The Golden Virgin

by Henry Williamson

  *

  When he rang the front-door bell of Turret House the next evening he heard the footfalls of Helena as she strode out of the front room, to pull the door wide and, stepping back, smile in greeting. He saw that she wore upon her white blouse the gold brooch, the Star of the Garter, that Hubert had given her. He flinched; but must go through with it.

  “Come in, Phillip,” called the voice of Mrs. Rolls from the sitting-room. He heard a rumbling growl from Rastus the bloodhound as it got out of its master’s armchair. Entering, he saw the dog lifting off its square of carpet, to lay it beside the copper coal-scuttle.

  “Rastus is now trained,” the caressing voice explained, as Mrs. Rolls bit a thread from the nightshirt she was sewing for the Red Cross. “Put the gramophone on the table, and come and let me look at you, Phillip.” His hand was taken affectionately. “How thin you are! You always were thin, of course, but now you are much, much too thin. How are you feeling in yourself?” Violet eyes looked tenderly up at him. “Draw up a chair, and sit beside me, and tell me all you have been doing. That’s right, make yourself comfortable.”

  Try as he might, he could not feel at ease within himself. What could he say? He must say something to break the mask constricting him.

  “What do you think of the Ancient Greeks, Mrs. Rolls?”

  “Which ones, exactly, do you mean, Phillip? Have you any particular one in mind?”

  Phillip mentally raced through the small print of A Smaller Classical Dictionary. He began to dread that he might mention Zeus or Leda, for then he would surely give away his thoughts. Also, Ancient Greece now seemed to get fainter and fainter in his mind.

  “Tell me about them, won’t you?” Stitch, stitch.

  “Well, they fought among themselves, you know, and so destroyed what was the fairest light in the world. Phidias, you know, and all those other sculptors.”

  “Yes, Lord Elgin’s marbles,” said Mrs. Rolls, knowingly. “In the British Museum. Most interesting! You should talk to our Vicar about that, Phillip. Ancient Greece is his pet hobby horse. The Archæological Society has had to give up, you know, for lack of members. Such a pity. Wasn’t your father once a member? I seem to remember him telling me something about it, oh, a long time ago now, before Gerard and I were married.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that, Mrs. Rolls.”

  “A hobby is so essential for a man, to take his mind off his work, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You sound much more determined than you used to be. I like a man to be determined, to know what he wants, and to go straight to his goal. Don’t you?”

  “Yes.” He thought of “Spectre” West getting to the third and last objective beyond Contalmaison on the first day.

  “What else have you been doing? Don’t get up. You are so polite!”

  Helena had come into the room. Drawing up a chair, she took her sewing.

  “Well, I helped to put out a fire.” He told them about Piston, making him out to be a comic character, instead of someone riddled by fear from some early hell. Laughter removed part of the constraint.

  “Phillip believes that the Ancient Greeks had a wisdom which we don’t find in the world today. What do you think, Helena?”

  “I don’t think anyone would dispute that,” said Helena, stitching away.

  “I was in Rome with Gerard many years ago, indeed we went there for our honeymoon, and the ruined buildings were most awe-inspiring,” remarked her mother, as she wound cotton round a button energetically, secured it with two loops, and snapped the thread. “Most impressive.”

  “That was the Romans, mother!” laughed Helena.

  “Well, the same sort of thing that Phillip is telling us about, surely?” said Mrs. Rolls, as she threaded another button.

  “I rather fancy,” said Phillip, smoothing his hair several times, “that the Romans adopted the culture of the Greeks. Eos became Aurora, and things like that.” What a fool they must think him.

  “Did they now? I know they came to Britain, and made all those wonderful straight roads. They went to Bath, too. I remember seeing the ruins there, with my parents.”

  “The Barbarians came after the Romans, or rather they poured in, didn’t they?” said Helena.

  “Yes, and Nero fiddled while Rome was burning, of course. Fiddling reminds me of your gramophone. What are we going to hear, now? Helena, will you fetch the coffee, darling?”

