It Was the Nightingale

by Henry Williamson

  “If it sleeps so much in the day-time, won’t it keep awake at night, Boo?”

  “My dear, it’s a he,” replied Boo gently, with a sideway smile at Phillip as much as to say, Isn’t she a child? “Oh, please don’t apologise, my dear! It’s the most natural thing in the world for a young girl to call a baby ‘it’. Wait until you have your own!”

  Barley’s cheeks went faintly pink. Boo whispered, “I had my suspicions, you know! I’m so glad,” before continuing in her smooth voice, “I’ve never seen a child who sleeps so much as Maundy does—he’s named after George’s uncle, did Georgie tell you? Do forgive me if I’m saying what you know already. Yes, Uncle Maundy is something to do with the Government. Apparently he has the ear of Lloyd George, and helped him to find people to contribute to the party funds. But I’m perfectly hopeless at politics, I suppose we must have them though. Yes, Maundy’s as good as gold, we never get so much as a murmur from him at night, the precious!”

  *

  More summer visitors were now appearing on the sands, with jackdaws flying about the rocks waiting for scraps of food. One afternoon George’s parents drove over, by taxi, from Queensbridge, and they all had a picnic on the beach. The Reverend Detmold Pole-Cripps was a red-faced man who relaxed from the cure of souls by reading novels of crime and detection. He smoked dried colt’s-foot leaves in a large bent pipe because of his asthma, George told Phillip. Mrs. Pole-Cripps looked as though she had started life within the confines of a Midland industrial town. During tea she spoke to Phillip about the novel she had borrowed from the local library.

  “I can’t say that I approved of it all, Mr. Maddison,” she began, in a voice holding a trace of dolefulness, “but I did enjoy the descriptions, which I thought beautiful. But that ‘Pauline’ of yours, well, I could hardly approve of her, could I? As for the love-scenes, they were hardly what one could call nice, were they? Yes, I read it after Martin Beausire, whose father is a parson in the Diocese of Exeter, as I suppose you know, had given it a review in The Daily Crusader. He objected to the slang some of the characters used, but I could allow that, but tell me, Mr. Maddison, why did you permit them to bathe, those two I mean, with no clothes on, although it was night-time? His Reverence”—she had referred to her husband like this when introducing Phillip to him—“read it after I’d finished it, for I wanted to be quite sure that I wasn’t being unfair to you, you see. Yes, his Reverence has written out a critique, for you to think about. Here it is, please put it in your pocket-book and read it only when we have gone.”

  On starting to read this critique as soon as they got back to the cottage, Phillip thought that first impressions were not always the right ones. His Reverence was a dark horse, and knew literature when he saw it!

  The critique was written on a half-sheet of paper in a tenuous, slanting fist. Barley looked over his arm holding the parson’s prose, and when they had finished it both laughed so much that Phillip had to sit down with weakness.

  A work of real literature sparkling like a jewel of many facets. A story of the longings of youth in a maze of sophistry and materialism trying to find its feet. A work revealing deep suffering and aspiration, an opal. The inherent poetry glows now like the ray of a ruby, now like the glint of a diamond. It attracts by its sincerity, entrances with its psychology, it inspires by its pilgrimage of a lost soul’s search into falsities of the pagan spirit, it intrigues by its interplay of character, it stirs with its pathos, it wins regard by its fortitude, it repels by its pessimism, and nauseates by its utter ignorance of the manifold ways of the Almighty.

  The Pole-Cripps’ came over to supper one night, Georgie waving a catalogue. His enthusiasm was for a new kind of motor-car which, he said, was designed for country parsons. It was cheap, he declared, with spokeless wheels, solid rubber tyres, two-stroke engine, no gearbox and no diff.

  “In place of gears it has friction plates, you see, old bean, like the Ford T-model in the old days. And with no diff to go wrong, it’s simple! No repairs! It simply skids round corners, you see!” He went on to say that he was going to try to get the old mater to buy one for the old pater. “I’ll tell her that I’ll garage it for nothing in my shed. I’ll be available then to drive her, free, gratis and for nothing, whenever she wants to go anywhere. Don’t you think it a bon idea? After all, old bean, why should she be rooked by a Queensbridge garage when she can have it done for nothing, and have me as unpaid shovver into the bargain?”

