It Was the Nightingale

by Henry Williamson

  “I’m not pushing! I’m trying to keep it down!”

  “You’re still driving the Trojan,” laughed Phillip.

  “Let it rise if it wants to, touch lightly,” said Bob between his teeth, as the table began to quiver again.

  “Its legs aren’t very firm at the best of times, so keep your fingers lightly on the wood,” Phillip whispered to George.

  The table began to creak.

  “I know that chap you got to make this table for you, he’s a crook,” said George. “If you had come to me, I could have put you on to a decent carpenter the old pater knows.”

  “Georgie dear, we weren’t so fortunate as to know Phillip then.”

  “All the same, he was taken in by the chap who made this table!”

  “Have you been drinking some of the whit-ale, by any chance?” asked Phillip.

  “You’re avoiding the issue! You know it was a dud table!”

  “Georgie, if you keep on, you’ll drive the spirits away.”

  “Ha ha, I like that.”

  “Please keep your finger-tips lightly on the edge of the table,” said Bob.

  The table began to creak again, then to turn.

  “At least you can’t accuse me of doing it this time, old bean!” said George as he lifted his hands.

  The movement stopped.

  “You’ve broken the circuit,” said Phillip.

  “Please, Georgie! We’ll have to stop in a few minutes.”

  The others sat still, waiting. George put his fingers on the table.

  Silence followed.

  “I think someone is wanting to speak to us,” said Bob in a low voice. He raised his chin, and closed his eyes. “We are ready to hear you speak. Please will you lift the table sideways and tap the leg on the floor once for a ‘no’, and twice for a ‘yes’? Will you first tell us if you are trying to speak?”

  The table leg rose up about an inch, went down, and rose again. Phillip saw George’s fingers almost clawing the varnished wood towards himself. Not wanting to do the same, he held his fingers lightly, and to his surprise the table rose up on the opposite legs.

  “Thank you,” said Bob. “Will you tell us if you are an old soldier?”

  The table canted twice, away from George.

  “Ask a question, Phillip,” muttered Bob, who appeared to be wrestling with himself.

  “Were you killed on the Somme?”

  The table creaked as it canted: Phillip again felt the back of his neck turn icy. Tears stood in his eyes. He smelt again the falsely sweet, sickening smell of a summer battlefield. There was the sound of an explosion, like a distant Mills grenade. Another. A third.

  “Oh, my God!” cried Boo, looking frightened. “What can it be?” There was a further muffled report.

  George leapt up and ran to the window. “Our cottage is on fire!”

  They went to the door and saw a rosy glow coming from the uncurtained lower window.

  “It’s only the chimney!” cried Phillip, as a lilac flame pierced the darkness above the thatch. “Barley, will you and Bob get all the pails and fill them at the stream? George and I will carry them in. I’ll see you by the dipping pool.”

  Hurrying with George into the sitting-room he heard the roar of the chimney on fire. There followed a wet five minutes, as pail after pail of water was flung into the grate and into the hip bath to soak a blanket for holding over the hearth, to stifle the soot flames in the chimney.

  Soon the fire was subdued. George was suggesting a glass of whit-ale when there was an explosion in the cupboard beside the hearth. He opened the cupboard door as a second explosion scattered froth over them.

  “Everyone out!” cried Phillip. “A glass splinter can blind you!” They herded into the kitchen, while further reports came from the cupboard.

  “It’s the heat,” said George. “My word, it only shows the strength of the stuff, doesn’t it, Boo?” They counted six more explosions, whereupon George said, “All clear! I reckon that’s the lot. I’ll have to store the next brew in the scullery. Anyway I’ll get a new carpet out of the insurance—I’ll just chuck a few cinders over it to scorch the edges of the holes that were there before! I’ll do it now, before the fire gives up the ghost!”

  *

  On the way back to the cottage Doris asked Phillip to walk with her up the lane. They stopped on the high ground, with its western line of sunset. To the north a steely blue glow arose to the zenith. Brother and sister looked into the immeasurable cavern of the sky. He felt tender towards her, she was his younger sister again, brave, resolute as ever; but lost.

