The Golden Virgin

by Henry Williamson

  The dinner had begun with oxtail soup, and with it the butler had three-quarter filled a small glass with dark red sweet wine, which somehow just suited the soup. On the decanter was a silver label, Madeira. Asked by Father Aloysius (dare he call him ‘Lulu’, wondered Phillip, and thought it better to keep his distance) what it was, Kingsman replied, “Bual Solera, 1826”. After the soup came pink fish, which he thought was salmon; but Kingsman said it was sea-trout, which had been in the ice-house since last September. With this fish was a cold pale wine which made Phillip think of a sea-cave, by still water; they were allowed two three-quarter glasses only of this wine, which Kingsman said came from a Jesuit monastery on the banks of the Rhine, the Forster Jesuitengarten. By the time his plate was taken away Phillip was no longer metaphorically sitting on his hands; he was soaring happily in this new world of grace and friendship. With the pheasant came two more three-quarter glasses of claret, Château Haut-Brion bottled, said Kingsman, before the Franco-Prussian war, in 1862.

  Now he knew why people talked about food and wine, which when matched, and balanced, had a wonderful effect on one, of life at its best, without any feeling of being tight.

  By the time the blackberry and apple pudding came in, with cream in a bowl dull yellow which he realised was gold, he floated in timeless happiness. What wonderful people he had met, owing to the war! Then, thinking of his own home—of the constriction of spirit there, of his mother’s anxiety and fear of upsetting the feelings of his father, of his sister Mavis who was not like other girls, but critical and never satisfied, and ashamed of him as she was of Father—he sighed, thinking that he had no right to be so happy. If only the others at home could know that such happiness was possible on earth——

  Father Aloysius seemed to know what he was thinking, for after a glass of port to finish the dinner, with cob nuts and Cox’s orange pippins, when they returned to the hall for coffee, he seated himself beside Phillip and during talk said that he had met both his mother and his sister, and that both held him in deep affection.

  “My sister, Father?”

  “You look surprised, Phillip. Your sister loves you dearly. Does that seem strange? I notice that your hands are usually clenched, as though you are holding yourself in. That is a sign of nervous strain. Do forgive me if I am too personal.”

  “I am very glad, Father. I like to find out the truth of things.”

  “To know the truth of oneself takes courage. And what is so good about you, if you will allow me to say so, is that you are not bitter about others. But one must not be bitter about oneself, Phillip. That leads to self-hate, which in the end splinters one, and the splinters hurt others. Self-centredness, the Old Adam, has to die, you know, or change rather, before one can find spiritual freedom, which is the love of God.”

  “When I was a boy,” said Phillip, getting up to walk about the room, “I wanted some bullets for my catapult, to shoot wood-pigeons with. I had a bullet-mould, so I melted down some lead soldiers in a frying pan over the gas stove. Suddenly each one shrunk and the colours dropped away with its shape and a little bright blob ran where its feet had stood. I have been thinking! How does ‘Into Battle’ stand at the melting moment of action, when warmth and light and colour fall from men’s lives, when first surprise, then desperate fear, comes upon them, and sometimes screams for help? How does it stand in the glare of action?”

  “A man is not only a soldier, a toy soldier if you like,” said the priest. “He has a soul. And if he is aware of that soul, and has fortified himself with self-discipline, with the help of God, his soul will uphold him in the terrors of the Abyss suddenly opening upon life as he has known it.”

  “Yes, Father, you are right. But ‘when the burning moment breaks’, and he goes forward, I am unable to believe that it will be ‘only the Joy of Battle’ that takes hold of him.”

  “Roughers was a cavalryman, you must remember.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Have you ever tried to write poetry, Phillip?” said Kingsman.

  “Oh, I’m no good at it, Jasper. Do you mind my calling you Jasper? I’m afraid it slipped out.”

  “I’ve been asking you to call me by my name ever since this morning, you ass!”

  “Hurray, I love being called an ass,” said Phillip, stretching himself out on the sofa.

  “And now,” said Jasper, “auction! No more war, Phillip. When Dolly comes back, we’ll cut for partners. You don’t play? It’s like whist, the partners bid for trumps, that’s all. The one who gets the bid plays the hand. We play only for small stakes, as in the mess, sixpence a hundred.”