  When Helena was in the kitchen, Mrs. Rolls said, “I am so glad that she has got over the worst of the shock of Hubert’s death, Phillip. She is still very young, you see, only nineteen. When the war is over, Gerard will be going to the Far East again, on business—he’s in bristles, you know—and will probably take Helena with him, to see the world. Everyone should travel when young, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” he said. Helena all in white, brilliant sunshine, gay laughter on deck, fashionable people, handsome, well-bred young men, evening dress, waltzing.

  “It helps to broaden the outlook. No young person can really know his or her own mind until they have left home, and seen how wide the world is. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” he said again, sinking into darkness. She was letting him down gently, giving him a diplomatic hint. Thank God he had not put that letter in the box last night.

  Flora Rolls saw the droop of his mouth, the corners turned down, the look on his face that she had so often seen when he was a boy. “You look tired, Phillip. I think I shall give you some Benger’s Food instead of coffee.”

  “No, really, thanks, I am quite all right.”

  What a mess he was making of the conversation, which he had fervently anticipated to be about music and sculpture.

  “You are still depressed by your wound, I can see that. Helena! Heat some more milk, darling, will you. Phillip must have some Benger’s. You can have the coffee afterwards, if you are good!”

  His spirits rose, that she was concerned that he should be well.

  “May I play the gramophone?”

  “Do. I adore all music, or nearly all.”

  “Do you like Wagner, Mrs. Rolls?”

  “No, I can’t say I do. It’s all so heavy and ponderous, don’t you think, even morbid. Gerard calls it a filthy Hun din, but then he likes Gilbert and Sullivan. Play something jolly. I’m sure you’ve got something jolly?”

  “I’ve got a Harry Lauder, Mrs. Rolls.”

  “Oh, Roamin’ in the Gloamin? Or Annie Laurie, perhaps?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s rather silly.”

  “As long as it’s not vulgar, I don’t mind what it is.”

  He was transfixed. The record was Stop Your Tickling, Jock. It was absolutely vulgar. Hastily he put on Tosti’s Goodbye.

  Falling leaf, and fading flower,

  the sad words, so clear and elegiac, came out of the tin concave of the open black cube.

  Shadows falling on you and me—

  Goodbye summer, goodbye, goodbye.

  Helena came in with a tray, on which were cups and plates and jugs, and a plum cake, at the wonderful, tempestuous climax.

  What are we waiting for, ah my heart

  Kiss me once on the brow, and part

  Again—again

  Goodbye for ever! Goodbye for ever!

  Goodbye—goodbye—goodbye.

  “Very beautiful!” murmured Flora Rolls. “But too sad. Almost morbid, in fact. He was Count Tosti, wasn’t he? An Italian, of course.”

  “I think so. The singer is John McCormack.”

  “I know it well, of course. Gerard used to sing it.”

  “Did Daddy actually sing that, Mummie? I can’t imagine it!”

  “It was before we were married, dear,” said Flora Rolls, lightly. “He was terribly jealous, you see, and had morbid thoughts.”

  “What, Daddy? It doesn’t sound at all like him!”

  “Ah, he was in diggings then, you see. He did not need to sing for his supper, after we were married,” she laughed, tur
ning to Phillip. “Feed the brute, that’s what I did!”

  “Bravo!” he said, thinking, Food, when there is so much beauty in the world! He tried again.

  “This is The Dance of the Flowers, by a Russian, Tchaikowsky. No, I think I’ll put on Souvenir de Moscow first. Or how about Van Biene’s Broken Melody?”

  “I hope they’re jolly ones,” said Helena. “What’s that I heard about Harry Lauder? Daddy likes him. So do I.”

  “All right.” In for a penny, in for a pound, as he selected the record, and whizzed round the winding handle.

  Stop your tickeling, tickel-ickle-ickeling,

  Stop your tickeling, Jock!

  It was a great success, especially when Rastus lifted up his snout and joined in.

  After that things went better. At half-past nine, seeing a gold tooth revealed by the tremble of a yawn starting on Mrs. Rolls’ face, promptly to be concealed in the white folds of a hospital nightshirt, Phillip thought it time to get up, and say goodnight. He must not outstay his welcome.