  “Phil, will you tell me the truth?”

  “I’ll try to, Doris. But I’m not infallible.”

  “Do you think that Bob puts on that face? I mean, they say that an actor can so think himself into his part, until he becomes the person he is pretending to be. And Bob was Percy’s best friend in the war.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. But I honestly did see Percy on his face. The hair wasn’t like Bob’s. I distinctly saw Percy’s curls.”

  “What does it mean, Phil?”

  “I can only tell you what I’ve heard from other people. Spirits can be earth-bound, if they arrive on the other side after some shock, such as violent death. Percy was killed at once. He would try, if he could, to get to his loved ones. He could only do this by striving to come through a living medium. Bob was his friend. He wants to come to you through Bob.”

  “To live again, perhaps as a child, do you mean?”

  Phillip hesitated; he tried to think; no thought would come, only the words, “Yes, I do!”

  Chapter 4

  THE LISTING WIND

  On a cold day in January, the first anniversary of their marriage, Phillip awakened and through the open casement window saw that the grass on the lawn was white with rime. Barley was lying with her back to him, curled up: an unusual attitude for her. When she turned her head he saw that her eyes looked strained, although she smiled as usual.

  “Are you all right, Barley?”

  “Oh yes. It’s nothing. I’ll get up and make the tea.”

  “No, let me. You rest yourself.”

  He went downstairs and put the kettle on the Valor Perfection stove, and returning, saw her sitting on the side of the bed.

  “I think I’ll go downstairs and put my feet up.”

  He opened the bed for her to return beside him, but she sat still.

  “I’ll be all right downstairs.”

  “Is it your time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She seemed so strange, so detached. When she was gone he saw drops of water on the floor and was alarmed. He followed her into the kitchen where she was trying to put on a sand-shoe. The lace broke, she sat up again, still. He made a fire in the hearth, putting on a whole faggot, meanwhile settling her in his armchair with her feet upon a stool. Then wheeling out the Norton he blinded to the midwife’s house in Queensbridge. It was a post-war house with three bedrooms. The name on the gate was a little forbidding—PORTO BELLO—so was the midwife, a small woman with a pale, expressionless face, who spoke with a Lancashire accent. Meticulously he gave her a report, and then said, “I’d better go and tell Dr. MacNab.”

  “No need to bother doctor yet, young mahn. You can go ’ome, everything will be quite all reet.” Then seeing that he was unconvinced she repeated that there was nowt to worry about, but if the pains were still coming on by the next morning he could coom and tell her.

  He accepted what she had to say against his will, or intuition, and returned to the village. Barley was doing housework, but moving slower than usual. She smiled, saying she was all right. He repeated what the midwife had said.

  “Would you mind having only boiled eggs for your lunch, as well as for your breakfast? I meant to go to the shop, but haven’t been able to.”

  “Sit you down yurr, my maid. I am now ‘Q’ branch. Do you feel like a boiled egg? In case you have any doubt, you don’t look like one!”<
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  He boiled two eggs, but she could not eat her egg after capping it, so he finished it. He put the shells into the compost heap, for the garden lacked lime, and lime was essential for vegetables, to form a baby’s teeth properly.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Much better.”

  In the afternoon she said she would like to go for a walk across the mushroom field, from where the Channel could be seen, and the tors of Dartmoor with the Cornish hills beyond. Otter and Rusty followed them. Lutra moved in alternate gallops with pauses to stand still. Before they reached the stone-wall at the top of the field Barley said she did not think she could go on any farther.

  “Don’t let me spoil your walk, I’ll go back with Lutra, and keep him and Moggy company, and have tea ready for you when you return.”

  Phillip’s mind had been divided since the morning, and now he was perplexed and near-irritable. He felt the midwife was a fool; yet, he told himself, he must not allow his fears to rule him, and so to interfere in another’s job. He must discipline himself: and thus resolved he continued his walk while Rusty ran ahead, nose down to the scents of rabbits. But before reaching the cliffs he turned back abruptly, to the spaniel’s disappointment. The midwife was wrong, he knew it.

