“‘All the bright company of Heaven
Hold him in their high comradeship.
The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven
Orion’s belt and sworded hip.’”
“Oh, I never,” she said, clinging to his arm.
“‘The woodland trees that stand together
They stand to him each one a friend;
They gently speak in the windy weather,
They guide to valley and ridge’s end.
The kestrel, hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.
The blackbird sings to him: “Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you sing,
Sing well, for you may not sing another,
Brother, sing.”’
When he had finished, the lamp-lit lakes of Alice’s eyes were running over. “So he was killed, was he. D’you know, I think he knew he was going to die, and did not mind very much. I feel like that sometimes when I’m in St. Saviour’s, listening to the chants. I feel all the hundreds of years ago and all the hundreds of years to come are the same thing, so what does death matter. I suppose you think I’m silly?”
He felt shaken. There was somebody else in the world who felt as he did. He said, “I feel that, too.”
“You do? You really do? Then you don’t think I’m silly?”
“No, of course not. It’s like something coming into your life, from beyond yourself.”
“Father Aloysius, him who has gone away now, said that that was the feeling of God.”
“How very strange. I know Father Aloysius. I met him quite by chance in Essex, last winter. And now you, Lily. It does seem strange. Did you talk to Father Aloysius?”
“Oh yes. I wasn’t a Catholic, but he never minded me talking to him.”
“Why should he mind?”
“For what I once done.”
To his alarm he saw she was crying. “I’ve been very wicked, you see.”
“We’ve all been wicked, I know I have. And still am! Anyway, don’t let’s worry.”
“I only told one other person what I done.”
“Is it about Keechey?”
“Who told you?”
“Oh, I heard somewhere that you used to be rather thick with him—that at one time you walked out with him.”
“Did they say anything more.”
“No. Why should they?”
“If I tell you, promise you won’t give me away?”
“Of course I won’t,” he replied, pleased to be trusted.
She sighed, blew her nose, and said almost inaudibly. “I was going to have a kid by Keechey, and done away with it.”
Boyhood’s horror about whores’ babies being suffocated, tied up in brown paper parcels, and dropped into the Randisbourne, came to him. “Keechey told me to get rid of it. He said he’d get me five years if I told anyone who the father was.”
“He looks like that.”
“I was only fourteen, and a little skivvy, when he did it to me. He was a policeman then. He asked me to go for a walk with him on my afternoon off, and when it was dark he took me on the seat around the willow where they play football, d’you know it? He told me he’d cut my throat if I screamed.”
“Do forgive my asking, but did you kill your baby?”
“I had to have an illegal operation. I wanted my baby, truly I did, only I couldn’t, as I was in service.”
“And you were only fourteen?”
She nodded.
“Well, do take care of yourself now, won’t you? I promise to keep your secret.”
He was still puzzled why she went in pubs to get off with men, apparently. He wanted to ask her, but shrunk from appearing inquisitive.
“I knew you were a real gentleman,” she said admiringly. “You were always different from the other boys on the Hillies.”
“Then you are the only one who has ever thought so!”
“Oh no, you’ve forgotten Horace Cranmer! You remember him, in your Boy Scout’s Patrol? He used to go to work at Hern’s the Grocer’s. You were his hero, didn’t you know that? He was killed too, wasn’t he?”
The last of his reserved feelings about Lily dissolved.
“You know, I can’t think why a girl like you, so pretty and kind, doesn’t have a—well, someone who—likes you.”
“Men only want one thing, usually. They know I am bad, so they try to interfere with me. Though someone I know likes me, but he is old and funny. He likes to kneel down before me and kiss my feet. But he never wants to interfere with me, only kiss my feet and my bosom. He looked after me when I’d had the illegal operation, for nothing. You know him. Promise you won’t tell if I say who?”
“I promise.”
“It was Doctor Dashwood. But he didn’t do the illegal operation, he didn’t know about it, until I told him. He’s ever so nice. He said he would have looked after me, despite what people would say, and would have adopted my baby. He wishes I was his daughter, he said once. He never charged me anything for what he done for me. If people say I go after his money, it isn’t true.”
“Don’t you hate Keechey?”
“I’m sorry for him. He says he loves me, now I won’t have any more to do with him. Isn’t it funny? But men are jealous like little children, when you know them. All they want is to be looked after.”
With her eyes upon him shining in the dimness, he felt himself beginning to be small, and resisted the feeling.
“Would you say that about my friend, also?” he asked, a little timidly.
“All men are like that, when you know them. But Desmond is more so, I think. That’s because his father died when he was young, I suppose.”
“But his father is still alive, Lily!”
“Then he made it up, I wonder why. Perhaps he’s ashamed that he left his mother.”
“Yes, you may be right. It never occurred to me.”
“He admires you a lot. He says you are the only one who has been kind to him.”
“He’s my great friend. Or was, until he met you. And that’s the truth!”
“You think I’m not good enough for him, don’t you?”
