The Golden Virgin

by Henry Williamson

“Yes, I suppose we are all the same inside, really, under all the wrong things we do.” He stroked her forehead. “I love the way your eyebrows grow in straight little hairs, like silky gentle porcupines.” He put his arms round her, and kissed her cheekbone.

  “I can’t believe you are here with me, at last,” she said.

  He saw tears in her eyes, and touched them with his lips, tenderly.

  “Did you really like me years ago?”

  “I liked you very much. Then when you walked into the Bull that night I knew I could love only you.”

  “I was frightened of you when I saw you on that stool between Desmond and Eugene. I was afraid of the look in your eyes. You know, I had a feeling that only beautiful courtesans, the terribly alluring kind, had eyes this colour.”

  He kissed one, then the other, of her closed lids, while the corners of her lips quivered with smiles.

  “Women are rather alarming, you know, very beautiful girls like you, I mean. I think I know why some men make jokes about love. It’s the same reason that Bairnsfather is popular, he jokes about what everyone really is afraid of. Tom Cundall would have a theory about that, I expect, he’s a brainy bird. Do you know him?” he asked, with a twinge of jealousy.

  “I’ve only seen him with you. He looks a nice boy.”

  “How about Ching?”

  “I’ve only seen him in the Bull, or Freddy’s.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s terribly hurt in himself, isn’t he?”

  “That never occurred to me. Yes, I suppose it’s true! Who else do you know?”

  “Nobody else, now.”

  “Were you ever sorry for Keechey?”

  “At first.”

  “Why?”

  “He was unhappy.”

  “He told you the tale, in fact!”

  “But he was unhappy. Else he would not have told the tale.”

  “Only the loveless tell lies, in other words. I suppose you’re right. Who else have you known beside Desmond and Eugene?”

  “I’ve forgotten.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “You need not be jealous of anybody,” she said, touching his cheek with her lips.

  “But did you love them?”

  “I was sorry for them. Also——”

  “Also what?”

  “Well, the one I wanted I couldn’t find, so who I went with didn’t seem to matter.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “I wanted to be liked for myself alone, but it did not seem it would ever happen. But after I saw you in the Bull I never went with any other fellow, old or new. What big eyes you have, Grandmother!”

  “Grandmother! What a name!”

  “Oh, I loved it, and always shall.”

  “Isn’t it strange, we two being so ordinary together? Let’s wash up the things for your mother, shall we? I think it’s fun to work together.”

  “Ah, but you might not feel the same when you’re gone away from me.”

  “I shall always feel like this.”

  He took off his signet ring. “Wear it on your little finger—but keep it a secret, won’t you?”

  She stared at the ring, gave it a series of small kisses, and held it to her heart.

  When he had dried the tea things and spread the cloth on the clothes horse before the fire he said, “I think I ought to go now, Lily. I promised to meet Desmond and Gene. I shall have to tell Desmond. Shall I see you tomorrow?”

  “I go to mass in the morning, at St. Saviours.”

  “May I come, too? I’ll meet you outside the church. What time? All right, till then. Thank your mother for me, won’t you? Au revoir. Till tomorrow!”

  They kissed lightly, tremulously. Her last whispered words to him were, “You are my child.”

  *

  Phillip and Desmond went up to Charing Cross, then by tube to Paddington to call on Eugene in his garret flat in Westbourne Terrace. Eugene was delighted to see them; his sallow face lit up. He had just opened a tin of sardines for his supper, thinking they were not coming, he said. There it was, on the kitchen table. He eyed it thoughtfully, and said, “It will do for me tomorrow,” then he put the tin back in a box on the window-sill where he kept his grub. Having washed, he stood before a long looking-glass, adjusted his bowler hat at the correct angle for a man about town, took his yellow gloves and silver-mounted second-best ebony stick, returned to the glass to erect his blue, white-dot bow tie, and said, “I am ready. Where is it to be this time?”

  “How about the usual place, Gene?”

  “Well, the Popular has become too well known, since you’ve been to France. It’s crowded with all sorts of people from the suburbs nowadays.”