  Opening the cottage door, he saw Barley walking yet more stiffly in the kitchen. Her cheeks were now pale and drawn, her eyes were larger, the irises a fuller black. He knew she was in pain, but she smiled and said, “I’m so sorry I’ve spoiled your walk. I’ll get tea for you.”

  The cat, seeing the tray, meeow’d and rose on hind legs to touch her hand. Barley put the tray on the table, and sat down. She seemed to have forgotten the tea-tray. She took no notice of the cat. He made the tea, and poured out a cup for her. She smiled her gratitude, looking, he thought, like Irene. He asked, diffidently, if she were in much pain. “It’s only sometimes it’s a bit bad. But it goes away again.”

  “Where’s Lutra?”

  “I put him in the shed.”

  “I ought to have gone to fetch MacNab.”

  “Boo says he’ll be in the village tonight. She came to see me while you were out for your walk. He’s coming with the skittles team.” She stopped talking, and after awhile went on. “There’s a match in the Ring of Bells—at half—past—six.”

  Half-past six! It was a long time to go. He kept calm lest he alarm her.

  *

  It was dark when he went up the village street. The moon, which only a few nights before had been round and purple-silver above the church tower, would not rise for some hours. He was tense, because greatly anxious. The darkness checked his speed, he had to feel forward, judging the middle of the road by noise of his footfalls reflected from the wall of the cottage on his right, and the sound of the stream entering the culvert under the road on his left. The years of living in the village, much of those years spent in night-wandering in fields and lanes, had taught him to walk by ear more than by sight in the darkness.

  Now he had no confidence in his night-sense, but groped his way forward, hands held before him. When the pub door opened he ran forward, using that yellow bit of oil-lamp light before it should be lost. The Ring of Bells was full. The skittles match was between Malandine and Queensbridge. Dr. MacNab was playing for Queensbridge. There was unusual silence in the bar-room.

  Dr. MacNab moved his head round slowly to greet the newcomer with a smile. He said gently, “You’ve arrived at a very important time, Phillip.”

  “Yes!”

  He had left Barley with her feet propped on a stool before the fire, a cup of tea, his third brew since four o’clock, left, like the others, untouched on the table beside her.

  He waited for Dr. MacNab to speak, while the doctor continued to watch as the player aimed the swing of the ball on its string suspended from the top of the stick.

  “Ah!”

  The first ball had ‘scatt’ only five skittles, leaving four so placed that the player could not get them with his second ball.

  “Nine!” cried the umpire.

  Dr. MacNab leaned over to Phillip again and whispered, “You’re going to be beaten again, you’ll see!”

  Phillip could wait no longer. “I think Barley is going to have her baby to-night.”

  Dr. MacNab smiled, without meeting Phillip’s eye. “Just watch the play of Billy Chugg now. He’ll go out for us this time, you’ll see.”

  Skittles fell with that compact soft-rattling noise which meant a ‘floorer’—nine dropped at first ball. They were stood up again. Voices, tobacco fug, paraffin lamp, window shut, landlord and wife and their small grandson leaning over the bar, lurcher dogs moving among heavy boots and legs, rough-shouted talk, pint glasses banged on bar to be refilled, stuffed badger masks, low, yellow-stained ceiling, hot fug which made his eyes smart and his breathing uneasy. They were silent as the stocky little Queensbridge postman bent down to throw the ball again. Skittles fell, a massed shout, many voices, loud laughs, men pushing against Phillip. Twenty-seven, the exact number required to go out! The home team was beaten. He tried to appear easy as he heard Dr. MacNab saying he’d have a glass of mild.

  “Have a drink, Phillip?”

  “No thanks, really——”

  “Do you good. Done any more to that story of Donkin you told me about?”

  “Oh, it’s got to be rewritten, it’s all wrong: too satirical.”

  Dr. MacNab nodded gravely; and murmured, “Get plenty of hot water, just in case.” Then aloud: “Well, here’s good luck!” They drank, the tension in Phillip gone for the moment.