  *

  As they were going upstairs with lighted candlesticks the priest said to Phillip, “How wonderful, that during the many times I walked up to the Heath, on my nightly walks around Greenwich, with its history of a thousand years and more, that I should have passed your old school! I believe that you have an uncommon gift of clarity; bear all things with that gift, Phillip.” Seeing that the youth looked puzzled he said, “Bear with all things.”

  “I’d like to ask you one thing, if I may, Father. Why did Catholics torture and burn people at the stake? Or, like G. K. Chesterton, if I remember rightly”—he could hear Uncle Hugh saying it—“say, as a Catholic, that the writings of Thomas Hardy reminded him ‘of the village atheist brooding over the village idiot’. Or people worshipping relics like toe-nails and bones?”

  “Well, to answer your three questions in order. There are insensitive men and sensitive men; and sometimes the most sensitive are at times the most self-tortured, and therefore torturing. Objects of hate are but our own chimaerae. They arise from wounds within us. So we seek scapegoats, to void our own hurts.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean, Father.”

  “Chesterton’s criticism of Hardy was made at an off-moment, I think. Even fine poets do not always see with what Goethe called paradise-clearness.”

  “But do Catholics damn people like Hardy?”

  “Men are men, of all sorts and conditions, Phillip. It is not for me to say who are bad men, or good men, whether they are Catholics or not. I myself love the writings of Hardy. Indeed, I chose his works as the subject of my doctor’s thesis in theology, arguing that he is naturally a religious man, and a visionary, whose compassion shines again and again like Shakespeare’s taper—you remember, ‘How far that little candle throws its beams, So shines a good deed in a naughty world.’ Hardy’s spirit burns steadily, he is one of the lights of humanity.

  “Now about relics, Phillip. The people love shows, and they love goodness, and we all grieve in our hearts when loved ones are gathered from us. Being mortal, we cling to relics—a ring, a letter, a field post-card, or perhaps a cigarette case with initials on it—a photograph, the first lock of hair clipped from a baby’s head. Our friends die, our children are killed in battle, the bone or fragment of the saint is cherished accordingly.”

  “Yes, Father. Thank you very much for explaining it to me.” Phillip went down the Long Gallery, his candle flame fluttering, while the faces in the portraits seemed to be alive, and sharing a spirit that lived within the house.

  Chapter 4

  NEW BROOM

  On the next Friday night Phillip’s hopes of getting home to see Desmond were dashed when he saw in Orders that he was Orderly Officer for the next day. Well, he would do his duty strictly, like cousin Bertie. The entire camp needed to be smartened up. Grey Towers, a well-to-do tradesman’s villa of mid-Victorian days, was in a disgraceful state. Cinders and eggshells strewed the muddy paths through the trees, with potato peelings and empty bully beef cans. Old sodden newspapers lay about. He would put in a report about the extremely slack condition of the camp.

  As he walked towards the hutments an old shaky man with watery eyes and forage cap perched precariously on the centre of his skull approached him, obviously preparing with some anxiety to salute. Up went a hand with thick fingers spread between nobbly joints, jerk went the poor old head sideways, knees
came up so that he just avoided a stagger, and a hand wavered at him. Philip returned his best salute, and stopped to speak.

  “Didn’t I see you at Alexandra Palace, last August? I thought so. How are you?” He shook hands.

  The old fellow said he mustn’t grumble, but his boots hurt something terrible. It was his blue veins, he explained.

  “I had frost bite in France, and so I can sympathise. Ask your company quarter-master sergeant to try and get you a more comfortable pair. Take his name and number, sergeant!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The old fellow looked nearer eighty than seventy as he walked away. The orderly sergeant, cane under arm, waxed moustache, thin like trench bayonets said, “There’s several old ’uns ’ere.”

  He was an old sweat himself if ever there was one, thought Phillip, noting the beery face, the medal ribands of Egyptian campaigns.

  “We’ve grandads, and not a few great-grandads. They sign on for the pay, six bob a day, sir, more’n twice a time-servin’ sergeant instructor gets. But queer things goes on everywhere in time o’ war, sir.”