“Well, you see, we’ve always been rather thick, until you came along.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t come between you.”
“But do you love him, Lily? I don’t want to come between you and him, if you do. Also, I didn’t know you, then, as I do now.”
“You love a girl, don’t you? I’ve seen her, she nurses at the Hospital.”
“She doesn’t love me, anyway.”
“How do you know? Have you tried her?”
“She loved my cousin, who was killed.”
“Yes, I heard. She looked ever so sad. But any woman could love you, I think. You are so kind.”
*
The eyes of Desmond standing in the porch looked at Phillip steadily when Phillip opened the door to his ring.
“Come in, Desmond. I’m very glad to see you. Gene and I are going to dine up West tomorrow, and we want you to come, too—as in the old days. It’s my birthday, but I don’t want any presents. Will you join us?”
“I want to speak to you privately, first.”
They went into the front room. While Phillip closed the door, Desmond stood still. Then he looked across the table sternly, unhappily.
“What’s the matter now, Des?”
“You know as well as I do.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know very well that you saw Lily last Wednesday. I suspected that when I noticed her changed manner when I met her last night. You went behind my back, after I had told you she was my girl. And why did you tell her that my father was not dead?”
“I didn’t realize you’d told her he was dead, before I spoke.”
“But what right have you to take her for a walk?”
“I only wanted to find out what sort of a gir
l she was, that was all. How did you know I had seen her?”
“Ching told me first, then I went round to her home, and she told me herself.”
“But it was all above board, Desmond.”
“That isn’t the point. The point is that you have deliberately betrayed me.”
The face was set and pale; this was no joke, Phillip thought, suppressing a feeling to treat the matter lightly.
“How have I betrayed you? We hardly spoke about you.”
“That in itself is an admission. I want your promise that you will not see her again. I want it before I leave this room.”
“What do you think happened between us, then? We only talked.”
“You’ve changed her towards me. You’ve wormed your way into her thoughts, that is obvious. If your friendship for me means anything, you will tell me what you said to her. And what she told you about me.”
“We hardly discussed you. I wanted to find out what she was like, for your sake, if you want to know.”
“Well, what did you find out?”
“I thought she was really a very good person.”
“Then your object has been achieved, and you won’t need to see her again?”
“Not unless she wants to see me. I can’t cut her suddenly; be reasonable. I have told you there is nothing between us.”
“Why should she want to see you again?”
“I don’t know. But she might.”
“What did you say to her, that she might want to see you again?”
“I spoke about music and poetry, and she told me about her experiences of some time ago, and reminded me that I was called Grandma when we used to play cricket on the Hill. That was before I knew you, Desmond.”
“I shall ask her if that is true.”
“You can ask her what you like! And I don’t care for your manner of interrogating me like this! If you don’t believe me, you can lump it! I tell you it was merely a friendly chat, and we both wanted to get away from that hanger-on, Ching, who was with her in the Bull when I went in there to find you, if you want to know.”
“In that case, there can be no reason why you shouldn’t give the promise I ask for.”
“Just a moment, someone may be listening.” He went to the Polyphone, and put on Over the Waves. The door opened and Mavis came into the room.
“How long are you two going to be in here, eh? Mother and I are waiting to come in.”
“What for?”
“Mind your own biz!”
“Must you use that vulgar expression? I’ve asked you not to, before.”
“Look who’s talking! What about you in the Gild Hall, eh?”
“Anyway, you might at least say how d’you do when you come into a room. And this is a private talk, if you don’t mind.”
“Ha, ha, all your affairs are either private or secret! Except what goes on in Freddy’s and the Bull!”
Mavis went out again, leaving the door a-jar. Phillip closed it violently, then faced Desmond, whose eyes were still fixed upon him.
“Will you give me your promise?”
“But why should I not see Lily again?”
“She is my friend, and I do not intend to lose her.”
“Then may I suggest that you do not treat her as you do me, or you may find that what you fear may have come to pass.”
“You are plausible, as always, and can twist anything round. I want your promise.”
“Well, don’t you twist anything too much, or you might find you’ve broken its neck. Shall we shake hands?”
“On your promise, yes.”
“No! I have said what I have said about that. I ask you to shake hands because we are friends, and only on that. And friends don’t let down friends.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
As they shook hands, Phillip said, “I hope that Gene won’t attack me now, because I said I wasn’t going on Saturday to his flat with those flappers. Those kids are much too young. One of them even isn’t developed.”
“In other words, you do not approve?”
“If you put it that way, yes!”
“I see. I’m not allowed to do what I want to do, since you disapprove of Lily, and Gene mustn’t invite two girls to his flat, because you don’t think it’s right?”
“Well, I’m older than you both——”
“Does it occur to you that sometimes you behave like your father, I wonder?”
“Look Des., let’s stop all this rot, shall we? How about a song?” as Doris came into the room.