  Georgie’s idea to save their Reverences needless expense materialised one morning when he entered the village in a cloud of blue smoke and a smell of burning oil. The new machine was a box-like affair with a pale-blue all-metal body and dummy radiator.

  “Any fool can drive it,” he told Phillip, with his usual enthusiasm. “Nothing can go wrong.”

  “Not even catch fire?”

  “Oh, that smoke’s absolutely nothing, old bean. All you have to do down these steep hills if the brakes are a bit slow is to shove her in reverse gear. I admit that the friction plates get a bit hot like that, but it won’t hurt them.”

  “Won’t they wear out quickly?”

  “There’s nothing to wear out!”

  *

  The holiday season was approaching, and once again Phillip felt it a duty to share his freedom with his mother and sister. It was arranged that Hetty was to come down by herself, a week before the Willoughbys were due. Barley suggested that ‘Mother’ have a room in Mrs. Tucker’s cottage, fifty yards away.

  “Don’t forget that Mrs. Tucker is an old gossip, so be careful what you tell her, Barley.” He meant her pregnancy.

  “Her garden is one of the best in the village, so she’s all right.”

  Barley began by praising Mrs. Tucker’s flowers, and this led up to her telling Mrs. Tucker how much ‘Phillip’s mother’ was looking forward to spending her fortnight with them.

  “I wonder if you have a room to let? Mrs. Maddison loves flowers, she was brought up among the Surrey herb fields, now unfortunately a part of London.”

  It was arranged; and the good woman, looking at her with a smile, said, “So you’m goin’ vor ’ave a babby, be ’ee? You don’t mind my saying thaccy, do ’ee now?”

  “I don’t mind a bit, Mrs. Tucker. I’m interested how anyone found out. Do I look so much bigger?”

  “Aw no, ’tes that you’m ’atin’ haphazard like! You’m ’atin’ blackberries before’m ripe! Then there’s that laver you brought back to ait!”

  “That black stuff from the rocks? But I was told you all ate it here, fried with green bacon.”

  “So us do, midear, but you’m ’atin’ blackberries too, don’t ’ee zee? ’Tes a sure sign!”

  *

  Phillip overheard his mother saying to Barley, “It is my dream coming true, dear. My son will have his little boy! Aunt Dora, one of my great friends, and I used to talk about Phillip before he was born, and we did so hope he would grow up to love all beautiful things, and to be a fine man.”

  “Well, it came true. Phillip is a fine man, Mother.”

  “I know he is, dear, and you have helped him more than you will ever know. He is so kind now, and considerate. Too much so at times, perhaps. You know about his trouble after the war, I suppose? Well, Phillip was shielding someone else. It wasn’t Phillip who set fire to that building, but a bad companion who was with him. It doesn’t do to be too kind always, you know.”

  She thought of her own husband Dickie, and how he had suffered as a young man from his father, and again from her father; but while he had the same steadfastness as Phillip, he had given way too early to his own feelings.

  Hetty went back to London with what she told herself were perfect memories. Phillip was well and happy, his wife so very calm and practical. If only it were the same with Doris … she sighed as she thought of what her daughter had told her: that she could never forget Percy, her cousin who had been killed in the war, whose best friend had been Bob.

  “It’s no use, Mother.
As I’ve told you before, every time Bob wants to come near me, I see Percy in my mind, and then I can’t bear Bob.” So there had never been complete cohabitation between them—her mind refused any thought nearer the actuality of marriage. It was such a pity; if only Doris could bring herself to have a child, it might perhaps draw the young people together.

  The wheels were now insistently audible in the carriage, her spirits were sinking, as the train ran on towards London, at the thought of returning home. Still, trials were sent to test us; she must always trust in God’s goodness, and pray to Him to help her husband and her children.

  *

  Phillip Maddison, Bob Willoughby, and George Pole-Cripps were walking together ahead of the others on the way to the sands. They stopped before a new bungalow, recently built on a field overlooking the Channel. It was square, red London brick with a pink asbestos roof.