  “Where do you suggest then? You’re the expert.”

  “How about the Piccadilly Grill?”

  “I’ve only got five quid.”

  “That ought to do, if we don’t have vintage wines. It’s infra dig to ask them to take a cheque, of course.”

  “I see. Let’s get a taxi.”

  Outside the Piccadilly Hotel stood two enormous grey Mércèdes motorcars, with great brass flexible pipes snaking through the bonnets.

  “The Royal Flying Corps always comes here when there’s nothing doing,” explained Gene.

  The hotel foyer was full of what Phillip thought were the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Gene took off hat and coat and gave them to the cloak attendant with what he considered to be the air of a Brazilian aristocrat, and led the way down to the grill room, where amidst masses of yellow and bronze chrysanthemums on a dais an orchestra was playing. The restaurant manager bowed him to a table; lifted a hand to a waiter, who hurried forward to draw back a gilt chair for Eugene, bowed to the other two, and withdrew; to come forward again, after an interval, with three enormous cartes de menu.

  “Let me see,” said Eugene, fitting his eyeglass.

  A second waiter attended. “Cocktail, m’sieu? Sherry?” Eugene shook his head, the waiter bowed and departed.

  Phillip thought the prices were very high. Still, he had five pounds and a few shillings.

  “Do you mind ordering, Gene? I’ve rather lost touch since coming home.”

  “How about our usual porterhouse steak, with onions and fried potatoes? And a Burgundy? I’m going to lunch with Charlie Mayer at his house in Sydenham tomorrow, so I fancy something simple tonight.”

  The leader of the band came forward, violin under chin, bow in hand. People clapped.

  “That’s de Groot, the famous violinist,” explained Gene. “He’s made dozens of gramophone records.”

  “Good lord! Of course! I’ve got his Selections from Razzle Dazzle!”

  The band played selections from Chu Chin Chow. The lights, the gaiety, the food, the wine, the laughing faces were all around; yet something was absent. It was not like the old days. Since meeting again at the door of the flat, he and Desmond had not spoken much. Desmond seemed subdued; he was still, he said, passing a hand across his forehead, liable to headaches, from being blown up.

  “What happened?” asked Phillip. If only Lily were with them, and they were four friends together. Polly—Percy—Jasper—Bason—no, the old days were gone.

  “Oh, we were in a Russian sap, in front of the infantry, and when we blew in the end of the tunnel the blast came back and the roof fell on us,” Desmond’s low voice was saying.

  “What was the idea of blowing in the end while you were still there?”

  “For the infantry to debouch. It was a shallow tunnel, you see, and the end was under the German front line. The blast was supposed to lift the lid off the end, but it didn’t, so we were all trapped.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “I don’t remember, but it must have been a long time, for when I recovered consciousness, I was lying on a stretcher, and it was night.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “I know. It got me out of that hell.”

  “Where were you?”

&nbs
p; “In front of La Boisselle.”

  “I was in Mash Valley. On the left of the Bapaume Road.”

  “A very unhealthy place. It’s no good asking me about it, I can’t remember anything since the explosion.” Again the hand across the brow. Was Desmond doing a Piston?

  “Ought you to drink wine, if your nerves are bad?” He winked at Eugene.

  “Oh, that doesn’t affect me. I drank the best part of a bottle of rum last night, and was the same afterwards as before.”

  “Seems rather a waste to drink wine then, doesn’t it.”

  “That’s the sort of remark you would make.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “But you said it.”

  Phillip looked at Gene, whose faint eyebrows on the edge of a slightly receding brow were lifted.

  “Now then, Des, Phil didn’t mean it the way you took it. Can’t you take a joke?”

  “Drink up,” said Phillip, filling the glasses. “Waiter, bring another bottle.”

  At this point the R.F.C. pilots dining somewhat noisily at one of the large tables in the middle of the room got up and left, after the manager had spoken to them.

  “First warning,” said Desmond.