  “Yes, your old Adjutant went to quod for half-inching Government property, didn’t he?”

  “Yes sir, and he’s not the only one. I mean, sir,” said the sergeant, stopping and facing him. He hesitated, then began again. “Well, sir, if you understand my meanin’, I could say a lot, sir, were I a mind to. The food we get in the sergeant’s mess is not fit for pigs. I reckon someone ought to write to John Bull about it.”

  “Why that bloody rogue Bottomley? Why not me, as orderly officer, sergeant? Isn’t he supposed to receive all complaints? Come on, out with it!”

  The sergeant gave him a glance in which surprise, fear, and evasive cunning were mixed.

  “I don’t want to lose me pension, sir.”

  “What’s wrong with the food, anyhow?”

  “Mustn’t grumble, sir.”

  “H’m. Well, we’ll go and see the guard room.”

  “Tell you what, sir, there’s a prisoner there, and the orderly officer is within ’is dooty to ask if a prisoner ’as any complaints about his food, sir.”

  “Lead on, sergeant.”

  The sentry on guard outside carried a black swagger stick with nickel top instead of a rifle. He was a man younger than the run of navvies Phillip had seen so far, and managed a fair salute. The sergeant, however, rated him in a loud voice. “Can’t you do better’n that, my lad? Come smartly to attention when you see an orficer approachin’. Let me see the forefinger of your left ’and in line with the seam of the trouser next time!”

  Phillip entered the creosoted building in time to see the N.C.O. in charge of the guard sweeping a heap of coppers into one hand, while another man thrust a pack of cards under the brown blanket covering the trestle table at which several soldiers were sitting.

  “Guard—SHUN,” roared the N.C.O., saluting. “Guard present and correct, sir.”

  “So I noticed. What is it, pontoon or nap?”

  “Nap, sir.”

  “Solo whist has its points, as a change. Stand easy. I would like to see the man in the cell.”

  The guard sergeant looked at the orderly sergeant. Then staring at nothing the orderly sergeant cried, “Orfficer to see prisoner!” in a loud but hollow voice.

  In silence the key was put in, the door was half opened, the guard sergeant shouted, “Prisoner, SHUN!”

  The orderly sergeant said to Phillip that he had better follow him, and gave him a wink. “Troublesome customer in ’ere, sir.”

  “Then he has a grievance. That’s what I’m here for.”

  The room inside was lined, like the door, with sheet-iron. The brown iron on the door was dented, as from many kickings. It was lit by a single electric bulb high in the wooden ceiling. The prisoner seemed to have absorbed the grimness of iron-encasement as he stood by the only object in the room, a palliasse bed in three sections on the dirty floor. He had a sullen unshaven face, his dark eyes seemed to be darker with suppressed anger, or pain. He stood bootless, beltless, and minus his braces, so that his trousers were about to fall down. He was a huge man, with lips the thicker for being swollen, his nose was likewise swollen and blood-crusted. There was a long cut upon one swelled cheek-bone.

  “Any complaints?” asked Phillip, deciding that the man had been brought in fighting drunk.

  “No!” replied the prisoner, in a hoarse voice.

  “How’s the food?”

  “Bloody muck, not fit for a bloody pig.”

  “Steady my lad, before an orfficer!” cried the sergeant.

  “Oh, I heard ever so much worse language than that during the first battle of Ypres,” said Phillip, amiably. “Now tell me, how did you get hurt like that?”

  “I falled down.”

  “Yes, it happens to us all sometime or other.” To the orderly sergeant, “Has iodine been put on those cuts?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then he should be treated at once.”

  “Medical orderly’s hut closed, sir.”

  “Then it must be opened.”

  “Next sick parade at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, sir.”

  “Then we’ll have a special one now.”

  He lifted the left side of his tunic and with a rip of stitches opened his field dressing. He broke the iodine capsule, and saying, “This will smart a bit on your cheek, but I’ll let you put it yourself on your lips. I saw a man with lock-jaw in France, and it was not a pleasant sight.”

  “Don’t go near him, sir,” said the orderly sergeant, softly past one spike of his moustache. The prisoner heard, and glowered at the sergeant.