  “Must you go so early? Well, thank you for the delightful music, and your company, too, of course, sir! Now, Helena, did I hear something about tennis tomorrow afternoon with Joe and Cherry Milton?”

  “Yes. Would you like to make up a fourth at the Club, tomorrow afternoon at half-past two, Phillip?”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  “I suppose you’ll be going on that noisy bike of yours?”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Rolls, I’ve sold it.”

  “Then can you walk so far, and play as well?”

  “Easily! Or I can borrow Father’s Sunbeam.”

  “Well, do take care of it, won’t you. I know how proud he is of his ‘machine’, as he calls it.”

  “Oh rather. Well, thank you for a ripping evening. Half-past two at the club, then? I’m a bit out of practice, you know, so you must excuse my bad play. Well, goodbye once again. Cheerho, Rastus, now you can have your chair.”

  Rastus growled, as much as to say, I know that, as he got up, assembled his loose bones and skin, and laying the square sample of carpet on the seat, slowly, like half of a big-skulled spider, lifted his body into place; then turning round to encircle himself, collapsed with a sigh.

  *

  Decca trench gramophone box under one arm, case of records in hand, Phillip almost skipped into his grandfather’s house, to tell him about the beauties of Ancient Greece.

  To his surprise, Gran’pa had been there, years ago, making a tour with Mr. Newman, who had died of the heat in the hot summer of 1911.

  “Everything comes from the energy of the sun,” said Thomas Turney, to his grandson. “The sun of the Mediterranean is bright, the sea is deep blue, the land is bare and rocky. The Greeks were great sailors when Britain was a wooded island, almost entirely covered by oak scrub, the indigenous tree of this island, that was sacred to the Druids, because of its great usefulness. It is the conditions of a land and its surrounding sea that produce religions, you know, or rather the thought from which religious systems are made. I’ve been reading a remarkable book, Frazer’s Golden Bough. You must read it one day. The atmosphere of the eastern Mediterranean produced the hard bright poetry of the Greeks, and also gave them their tragic background, of exploration and war, for the two go together. This present war is a maritime war, y’know. A century ago it was Napoleon; his war was a war for the sea-lanes of commerce.”

  “I didn’t know that you knew all about the Greeks, Gran’pa. Where did you pick it up?”

  “Well, where did you pick up what you know, my boy?”

  “Oh, here and there, but chiefly from two friends I made in the army—classical scholars of Oxford University.”

  “Travel is the best university. It broadens the mind, prepares it to assimilate classical knowledge later in life. Look at my poor boy Hughie, he learned nothing at Cambridge, except to drink, and keep up with bad companions. Now if ye’ll take my advice, after this war you will learn Spanish. America is the coming continent, and especially South America. Learn Spanish.”

  “Well, I’ll see, Gran’pa. Good-night, sir, good-night, Aunt Marian.”

  When he had gone, the old woman said, “What a nice boy Phillip has become, Tom. How well he looks, too, after his visit to the West Country!”

  Richard was delighted to lend his Sunbeam bicycle, which after a dozen years of the most careful use was still without a chip on its many coats of stove-enamellings, and its thick nickle platings. The chain, running inside the patented “Little Oil Bath”, the sprockets, the Sturmey-Archer 3-speed gear, were all as new, after more than four thousand miles on the cyclometer. Indeed, Richard was proud that his son should want to ride his “machine”, which he never rode himself nowadays.

  “You’re becoming quite a man of society, aren’t you?” he said.

  In whites, with pipe-clayed shoes, wearing Donegal tweed jacket and silk scarf round neck, Phillip free-wheeled down the road, waved to Mrs. Neville (who had been told, the previous night, all about the visit to Turret House), nearly fell off, his racquet being held across the handlebars, and in second gear pedalled up the slight incline of Charlotte Road, watched by his mother from her bedroom window, hidden behind lace curtains, since she knew his dislike of being observed.

