grovelling?

  She allowed him to overtake her just before the turn up Hillside Road. It would be better there, than outside the house.

  He took off his bowler hat, and stood before her. At first he could not speak. She heard him swallowing, and felt calm. But if he tried to kiss her suddenly, she would poke him with her umbrella—one of the new three-quarter size models, called The Gay Paree, price four and eleven three in Beeveman’s Store near the Obelisk. Mavis had borrowed the money from her mother to buy it, and Hetty, after protest, had made her promise to pay the money back next salary day, for the money was out of the housekeeping, and food was now very expensive, she said. Mavis had paid it back, reluctantly, then borrowed it again the next day to pay for her lunches.

  “Mavis, I humbly beg your pardon for accosting you like this. Will you forgive me?”

  “What, are you tipsy too?”

  “I swear it was none of my doing! I was only being a good Samaritan. Phillip was overcome by gas.”

  “By whiskey, you mean!”

  “Well, only a very little. Please, Mavis, do not judge him!”

  “You mean you don’t want me to judge you, I suppose?”

  “Oh, I do not matter at all. It is for Phillip that I hasten to plead. He is not well. He has a lesion on one lung.”

  “Who told you, I should like to know?”

  “I heard it on high authority.”

  “Don’t tell me it was that Dr. Dashwood!” she cried derisively. “We all know what he is!”

  Ching said humbly. “It may be a matter of grave concern. Even of life and death.”

  “I bet! What is it, then?”

  Encouraged by her matter-of-fact manner, Ching felt easier in himself, and correspondingly flummoxed about what he could say. He pretended.

  “Well, the high authority is Phillip himself. After all, it is a matter of life and death to him.”

  Mavis laughed. “Pooh, I don’t believe you know what you’re talking about, Ching!”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. It concerns the love of his life.”

  “Oh, that old thing! That is only his pretence! Besides, Helena Rolls cares nothing for him. Why should she? His talk about eternal love is entirely one-sided! So one-sided, in fact, that it doesn’t stop him from going after at least one other girl.”

  “I never have, I swear,” said Ching hoarsely. He clasped his hands. “Mavis—Mavis——”

  “I know that you’re only pretending, you know! Why do you?”

  “Please don’t be unkind,” he groaned. “I can’t help feeling—as I do. Can’t we be just friends? Oh please—that’s all I ask—I know I’m no good—please don’t be angry——” Ching, to his remote satisfaction, managed to break into tears.

  For a moment Mavis was shocked in a way that surprised her. Her mood of brittle scorn fell away, and she felt that Ching was part of the sadness of the world. There was only one way by which one’s personal sorrows could be harmonised with those of the world.

  “Do you mind if I say something to you, Ching?”

  “Yes, Mavis, of course, of course, anything!”

  “Go and see Father Aloysius at St. Saviours, in the High Street, and he will tell you what to do.”

  “Yes, you go there with your friend Nina, I know.”

  “Well, you go too, Ching. Now I must go. Please do not think anything more about me, I am only a substitute for something else in your eyes. Father Aloysius will explain it all to you.”

  “You mean there’s no hope for me otherwise?” he moaned.

  “I can’t say any more, Ching. Everyone has their troubles, you know.”

  Ching passed away in the darkness, and Mavis went on up Hillside Road, dullness overcoming her as she drew near her home.

  *

  Richard, lying back in his armchair, was feeling some sort of freedom, as he read about life on the Western Front, obviously an account at first hand, in Nash’s. BILLET NOTES, being casual pencillings from a Fighting Man to his Mother, was obviously the real thing. Why couldn’t his own son tell him what he had always wanted to know about the front, instead of replying in monosyllables, if at all? If only he himself were younger, he would join up and get away from the drudgery and restriction that had been his life for two and twenty years now.

  Dearest,—I have just emerged from a dug-out that would make you stare. Now, there are dug-outs and dug-outs. They all aim at being a home from home, but this one was fairly It. It hadn’t a carpet, but it was furnished with old oak (loot from a German trench whose previous occupants had obviously looted it from someone else). In it we ate our dinner off delicate Sèvres plates and drank out of rare old cut glasses. A dug-out de luxe! But even the common or garden dug-out shows some attempt at cosiness.

