When his son did not reply, he went on, “Well, if that does not meet with your approval, have you anything else in mind? You have a watch already, I think? How about a riding whip, to accompany you with your boots?” he said with a laugh.
“We are not allowed to carry hunting crops, thanks all the same, Father.”
“Well, I’ll leave you two to decide what present you want. I think I’ll go down to my allotment, and dibble in a row of first early potatoes. With luck we’ll be clear of late frosts by the time their little green ears come out of the ground, to listen to the skylarks.”
Phillip thought this rather a strange remark for Father to make; he thought of it more than once that evening, as he walked up and down the High Street, from Clock Tower to Hippodrome, up and down, trying to exhaust himself, and hoping for the dreaded moment, which never came, when he would see Desmond and Lily coming towards him.
Chapter 10
TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY
Hetty and her father went up to London to choose the cigarette case, and signet ring. Thomas Turney knew a commission agent, through whom he could get 17½ per cent discount. Richard had “washed his hands of everything to do with the affair”, as he said, after his wife had asked again if it might not be possible to have the family crest engraved on it, without, on this special occasion, applying for a licence to display it. Honesty was honesty, said Richard, and if Master Phillip, after he was of age, felt that he could face life the easier with a relic of the past with which to adorn himself, then he could apply to the College of Heralds for a grant of arms.
“I feel it my duty to say that such grandiose ideas for anyone in his station of life should be discouraged, Hetty! There is the example of your brother Hugh, if you remember, and how he used to talk of the Turneys being descended from Norman knights, the Le Tournets.”
“But this isn’t a question of doubtful family origins, Dickie. Phillip is proud of being a Maddison, that is why he——”
“If he feels proud, as you say, why does he not take more pains to show it, then? You think I don’t know that he calls me ‘Mr. Pooter’ behind my back, do you? At least, that is conjecture; but he has more than once signed himself, in a letter to you, ‘Lupin’, and the reason for that is plain to me. I am poor, I am a failure, I am something to be laughed at because I have tried always to do my duty. Very well: if Master Phillip does not like my proposed present of a ring with his initials in a monogram, then I can only repeat that I wash my hands of everything to do with the affair.”
So Hetty and her father went to London by tram as far as Blackfriars Bridge, and walking thence to the wholesalers near St. Pauls, they selected a ring to Phillip’s size, and a plain curved cigarette case, both to be engraved with mailed fist and dagger of the legendary Le Tournets, with date and initials inside the circle of gold and upon the silver panel. They were to be delivered by registered post on the Saturday morning, without fail.
Thomas Turney had suggested a supper party in his house for that evening, but since Dickie might be hurt if he knew about this in advance (he would be asked, of course, as on other occasions, and probably decline to come) it was agreed between father and daughter that the supper should be in the nature of a last-minute affair, anyone who liked to come being welcome. They must ask Dora, the boy’s godmother, of course. She was still working in the East End, at her friend Sylvia’s children’s clinic.
After leaving the wholesalers, they walked to the Guildhall, where the City Tribunal for examining claims for exemption from the Armed Forces under the recently passed Military Service Act, was sitting. There was a place for the public, said a policeman at the door. Hetty had heard from Mavis that Tom Ching had decided to appeal against his call-up on grounds of conscientious objection to war; and his case was to come up on this day.
While they were waiting, Thomas Turney said, “I have been reading in the paper that Lord Derby, as Director of Recruiting, has been protesting against the numerous exemptions claimed by young men in the one hundred and sixty reserved occupations, and demands what the Telegraph calls a ‘comb out’. Of course there are cases of hardship, some being indispensible to businesses. Hemming tells me that we have lost eleven youngsters in the lithographic room alone.”
The members of the Tribunal took their places, and the first case was heard. He wore spectacles with thick lenses, and claimed that he had tried to enlist in the “terriers” three times, and each time had been turned down for bad eyes.
The Military Representative, a dark man with sidewhiskers and a hawk-like nose got up and said, “I am instructed to say that so-called defective eyesight is no longer a disqualification for the Army. It does not matter whether this man is short-sighted, so long as he is physically fit. If he is physically fit to wield a bayonet, he is fit for service abroad.”
The members on the dais whispered together; then the Chairman announced, “Exemption granted for two months.”
The next case was a young man with black hair hanging thickly over his shoulders, and a beard almost down to his waist. He said that he was a member of a sect which was against the taking of any life whatsoever, whether of man, bird or fish.
“I believe in the Divine Command, ‘Thou shalt not kill’,” he cried in a high, almost falsetto voice.
“Is that why you let your hair grow?”
“I allow my hair to grow long in accordance with the passage in Leviticus, ‘They shall not make baldness upon their heads; neither shall they shave off the corner of their beard’.”
“Do you then believe all that is in the Bible?”
“I do. By obeying Divine Command, I shall preserve my body from physical death.”
The Military Representative then said, “At the same time, apparently, you object to exposing your body unnecessarily to danger?”
“I do.”
“You have read the Bible assiduously?” said the Chairman.
“I have.”
Another member looked at a printed card on the table before him.