  The band went on playing, while many heads were turned to the departing officers in their riding boots and double-breasted jackets. The waiter whispered: the famous Leefe Robinson, V.C., had been among them. The life of the restaurant seemed to have departed, too. When the music stopped it was quiet, even subdued. Desmond seldom spoke. Phillip felt the secret satisfaction of his thoughts of Lily going from him. How much was Desmond putting on his having-been-blown-up mood?

  After their dinner they left for the cheaper Monkey House for coffee. The vast carpeted room with its marble pillars and mirrors and chocolate-gilt decorations seemed to be filled more than before with full-lipped dark-haired people in family parties with eyes like black grapes gazing at ease among figures in khaki, a few wearing the new gold-braid wound-stripes on their left-arm sleeves, sitting with patient faces and shut-away thoughts.

  Phillip was drinking coffee with his cigar and looking upon the scene into which, it seemed, music like golden-shred marmalade was being poured with the din of voices, when a fat young man wearing homburg hat on his head, a smart new overcoat with astrachan collar, and pointed yellow boots pushed past to a family party near them, and beckoning with a fat hand on which many rings showed, said something which made them all get up and walk away together. Other dark-eyed groups followed the general exodus, until khaki uniformed figures here and there with their womenfolk became prominent.

  “See how they run,” said Gene. “There’s absolute panic in the Whitechapel Road when a Zepp is anywhere near. Here in Piccadilly the wealthier ones are the first to get down into the Underground. They all ride round the Inner Circle on a penny ticket until the raid is over. How about going to Hampstead by tube, and looking over London from the high ground? It will be safe up there.”

  Outside in Piccadilly the crowds were thick as before, taxi-cabs with their little yellow oil-lamps, newsboys in the faint glow of the Prince of Wales theatre foyer crying the names of evening papers—Star, Globe, Pall Mall Gazette, Evening News—All the latest! Advance on the Somme continues!—Italian Victory on the Isonzo!—German Food Shortage!—All the Latest!—Hullo Dearie, looking for a Nice Girl? No thank you. Well then, push off! That’s just what I’m doing, good night. Obviously Ray, dug-in at Cherry Hinton, had graduated in Piccadilly Circus.

  “It’s too bloody far to Hampstead. Let’s go and see Freddy.”

  “That means I’ll have to come back to Town by myself,” said Gene.

  “You can go all the way by tube to Paddington.”

  Piccadilly Underground was crowded with people, so they walked to Charing Cross. Lily, would she be in Freddy’s? Had she changed her mind? He felt heavy with longing.

  *

  “I’ve heard nothing down this way,” said Freddy.

  It was not the same place any more. He did not want to drink whiskey, and led the way to the Gild Hall. New flappers, new faces, innocent eyes and fresh complexions, young soldiers seeming smaller, shy-bold, callow. Had he once been like that?

  Now folds the lily all her sweetness up

  And sinks into the bosom of the lake—

  He wanted to be alone, to dream of Lily, to nurse the ache within him. Was he lost again, as he had been with Helena? When Desmond suggested a game of three-handed snooker, all against all, he made his excuses.

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home. I’m still a bit under the weather with my leg at times, so I’ll leave you two, if you don’t mind.”

  “Just a minute,” said Gene, drawing Phillip aside, “I wonder if you could lend me a pound? I’m rather hard up at the moment. My quarterly allowance is due next week, at the Brazilian Bank, so I’ll be able to settle up all the other money I owe you then.”

  “I’ve only got fifteen bob left, but you can have ten, if that’s any good. Righty-ho, see you soon. Thanks for coming with me tonight.”

  “Don’t mention it, it’s a pleasure. You know very well how I feel about you, Phil.” Eugene pressed his hand.

  He walked home, hesitating at the chinks of light around Mrs. Neville’s window; then went up Hillside Road, where the two lamp-post lights were out.

  His house was dark.

  “Is that you, Phillip?” How anxious the voice seemed.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Don’t make a noise, dear. I’ll come down.”

  How small she was, in her bare feet and dressing-gown, her hair so thin, a grey wispy rat-tail.