Desmond had a friend in the London Electrical Engineers, an older man who was a professional singer, who had invited him to his home in North London, and given him lessons. Desmond had a light tenor voice, and sometimes Doris played for him, and Phillip. In the past they had sung duets together, songs like Shipmate o’ Mine, Friend o’ Mine, etc., usually with three verses, the first two expressive of loving comradeship, the third and final verse dropping into a minor key, solemn with the impending shadow of the valley of death: late Victorian ballads in the spirit of London, with its fogs and dirt and fearful competition, its dread of “going to the wall”, of loss through incurable disease, but with faith in a future life, the resounding of trumpets, and general freedom where before frustration had enclosed the spirit.
Doris sat at the piano, and opened the sheet music of Elëanore, by Coleridge-Taylor. This was a favourite song of Phillip’s; a medium by which he communed with the spirit of Helena. He had not heard Desmond sing since he had been taking lessons; and he was surprised at the clear enunciation of the words, which now came with an almost piercingly pure ringing quality of each note, so carefully phrased. Before, Desmond had at times been nasal in his singing; while Phillip himself was, he knew, soft and throaty, quite hopeless. It was the same when they had sometimes boxed together: Desmond had stood and guarded his blows, which were never really serious; but when Desmond had hit, it was with determination and strength. Phillip could now feel a new power in Desmond, through his singing. There was deep sadness in it, too.
The forest flowers are faded all
The winds complain, the snowflakes fall,
Elëanore, Elëonore——
I turn to thee as to a bower
Thou breathest beauty like a flower
Thou smilest like a happy hour,
Elëanore——
I turn to thee, I bless afar
Thy name, which is my guiding star,
Elëanore, Elëanore——
And yet, Ah God, when thou art here
I faint, I hold my breath for fear
Thou art some phantom wand’ring near
Elëanore——
Desmond’s eyes were on the ceiling as he sang, his hands clasped before him.
O, take me to thy bosom fair
And cover me with thy golden hair,
Elëanore, Elëanore——
There let me lie when I am dead
Those morning beams around me spread
The glory of thy face o’erhead
Elëanore, Elëanore——
“That was very beautifully sung, Desmond,” said Doris.
“Yes, thank you,” said Phillip.
“Isn’t it wonderful that Coleridge-Taylor is a black man?” said Doris. “I think all men are part of the same world, really, whatever the colour of their skins.”
“The purpose of life is to create beauty, in spite of everything,” said Phillip.
Desmond said nothing, as he stood there, head and eyes downheld.
“Would you two like to sing a duet now?”
Neither Phillip nor Desmond replied.
*
As they went out of the room, Hetty appeared, and said she wanted to say something to Phillip. Desmond said a laconic goodbye; and Phillip returned with his mother to the room.
“I was wondering, Phillip, about your birthday party. As you will be going back on Monday, Gran’pa says he would be pleased if you would have supper with him tomorrow nig
ht. Perhaps Desmond might like to come, too?”
“Well, I’m afraid I shan’t be able to come tomorrow, Mum, as Gene and I have arranged to go out. In fact, I was just going to ask Desmond, too.”
“Perhaps Sunday will be better, then? Would you care to ask Desmond to come then?”
“He said he was on searchlight duty on Sunday.”
“Well then, shall we have just a family party, like old times?” with a gay little laugh.
“Oh, all right,” he said, with the dullness of nearly a thousand Sundays at home in his voice.
“Very well, Phillip,” replied Hetty, with forced cheer. “I’ll tell Gran’pa that you will come on Sunday. It is a special occasion, you know. You will only be twenty-one once.”
“Not being a woman, I suppose that’s true, Mother dear.”
He gave her an unexpected kiss, arising out of joy that he and Desmond were good friends once again, and he was going down to Freddy’s bar, hoping to see him there.
*
When the front door closed behind Phillip his elder sister came downstairs. Mother and daughter went into the front room.
“Thank goodness they’re gone out! Desmond with his sentimental, lugubrious singing! Phew, the room smells like a pub with all this smoke hanging about! Why do men smoke, I can’t see anything in it? Help me clear the table, Mummie darling, will you? The light won’t last very much longer, and you know Father won’t let me use the gas, because of this beastly economy. Why hasn’t Nina come? She said she would be here at a quarter to six, and it’s past that.”
“Perhaps she has been delayed at the office, dear.”
“Oh no, she gets off at five, and promised to come straight here.”
Ornamental china bowl holding miniature orange tree was lifted off the table, tapestry cloth folded; now they were ready to cut out, from material which Mavis had bought at the Spring Sales, the gores of the new Freedom Skirt, a pattern of which had been given away with Weldon’s Home Journal. Sewing machine, work-basket, scissors, were all ready; but where was Nina?
“We must start without her, that’s all, Mother. Take my waist measurement, will you?”
Mavis had looked forward so keenly to this occasion, that her friend’s non-appearance, together with her fear of her father coming into the room—scores of mental pictures of this had already turned the edge of the joys of anticipation—was almost a disaster. Hurry, hurry, there was so little time.
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