“Then you will no doubt recall this passage, also to be found in Leviticus: ‘And ye shall chase your enemies and they shall fall before you by the sword, for I am the Lord, your God.’”
He is trapped, thought Hetty, looking at the large dark eyes in the white face; agonised eyes, she thought, like those of Hall Caine the great novelist.
“I rely on the injunction, ‘Thou shalt not kill’.”
“What is the name of your sect?”
“The Israelites. We are descendants of the Chosen People.”
At these words, Thomas Turney nudged his daughter. “D’you see how the Military Representative keeps his eyes on the table before him? What is that to an orthodox Jew, heresy? The hairy one has cooked his goose.”
Unaware of the irony of the remark, Hetty was thinking, Poor man, he might be a saint; and tears came as she thought of Another, also bearded and sad of face, whose words had been dismissed. But there, everyone had their Cross to bear. She heard with anguish the verdict, ‘Claim refused’.
There was a small stir in the well of the Court, then the next case was announced.
“Thomas Erasmus Ching!”
Looking very humble, rubbing his hands, licking his lips and glancing about him as though he were acting a part, Ching faced the row of hard faces.
“I claim exemption on the grounds that my conscience forbids me to take any man’s life, friend or foe. When I passed for the Civil Service I prayed to God to have me sent to a department where I could carry out His will, and——”
“You are in the Admiralty?”
“Yes, sir. I took it that God’s will was for me to be appointed to the Admiralty, after my prayer, sir.”
“What do you do at the Admiralty?”
“Nothing to do with the actual war, sir. I am in the Stationery Department, sir.”
“Are you prepared to resign your post in that department?”
“No sir. I am told I am still wanted in the Department.”
“By my superiors, sir.”
“Then you obey the orders of your superiors?”
“In the Stationery Department, yes, sir.”
They are trapping him, thought Hetty, with a feeling of suffocation; but the feeling was relieved by her next thought, Thank goodness Mavis cannot bear him at any price.
“Do you go to church? You do. Do you study the Book of Common Prayer? And you also believe in what it says? Very well, no doubt you are well aware of this passage—” the speaker read from the large printed card—“‘Articles of the Church of England, Number thirty-seven, It is lawful for Christian men, at the command of the Magistrate y to wear weapons, and serve in the wars’. Claim refused.”
“I shall appeal, sir,” said Tom Ching, before he left.
*
Phillip went to the High Street, wearing his pre-war ready-made twelve and sixpenny Donegal tweed jacket, half-crown straw-hat, and five shilling grey flannel bags. After calling at Freddy’s, where he heard that Desmond had not been in since Monday, he crossed over to the Gild Hall. There at a table sat the two flappers; they began to move about on their chairs when he appeared, as he could see in the retina of his eye. He sat down at another table, while avoiding looking at them. As time went on he felt foolish: either he should have acknowledged them at once, or gone to their table. Were people at the other tables aware of his stand-offishness? His dilemma was solved by the waitress, who said that two friends of his were at another table, and as though in surprise he turned round, and getting up, went to them.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“We thought you didn’t want to know us!”
He ordered coffee for three. “Well, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you!” they said in duet.
“Good. I saw my friend two days ago, in London. Did you really say you would go to his flat?”
“We really wanted to ask you, if you thought it was all right!”
“Will you promise to keep it a secret if I tell you something? Very well. You ought not to go to anyone’s flat. Now don’t forget your promise. I must go now. Have your friendships, but don’t be too idealistic about anyone in uniform. And don’t say a word, will you? Goodbye.”
Feeling himself to be a complete hypocrite, he crossed over the road to Freddy’s bar. There Mrs. Freddy said to him, “A friend of yours is lookin’ for you, ’im with the ogglin’ eyes, Ching. He said he would be in the next ’ouse, the Bull.”
After a quick whiskey Phillip left and walked to the Bull, and saw Lily sitting on a stool, talking to the barmaid. Near her stood Tom Ching. Seeing Phillip, Ching almost rushed at him.
“I’ve wanted to see you, Phil, I want your advice about something urgent. Can we talk in private? It’s very important—First, let me stand you a drink. What’ll you have?”
“I don’t want anything at the moment, thanks all the same,” he replied, conscious of Lily waiting to swim towards him out of her large blue eyes.
“Hullo,” she said, in her soft voice. He wanted to be with her, to be free of the cloudy-eyed Ching tugging his arm, saying, “Come on over here, I’ve been thinking of you for over two days.” He followed reluctantly to a corner.
“Well what is it?”
“I may join the Army!”
“I see.”
“But don’t you realize what I’m telling you?”
“You said you may have to join up.”
“The question is, if I volunteer quickly, I might be able to get into the best branch. I’ve always remembered what you told me about yourself when you came back the first time. Well then, what is the best thing to apply for?”
“The Army Pay Corps.”
“I’ve tried them, but they’ve got no vacancies.”
“Try the A.S.C. or the R.A.M.C.”
“I had thought of the R.A.M.C.”
“Rob All My Comrades, the tommies call it. That’s at the base, of course, and on lines of communication. The stretcher bearers are decent blokes, they go right up into the strafe during a show.”