  I am coming to the conclusion that man is considerably more of a real home-maker than woman. What woman, living as we do, would, without the incentive of male companionship, go into the trouble of trying to make a mud cave into the semblance of a civilised house? A woman living alone, especially in a temporary abode, troubles little or not at all about her personal comfort. She doesn’t even take pains about food. She only studies these two amenities of life if she has a man to share them. Now we, on the contrary, always have a desire to make the best of circumstances. We collect (or steal) planks, bricks, doors, and windows to help give a semblance of civilisation to our funk-holes. The men keep the trenches neat and make gardens behind the parados. A sense of humour gives spice to the task. It shows in the names bestowed upon our residences—‘The Keep’, ‘Minenwerfer Villa’, ‘The Gasworks’. ‘Myholme’ is also very popular. But there’s something beside humour that incites
Tommy to put up a board marked ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’ over his kitchen garden. He means it. His impotent rage when a German shell ignores the prohibition is comic to a degree.

  After one of these annoyances some of the men of my company in desperation stalked a German sentry, brought him in alive, and made him write in huge German characters the words KARTOFFELN GARTEN—VERBOTEN, which they hoisted on a board facing the enemy’s lines. I believe that sentry is secretly being kept as a hostage against further damage!

  Your loving

  CHOTA

  Richard laughed delightedly, the whole scene was most vivid, he could see it all happening. He lay back in his chair before the bright and crackling coke fire, stretching his toes in his old carpet slippers, feeling a sense of continuity with life as he unfrogged the ancient pleated smoking jacket that had belonged to his father. He felt he was cosy in a dug-out, with his soldiers’ pet Zippy contentedly lying beside a brazier.

  Before settling down again with his magazine, he poured himself another cup of hot water from the kettle simmering in front of the fire, then lifting the cat to his knee, covered it with The Daily Trident, so that Zippy could feel safe, as in a cave or hollow tree. All being settled, he lay back to read; but hardly had he turned the page when the bell of the front door rang. He sighed: his evening alone was ended.

  “Good evening, Father.”

  “Hullo, Mavis. Don’t forget to wipe your boots on the mat, if you please.”

  “It’s quite dry out, Father.”

  “Even so, it is a good habit, which you children do not seem yet to have learned.”

  “Is Mother in?”

  “She is where she prefers to be—next door.”

  “Will it be all right if I have my bath now, Father?”

  “Why do you ask? You know very well your Mother said it was available for you tonight. Only don’t take too much hot water—the price of coal is very nearly prohibitive as it is.”

  Without further words, Richard went back to his chair, and Mavis disappeared upstairs. It took him five minutes to feel clear again; and back with Chota.

  At twenty past ten Hetty gave her brief little trill to the bell; Richard sighed; his period of peace was over.

  “Mavis returned while you were away, Hetty, and is having her tub. Have you seen anything of Master Phillip?”

  “No, dear, but I expect him any moment now.”

  “Oh you do, do you? Have you any special reason for knowing that he will, for once, be home before midnight?”

  “I don’t suppose Phillip will be long now, Dickie. He likes to walk about at night, he says he can think clearer then.”

  “So the Wild Boy thinks at night, does he? Are you sure you are not confusing the word think with another that rhymes with it?”

  “Phillip has had a lot on his mind, Dickie, one way and another. He always was a thoughtful boy.”

  “A pity he does not think more about others, or his home, if that is the case.”

  In an exasperated voice Richard went on, “Do you think that you can pull the wool over my eyes with such an explanation? But there, you have always shielded that best boy of yours! Do not deceive yourself that I am ignorant of what has been going on! Night after night he has been coming home the worse for liquor! Now don’t try and defend him, as you always tried to do when he was a boy! You spoiled him, let me tell you! It is high time you realised that Phillip will have to stand on his own feet!”

  Despite her anxiety about her son, Hetty saw the funny side of these words. No, no, it was not funny, her sudden mind-picture of Phillip, perhaps at that very moment unable to stand upright. Mary, Mother of God, help my son, she tried to transmit through her brain, as she strove against another picture of Hughie, her dearest brother, thin and shambling, dying of locomotor ataxia. She must hope for the best about Phillip; she must pray for guidance to come to him. Should she go to see Dr. Dashwood, and ask him not to encourage Phillip in his loose ways? People were beginning to talk about it. Mrs. Feeney, the charwoman, had mentioned it only that morning.

  “I saw Master Phillip the other evening, coming out of the Conservative Club with Dr. Dashwood, m’m. It’s not my place to speak about it, but it would be a pity if someone so much older was to lead Master Phillip astray. If you’ll excuse me mentioning of it, m’m.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Feeney. You are a very old friend, and have known Phillip since he was little. Between ourselves, that very self-same thought has been worrying me.”

  Mrs. Feeney knew all about the fate of poor Mr. Hugh next door; but she knew her place, and would never have mentioned to the mis’ess about Master Phillip, except that Dr. Dashwood was so well known for his liking for the bottle.