  On the way back he called at the Pole-Cripps’ cottage, to be reassured by Boo, while George offered the use of the Trojan to take them to the midwife’s. George was reading The Fur Trade Journal. “I say, old bean, you remember what I told you about Angora rabbits? Well, if I can——”

  “Another time, Georgie——” said Boo’s gentle voice.

  He went back to the cottage, seized two pails and hurried to the pump. Then to fill the big cast-iron kettle on the open hearth, light the three burners of the oil-stove, refill one pail and put it on to heat.

  Mrs. Crang would be needed. She must wash her hands. Soap, towels. He leapt upstairs and brought down three hand-towels, one each for doctor, midwife Crang, and himself. He put them beside a basin on a wooden box with a new slab of carbolic soap.

  Dr. MacNab arrived. He told Barley not to get up, looked at her quizzically before turning to Phillip and saying gently, “There’s plenty of time. Better get her to the nursing home. I’ll tell the midwife to expect you. Would you like me to send up a taxi?”

  “It’s good of you, doctor, but I’ve arranged with George to take us down in his Trojan.”

  “Ah, that reminds me, I have to give him a certificate for the pension people. We may as well get all we can out of the government, they take enough tax from us, don’t they? I’ll tell him you’ll both be going to Queensbridge.”

  When the doctor was gone, Phillip was jubilant. All was going to be well. Hearing the doctor’s car grinding away from George’s cottage he went over and was hardly inside the door when George burst upon him with, “I say, old bean, I must tell you about my bell-ringing articles——”

  “Yes, Georgie,” said Boo, as to a child, “but I think Phillip rather wants to tell us something.”

  “That’s all right, Phillip, old MacNab’s already told us. He says, take her down any time before nine, so there’s bags of time. As I was saying, you remember my idea for the bell-ringing articles? Well, I had six copies made and posted them off at the same time, one each to The Daily Trident, The Daily News, The Daily Chronicle, The Western Morning News, The Daily Telegraph. The old pater suggested The Church Times, as well. My luck was in—they were all accepted!”

  “And all published?”

  “That’s what I mean. Look, I’ve just had the last cheque—making fourteen guineas in all! Not bad eh, for one article?”

  “The same article in each of those papers?” />
  “Absolutely word for word! Boo typed them out, all top copies, no carbons, didn’t you, Boo? So that each copy would look fresh. It was my idea.”

  “The most brilliant start and finish in journalism!”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You’ll be on the Black List after this!”

  “I should worry! As a matter of fact, I’ve got a dam’ good chance of getting a hundred per cent disability pension, old MacNab says. Then if I can convert it into a lump sum, Boo and I will be able to start that Angora rabbit farm I told you about, remember?”

  *

  At nine o’clock Barley walked stiffly, holding an arm each of Phillip and Boo, to the Trojan while Georgie waited with a rug. Apologising for her slowness in getting into the front seat, Barley was helped in. The driver pulled the starting handle beside the seat and a cloud of blue smoke issued from the exhaust. The friction plates whirred. Clattering noises in the frosty night were amplified from cottage walls.

  “You’ll see, she’ll take Sheepnose in top,” prophesied Georgie, wrapped in a British warm, to the collar of which had been added part of an old seal-skin stole once carried by the dowager Mrs. Pole-Cripps, as Boo called her mother-in-law. It was a cold night, stars glittering above bare hedges of the sunken lane lit wanly by the unfocused electric headlights.

  The engine conked three-quarters of the way up Sheepnose.

  “Curse,” muttered the driver. “I can’t think why that’s happened! I’ll go back in reverse and try again.”

  “Wouldn’t it get up in low gear, Georgie?” suggested Boo.

  “She won’t take a tick, honestly, Boo. The engine was cold. She took it in top this morning like a bird.”

  “But we’re four up now, Georgie. Don’t you think——”

  Slowly George backed down Sheepnose Hill, while gingerly manipulating the steering wheel. The équipe zigzagged more and more until it got stuck into the bank at one place.

  “Curse, that’s torn it,” muttered Georgie. “The reverse gear seems to have gone phut. And I hope to God my new cellulose paint isn’t marked!”