  “My God, what a horror!” said Bob.

  “I don’t know so much,” replied George. They walked on until stopped again by a new notice board.

  “‘Ripe for Development, Apply Mutton & Co, Solicitors, Queensbridge’,” quoted Phillip. “Ripe like these thistle seeds blowing away! I suppose land can be bought very cheaply now that farming is depressed.”

  “That’s what my rich uncle said the other day, when he was staying the night with us,” said George. “He said it was a shame to spoil the beauty of this coast-line, but if beauty had to be spoiled, he might as well be the first to do it. If I can commute my pension, after getting total disability, buying this land may prove a better investment than Angora rabbits. What do you think, Phillip?”

  “Oh, I’m not a business man, George. How’s journalism going?”

  “I’ve got a good idea for an article on bell-ringing, which ought to go well at the New Year! I used to be a ‘colt’, ringing with the team at the old pater’s church. My idea is to have six copies of the same article made, then send them out just after Christmas, to six papers. One of them is sure to take it, and it will save time sending the same article back and forth, and so missing the ’bus.”

  The talk came round to spiritualism; an argument developed and continued on the sands: Phillip in sympathy with Bob, who was devout in his beliefs in life after death and in the power of spiritual healing; George deriding what both said.

  “Yes, you believe in it, I don’t doubt that for a moment, old bean, but what proof have you got? The old pater knows a lot of rogues in his parish, some of them pretend to believe in spiritualism only to get money out of a number of war-widows who haven’t been able to get another husband. You ought to hear the old pater on the subject! He doesn’t believe a word of it, and says it’s against the teachings of Holy Writ.”

  “I’m not saying that there aren’t any f-f—frauds, but I have p-proved that the dead can m-m-materialise,” stuttered Bob.

  “Belief is a matter of sensibility,” said Phillip. “‘The fool sees not the same tree that the wise man sees’, as William Blake wrote.”

  “Nor does the fool see the same tree that the dog sees!” chortled George.

  The upshot was that Phillip proposed a test.

  “Let’s have a séance tonight in my cottage, and Bob shall show us what he thinks are manifestations.”

  “Why not in my place?” said George. “Then we can combine it with sampling my whit-ale! It’s just mature, and I can guarantee a more substantial kind of spirits if the other kind doesn’t turn up!”

  Chapter 3

  THE ROAD TO EN-DOR

  The Pole-Cripps’ came over after supper, Georgie waving a catalogue.

  His enthusiasm was now for a Home Knitting Machine, on which his wife could knit a combination of golosh and stocking to go over a lady’s shoes to prevent cold feet when being driven in winter in an open car. He would breed Angoras, and Boo would turn them into overboots!

  A cold mist had drifted in from the sea, so Phillip lit the driftwood on the hearth. Young Maundy, heir to possible millions via the Lloyd George Election Fund, lay asleep in his wicker cradle on one side of the hearth. In another basket on the farther side lay Rusty, Lutra, Moggy, and the tail of a mouse she had brought in for her foster-child from whose joyous embraces she was ever ready to escape by leaping on table, book stand, and if necessary up trees. But now, filled with herrings, Lutra slept on his back, legs in air and Moggy across his neck, while Rusty groaned underneath.

  “Half a jiffy, before we start,” said George. “I’ll just dash down to my place to see if I’ve left the fire-guard in front of the fire.”

  “We made up a good fire, hoping that you will all come over afterwards and take coffee with us, and crab sandwiches,” said Boo.

  “Don’t forget the whit-ale!” called out Georgie from the open door.

  “We mustn’t be late,” said Doris. “We plan to make an early start tomorrow, it’s such a long way back to Romford.” She sat with impassive face on the settle.

  When George returned they sat round the table. A single candle burned on the book-stand against the wall. Phillip put on a record of Debussy’s La Mer. When it stopped he got up, lifted off the sound box, and sat down again quietly.

  Bob Willoughby was staring at the table. He drew a deep breath, stretched his arms before him, and rested his finger-tips on the wood. He drew another deep breath and closed his eyes. His body moved back from his arms, which were now taut. His fingers opened, quiveringly. He passed a hand across his face several times before lowering his chin on his chest.