  Hetty had been to see Mrs. Neville about it; to be momentarily reassured by that tolerant woman with a “There’s no harm in our boys, Mrs. Maddison! My boy Desmond and your Phillip are only young, dear! They mean no harm by it! Don’t you worry, Phillip is all right. They can take care of themselves, if I know those two boys! What friends they are! I call them David and Jonathan, David being Phillip, of course.”

  Hetty was not so sure. She knew Phillip’s weaknesses; from the first he had been almost fearfully susceptible to everything around him, so that his life had seemed to be one long round of trouble, so mischievous, excitable, curious, and wilful had he been. And what was he but a boy still, so young for his age, despite having been twice to the front. Was it the rum in the trenches that had started him off on his intemperate habits?

  Another thing had disturbed Hetty: something his Father must never be allowed to find out. She had seen cousin Polly in her nightdress coming out of Phillip’s bedroom, after they had returned home late from seeing Tonight’s the Night at the Gaiety in the Strand. It was in the Strand that Hughie had contracted that terrible illness which had ruined his hopes for marrying Dora, and led to paralysis and early death of her gifted brother. Was Phillip to go the same tragic way? Better Polly than a stranger; even so, one bad habit led to a worse habit, more often than not. Had not Hughie, while protesting love for Dora, at the same time fallen into temptation with a complete stranger? O, how could men do such things?

  As for Phillip, he had confided in her, that very morning, that he would never cease to love Helena Rolls; but that, she knew, was more a feverish obsession with him than something real—what was called calf-love. What a strange boy he was; almost at times he seemed to be two distinct persons.

  She poured herself a cup of hot water. Richard had decided to give up his nightly cup of cocoa for the sake of economy, and also for reasons of health. The cost of living was going up; and he felt that he slept the better, with fewer worries arising to upset his mind, on what he called a clean stomach.

  *

  The Daily Trident was being flicked slightly at one corner, Zippy’s ear was being tickled by the paper. “Poor Zippy, did I cover you up too much, then, poor Zippy?” Tenderly Richard lifted the newspaper, and scratched Zippy’s ears. The cat purred gratefully; and thus encouraged, Richard took up Nash’s Magazine and turned to the serial by Robert W. Chambers, Athalie, the Romance of a girl with a strange power, for a few moments; but his wife’s presence got between him and the beautiful, luring heroine. Putting down the magazine, he turned to his wife and said, with an explosion of irritability,

  “There’s another matter on my mind that I think you should know about! I do not at all approve of what Phillip has been saying in that low haunt of his in the High Street! Things get about, let me tell you, among certain of our special constables who shall remain nameless! I do not know what Phillip did during his recent visit to France, or what part, if any, he took in the Loos battle, for he apparently has no desire to tell me any of his doings, but he can hold forth, from what I hear, in no uncertain voice about the conduct of affairs in the Army overseas! And, furthermore, he is saying things in the enemy’s favour which will get him into serious trouble one of these days! More than one person has reported to me, at the S
tation, what they have overheard him to say in that public house he frequents. Hark! Was that a bomb?”

  Richard’s thoughts were of Mathy, the redoubtable Commander Mathy whose raids on England had been made with such skill that, it was thought, he worked with spies—many German spies—throughout the country.

  Only the crackle of coke, and the purring of the cat, was audible in the room. Hetty thought of her elder daughter, Mavis, alone in the end bedroom upstairs. Her footfalls were softly audible. The girl was highly nervous, and terrified of Zeppelins.

  Richard sipped his hot water. “No, I do not think it could have been a bomb. Zippy’s ears always go up when Zeppelins are about, he hears the engines a long way off, don’t you, Zippy dear?” He fondled the cat’s neck and head, talking to it in a crooning voice. It was the only personality in the house which he had not, unwittingly, turned from him.

  The hearkening mother heard heavier footfalls overhead, from her son’s bedroom. Thank goodness that Dickie was a little deaf, she thought, as there came two bumps, as of shoes being torn off. Then the noise of a bed spring extending. She went out of the room; and when she came in again she said almost gaily: “Phillip is in bed after all, Dickie!”

  “H’m!” said Richard, as he took up Nash’s, “I suppose that I, as the mere master of this house, can consider myself to be extremely fortunate if I see the Wild Boy for breakfast tomorrow, or will he then be sleeping off the effects of his ‘night thoughts’? When is he going back to duty, do you know? Even a visitor to an hotel has the courtesy to give notice when his room is no longer required, you know.”

  “He has one more week, I think, Dickie, before going to his new duties.”

  Why his son had “exchanged”, as he put it, from the Gaultshire Regiment in France to a non-combatant unit at home, Richard did not know; but he could guess.