  “Mr. Phillip’s his old self again, ma’m,” said Mrs. Feeney, who had watched from the front-room window. “And fancy, on the master’s machine! Merry and bright, and holding himself upright like a real gentleman. Ah, but you can’t beat a uniform for smartness, ma’m! Now you can leave the house quite safe with me, and go up with Miss Doris to meet Miss Polly at Euston. I’ll wait until you come back, and get the master’s and Miss Mavis’ tea if anything happens to hold you up. So don’t you worry, ma’am,” said this poor woman of impeccable Victorian manners.

  Chapter 26

  LAWN TENNIS

  When Phillip arrived, the grass court behind the cleft-oak fence and privet hedge was empty. His first feeling was to leave: then he went through the gate and lay down on the edge of the lawn in the shadow of a linden tree, and held his face to the sun. Five minutes or so later he heard a scurr of tyres on the dusty road and the soft double pad of Helena’s alighting plimsolls. He lay still, pretending to be asleep; but his heart thudded so hard that he decided to get up, lest he be giddy when he did so in her presence. Also make-believe belonged to the past; he must act the man.

  The gate clicked, she passed through, and was walking in shadow, smiling, her eyes steadily on his, and a faint blush on her cheeks that he had seen when she had looked at Bertie on the Hill that Sunday of May, 1915. No longer did the blue-grey eyes seem proud and confident; and at the sight of them he felt himself quiver, as though stricken.

  They began to play a sort of pat-ball. He thought she was the nurse taking care that the patient did not do too much, so he began to serve as his father had taught him years before, pitching the ball high and striking it with the racquet so that a left spin or a right spin could be put on the ball as it was struck, with arm extended to full height, against the gutted frame. Thus the ball, descending fast over the top of the net, had swerve on it, to break away left or right of the line.

  A puff of whiting on the grass, the ball was gone past Helena. Three more puffs; and game to the server.

  “I say, you’re quite hot stuff, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry. I’ll serve slower next time.”

  “Rather not! No favours!”

  Helena’s back-hand drives and volleys were as good as her forehand drives and volleys; Phillip’s were erratic. Game to Helena. One all.

  She was two games ahead when Milton arrived, hatless, wearing white flannels and khaki tunic … a staff-captain! And never been to the front! How did they wangle it? Major Wigg, Captain Cox, Captain Milton, all with red tabs, or were Cox’s yellow, for the Chinese Labour Corps?

  “Hullo, Milton, you one-piecee bad boy! Long time since I saw you.”

  “Let me introduce you to my sister, Cherry. This is Mr. Maddiso
n.”

  She was as tall as her brother, but with hair, eyebrows and lashes almost the colour of silver sand. Rather delicate, he thought, as they spun for partners, and he and she paired off. He played badly, his thoughts not on the game, but on Milton and Helena opposite, as he watched for signs of something more than friendship between them. Was that an endearing glance from Helena to Milton? He began to pay attention to his partner. Why was she called Cherry? A cherry should be dark, with black shiny eyes and ringlet hair. This Cherry was not delicate, she was strong, she could hit hard, her breasts moved up and down together, quickly. Assiduously he collected the balls for her, darting after them between the services, handing her two promptly each time, noting that Helena’s glance was often his way. This was encouraging. He played with spirit; and when it was his turn to serve, won a love game. Cherry’s “Well done, partner”, with upward glance of sea-green eyes, her rather fascinating silver-sand eyelashes and brows kindled him. Then at one particular moment he felt the clearness of himself in freedom. The shadow was no more. Could he believe it? Yes, it had actually gone! It was startling; he wanted to give an enormous shout. It was a wonderful feeling.

  He swirled; and leaned upon his racquet handle.

  “Are you all right? Phillip, would you like to rest?”

  Cherry spoke through half-closed lips, demurely; she glanced slyly out of the corners of her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you Phillip, Mr. Maddison?”

  She was a white-fleshed cherry, a white eating-Morello. There was a little down on her upper lip, the faintest little moustache, soft, downy. Gentle, soft white cherry; breasts of half cherry.

  “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

  “Are you sure? You can’t be very strong yet, after your leg——”