  “Father was called out. Don’t say a word to Mavis or Doris, will you, but Zeppelins have been reported on the way here. Doris is all right, but Mavis is terribly nervous, and she’s not well, either.”

  Mavis’ voice called with wild fear from her bedroom door at the end of the house. “Who is it, Mother?”

  “Only Phillip, dear.”

  “I thought I heard one just now! There was a flash right across my window!”

  The window looked east, towards Woolwich and Shooter’s Hill.

  “It was only a tram,” said Phillip. “Don’t get the wind up.”

  “You’ll wake Doris, and she’s got to take her College of Preceptors exam this term.”

  “I’m awake,” said the voice of Doris. Her dim face looked over the banisters of the landing above.

  “If you all go on talking I shall never get to sleep,” came the complaining voice of Mavis from down the passage. “Phillip turns night into day, just as Father says.”

  “That’s better than turning night into fright, anyhow.”

  “Night into getting tight, you mean!” came the satirical laughter. “Where have you come from now, eh? Freddy’s, I bet! How’s the washerwoman’s daughter?”

  “I’m going for a walk on the Hill, Mother.”

  “Down to Freddy’s, you mean,” Mavis called out.

  “Mavis, will you stop taunting your brother!”

  “Well, he began it.”

  “Yes, I made the mistake of being born before you,” said Phillip, closing the door behind him.

  It opened again. “You won’t be late, will you, dear?” whispered Hetty.

  Outside the gate the shadowy figure of Desmond awaited him.

  *

  Across the North Sea from Germany nine airships were flying. Six of them, of an older type, were making for the east coast of England north of the Thames estuary. They were loaded with two-hundred-kilogram bombs and thermite canisters. Their objectives were factories, foundries, and industrial plant in the Midlands.

  Three others had been ordered to bombard London, now declared to be both fortress and arsenal by the German Supreme Command. Driven at fifty miles an hour by Maybach water-cooled engines housed in gondolas suspended under rigid frames of aluminium, each of the silken envelopes contained a million and a half cubic feet of hydrogen gas. They were the ne
w and improved type of Zeppelin, capable of a maximum air-speed of sixty miles an hour.

  Shortly after six o’clock, L 31 and L 32, based on Ahlhorn, had crossed the industrial areas of the Rhineland. Far to the south the crews could see Cologne Cathedral. Then in the dusk, at six hundred feet, they continued side by side above the glimmering Belgian roads, lined with trees, which guided them as they flew by map and compass.

  Darkness settled upon the earth as they rose above the gathering mists, heading for Ghent, on course for Ostend. With the coming of night, direction by wireless came to each airship from ships of the German fleet, which gave bearings from List, Nordholz, and Borkum.

  The cold which had come into the air with the setting of the sun increased the buoyancy of the gas in the envelopes. A difference of three degrees in temperature meant one per cent in weight-carrying capacity, or three hundred feet in altitude.

  Shortly after ten o’clock that night L 31, L 32, and L 33 were passing down the coast of Northern France. The crews saw on their port beams, like a great livid wound lying upon Europe in the darkness, the lights of the raging battlefield of the Somme. For nearly an hour the pallor in the night accompanied each man in his loneliness, remote from the turmoil upon land and sea, but not from the fear and resolution of each mind, as slowly the wan ghost receded astern, while they hung under the stars, to the throbbing of exhausts.

  One of the commanders was Mathy. He had planned to make his landfall upon the coast of Kent—a dim wandering line of chalk awash with the fret of shallow waves—and then turning nor’-nor’-west through wingless darkness to follow the lines of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway into the City. Thus he hoped to avoid the formidable defences of the guns, lights, and patrolling aircraft concentrated upon the north-east approaches to London.

  *

  Desmond sat upright at one end of a seat on the Hill. At the other end Phillip was lying back, feeling smoothed and selfless, neck resting on hands behind head, feet stretched upon the gravel before him. It was a warm night, with a gentle wind. Remotely above them the Milky Way lay across the depth of the sky. It was the beginning of the season of meteors and shooting stars.

  Now slides the silent meteor on and leaves