Ching rolled his eyes in the direction of the bar. “I didn’t know you knew that girl. Is she all right?”
Phillip laughed. Just what he himself had asked the A.S.C. officer about the barmaid, a year before, in the Belvoir Arms. No wonder he had been snubbed. At least he could not choke off Ching for what was the very same gaucherie.
“Yes, she looks a nice person, doesn’t she? Well, don’t let me keep you.”
“I’m in no hurry to go.”
“Well, I want to talk to that girl.”
“You don’t mind if I stay with you, do you? I’ve got no other friend, you see.”
“All right, come and have a drink.”
“Thanks, I will. A double rum.”
“Will you have a drink too, Lily? This is Mr. Ching.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” She turned round on her stool, revealing skirts well above her ankles, and held out a limp hand, allowing her fingers to be taken by Ching, who, to Phillip’s annoyance, began to fondle them. He determined to get away as soon as he could, especially when Lily held out her other hand for him to take; and when reluctantly he took it, she held on to his hand, swimming into his aloofness from the lakes of her eyes. He took his hand away, and she gave him a sorrowing, reproachful look.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“I don’t even know you, so I can’t really say.”
She swung round again on the stool, and taking her glass, held it up and drained it. He saw a crucifix on her bracelet, and a heart, and what looked like a dog, and a golliwog.
“If you could spare a minute or two, I’d like a word with you in private,” he said.
The blue eyes shone upon him. She got off the stool, and said, “Shall we go now?”
“Good night,” he said to Ching, and followed her through the mahogany swing doors. Outside in the street she said, “Do you mind taking my arm? I wouldn’t ask you if you were in uniform.”
So she knew all about officers.
“Where shall we go?”
“It’s nice and quiet in the churchyard.”
“Don’t you usually go into the Rec.?”
“Oh no, not if I can help it. I don’t care for the Rec.”
Trying to show she is superior, he thought. Then with surprise he heard her say, “You don’t remember me, do you? Well, do you remember when you used to play cricket on the Hillies, and some of the boys you played with used to call you Grandma, because you were very particular how they had to treat your bat when you let them have a lend of it?”
“Well, I didn’t want them to break it, or hit stones with it. I know they laughed at me, for being a fusspot.”
“You were ever so nice. We called you Grandma because you looked after the little ones. You don’t remember me, but I was one of the kids from Nightingale Grove, who you allowed to join in. The other boys used to let us field the ball, but you let us have a go with the bat.”
“Well, it was only fair.”
“I called you Grandma first. Did you mind?”
“I hated it! I remember you now! You wore a boy’s jersey and button boots too big for you. And you called me Grandma!”
They crossed over Randiswell Road, and passing the Fire Station, came to the shadowed wall of St. Mary’s churchyard, with its trees behind. There she drew apart from him.
“Thanks for the arm. Keechey hangs about there sometimes, hoping for a chance to pinch me for soliciting.”
“I see, I picked you up first!”
“Well, you asked me, didn’t you? No, I didn’t mean it sarcastic. You are very kind, just like you were when a boy.”
“I was a cowardly little rotter.”
“You a coward? I shall never forget one day when you stuck up for Jack o’ Rags against four boys in the High Street. Later when they found you on the Hillies one Saturday morning they set about you, and you never ran away. Your friend Peter Wa
llace, what was killed with his two brothers early on in the war, he came to your rescue, and trimmed them up. But before that you squared up to them, and they got you down, they were the bullies, not you, Phillip. You don’t mind me calling you Phillip, do you?”
“It’s better than Grandma, anyway!”
They passed by the front of the church, with its broad stone steps, and came to the darker shadows of the yews which lined the flagstone path lying, between thin iron railings, through the old graveyard. Here, out of the diminished rays of a gas-light in its glass case, they stopped. Memories of the bulky dark figures waiting by the rustic bridges of the river and the hoarse wheedling words, Want a sweetheart, dearie? made him ready for what might be suggested next. From the vestry of St. Mary’s Church came the sound of boys’ voices. It was Choir Practice night.
“Oh, don’t you love music? I love singing. I go to St. Saviour’s to listen to the singing. I would like to be a Catholic, if they’d have me. Are you a Catholic? Your friend is, he told me.”
In the darkness came the faint pure voice of a boy, through stone wall and oaken door, penetrating the blackness of the yews to where they stood just beyond the wan downcast circle of the small war-time gas-light.
O for the wings, for the wings of a Dove
Far, far away would I rove
“Oh, I love a boy’s voice so!”
He thought of the last time he had heard the words and tune, sung by one of the survivors of the attack on 19th December, 1914, coming down on the corduroy paths through the wood. Part of him brooded desperately on the scene, longing to be back in the wood: a feeling no one would ever understand, who had not been out. Where life and death waited side by side, to be wed by bomb and bullet. If only he could write about it, as Julian Grenfell had done.
“Do you know Julian Grenfell’s poem, Into Battle? In Flanders, just before he was killed, he wrote about the stars he remembered from his boyhood at Taplow, by the Thames,
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