  Looking across to George, Phillip saw on his face a childish astonishment. Glancing at Boo next, he saw the same look. Her eyes were upon the medium, and following her gaze he saw that Bob’s face was altered. The cheeks were fuller, it seemed that hair had grown on the bare patches above his temples, and the back of his hair, close cut and usually upright, was curly. Was he imagining that Bob now looked like Percy Pickering? Cold shivers passed across his shoulder blades.

  “Does anyone notice anything?” whispered Boo.

  “I do. His face is altogether different!” said George.

  “Others have seen me, too,” said Bob, slowly and without stutter. “I am asking to come through you, my friend.”

  Phillip looked at his sister. She sat with eyes closed, hands folded as though in resignation. The medium gave a deep sigh, and stroked his temples horizontally with long, stiff fingers. His face was haggard.

  “Please listen to me,” a voice said faintly. “Please talk to me.”

  Was it Bob’s voice? George looked at Phillip. “Do you know who it is?” he whispered.

  Phillip put finger to lips.

  “Speak to me,” came the words from Bob, as though half-strangled. His hands were shaking. His head went to one side; he sighed deeply, twice, then opened his eyes. With arms now limp on the table he remained as though resting.

  *

  “How about another go?” suggested George. “After I’ve looked at my fire?”

  “Yes, and with our hands on the table this time, and everyone looking up,” said Doris.

  “Don’t you believe in it, Doris?” asked Boo, when George had left.

  “I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.”

  Boo, surprised at the curt tone of voice, looked across to Phillip. “Do you, Phillip?”

  “Well, Boo, I don’t see that the idea of vibrations of thought is any more unnatural that the idea of the human voice coming with broadcast wireless waves. One day we may be able to pick up what people said hundreds of years ago. We might even be able to hear the voice of the central figure on the Cross.”

  Bob nodded slowly to himself.

  George came back, noticeably brighter, rubbing his hands together. “I say, old bean,” he said to Phillip, “you know I told you that I’d painted the Trojan’s mudguards with this new cellulose paint? I reckon it’s put fifteen miles an hour on her maximum speed. Hasn’t it, Boo?” seeking the accustomed support from his wife. “You timed me, didn’t you? I’ll tell you how we did it if you
like, two days ago, coming back from Exeter. You know that straight bit between——”

  “Yes, Georgie,” said Boo, as to a child, “but I rather think that perhaps the spirits want to tell us something.”

  “It won’t take a minute, and might help the atmosphere. After all, life is made up of vibrations, and there was plenty in the old ’bus, ha-ha-ha, when you timed me on the straight between the telegraph posts, wasn’t there?” He turned to Phillip. “We passed eleven posts in thirty-five seconds, with the wind behind us, I must admit, and as the posts are sixty yards apart, I worked it out at eighty-two point two miles an hour! Although I must admit that Boo’s hair-spring was held up, so allow twenty-five per cent fast. I’ll show you the first set of figures. Take a look at that, old bean, and tell me what you think.”

  He selected one of three sheets of paper.

  “What’s this, Georgie? A message from ‘Red Cloud’?”

  “Sorry old bean, I’ve given you the wrong set of figures. Here’s the right one.”

  “Georgie dear, the spirits may go away if we interrupt the atmosphere.”

  “Let him get it off his mind,” said Bob, quietly.

  “Thanks, old bean. Now just take a dekko at this one, will you?”

  “Ah, a corrected message from ‘Dust Cloud,”’ said Phillip. “I don’t know how you do it, Georgie.”

  “Ah, but don’t forget the streamlined mudguards! You remember I told you that I had put on some of the new cellulose paint? Well, at first I put it on top of the old paint, and when that curled up I stripped both mudguards to the metal and after I’d painted them again with cellulose it made a tremendous difference to wind-resistance, didn’t it, Boo?”

  “It certainly appeared to. Now, Georgie, we haven’t much time.”

  They sang Rock of Ages, then spread their fingers round the table. Soon it began to quiver. Phillip could see the nails of George whiten as he pressed. “Ought we to push?” he asked George.