  “He’s all right,” cried Phillip, enthusiastically. “So is anyone who wears both the Queen’s and King’s ribands for South Africa! Ask the sergeant of the guard to let him have a hot cup of fresh tea, with plenty of sugar. What is your name?” to the prisoner. “Pimm, that’s a very good name. Now be a good fellow, and let me treat that cut on your cheek-bone.”

  He went forward, and in silence dabbed the iodine on the cut. The prisoner looked at him, unmoving. “There, that’s done. Like to have my handkerchief to do your lips? It’s quite clean. You can have it, if you like.”

  The prisoner put the iodine on his lips. Phillip smiled at him, saying, “Good man. Sergeant, don’t forget that cup of char. Plenty of sugar in it, if Pimm wants it. Right, we’ll go and see the cookhouse now.”

  “Want yer snot rag, sir?” said the prisoner, holding out the khaki handkerchief.

  “It’s a present for you, Pimm. I’ve been under arrest in my time, and I know what it feels like. I’ll come and see you later on.”

  They left the iron room. The door was locked again.

  “Christ A’mighty, there ain’t many like you, if you’ll pardon the remark, sir,” said the sergeant, on the way to the cookhouse. “You took a risk, sir, you know.”

  Feeling mellow and pleased with himself, Phillip replied, “Oh, surely not, sergeant? Pimm is a good fellow. The officers I knew when I was a private, in France, all looked after their men. That’s what an officer is for. In a good battalion, anyway. It’s you fellows, the N.C.O.’s, who have all the dirty work. An officer should be a soldier’s friend.”

  “In the old army, yes sir, I agree, but this ain’t the old army.”

  “But Pimm is an old soldier—in both senses of the term! How did he get those bruises on his face? I saw drops of blood on the floor, and they weren’t from deep cuts. Did he scrap in the guardroom?”

  “It isn’t my business to say, sir.”

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “You ’eard what ’e said, sir, ’e fell down.”

  “What’s all the mystery about?” said Phillip, stopping.

  “I can’t say, sir, I’m only the orderly sergeant.”

  They walked on towards the cookhouse, a place of lime-washed corrugated iron, grease, and coal. Thick smoke poured from a chimney. Beyond was a heap of white bread, hundreds of loaves
piled together, thousands of loaves under the trees.

  “My God, and a soldier in France is lucky if he can get two small slices of bread in his ration once a week! And what the hell is all that?”

  He walked to a pit wherein joints and bones lay piled on top of each other. There was among them the whole side of a bullock.

  “Does the Adjutant know about this waste?”

  “The farmer takes it away, sir, for to feed his pigs.”

  “And who gets the money?”

  “Ah, now you’re asking something, sir!”

  “No wonder the war is costing five million pounds a day. There’s several cartloads of meat wasted here, all going rotten, and at least a couple of lorry-loads of loaves.”

  “It’s the same everywhere, sir. Everyone makin’ money except the tommy, what does the fightin’.”

  “I don’t think I want to see the inside of the cookhouse. The outside is enough.”

  “Cooks are off duty now, sir, anyway.”

  “Do they wear smoke-helmets? They should. Right, I’ll see you at guard mounting at six o’clock. See to it that the prisoner Pimm gets his cup of tea.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The sergeant changed his manner. “It was the colonel what marked ’m, sir. Only don’t fer Gawd’s sake let on that I told you. I don’t want to be broke, sir.”

  “Colonel Broad?”

  “Yes sir. It was that or a court martial, sir, for insubordination. The colonel goes to see Pimm, and offers him a good ’iding or a court martial, in which case the man will be for the glass ’ouse, sir, and his pay be stopped, and ’is missus and kids suffer. Pimm knows that, and before ’e can say which ’e’ll take, the Ganger, as they call the Colonel, batters ’is gums good and proper. ’E’ll let ’im out on Monday, sir, and there won’t be no more trouble.”

  “Rough justice, sergeant.”

  “Yes sir, and the men understand it.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks, then?”

  “It’s what they all bin used to, sir.”

  “Well, I take it that there are no complaints, sergeant?”